Ok, new series.

Balon

Prince Stanley Baratheon had a lot of things that could be said about him. A warrior, a scholar, a sailor. All of these things would be correct. But only partly. Stanley Baratheon was impossible to fully grasp, he confused many by his actions, or rather his lack of them.

He was not lazy, no. He just preferred to ride or read or simply look at the view in the day or the stars at night. He was quiet all the time, but his level of taciturnity at those times was so great, that Ser Balon remembered arriving with a visitor, the King himself, and was unable to coax a single syllable out of Stanley's mouth.

He was riding now, or at least was until the damnable wheelhouse fucking broke down again (as His Grace so eloquently put it), and Ser Balon, after 3 years of acting as his Sworn Shield, knew better than to try to speak to him. Stanley's jaw was clenched tight, his teeth grinding soundlessly. It was a trait he shared with his uncle, amongst several others. It showed his annoyance.

Prince Stanley had the Baratheon colouring, and was still considered about as handsome as his uncle Renly, undoubtedly, even at 11, but he was flawed. His jet black hair was straight and dull and dark as pitch, and also stubborn, brushing his shoulders at the sides, with shorter strands a perpetual annoyance to him as they fell over his eyes as bangs. Said eyes were a darker blue than on most Baratheons, another feature he shared with Stannis, and they seemed to bore into people, even whilst partially covered, in much the same way, especially with the faint shadows under that spoke of the Prince's lack of sleep.

Almost everything else whispered "Lannister". The jaw that bordered his pale, even pallid (due to his disease) face was not weak, but it wasn't the Baratheon strong jaw, either. His cheekbones were high, his body was lean and rangy, not broad, and more smooth sinew than hard muscle. He moved with a sort of languid grace, with his footsteps quiet, paced and steady. His height was something he had gotten from the Baratheons, however. Balon was oft annoyed at how Stanley, at roughly 11 and a half years old, had followed Joffrey when it came to height, both of them within a centimetre of Ser Balon.

Also, he only had the one hand, his left. He had been born with his right hand missing, and his arm ending in a stump, and he relied on his left for everything. Unfortunately, Ser Balon could not teach him to use a bow, but instructed him to the best of his ability in swordsmanship: his right arm was still able to have a shield strapped on, and his unique stance disconcerted most opponents that we faced in the training yard. (Not that Prince Stanley faced many. He had a sort of disease called "anaemia" that prevented him from doing physical labour for too long without feeling faint. Prince Stanley compensated by doing the same amount over more time, Firenze against training dummies.

The loud roars of His Grace as he let out his irritation over the wheelhouse's mechanical failures were hearable for miles, it was said. It was obvious that one Queen-bearing carriage and a muddy Northern road does not a calm king make. As men ran forth to attempt to fix it, Prince Joffrey waited with his customary bored pout. It was an expression Ser Balon had seen many times before, and so he kept as quiet as Stanley, lest Joffrey decided to do something stupid.

When they finally began moving again, Prince Stanley piped up for the first time . "Father," he asked, in a voice soft enough that king frowned and had to cup his ear to hear, "may I ride ahead with Ser Balon? I probably could have walked to Castle Cerwyn by now." He meant it, too. Stanley's speech was distinctly un-Westerosi. Ser Balon respected honesty, but the Prince was too blunt by half, he meant everything he said and asked, but unlike his uncle Stannis, knew when to hold his tongue at least. It came naturally to him.

"Go on then, but I want us to greet Ned together. Don't go upending our plans, you hear me?" the King rumbled. Prince Stanley gave a small… something between a nod and a bow, then cantered off, raising his hand to signal Ser Balon to come with him. Ser Balon dug his spurs in and followed the Prince.

They rode in silence for the most part. He had learned to cherish the few moments when Stanley talked to him at length, usually about some scholarly subject. Ser Balon admitted me knew little about those: his was Swann blood, blood of the Dornish Marches. His way was bow and arrow and morningstar, and the arms to wield them.

Prince Stanley eventually said: "How do you think this trip is going to go, Ser?" he inquired softly.

Ser Balon considered this. He prided himself on courtesy as well as honesty, but he knew the Prince disliked flowery worlds, half-truths and doublespeak that he was fond of using to avoid being discourteous. So he answered as bluntly as he felt comfortable with. "It will be a success, unless someone in the king's party does something inappropriate."

""Someone". Strange terming. Did Joffrey begin taking more nicknames? Apart from Brokennose Baratheon, I mean." A joke? thought Ser Balon. "Not that I know of, my Prince." Yes, "Brokennose Baratheon" was what they called Joffrey in whispers, for his retribution was fearsome when he heard it. He had gotten it many a year ago, and the tale was still told, if less often, in winesinks and even quietly in the Red Keep.

