Chapter 3

Gods above and below, why me?

As I ponder the way my (new) life was heading, the wind picked up from the north once more throwing more dust into my face and helping a faint stench infiltrate my nose. My hands tighten over the reins as I try not to sneeze.

Oh great! King's Landing was already starting to gain the so-famous perfume it decorated itself in the main series.

My thought must have been entirely too obvious for Lucian (my bestest friend) chuckled from behind me.

"If you find this so enjoyable, why don't you replace me here?" I call back from the wagon's driver seat.

"No, I think you'll be quite alright getting a new coat of road dust. It might hide you better from all the aristocracy when you decide to run away again." He responds from inside the wagon in a sly tone.

I looked back, my mind feeling tired from his constant snipes he's been delivering ever since leaving Oldtown, only to see Lucian's face closer than expected. The sudden jump I did, definitely not of surprise, startled the singular horse into neighing loudly waking up the rest of the people traveling with us.

"AH! By the golden Kraken's tentacles, what now?"

"Sorry, Maester! It was a bump on the road!"

"Drive more carefully Alastair!" Another voice from inside piped up. Other voices soon joined it, in agreement with the previous statement.

"Sorry, sorry."

My face red (in fury, I say), I glared at Lucian Lannister's grinning face who was trying to restrain his usual boisterous bellows of laughter.

He sneaks a glance to the covered wagon's grumbling interior and proceeds to join me at the front.

Lucian Lannister of Lannisport, third son of a fourth cousin to the current Lord of Lannister, was any maiden's wet dream come true and any gay guy's perfect Grindr profile come to life. Since he was one of the very few who still frequented the sparing arena, he had a very good physique that matched well with his chiselled face making him look like a living portrait of a mythical King Arthur. His voice matched that of any bard that you could pull off the streets and his green eyes, now filled with mirth, were very pretty, indeed, with its colour more of deep jade than shining emerald.

We became good friends in the sparing arena, my spear against his sword, and our friendship deepened after we bonded over the wonders of this world as we completed our valyrian steel links together. It also didn't hurt that he was a Westerlander with no deep seeded rivalry for the Dornish planted in his mind by sheer force of tradition and thousands of years of warring. Which, all in all, proved to be a difficult cultural hurdle to any friendship I made in a Reach infested institution.

In a quick motion, as he sits down, he kisses my cheek only for his face to immediately scrunch up.

This time I am the one who laughed, boisterously.

Ω

Because only a particularly stubborn weightlifter equipped with a crowbar and blessed by a quick-time event (or just a misogynistic Jaeherys) would be able to pry Archmaester Vagon from his place at the Citadel, it was Black Bart that had the dubious pleasure of escorting the five acolytes chosen to help Grand Maester Runciter's efforts in preserving the books from Dragonstone (plus me of course) to King's Landing.

When we finally arrived, the stench of medieval humanity was definitely noticeable but not to the point that it was advertised in the main series. Nevertheless, Lucian, who got to be the one driving inside the city, still had to steer the wagon very carefully not to drive over humans, cats, dogs, the occasional rat and the not so rare puddle of filth.

While the view entering the city let us see the entirety of it, enjoying all those large buildings Westeros was so fond of, from inside it looked like any other well preserved historical city centre from Europe... just ya'know... being used by its contemporaries.

The biggest surprise was the state of dress the people were wearing. All of it was relatively well made and while they weren't wearing any eye-watering dyes (most colours were pale but present) their style was diverse. Even for an historian such as me, it was hard to get rid of certain preconceptions and though I did know medieval people weren't as unhygienic or as crass as thought of, it was totally different thing to actually experience it. Other such details of living in this mismatch world still surprised me, occasionally, making me feel more of a tourist in my own life than an actual native of Planetos. Even back in Dorne, though we ate mostly without forks, it was obligatory to wash our hands, before and after, eating. The only thing we didn't do much was use soap, which I did and convinced everyone to use, but even then it didn't take much convincing at all.

