Father was frowning as he listened to the King and Lord Tyvek argue. It wasn't the frown he used when Arya threw food, or the look of utter disappointment he had used the time he'd caught her calling Arya 'Horseface'. That frown was a personal, painful one, used only to convey his displeasure at your misbehavior. This frown was… closer to the look he had when interacting with his Bannermen. It was a frown of concentration, as if he was taking in every word that was said.
Sansa hoped that one day, she would sit next to her Golden Prince Joffrey, and watch him put on the same stern face as he listened to his councilors, and pass his judgements with the same gravity.
She was wearing the necklace Jon had gifted her for her nameday, years ago, when he learned of his poor dead twin sister. It was a small, blue sapphire, carved to resemble a winter rose, with golden vines, and thorns shaped from chips of dragonglass, which glinted in the torch light of the great hall of Winterfell. Her Golden Prince had even complimented it, praising it for the way it brought out her eyes; admiring the Westerlands style of it.
"Twas a gift from my brother, Your Grace, who is squire to your Uncle, Lord Tyvek. He bought it for me after he won a Squire's Melee, My Prince."
"Hm. It is lovely. Your brother… the bastard?" Her Prince had asked, and wasn't it so kind of him, that he knew who Jon was?
"Yes, Your Grace. He's the only one of us to foster elsewhere, as of yet, though I think Father wishes to send Bran to the Eyrie, to grow up with our cousin and squire for our great-uncle, Ser Brynden."
"Hm, most interesting," her Prince said. "Tell me, my Lady, do you intend to join us on the Hunt tomorrow?"
Sansa paused, thinking.
"I'm not one for hunting, my Prince," she admitted gracefully. "I've been fond of falconry for many years, though, ever since Robb bought several falcons from a traveling menagerie."
Her favorite falcon of the bunch was Swiftwind, who had sharply intelligent eyes, and seemed to return Sansa's respect and affection. He didn't even need a hood to remain calm, merely to hold close to Sansa. He was a steady, loyal bird, who always returned to her with a whistle.
"Are you any good?"
"I believe so, My Prince," Sansa said with a hint of pride. "Though truly, the only skill in falconry is to earn the trust of your bird. Once they know you, they do all the work."
He had laughed, and Sansa thought it was a beautiful sound.
She didn't think it was a beautiful sound now, hearing it echo as she clutched Swiftwind to her chest, the falcon screaming in pain, a crossbow bolt through his wing. She didn't think Joffrey knew she'd heard him give the order to do it, but she had. She'd heard him order one of his men at arms to do it, and she could feel a white rage building.
"iJoffrey!/i" She heard someone yelling, but her vision had tunneled in on Swiftwind. She heard the sound of flesh striking flesh, and Joffrey crying out in pain. "You have no honor! I swear to you, your father will hear of this! Jamie! Escort the Prince back to Winterfell and ispeak to him/i about what happens to vicious, cruel kings!"
Lord Tyvek was before her, now, kneeling in front of her, speaking softly to them both.
"My lady, I am sorry. I hoped you would not know my nephew's cruelty for many years, if ever."
Carefully, he helped her stand, Jon pulling off his shirt to wrap Swiftwind in.
"Careful of his wing, lad," Lord Tyvek said softly. He was being so gentle with her, so kind, as he and Jon wrapped Swiftwind up, carefully, carefully, mindful of his talons.
"Should I ride ahead and alert Maester Qyburn and Sam, My Lord?"
"Yes, go," Tyvek ordered. "Like the wind is at your back, lad, lest your sister's heart never be healed."
He sounded like he could tell the future, he was so certain as he said it. Sansa couldn't see, couldn't focus beyond Swiftwind and the words being said, but she knew her brother. Jon would have nodded and mounted his horse without hesitation, driving his mount back to Winterfell hard.
Lord Tyvek sat with her then, unphased by Swiftwind's screaming, helping to soothe her poor bird. She was glad she had left Lady in Winterfell, though in her mind's eye, it was like she was there, with Lady, running about and rubbing against Lyanna…
Father was furious, but the king was even more so.
"I told you, Robert, I told you that boy was a monster, and now look what he's done," she heard Lord Tyvek hiss. "And with other matters… you need to do the right thing, Robert. For the sake of the Gods, man, look at the poor girl! Look what he did to her, two days into their betrothal!"
She paid them no further mind, though, for Jon had returned, his friend Sam in the saddle with him, and Qyburn riding another horse coming in just behind them. They had thick leather gloves on, lest Swiftwind attack them, but Sansa bravely reached in, without fear, petting him and soothing him until they could stretch his poor wing out and see the damage.
"Clean through, thank the Gods," she heard Sam mutter, and saw Qyburn nod.
"Indeed, and no broken bones. Well, let's not dally, Samwell."
Sam, looking a little green in the face at the blood but fighting bravely through it, nodded, and began to explain what they were going to do to Swiftwind, so that Sansa would not panic and disturb her poor, cruelly wounded friend.
First, they cut the bolt with a large set of sheers, then slid both halves out. They put pressure on the blood until it slowed, and carefully sewed the wound back together, mindful of the lost feathers. Swiftwind was still in pain, but his cries had quieted as she held him, and finally they rubbed a poultice on his wound and another on his tongue, and his breathing slowed, the pain slowly fading away.
"He will need to rest for many moons, my Lady," Qyburn said in a grandfatherly tone. "But he will heal with time. Before we leave Winterfell, I will see to his stitches myself, so that you may rest assured that he shall fly once more."
She had nodded gratefully, unable to trust herself to speak. The King had tried to apologize, but had stopped, sighing.
"I'm sorry I sired a man like him, little one," he'd finally settled on, as the whole party rode back to Winterfell, rather subdued.
Joffrey was in the courtyard, a bruise on his cheek, and Sansa felt a rage, shaking and snarling inside her as the king berated him, over and over, until finally the prince said "She is my betrothed! I can treat her how I want!", and the rage in Sansa found an outlet.
