Sorry for the prolonged delay, combination of writer's block, work and school left little time to write.
Disclaimer this is an alternate version of Game of Thrones season 6 and onward, with some facts more in tune with the books. Also includes house Forrester. I do not own the characters (except any original characters), that privilege belongs to the talented G. R. R. Martin. This is for entertainment purposes only.
The White Wedding
Winterfell
A strong northern gale howled against the stone walls and rattled the glass windows in the great hall. Draped in her fur cloak, Sansa welcomed the distraction, as she sat at the high table reading numerous letters and petitions from their numerous bannerman. While the Lady of Winterfell took the matter of organizing the North and strengthening her family's position seriously, the sheer number of petty issues brought before her were tiresome. The last letter came from lord Harwood Stout of Goldgrass, imploring them to reconsider the appointment of Nestor Royce as steward of the Barrowlands.
Apparently, the petty lord of Goldgrass believed that such a position would be more appropriate for a house that came from the region, regardless of the fact, that his house had never governed more than a hamlet in their entire history. During her days as a hostage in King's Landing, Sansa had seen flattery and favoritism bestow greater responsibilities on those unworthy of their stations. She would not make that mistake, and neither would Jon… at least that's what she hoped.
. It was a foolish fear, especially knowing that her brother valued skill, courage, and honor above all else, but it still lingered in the corner of her mind. Sansa began to frown at the thought of recent events and the instigator of them all, Littlefinger. The conniving moneylender had shocked the entire court with his proposal, practically forced their hand in the matter, and to make matters worse Jon had agreed to it.
She remembered how she accused him of forgetting everything Baelish had done, both to her and those around them. Selling her to the Boltons, murdering her aunt and ser Dontos when they were no longer of use to him, and taking part in Joffrey's assassination. Those were only the things she knew of for certain. The daughter of Catelyn and Ned Stark could only imagine how many more bodies lay at Littlefinger's feet. To agree with any proposal that originated from such a man was both reckless and foolish.
But perhaps what infuriated her the most was not knowing why Baelish made this proposal in the first place. If anything, this put the Iron Throne further out of his reach. Not only would it consolidate the Northern Realm as an independent kingdom, but should Jon sire a child with Mya Stone, their child would have the greatest claim to all Seven Kingdoms in the eyes of the lords of Westeros. Sansa's thoughts lingered on Robert Baratheon's daughter, attempting to understand what role she played in this tangled web. Having met her during the ascent to the Eyrie, Sansa had thought her to be a charming, unthreatening girl… but then again, that sounded very much like those in service to Baelish.
'Is she an unknowing pawn,' the auburn-haired Stark asked as she closed her tired eyes and leaned back into her seat, '…or one of Baelish's agents?'
An all too familiar voice practically whispered in her ear, 'Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The greatest is between your legs.' As Cersei Lannister's words echoed within her mind, Sansa wondered if it was as simple as that or if there was more to it.
Was she chosen to tempt Jon so that he would give heed to Baelish's words? Had she been threatened into compliance, or bought; either with gold or the promise of being a queen? There were too many unknowns in this matter, too many unanswered questions. It was maddening.
Sansa realized she had been too caught up in her own victories to see that Littlefinger held the high ground in this battle. She had learned a great deal about the game from him and those in the southern capital, but she was barely more than a novice facing off against a master. But she could not falter, not with what's at stake; the lives of her brother, uncle, Brienne, and the North itself. Measures would have to be taken.
Upon their return to Winterfell, Mya would have to be watched, both for her safety and theirs. This would require certain individuals to be placed around the future queen. Individuals like Myranda Royce, lord Nestor's daughter, who would be attending the wedding on behalf of her house. Sansa met her once under the guise of Alayne Stone and was told she was dangerous by Littlefinger himself. Not only was she already friends with Mya Stone, but a clever courier who might compel the young woman to reveal something of note regarding Baelish, if she was aware of anything.
The Lady of Winterfell imagined it wouldn't be hard to convince her to be of service in Winterfell instead of overseeing her father's new household. As a lady-in-waiting, Myranda Royce would have influence in the court and help consolidate her family as northern landholders. This would satisfy her father too no end, who had already fashioned a new sigil for the cadet house. Unless she was mistaken, lord Nestor had combined house Dustin's sigil with his own, a black portcullis over a white crescent moon, on a purple field, all bordered in ancient bronze runes.