3 years ago, when See Balon had just come to court from Stonehelm, there had been a nameday tourney for Prince Joffrey. During said gurney there had been a squire's melee. Ser Balon remembered the hidden looks of distaste as many of the squires threw the fight for the Prince to win. All but one. Competing looking like Dornish squire for a hedge knight, wrapped in face-hiding silks, Prince Stanley had survived by staying close to Prince Joffrey, that way his opponents would "fall" by Joffrey's tourney sword, and he could continue on without much effort.

Things came to a head in the final moments. The two princes faced off, for the length of two seconds. Stanley immediately parried Joffrey's swing and rammed him with his head, breaking Joffrey's nose and leaving a permanent scar. Prince Stanley never said why he had competed in the tourney, but Joffrey had done something... off with a pregnant cat earlier that moonturn. But nevertheless, Joffrey was mocked as Brokennose Baratheon, and Prince Stanley became the Charger.

Prince Stanley, due to his handicap and illness, still found fighting barely tolerable, but he tried. He would never be a fighter like his father, but the talent was still there. A rough summation was his defence was famously impregnable, his strength and speed better than average, his movements and his awareness fluid and sharp. The thing that tripped him up was stamina, or rather, his lack if it. Being the son of a Baratheon alleviated the issue partly, but he still has problems with his energy.

And so, he preferred to spend time in the library, comparing and reading texts. He recently expressed interest of becoming a maester, or at least studying at the Citadel to forge some links. That, or he would just continue his fostering on Dragonstone, where he had gone after the "Charger" incident. Prince Stanley discovered one of his few passions there: sailing.

Ser Balon had grown accustomed to the harsh and grim atmosphere of the ancient stronghold, and it was undoubtedly preferable to the miserable weather and annoying roads of the North. He was interested in Winterfell, however. It would be the fourth castle he had ever truly been to: Stonehelm, the Red Keep, Dragonstone, and now here. One day, his loyal service to the Prince would be rewarded. He was weighing his options of what to do then. Travel the realm as a hedge knight? Return to his birthplace, to Stonehelm and become the Captain of the Guards there?

Maybe stay at court and win archery competitions at tourneys, join the Gold Cloaks or the Night's Watch or maybe even the Kingsguard if he was lucky. Head to Essos and sign up with the Golden Company, battle pirates in the Stepstones, go on a tour of the Free Cities, hunt down outlaws across the Seven Kingdoms? He had a lot of choice. But right this second, he had his duty, his Prince, and the sight of Castle Cerwyn in the distance.

Myrcella

Joffrey was being irritating again. Myrcella was used to it by now. It was practically a certainty in life. Only difference there was was how. At the moment he was making Tommen cry. What angered Myrcella the most was how he was foregoing his familiar snide mockery in favour of a fake, arrogant innocence in how he was making Tommen cry.

"I'm sorry Tommen." Joffrey drawled faux-sweetly. "I never meant to insult you by saying that the only thing that tastes worse than Northern water was water from the well that your cat fell into." They had stopped at Moat Caitlin, and Joffrey had gotten a case of water poisoning (despite being warned that even whilst boiled, the purified bog water which he drank still wasn't fully drinkable except to crannogmen, who had stronger stomachs.)

"I-it didn't!" Tommen bawled , his eyes puffy and watery and red. "You th-threw him down a we-e-ell!" he said. He's standing up to Joffrey? This can't go well at all.

She was right. "Me? Never! Why would I throw a cat in a well?" Joffrey said, a sadistic grin on his face. He was enjoying this. "Stupid animal just fell down. But I suppose an animal takes after its master, so that answers it."

"Sh-she wasn't stupid!"

"No?" he asked in airy tones. "Oh. My mistake. Must have just been too fat then. It took after you in that regard too." His fake politeness turned into a visible sneer. "Gods, if you were the heir the realm would revolt in an instant and place me on the throne instead of a weakling like you."

Tommen lost all control at this point. Fortunately, that was when Father returned from making water. "Why're you crying, son?" he said, reaching into the wheelhouse and patting Tommen's hand. Tommen was unable to get a word out, so it fell to Myrcella to tell him. "Joffrey was mocking him, Father. About his cat dying."

"Is that so?" Father said angrily, glaring at Joffrey, who scoffed. "The Prince can say what he likes. That's what mother told me."

"Your mother has said stupid things in the past, and that is one of them. Never say it again, or else I will give you more to answer to than just words." Father growled.

This seemed to shake Joff. "But Father-"

"JOFFREY!" Father shouted. "You will not say that again, do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you, I hear you!" Joffrey shouted, losing most of the colour in his cheeks.

A bass rumble emerged from Father's mouth. "Good." He stepped out. Upon hearing a woman's shout of "ROBERT!" he mumbled "Oh Seven deliver me... What?!"

