Here is chapter 6.
I believe this counts as a full-fledged ongoing fanfic now. I do not intend to stop anytime soon.
"You wished to speak with me, Lord Stark?"
Jeyne Poole stepped through the door to Lord Stark's solar. In her past life she, had visited the room once or twice, both on special occasions, like the passing of her mother when she was two, or the anniversary of her father's 30th year of service to the Starks of Winterfell.
She still had the body of a girl her age, round faced and brown haired and slim. Her mind, however, was as sharp as a Valyrian steel greatsword, owing to many years of study in Winterfell's library. Thanks to her and Theon, it was larger than what it was in the past life, and it was also more diverse in its topics, with at least two Maester-made volumes on war tactics.
Theon had focussed his efforts on strategy and military information, Jeyne on subterfuge and political information. She had also taught some of those lessons to Sansa, so that she may be able to influence politics in the future. It could prove useful to a great many smallfolk and lesser noblemen who may be caught in the crossfire of the war.
The war was inevitable: the avarice of the Lannisters would drive them to fight tooth and nail to keep their clasp in the Iron Throne. The prideful lions were at their highest since the birth of their house, and no lion likes something of their own being stolen from them. No matter who was on the Iron Throne in the end, it would not be the Lannisters.
She saw this as the first and most important priority: the war would start in about a year, after all. So, she decided to breach the subject herself, and to make sure that this was discussed as soon as possible. "Lord Stark," she began abruptly, in the eyes of the Lord of Winterfell, "I believe we had better discuss the oncoming war."
The Lord of Winterfell was not used to being told what to discuss, much less by a young girl, but he reminded himself that, in terms of intellectual (and, as some might see it, true) age, Jeyne Poole was in her early twenties, more than old enough to discuss things logically with him, and also, she was the one who was more knowledgeable in this subject, at least in pure theory, than he was.
Whilst Theon had told him the story, Jeyne had her own perspective, and there were things that Theon had left out. So, he spoke "Yes. Start from the beginning. His Grace's visit to Winterfell. Which, should still be happening, because Jon Arryn, despite the best efforts of Theon and I, was still poisoned by the Lannisters.
"Very well. There was a feast the day they arrived, but before that Robert took you down to the crypts. Given that three days after the day of the King's arrival was the day Sansa told me that you, or His Grace had the idea three days prior, then and there was most likely when one of you had that idea."
"Yes," began the Lord of Winterfell in a low voice, "that sounds about right. And from what I have heard about Joffrey from Theon, that was easily one of the greatest failings of my life: the only ones worse than that was allowing the war to happen in the first place, and the fact that I could not save Ly- ah, but you already know about that.
In any case, I should have no reason to know this, so I have to be able to make a decision that is understandable from a non-informed point of view. Of course, I could tell Robert about the situation with you: and then watch him gallop up and down Westeros, crushing everything and everyone in his path with his spiked warhammer-"
Lord Stark imagined Robert doing just that, and all of his victims. And his reactions afterward. Like how he reacted to the fruits of Houses Lannister, Clegane and Lorch's treacherous labour during the Sack. After a few seconds, he imagined locking that memory in the crypts and sealing it away with ancient magicks.
"-no, best not. He may kill Tommen and Myrcella, and from that I heard about them, that would not be in anyone's interest. So, I must be able to eliminate Sansa as a candidate for marriage. Also, I must provide an alternative, or talk Robert down, because I am almost certain that it was he who suggested the match."
Jeyne considered this for a moment. "I think that is the best course of action. So let's start with the easier task. We have to eliminate Sansa as a candidate. I have a plan for this. We must marry Sansa off to someone else. Someone who should, ideally, be at least still able to be considered young, be the son of a great lord or a high-ranking bannerman, someone who would provide a good alliance, and-"
"And?"
"-someone who will treat her kindly. That is the most important one of those".
"Yes. That is the most important."
Jeyne nodded, then continued on with her plan. "So, we must look into someone. They should, ideally, be not from the North, Riverlands, Iron Islands, or Westerlands. We either already have alliances with the first two, and the other two will either be impossible to negotiate with or be not very useful.
And perhaps not Dorne or the Vale: from what I have heard of Prince Doran Martell, he does not seem the type to rush into a war. As for Lady Lysa, she did not help us during the last war, so I doubt she will help us now. That leaves us with the Reach, Stormlands, or Crownlands."
"That is quite a smaller pool to pick from, and we know precious little about them. I myself only know some of the major lords' sons, and even then, they are second hand rulers. Willis Tyrell would be perfect, but I do not trust entering into such an alliance with the Tyrells whilst missing a large amount of necessary information."
"That would be the best course of action to take, Lord Stark. The Tyrells supported Renly Baratheon, an inexperienced man with no rightful claim to the throne, merely because he showered them with gifts and had charisma. The rumours of his "relationship" with the Knight of Flowers probably also helped their decision...
oh, but that's aside the point. Listen, the best we can hope for, realistically and taking all possibilities into account, is a Crownlands house. And the kept important of them is House Baratheon of Dragonstone. This way we can ensure the support of Stannis, and also give him no doubt to our allegiance.
Do you agree with this plan, Lord Stark?"
"Well... my children's happiness are always a factor. I will not suffer any misery dealt unjustly to them through mistakes of mine or anyone else. And whilst I have not thing against Shireen Baratheon or any of her family, I cannot picture a worse place for adventurous Bran or fierce Rickon to grow up in than Dragonstone.
My solution to this is, of course, requesting Shireen come to Winterfell. From my, admittedly single, account of her, I hear she is a solemn but sweet child who I believe shall contrast but get along with my younger sons quite well. However, we should consider someone else first. Stannis should, would and will have our support without alliances forged in front of Heart Trees."