The inclusion of the crossed long axes and black crown of house Dustin was meant to project the same authority, that the now extinct house held for centuries to the Barrowlands new masters. While it did have this effect on the smallfolk, it had inadvertently insulted some of the minor lords of the region, such as lord Stout. Having a member of his family in the direct service of the royal court would silence any opposition to lord Nestor's appointment as their liege lord.
"But he'll expect something like that," Sansa muttered aloud, thinking how obvious her plan would be for Littlefinger. No doubt he would learn of it before word even reached Myranda Royce, thanks to his network of spies. Even though this network had been greatly diminished upon leaving the south, those still in his service were far more adept at deception then the fledgling group the eldest Stark girl was assembling. Consisting of household servants, pages, a few whores from Winter Town (who were utterly shocked to have spoken with a high-born lady), and a wildling girl.
The girl's name was Merrill. Hailing from a small camp near Hardhome, she and the rest of her family had abandoned their frozen homeland in favor of the promise of safety her brother Jon (whom they still called King Crow) had offered. The girl herself was barely twelve, thin, with a mess of brown hair and was very light-footed. She and her mother left the Gift some weeks ago to tend to her injured father, who was still recovering from a broken leg he received during the Battle of Bastards. Upon seeing Winterfell, Merrill had taken an immediate liking to the castle and made it her endeavor to explore every nook and cranny of the ancient keep.
That was how they met, with the girl running away from the guards, laughing all the while. Merrill would have escaped if she hadn't collided into her at the turn in the hallway. Though initially shocked by the occurrence, Sansa had taken it in good humor. She even bayed the guards to leave them to speak alone. It didn't take Lady of Winterfell long to see that this girl was stubborn, mischievous, and unable to stay in one spot for more than a minute. Much like her little sister Arya.
Sansa thought bitterly on how she treated her sister all those years ago, how she hadn't appreciated Arya's wild nature or common sense. Her sister certainly had more sense than she did when it came to Joffrey. The elder sister swore to herself that if they ever met again that they would begin anew, that all those petty squabbles would be forgotten, and that they would look after each other just as their father and mother wanted. As the young auburn-haired woman looked out towards the clouded sky, she could only hope that Arya was still out there somewhere.
Unfortunately, her wishful thoughts and desires wouldn't finish these absurd letters. The first was from lady Eddara Tallhart, detailing that her household has stored a third of their grain and intended to send the allotted amount to Winterfell in the coming weeks. She also suggested that her young cousin Beren Tallhart would do well if taken in as their ward. Under the guidance of the King in the North, the fatherless lad would become a valiant knight and staunch bannerman to the Starks. It was something to consider, especially since lady Eddara's father, Ser Helmen, died in service to her brother Robb.
The second letter however, suggested a more permanent means of strengthening the bonds with house Umber. Lord Hjalmar Umber, Greatjon Umber's second son, believed that he would make an excellent match for her, and assured that he along with his men, would fight till the last drop of their blood to defend her honor and house. The persistent lord also stated that such a beautiful, young woman deserved a husband that would make her laugh, keep her… warm at night (for lack of a better phrase), and give her many strong sons.
After blushing briefly at the Umber's rather direct turn of phrase, which wasn't that surprising considering the nature of the entire family, Sansa considered her choices carefully. She knew that this was inevitable, many suitors would pursue her now that she was a widow, a grateful one to be sure, and still very young. While the Lady of Winterfell still had reservations about marrying again, as a result from what she endured with Ramsay, she couldn't outright decline every offer, not without alienating some of their bannermen.
'No doubt Littlefinger will somehow get involved as well,' Sansa thought to herself, exasperated with the ever-mounting challenges she faced. 'But perhaps, I can manage this development on my terms.'
For the time being she could feign interest without accepting or declining the offer along with any others that came forward. It wasn't an uncommon practice for a young widow or unpromised lady to have more than one suitor. If handled properly her suitors would seek to win her favor with deeds that proved their valor and loyalty. Sansa then realized how much she sounded like Cersei.