"Why were you shouting at Joff?"

"Joffrey made Tommen cry because you said he can say what he likes!"

"He can!" Mother shouted, drawing herself up. "A prince can say what he likes."

"Your Grace." said her cousin Tyrek. "Would you like some more wine? I think Lord Tyrion has some, and he would like to drink with you alone."

"Aye, that seems a more welcome place than here." Father said, striding off, Tyrek running ahead to warm Tyrion of an approaching king. Tyrek was always the cleverer one of the King's squires. Mother began to walk close to them.

"Joffrey, don't make Tommen cry. It is not princely."

"Yes Mother." Joffrey muttered.

"And Tommen, do not cry, that is even less princely."

"Yes Mother." Tommen said, having calmed down after his bout of tears."

Mother beamed, stepped in and kissed the golden crowns of both of them, then strode away. Myrcella leaned back slightly, her hands folded in her lap. Winterfell couldn't come soon enough. She had learned that odds were they wouldn't have any more breakdowns, as Castle Cerwyn's roads were maintained by House Cerwyn.

She couldn't wait to meet the Starks. Joffrey was happy too, you could see it in that expression of his. Ser Arys had told her that apparently he was to be engaged to Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's eldest daughter. She hoped for her sake she had a strong heart.

Stanley

Castle Cerwyn was a quiet place, or at least the library was. The maester had practically become a tangletongue gibbering about the honour of allowing him to read. He was glad he heeded his message to be left alone, and with such a few words. Any more would have seriously tried his patience.

It was said that a pet takes after his master. If it worked with a maester and his library's organisational system, then Castle Cerwyn's lot were alike in two ways: random and irritating. Free City texts next to Westerosi histories, Archmaster Herbish's books on geology split up in different areas for no discernible reason, and he eventually found the stargazing series he has started on the journey... gathering dust in an hole behind a bookshelf he had to move to read the books behind.

He leaned against the wall, Ser Balon standing guard silently, and began to read. He picked up where he left off, the tale of the building of the biggest far-eye yet in the Citadel, assembled in Myr over a decade (though that was partly due to delays as that was when the Century of Blood rolled around.), purpose built with a revolutionary new lens of 48 glass pieces, and for the task of proving whether there were other planets surrounding them.

Determining that the bright white light that shone on midsummer nights was not a star due to it not being near any other stars, and thus in a region that did not include stars near it, this proved that, as it did not shine consistently even when conditions were right, it was actually not a planet, nor a stationary star, but a certain Harvey's Comet, named for Harvey Hightower, who stated that according to several ancient accounts, a falling star would appear if it was midsummer every 118 years.

He had heard of Harvey Hightower beforehand. He remembered how he gave up his dream of becoming a master out of stubbornness, and remained an acolyte until he died, saying that the Citadel, who disputed his claims, could give him a chain showing his skill in astronomy when he died. Sure enough, the Archmaester of astronomy forged a chain of bronze and buried it where Harvey's bones lied, along with his rod and his mask and his ring.

Satisfied with finishing Book 4 for now, he opened his diary which he kept with him. It was a nice book, average-sized and bound fine vellum parchment in supple black-dyed leather. It came with a buckle that connected attached leather strips from both covers with a golden buckle. He had personally chased the neat line engravings on the buckle in niello himself, as well as attaching a rich dark blue pouch with gold thread on the back, which held his quill securely, a moulted feather from the right wing of a black goose, stripped bare of all barbs on the right. Every small feature was designed for his pleasure using it.

Goose quills were the most prized by lords and the like: swan was used by special artisans who wrote in large letters, and crow feathers were used by those who needed to write fine work. The rest came from birds of prey: owls and eagles, Dornish vultures, maybe the occasional hawk, or turkeys. Some in cities between Volantis and Norvos on the Rhoyne had peacock quills, but that was mostly out of necessity.

He found a nearby inkwell and began to write. His writing was neat but unjoined, with cursive being used to emphasise certain points. He wrote addressing no-one, no "Dear Diary" or anything. He wrote of all the interactions he deemed as useful or good to remember, and scrapped the rest. Even abridged and double or triple-thinking his options, he still wrote an amount that all but those who took writing as seriously as he would deem unnecessarily.

He took out his other book when he had finished. This one was new and shiny, but plain brown. He scratched the end of his nose with the quill and began writing his story. He had first had the idea to write books he could later publish in the Free Cities (where more were literate). This particular one was a script for a possible mummer's adaptation in Braavosi for The Tales of Dunk and Egg, a collection of short stories deataling the adventures of Ser Duncan the Tall and later King Aegon V, found abandoned in Evenfall Hall, of all places, by old Lord Selwyn in his youth.

