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

Visuals for my story can be found on my tumblr – theprancingstag

The visual for Renly's mace can be found there

Renly Baratheon

After giving Brienne her task, I headed over to the forge where Tobho Mott was hard at work. He stopped as soon as I entered, Ser Balon and Ser Robar guarding the door.

"Congratulations, Your Grace." The master smith remarked as I sent Gendry off with a message for Ser Cortnay, leaving us alone.

"Thank you, Master Mott. It is an honour I will work hard to be worthy of." I replied truthfully.

The Qohorik smith regarded me strangely for a moment, before raising his eyebrows in surprise when he realised I was sincere. Shaking his head in mild disbelief he got down to business. "What do you wish of me Your Grace?"

"I have some new commissions for you." I announced brightly.

Tobho replied with a dry smirk. "Ser Cortnay will no doubt be thrilled."

"Indeed, which is why I will be paying for each piece individually upon completion, to ease the burden on the treasury."

The master smith nodded in acceptance. "What do you wish to commission Your Grace?"

"Arms and armour in cobalt blue for Brienne of Tarth, and in blood red for Ser Robar Royce. Kingsguard armour of golden colour with inlayed white enamel decoration for Ser Balon Swann, with arms to accompany it, and with the new seal of the Kingsguard on the breastplate." I outlined, handing over a charcoal drawing of three swords, blade up, forming the three tall points of a five-pointed crown. Antlers sprang from behind the pommel of the central sword, framing it and forming the two shorter points, while a twisted band of thorned vines wrapped around the sword hilts to form the circlet of the crown.

"Oh, and be sure to change the ridiculous design of the Kingsguard helms to something they can actually see out of. They're guards first and foremost, they can't guard me if their helms give them blind spots you could lose a dragon in."

"I shall begin at once Your Grace." Tobho Mott did a commendable job at smothering his laughter as he accepted the drawing and began to move away, but I held up a hand to stop him. "How much Valyrian Steel remains?"

The Qohorik master smith withdrew towards the back of the forge before returning with a locked strongbox. Opening it he withdrew two thick rings of smokey rippling steel that he slipped onto his fingers finger to better display the last pieces of the stolen jewellery I had acquired. "Not much, Your Grace. Not enough for any further blades unless you acquire more to add to it. It could be formed into four, maybe six, arrowheads if you are determined to see it used and are prepared to commission the most expensive arrows in the world. Or perhaps a fruit knife if you wish to arm an assassin with a blade that will pierce most armour but go unremarked."

"I had a different use for it in mind." I remarked, withdrawing a second charcoal drawing, this time of a mace.

My training with my warhammer was proceeding well and it was covering my poor anticipation and reaction skills in one-on-one combat perfectly, just as intended. Its PR effect, constantly reinforcing my connection to Robert, had been even more effective than I had hoped as well.

But when I had taken a leaf out of Garlan Tyrell's book and tried to train against multiple opponents I'd quickly come unstuck. I was unable to move fast enough to defend myself when the person attacking wasn't forced to react to my own hammer blows first. This problem was only likely to be compounded if I ended up fighting hordes of Wights and the White Walkers that commanded them. Wights didn't even bother to truly try and defend themselves, they simply swarmed their opponents.

Thankfully my training with a mace had been progressing well too, and when paired with a shield I had met with some success surviving multiple opponents attacking simultaneously – though it was little more than surviving, hence the need for a skilled and dedicated Kingsguard.

I had therefore decided that in situations where I couldn't guarantee combat was going to be one on one, such as the battlefield, I would be far more likely to survive if I was fighting with a mace and shield. The warhammer I would only use for my visible tourney and challenge fights, and to give a Robert come again impression if I felt the need to attend a council fully armed and armoured.

While my lack of warhammer on the battlefield would no doubt cause comments, I could deal with it. The non-human opponents that I was likely to end up fighting against were far more of a concern to me than the political damage was. I had to ensure that I was ready for them.