While the eldest Stark girl hadn't sunken to her level, she wasn't the innocent girl trapped in the capital anymore. Here she was, planning to manipulate her fellow Northerners for her own interests. Unfortunately, the days of living innocently are long gone, with no promise of ever returning. The only thing that mattered now was their survival and there were times ahead of them where they couldn't afford higher morals.
"Now if only there was a way to establish a better network of agents. One whose loyalty cannot be bought, and capable of standing against Baelish, or at the very least hinder him."
The doors at the opposite end of the great hall opened, revealing her sworn shield Brienne. At first, the woman warrior appeared the same as always, but as she approached Sansa noticed she had a small cut at the corner of her lip and slight bruising on her cheek. Clearly, she had a minor altercation with someone, but having witness Brienne in combat she had only one question. Who could possibly come to trade blows with her?
"What happened?" Sansa asked earnestly, almost oblivious to the letter that Brienne handed her.
At first Brienne was hesitant to answer, her expression was like that of a young girl who was caught kissing a boy. "M-My lady, it's nothing. Just a token from the training yard." This, however, did not satisfy the curiosity of the Lady of Winterfell.
"You've spent many hours in the training yard with Podrick and various others, yet none of them have ever come close to leaving a mark on you." As Brienne shifted nervously, her plate armor creaked loudly filling the silence. "Who did you face today?"
Despite her reservations to say the name, the sworn shield of the Stark girls could see there was no point in lying or delaying any further. "The wildling Tormund, my lady." she said, clearly and to the point, as was her way. However, there was a hint of embarrassment in her eyes as she met Sansa's.
Although she was initially surprised by this revelation, the Stark girl had noticed Tormund looming around Brienne as of late. Her brother had once told her that the Free Folk liked their woman to be strong and fierce. So naturally the Wildling chieftain would take an interest in Brienne, who was certainly unaccustomed to such attention and expressed her misgivings about the man on many occasions.
"And how did this start?"
"My lady," started the lady of Tarth, looking more flustered with every word. "For weeks now, the wildling has been skulking after me, always starring, always making some insinuating remark. I had enough, so I thought to challenge him in a sparring match, believing that like all the others he'd leave me alone once I knocked him down. Nothing shame's a man like being knocked down by a woman. But once the match began, he gave all he had to win."
"And did he win?" asked Sansa, curious if this was what embarrassed Brienne so dearly. She had yet to see the female knight lose a fight either in the training yard or on the field. But she also heard similar tales regarding her brother's friend. Both fierce and unpredictable in a fight, Tormund certainly seemed a force to be reckoned with.
Brienne's answer cut her musings short. "No, my lady, I did." Despite the admission of victory, Brienne didn't show any satisfaction with the deed. The sworn shield continued her tale. "He overreached himself, leaving him open to a blow across the face, and by the time he knew what happened he was on the ground with my sword at his chest. I expected him to shout, curse and sulk into his cup. Instead, he laughed, blood gushing from his nose and he laughed!" Judging from the scowl on Brienne's face there was more to tell.
"He then said I was a fine woman and that only his late wife had ever struck him so passionately. He then offered … as if I would ever… I swear my lady, I do not understand why his grace allowed him to remain in the keep. The other Wildling leaders have already returned to the Gift to aid in the defense of the Wall."
"Some of his followers are still recovering from the Battle of the Bastards," Sansa pointed out. Whatever else he was, Tormund Giantsbane was a leader that cared about those who followed him. Brienne, however, was not concerned with that and had no interest to discuss this matter any further. She then addressed that the letter was from her uncle ser Brynden, who had been sent to Moat Cailin to prepare for the incursion south.
Taking the missive in hand and breaking the wax seal, Sansa read it intently. As she read the words, she became quite intrigued by her uncle's report and how he intended to bring the matter before her personally as fast as their horses could carry them.