Languages had never been his favourite subject, but they were important. He imagined his constant orders to be taught these tongues made Grand Maester Pycelle grow whiter hairs every time. He could teach himself now though, with a little testing from Ser Balon. He could now speak the Common Tongue, Braavosi, and Pentoshi fluently, or had at least memorise enough phrases to converse with a native, knew enough sentences of High and Bastard Valyrian and Myrish and Volantene to get by at the very least, and had learned a very tiny smattering of phrases, maybe 3 or 4, in Lyseni, Tyroshi, Norvosi and the Summer Tongue. He was currently frustrating himself with the finer points of Ibbenese.

He could write neatly and without mistakes in the three languages he was fluent in and also Myrish and Volantene. High Valyrian writing was infuriating to learn if you were not Valyrian. His vitriol of the unholy fusion of High Valyrian and Old Ghiscari knew little bounds. Once, he was so enraged that he handed an open book written in Bastard Valyrian to Father when he was arguing with Mother. Just as he expected, it was torn in half.

He had just finished when the maester came bursting into his library, out of breath and knocking down a teetering pile of tales from a pillow house on the floor, that the wheelhouse had arrived at Caste Cerwyn. Torn between rolling his eyes, wincing at the sound of falling books, or keeping his face straight, he decided on the last one and strode out of the library (after fixing the pile, obviously).

(...)

The King and part of his court came striding this get hard or Castle Cerwyn, looking as resplented as every, maybe even more than usual with the blank castle walls as background, highlighting every colour in the royal banners in the hands of standard-bearers and the wheelhouse.

Lord and Lady Cerwyn stood ready to receive them, along with Lord Cerwyn's son and heir, Cley, and his daughter, Jonelle. The Cerwyn household stood with them, away. Even princes of the realm bowed to courtesy. He saw the pitied looks that Ser Kyle Condon at Jonelle, that plump and homely maid.

Stanley sympathised with her, in a way. He knew was no picture of beauty with his pallid skin and pitch-black, long hair that covered up dark blue eyes. Of his siblings, excepting newborn Princess Cassana (His Father doted on that already strong-jawed babe with a tuft of wild black hair and happy blur eyed, but Mother had been oddly quiet about the subject.), he had been the only one to inherit the hair.

This was why he placed so much effort into looking better than he ought to. With the King's company came... not quite handmaidens, but gifts from his uncle Renly, people who helped him choose outfits and jewellery. Though he was confused and irritated by their japed and antics sometimes, they performed truly well on their job.

His uncle Renly tended to send him clothes and jewellery for namedays, whilst Uncle Stannis sent him books, which he was more fond of. He had always preferred books to most people. They didn't ask irritating questions, they didn't lie to get on your good side, they didn't jape loudly enough that it hurt your ears.

He had had a number of (Crownlander mostly, but there were Rivermen and Stormlanders too) highborn boys as companions, but he had not liked any of them much. There was Bryen Horpe, a quiet boy a year his senior, but the Horpes of Moth's Light were only a third-order house, sworn to Gallowsgrey, controlling only the three largest islands in the Sea of Dorne and a small strip of land bordering the Swann's land, and could field a thousand men, though only really 900 good ones, as that included green boys and greybeards and sellswords. in total, contributing to the 2,200 men under House Trant.

His Uncle Stannis had taught him that. It was said he knew the strength of every house in the Seven Kigdoms. Kingdoms. This was somewhat true. He knew House Trant's land bordered House Swann's (3,800 men), House Wylde's (2,200 men), House Morrigen's (1,300 men) and House Seaworth's (800 men, but many ships).

He cherished those days. He was happy then, happier than now, and definitely happier than his father. What happened after I left? , he asked himself as he saw his Father go through the customary exchange of words with a thunderous scowl on his face so large Lord Medger's eyes went wide with fear.

The scowl lessened when passing Stanley, but did not how away. Mother, however, looked on him as if he was some dirt on her shoe, like she did with commoners. Joffrey's smirk was not there, but he looked pouty, but still as arrogant as ever. Myrcella still looked dignified and as queenly as her mother, but Tommen looked like he had been crying.

Once the royal family had been escorted to their rooms, Stanley walked in as well, Ser Balon Swann his loyal shadow at the right. He ordered Ser Balon to roust the family and tell them to meet outside. When Ser Balon expressed nervousness at meeting the King in this state of fury, Stanley decided to wait until his parents had calmed down.

The argument between his Father and Mother had not been calmed until, during one of his Mother's tirades about "not being the man I married", a resonating sound came out that silenced her. Recognising the sound immediately, Stanley sighed wearily, dismissed the golden dragon that Ser Balon produced for winning the bet, and headed to Tommen's bedchamber.