"Hmm... the Tyrells are risky, but Renly himself may be able to... no, he's too power hungry, and he would at least have the mind to request Sansa be at Storm's End. A Vale alliance though, that would be ideal. The Knights of the Vale would be able to, if used correctly, corner and trap Tyson's forces when he went up the Kingsroad from Lord Harroway's Town.
So, we shall have to convince Lady Lysa Arryn, who, I shall point out, was content to simply dig in at the Eyrie to wait patiently whilst the Lannisters' mad dogs and manticores were gouging holes all over the Gods' creation. Now, we shall have to ask ourselves two important questions.
One, is this a person to enter into a deal with? And two, is Jon Arryn really dead? Any deal with him would be much, much easier than any deal made with Lysa Arryn. So mayhaps this is mere wishful thinking on my part, but a part of me... a part deep inside me, thinks that Jon Arryn is not dead. "
"Hmm... this may have some connection to the Old Gods... the Heart Tree was sending off odd pulses earlier... that had never happened before, and they happened right when I sent that letter to King's Landing."
"That means it was to do with the Old Gods sending us back. They spoke to me in between our death and our birth. That means they probably have to do with the changes we make. It makes sense, because they started with... Lord Stark, they had never happened before?"
"Well... a few times actually, now that I think about it. The day you heard about the Tower of Joy, when Theon arrived... yes, you're right. That means that Jon Arryn probably is not dead just yet."
"I suppose only time will tell..."
Grand Maester Pycelle could not believe his ears. Someone was defying him, Grand Maester Pycelle, formerly Pycelle Heatherspoon, and by extension, House Lannister, by not allowing him to enter the Hand's chambers, for whatever reason.
All he merely wanted to do was to do his duty as a servant of the realm, his job, and heal the poor, poisoned Valeman. That was all he wanted to do, truly, so why were there not allowing him to enter? It was well and truly baffling. He could not think of any reason why he should not be allowed in.
Well, he thought wanted to finish off that man before that Colemon purged him of the poison using that inane, stupid, Lorathi charcoal-eating method! By the Seven, how on Planetos would that work? Since when can a poisoned man breathe in charcoal!?
The elderly Maester coughed to disguise his angry, flushing face. He had to get a grip on himself, and organise his thoughts. Right. Well, Her Grace wished the man dead for whatever reason, it was not his place to check, no, of course not. Anyway, he could feel the killing intent in that air, even if no words were spoken.
So, he decided to fulfil his part for House Lannister. Of course, when he was not providing good counsel and adjusting disputes ignored by the king, that drunken ox-bellied glutton, and passed over (when she could not do it) by the wonderful Queen, he was taking care of things they did not want their brilliant name dragged through the mud through.
So, it was obvious that Arryn needed to die. It did not matter for what reason. He served the realm, and House Lannister was the true power behind the realm, so it was a simple step of logic and reason to serve House Lannister, the Lions of Casterly Rock.
Naturally, he was planning to poison Arryn, but he had gotten word as he was preparing it that he had already been poisoned. Mayhaps the Queen had dealt with him personally? Well, he set his serving girl on it, snooping around the Red Keep to find clues (or, at the very least, draw suspicion away from himself).
However, when he had heard the news that Arryn was recovering due to Colemon using something named activated charcoal and decided to end him personally, he had gotten word from the idiotic assistant and her Lord's obnoxious guards in front of the Hand's bedroom in the Tower of the Hand that only Maester Colemon was trusted to deal with the Hand.
Why this was he could not fathom: it was impossible that he was caught, of course. He had made sure to cover his tracks in the best way he could, and his loyal assistants and Lannister redcloaks assigned for his protection had, of course, helped. It was confusing, to say the least.
He gathered his will for another attempt.
"I-I am sorry, but I am the Grand Maester. My authority, when dealing with the matters, medical, or otherwise, of someone of noble, knightly or royal standing, in the city of King's Landing, is absolute. Any other Maester or their assistants are under my command."
"Lord Arryn does not wish to be treated by any Maester not part of his household, meaning no one that is not part of Lord Arryn's household is allowed to interject or interfere in any medical matters. Anyone who does so will be thrown out, bodily, by the House Arryn household guards."
"My law is royal law, rules that date back to, and even before, the Targaryen conquest. Naturally, it overrules any law set up a few days ago by a Lord, even a Lord Paramount and Warden. Therefore, in the name of King Robert I Baratheon, King of the Rhoynar and the Andal-
"That was Targaryen law." The assistant said, interrupting him. "There has never been an actual consensus on whether or not Targaryen law still applies in the Seven Kingdoms after they were overthrown and exiled from Westeros. Only the King, of his own discretion, can make such a decision of this amount of importance, or perhaps a King's Hand.
In addition, all law dating back from before the Conquest was considered not a true law. This was done to avoid local laws that could not be overruled without a fight contradicting the royal law, and to make diplomacy easier: such as getting rid of the old Bracken law of not allowing anyone of House Blackwood or sworn to House Blackwood safe passage through their lands."
The woman could not resist a smirk at her latest statement. That gesture made Pycelle's blood boil. He flushed again, deeper in anger, and went onwards with his counterargument to that stupid bureaucratic technicality.
"The Queen may take over for a King, meaning she can certainly allow Royal and Targaryen law to overrule your Noble law. If I was to go to her, there would be no disputes: the King will not do it, but as long as he and the King's Hand are incapacitated, a decision can be made". Pycelle said smugly.
"That may be so, but did you say "as long as he and the King's Hand are incapacitated"? Well, you see your problem seems lay in the fact that you need both to be incapacitated. Lord Arryn is not incapacitated."