White Harbor
"Make way!" cried the standard-bearer riding ahead of the column. "Make way for the king!" As Jon rode through the northern gate of the North's largest and only city, the assembly of White Harbor's residents bowed their heads and went to their knees. Looking out at the crowd, the White Wolf was reminded of King Robert Baratheon's visit to Winterfell. He remembered how anxious his brothers and sisters were to the legendary Stag King, and If truth be told, he had been as well. To meet his father's brother-in-arms, whom he had heard so many heroic stories about, it was any young lad dream.
He had expected a formidable warrior clad in full plated armor with an antlered helm upon his head. Only to be disappointed with the old, fat, red-faced, man that came before them. At the time, the former bastard thought ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, looked more like a king than his father's long-time friend. But Robert was king, therefore afforded the respect that the title bestowed. He could only imagine what the Baratheon king's daughter would make of him… or him of her.
Even though he kept the stoic expression he had learned from his father, Jon felt more anxious with every step he took towards New Castle, where she awaited. It was strange, he had faced the savage warriors of the Free Folk, the likes of Ramsay Bolton, and the endless horde of the undead, yet the White Wolf had never felt this way before, had never experienced this kind of fear. As a brother of the Night's Watch, he had made peace with the likelihood of his death in battle but sharing the rest of his life with someone was something else entirely.
It was during his time with Ygritte that Jon learned the true meaning of love, but that love was cruelly fated to end tragically by the Old Gods. From the beginning, part of him knew it would end in sorrow and pain for them both, with his loyalty to the Watch and hers to Mance Rayder, yet he fell all the same. But what awaited him, and Mya was a complete mystery; a lifetime of bitterness and resentment, impassionate duty… a family of his own.
Perhaps that's what scared him the most, the prospect of a family. He had never considered children in his future. As a bastard with his heart set on joining the Night's Watch, the White Wolf felt that he was unsuited for the role of a father. His experience with Olly was proof enough, after the farm boy arrived at Castle Black, Jon had taken him under his wing. He tried to pass on the same lessons of honor, duty, and courage that Jeor Mormont and his father taught him. But in the end, Olly sided with ser Alliser and the other mutineers in murdering him. The boy that Jon saw as a little brother, had stabbed him in the heart, and in return he had him hanged.
But as King in the North, Jon was faced with a new reality, one where he was expected to sire an heir to the Northern Realm and carry on the Stark name. Only this time, any failure to guide said child, would have dire consequences… not just for him, but for all his people. When he was a small boy, he had asked his father what it was like to be a lord. What his father told him would remain with him till the end of his days.
'Being a lord is like being a father,' the honorable Warden of the North solemnly replied. 'Except you have thousands of children and you worry for them all. The farmer's plowing the fields are yours to protect, the servants scrubbing the floors are yours to protect, and the soldier's you order into battle… There are times I awake with fear in the morning and go to bed with it at night.'
When he asked how a man could be brave if he was afraid, his father told the same thing he had told Robb, that it was the only time a man can be brave. As the thought of his father took hold, the King in the North felt an all too familiar pang of grief and sorrow. Although the pain of his father's murder had lessoned over the years, it was still present, and he doubted that it would ever fully leave him. The young king wished he were still alive, that he could tell him if was doing the right thing, both for him and his people.
As the procession rode further into the port city, it suddenly dawned on him that his father had been faced with the same decision during Robert's Rebellion. In exchange for his support for the rebel cause, Hoster Tully had requested the new Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North to marry his eldest daughter. Lady Catelyn, the woman who had been betrothed to his father's elder brother Brandon. Although their marriage had been a contract made in a time of war, they came to love each other and built a home for their family.
The irony of his musings almost made the White Wolf smile. Here he was admiring the bond his father shared with a woman that hated him since the moment she first set eyes on him. The living reminder how the honorable Ned Stark fathered a bastard off some nameless woman. For the first time in years, Jon was left wondering about his mother, who she was, if she was alive, or whether she ever cared about him. Was he a burden she was glad to be rid of or her beloved child that she gave up so he might have a better life?
The young king remembered his father's last words to him, promising that the next time they saw each other they would talk about his mother, but it seemed the Gods had decided to keep that secret from him, with his father's death, there was no one left to tell him the truth. All he had now was the gossip of kitchen maids and other servants, speaking of a camp following whore in the Riverlands, a nursemaid in Dorne, or some fisherman's daughter. Whatever the story, and wherever she came from, the only notion he felt certain about was that his mother was dead.