I wasn't defenceless, but I was far from secure. Lightning was intended to kill any shadow babies, assassins, or other normal or magical threats that managed to get passed my Valyrian steel armed Kingsguard when I was unarmoured. It wasn't intended to kill any Wights I encountered, tough it could serve that purpose if everything had truly gone to hell. But relying on a dagger as my main weapon in battle was far dicier than relying on it as a last line of defence. If for no other reason than the Wights had to have gotten worryingly close for me to use Lightning, and given their tendency to swarm, that was likely to be a deadly situation for someone of my limited martial skill.

The sketch I had handed over showed a standard wooden mace shaft and specified that it should be made out of ironwood. The head was a solid steel pentagonal trapezohedron to put power behind my blows, like Mage and Dacey Mormont's cylinder and bulb headed maces. Westeros didn't seem to use the other common mace style of multiple blades arranged to form a vague profile.

The mace in my sketch wasn't finished. Rather than coming to a sharp striking ridge where the top and bottom half of the pentagonal trapezohedron met, instead there was a flat band, a quarter of a fingernail in width, running around the head's horizontal centre.

"You intend for the striking ridge to be made of Valyrian steel?" Tobho questioned, the master metalworker and weaponsmith instantly seeing what I was hoping to accomplish.

"At a quarter of a fingernail width at its base and then narrowing to a point quickly, there may be just enough Valyrian steel remaining in those two rings. If you can bond it to the normal steel with so little to work with that is." I explained.

The master smith waved my concerns away. "That will not me a problem Your Grace, I simply don't understand what you intend to achieve. So little steel will have no effect on the weight of the mace, and while it will aid in armour penetration, the regular steel behind it will prevent it from penetrating to more than a fingernails depth. You may well puncture plate and mail, but you won't make it through the gambeson beneath, your enemy's flesh would be entirely untouched aside from the blunt force you would have delivered regardless."

I couldn't exactly explain that while it would likely be useless against the concentrated magic of White Walkers, I hoped that the mace's central striking ridge of Valyrian steel would contain enough magic to kill Wights. Despite 98% of its head being made of standard castle forged steel.

So I went with the evasion that had served me so well so far. "It is of no concern of yours what its purpose is Master Mott. Simply start with this and pass it to my grandfather to deliver to me when it is completed. Move on to Brienne's arms and armour once you have finished, hopefully you will have time to finish hers before she leaves on her task. As Ser Robar and Ser Balon will be with me in the field and unlikely to return to Storm's End for some time there is little urgency to their commissions. You may fit them around your other work."

"I will begin work on your commissions immediately Your Grace." Tobho Mott bowed, clearly recognising the end in our conversation communicated by my tone.

I bid him farewell and left the forge, finding that Brienne had finished composing herself and joined Ser Balon and Ser Robar in guarding the door. I headed out of Storm's End's gates and into the main army encampment, searching for the white great horned owl on grey of House Mertyns. My Kingsguard and Rainbow Guards my constant shadows.

I eventually found the Lord's tent flying the correct banner and the page at the flap stumbled, running inside to announce my presence.

Lord Steffon Mertyns hurriedly bade me enter and offered me bread and salt.

"'Tis embarrassing for a house whose words are 'Ever Watchful' to have not known you were coming Your Grace." Lord Steffon remarked ruefully, rubbing his bald head. A well-muscled man in his forties he was clearly used to fighting. As was his brother, Ser Corwin Mertyns, a man in his thirties who practically jogged into the tent a moment later with his pitch-black hair matted with sweat from the training yard that he had clearly come straight from.

Ser Balon, Ser Robar, and Brienne all released the sword hilts they'd grasped when they realised that while Ser Corwin was still in armour as he had at least had the presence of mind not to come before me armed.

"To what do we owe the honour, Your Grace?" Steffon asked, respectfully.

"You gave me aid with no reason, no compulsion, and no promise of reward my Lord Mertyns. I would know why." I asked bluntly, flicking my eyes significantly to my Kingsguard and Rainbow Guards behind me in a way they could not see. Communicating to Steffon that he definitely should not mention that that aid was lying that Ser Davos had visited him in Mistwood's Tower of the Owl in the dead of night.

"Surely you have not forgotten the aid that you gave my son Your Grace?!" Steffon exclaimed in shock.