The Grand Maester was gobsmacked. Legal trickery was one thing, but this was barefaced, naked deceit. She meant that being poisoned and needing medical purging by a Maester, of all things, at his age, was not grounds for declaring incapacitation?
She was not finished. "The issue is, that you need to confirm both the King and the Hand of the King to be incapacitated. Your obstacle is that the Hand is in here, behind a guarded door, which you are not allowed through. I would like to explain your exact problem.
Maester Colemon once regaled me with the tales of his times in the Citadel. When he was in the library, reading for leisure on between studying for his next attempt to forge his second silver link, he came across a work called: "The Inn". A work published by an unnamed, acolyte of the Citadel, who conversed in various philosophical matters with the subject of the book, a Magister's son from Pentos, at the Quill and Tankard in Oldtown."
"How is this important?" Grand Maester Pycelle asked.
"You will see. One of the passages went as such: the Maester asked the son what would happen if a man placed a cat in a soundproof vault with a cutthroat bearing a dagger. You paid him with a coin, and told him to flip that coin once you exited and closed the vault door, and to either kill or spare the cat depending on the side that landed up.
You will see my point now: the Maester asked the son what would happen if the man was asked by a Lord to say if the cat was alive or dead. The son answered that it was both alive and dead, because they had no way of knowing the truth, a balanced answer was the best they could do. Until you enter this room which you cannot enter, you cannot enter this room. What a shame."
The woman smirked again. Pycelle cursed rapidly and hobbled off.
Maester Colemon, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, chuckled slightly to himself. It had looked like Sylvya the assistant had remembered that old book he told her about whilst in his cups. He found it almost touching she remembered that much of his semi-intellectual rants. You could hear everything through the door: it was closed, but also rather thin in spite of its ornate appearance.
He was crouched over the body of Lord Arryn, slowly and surely feeding the Lord the activated charcoal. This was his most sure way of curing poisoning. The way to perform a healing with it was simple. All you had to do was feed the patient the charcoal.
Adsorption would occur, with the poison sticking the surface of the charcoal and being carried down with it, preventing it from spreading to the bloodstream. He and Lord Arryn both were very lucky to know this particular method of healing.
It had been lost for many years, back when Baelor the Blessed burnt books like this one. This was only because the author and doctor that invented this method of curing the poisoned was also rumoured to dabble in sorcery and necromancy. For that reason, the entire book was burnt.
The technique existed, incomplete, in rumours, but after much study and attempts to cure weak poisons (mostly on himself), he, of all people, had managed to rediscover the technique. He thought it was only this that allowed him to actually get such an important post in the first place. Well, that and a lot of trial and error and vomiting.
But still, he thought it impressive. Even the great area of learning and wonder that was the Citadel was built to favour the noble and rich. Of course, many, and often the majority of Maesters were lowborn, but those who served major banner men were almost all noble-born. The same went for Maesters for Lords Paramount. In fact, only him, Luwin in Winterfell, and that old Maester in Sunspear were common born amongst those ranks.
Working continuously and without rest, he coaxed piece after piece of activated charcoal into the Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the West. He knew a lot more depended on him than just the life of a man: the Vale would not flourish as it had done under Jon Arryn under Lysa, that was obvious. But it was also worth it to think about the rest of Westeros, the nobility.
Jon Arryn had been poisoned. That was obvious. However, no man was allowed to go through his notes in case a spy was amongst them, so no one would know for certain who had the most motive to poison him. Unfortunately, Lady Lysa Arryn had taken some of them with her. If- not "when", this was a deadly poison, and almost beyond any form of healing except the activated charcoal- if Lord Jon Arryn woke up, he would launch an investigation.
Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships, had suddenly left for Dragonstone shortly after the news went out around the Red Keep. It was widely accepted that he left out of fear for his life. So he would be returning soon, probably. He was famous for his insistence on following his duty, and so Maester Colemon found it unlikely he would abandon his post for a long time.
The realm would see some signs of getting slightly worse when Lord Arryn was not fit to be on the council and making decisions for Robert as the Hand of the King. Since the King would continue to avoid the council table, the business of ruling the realm would be delegated to the rest of the Small Council.
From what he had heard from Lord Arryn on the fairly rare occasions he required advisement in his rule as Hand of the King, Lord Baelish was quite secretive about the inner workings of his schemes of profit and gold. Since Lord Baelish worked alone as the Master of Coin, his operations seemed unlikely to cease functioning dramatically. That area would probably remain very much the same.
Jon Arryn had little to say of Ser Barristan the Bold and Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, but quite a bit to say about Pycelle. Jon Arryn did not entirely trust Pycelle. The people that Lord Jon Arryn trusted wholeheartedly (including himself) could probably be counted on a dog's paw, however.
The exact words of the Lord of the Eyrie were: "I believe that the Grand Maester can be asked for valuable and truthful information on any subject not including a Lannister. When they show up, he cannot be trusted at all."
From what it seemed, Grand Maester Pycelle was an ardent supporter of the Lannisters. Given that Jon Arryn respected them, and was respected by their Lord in turn, but did not trust any Lannister more than Pycelle, it seemed lik-
The inner musings of the Maester of the Eyrie and of the Lord Paramount of the Vale, Maester Colemon from the Blue Fork, were interrupted by the sound of Jon Arryn gently stirring. The Lord had been technically awake the whole time, but he was under a depressant to slow the flow of poison around the body. As such, the movements were quite sluggish.
The Maester (with some difficulty: Lord Arryn was heavier than he looked, even after the poisoning.) quickly adjusted the position of Lord Arryn and the wooden table on which the Lord was laying on so that the Lord was sitting up, his feet dangling unsteadily from the edge of the table.
After a few minutes, the Lord's eyes could work well again. Breaking out of a waning dreamlike phase, Jon Arryn focused and unfocused his sight various times. He blinked and looked at the room many times, and finally turned to Maester Colemon, who had been standing by next to him, an anxious expression on the Maester's face.