'If she were alive, I wonder what she would make of all this,' he wondered. Would she be proud of the anointed king she had unknowingly bore, or would she pity him for his burden? But such musings would have to wait, as they worked their way through the cobbled streets of whitewashed stone houses, the infamous Wolf's Den came into sight.
Both impressed and slightly daunted by the ancient stronghold, Jon was reminded of his history lessons with maester Luwin. This fortress had been raised by his ancestors to fend of pirate reavers and prevent passage through the White Knife. In the thousand years it stood the keep had been taken, besieged, and burned (in some cases by the ancestors of the Valemen riding in his company). But now the men of the North and the Vale were united under one king while the Wolf's Den now served as a prison under the watchful eyes of White Harbor's lord and master.
Drawing near the imposing keep, the King in the North noticed that some segments of its outer wall was crumbling away, while still defensible the fortress had lost its splendor of old. Given how house Manderly had expanded the defenses of the White Knife with stronger walls, a personal fleet of war galleys, and a reinforced ringfort on Seal Rock, the maintenance of the former keep became a secondary concern. It reminded him of the lesser castles along the Wall, and much like them he expected to have greater need of the Den in the coming war.
Reaching the Castle Stairs, Jon and his inner circle began their ascent, passing many stone merman holding lit braziers. The scent of burning whale oil filled the air as they climbed higher up the stairs. With Yohn Royce and Davos at his side Jon felt a growing knot in his stomach as they approached New Castle and his soon-to-be queen. Taking hold of his nerves the young king reminded himself that he couldn't turn back, he had to see this through to the end
Upon reaching the final step, the king and party were heartily welcomed by lord Manderly, his family, and the rest of his household, all of whom knelt before their lord and liege. Among those present were Wylis Manderly, who despite his rotund appearance looked frail and dispirited. No doubt the ordeals the heir to White Harbor had endured lingered in his heart and mind. The Lannisters and Freys weren't known for treating their prisoners, highborn or low, well not even in times of peace. Gently supporting Wylis, was his wife and eldest daughter, Leona and Wynafryd Manderly, the latter being a sharp contrast to her parents, both slender and fair to the eyes.
It was then Jon noticed the outspoken Wylla Manderly, whose hair was dyed a garish green and done in a long braid, standing further back in the crowd. Attending a dark haired, dressed in black and gold, with deep blue eyes… eyes he had only seen once before many years ago at Winterfell.
"Mya Stone,' Ned Stark's sonthought as his throat began to dry with anxiousness. As he looked upon her, the young king saw the obvious Baratheon traits that her father had passed onto her. Coal black hair cropped short and blue eyes, not the cold lifeless blue eyes he had seen in the White Walkers and their undead followers, nor the cruel, deranged eyes of Ramsay Snow. Her eyes were fierce, intelligent, and large, much like a bird of prey's. Aside from these common traits the fellow bastard saw little of Robert in his daughter. She was tall and pretty, perhaps not the delicate beauty of highborn ladies, but her looks certainly would have caught the eyes of others. Neither was she as wild and untamed as Ygritte, she was somewhere in-between.
Their eyes met in that moment, and what he saw in hers reminded Jon of the challenge that lay before him. While her gaze was unwavering, it was also ucurious, not hateful, but guarded. Clearly, she wasn't sure what to make of him, this wasn't the fanciful meeting of lovers from the stories his sister used to sing about. No, he would have to earn her respect, and perhaps one day her affection. The King in the North could only hope he could achieve and reciprocate such a feat. His sullen thoughts were interrupted by their ever-eager host, the Warden of the White Knife.
"Your Grace," greeted lord Manderly, bowing his head. "The city of White Harbor is honored by your presence. New Castle and all who dwell within its walls are yours to command." The rotund lord gestured for his family and the only contending heir to house Baratheon to come forward and present themselves before their king. Lord Manderly's granddaughters approached first, their graceful courtesies reflected years of close study and practice, to their mother's beaming approval.