I kept my standard pleasant smile on my face as I franticly recalculated even as my blood ran cold. I had thought that Lord Steffon was one of those fathers that hated their sons. Why else would he have helped me after what I had done to Ser Jacelyn? I hadn't used the threat of revealing the accident that had spurred his son to volunteer as blackmail against him.

"Most fathers would not call sending their son and heir to the Wall aid, my lord." I answered carefully, suddenly regretting not bringing a larger group of guards. Flush with the victory of my election, my arrogance and my complacency had left me very vulnerable if this turned ugly. The certainty that Lord Mertyns would not long outlive me was a cold comfort compared to the sudden prospect of playing the role of Caesar on the Ides of March.

"Ah, I can see how you would think that Your Grace." Lord Mertyns answered, relaxing and causing the rising tension to drain away. "I will admit I was indeed most wroth with you when Jacelyn led the knights and horse north to Castle Black, but in the months since I have come to realise that it was the best thing that you could have done for him and for his family."

"Am I finally about to learn what brought the black melancholy upon my nephew so severely that the only times he left his bed were the times I worried he would throw himself from atop of the Tower of the Owl?" Ser Corwin asked his brother acidly in a clearly long running argument.

"The black melancholy struck him so severely?" I asked, shocked. I knew that Ser Jacelyn had felt the need to atone for the accident. It was what had made him perfect for my purposes once he had volunteered for the Wall when I sent out the call. But I had no idea that it had been this bad.

"Well?" Corwin Mertyns growled at his brother.

"You remember when we learned that Jacelyn had become friends with a smallfolk boy?" Steffon began.

"Yes, the son of a woodsman. He kept going on 'hunts' and 'rides' to meet him. You wanted to stop their association as soon as we found out, but Mother told you to leave them be and let Jace have his little rebellion." Corwin summarised impatiently.

"Alyn, the woodsman's boy, wanted Jacelyn to teach him how to fight. Apparently the life of a woodsman didn't appeal to him and he wanted to become a sellsword on the docks in Weeping Town. Hiring himself as a guard for the ships and seeing Westeros and the rest of the world from the decks of the trading cogs."

"I had wondered why Jace stole the padding, and the wooden swords, and the tourney blades." Corwin mused with a fond smile, remembering the activities of his oldest nephew.

Meanwhile I was reflecting it was a pretty decent plan for someone with the limited means of smallfolk. Weeping Town was the largest market town in the Stormlands and handled most of the Stormlands sea trade through its extensive docks and shipyards. Had previous Storm Kings, and later lord paramounts, not been concerned with upsetting the balance of power with their bannermen, it would likely have been granted a city charter and grown to be the equal of White Harbour and Gulltown.

"Jace was a good teacher," Steffon continued, snapping my attention back to his son's story, "and they became good friends in the couple of years that they kept meeting. He calmed down a lot as a result, became more serious, took his responsibilities as heir to heart, became more interested in ruling. It pains me to credit it to smallfolk when my own frustration was unable to produce results but…"

"I remember, you sulked for weeks when Maester Selwyn eventually pointed out the change. Mother was unbearably smug about it." Corwin Mertyns grinned.

"Yes…well." Steffon Mertyns harumphed. "The problem came when Jacelyn thought that Alyn had improved enough to try training with live steel."

Corwin closed his eyes as he slumped. "How bad was it?"

"Bad. Jace missed his footing in all the debris on the forest floor and his thrust changed direction at the last moment as he fell. Alyn missed his parry and Jace's sword sliced open his left side, including his lung. He died quickly at least."

Corwin winced. "I understand the black melancholy visiting him now. But shit happens, especially with live steel. Jace knows this, it's not like he's never seen it before. I understand that it was his friend and that the black melancholy would certainly visit him for weeks, but…"

"The depth of his despair seems like an overreaction?" His elder brother interrupted.

Ser Corwin nodded.

"You don't know what he discovered when he tried to stop the bleeding." Steffon muttered darkly.

"What?"

"Breasts." Steffon muttered, taking a long drink of wine. "Alyssa was the woodcutter's daughter, not his son. She'd bound her breasts, called herself Alyn and come up with this plan to see the world. But she'd never told my Jace the truth. It broke him. Not only had he killed his friend, but his friend had lied to him all along."

