A/N: Thanks to everyone who provided feedback for my Renly/Stannis question. It's greatly appreciated. Thanks to those who took the time to review. It means a lot to me.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Twenty

Garlan:

"I want to return to my chambers."

Garlan stopped pushing his brother. "The same chambers you complained about. The same chambers you wished to escape. Those chambers, brother?"

Loras' legs were fine, but they were weak from all his bedrest, so a wheelchair was commissioned for him. One of a similar design that Prince Doran supposedly used. Father had paid extra to have it built hastily, hoping it would improve Loras' mood. With his body still weak and recovering, the maesters believed by using the chair, he'd not tax his strength too quickly.

"I look like a fool."

"You look like a warrior, brother," Garlan moved around so he could face him. Loras had shaved what was left of his curly hair. Faded cuts and burns covered his bald scalp. His arm remained in a sling. His Tyrell green tunic covered the burns on his shoulders before it emerged to crawl up his neck, covering his chin, parts of his left cheek.

"I know what they whisper," he winced, after trying to turn his head. The burns blistering hold on his neck was unrelenting.

Garlan crouched down so Loras had to see him. "When have you ever let whispers stop you?" There had been whispers of his brother for years, but Loras never let them bother him. They had tended to the scars they could, he thought sadly, looking over his brother, but there were others that remained untouched, unseen. His brother's cheerfulness had been leached from him, drained away like all that blood. While his pride was just as bruised and battered as his flesh. "Back to your chambers?"

"No, let's keep going," Loras' decision had surprised Garlan, expecting his brother to remain adamant about returning.

"Very good," Garlan tapped his brother's leg. Pleased to see a glimmer of his brother's carefreeness emerge. He stood back up and went behind him so he could start pushing again.

The wheels rolled and bumped along the cobbled path of the castle's godswood.

"I heard gossip among some of the servants."

"Are you dicing with the servants again?" Garlan asked glibly, while inwardly considering how to handle what he suspected was to be some of the bad news that kept trickling into the city.

Loras chuckled, which to Garlan sounded better and warmer than the birdsong above their heads. "They thought me asleep when they were whispering to each other," He confessed. He could almost picture his brother's innocent smile as Garlan continued to push, "Easy mistake since I often am," And just like that he could now see his brother's smile curdle.

"The milk of the poppy is for the pain," In the weeks after the battle, his brother's dosage had slowly waned, but he still needed to take it to help him sleep and to dull the ache from the burns and scars. Even though he was walking behind his brother, Garlan sensed his parroting of the maesters back to Loras was unwelcomed. "What is the gossip you heard?"

"They say Dorne has entered the war."

Garlan sighed. "They have begun light raiding into the Stormlands and the Reach," the news only got worse. "It is said, Prince Doran has called his banners, and they'll be marching soon."

Loras shook his head, and then hissed in pain. "Renly always said Stannis was without friends."

Renly has said a lot of things that have been proven to be wrong, Garlan thought bitterly. "Stannis has the Starks backing him and it shouldn't be dismissed," Even though he had seen it dismissed countless times in the past weeks. "Lord Stark brought in the Riverlands while his sons have given Stannis countless victories."

His brother seemed to shrink in his seat. "Why wasn't I told?"

It doesn't concern you; Garlan kept that answer to himself. He tried to distract him instead of having to tell him the truth. "Speaking of the Starks, the North has been facing some setbacks."

It worked. "Truly?"

"Yes, the ironborn have launched raids along their coast," Garlan couldn't remember how old those reports were. "And it would appear the wildlings now have their own king, and he's marched on the Wall."

"Oh, this is excellent," Loras was practically vibrating in his seat. "Renly is sure to capitalize on this," his good mood soon soured. "I should be there, helping him." He tried to turn his head to face Garlan. "Do you think I can attend the council meetings? I'll tolerate this," gesturing to his chair, "If it helps me serve my king again."