Jon Arryn asked "How long was I resting?". The voice was softer and less sturdy than before, but was not feeble yet. The man evidently still had plenty of good years ahead of him. "Around... one week, perhaps? Yes, about that much. You missed the moon's turn, my Lord."
Jon Arryn nodded, and suddenly sank into a figure of deep inquisitiveness. A few seconds later, the still-recovering patient spoke up again, this time with quite a bit of urgency in his tone. "Stannis", he said, "where is Stannis?" Maester Colemon answered his query. "After your attempted murder, he feared the safety of himself and of his family. He moved back to Dragonstone shortly before. The ship departed in the night."
"Tell me, Colemon: did Stannis come here before he left? Talking about a document, a rather small sized piece of old vellum, sealed in the shape of a scroll with the purple ink I use for emergencies? I left it in my desk, and I told Stannis to write me a letter about it in case the thought the Red Keep was no longer safe for it."
"Yes, my Lord. He asked for it. Despite you not being able to give me orders, I knew you would want Stannis to have it, so I offered it to him. If my Lord would like to contact him-" Maester Colemon was interrupted by a slow, ponderous hand being raised by Lord Arryn.
"Do not apologise. You have done a lot of good, to me, the Eyrie and Westeros as a whole. However, there are things that I must discuss with you. Jon Arryn said, his blue eyes boring into Colemon as the Maester drew himself up, nervously.
"Why me, if I may ask, my Lord? Why not your Lady wi-" Maester Colemon immediately remembered why that would be impossible. Lady Arryn was missing from the Red Keep, having fled to the Eyrie not that king after Jon Arryn was poisoned at the feast. Maester Colemon tried to say another person next. Or rather, persons.
"Why not a member of the Small Council, my Lord? I believe that would be better. In fact, Grand Maester Pycelle has just departed, if I go quickly and find someone, I could-" Maester Colemon was interrupted by another hand. The Old Falcon coughed slightly, and began to speak.
"Are you a true Maester of the Citadel, one of the knights of the mind, if you suggest something as ignorant as that? I am sorry, but I merely find it somewhat surpassing. Renly is useless, Stannis has fled, Baelish can't be trusted, Varys will be the death of me, Pycelle is a Lannister-worshipping lickspittle, and Ser Barristan cannot do anything about my predicament.
"He could plan a coup, if he was presented with the evidence. If you convinced him, he would be able to lead the knights and squires of the castle. He would not be able to keep all of the Kingsguard in check to stop them from trying to assist Cersei, but honestly, the only one who is a true tactical problem is Jaime Lannister."
The Lord looked inquisitive, and also slightly puzzled. He looked at Maester Colemon with a confused but focused gaze. "How do you know about Cersei and the incest? I never told you, it was too risky." Maester Colemon was wearing a horrified expression. He mouthed the word "incest", then said it loud.
"Incest? I heard nothing of the sort from Stannis! He merely said two things about "Cersei" and the file "helping Robert find out the true heir". Well, after that I sat down to have a long think about what it could mean, and the solution just came to me, somehow."
"How long did it take you to figure it out? Just from thinking about those two things?"
Colemon hesitated. "About an hour, my Lord. I was merely lucky that I remembered how the genetics worked, with most cases of smallfolk and many cases of noble families with lighter hair colours being overpowered by darker hair colours. Of course, it is quite a bit more complicated, but I realised that lines as old and proud as the Lannisters and Baratheons would probably abide by those rules. The many generations of inbreeding possibly helped, too..."
Arryn seemed to be considering this. Lord Jon Arryn then let out a rather large bellow of laughter, albeit a quite quiet and pained one. Jon Arryn relaxed, and spoke: "Yes, you are indeed a true Maester of the Citadel. I should have figured it out in an hour, damn my old mind. If only I had, and all of this mess could have been avoided."
"My Lord, you must not blame yourself. You have been doing an excellent job, if I dare say, at keeping the realm from falling to the dogs. For all of Lord Baelish's work, you told me that all of the expenses of the Crownlands, the Red Keep, and the Eyrie are dealt with by you and you alone.
Also, the fact that we have had one civil war when the entire dynasty changed for the first time, to the rebels led by a man whose family not only was loyal to the Targaryens for a very long time, was reliant on them to even exist as a noble house in the first place, and the fact that said King may... lack some of the same amount talent in ruling that he was born with, trained and honed on the battlefield, is a testament to the hard work told the Small Council, and especially you. "
Lord Jon Arryn stopped his self-blame to sit still in the moment, somewhat frozen. It looked as if he had been encased by the Wall whilst in the middle of deep thought. "Yes... thank you, Maester Colemon. Thank you. There is no time for blaming at the moment, not for myself and certainly not for anyone else. I believe it is time to think like a Maester, and think rationally."
"And how will you go about that, my Lord?"
"Well, first I will ask you about your diagnosis for me, and why I am in this rather sorry and decrepit space in the first place, so, Maester Colemon, please explain, and also, may I have some milk of the poppy, if possible? My body will probably start to feel pain soon. I know this through experience."
"Yes my Lord. The poison was plant-based, targeted the stomach primarily, but also the liver and large intestine somewhat and it is one that appears to have come from Westeros, but I have not tracked the exact location. However, based on the odd, muddy colour, and the fact that I found very, very small traces of stony dust on the charcoal, I think it may be from Harrenhal.
The mud there looks like any other kind of Riverlands mud, but it is dirtier due to the more stagnant water. The dust came from the broken towers: when the wind bounces off the walls, it would hit the area around the lake, carrying dust with it. Therefore, it is most likely to come from Harrenhal."
"Yes, Maester. Please continue on."