Tommen was sitting on his bed, looking down at his hands folded his lap. On this position, he looked almost contemplative. On the closing of the door, Tommen looked up with little enthusiasm and gave a sad, sad smile that looked almost one of Joffrey's sarcastic ones, due to how little true mirth it showed.

"What happened?" Stanley asked.

Tommen's smile dropped. "Well, it started with Joffrey."

"You could say that about half the bad things in the world. Be more specific?"

"He was mocking me. About my cat."

"The one that fell down a well, right?"

"No. It didn't fall. Joffrey threw it down."

I underestimated Joffrey's cruelty. How many other things had he been responsible for? It solved the mystery of why he had been finding random, dead flies on his favourite seat in the library at the Red Keep. Had they just been normal flies, he could have suspected a disgruntled servant. These flies had had the wings pulled and twisted off though. It didn't take long for him to connect the pieces in his head.

He had only been at the Red Keep a fortnight before going on this trip to Winterfell, so he could have time to acquaint himself with Princess Cassana. He had found time to go to the library there most days. In fact, most of the possessions on said royal progress were books he had signed out, to entertain himself when the night was dark and full of breakdowns.

Seriously, why had no-one listened? It was simple engineering, something with wheels with, despite having a good power-to-weight ratio, (40 draft horses with a vehicle heavier than three and a half elephants: more than manageable.) having wheels that do not have added strength via axles, instead being made of light wood more designed to "look regal" than to function well, the result was whenever a sloped rock would come into their path, a wheel would tilt on the slope, be forced down by weight, and slip right off the fastenings.

Tommen was beginning to cry again. Stanley sat down in the bed too, putting his arm around him. His brother leaned onto him, as Ser Balon watched silently. Gods help us when he becomes king. Not that there were Gods. What sort of Gods would punish Tommen for doing nothing?

Stanley was up bright and early, as usual. In the North, this was so early the sun was kinky barely rising. The maesters knew the world was round and not flat, so it made sense that there was less sunlight at the world's extremities, therefore making the North cold and Valyria hot.

Uncle Stannis had said that Valyria was positioned at the center of the earth, and that it got colder south of Valyria, in Yeen and the Sothoryi jungles. If you travelled far enough south, should you come across the equivalent in temperature of the Crownlands? The Riverlands? The North?

Regardless, the last leg would be today and tomorrow. It was half a day's ride to Winterfell, but he was sure that it would take another day for them to reach it, given that they wanted to arrive at an opportune time. This time, Father had prohibited him from riding ahead with Ser Balon, on pain of chastisement.

A day of Joffrey, sycophantic riding companions, no time to read, Joffrey, Ser Jamie's japes, arguments between his parents, and Joffrey. At least there are no breakdowns, he thought, deadpanning a soft "Hurrah". Breakdowns might have been preferable, as there was no preparing him for the hell that was the last ride.

The mess had all started the way most conflicts do, between people. Two freeriders had owned horses of similar colour and size and temperament. Thus, when presented with two horses for the ride, they quarrelled. Then, at Castle Cerwyn, they had fought a duel for these horses, whilst drunk.

The master-at-arms for Castle Cerwyn informed Ser Aron Santagar, who had accompanied them. Ser Aron was incensed. He made a speech to all of the freeriders about how to behave in their conduct. However, that had just made them angry. When their blood was up, a distant relative of the slain duellist attacked the winner, burning down his tent after a torch fell.

The fire began to spread and spread, and it snaked along, taking down people and horse and pavilion with the misfortune in its warpath. End result: 4 men died in that fire, with six more dead and eight wounded after the resulting battle. Father was hell bent on reaching Winterfell, so he left arbitration to one of his courtiers.

The thing was, on the fighting that followed, someone had cut down, either through accident or through malice, a Lord's daughter had died, a certain Shirley Unlim of Bladeworks, a modestly affluent Crownlands house, akin to roughly the strength of Houses Blount and Massey. They rules the northernmost area of the Crownlands, bordering Cracklaw Point. She was the last heir of Lady Unlim, née Byrch, who was younger than her husband and past childbearing years. House Unlim would die with them. That deserved punishment.

The only people who could make good on that punishment were the King, the Queen, or a Hand. The King wasn't bothered this close to Winterfell, the Queen wasn't bothered this close to a castle, and the Hand wasn't bothered enough to stop being dead. When it seemed like some would go free due to lack of witnesses and trial, Prince Stanley had to put his foot down.

"I'll deal with them." he had said when Ser Preston Greenfield told him of the news, carrying the bloodied shield of Shirley's one protector, who had died in her defence. It displayed the arms of House Unlim on it, a "storm" of falling black swords on a background of pale yellow. It made him feel irritated at how this house had been cheated due to the brutal whims of the perpetrators.