Garlan pursed his lips. "I think that would be unwise, brother," he tried to turn him down delicately, but his brother was not one to be refused. It's why we're- he stopped that unbidden thought. "The maesters-"

"The maesters aren't knights," Loras complained. "They're used to sitting around reading books all day, but I'm a knight in the kingsguard. I should be serving my king!"

Garlan's fingers clenched on the handles of the chair. He doesn't deserve you, brother. He found himself thinking less and less of their king the more he was around Renly. The king did try to make an effort to visit Loras more after Garlan confronted him, but he slowly withdrew himself from the obligation. Yet he remains the sun to Loras.

"Who is it?" Loras' question pulled him out of his thoughts. "Who's been handling my responsibilities as lord commander?"

"Brienne of Tarth," Garlan knew his brother was still sore from losing to her so his brother's reaction did not surprise him.

"The Maiden of Tarth?" Loras scoffed, unimpressed, "She'd be by Renly's side as his fool if he asked her to."

"Then let us hope he does not ask her," Garlan replied, trying to lighten his brother's mood. He smiled when he heard Loras' laugh.

That was how Leonette found them, she smiled when she approached them. "Ser Loras," she greeted her good brother with a kiss on each cheek.

"Sister," Loras said, "Has mother come to fetch us?"

Garlan suspected Mother was likely cross with him for keeping Loras out of bed for this long. She'll not stay angry for long, he thought, once she sees Loras' improvement.

She kissed Garlan first before she answered, "Not to be punished sadly."

He wrapped his arms around her, earning a second longer kiss from his beloved wife. She was beautiful in Tyrell green silk with yellow lace. His fingers skimmed along her bare arms. "There has been news," she finally said, "It'll be all over the castle I suspect before the hour is up and all over the city before the sun sets."

"What news?" Garlan and Loras asked at the same time.

"The Queen, your sister," Leonette said, "She's with child."

The small hall was boisterous.

The city had seen a week of feasts since it was revealed King Renly and his Queen were expecting their first child. Father spared no expense with the celebrations, giving out money to the Faith for prayers and alms, and food to the smallfolk. He wanted everyone in the city to share in his excitement of his first royal grandchild. He had even organized a tournament that further endeared himself to the smallfolk who enjoyed the lavish spectacle and free bread and ale. The knights enjoyed themselves too, having grown bored in the city. There were tilts and melees, all of them wanting to cover themselves in glory while giving the honors to the king and queen's first child.

The Tower of the Hand's small hall was where Father was hosting another feast, for his bannermen and knights. It was filled to the brim despite Father promising a more intimate gathering after days of celebration. King Renly was given the seat of honor behind him draped on the stone wall was his royal banner, a crowned golden stag on a green field. The King was wearing his golden rose crown with the jade stag head crowned with golden antlers. Margaery sat on one side of him dressed in green and gold, while father and mother sat on Renly's other side with Grandmother sitting on Margaery's other side.

Garlan and Leonette shared a smaller table with Loras and some of their cousins- Elinor, Megga, and Alla Tyrell. He did not mind the company of his kin, preferring not to be at his lord father's table for this feast since he and Leonette were hoping to leave early. Loras sat glumly in his wheelchair, not partaking in the boasts or toasts that were being uttered by what felt like every knight in the Reach. One would stand up, swaying on his feet, trying to make a speech, and then hiccup, sending his friends into fits of laughter before pulling him down and another took his place.

He didn't even turn when a knight from Lord Crane's retinue rose to make his drunken declaration. He sliced another thin piece of his honey cake, taking it with his fork before raising it up to where Leonette was expectantly waiting for it. Smiling, he watched her take it from his fork, her eyes closed to savor the delicious taste. Garlan had grown tired of the taste of cake three feasts ago, but his wife hadn't. A piece crumbled out of her mouth, but he caught the rest of it with a napkin. He dabbed at the crumbs at the corner of her lips.

Alla and Megga were giggling in hushed voices while Elinor was blatantly trying to catch the attention of a knight who was not her betrothed. Her glossy lips and empty wine glass at her elbow signaling the cause of it. However, he knew his cousin well enough to know she did not need a stomach full of wine to flirt, enjoying the game like some men enjoy hunting or sparring.