When we arrived through the Red Keep's main gate, it was early morning, and we were directed towards the servants' entrances with a minimal greeting from the Red Keep's Castellan. Then, after being introduced to our new quarters we were washed, scrubbed, and violently cleaned from the harsh travel by two old maids. We were given better acolyte robes, of better quality and make, and our chains were polished. Our faces were cleaned and shaven, our hairs cut and washed thrice with different oils and perfumes and our nails trimmed. Even our eyebrows were plucked and pruned!

(If I had to intertwine my hands behind my back in order not to throttle the old hag who clucked and tsk-ed at my "Dornish-ness" no one noticed but Lucian, who side-eyed her with a scarily Tywin-like glare like she was about to be drowned in some mines any minute now. After they left, I decided to put my own touches to my vestment as a fuck-you.)

The Royal family opened Court every morning after breakfast, which started at 10 in the morning. Life at the castle, as far as the Castellan explained it, started at 6 in the morning for the servants, or even earlier if you were a cook, and then most nobles woke up at 7, the males would go to some training and sparing while the ladies went to pray and go teach or receive lessons (the already married attended their duties as ladies of their Houses); then at 9 they'd break fast, clean themselves, and dress their finest, to arrive at Court by 10. Open Court was every Father's Day (every first day of the week) and the Small Council had the tendency of holding their meetings thrice a week, unless specifically called upon by the King or the Hand.

Other small titbits of daily life that the Castellan was informing us was soon ignored as Lucian started making faces at me from behind the portly man.

Black Bart just seemed bored with it all, watching the scene unfold with a look in his eyes of someone pinning for the fjords.

Then, after half an hour of the Castellan teaching the essential courtesies for those of us born low in the societal ladder, our time finally came.

Ω

Being introduced at Court was a rather nervous wrecking affair.

At least, to my other fellow acolytes.

The six of us, plus Black Bart, were waiting for the royal proclamations to end and for the petitions from higher nobles to be addressed for us to actually enter the Throne Room so it left plenty of time for the other members of this little posse to start sweating in their new clothes.

Meanwhile, Black Bart seemed rather engrossed analysing a particularly lurid tapestry.

The glance that me and Lucian shared spoke a thousand words.

Look, I was all for the Arts but I draw the line in having a Rule 34 Balerion tapestry straight in the entrance hall to the Targaryen seat of power.

I did not want to know if having the "blood of the Dragon" was that literal in the case of the Valyrians.

Heck, I don't even know if dragons have dicks or not! And I don't want to know!

No matter how big they might be!

...

My eyes, unwillingly, went back to the tapestry.

...

Christ, can that even fit inside the poor woman?

...

I think... I think the look of... appreciation in her face just makes the entire tapestry even worse.

My careening thoughts were (thankfully) interrupted by the Castellan practically skipping at us and whispering something in Black Bart's ear.

The Ironborn Maester nodded at the robust man and then turned to us.

"Alright, ya' poor examples of shark bait. It's our turn now. Questions? Any last words?"

I raise my hand.

"Any questions not about the tapestry?"

I lower my hand.

He surveyed us for a moment and then nodded.

"Time to make the Citadel proud; c'mon lads."

Author's Notes: Pinning for the fjords *giggles*

Get it?

'Cause he's an Ironborn?

So it's both a Viking joke, a death by boredom joke *and* a Monty Python reference?

No?

Just me?

...

Fine.

Update: Anyway, this year has been a doozy: finished my Dissertation, defended it, finished my Master's, began another (clearly I'm a masochist), trying to make a paper to publish, procrastinated on my driver's lessons and getting my hunting license *and* buying the parts to build a new PC. So with Xmas here and my desktop starting to make even Minecraft lag, I'm kinda hoping for some sales I can take advantage of...

I'll try to put a up a new chapter for one of the other fics I have still waiting in line before they murder me in my sleep sometime before Xmas day. So look forward to that.

I hope you liked what you read! Leave a review and tell me your thoughts!