Every logical part of his brain was practically screaming to let it go, only harm could come of this, but he was adamant. These men could not be allowed to off freely, and he was the son of King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, the Demon of the Trident.

A warrior who was fearless and peerless, a great amongst those in modern Westerosi history, he who had slain Prince Rhaegar in the battle that had named the Ruby Ford, and Queen Cersei of House Lannister, daughter to the Old Lion of the Rock, who could inspire loyalty in his vassals through a song reminding them of the things he could and would do.

On his father's side, he had Uncle Stannis, known to the Ironborn as the Demon of Fair Isle, a renowned naval commander and strategist who had never lost a battle at sea. Apart from holding Storm's End for just under a year, tying up precious Tyrell men from joining Prince Rheagar, he had invaded Dragonstone and Great Wyk using amphibious warfare and caught the Iron Fleet in an area in which he had an advantage, and his uncle Renly.

On his mother's side, he had his grandfather Lord Tywin, Tywin's brother Kevan, who had wiped out the bandits that had been plaguing the Westerlands since the day that Maegor outlawed the Swords and Stars. Tygett, who had fought bravely on the Stepstones, in King's Landing, at Pyke and even for two years in the Disputed Lands. He had his uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, one of the first up the walls of Pyke.

And his uncle Tyrion, the smartest man (apart from maybe Stannis.) that he knew. Tyrion was his favourite person on his mother's side of the family. He only really liked Tyrion, his cousin Ser Daven and Aunt Genna. Maybe Tyrek and Ser Kevan. All the rest he disliked or were dead. He had fond memories of Gerion, though, before Valyria gave him his warmest welcome. He had said that joke when Gerion died, and all scolded him but Tyrion, his target. Tyrion had smiled, and had said that that was exactly what Gerion would say.

So all in all, these long and illustrious legacies of Storm Kings and Kings of the Rock, Lions and Stags, stretching from (if they were real) Durran Godsgrief and Lann the Clever, a boy made from these two should be able to handle a few rowdy men-at-arms, correct?

If he saw himself in the past, he would probably glare at him, because beating him up would be exhausting work, and he had little energy to begin with.

Everyone had differing opinions, views and truths and lies which they spouted endlessly from their mouths. It was impossible to discern the difference between truth and lie due to how different they were to the people he had grown to observe and deduct whether he could trust or believe them or not from.

These men were not quite like ordinary villager smallfolk or like servants, the lowliest of them, washerwoman and stableboys and the like. He had seen their like in the Redcloaks and Baratheon Guardsmen that stalked the Red Keep, but they knew to keep their mouth shut and behave loyally and somewhat dimly in front of their Prince. So he had never quite seen them talk much.

These men were men-at-arms, but full-time, men who guarded holdfasts and captured criminals instead of the usual sort, semi-professionals who lived in crofts, but had already been trained in early campaigns. Usually, these men would be trained whilst their wife looked after the farm, or would be given a tiny parcel of land as a result on completing their training.

It was... not ideal, but effective. They would provide for their lord when there was peace, and fight for him when there was war and plunder to be collected. However, at the end of each conflict, they would leave their swords to gather dust and gather rust away in a corner or in the wall, and start preparing sheep for birthing season the day they arrived back home.

Unlike them, these men were full-time guardsman. They are at lord's tables, but as far from the high dais as possible. They said "m'lord" instead of "my lord", but they looked their lords in the eye. Men of their like would be stewards or smiths, specialists in their craft. These were serjeants and captains, and their underlings, but they were still educated and reasonably refined compared to the average smallfolk male.

For some bloody reason, he had never interacted with them. Everyone who was not a skilled liar had a "tell". Men who played tiles in the taverns outside of lawless places like Flea Bottom would curse the gods for their hand, but their lips would purse and a particularly astute player would notice the lie, the "bluff", and play accordingly.

Smallfolk tended to be poor liars unless their craft demanded it, like in innkeepers. They would bluster and blush and not be believable, whereas highborn men and women would lie with straighter faces, then only blinks, bitten lips or significant glances. He distrusted the Masters of Coin and Whisperers for their ability to lie undetectably, but here he felt no distrust, only exasperation at their lack of tells.

So he began to slowly piece together the story in his room in the wheelhouse with a few pieces of parchment, were Mother ha dismissed he retire for the last few hours before he could ride with his family. Ser Karl of Gin Alley had said that Ser Patrek of King's Mountain had began the quarrel. This made sense, as Ser Patrek's horse was said to be similar to Ser Edgard Crabbe's.

Ser Edgard was the man killed in the duel with Ser Byron the Beautiful at dice, whilst they camped for the King to make water. There was a chamberpot in the wheelhouse, but it began to attract so many flies on such a long journey without a through washing that using it was intolerable.