"Do you think she'll let one of us marry him?" Garlan heard Megga ask before hiccupping.

"Who?" Leonette asked with raised her eyebrow.

The question brought a fresh burst of giggles from their cousins. Loras rolled his eyes, looking as if he'd rather clean out his chamber pot than listen to this gossip.

"The Stark boy," Alla said, as Megga hushed her. She ignored her, "Queen Margaery says she and the king will need ladies they can trust in the North once this war is over." Alla's eyes were hazy from drink. "And they say the Young Wolf is as comely as he is fierce."

Megga whispered something about wolves that Garlan was glad he didn't hear the rest of since it let both girls blush a deep red, hiccupping and giggling while Alla helped themselves to more wine.

"The north is a frigid wasteland," Elinor turned her attention back to them, resigned at the company. She was holding her glass which had been refilled, one of her fingers tapping the rim. "So far away from civilized men."

"There are several ways to pass the time, and stay warm," Alla said with a wicked grin that had Megga sputtering out her wine, red drops falling down onto her pale chest and the green silks of her dress. This only made Alla giggle louder while Megga tried to shush her and mop up her mess.

"El's just jealous," Alla was unphased by Elinor's disinterest, "Because she has to marry Alyn."

"I want to marry Alyn," Elinor shot back, "He's a knight unlike those northerners who worship trees."

"I want to leave," Loras muttered under his breath.

Garlan chuckled into his own cup agreeing with his brother, but when he looked to see if his lady wife was ready to leave, to his surprise and disappointment, she was interested in what their cousins had to say.

"Oh?" Alla asked furrowing her brow for dramatic effect since her eyes were gleaming. "Then how come I heard you asked our dear Queen to put aside your betrothal so you could marry Robb Stark?"

Elinor's face went red, and her eyes narrowed. "Who told you that?" She hissed.

"I'll never tell," Alla sing songed, savoring Elinor's reaction as if it was a freshly baked apple cake.

"Are you ready, dear?" Leonette asked, half smiling as the three girls were now squabbling with one another.

Garlan was about to say he was, when he saw a maester scurrying between the tables to make his way to where the King and Father sat. He wasn't the only one to notice, tables quieted, and people stilled at their seats as more and more eyes tracked the maester. His eyes remained on the king, who had been laughing until the maester bent low to hand him the letter before whispering something in his ear. The king's smile never faded from his face, sensing the attention on the hall was turning to him. The maester had since turned to speak with father while Margaery was whispering something to grandmother.

Renly rose to his feet. "We have received news from the Reach," His voice easily carried throughout the hall. "Robb Stark has invaded our lands, pillaging and raiding as his army goes."

This news brought a thunderclap of noise as lords and knights jumped to their feet, many swearing revenge on the Starks, others calling to march at once. He stayed seated, seeing the concern in his wife's eyes had him reach over to cover her hand with his. Loras' face was pinched, hands wringing on the arms of his chair.

"Robb Stark will rue the day he challenges the men of the Reach," Renly said over the din, earning cheers and chants of King Renly!

Father had gotten to his feet. His face stern, "Your Grace, I ask for the command to take down Robb Stark. These are my lands and my people."

Renly smiled, clapping his good father on the shoulder. "Then you have it."

Men were clattering their utensils on plates, thumping their fists on tables, clanging their tankards, clamoring to fight, to join father to take down the vaunted Young Wolf. It was a wave of momentum that could not be undone, it only grew louder and fiercer as more men added their voices to it.

"I gave Robert Baratheon his only taste of defeat," Father went on, buoyed by the praise of his bannermen, "and I shall give Robb Stark his first too." He puffed up at the reaction his words elicited from the drunk lords and knights, who were restless and ready for a fight.

It's a fever, he thought solemnly, having taken hold of the men. They were bored and eager for a fight, at a chance for glory. This bloodlust consumed them while the wine and ale only fanned their desires to prove themselves. He saw it in their faces, in their eyes, fingers impatiently wanting to draw steel, voices loud and cocky. This tumult of noise rises out of them, casting the hall in its storm. It would sweep over the city and their army before daybreak.