When lady Leona and her husband approached, his arm firmly tucked within her own for support, Jon thanked the knight for his faithful service to his brother during the War of Five Kings and stated that he and the rest of his family would always be welcomed friends in Winterfell. The frail lord thanked him in such a hoarse whisper he barely heard him, leaving his lady wife to offer thanks in his stead.
Last to approach was Mya Stone. after a gentle nudge from her mother, who stood at the front of the household servants. As she gave her courtesy, the anxious king noticed that her bow was slightly more rigid, like she was mentally going over what she had learned in such a short amount of time. While more than acceptable in his eyes, it reaffirmed the girl had grown up among the smallfolk, where an earnest handshake was all the courtesy one needed. In all honesty, he preferred such simplicity to all the complexities of courtly conduct. Yet, such traditions still had great value to the noble houses of Westeros, especially in the North.
"Your Grace," stated the young woman, her tone was mostly calm with only a hint of uncertainty as her gaze fixated on his boots. "It is an honor to meet you. The Merman's Hall echoes with tales of your courage and skill at arms during the battle with the false Wardens of the North. I-I'm told my father always sought a union between his line and that of house Stark. I… I hope our marriage will bring joy and contentment for the realm."
'And for us as well, he thought. Even though he was anxious, probably just as anxious as her, the young king kept his composure, thinking of the best way to lay some of her worries to rest.
"My lady," he began slowly, but gained more confidence with each word. "It is my greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope that yours and your mother's stay in White Harbor has been comfortable and uplifting, especially after such a long journey by sea. I know just how daunting it can be to leave the only home one has ever know for the first time." Hardly the makings of great poetry, it was earnest, showing that he was concerned for her wellbeing.
At first it seemed she didn't know what to make of it. She probably expected to be lavished with compliments about her beauty, as if that was all he had to do to win her over. The girl from the Vale soon found her tongue. "Your Grace is kind to ask after my wellbeing and that of my mother. White Harbor, its honorable lord and his family have been most kind and generous hosts. I never dared to dream of receiving such a welcome nor such fine hospitality from house Manderly. Lady Wynafryd has been both a great guide and friend since our arrival earlier this week."
At mention of her name the eldest granddaughter of lord Manderly inclined her head and gave thanks for the kind praise. "Lady Mya is too kind, your grace. It has been an honor to make her acquaintance. It seems the Seven have shown their favor for the Northern Realm with this union. Your grace would prove wise to listen to them and recognize her strengths… even if she doubts them herself."
Despite having just met lady Wynafryd, Jon felt her words were said with utter sincerity. It seemed these words weren't coming from an ambitious noblewoman hoping to foster stronger ties to the royal family, but that of a friend. He would have considered it strange for such a friendship to come about after such a short time if she wasn't Robert Baratheon's daughter. Recalling his father's stories about the Stag King's ability to inspire and lead hosts of men, in some cases enemies turned ally under their own fallen banners, it wasn't unimaginable for his daughter to inherit his charisma.
Before anything could be said, a gust from the icy coast whipped through the air, compelling their host to invite them all inside where they would find a warm hearth, good food, and rest from their long journey. Walking beside lady Mya, Jon noticed that the newly legitimized heir to house Baratheon looked uncomfortable being surrounded by so many lords and ladies. In fact, the only presence she seemed to find reassurance in was lady Wynafryd and her own mother. Thinking back to what the eldest grandchild of lord Manderly had said, to be able to win the friendship and support of a northerner in such a short time spoke of Mya's character.
Which was something he wanted to learn more of, to see who she truly was and to show her who he was. The only way that was going to happen is if they were alone, away from the eyes and ears of the royal court, so that they can be completely honest with each other. However, it would have to be handled delicately, he had already forced her hand with the marriage and any hasty push forward might only alienate her further. Trust let alone affection required time, something neither one of had much of, since in three days' time they would take their vows in the Sept of Snow.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mya stealing a glance at him. Perhaps she was curious about what was troubling him or perhaps she was merely trying to figure out what kind of man he was. Whatever the case she averted her gaze the moment she realized he had noticed her. From the slight flush in her cheeks, she girl felt embarrassed at being caught in the act. Hoping to build a better repour with his betrothed, he tried to think of something to say, yet only one thing came to mind.