"Worse," Corwin groaned out painfully, "you know how seriously he took his knightly vows. Jacelyn wanted nothing more than to protect innocents and root out the evils of the world. Instead, he put an innocent maiden in danger. Then he killed her."

Steffon downed his wine in one as the brothers looked at each other, devastated by the hand that life had dealt their son and nephew.

I was looking into my own cup in despair and anger as well, despite having a more modern perspective. Far from lying, Alyn had probably only ever been honest with Jacelyn. Lying to, or at least not showing his true self to, everyone else instead. He had shown Jacelyn his true self, and Jace had helped him become the man he truly was. Not that anyone here would understand that. They'd believe that Alyn's true self was Alyssa, not the other way around. It was so fucking tragic that a misplaced foot on the forest floor had resulted in the death of one man and the breaking of another, instead of a lifelong friendship between them.

Of course, there were other possible explanations for Alyn's actions. Westeros was far from kind to women after all. But I had long ago decided to treat everyone as the gender identity they were presenting as when I ment them, unless they told me otherwise themselves.

After all, all my life I'd introduced myself as a man, and no-one had ever demanded to stick their hand down my pants because they felt I wasn't what they expected a man should be. And that was despite having facial bones so feminine even AI algorithms misgendered me half the time. Giving the same respect to everyone else whether I thought they 'looked right' or not was merely common courtesy.

Alyn had chosen to present as male, so male was what he would always be to me.

"Jace wanted to turn himself over to Lord Renly for judgment as he had murdered a maiden. It was an accident, so I forbade it. But it didn't save my son. He was just as gone as if the headsman's sword has taken his head. His body simply sill breathed."

I hid my flinch at the misgendering of Alyn and focused instead on what Lord Mertyns said of his son's symptoms. I recognised the signs – severe depression with suicidal intent and no way to climb out of the hole your self-loathing was dragging you deeper into. The self-inflicted death of Ser Jacelyn's body to join what had undoubtedly felt like the death of his soul had likely only been a matter of time.

"But then you sent out the call for volunteers for the Night's Watch Your Grace, and Jace seemed to come alive again a little. Saying he could atone for his crime with honour and no one needed to know the shame he had brought on our house." Steffon Mertyns dragged himself away from painful memories and poured himself more wine. "I forbade it, but he stole a horse and made it to Storm's End ahead of the guards I sent in pursuit. He'd volunteered by the time they caught up with him."

The Lord of Mistwood sent a rueful smile my way. "I was furious when you allowed him to volunteer. I know whispers reached you that I was calling for your death over sending my son to the wall. Doubtless that's why you were so surprised to receive my aid."

In fact those whispers hadn't reached me. Which gave me sharp phantom stabbing pains in the back and made me glad I was so close to replacing my Master of Whispers.

"What made you change your mind brother?" Corwin asked curiously, looking at me calculatingly.

"His Grace didn't judge my boy for killing a maiden. He recognised it was an accident. I don't know what you said to him Your Grace, but the final letter my son sent before he left Storm's End actually sounded like him. You'd given him back his life despite sending him to the wall. Then when he reached it, Jacelyn wrote to say that you had intervened with the lord commander to allow him to take a squire and to secure him the position of Lord Commander Mormont's personal steward. Something that virtually guarantees that in time my son will become first ranger, or commander of the Shadow Tower, or of Eastwatch by the Sea. Maybe even lord commander if the gods are good."

Steffon raised his glass to me. "Your Grace, you took a ghost wearing my son's face and gave me back my son. He writes of an honourable future before him that will see respect given to our house from all the houses of the North. Of his contentment with that future, and his desire to live returning to him now that his debt to his friend's ghost has been paid. For that, you have my undying loyalty."

Ser Corwin hurriedly joined his brother in the toast.

I was left stunned that my actions to support the Night's Watch and manoeuvre my own man into position to replace Jon had had such an unexpected effect. It seemed not all butterflies would be bad, but the sheer unexpectedness of this one was still a surprise. I would have it investigated to be certain, but my gut was telling me this was real, and I'd unknowingly secured myself a house that would be as loyal to me as House Penrose was.