"So, I sent a rider out to talk to Lady Whent, and I told him to be as anonymous as possible. After all, the Arryns and Whents were opponents in the war where their Ser Oswell was killed. Also, it is where that fateful tourney was based... forgive me, my Lord. I am.. rambling of days that are unnecessary to recount."
"Unnecessary only in the sense that I remember them, Maester Colemon. I doubt anyone could blame you for talking about them." The Lord looked rather sorrowful, and mourning. He looked at his faithful servant. "Thank you, Colemon. That will be all."
Maester Colemon attempted to leave, but then Jon Arryn remembered something. "Oh wait, where is Robert?"
"The king is in his cups. I do not thi-"
"My son, Colemon, my son, where is he?"
The Maester hesitated. "Lady Lysa instructed me not to tell you where he is, but I can say for certain that the boy is not in the Red Keep and is not under warship in Casterly Rock, but there is a good chance he is at the Eyrie. So that may be where he is."
Jon Arryn's brows furrowed. Then he gave a weary sigh, and turned back. "When I become healthy again, I will talk to Lysa about this. That is all, Maester Colemon. You may leave."
The Maester bowed and took his leave, nodding to the servants and guards of House Arryn as he went. Whatever happened, from now on, was in the hands of their Lord. They would not fail him, and the Arryns would ascend above all who threatened the King's Peace.
Asha Greyjoy was a Greyjoy princess. She wouldn't call herself that though, especially when her Father had not declared independence from the Greenlanders yet. No one was stupid enough to expect her to be one of those Greenlander princesses, always worrying about their hair or their nails.
No, she was born from salt, and wanted to face death with dignity, fighting violently and proudly aboard a sinking ship. However, instead of chopping through flesh and bone, she was currently cutting through timber. It was to create a boat. Yes, Tristifer Botley and Hart, the other man who had washed up with them who worked on the Black Wind, had the idea to build a boat and get out of the area.
Right now, they were working from scratch, because whilst the average Ironman knew what a boat looked like, they did not know how to exactly build one. It was stupid, Asha thought, but her father had never wanted to really spend time with her before the Rebellion, and he was busy either ruling the islands or brooding bitterly on his defeat.
Her other options were her uncles, or Dagmer Cleftjaw. Dagmer had taught her a little bit, but she would have trouble building a ship from absolute nothing. He never told her, for instance, the best size of longboat, or the best type of wood, or how often to perform maintenance. However, he was often away with the tides, and so she tried to ask her uncles.
However, odds were Aeron was wondering acrosss the isles, preaching and praying, and Victarion admitted that he did not know how to build a boat any more than how to eat one. He did say he could sail and sink them better than any man, however. She believed him, but she also doubted whether those skills would be of much use during construction.
And Euron would probably either laugh or tie her to a sunken anchor and say that she ran away from home.
Still, they had to sail off of this island, so she used her throwing axe to great effect. Chopping down trees, cutting rough planks which she then smoothed and straightened to the correct size with her knife, sharpening the axe on one of the island's rocks when it was blunted by the endless stress, and parting the head of one of Euron's mute mongrels who had washed up overboard.
Asha was beginning to suspect one of the sharper-eyed mongrels had spied her floating away, because every night she saw a small ship circling the island. Perhaps it was mere superstition, but why else? There was no one, to her knowledge, on these godforsaken islands, and she doubted they would be popular with pirates: the food was ample for a group of 4 or 5, but a crew of even the smallest ship would be going with just enough if they stayed here for a month.
And there were other dangers. It turned out one other man had ended up on the far side of the island. This was noticed by Qarl the Maid, when he was were exploring the island on their second day. The man was not one of the Black Wind's (or Salt Seal's), and instead looked like a Summer Islander, or someone from these kinds of areas. However, they did not find the man in a favourable position.
His face was half buried in wet sand, with blood congealing, having come from his torn feet into the rockpools where his feet lay, into said pools. Crabs were poking and eating at his flesh. When Qarl turned him over, the Maid reported, he had found that the man had been gored in the front. His guts were torn and tossed inside of him, with his fromt looking like some queer Ironborn offal.
Everyone thought it was an attack by a sort of elephant, but Tris said that it was most likely to be a boar. There were a few books in Lordsport, though absolutely nowhere near as much as there were in Harlaw, and most were about seafaring and foreign lands. Tris had brought one as a good luck charm, and maybe it did work, but only once: he had lost it in the attack on the Black Wind.
Still, if a boar was brave enough to attack a wounded, but still far from weak, man with the vague look of a warrior, judging by his strong build and sword and dagger and empty quiver found on him, they had needs watch themselves. They all agreed to never stray that far beyond their fairly comfortable little camp.
Their camp was about halfway to the treeline, halfway in between what the tide was when they all decided to found the camp. Only after had they settled down had they realised that the tide here was frankly enormous: the distance from the seaward edge of their camp to the tide (about 5 or so meters) then grew about ten and a half times before the water could be touched, and at least ten more times before the water could be considered actually deep.
Their camp was simple, even as far as camps went: a few surprisingly comfortable sleeping arrangements, made up of loose driftwood and some of the larger rocks, and covered with palm leaves for comfort. They were dug in a small ditch, all next to each other, so one could easily rouse the others in case of an attack.
These beds, if you faced the jungle and stood in the campfire, began exactly two meters to the left, and ended just under four meters to the left. The campfire was standard, a few rocks, a few ashes and cinders, made with dry wood from the jungle and rocks found on the beach. They had grilled an odd-looking fish there the other day.
The boat was being built about ten meters away to the left of the camp if you were facing the thick jungle. Well, for a certain meaning of "being built" anyway. The ship was currently just a collection of planks, as they had no nails. Tris was trying out an idea, trying to turn logs into nails. He was chiselling nail-like shapes and seeing if he could attach them to planks effectively. Asha doubted his idea, but she knew it was the greatest hope they had.