Garlan remained calm, not eager for more battle. He had seen the countless corpses both outside the walls and within the city after Renly had captured the capital. Leonette was pale, her shiny eyes wet with tears, as her fingers trembled in his.

"And what of his wolf?" Someone shouted in the crowd.

It was Lord Tarly who answered, rising from his seat. "It shall make a great pelt and my gift to the king and queen."

King Renly grinned, acknowledging Tarly's words with a grateful nod. Margaery too smiled, more demure, but just as grateful when she gave him her thanks. Father looked a bit put out having not been quicker or wittier than the Lord of Horn Hill. Their king went on to reveal that Robb Stark rode with an army whose banners included northmen, rivermen, and men of the west.

The Lannisters have joined Stannis, Garlan was concerned by this news, while the men in the hall jeered at their inclusion. Seeing their faces, he thought few considered them a threat. Stannis' numbers continue to swell, and they care little.

"We've beaten them once already!" One voice shouted, earning loud cheers.

"Does the Imp lead them into battle atop a pig?" Someone else shouted, earning laughs and drunk guffaws.

Undaunted, their victory is assured. Garlan admired the confidence but thought little of boasts made when bellies were heavy with wine. He saw what their enemy was doing, believing Stark would go to the Rose Road. He'll want to cut us off from our food, it made the most sense. The Royal Fleet blockaded them and if the Rose Road was closed to them. It would be a noose drawn around our necks, tightening around our throats with each passing day.

Two days later Garlan rode out with Father at the head of their forces, marching to the Reach, and to the Young Wolf…

Bran:

"You are straying."

They had made him a place where he could sit and learn, to stay comfortable and warm. A seat of soft grey moss and once he was put on it for his lessons, they covered him with furs to keep him warm. "I was home."

"And you will be home again," his words were taut, but soft like spider silk. "Your time is almost done. You will return to your family."

He did not know how long he had been here in this cave with his teacher. It had taken them weeks to get here, and though Bran was happy that it was warm and their food was good compared to when they were traveling to reach this cave. He was not happy to be here. Meera is sad, Hodor is scared, thinking of the companions who were with him, before his thoughts carried him with cold hands to those who were not. Osha is gone. Jojen is dead.

His teacher made for a gruesome sight. All my time with him, Bran's stomach still curdled when he had to look at him. That will not become me. He sat on a weirwood throne that held up his skeletal body. His ebony clothes had rotted and wasted away along with his pale flesh. His hair was bone white tangled with a spray of blood red leaves that sprouted from his skull, while mushrooms puckered his brow. His face was tight and hard, worn as white leather, while weirwood roots slid around and through him, covering and puncturing his teacher to make him as much a tree as he once was a man.

He felt his teacher's eyes on him, but Bran stubbornly looked down at his fur covered legs. Useless and unfeeling, tears threatened to pool in his eyes. Thinking back on earlier conversations with his teacher. A liar, the angry thought burned hot inside him. You led me here with promises, he felt his fist shaking in his lap, but they were lies. He had watched Jojen get killed, when he closed his eyes to sleep, he could still hear Jojen's final wet grasp of life. The wayward look in his green eyes, before the glassy pall fell over them. Meera's anguish sob, her wet, crunching footsteps in the snow before she held her brother's body to her, sobbing.

And all I could do was watch. Bran could not comfort her. He was too far away for words to reach her with these northern winds. He considered using Hodor, slipping inside him so he could move over to Meera and place a hand on her shoulder, to hold her while she cried. Like father comforted mother, Bran thought of his parents at Winterfell, visions of his family and home swam across his mind. Or the times he saw Dom comfort Sansa, or her him. Bran didn't use Hodor because it wouldn't be true. It would be Hodor comforting Meera, his hands not mine, his embrace not mine.