"A man who takes responsibility for his actions, even when they are accidents, is one to be greatly admired and treasured Lord Steffon." I remarked calmly. "I'm glad that my interventions on his behalf have enabled Ser Jacelyn to find the will to live again, and to serve in a manner that brings honour to House Mertyns."

The silence continued for a moment but before I could make to leave Ser Corwin dropped to one knee before me.

"Your Grace. You have saved my nephew's life and saved my family from tragedy. Lady Mary wouldn't have survived Jace's death after she encouraged the association, and his brother and cousin would have had their hearts ripped out. I am a second son with no lands, I beg that you allow me to repay our debt to you by guarding your life. Name me to your Kingsguard and I will go where you go, always, and none shall harm you while I still live."

I regarded Ser Corwin coolly. "You claim a great honour for House Mertyns beneath the smoke of repaying a debt, Ser Corwin."

"Forgive me Your Grace. If you wish it, I will serve as your sworn sword instead. I only wish to replay you for my nephew's life. Nothing more." Corwin Mertyns responded quickly, bowing his head in submission.

I thought on it for a moment before striking on a way to delay my response while I consulted Ser Cortnay for his thoughts. I needed a second Stormlands knight on my Kingsguard as I doubted I would escape the Reach without adding at least one more Reachman besides Loras. With only seven slots I could not afford for my Stormlands lords to feel taken for granted, having only Ser Balon among the White Swords would cause exactly that.

"You will go to the training yard in Storm's End where you will fight Ser Balon, Lady Brienne, and Ser Robar in turn. I do not demand that you defeat them, but they will give me their opinions on whether they feel your skill at arms is sufficient to warrant a place in the Kingsguard." I decreed firmly.

"As you command Your Grace." Ser Corwin responded, unfazed.

Going by the look of pride and belief on his elder brother's face, barring Ser Corwin proving to have merely average swordsmanship, or Ser Cortnay having concerns about his loyalty, it seemed I had found my second Kingsguard.

Sansa Stark

Sansa entered the great hall, for once unguarded, attending the first court session of Joffrey's reign as the queen had asked her to do. Though it had not truly been a request.

The queen believed her a compliant dog after she had sent the letter to Robb. As a reward she had given her the freedom to leave her tower room and go anywhere in the Red Keep. Provided she was escorted by a Kingsguard or two red cloaks at all times.

She had smiled and accepted, all the while vowing to remember that she was a wolf not a dog. A Stark of Winterfell and of the North. She had defied the beautiful but black hearted Queen Cersei before, and she would do so again if she could.

Still was still permitted to dress in Stark ivories and greys, no doubt to remind all present that she was a hostage against Robb, and she had picked out a heavy grey woollen dress in the Northern style. One of the very few she had brought south. Keeping her head high, Sansa glided silently across the many types of marble that made up the colourful floor of the great hall, as dignified and courteous as ever.

Never let them see your fear.

Her lady mother's words rang in her head. The wisdom she'd imparted to her just before the entry of the Karstarks into the great hall at Winterfell when she'd seen how nervous Sansa was at attending her father's court when important bannermen were coming to Winterfell. Sansa clung to her lady mother's lesson as if she was drowning.

Her mummery didn't stop her noticing things. The throne room was bare. King Robert's hunting tapestries were gone and had not been replaced, leaving the bare marble of the walls exposed. The huge candelabra were gone and replaced by flickering fires in spiked bronze braziers at the base of each of the columns. Running in two lines down the centre of the hall as they held up the vast vaulted ceiling, the vine painted plaster covering them had been chipped away to reveal their plain red sandstone. Smoke from braziers was already leaving black streaks of soot in the red stone and given time their entire lower halves would be stained black.

The light shining through the red stained-glass windows on either side of the hall seemed more sinister for all these changes, as if bathing the courtiers in blood.

The bareness was present in more than the decorations. Though a handful of people gathered at the foot of the raised iron dais, most of the hall was bare where it would normally be full. The gallery adding a second level to the rear third of the hall was empty and silent.