Distantly, she heard Arya cheering with surprise as her elder sister slapped the Prince clean across his face, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
"Sansa!" She heard father say in shock, but there was more wolfsblood in her yet, and it drove her, in her rage, to say "I would rather marry Sandor Clegane than you, you monster!", before she ran, sobbing, Swiftwind still in her arms, back to her rooms.
Joanna watched her uncle argue with the King, her mind going to the subtle signs of rage being put out.
For one, her uncle was calm. He was never calm unless he was angry- he was always moving, his foot tapping or his leg bouncing, unless he was angry. Then, his whole body went stiff, trying to keep himself under control. She had been born after her grandfather had already died, but she'd heard it said by Aunt Genna that it was only when he was Angry that Tyvek resembled Lord Tywin, but that it was a terrible resemblance indeed.
And yet, that rage had never been turned onto her, nor to her mother and father. Oh, she had seen it, but she'd never been the cause. Joanna recalled well the time she'd overheard a maid calling her mother a whore, and she a bastard- she remembered her uncle having the woman whipped raw, from Casterly Rock to the streets of Lannisport, she remembered the cool simmering of his voice as he gave the order for it to happen- but not once had she been afraid that it would turn on her.
She was afraid of her uncle for the first time in her life, right now.
She could see the simmering rage and evil under the coolness of his demeanor, now, in a way she never had before. This was the "fifty-step schemer" her father saw and loved anyways, because her uncle loved him and treated him like he was worth something. This was the viciousness that her mother had known in Tywin Lannister as she was shunted from brothel to brothel to hide herself from him, echoed in his eldest son. In this moment, Joanna could believe every rumor of hidden evils ever sprouted about her uncle, the way he looked at Robert Baratheon.
"Fine! Let the boy be king! Let him marry Sansa Stark, and by the Gods, let him kill her! And when the North goes to war against the Iron Throne for the second time in as many generations, I will take Myrcella and Tommen, lock myself up in the Rock, and let them tear him apart! Tommen can marry a kind woman who will treat him well, and Myrcella can marry whoever she will, because unlike you, she has brains enough to think for herself!"
Oh, that was an Ultimatum if she'd ever heard one. Her uncle had gotten so angry he'd snapped out of calm and straight to being a "Drama bottom", as she'd heard him mutter about himself once or twice.
That wasn't a good sign, she was fairly certain. The King didn't seem to be taking it well at all, for he had shoved her uncle, slugging him a good one with a meaty hand across the face.
"Oh, is that what it is, then?" Her uncle snapped, putting his hands up. This was bad. She'd once seen her uncle beat a man to death with his bare hands, and as strong as the King was, she didn't like his chances.
Everyone was watching, now, as the king and her uncle began to fight. They were like… it was like watching Sandor and his nephew fighting, only slightly more brutal. The king had fists like the hammers he loved, and greater weight; her uncle never fought fair, and never even attempted to. If this were a song, there would be thunder and lightning with every strike of flesh on flesh, but instead, it was just the thunderous violence of two men with anger in their hearts. Ser Boros Blout, her Uncle Jamie's brother in the Kingsguard, moved to step in, but Uncle Jamie blocked him, mumbling "Let them fight. You know how the King gets."
Lord Stark tried to intervene- he caught a punch to the jaw the sent him sprawling for a moment. Then, determination glinting in his eyes, he pulled up his sleeves and dove in to pull them apart, one way or another. Jon followed his father, trying to pull ihim/i out with a shout of "Robb, don't just stand there, grab Lord Tyvek!", barely dodging a swing from the king.
Arya was cheering, somewhere, which wasn't shocking, and Joanna looked up at Sandor, sighing.
"Sandor, could you be a darling and?" She gestured at the fight, where her uncle was currently hoisting the king over his shoulders and slamming him into the ground.
"I'll go hit a motherfucker with another motherfucker," Sandor sighed before wading in, grabbing Jon by the ankles and using him like a club, knocking all the combatants out in a brutal display of strength. He left them insensate on the ground, then grabbed Ser Boros and punched him in the face, for good measure.
Then, he bowed in a dramatic fashion to Joanna, threw Jon and her uncle over his shoulders, and walked away from the fight.
Joanna sighed, then moved to help her Uncle Jamie lift the king up. Uncle Robert had always been kind to her, even if it was only because he hated his wife, her late Aunt Cersei. Joanna got the feeling that, other than her uncle Jamie, nobody in her immediate family had liked her aunt, but then, they had been twins. She imagined it was almost a law that you had to love your twin.
She and Uncle Jamie hauled Uncle Robert up to his quarters, Uncle Jamie at his wrists, she at his feet. She knew that Uncle Robert had once been much fatter- she remembered it for herself, in fact- but now he was in back in fighting shape. She had heard that he fought ten men a day, for five hours at least, and Myrcella said he would walk around with a log, the length and width of a man upon his back for two hours more. It was certainly impressive, if nothing else.
In the end, they got the king tossed onto his bed, grumbling in his unconscious state, and Joanna looked to her uncle with a dubious stare.
"I thought the Knights of the Kingsguard were meant to protect the king?"
Uncle Jamie laughed, ruffling her hair cheekily. "Indeed we are, sweet niece, but protecting Robert Baratheon sometimes means letting him get into fights he likely shouldn't, fucking the women he ought not to, and putting him to bed, after he's done."
They left the room, though Uncle Jamie took up his post guarding the king, just outside the door. "And one day, you'll have to hide the bodies from the whores Joffrey kills, and stand idly by as he tries to wipe out entire families?"
Uncle Jamie went stiff, at that, his eyes somewhere far, far away. Joanna thought she might have gone too far, for a moment, but then a fire came back to her uncle.
"No… no, if it comes to that, I will not. I won't serve two mad kings."
Dinner that night would have had the makings of an awkward task, but her Uncles had glared at one another for a moment before laughing, Uncle Robert clapping Uncle Tyvek on the back in excitement.
"What a fight! Gods, but I needed that! You'll come to King's Landing too, won't you? We can do our work there, get to the bottom of this whole thing, you, Ned and I?"
"Aye, I'll come," Uncle Tyvek sighed. "I should like to speak with Uncle Kevan about a few things anyways; but I'm going to the Wall, first. There's work to be done there, too, and I can smell the war that might be brewing beyond it."
Uncle Robert had laughed, then, and declared that he'd simply have to up his own training and get ready for it, then made a call for more ale, and the meal progressed peacefully.
But Joanna knew her uncle. She'd grown up, held in his arms, sitting on his lap, at his side, in almost every meeting he had. She knew his face and moods better than she knew her own father's, sometimes.
And right now, she knew that her uncle was still furious, and fixing to do something about it.
Margaery was getting married soon. It put Willas at odds, how sudden the whole thing was. Or at least, how sudden it seemed. He knew his grandmother had never made a sudden move in her life, and so he waited for her to reveal her plan to her favorite granddaughter in full, who would then tell the tale to her favorite eldest brother.
At least her husband would be a good match- Tyvek Lannister was a good catch for any woman, despite his years unwed, and the… rumors of his preferences. He would treat Margaery well, at least- they knew from Sam Tarly that Lord Tyvek valued the opinions of anyone with brains to give a good one, man or woman; beyond that, he treated women well, and would not begrudge his wife for anything.
Still, it was most odd, that he had gone so long unmarried. It was nothing to mention, if a second or third son preferred the affections of men, but an heir? Well, they had to just… get over it, didn't they?
He clacked along with his cane, down the halls of Highgarden, enjoying the warm weather. Riding was out of the question, with his leg, and it was days like today that he missed it the most. There was a cool, northern breeze to kiss your face, hot sun overhead, and he wanted to go out and enjoy it, more than anything.
So, for the moment, he put his grandmother's scheming out of his mind, and went out to the gardens. He had a servant bring him a pitcher of wine, and some cheeses, and he settled down on a bench to enjoy the sun.
The cheeses were some new flavor from the Westerlands, "Parma-jon", he believed it was called; it had a very nutty flavor to it, crisp like an apple almost, and it was gaining popularity in the Reach. Lord Lannister had ordered his youngest brother, Tyrion, to find a use for old and abandoned mines, it was said; he'd suggested that maybe they could be used to grow mushrooms?; but Lord Tyrion had instead started making cheese and aging it in the mines.
This was the most expensive cheese coming out of the Westerlands, but with each nibble of it, Willas found himself agreeing with the pricing. It was igood/i in a way that made father and grandmother both giddy, in their own ways. It was being served at every other dinner, these days, and the worst part was that it all was being sold to the Tarlys directly, because Lord Tyvek was Samwell's foster father! Every nibble of this damn cheese was another dragon in their bannerman's coffers, but Willas couldn't bring himself to take full issue with the fact because the cheese was just that damn good.
"Look at yourself, worrying about cheese," he scoffed at himself. "Like there's a secret plan to overthrow us with cheese."
He chuckled a bit, not knowing that the idea had been vaguely considered.
(Tyvek had a lot of plans. Not all of them were good, and most were cut out before he even put them into action, but he ihad/i considered overthrowing the Tyrells and putting Sam in charge of the Reach, before deciding it was a bad idea and discarding it. Still, for a brief moment, Willas would have been right.)
Willas let himself relax, thinking of his latest breeding projects. Oberyn had just sent him a gift of several Westerland steeds, claiming that they were "almost as good as a sand steed", high praise indeed; he'd decided to breed two of them to some of his horses from the North, just to see what the resulting foals would be like. The Northern Horses were better suited for the cold than any other steed in the Seven Kingdoms, even those of the Vale. These Westerlands Horses were incredibly sure of foot, Oberyn had told him, and had originally been bred for pulling mine carts.
With the horses, Oberyn had sent other gifts, for Garlan, Margaery and Loras, little trinkets really, but appreciated nevertheless. A locket shaped like a rose for Loras, with a tiny portrait he had yet to reveal, but held dear to his heart. A fine dagger for Garlan, inlaid with obsidian as was all the rage in the Westerlands and the North, these days.
For Margaery, a long bracelet made of thinly beaten gold, meant to look like the crawling stems of a rose bush, the thorns so well crafted you would hesitate to touch them, small rubies forming the blooming roses. From a distance, the stems seemed to form the shape of something, a scorpion or a dragon, perhaps. She loved it, almost as much as she loved her old tom cat. The beast was nearly fifteen years old, now, and mean as a snake, but he loved Margaery, and she loved him.
But then, Margaery had been strange like that for many years, ever since the fever that had hit her towards the end of Robert's Rebellion. It had been a harsh thing, and she'd been much changed by it, and Mother had wept bitterly for many moons, even when Margaery had recovered.
It was so strange to think that, within a year, his baby sister would be wed, and living in the Westerlands. Lord Tyvek wished to wed her as soon as his business in the North had been concluded, and so he would be coming directly from The Wall to Highgarden, to do it. Then he'd take her to King's Landing, and with any luck, that would be the Tyrell's ticket back into Court.
…his little sister would be getting imarried/i!
It's one thing to read about The Wall, or see it in the show. There it's impressive but secondary to the characters, a set piece, a part of the scenery. Here, in this hybrid world of the works of George R.R Martin, you can't escape it once you see it for yourself.
I think I had scared Tyrion with my two-day silence, after seeing it. Lancel had gone quiet, deep in thought. He'd wanted to join the Watch, which I suspect is my fault, selling them so hard, back home. I'd told him he had to see the Wall, before he made his choice, and now I think he's not so sure. I'm glad. I'm glad that I made his life better than it would have been, poisoning kings and joining cults. He's a good lad, without Cersei molesting and manipulating him. I know Jon's life is better, but Lancel is. Well, I've come to love Jon like a son, but Lancel is a case of "I held you as a baby and promised I would save you". I had failed Cersei, I couldn't fail him.
It's so strange, how many butterflies I've made. I think that something out there in the wider cosmos is using me as a plaything, sometimes- I've changed so much and so little at the same time.
I couldn't save Sansa from Joffrey, but I did wake her up to what a monster he was. I saved Tysha, but Tywin Lannister died in a horse accident.
I saved Rhaenys, and I saved Aegon, and if I did my part right, nobody would know until it was too late.
It isn't that I seek a Targaryen Restoration, I'm not that stupid, but I know what's coming. It's the End Of All Things. If I can unite the Kingdoms behind the Stag Banner, I'll do it happily. If the realm stands behind the Three Headed Dragon, I'll be happy with it. All that matters is for the realm, all seven Kingdoms, to be united against what's coming at the Wall.
This would be so much easier if I was a Slime, or a NEET who saved a girl from a tractor, and I had magic powers. I would settle for Online Grocery, or like, being a High School Prodigy Who Had It Easy On Another World, maybe, but I was not any of those things. I was a sixty-something year old man in the body of a forty-two year old. I didn't get hit by a truck, or stabbed by an assassin, I just… woke up as a baby here. Thank God I was Tywin Lannister's heir, and had been a fan of ASOIAF in my life or, and I say this genuinely, I would be dead.
This world is fucking crazy. I never wanted to be here in more than a vague sense of "Gee, what a nice day dream to distract myself from the monotony of working a twelve hour factory shift", so let me tell you. Let me tell you, this place is miserable, but I'm going to make it better, one way or another.
I never ride at the direct front of a group, always letting the guides I hire lead the way, but I pulled forward to talk to this specific one now.
I had known Yoren from the books and the show, of course, but meeting him in person was much more fun. He was a man of honor, and honestly fun, besides. Tough as nails, a competent fighter, we got along well, and I like to think that when I call him a friend, he likewise calls me one.
I have a million other things to worry about, but I swore I would go and see The Wall, and so here I am, on my way to see the place my life will likely end within the next five years. There are other things I could and should be doing, but by God, I can't let myself think about them.
Eddard knows my thoughts. Knows my 'suspicions' about Joffrey, dramatically presented to him as they were. I warned him away from Uncle Kevan- I trust my uncle, but he's been in King's Landing for nearly fifteen years now, as Master of Coin; and frankly, he's still more loyal to the memory of Tywin Lannister than he is to me. Now fair, so is Aunt Genna, but I live with her, keeping an eye on her is easy. Her only reliable allies might be the Freys, and I had already cheerily hamstringed that idea by paying old Walder fifty dragons for every one of his descendants to take the Black. Greedy man like that couldn't resist that kind of money. I was down 5,000 dragons, and eliminated one of my single greatest potential foes in one fell swoop.
I've done all I can, in the last forty-two years, to ready this world for what I knew was coming to destroy them. Now, as it draws closer, I find myself worrying, panicking, desperately rushing around trying to make sure nothing goes wrong. I'm an anxious mess in a way I haven't been since I lived in a world where all of this was fictional, where I worked in a fast food restaurant and had to make customers happy at all times, or risk my life and livelihood. I just need to get through the next five years, and then… well, with any luck, the Ice Zombie End Of Days will be over, and I can go back to doing what I love most.
I just need to hold it together a little longer.
Danaerys woke in the warm light of an early Pentos dawn, stretching her arms and legs out before sitting up with a jaw cracking yawn. Outside, she could hear the sounds of Ser Willem and her brother training in the courtyard, and it made her smile. Ser Willem Darry had been the Master art Arms of Dragonstone, and he was loyal to them in a way nobody else ever had been. He had raised them both, kept them safe from the Usurper, and he doted on them both like they were his own children.
They had lived in Pentos for sixteen years, now, guests of the Prince, Arrakho Moskono. The Prince had once been the leader of a sellsword band called The Windblown; now he ruled Pentos as a king. Someone had helped him, it was said, someone from the Seven Kingdoms had given him money to do so, provided he saw to the care of her and her brother. Viserys said it was proof that loyal men still lived, and that you couldn't judge a man by his father's sins, and refused to tell her who had sent the money, "Just for safety, sweet sister"; he would kiss her on the forehead as he said such things, and sometimes he would smile gayly when he did.
Viserys thought of the Seven Kingdoms often. He would tell her stories of them, just like Ser Willem.
"One day, sweet sister," he would tell her, gleefully grinning as he spoke, "One day, we'll go home, and we will see our Nephew Aegon on the throne, and our Nephew Aemon as his Hand. We shall go to the Wall, and see our great-great-great uncle, Aemon. He's a Maester of the Night's Watch, but he's still the eldest of us, and one day, we will all go, you and I, Aegon and Rhaenys and Aemon, to pay him homage. We'll see all of the Seven Kingdoms together, Dany, and you and I will be able to marry for love. You'll see, sweet sister, one day."
Other times, though, Viserys would rage and rant and scream, tears running down his face. When this black humor overtook him, only Ser Willem could comfort him in any way, and Dany would hide herself away from her brother. When he was in one of his moods, he could be cruel, almost like a different Viserys. It was best to avoid him, then, and let him come out of it in his own time, then assure him you were safe afterwards, once he had calmed down. These black moods had gotten worse, but rarer, over the years. Where they once would last for weeks at a time, many times a year, now Viserys could sallie forth against them, and they would turn within a day or two.
If he was fighting Ser Willem, though, then his most recent mood was past, and they would have a good day. Perhaps they would go out into the city, to the Prince's menagerie, and have a picnic, or perhaps they would go and see a Mummer's show. Viserys always tried to take her for a day in the city, after one of his moods, an apology and affirmation of love all in one.
She stood, letting herself be dressed by one of the servants. That was a major change, she'd been told- before the Prince came to rule Pentos, there had been slavery, and many slaves. Dany was too young to remember it, but she knew that most of their servants had once been slaves, and there was still a seven-day of celebration every Six-month, to mark the week long battle that had culminated in "The Cutting of the Collars", when slaves had risen up against their masters, joining forces with the Prince. It was a grand festival to see, and it would be coming soon. Perhaps she and Viserys would go once again, this year.
Breakfast was the usual rich fare, eggs and toasted bread, heavy gravy, sausages, and shredded cheese. The cheese came from the Westerlands, and Viserys told her it tasted like their return home would one day feel. She didn't know about that, but she knew that the food was just what she needed to start her day out right.
After her meal, she went to watch her brother training. Ser Willem oversaw his training, of course, but rarely fought Viserys himself, due to his age and poor health. The cough that had nearly killed him, years before, had left him permanently weakened, his breath a wheeze on the best days.
There was a balcony that overlooked the training yard, and Dany stood on it, watching Viserys fend off two guards at once. He was never going to be The greatest swordsman in the world*, but he was no slouch, by any means.
*Dany had heard many named as such, from Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Jamie Lannister of the Kingsguard, to Tyvek Lannister, to The Hound, but in reality, the greatest swordsman in the world was a slave fighter from Mereen who had freed himself fifty years earlier by killing his Master, then kept to himself, helping freed slaves escape. His name, the name he took when he freed himself, translates to "Black Hawk", and he was the greatest swordsman in the world, though nobody had ever heard of him except for slaves he helped to find freedom.
Ser Willem was in his usual white attire. He wasn't a True Kingsguard, as he had often reminded them both; and neither of Aerys Targaryen's surviving children would hear a word of it. They had no Kingsguard left to them, and Ser Willem had protected them for most of Viserys's life. He was Kingsguard enough for them.
Viserys was, as usual, fighting two of the guards- Unsullied, they were, and Viserys never did well against them. Still, he trained, knowing that he may one day have to face the Unsullied as a unit in true combat. It was enthralling, to watch them fight. Dany herself had less training than her brother, though she'd learned some. Viserys had said it was the blood of Visenya in her veins, of all the warrior women in their line, and so he would sometimes spar her, and Dany soaked up the lessons like a sponge.
She watched, wincing, as Viserys was knocked down; he was grinning as he stood, though, and waved to her when he saw her watching. She grinned, waving back excitedly, and made her way down to the yard to speak with him.
He was all sweaty and dirty as he hugged her, holding her at arm's length to look her over when he'd finished.
"Oh Dany, look at you. Almost a woman grown," he said, smiling at her with pride. "You look so much like mother. She would be so proud."
Dany hugged him, then, happy tears in her eyes. Sometimes, very rarely, Viserys would speak of their mother. Of her beauty, her dignity, her ipower/i, and how much Dany was like her. He never once acted like he resented Danaerys for their mother's death. "It is the true battlefield of women, to bring life to the world. Sometimes they lose, and it simply means the child is stronger.", he had once told her, and she believed him.
"Aye, a fair bit, my Prince, but she has your grandmother's look, in truth," Ser Willem said, hobbling over. "Once, when I was much younger, I saw your grandmother. Even coming to her later years, she was still radiant. The Light of the Seven made flesh, she was- that is who you most resemble, my Princess."
Smiling, Dany took Ser Willem by the arm, walking slowly so that he needn't strain his lungs. "As you say, Ser. I only hope to grow to match their great deeds. I know I will not likely wed Aegon, and be queen, but I hope to do much good even still."
Viserys got an odd look, just then, but seemed to shake it off. "You surely will, sweet sister. Now, come! Ser Willem and I have yet to break our fasts, and I know you wouldn't deny your favorite brother the pleasure of your company, would you?"
"Well, if Rhaegar was here…" She teased, making Viserys bark out a laugh.
"What cheek! Ser Willem, where did she learn it?"
Ser Willem chuckled a bit at her side, wheezing. "If I might be so bold, I believe she learned it from you, my Prince. I still recall the time you told your Lady Mother that, if she gave you another brother, you would dress them as a girl instead, for want of a little baby sister."
Viserys laughed again, taking Dany's other arm as they walked the halls. "I recall that, Ser! She told me that I could carry the baby, if I wanted to think I had a say in what would come out!"
This was the way life was meant to be, Dany thought. Laughing with your loved ones. She hoped it would last forever.
He should have avoided Craster's Keep, he really should have. Fucking Craster, fucking wildlings, fucking… fuck.
Victarion Greyjoy was not a fearful man, but he had dreamt of this, a few nights before. Had dismissed it as a craven's dream, and carried on with his initial plan. He had thrown off the terrors of the night and gone forth to Craster's to rest for a day or two before making for the Wall. He'd seen this nightmare, dismissed it, and now he paid the price for his arrogance.
Craster's Keep was burning, and pale blue eyes were watching in the darkness. Victarion had his sword out in one hand, his skinning knife in the other, for want of a blade. He had Craster's many daughter-wives at his back (and didn't that thought make his skin crawl, why hadn't the Watch put together what the man was doing with his isons/i), and they had spears, hoes, whatever that had been able to scrounge up; it wouldn't be enough, he felt.
It had started well enough. Craster had shared his food, shared news of the movements of the other Wildlings, and Victarion had enjoyed a warm, restful sleep with a roof over his head. He'd stayed the next day, working a grinding wheel to show his thanks for the meal, then stayed another night after a blizzard had rolled in.
He'd woken up from a dream, an island of bones that stank of malice, and noticed that one of Craster's girls was sobbing, and that Craster himself was gone. He'd nearly thrown up at the tale she had told, once he pressed her for answers. An Ironborn was not so weak as to be made sick by stories of monstrous men (for was not the Iron Price a monstrous way to make monstrous men?), but there wasn't an Iroborn in the Islands who would fuck his own daughters and sacrifice his sons off of them to the Drowned God. It had filled him with a chomping rage, and he had stormed out, before he had known what he was doing.
Something outside his senses had guided his hunt- he'd tracked Craster without knowing how he had done it- and he'd slain the man with a ferocious cry. It felt good- a sword was no ax, but for a moment, he was an Ironborn once again, and it felt igodly/i to bathe in the man's blood.
He'd picked up the babe, then, just a tiny little thing, smaller, it felt, than any child had reason to be. He'd gurgled up at Victarion, then, and some soft thing inside him had risen up with the desire to protect the child, to make his life good, in spite of the cruelty it had begun with.
Him and his bleeding, cunting heart.
The blue eyed corpses had burst from the snow almost the moment he'd grabbed the child, the monstrous ithing/i leading then striding into the clearing line it was swimming in the air. It moved with the same grace as a dolphin, and Victarion was unashamed to admit that he had lost his water at the sight of it, smirking cruelly, like Euron would have done.
He'd run. He'd run like he'd never run before, baby squalling in his arms, back to Craster's Keep, Craster's corpse one of the many behind him, hounding his steps, hunting him. He'd damn well flown over the snow, terror making his steps light, and he and the child had roused the whole Keep with their screaming as the dead things behind them closed in.
They had all taken up what arms they could, and defended themselves as the dead burst into the Keep, until someone, a little girl barely 14 and heavy with a child, thrust a burning brand into one of the corpses (a Watchman he hadn't known, who'd looked years dead), and the Keep had started to burn. They'd escaped, and most of the dead had burned, but they were still faced with the nameless, icy ithing/i he had dreamt of without knowing.
He'd given the boy to his mother, barely twelve namedays she was, and told her to hold that baby close, even if she died in the attempt. She was only a child, she should not have been…
He thrust the guilt behind that line of thinking aside and focused on the thing in front of him, its remaining corpses stalking forward. He struck the head of one from its shoulders, gutting it with his skinning knife, shocked as the corpse dropped immediately. None of the other dead had done that.
"I'm going to kiss Theon's feet, if I survive this," he growled with glee, hope welling up in his chest as he struck out again, another corpse collapsing as he attacked it. He was winning, he was going to survive this, damn them all! He struck towards the pale blue monster in front of him, and his sword exploded, cold fire on his face as fragments of it cut his cheek, but then he'd buried his dagger into the thing's chest, and it screamed like the blizzard wind as it died, exploding into snow.
The women took up a great cheer, then, and Victarion felt victory welling up in his heart as the last of the dead collapsed.
No time to celebrate, though. He turned to the eldest of the women and said "Pack everything you can. Food, weapons, tools, furs."
"It isn't safe anymore. We need to flee, now." She agreed, and less than an hour later, the whole pack of them were fleeing at top speed. He didn't know how he would do it, but Victarion knew he'd have to get all of the women and girls (and Little Victar, named for him, now, given a chance at ilife/i) behind the Wall. They'd have to get every fucking wildling alive behind the Wall, unless they wanted to face them all as the walking dead.
Because he'd seen the second set of pale blue eyes, and he'd known that the war was only beginning.
He needed an ax in his hands, he knew, and he knew where to get the ax he would need.
It was time to write his nephew again.
Daegon looked at his friend with a raised brow as Theon described the item he wanted. An ax made of dragonglass was ridiculous. What could you cut with it?
"Look, Theon, you're one of my best friends, and I love you dearly, but what reason, in the name of all the Gods, could your Uncle have for wanting an ax made of Dragonglass? It would be functionally useless!"
Daegon was the son of a Dragonseed, and the old Targaryen blood shone strong in him. Silver hair, purple eyes, thin, severe features, he hit the old trademarks of all three. He'd lived on Dragonstone his whole life, his father a fisherman, his mother a midwife. Daegon (Dag, to his friends, Dagger to his enemies, Dae to his mother and father) had been a fisherman too, for a time, until father had taken ill. Then, he'd gone and sold himself as apprentice to Old Hob, the fletcher on the island. He was an expert arrow maker, and part of that meant learning how to work dragonglass. It was cheaper than steel, and Dragonstone was not a rich island, so most of their arrows were capped with dragonglass arrowheads. Carving it into other things had just been… a way to make money to give his parents, at first, but then he'd given a dagger of it to his father, who used it as a fileting knife. Soon enough, all the fishermen on the island wanted a dragonglass knife, given how well they cut.
That was how he and Theon had met- Theon was Lord Baratheon's ward, but his uncle was a man of the Night's Watch, just promoted to some high office of the Watch, and Theon had wanted a blade for him to celebrate. The issue had been that Lord Stannis didn't care to give Theon enough money for a castle forged blade to be both made iand/i sent to the Wall, so he'd been forced to buy a "peasant knife", only to find that he'd bought his uncle a damn fine knife for the sort of work he might need it for.
That had been how they had met. Their friendship had come in starts and stops, strange jumps, held up by the fact that Theon was a Lord and Daegon was, well, not; but a friendship it was, all the same.
Daegon, and most of the rest of the smallfolk on Dragonstone, knew his letters and numbers. This was a shock to most smallfolk from off the island, and it had certainly been a shock to Theon, but for three centuries, Dragonstone had been a trade hub in the Narrow Sea in some capacity or another- there were several families on the island that were only a generation or two removed from nobility, be it through bastardry, or being the third son of a fourth son, or something- an educated man who did not educate his sons was more a fool than the most foolish beggar in King's Landing. On Dragonstone, you ihad/i to have your letters and numbers, if you ever wanted any hope of surviving, or getting your fair share of the goods.
That was how he and Theon had remained friends. Theon was garbage at his numbers, and so Daegon would help him with his numbers, in exchange for sword lessons. It wasn't likely that Daegon would ever even own a sword, of course- he was an archer at heart, and likely to only ever use a spear, if he absolutely had to use a hand to hand weapon. He had an uncle, on his mother's side, who went by "Shitspear", because he liked to smear his shit over his spear; Daegon assumed that, if he ever went to war, he would do the same. Anything to survive.
"Listen, a spearhead made out of dragonglass isn't a bad idea. A knife is better. But a… a full ax made of dragonglass? Theon, what possible reason could convince your Uncle that it would be even remotely useful?"
"That's a very good question, but I frankly don't care," Theon said in a rather off-handed manner. "He wrote me to ask if I would have one made, and so I'm going to find a way to have one made for him."
They locked eyes for a moment, then with a sigh of "Stubborn little whoremaker," Daegon cleared a little space off on his workbench and began to sketch his idea on a spare scrap of parchment.
"I'll tell you now that he'll never be able to use this in actual combat," he warned, "But we can make him something… what's the word, sanctimonious?"
Theon thought for a moment, confused, then realized what his friend had meant.
"Ceremonial, you mean! And yes, I suppose that could work- he's not likely to be chopping down trees with it, anyways."
"Good," Daegon mumbled as he sketched, deep in thought. His charcoal stick seemed to fly across the parchment as he worked, rejecting a few ideas wholesale, until he finally thrust a sheet at Theon.
"Get the Smith up at the castle to make this, then come back to me and I'll finish my bits," he ordered. He didn't ilike/i going up to the castle itself, though he'd been several times before. It gave him nightmares as a child, of voices screaming at him in the darkness, of a woman crying out "Aegon! No, not my baby! Aegon, Aegon!", of a baby crying. He'd never admit to the fear, of course, but he felt it, admission or not; and so he avoided the castle as much as he possibly could.
Theon studied the sheet for a moment, then realized what Daegon was about, with the design. "Oh, that's… see, this is why I came to you, you're brilliant."
"I'm aware, yes," Daegon teased his highborn friend. "But then, compared to you, most everyone is brilliant."
"Oi!" Theon laughed, even as he tossed Daegon a Stag for his troubles thus far. "You hush, you unwashed peasant, I'm smart enough!"
They both chuckled, and Daegon saw his friend to the door. "Away with you, Greyjoy- I've work to do, beyond your commission. Bring me that ax, then I'll work my wizardry on it, and we can put it on a ship to your Uncle soon enough."
Once Theon was out Daegon closed the door, then went back to his workbench. It was the law, on Dragonstone, that if you found a piece of driftwood, it was yours to do as you pleased with. That was how he'd gotten his workbench- he'd been on the beach one day, looking for shells to grind up for his mother's garden, when he'd found it, the biggest hunk of driftwood he'd ever seen. It was white, all the way through, and it looked like weirwood, from what Old Betha said. Old Betha was as good as any Maester, so he'd taken her at her word that it was sacred wood, and would burn poorly anyways, so he'd paid Thom, a shipwright's son, to carve it into a table for his mother. She'd refused the gift, saying that one day, he'd need a table of his own for working on, and she'd been right, of course.
Now, nobody would want to use it for a table. The white wood was stained with his blood in places, from when he would cut himself, working with dragonglass (his hands were scarred in so many places it wasn't funny, but he'd never caught an infection, no matter how deep the wound.) or sharpening his charcoal to help capture fine details.
It still made a fine workbench, though.
It was two weeks, before Theon came back to him, the "half finished" ax in hand and a grin on his face. "Blacksmith looked at me like I'd gone mad, but here we have it, now c'mon, make with the gift, chop chop!" He had declared the moment he'd burst into Daegon's workshop. He pushed it into Daegon's arms, and the one-time arrow-maker examined it.
The ax had been made to his specifications, perfectly crafted. It was double bladed and heavy, even with the holes and divots already in it where the dragonglass would go. It had no edge, but a divot on each blade, where he would carve pieces of dragonglass to slide in, then pin them in with little slivers of weirwood. He didn't know where that particular idea had come from- a dream, perhaps- but Daegon found he liked the idea.
"Alright. Give me two or three days, then come back with my money, Greyboy," Daegon said, deliberately getting Theon's name wrong. It made him laugh, and he nodded.
"Aye, I'll come. I'll send the usual wench to pick it up, if Lord Stannis gets in one of his moods and won't let me out of his sight."
"Aye, been meaning to ask about that, actually," Daegon said, putting the unfinished ax on his workbench. "What's going on, up in that castle? Hulburt says Lord Stannis has some witch in his employ that likes to burn people?"
Theon went stiff, then carefully shut the door. He doused every candle in the workroom, ignoring Daegon's cries of protest. Then, in the darkness, where Daegon could barely see, he nodded.
"She hasn't yet," he whispered, "but she speaks of it often, and has asked Lord Stannis to leach me for blood to burn, for her God. She's mad, but Lady Selyse has converted to her faith, and Lord Stannis trusts her. Daegon, if she comes to you, be wary."
Anyone else, and Daegon might have dismissed their talk as merely that, talk. But Theon was rarely serious; never enough to be disrespectful, but always in good, if irreverent, humor. If he was serious, it was serious. If Theon said to be wary, there was good cause- and it corroborated some of the things Daegon had heard separately. It wasn't just the rantings of the Septon, decrying a foreign woman preaching a foreign God, it was something to worry about.
The Smallfolk of Dragonstone followed that strange, hybrid religion of port-towns the world over; that mixing of faiths that came about everywhere sailors mingled for long periods. The Seven, the half-forgotten Gods of Valyria; Daegon had even said a prayer or two to the Drowned God, for Theon's sake. Daegon himself paid his homage to the Smith, the Mother, and Balerion, the Valyrian God of fire and death; his mother and father to the Crone, the Mother, the Father and the Drowned God in the place of the Stranger.
"Is she… well, is she mad? We can… handle her, if she's mad." Daegon said quietly. "Like, dangerously mad?"
"Not yet," Theon whispered. "But… just… take care, aye?"
Daegon nodded in the darkness. "Aye, I will. You too. You're the son of a 'king', not me." He teased to lighten the air, and Theon laughed.
Bran rode right next to Father, enjoying the time spent together, even if it meant riding near Prince Joffrey. He didn't like Joffrey, not after how he had treated Sansa, but King Robert was fun to be around, and Father was smiling more, when he spent time with the King.
"Now, that bastard of yours, there's a good lad! What a fighter he is- he knocked you for a loop or three, didn't he, Kingslayer?!"
"He did, Your Grace- my brother made him into a warrior, not just a future knight," Ser Jaime answered, nodding at Father. "Not even Arthur Dayne fought like that."
Father grimaced, but nodded, and the king laughed. "A warrior indeed! What are you going to do with him, Ned?"
Father sat a little straighter, smiling proudly at Jon being praised. "He's going to found a cadet branch of the family, and I intend to give him Sea Dragon Point as his seat. He'll be a guard against the Ironborn, should they get any foolish ideas in the future."
"Damn- no chance to steal him for the Kingsguard, then? Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan are the only decent ones left. Cersei convinced me to put all manner of shit fighters on, and I've been regretting it ever since."
"You can always steal The Hound's squire, Your Grace," Ser Jaime suggested, making the king laugh.
"No, then I might face Rebellion from the Reach, anyone with eyes can see he and Tarly are up each other's…"
Father coughed and the king trailed off, embarrassed.
"Well, at any rate, I don't think it will happen. And I'll never get Clegane, not so long as I live. He hates the idea of being knighted, he'd probably knock my face in, if I suggested it. Still can't believe Tyvek was willing to let him go."
The Hound was… brusque, that was a word Jon might use, but he'd been nothing but kind to Bran, and he had protected Sansa from Joffrey after the incident with Swiftwind. Well, actually, he'd clapped the Prince upside the head every time he came near her, because that was "Lord's cunting orders, and I like him and the lady more than I like Prince Shitstain", but it was very gallant of him either way.
Lord Tyvek had left to see The Wall, but he had left The Hound with them, as Sansa's Sworn Sword; his niece, Joanna, was coming with to King's Landing to be Princess Myrcella's handmaiden; when he had seen The Wall, Lord Tyvek would come south as well, to investigate some Great Matter in the Capitol and to marry Lady Margaery Tyrell. Bran had heard the king complain that it was "such a fucking waste, that girl with Tyvek. He won't even enjoy ilooking/i at her, let alone fucking her!", but he didn't know what had been meant by that.
Riding with Father and the King meant learning about Robert's Rebellion from men who had fought in it as two of the central figures, listening to them reminisce. Father never liked to speak of war, but with the King, he seemed more willing to discuss the past. He'd spoken of Aunt Lyanna, how she was almost part-horse the way she could ride.
"Aye, she was… she could ride like the damn wind, my Lyanna. Like the damn wind, on any horse, but on Winter especially."
"Winter?" Bran had asked, curious.
"Aye, lad, t'was her favorite stallion. To hear her tell it, he'd been living half wild, out in the Wolfswood, and she'd leapt upon his back from a tree," the king said with a laugh. "Rode him through the Wolfswood, no saddle or bridle, until he'd damn well collapsed."
"Benjen saw her come back with Winter, both of them scratched and bleeding from the branches they'd hit," Father chuckled. "Father was most wroth with her, and said she'd never ride a stallion so fine when a lady's place was a wheelhouse- but Winter would take no other rider, not on his life."
"That was your aunt, lad, so worth loving that even a horse would go to war for her. That was the horse your father rode into Dorne, to bring her bones back, and then not long after, he gave up on living."
The king sighed. "He was a beautiful horse, too, strong and well bred, wherever he had come from. A giant's horse, your aunt called him. He was a beast, gods, the size of that horse, Ned. He was more a bull than a horse!"
Father smiled, though Bran thought he saw Father's eyes water a bit. "Old Nan always used to say that Lyanna would skinchange into him- nonsense, of course, but Winter was more a trained hound than a horse."
"Speaking of!" The King laughed as Father's Dire-wolf loped into view on the road before them, Nymeria and Bran's own wolf beside her. He still hadn't named his wolf- the name would come to him, he was certain, but nameless did his companion yet remain- but all three had red jaws from the hunt. Then came Lady behind them, her nose in the air, and Sansa and Sandor behind her with a few of the other Stark Men. Sansa looked rather upset- angry, even, and Bran could tell that something had gone wrong.
One of the guards rode up and spoke quietly to Father, who frowned, growing angry, looking over to the rest, then nodded.
"Take Bran and Arya, stand watch over them. If Arya will not obey, she will come to me and I will imake/i her obey." He ordered, the Guard nodding.
"What's going on, Ned?" The King asked, and Father glared into the distance angrily.
"Trouble, Robert. You may want to send for your hammer, as I think we may need to go bash a few heads together."
But Bran was led away, then, and stayed in his tent with Arya, Nymeria and his own wolf for the rest of the day, and deep into the night. Father had returned in a dark mood, Sansa behind him, later that night, and hugged them all so tightly Bran thought his back might break. He'd sent them to bed, then, kissing them on their brows, holding Sansa especially close, and it wasn't until the next day that Bran was able to get the whole story.
Sansa- perfect, prim, Lady Sansa, who swooned at the sight of blood, had executed five and ten bandits herself. She'd swung the sword, turning away Sandor's quiet offers to do it for her. The only man of the bunch that she hadn't killed, Lady had.
She and her guards had gone out riding ahead, away from people, and had come across a village as the bandit group had been burning, raping, and looting. There had been fifteen guards, Sansa and Lady, the Hound and his nephew, and the other Dire Wolves, who had been hunting; there had been forty five bandits, but against the Hound, his nephew, and the rest of the guards, they'd been defeated. Six had begged to take The Black, and they would be sent under guard to Riverrun to be sent on to do just that; only one and twenty of them had survived the fight anyways. The five and ten left after the six had taken The Black had been executed, right then and there. Sansa had been like ice as she delivered the sentence, her eyes blazing, or so Bran had heard from the guards who had been with her, and though her arms shook, she'd swung true on every stroke. The first one had taken her a few strokes, and she'd had to get a new sword half-way through the men, but she'd done it.
Bran found his eyes wandering to Sansa, riding next to he and Father, her gaze in the distance. The king had been nothing but praise for her, but Sansa seemed to find nothing praiseworthy about it. She was deep in thought, and so, it seemed, was Father.
Still, Arya was now closer to Sansa than she'd ever been, riding quietly at her side. He'd even seen them holding hands one time, when Sansa had seemed particularly locked in thought. It was strange. Good, but strange.