I never should've left; he felt his mind wandering in his training with his teacher. I could be at Winterfell with Dom and Sansa. He could still remember the raven he received at Winterfell saying they were coming to be with him. It had made Jojen worried, which convinced himself and then Bran that they needed to leave. I went along, reliving his memory, he wanted to tell himself not to listen, to stay! Don't go, but it played out the same, leaving Winterfell with Jojen, Meera, Hodor, and Osha.

"You told me you'd heal me," Bran murmured, the anger rising in him, "You promised to save me."

His teacher let out a weary sigh, as if this was all beneath him. "I said fly."

"I don't want to fly," Bran argued, "I want to walk."

What good is flying if I can't reach out to her? He wanted to walk, to run like he used to. That was why he listened to Jojen, let himself believe that his teacher could fix him. Bran the Broken no more. That was why he left Winterfell in the night, left without seeing his family again. During those trying days and nights in the cold, in the wilderness, feeling useless as he rode on Hodor's back like a pack or on a cart like a sack of flour.

I'm going to walk again. He told himself. I'm going to walk again. While he sat and waited in the cold and dark, for the others to fetch firewood, to cook their food. He could barely put down his own bedroll. Crawling around on his belly or dragging his legs, I'm going to walk again. I'm going to walk again. It burned bright in his head, banishing the gloom of their travels. It shone within him when he just wanted to give up and go back. I'm going to walk again.

"You will be my beacon, Bran Stark," his had teacher told him, another promise or another lie? Bran did not know, but he listened, hoping if he showed he was good, that his teacher would reward him with what he wanted most.

"When the White Walkers march, you will know," his teacher had explained, "You will tell your father, and he will prepare the kingdoms." The pale lord went on with other lessons, "And you will be my sword with the knowledge I've given you."

"I want to go home," Bran blurted out.

"Soon," His teacher said, from atop his throne, indifferent to Bran's pain. "You are the beacon, I'll send you back out because you will be my message, my warning, so you will know when it is time."

"Time for what?"

"The war." the teacher answered solemnly, "This will be my last war. I am ready to sleep."

"I've done all that you've asked," Bran argued, "heal me!"

His teacher didn't even raise his head to look towards him. "That is beyond my powers."

"You're lying!" The anger lashed hotly within him. His voice was brimming with it.

Silence filled the dark cave like smoke, his teacher paused, surprised by Bran's boldness. He eventually broke it with a brittle sigh. A deafening answer that caused a stirring amidst those that looked on between Bran and his teacher. The children of the forest chattering to themselves in sweet, beautiful voices, but their words were lost on him. He remembered the names he and Meera had given them. And in the dark, he tried to place those new names with their faces that were concealed in the shadows.

Leaf? The only one of them to speak the common tongue, the only one who spoke with Bran. Her voice was easy to distinguish, it seemed to lead the others. Scales sounded sad, he thought, Coals angry, he closed his eyes trying to listen. Ash was scared, Black Knife like Coals was angry, he was certain. Angry at me? He wondered if they did not take kindly to his outburst with the teacher.

When the teacher spoke the childrens' voices quieted in an instant. "There will be no going back," he warned, "if you accept this, you will end up cursing it." The words sounded as sure as a promise.

How could it be worse than this? Bran didn't believe him. Just another one of his lies. He looked down at his unmoving legs. "Fix me," he said again, "I want to walk again." He felt the hitch in his voice, "I'll do everything you told me, taught me, I'll remember it all," he babbled, feeling the tears on his cheeks at the thought he was so close at being able to walk again. "I'll go back to Winterfell, tell Father about the dragon glass," he kept going, trying to recite everything the teacher taught him.

"I know you will," His teacher sounded unmoved by Bran's pleas. "You will leave me within the next moon's turn." Branches rustled somewhere in the darkness out of Bran's sight. A soft voice began to hum, low and mournful, but Bran could still hear his teacher's words. "You will have this gift, for good and for ill, it is yours to bear for the remainder of your life, Brandon Stark." The tone his teacher used for his proclamation made Bran think of Father, that day, when he sentenced and executed the deserter of the Night's Watch, but that memory quickly dimmed at his excitement that he'll be able to walk again.