Where hundreds of knights, lords, and ladies had attended King Robert's court, now there were barely more than fifty. Of the rich smallfolk, the merchants, and guild masters, she could see no sign at all. In a hall that could feast a thousand people, and hold many more than that for court, it was a truly pitiful sight.

Sansa allowed herself a small smile at the sight of so many missing. A kernel of hope growing that someone, anyone, would smash the armies of the lying lions. Cutting off the head of the foul worm that played the perfect prince so well.

The few people of the court present shied away from her as if she were carrying the grey plague. Just as Mother said the Northern ladies had done to her when she first came to Winterfell. Sansa paid them little mind, she was a wolf, and they were sheep. Sheep that followed vile souls hidden behind golden hair and kind smiles. Would that more of them have been like Father, like Lord Renly, like Ser Loras, then the lions would have been cast down instead of slaughtering Father's entire household.

Lord Baelish entered along with the rest of the small council from one of the two sets of doors at the back of the dais, smiling at her as he sat in one of the several wooden chairs placed to either side of the Iron Throne.

She didn't know what to think of him. He was her lady mother's friend, Father had trusted him, but he was free with all his lands and titles and serving Joffrey. Father was in the black cells. Had he bent the knee after Father was arrested? Or had he betrayed Father?

Sansa was broken out of her questioning when the main doors opened and the herald's voice rang out. "All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail his lady mother, Cersei of the House Lannister, Queen Regent, Light of the West, and Protector of the Realm."

The two monsters entered the throne room and strode confidently down the red carpet towards the high iron dais and the Iron Throne itself. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arys Oakheart walked ahead of them with a stream of red cloaks, while Ser Boros Blount, Ser Mandon Moore, and Ser Preston Greenfield walked behind. All the surviving White Swords except Ser Jamie Lannister were present, taking their place at the foot of the Iron Throne while the queen sat in the wooden chair closest to it and Joffrey climbed its steps.

Both looked resplendent, but Sansa looked away without appearing to do so. Studying instead the beautiful scenes from each kingdom shown in stained glass in the seven giant windows at the far end of the hall, behind the Iron Throne.

She listened though, always attentive as Septa Mordane had taught her a lady must be.

She heard the decree for the great lords to come to King's Landing and bend the knee. Keeping her face still despite her heart racing and a crushing weight was lifted from her soul as Lord Renly, Ser Loras, and Arya were all named. Named because they were still alive and free.

She heard Lord Tywin Lannister being appointed Hand of the King in Father's place, she heard the queen being granted a place on the small council, she heard Janos Slynt being granted the same as well as being made Lord of Harrenhal. She heard the Grand Maester explaining that in these troubled times the king's safety was of paramount importance.

"Ser Arys Oakheart, step forward."

For the first time since court began, Sansa looked at the Iron Throne, watching as the handsome and gallant Ser Arys, who had guarded Father so diligently and been so courteous to her while she fretted at Father's side, stepped forward from among his five brothers.

"Remove your helm Ser."

The queen's voice was ice cold and Sansa felt a shiver run down her spine. Even knowing the truth, it surprised her how someone so beautiful could be so cold.

Ser Arys did as he was bid, his thick brown hair falling about his ears as he did so.

"Ser Arys, when the traitor, Lord Eddard, stood in this room and declared his treason, you stood at his side. When he refused to bend the knee, you did not draw your sword. When he drew his own, you did not draw yours until after the first blood had been shed in defence of the king."

"Your Grace," Ser Arys stammered, "I was shocked, surprised, I could not believe what was happening. I…"

The queen cut him off bluntly. "Ser Barristan spoke on your behalf and explained this, preventing your execution as a traitor. But the small council has decided that one so easily surprised, one who has spent so much time in the company of a known traitor, cannot be trusted with the king's safety. Remove your white cloak ser, you are a Kingsguard no longer."

Shocked whispers ran through the court as they appeared as shocked as Sansa felt at what was happening.

"But…a Kingsguard serves for life!" Ser Arys protested in disbelief. His words repeated by many courtiers under their breaths.

"If you wish to keep to that tradition Ser, then by all means keep your white cloak. I will send for Ser Ilyn Payne to remove your head instead."