Qarl and Hart, who was named for his forward-pointing face reminiscent of a deer, were working on the ship proper. Qarl was attempting to hammer Tris' makeshift wooden nails into some planks with the flat of his king sword. He was having trouble. Earlier in the day, he tried doing so, but with him only holding the hilt, he was hammering the nail oddly, and ended up breaking it entirely, splitting it in two. The sight had made Asha feel rather depressed: it reminded her of the Black Wind.
Hart was the one testing out if those planks worked. When the tide was out, Hart would leave the wooden structures on the sand, and wait. If they sank, Hart would swim into the blue, clear sea and fish them out. Speaking of fish, he was also the one who caught most of the food, whether that was catching those odd fish or hunting, chasing and killing the boars. He mostly failed at the latter, but the day before yesterday, he had somehow managed to bash its skull in with a coconut.
That night, the Ironborn feasted on small portions of roast boar, as to preserve their most delicious meal yet, as well as coconut milk from the tree. Hart apparently was drunk on his victory, and attempted to see if a coconut-shaped boat would carry them away. He spent the whole night stumbling about, until Tris convinced him to not gamble all of their planks of wood on his plan. Thus, they only lost five. They would have lost less, but Asha and Qarl were both laughing themselves sick at Hart's antics.
Asha began to ponder what they would see on the open seas. She couldn't see any better than they could so far out, even when it was low tide, with a clear day, cloudless and dry. She could not, for the life of her, see anything more than a few fleeting, blurred shapes on the horizon. She also could not discern whether they were actual ships or mirage images, caused by the heat and distance.
Euron was still searching for her, that much she was certain of. She was, realistically, the only obstacle he had to inheriting the Seastone Chair, as both of her elder brothers were killed in the rebellion, and Theon was still in Winterfell. The only way to prevent that was for a priest of the Drowned God to declare a Kingsmoot, which could only be done when the Ironborn were actually led by their own king first.
Asha thought that her uncle would not stop searching for them, at least for a king while, whilst he figured out a way to increase his support on the Iron Islands. However, if she knew him, the way he was most likely to do that was to attempt to kill every single pirate, their crew, their families, captives and slaves, before burning everything in sight.
She knew then, that they had to get off of this island quickly. The ships would eventually find her, and Euron would slit her throat, and either before or after that, coat her in chum and dump her down tied to a rock. So, if she had a choice between fighting her way out and possibly surviving, or getting found and taken by the entire mongrel fleet, she knew her choice.
So she carried on, cutting planks and seeing if they could actually build a boat somehow.
The brothels in the wynds and winding streets of King's Landing were places that he saw in the same light as most people, titles, and armies. A place where the foolish would squander their potentia and be mediocre at best, but where the wise could make a good use of them. Littlefinger went about this in a rather different way than most
Most tried to simply make the functions better, faster, more efficient. More taxes would be collected, more men drilled, more people would be hired to work under them. That was all well and good, but if you wished to not just survive, but thrive in King's Landjng, you needed a dash of creativity.
Whores could be used as spies, but seldom did anyone use them as ways of money laundering. He performed this in some of his less impressive brothels. He made them that way, and mostly attracted the slightly richer common folk who had some dragons to waste on a woman. Gamblers who won by luck at dice or tiles, craftsmen who had just finished a project for a Lord, a new official serving under a ship insurer, or a pawnbroker, or a banker. Those were the type.
Whenever there was a large event, such as a tourney, or a wedding or the arrival of a Lord Paramount, those men would be kicked out, largely, of brothels by callow lordlings or courtly knights, and would have to go to one of his establishments. Then, when the whore performed... unsatisfactorily, under his orders, those men would seek refunds.
And they would be granted. Luxuriously, in fact. Up to three times as much of the money they had spent on the whore were granted. Those coins were all of his ill-gotten gains. Every dragon was marked, though most Lords never bothered to check. The numbers cut onto the "top" indicated the year, and the ones on the "bottom" indicated the serial number.
He had, of course repeatedly tried to get rid of those identifying features, but for all of his madness, Kibg Aerys picked the men in charge of his mints well. Too well. Even bribery scarce seemed to work on the man. Once he had gained enough influence and money to get the man set upon by a pair of thugs hired from Flea Bottom who then vanished because no one dared look for them in Flea Bottom, he had ordered the new man in charge of minting the Dragons to just use random numbers.
If anyone questioned this, he would just say there was no need to use the serial numbers: after all, he was correct in saying very few men actually paid attention to them. The reason he had done this was that, if someone, say, a man who had been taught by the Iron Bank to analyse every aspect of every coin, or a man who had been trained in finance at the Citadel (those with yellow gold in their chain) could spot that money moving, he could be in great trouble.
So, he had hired an up-and comer, the son of a butcher, who he had already put in his debt by claiming he was a scion of the near-extinct House Slynt, formerly of an unknown and insignificant little hamlet in the Reacb that randomly died off entirely when the Shivers came to Westeros.
It had no claimants, at least none who would care about it, enough to name him as a member of it through his "unknown" mother (she actually ran one of his brothels. No wonder young Janos never told anyone of her), and even better, the House who had held it was also killed off by Baelor Breakspear's hammer at the Redgrass Field. A perfect match, for that fool.
Slynt was only good for killing off the few wise men that came to King's Landing infrequently. They were mostly independent tax and debt collectors, or representatives of some of the more minor Tyroshi trading cartels, and some of what he called his "black gold providers", people who he had done business with off the books. The Maesters never sent anyone over, and Littlefinger knew enough of Braavos to never try to meddle with the Iron Bank without a good plan.