More and more voices joined the chant, high and low, sweet and sorrowful, their voices filled the dark cave. A thrum went through him, a haze washed over him, and then a noise broke through. The loud crack of a branch breaking, more followed, peppering into the song, he looked around, over his head, but saw no sign of them.

It was movement in the corner of his vision that made him see it. His heart leapt in his throat, nearly crying out snake! There roiling on the ground were weirwood roots, they were pushing themselves out of the dirt like eyeless serpents, pale and long. Bran watched their movement as if in a trance, unsure he could believe what he was seeing. The roots slid over the leaves, the soil, moving right towards… Me.

The word formed a cold knot inside his chest. He was stuck, unable to move. His breathing was high and tight. He felt as if his heart was flinging itself against his ribs in a desperate attempt to escape. He was dimly aware of the chant, with more and more voices filling the darkness with its song. At how it seemed to cover him, but it brought him no calm, panic seemed to seize his insides with heavy, cold hands and stuck him mute.

The first root reached for his leg, nudging it like a cat, but Bran felt nothing, stuck in his daze. It moved around his foot, as if inspecting it. It was thin and sharp, and just as realization came to him, it bit into his flesh. Wiggling through its opening, to push itself inside him.

Bran's shout couldn't be heard over the singing. He felt nothing from the attack, save for the cold dread settling into his stomach. More roots slithered towards him, slipping and cutting into him, entering him. His breathing was coming in small, whistling gasps like a wounded dog. I can see it, he felt the cold creeping through his blood. I can see them moving inside me. They were coiling and clasping around bones and muscles, while penetrating further and further up his legs. He could see the bulges of where the roots were settling beneath his flesh.

He had lost count how many had slipped into him but saw no more were near him. They're all gone. He thought, No, they're inside me. It was a bloodless invasion, they had gnawed their way inside him, but he saw no blood from their attack. The scars were red and angry, while the roots moved through him, the Children of the Forest kept singing.

Then he felt it, a pinch of pain, in his lower back. The muscles in his legs quivered. His foot twitched.

"I-" Bran's shout of jubilee that he could move and feel his legs was smothered by his loud gasp. Burning pain surged up and down his legs. He could now feel the roots lodged inside him. Could feel all of it, all of them, his thoughts slowed through the haze of pain that filled his head.

It hurts so much, he thought he was going to pass out. The blackness flapped across his vision like raven wings. I can feel them inside of me, he despaired, moving and twisting. The pain shrouded over him, cold and radiant. He pleaded for the blackness to take him, but it always receded before he could slip into it, toying with him, letting him suffer through. He heard terrible shrieking, shrill and wet, not realizing until later it was coming from him.

Bran struggled to his feet. The pain roiled up and down his legs, clawing at him like sharp talons. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, its coppery taste slipping into his mouth.

The first step was agony and every step that would follow.

A/N:

So Bran is clearly not following his canon path, I made some alterations to it to help fit the goals for this story. Bran is going to learn some info and powers from Yoda, I mean the Three-eyed-crow, but is not staying with him. (I keep what he learns/does vague on purpose) Wasn't interested in covering that storyline. To clarify, the cave for the three-eyed-crow isn't as far north in this story b/c that just doesn't work.

How did he get 'weirwood legs?' How does it even work? Magic from the Children of the Forest. That's what I'm going with. That scene has been in my head for years, (I don't know why) so it was nice to finally release it. Though I'll probably quickly learn it should've stayed in my head.

In case it needs to be said, I don't always stick with realism, so if I messed up with Loras and Garlan or with Bran then yeah, I know. My bad.

Even though the White Walkers/Others will be mentioned in this story, I'm not going to actually cover that war. The sequel to this story is going to be either a long one shot/or short story set in the aftermath of it, allowing us to touch base with the characters. I went back and forth about writing about the Others, having plans and outlines, but in the end, just decided against it. The main objective of this story was first and foremost detailing the Sansa and Domeric relationship and exploring a few ripples to how it could possibly play out in this AU War of the Five Kings. I hope you can understand.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire