Something of Duskendale reminded Tommen of King's Landing.
Not the city, for the winding streets of Duskendale were far cleaner and lacked the smell of rot and filth so familiar to King's Landing, and certainly not the markets. The markets of Duskendale were smaller and less crowded, without the colorful merchants from distant shores hawking their wares with dyed beards and queer silks.
It was the shores of Duskendale which were familiar to Tommen. Both were tucked in the shadows of their respective keeps, meeting the Blackwater with rough sands and rocky shoals that came and went with the tides.
The waters which lapped at Tommen's boots as he trudged along the shores of Duskendale were the very same waters he'd chased Myrcella through as a boy. A crisp wind at his back lifted sand into the air and blinding sun beamed off the water. Tommen never much liked the days his mother brought him and his siblings down to the beach beneath the Red Keep. She only ever did so when she'd had a particularly nasty quarrel with his father. Not even uncle Jaime's presence could temper her then.
Tommen could not recall when she'd stopped bringing them to the beach. As he'd grown older, his father and mother learned to avoid one another. The fights which sent his mother fleeing with them down to the shore grew less frequent, so far as Tommen could tell. Or perhaps she elected to go on her own, without her children. Those days always resulted in squabbles between Joffrey and Myrcella, and his mother never had much tolerance for their disagreements.
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Tommen stared out over the Blackwater. Somewhere, leagues south, Myrcella strolled along the warm beaches of Dorne. Tommen hoped she did, at the very least. It was best that she remained leagues away from the mess their family had become. Myrcella was the best of the three of them. Tommen believed that now more than ever.
Tommen paused and glanced over his shoulder from whence he came. He'd wandered some ways up the shore. The white, chalk cliffs that stretched behind Duskendale had shrunk, and it occurred to Tommen that he'd been walking for quite a while. He'd have surely been missed, were he anyone of import. He started back towards Duskendale.
The wind which had once been at his back now faced him head on. Oppressive and smothering, he winced against the grains of sand it whipped into his eyes. He regretted roaming so far and was glad to spot Duskendale and its port grow larger and closer.
Strong, stone walls surrounded the town of Duskendale, which itself was watched over by the Dun Fort. A square keep with tall, broad drum towers at each corner, it was simple and drab compared to other keeps Tommen had come to know in the past months. Outside of its walls sprawled the city of canvas tents and pavilions that followed their host.
None in their party resided within the Dun Fort, not even Robb or Aegon. They would not be staying more than two nights before marching on towards Kings Landing, hardly long enough to impose on Lord Rykker, Aegon said.
The screech of dragons met Tommen upon his return. If there was ever a sight that Tommen would never tire of it was the dragons, and it seemed he was not alone in that sentiment. A crowd had gathered at the edge of camp, eyes trained upward at the three dragons and their riders that soared through the air. Tommen stood away from the crowd, yet remained close enough to hear their astonished gasps and chatter.
A golden dragon dipped low, buffeting wind over the crowd with a flap of its wings. The crowd clapped and cheered, and even Tommen could not help a smile. The trio had taken to the skies even before Tommen left to wander the shoreline. Alysanne said the more they flew, the stronger the dragons would grow and the further they could fly. Or so she thought, anyway.
Briefly, Tommen wondered if Alysanne, Aegon, and Jon were as disappointed as he that Lord Rykker capitulated so swiftly. Surely, they must have been curious to know how much destruction even a small dragon could reap, curious to know what it was to face an army from dragonback. These dragons were certainly no Balerion, Vhagar, or Meraxes, but fire was fire, and theirs could burn swaths of land easily enough. They could hunt and kill and char meals with ease. Of course, battle was a different matter entirely.
Tommen knew his histories as well as any. Even the smaller dragons the Targaryens of old commanded could bring agony and despair to who they wished. They were not, however, invulnerable. Stormcloud had been felled by a scorpion's bolt and arrows to the belly during the Dance, and Vermax wounded in the same battle. Even Meraxes, who was no small dragon by any measure, had fallen by the hands of men.
Passively, Tommen knew he ought not wish for such things. Yet a part of him cursed Lord Rykker's good sense. Tommen did not think he could be blamed for feeling so, for wishing for a song of his own. Not when he'd been raised on grand tales of his father's rebellion, such as the song of the harrowing Battle of the Bells, or even the terrible Siege of Storm's End. Duskendale had been his last chance to see any battle of that nature.
That was not entirely true, of course. He could still wet his blade when Aegon took King's Landing. As he watched the dragons, he allowed himself to imagine it - riding atop a courser, sword in hand, cutting down faceless, shadowed men who stood in his way. The men would not be mere shadows, he was swift to remind himself. They would wear the red and gold of his mother's house, the black and gold of his father's, perhaps even Joffrey would don armor and ride amongst his men.
The notion of meeting Joffrey, sword in hand, did not horrify him as he knew it ought. There was a certain thrill that came with imagining his face as Tommen forced him to his knees, the sputtered anger, mottled red and purple flush; Tommen knew that look well.
He'd seen it on the beach below the Red Keep once, when he, Myrcella, and Joffrey spent the afternoon collecting shells to cheer their mother. It'd been Myrcella's idea, and Tommen had picked a shell larger than Joffrey's, who'd then demanded that Tommen give it to him to present to mother. Tommen refused and shoved Joffrey when he made to grab it from him. Joffrey's face reddened, then purpled, and Tommen's prize for inciting his brother's fury had been a bloodied nose and his mother's ire.
Would he curse him, sitting at the other end of Tommen's sword, as he had on the beach? Mayhap he would plead for mercy, as Tommen had so many times at the receiving end of Joffrey's torment. Tommen did not entirely know what he himself would do, should such a thing come to pass. He did not think he could strike a killing blow, despite all Joffrey had done. The thought of doing so made him ill.
No, Tommen would not ride into battle at King's Landing. His last chance had been Duskendale, and he would have to make peace with the fact that Bran had bloodied his sword whilst Tommen hadn't. It would not be worth staining what honor he'd left to his name.
Honor, Joffrey's voice spat, taunting. A traitor has no honor, came another, his mother's voice this time. A traitor, and a thief at that, a third, his uncle Tyrion's, needled deeper than the rest. Tommen shook them away and trained his eyes back to the dragons.
Crimson and silver swirled through the air, gliding along the water before arching upwards and diving down once more. This dragon was Tommen's favorite. Frostfyre. He'd say it was a fitting name, if anyone thought to ask his opinion. Her flames were tinged with the silver of frost, the same silver which marked her crest of horns, claws, and belly, though the red of her scales reminded Tommen more of blood than fire.
Jon and his mount streaked through the sky like the red comet that had lit the skies all those moons ago, a shimmer of crimson and silver that outpaced the other two dragons with ease. Atop Frostfyre, Jon Snow was a smudge of black. Jon Stark, Tommen corrected himself. A bastard-turned-prince, he'd risen in mirror of how Tommen had fallen, he himself a prince-turned-bastard.
"I used to stare at the skulls in the Great Hall," Jaime said as he sauntered towards Tommen. He'd not seen his uncle in the crowd, though he should have expected him to be there. Whenever Alysanne took to the skies, his uncle watched on. "Aerys would rant and swear at whatever it was which displeased him that day, and I would stare at the skulls and try to imagine what they looked like. Shaena had her idea, and I had mine own." Jaime paused and followed Shaeleys' path with a small huff of a laugh. "We were both terribly wrong."
Rarely had Tommen heard his uncle speak of the days before the rebellion, and never had he spoken to Tommen of his late wife. He remained silent, afraid to break the spell that had fallen over him.
It broke anyway. "Did Tyrion ever take you to see them?" Jaime asked.
"He didn't," said Tommen. "Bran and I found them."
"Hm. They're magnificent things, are they not? I imagine our new King will have them returned to the Great Hall. Lucky for him that Robert didn't destroy them." Jaimes voice became bitter as it always did when he spoke of Tommen's father. It might have bothered Tommen, had he not learned to ignore it.
"Why didn't he?" Tommen asked. There wasn't a man, woman, or child in the Seven Kingdoms that didn't know of his father's hatred of the Targaryens. He'd even done away with golden dragons, exchanging them for golden stags. If coins vexed him so, why not the skulls?
Once, his mother said that his father loathed the Targaryen's more than he ever loved any of his children. Tommen didn't wish to believe that to be true. His father was not as Ned Stark was to his children, that was for certain, but he'd known Tommen well enough to know what he wished for each name day. He'd even thought to invite him on his hunting trips, on occasion.
Not for the first time, Tommen wondered if his father had known the truth.
"Who could say? Perhaps he thought them too important to destroy or perhaps he thought them a trophy. The dragons, felled at last," Jaime said, his words mocking. His uncle shielded his eyes from the sun and watched Alysanne, atop Shaeleys, skim across the water. "Regardless, I did not come to speak to you of dragons. I understand congratulations are in order, Lord Lannister."
Jaime peered down at Tommen over his nose. His golden curls, so like Tommen's own, danced in the wind. Tommen shifted away from his uncle, instead watching Aegon attempt to outpace Jon.
"Who told you?" he asked. Tommen had told Bran and no one else. The decree was not to be made official until after Aegon took his throne, yet he supposed it was no great secret. Even so, Tommen doubted Jaime had heard of his meeting with Aegon from the man himself.
Two nights ago, Aegon summoned Tommen to his pavilion. He'd greeted Tommen with a glass of fine Dornish red and a map of King's Landing sprawled on the table, little wooden markers awaiting to the side. "I had hoped you might be willing to provide some insight," Aegon had said, gesturing to the map.
There was naught that Tommen could tell Aegon which would truly aid him. It'd been months since he'd left King's Landing, and what little he knew came from Tyrion, who'd thought to share with Tommen the preparations he made in anticipation for Stannis' assault. He knew not which gates were the weakest and which were the strongest, nor did he know which had been further weakened or strengthened following the battle.
Nothing he shared would cost Joffrey the war, he'd reasoned. The city would fall with or without Tommen's knowledge, and what Tommen did know had not been shared without a price. A promise of Myrcella's safety, mercy for Tyrion, and whatever mercy could be spared for his mother. That was all Tommen asked, and Aegon readily agreed.
Tommen had not asked to be named a Lannister, nor had he asked for Casterly Rock.
"It is the least of what you deserve for returning Princess Sansa to her family," Aegon said, and that had been the end of it.
"Alysanne told me. My father taught you to play your hand well, it is precisely what he would have done," Jaime said. Tommen misliked the way he looked at him, appraising and unnerving in a way only his uncle could manage.
"I did not ask for it. That is not what this is," Tommen retorted. The comparison rankled.
"Yet you did not refuse it, did you? Tyrion is my father's heir, not you," Jaime said. Usurper, traitor, Tyrion's voice echoed after him, for Tommen had not refused, nor had he thought to.
"Aegon would not let Tyrion have Casterly Rock. He fights for Joffrey," Tommen replied. Despite the widening pit in his stomach, Tommen told himself he felt little guilt. Aegon would have been within his rights to remove the Lannister's from Casterly Rock, after what his grandfather had done to Aegon's family. A Lannister will still hold the Rock, this way.
"And he told you this, did he? I did not think so. By all the laws of the realm, Casterly Rock should go to Tyrion. It might still have gone to Tyrion. He has committed no crime against Aegon," Jaime said firmly. He stood straight, shoulders and back rigid as he stared down at Tommen.
Tommen's fists clenched, his nails biting into the palms of his hands. Why does he care so much? Tyrion had never mentioned Casterly Rock to Tommen. Not once. Something overcame Tommen then. He met Jaime's stare head on, lip curled. "You were grandfather's heir first. What of your son, would he not come before Tyrion? Even if he were a bastard, born of-"
Jaime gripped his arm and marched him further from the crowd, though no one had paid their words any mind, still enthralled with the dragons above. Jaime harshly spun Tommen to face him, hands gripped fiercely to his shoulders. "Mind your tongue, boy!"
"What difference does it make?" Tommen hissed. "It's no secret, not any longer. They all know the truth. I am a Waters in the eyes of all."
His uncle straightened and stepped back from Tommen. That he was Jaime's son, not Robert's, had never been spoken aloud between the two of them. Nor had he named Alysanne sister.
"Tommen!" Bran interrupted before Tommen could continue. He prowled towards them, a mirror of his direwolf Summer, who trotted ahead of him. Bran swung an arm around his shoulders, his shirt soaked in sweat. Bran's face fell as he glanced between Tommen and his uncle. "Have I interrupted something?"
"Not at all, my prince," Jaime said with that sardonic smile of his. "I was to find Alysanne after her flight, if you'll excuse me."
Shaeleys had indeed landed further away from the camp from where the crowd gathered, and Tommen did not watch as his uncle - always his uncle, for he would never be his father - stalked away. One day, he would make it so Jaime had to answer his questions. It's the least of what I deserve.
"You look as though you've fallen into the Blackwater," Tommen groused as he ducked out from under Bran's arm. He wrinkled his nose and rubbed Bran's sweat from his neck.
"What were you arguing about?" Bran asked. He began walking towards the tents and gestured for Tommen to follow.
"Casterly Rock," Tommen said, for it wasn't a lie even if it wasn't the entire truth. "He likened me to grandfather. Said it was precisely what he would have done."
"Piss on that," Bran scoffed. "You're not like any of them."
Would that he wasn't. As a boy, Tommen had despaired that he was unlike any who shared the name Baratheon. He was not grim and practical like Stannis, who'd never had patience for Tommen and the animals he'd once collected. Nor was he a warrior like his father once had been, and neither did he find the same joy in hunting.
For a time he'd thought himself the most like Renly. He still did, in certain ways. But Tommen was no true Baratheon, and now, more than anything, Tommen feared he'd grow to be entirely too similar to his true family.
His grandfather in particular was not someone Tommen wished to emulate. Tommen had ever thought his grandfather cold at best and heedlessly ambitious and cruel at his worst, grasping for power not rightfully his.
Yet each night since he'd met with Aegon, Tommen's mind strayed to the Golden Gallery, the Hall of Heroes, the Great Hall, and he pictured himself wandering them as the Lord of Casterly Rock, not the mere boy of seven years he'd been when he last visited. None would dare call him a bastard, were he the Warden of the West. He would be respected, then. The Westerlands were ever loyal to Tywin. It would please them, for his grandfather's blood to remain their liege lord.
They reached Bran's tent, and both ducked through the flap. Bran shrugged out of his sweat-soaked shirt and rummaged through his chest for a clean one. He'd grown muscled, and hair dusted his chest and stomach. A new scar, still pink, spanned along his shoulder from a wound earned that horrible night in Riverrun, a wound which Tommen was pleased to note had continued to heal nicely. He lingered by the flaps of Bran's tent, noting how Bran had arranged his belongings this time around.
Bran's tent was of a modest size, larger than the other soldiers but far smaller than Aegon's or Robb's. The cot was placed in the middle and his trunk against the far left edge. On the right sat his armor and sword, neatly organized and ready for whenever Bran next needed them.
Standing from where he'd bent over the chest, Bran regarded Tommen with a smirk. He let his new shirt fall to the wayside and plopped onto the edge of his cot. Leaning back on his elbows, his smirk grew to a grin, lopsided and wolfish. "Have you already trained today?"
"I have," Tommen answered, eyeing Bran in askance. He had that look about him, that glint of mischief that rarely meant anything but trouble for Tommen.
"Then no one else will come looking for you," Bran decided, and Tommen grimaced. There it is, the mischief that would only spell trouble for Tommen.
"Yes, but they might come looking for you." Tommen found his feet carrying him closer to stand between Bran's spread knees. "You're a prince. Your brother's heir. They have plenty of reasons to come looking for you."
"But they won't," Bran said. He sat up and hooked his arms behind Tommen's legs, drawing him onto his lap. Tommen's hands landed on his shoulders and he blushed, as though this were the first time he'd found himself in such a position.
"What are you doing?" Tommen whispered. He peered over his shoulder towards the closed and tied flaps of the tent. "Someone could come in!"
"I already said, no one will come looking. And if they do, Summer is outside. He won't let anyone in."
"Bran," Tommen pleaded. The canvas of the tent would not stifle words spoken over a whisper, and Tommen had trouble placing as much faith in Summer as Bran did. He'd not been with Bran in this way since Maidenpool, where Bran had his own rooms with thick, stone walls and a door that locked.
"Tommen," Bran teased. He peered up at Tommen through thick lashes, and despite Tommen's misgivings he did not pull away when Bran kissed him. It was gentler than their first kiss had been. That one had been fueled by anger and shame and desire.
It was not gentle for long. Teeth sank into Tommen's bottom lip and he recoiled, scowling down at Bran's smirk. "You bit me!"
Bran's grinned and Tommen shoved him down to the bed, his previous fears of discovery forgotten as he braced himself over Bran. He still wore that stupid grin, but Tommen could not bring himself to care.
He'd heard some ladies at Riverrun call Bran handsome, but Tommen rather thought him pretty. Bran, with his dark lashes and the new scruff growing along his jaw, sharp blue eyes and dark auburn hair that fell in waves, Tommen imagined that all the ladies in Westeros would weep when he joined the Kingsguard.
Perhaps he should be glad that Bran would not wed, even if it meant he could not join him in Casterly Rock.
Tommen dipped down to kiss Bran, biting his lip just as he'd done. Bran's hands found their way beneath his shirt and the kiss grew fevered. He tasted of sweat and the mead he'd grown to favor, and Tommen's skin burned where Bran's nails bit into him.
Of all the things Tommen should not be doing, this was perhaps chief amongst them. He didn't think there would be anyone pleased to find him atop Bran, but there was no place for his guilt or worries now, with Bran kissing down his neck. That was for later at night, when he was alone in his tent as he recalled all the horrible things his mother had said about Renly. Such had been the case most nights since he first kissed Bran. He may as well make the guilt worth it.
Indeed, no one came looking for Bran or Tommen. He supposed that was one aspect of his new station worth appreciating. Seldom did anyone bother him for anything or order him about. It'd not been so back home, whether it was Tyrion or his mother demanding something or other. Now he could eat his dinners in peace if he did not join Alysanne and Sansa, or Bran, as he had that night.
His nights too, were largely undisturbed, save the specter of his mother that plagued him on occasion. That night, as he did every night, he read from a book he'd borrowed from Harrenhal's library. Though, perhaps borrowed was too generous a word. There'd been no maester to ask permission of, and so Tommen had simply taken it. He'd return it one day, after the war. Not that anyone was like to note its absence.
Eventually Tommen grew weary, and extinguished the candle to go to sleep. He did not know how long he'd been asleep when commotion elsewhere in the camp roused him. He dragged himself from his cot and redressed before poking his head out of his tent. Men made their way towards the center of the camp where torchlight glowed. His curiosity piqued, Tommen followed.
Torches lit the night, illuminating the Dornishmen in their colorful wool cloaks and the Northmen with their furs as they joined the Rivermen in crowding the clearing at the center of camp. Tommen spotted Edmure and Theon shouldering through to a space left in the middle. Tommen did the same, stopping at the edge beside a man he recognized from Riverrun.
Ser Daemon and Ser Rolly stood at the very center, a man held by his arms between them. Aegon Targaryen stood some feet away, his face stony and placid as he appraised the trio before him.
Beside Aegon stood Arya in the green dress she'd worn that day, hair loose about her shoulders. The Arya before him was a far cry from the wild girl he'd met in Winterfell, or even the girl he'd known in King's Landing. Not too far. The fury etched on her face, the defiant tilt of her chin, both were familiar to Tommen.
How many times had he heard his mother moan to Jaime of Lord Stark's wild daughter? What a joy it would be, to be present when his mother learned that it was wild Arya Stark who Aegon Targaryen married and made his queen. They made a handsome couple, Aegon and Arya.
Aegon's silver hair shone bright in the moonlight. His Valyrian heritage, at least, was beyond dispute. Tommen did not think it mattered overmuch if Aegon was truly the son of Rhaegar. The truth of a matter hardly counted for much, he'd come to learn. Aegon had the Targaryen look, the dragon, the sword Blackfyre, it gave him more legitimacy than Joffrey in the eyes of many.
Perhaps they were both bastards, Aegon and Tommen. The thought threatened to make him laugh aloud. His father would have been beyond fury; his children all illegitimate and a Targaryen vying for the throne once more. Tommen would not be entirely surprised should his father rise from the grave to exact the last of his vengeance.
"What is the meaning of this?" Robb asked. He emerged through the crowd with Alysanne behind him, and Grey Wind behind her. Robb's wolf joined its siblings in skulking about the edges of the crowd, only stopping when he found Lady Catelyn, who stood alongside Sansa.
"Ser Daemon found a spy," Aegon answered. He gestured to Ser Daemon and Ser Rolly, who forced the man to his knees. "He caught him attempting to enter my pavilion."
"You call him a spy, I say assassin," Arya spat. She glowered at the man and Nymeria prowled forward to sniff at him. Aegon bent down to whisper in Arya's ear and she scowled before calling Nymeria to her side.
A hand landed on Tommen's shoulder and Bran appeared at his side. "What's happened?" he asked, voice lowered.
"Daemon caught that man trying to get into Aegon's pavilion," Tommen pointed to the man held between Daemon and Rolly. Bran shook his head and dropped his hand from Tommen's shoulder.
Tommen could not see the man fully from where he stood, but even so he could tell the man was not poorly dressed. The man's cloak was muddied, but did not appear to be made of the roughspun wool so common amongst smallfolk, though one of his boots appeared to be tied around his leg with rope. Even his hair was neatly trimmed.
"Spy or assassin, it matters little," Jon said, stepping forward from where he'd stood with Princess Arianne and Prince Oberyn. He stopped before the man and unsheathed Dark Sister, using the point of it to tilt the man's head upward. "Who sent you?"
"The King, my lord. King Joffrey," the man said.
"And your name?" Jon used Dark Sister to nudge his cloak, eyeing the man's clothing. "That's fine wool you're wearing."
"He had a sword on him, my prince. Castle forged," Daemon said. He waved over a young boy who carried what must have been the man's sword, and Prince Oberyn stepped forward to meet him. He examined the sword for himself before taking it to Aegon.
The man remained silent all the while, refusing to meet Jon's eye. Jon sighed and re-sheathed Dark Sister, glancing back at Robb and Aegon.
"Alysanne, if Joffrey sent him would your father recognize him?" Jon asked. Alysanne broke from her spot beside Robb. Like Arya, she wore the dress she'd worn earlier, crimson to Arya's green, and her hair left loose.
"Hm. He might, though he has not been in King's Landing for some time." She paused and swept her eyes over the crowd. "Tommen," she called upon spotting him. To his despair, all eyes of the crowd turned to face him. "It hasn't been long since you left. Do you recognize him?"
Tommen strode forward and around to where Jon stood. He stared down at the man. A boy, really. He was more boy than man, younger than himself, Tommen reckoned. He had cropped ginger hair and spindly arms and legs, but nothing about his coltish appearance was familiar to Tommen. His clothing was nondescript, caked in mud and dirt save for a bit of color on his doublet, peeking out from beneath his cloak. Green, there were half a hundred houses throughout Westeros with green in their heraldry.
"I don't recognize him. I apologize, your grace," Tommen said.
Alysanne frowned. "That's quite alright. Thank you, Tommen."
She turned to Lewys Piper and bid him to wake Jaime. Tommen returned to where he'd previously stood beside Bran, ignoring the murmurs and suspicious glances cast his way. He might have lied and claimed he recognized the boy, there were those who distrusted him enough as it was. Oh well. Bran flashed him a sympathetic smile, which Tommen ignored.
Lewys Piper returned with Jaime, who did not recognize the boy either, claiming that the boy was "likely no more than a cutpurse who'd wasted his coin on fine clothes and steel," but his words did nothing to quell the growing disquiet.
The lords present were quick to raise the question of what should be done with the nameless boy. "Your dragon would make quick work of him," one of Oberyn's bastards said, to Aegon's displeasure.
"Let Nymeria have him. He'll tell us his name before long," Arya said, a hand curling around Aegon's arm. Lady Catelyn frowned at her daughter, who kept her eyes trained on the nameless man as though he would lunge forward and strike at Aegon.
Sword, noose, and battle-axe were all put forth, and Aegon waved each of them away. Tommen watched the boy all the while. He's no assassin. Even Joffrey would have the mind to send someone older, more discreet. As Jon said, it makes no difference. The men called for blood either way..
Silence fell over the crowd when Aegon held up a hand. "I've no need for his head, nor his name. He'll come with us to King's Landing. I intend to deliver Joffrey his spy personally. Mayhap then we'll learn his name. See that he's well secured tonight."
Discontent rumbled through the crowd. The closer they drew to King's Landing the more restless the men grew. Spy or assassin, Tommen suspected their desire to see the boy's blood spill was a matter of pride, rather than justice.
At the lack of blood spilled, the crowd retreated to their tents. Some men crept away slower than others, peering over their shoulders at those who remained.
Someone called Bran's name, and Tommen began to retreat himself before Alysanne descended on him. She caught his arm and stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I do not want you unguarded tonight. The men are angry, and many drunk, I imagine. I'll not have you harmed because a drunken fool sought to take his vengeance early."
"I don't think they'll harm me, Alysanne," Tommen said, trying to quell her worries. "They hardly pay me any mind as is."
It was not strictly the truth. Not a day went by without someone staring at him as he passed by, some word of his parentage muttered under their breath to whomever stood closest. Tommen knew it was the favor of both Robb and Aegon which shielded him from the worst of it.
"Tommen-" Alysanne started.
"I'll stay with him, Alysanne," Bran said, turning from where he'd been speaking to one of Robb's men. "Summer will sleep outside. No one will bother us then, and if they do he'll wake us."
Summer, lumbered towards them, huffing and sniffing at the air. Golden eyes flicked to Tommen, and he shifted uneasily. He didn't think he'd ever feel at ease around any of the wolves, and Summer wasn't even the largest of them. Tommen thought of the late Lord Umber's missing fingers. As frightening as they were, Tommen was glad to walk amongst them, rather than face any one of them as an enemy.
"Are you certain? I wouldn't wish to trouble you," Alysanne said. Her hand fell from Tommen's arm and she stepped back with a hesitant smile for Bran.
"Tis no trouble. Tommen and I get on famously, don't we?" Bran clapped Tommen's shoulder with a bright grin.
Alysanne clasped Bran's hand in her own with a grateful smile. "My thanks, Bran," she said before gliding away. She stopped a moment to speak with Arya before continuing on to Jaime. Jaime scowled and Alysanne lifted her chin, no doubt insisting he have a guard the same as she had Tommen.
"Come now," Bran clapped his shoulder again. He tossed his head to shake his hair from his eyes, his grin once again entirely too smug for Tommen's liking. "It's late, and we've an early march tomorrow. You wouldn't want to be tired come morning."
"Yes, a pity that would be," Tommen grumbled, knowing without a doubt that be tired come morn.
Without waiting for Tommen, Bran started for his tent. He did not look back to ensure Tommen followed, merely assuming that he would. Tommen did follow, of course, as he always did, and always would.