But Ser Edgard said he had no family, and everyone stated it was a family member who attacked Ser Byron and started the conflict, which dragged men-at-arms of the Houses the men were sworn to into the fight. That led to a dead-end. Gods, there had to be an answer, right?

His thoughts were interrupted abruptly when a knocking sound was heard by him. "Please wait a moment." he said, organising the statements he had copied into piles. Who could it be? It was not Joffrey, Father or Mother, they would not have bothered with knocking. He had heard no steps prior to this, so it must have been someone who did not make much noise whilst walking, so it could not have been a Kingsguard or Ser Balon.

The knock was light and held not an edge of sharpness, one preferred by servants or most women. Maybe it was... "Myrcella?" he said.

"Yes."

"Come in." he said. The door opened, slowly. Myrcella Baratheon walked in, clothed in a Lannister crimson dress. The golden hair was made especially poignant by the few items of golden jewellery she wore, just like her flashing, brilliant green eyes were contrasted by her white skin. She looked as beautiful as her mother, only the smile she wore was definitely genuine.

Myrcella sat. "What are you doing, brother?" she asked.

"Doing our Father's work for him." he replied. He signalled to the pile of parchment. Intrigued, Myrcella got up and had a look. She saw the work he had been doing.

"Very mature of you." she said. "Why?

"Men needed punishment, so I did the duty I needed to."

"Just like Uncle Stannis. Why do you insist on emulating him in everything you do, apart from that he fostered you on Dragonstone for a time?"

"Stannis is the most honourable and honest man to walk the Seven Kingdoms at the moment."

"On that I agree." Myrcella said, as she padded over to he window seat. "But I have an inkling that's not the reason."

She was right.

The real reason happened in his first year there. He had been waking through a corridor in the ancient fortress and happened upon a stable boy beating another for an insult. He had immediately shielded one and hit another in the face with his book, and reported them to the steward. However, once he told Stannis what the attacked had called the attacker, Stannis had risen and punished the attacked as well.

He understood the curse not then, but Stannis said that he could learn from this. Honour must be upheld if someone is to rule. Whilst violence is inherently bad, it is worse for those under you to not respect you to the point of rebellion. Duty is not something that comes easily to most, he said, and it needs to be maintained for the world to thrive.

If you let weeds be in a garden, soon they would spread beyond count, because you didn't get rid of them.

The topper came after that. He asked Stannis who deserved to be most punished. Stannis had said: "The attacker, of course. He was provoked. He should not have been provoked. It matters not. A crime for a reason is a crime still. The reason must be blamed too, but most blame should fall on the person."

He had asked: "If a person steals bread to feed his sister's family, is that a crime?" Stannis responded with "Yes. The law ie there for a reason. If there is a faukt in it, it will have to be corrected. If not, everyone must do their duty for a peaceful land. Crime grows like weeds, thats why I used that analogy.

If you let that man or woman steal bread for the family of his sister, how unlikely is it that he does not start stealing, now that he had a talent for it, to feed himself? And how long before he starts burgling, or mugging, or killing? There is a thrill in being a bad person. I have had the joy to not feel its effects.

But others… do you know the tale or Ser Gawen Wylde? The former master-at-arms of Storm's End, who tried to defect to Mace Tyrell when we lay besieged. I was still young then, so I led my men myself, albeit I directed them from the back. No-one's life is worth any different from anyone else's, but my death would end the siege.

I caught a glimpse of him before he turned to face the soldiers. He had a demented grin on his face, like someone who enjoyed the stimulation of rebelling. I held Ser Gawen until he starved. After that I learned that men and women live for excitement. It is a vice of ours, impulsivity. I have just been fortunate to not feel its effects fully."

After that, he had learned how wise and fair Stannis was. He had pledged to himself to live by the practical lesson that all crime is bad, because it can breed worse things, until his dying day. He had thought Stannis cold and hard and unyielding. Until then. Stannis Baratheon had been more a father to him than his elder brother, starting at that moment.

If he was not to become a maester, going back to Dragonstone for a time would be good. He planned on either becoming an Archmaester or Master of Ships. Probably Archmaester. As simultaneously confusing snd amusing it would be to witness Joffrey run Westeros into the ground first-hand, earning a rod and ring and mask of bronze and gaze at the stars till death.

But he had found that it would probably not do to tell Myrcella of any of that. "No, that's it. You're on the mark, dear sister. She would not accept that. "You sound like our Uncle Tyrion when he's annoying with mother. You never call me "dear sister", only "sister" or "Myrcella". She crossed her arms, frowning. Prince Stanley continued.