For a moment Sansa thought that he might actually do so, but slowly, shakily, Ser Arys released the clasp of his white cloak. It fell into a puddle at his feet, contrasting harshly with the black iron of the dais.

"You Grace." Ser Barristan spoke up shakily as soon as Ser Arys released his cloak clasp. "The Kingsguard are a sacred brotherhood…our vows are for life…Ser Arys fought in defence of his king. He must remain a Kingsguard or we are all lesser!"

"You're already lesser!" Joffrey sneered down at Ser Barristan from his place atop the Iron Throne. "You let my father die! You're too old to protect anybody."

The queen and the entire small council except Lord Varys and Lord Baelish looked stunned by Joffrey's words.

"My son…" The queen attempted to speak but Sansa was thrilled to watch Joffrey ignore her.

"I don't want you! I don't need old fools. I want young men, strong men, and I want my uncle as Lord Commander!" Joffrey looked gleeful at the thought. "You're no longer a Kingsguard either, if mother can remove Arys I can remover you!"

The queen got out of her chair and walked quickly to the Iron throne so that she could whisper to Joffrey without the court hearing, but he didn't appear to be listening to her.

"The Kingslayer!" Ser Barristan spat in disgust. "That false knight that profaned his own blade with the blood of the king he was sworn to protect!"

Cersei stopped whispering to her son and turned to Ser Barristan, her expression souring as if she had stepped in horse dung. "Have care how you speak ser! That is my own brother you speak of. Your king's own blood."

Ser Barristan simply rippled his cloak clasp open, bundling the heavy white cloak around his hand and throwing it to the iron floor in fury. His helm joined it a moment later with a resounding clang.

Then he drew his sword.

Gasps echoed round the great hall as the remaining three Kingsguard drew their swords in turn, but Sansa couldn't help but feel hope that Ser Barristan the Bold would kill all of them. Striking down the monster that sat atop the Iron Throne with righteous fury.

But the old knight simple looked at his former three brothers with utter contempt. "Have no fear Sers, your king is safe, no thanks to you. Even now I could cut through all of you as easily as a dagger cuts cheese. If you would serve under the Kingslayer then not one of you is fit to wear the white!"

Barristan the Bold flung his sword to the floor at the foot of the Iron throne, the clang and clatter echoing in the stunned silence. "Here boy, melt it down and add it to the others. It would do you more good as a seat than in the hands of any of these three. Perhaps Lord Stannis will sit on it as well when he takes your throne."

Ser Barristan turned to face Ser Arys and looked at him intensely, studying him. Whatever he was looking for, he seemingly found it as he gave the Reachman a small, grim, smile and tossed his head towards the great oak and bronze main doors.

Ser Arys didn't hesitate. He threw his own sword and helm to the floor and the two of them marched out shoulder to shoulder.

The pages had no sooner closed the great doors behind them than Joffrey began whining, announcing that they threatened him and were traitors. The small council agreed hastily and the now Lord Janos Slynt left to send gold cloaks after the pair of former Kingsguard.

"Your Grace," Lord Baelish spoke up ingratiatingly, "though I do not criticize your decisions, the seven knights of the Kingsguard are now four. Only three of which are here. It would seem we're in need of some new White Swords."

"Tell them mother." Joffrey responded immediately, practically bouncing with glee.

Sansa prayed to the old gods he would cut himself on the Iron Throne. Or bounce off the seat so he would impale a sword up his behind, as she had heard Theon and Jon often tell each other to do when they did not know she was nearby.

"The king and council have decided that no men are more fit to guard my son than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane, and Captain Vylarr, leader of my father's guards."

Ser Vylarr graciously accepted, picking up Ser Arys' fallen white cloak.

The Hound refused to swear knightly vows, but was given a fresh white cloak by Lord Baelish when the queen demanded his acceptance into the Kingsguard anyway.

Ser Barristan's white cloak remained pooled on the iron dais, its clasp broken in his fury.

As there was no third white sword named Sansa gleefully realised that Joffrey had done something his mother hadn't expected, and that she had no one ready to name to the seventh slot.

Let it be filled by another Kingslayer. The cautioning look Lord Baelish sent her made Sansa realise that her traitorous thought might be showing on her face. But she made sure it never passed her lips.