In fact, of the funders behind the Crown, he was going out of his way to embezzle the least amount of money. And not just the smallest percentage either: every representative had been somewhat of a miser, in his opinion. If only all of his sources could be trusted as much as the Iron Bank... unlike those aforementioned black gold providers.
They included corrupt magisters of Pentos (mostly to have a more direct view in whatever the Eunuch's cheesemonger was cooking up in Essos), a few common loan sharks and pawn brokers, and the odd Stepstones pirate, Dothraki warlord, sellsword financier, Bearded priest of Norvos or Ibbenese whaling tycoon (He tried to avoid dealing in slaves: he did have some pride in his heritage).
Once he even had the privilege to trade an exquisite Summer Islander woodcut of to one of the Undying of Qarth for rum and jade, and a quarter-cask of shade of the evening. He immediately stored the latter: no sense something like that, even if was not a lie that prophetic dreams that were given by drinking it, but he would eventually someone to sell it to. He considered just gifting to Renly, whenever he declared his claim.
It would be very simple. Just say the truth about the golden bastards. Slip a few silvers to some knights, or merely tell him about it directly. Get his harpists and singers to play the sweet tunes of songs of the Conquest, and the Tyrells. A harp could be as deadly as a knife in the right hands.
His plan would work, and even if it didn't, due to some irritating and unexpected possibility, this plan was flexible, and he could adapt and change it at will. To kick things off, he would first need to see if Eddard Stark had any chance of surviving King's Landing for more than a year. Whilst unlikely, if Stark derailed the beginning, everything would be shifted out of place.
So, when Lord Eddard managed to make an enemy of the Lannisters, Littlefinger would slip a few dragons to Slynt (who had, in a graciously accepted but unexpected turn of events, been made the Commander of the Gold Cloaks), and turn on his former "ally". Then, with Renly gone to the Reach, Stannis building up forces, and the armies of the North and Westerlands colliding in the Riverlands, stage two could commence.
He would find a way to get the arrested Lord sent to the Wall: not hard, Cersei was clever enough to grasp what she had to do; with the condition that his child or children (depending on how many accompanied him) would only be released when he arrived at the Wall, and only if he also never told a soul about the events or truths in King's Landing, and told the Northern forces to go home, or at least not to throw in with Stannis.
However, the catch was that men that he had hired would slip into Winterfell, and kill off every single Stark. Littlefinger still held a grudge about that scar. If Brandon wanted to end the duel bloodlessly as he so proclaimed, a disarming would have done. Traditionally, it was the provider of the steel that decided to resupply a disarmed duellist, so Brandon would have won because no-one would give Peter Baelish steel.
Stannis needed to die too, or Littlefinger would. Sure, the man's mind would be perverted and deluded with a will to succeed and claim the Iron Throne... but the mind could be cut off with the head from the rest of the body easily. All the Lannisters had to do was not be idiots about war.
Tywin Lannister would be fine, Littlefinger knew. During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, though it was Ser Jason who had commanded the Lannister troops, after Jason had his horse killed from under him and was cut down by the Golden Companies' footmen, Tywin had led the Lannister cavalry to draw the right away in a fighting retreat, allowing the Martel reserve to smash into the gap, which in turn let the Stormlanders cut a bloody path through the Companies' van, and Ser Barristan through Maelys the Monstrous.
In a stretch, Ser Kevan, Ser Daven or even the mind of the Imp would serve as decent commanders, but the Kinslayer was overhasty. Littlefinger hoped that if and when Ser Jaime faced Robb Stark, that the wolf boy would take more from his Tully side than his Stark side... and not from Hoster and the Blackfish either. They served under their father Lord Hosteen Tully in the right reserve, and distinguished themselves by routing an elephant charge, of all things.
However, Littlefinger had to make sure that none of the better generals were alive before the time came to face the Reach, and Renly. A good general may just be able to assassinate Renly when all threats were gone and they could just focus on him. So, he'd try and kill all of the good generals first. Maybe poison, or a revolt, or some shots from a hidden bowman? That last one had the most merit, so he would start looking for good archers at the Hand's tourney.
Robert despised archers, calling them "weak cowards, shooting at people with sticks to waste our resources and because they can't tell a sword from their co-". Well, the King sneezed then, but Littlefinger got the gist of it. It was far too unreliable to try and predict when the King was drunk enough or in a good enough mood for him to approve of the contest, so Littlefinger would just do it anyway, and say that the Marcher lords had insisted. That would work. Robert loved his homelands fiercely.
Then, having married Catelyn to "secure the Arryn, Tully and Stark bloodlines, he would let the Vale go into other hands, he had no real want for it. And then, he would have ensured that House Baelish existed as a true power, changing Westeros forever.
Not bad for the least important Lord in all Westeros.
Robert Baratheon was woken up by his squire Lancel, after he had drank too much the previous night. Who could blame the king, after all, his dear friend the Lord Hand, Jon Arryn, was dead. Although, maybe he was overdoing it. He had been this drunk almost every day...
Varys read the reports from one of his spymasters. Yes, even the Master of Whisperers had his middle management. They tended to be older boys, and most were beneath notice, although one or two, unlike the one whose report he was reading, were in rather important positions.
He was reading it by candlelight, sitting down cross-legged on the Targaryen mosaic in the bowels of the Red Keep. Of course, he did not look like himself. He had replaced his flowing purple robe for an austere, filthy grey one. He was wearing a brown tunic that bore the arms of House Stokeworth. A rusted knife was at his side, and he had a fake grey beard stuck to his face.
If anyone stumbled across him, they would just see a random man-at-arms turned vagrant. If they did chase him, he had soaked the letter's corner slightly with a liquid fork a bottle he had left in another corridor. It was nowhere near deadly as wildfire, or even pitch, but if he had to hide the letter permanently on the run, a quick usage of the liquid would dispose of this sensitive piece of information permanently.