"You were correct, Myrcella," he said, stressing the word as if to leave an auditory imprint of it in the air. "Stannis would perform almost as well as Jon Arryn at being Hand when Jon was alive. I don't know why Father seems insistent on granting the position to a Stark, whose family name is practically synonymous with "I can't deal with realpolitik.""

"Father trusts him, respects him. He did save Father at Stony Sept, he and Jon Arryn. Also, the North is the largest of the regions of Westeros. He managed that well, did he not? He has at least some experience in ruling. After all, he was taught by the last Hand, when he warded at the Eyrie."

"So was Father. Also, the North is also, while not necessarily lacking in people, there is so much room they ted to be extremely spread out. Managing issues that come up less often than usual means less practice, and the snakes of King's Landing are already plotting. I doubt Lord Stark will truly accomplish much, except getting his head chopped off at the Great Sept of Baelor."

Myrcella glared. For a moment it looked so much like Mother that he took a step back. "That was discourteous and insulting, and why the Great Sept?"

"Sorry, sorry and don't know just thought of it. If it does happen, I won't be there, though. After the visit, I'm riding to White Harbour, then sailing to Braavos, Gulltown and then Dragonstone. I mean to continue being a ward under Uncle Stannis until I come of age. Then I'll release Ser Balon from his duties and study at the Citadel. I am unsure of what to do after that."

This was obviously a shock to her. "You're going back? Why? There'll be a new Hand, the court's going to get much livelier…"

"I care not for the meaningless intrigues. If anyone threatens me with a knife, I'll still respect them more, even whilst I'm bleeding out, than those who make their threats behind honeyed words and lies. Even if the new Hand manages to wipe the board clean of players, more will spring up. The game of thrones will always be played as long as there is a board to play it on."

"Okay… what do you mean by a "game of thrones?", exactly?"

He sighed. "Myrcella, I doubt this is the time to explain complex political metaphors, even one so well known as this particular one. If I do start to speak, I warn you that you will not like what I say."

"I don't like listening to Joffrey start to mock Tommen again, but Mother and Father are arguing again, so I'll have to fo to the same room as Joffrey if you deny me this speech."

How could a decent brother refuse her offer after that? "Very well. The game of thrones is a metaphor used to describe the various plots and power struggles for control of Westeros. There can be any number of players at once, as subterfuge is inherent in Westerosi politics, so those who seek to avoid it are forced into becoming players, used as pawns unknowingly, or are simply crushed by the weight of plots aimed for someone else.

The only winners are those who end the game alive. The true winners are the ones who end up better off than with what they started with. The only ends go the game are death and total victory, which almost never happens. The board include all of those that try to affect the, pardon my High Valyrian, status quo, and change things. The conflict has, at times, bled out from the continent to beyond the Wall, or in Essos.

Some men want glory, some wealth, some love or power. They will cheat, rob, betray and kill for those goals. They are only means to an end. That is what it means to be a player, and a winner. They focus on a goal, with no or ignored moral objections or boundaries. To ensure success, they tread on those under them with abandon. They care not for smallfolk or the nobility, only about themselves and their House.

Then there are the masterminds. Great brains that are active in spinning webs that swallow up truth and lies. What is theon out is unrecognisable. If it is true, you don't quite believe it. If not, opposite reaction. The human mind was not built to recognise the ministrations and manipulations of men such as these. They boggle belief with how deep a net they are casting. I have some… suspicions of the ledgers and books of money that Lord Baelish keeps.

The men here ally or backstab or declare war on each other. Playing the game is a matter of who to trust and how much. Trusting the wrong person can and will results in your other throat slit in your sleep. That said, judgement of those who are overly cautious can be poor for those in such a martial continent." He shook his head. "You will have to decide to be a player or a pawn. Pawnhood may yet save many lives, but ot may save your iwn, so there is little shame in not trying to tske on an enemy you can't beat in your level.

The game claims more victims every passing moonturn, from those with ambition, to those with morals, they are claimed either as pawns or players or total innocents, as merely being caught in the crossfire, being in the wrong place and knowing the wrong things, is poor for someone's health. That is the full suk of the game of thrones, a simplified version of Westerosi politics. Do you still think it is as glamorous as when you first began listening to me?"

Myrcella was speechless. She sat there, almost as pale as him, fear crossing her face. All semblance snd similarities to Cersei Lannister was wiped, and Myrcella remained. She was shocked. Her mouth was opening and closing quickly but quietly. She was trying to deny all that Stanley had said, but it was obvious to all that could see her that she could not. Finally, she said: "Well, I can see that the weather on Dragonstone doesn't only show Stannis's mood,"

Stanley Baratheon smiled.

End.

Ok, a new series was not my best idea, but I have started it, and I mean to finish it. Please check out "…but rises again, harder and stronger.", my other fic.

Thank you!