Giggling to himself, Varys read on. The reason why he was taking so long was because he had to decipher the text, letter by letter. Every Master of Whisperers worth their salt would find a way to deprive the enemy of information even after it was literally in the palm of their hands. Previous hands just used fake messages and disappearing and invisible ink.
Code was just so much more elegant. Fake messages can get identified as fake, disappearing ink can be read before it vanishes entirely, and invisible ink could just be revealed by holding it up to a light source. However, there was absolutely no way to crack a decent code, apart from slowly and painfully, of course.
This particular one was one of his own invention, using a method he had learned on the streets of Pentos. For all of their talk, the Maesters were content to further ponder questions that they already knew about, and never advance their knowledge to new subjects. No-one in Westeros could decipher this code in less than a few days, and by then he would have changed it.
Choosing from a list of different shift words numbered from 1 to 20, his little birds would encrypt their message. This one was using word number 8, "Brightflame". His birds would take the number of each letter in the Westerosi alphabet, double it, and take that number away from its original position. In addition, many symbols that meant nothing would be added, and every fifth letter, the shift would increase by 2.
No-one in Westeros, apart from perhaps the Archmaester of Mathematics, knew anything like this code, and could act on it effectively. For King's Landing, it was more than adequate. Varys continued reading. The subject of the letter was a general report of the situation in the Red Keep. Also next to him were 9 other letters, with all but 2 being reports.
The two anomalies were texts that he decided needed his attention, and could not be left to someone else, like his subordinates. Most spymasters did not delegate tasks to pawns, lieutenants and lesser spymasters, but Varys knew it was best to allow a modicum of freedom, enough so they could adapt to unforeseen circumstances but not enough to encourage wild and chaotic deviation.
Especially now. With Littlefinger in the city and seemingly starting to make serious plays for power, Varys needed to trust his little birds and his knowing pawns more than ever. So he had increased the birds' workload by a not insignificant amount, and stated to keep a closer watch on his pawns. From the former of these changes to his operations came these reports.
The first was talking about the case of why they thought that someone tied to the Vale was behind the poisoning,and that they had conspired it, perhaps, with Lysa Arryn. She had not seemed too distressed when the knews came out, and whilst she immediately fled to the Vale when this occurred, she was certain to take everything of her Lord husband's, including some important texts that, in the wrong hands, could be dangerous.
There were at least two links between Lady Lysa and the failed poisoning. One was the flight itself, and how dramatically she left. Another was that one man, a certain Ser Hugh, had apparently stayed and was apparently quite well rewarded, for something. However, that fool Pycelle had deprived him of one link.
Apparently, Pycelle had made a guess without any evidence that Varys was investigating and told Littlefinger, leading to the man that Varys wanted to kidnap and interrogate being found in the middle of dinner... or rather, being dined on. Apparently, the poorest in Flea Bottom were both desperate enough for food to perform this fact, and also fans of the Skagosi.
Varys could tell that the man was thinking himself cunning after this. Mayhaps he could delay the plans for assassinating him. He might make contact with the news Hand. Then, since that Hand was more likely to be Ned Stark than anyone else, he might be able to convince the Hand to tell the king to rid Pycelle of his position.
Varys would have done this before, but he did not want the Queen to start paying attention to anything. She was crucial for the upcoming war. Without her in the right position, the war might be derailed by the actions of her family. Also, she had a possibility of derailing his plans that were unrelated to the war. Her power over the kingdom were something notable.
So, his best option was to see how the Grand Maester and the Hand interacted, see if he could nudge the Hand in the direction of standing with him against Pycelle and the Lannisters, and make sure to cooperate with him and get him home safely. The Lannisters and Starks needed to be both lead by experienced commanders, lest the war end too quickly for the perfect prince to arrive in Westeros with Connington.
The second link was that a former man-at-arms of House Tully, who had been high in the employ of Lord Hoster, and who had known Lysa Arryn and Petyr Baelish as children, had been found dead, in the aforementioned Flea Bottom incident. This seemed to implicate one of the two, or perhaps an unknown and hard to identify third party who wanted to shift the suspicion off of himself and onto someone else.
Varys was inclined to believe it was the former, probably Littlefinger but possibly Lysa. It was more likely for him to know someone and not their motivations than it was for him to know either. There was no third party that both had this amount of knowledge and the ability and drive to act on the knowledge.
Varys moved on to the second of the reports. This was about a possible conspiracy of the Maesters. That was less relevant, and the information was provided by one of his more distant operators, meaning that the message had a larger chance of being tampered with along the way. The operator was an acolyte called Hall.
The acolyte was a shy, polite, quiet man who had come to the Citadel to forge a chain of alum and become the Archmaester of the subject of the study of society, and the people inside it: Civilisation, it was called in the Citadel. Hall was seeking to become this in order to advance his own knowledge, and to solve a certain secret problem.
Varys did not know this problem, but Hall had got in touch with Varys and told him that he would work as an agent in the Citadel in exchange for knowledge on his spy network and King's Landing. After Varys lied to him for the first three years, he decided he could trust his spy in the Citadel. They had been working together for 8 years.
Varys settled down to read the report. Whatever knowledge he could acquire would be necessary in these troubled times. With a crucial war incoming, Littlefinger making seemingly random moves, the Queen about to put her own into action, the situation in Essos having to be planned, a possible issue with the Citadel, and in the middle of it all, a new Hand of the King.
In these troubled times, the wars to come would surely be brutal and difficult. It was up to him to keep on swimming.
Yay!!!
Another chapter finished. New chapters coming soon!!
(Ish)