"My lady," the King in the North said addressing her gently so that only she could hear, "I know you did not ask for any of this, and that you have cause to resent me, but whatever else I'm sorry. I am sorry for all the wrongs I've done you. I promise that you needn't ever fear me and that I will do all that I can to make you feel welcome here in the North."
Meeting his eyes and biting the corner of her lip before she replied, her voice expressing a hopeful yet unconvinced tone. "I want to believe that what you're saying is the truth ,for both our sakes. But I've learned firsthand that words are wind for some knights and great lords. My trust has to be earned even by you."
[Three days later at Dusk]
Letting out a gasp as one of the laces to her dress was unnecessarily tightened along her waist, Mya turned her head to find one of lady Wynefryd's handmaids quick at work preparing her for this historic evening. One that marked the beginning of an unforeseeable era for the Seven Kingdoms, and for her as well. It was her wedding. For most women, this would be the happiest night of their lives, but all Mya felt was anxiety. Her worries lingered on what the future had in store for her as the "Queen in the North."
Even now as they made the final adjustments to her white wedding dress, she could hardly believe that by nightfall she would be married… to a man she had just met three days ago. This was hardly the most ideal foundation for any marriage. If that wasn't enough, her role as queen was still a shrouded mystery to her. Would she just be a companion, meant to stand at the White Wolf's side or would she have actual responsibilities? At first, she wasn't sure which notion was more terrifying, but as she weighed them in her mind, the more she disliked the former. The mountain's daughter had inherited her father's wild spirit, or so she was told by her mother.
She certainly wasn't the quiet and obedient kind of lass. Nor did she have any intention of changing that. The growing confidence In her heart was tested when a familiar fear crept its way into her mind. She still knew nothing about being a queen, commanding men, maintaining a household, or settling disputes between squabbling lords. Considering her humble beginnings, it was a miracle she knew how to read and write. A gift attributed to her friendship with Miranda Royce, lord Nestor's only daughter.
Mya nearly smiled as she remembered how Miranda had insisted that she attend her lessons with maester Ronald when they were just children. At the time, the baseborn girl thought lord Nestor had simply conceded to his daughter's wishes, Miranda certainly had a way of getting what she wanted from her father. However, when the young lass truly understood who her father was she suspected that the acting Steward of the Vale had hoped to win Robert's favor by showing how he cared for the king's firstborn child.
But when her father made it clear that he'd forgotten about her, she found herself tending to the stables, not that she cared, idle gossip and needlework was lost on her. But now, much to her dismay she was surrounded by it, surrounded by those who wanted to use her. There were only a handful of people she believed could be trusted, her mother, Miranda, Wynafryd, lord Yohn Royce and a few members of the common household. The only person in New Castle she was still unsure of, was the King in the North himself. Her future husband was as much a mystery to her as the Old Gods he worshipped.
"There m'lady," said one of the handmaids, interrupting Mya's musings. "you look beautiful."
Starring at the mirror, the mountain's daughter marveled at her appearance. The dress matched the pure snow that had gathered outside her window. The white fox fur nestled against her neck, and embroidered leaves that trailed down her bodice. Obviously, a great deal of and effort was put into her dress and considering how little time they had to fashion it was even more impressive. For a moment Mya couldn't begin to express how beautiful it all was, and when she did all she could only say two words.
"It's breathtaking."
"Aye, m'lady it is, and if I may be so bold his grace will be entranced when he sets his eyes on you."
'Will he?' wondered the bastard girl from the Vale. While all their conversations so far were civil, the northern king seemed distant and reserved. He was certainly handsome, even with the scar… perhaps more so because of it. But Mychel was handsome too, and often boastful about his skill at arms, his honor as a knight and how his word was his bond. She had learned the hard way that the latter claims were just words. His grace, on the other hand, was quiet, a bit grim… broody perhaps. Quite the contrast from her former lover, and many other soldier's she had met over the years.
Those knights and men-at-arms would gladly talk all day about their deeds on the battlefield and in tourneys, but she doubted that this 'White Wolf.' would utter a single word about what he faced during the Battle of the Bastards, or his time in the Night's Watch. She also remembered his apology and his promise, she remembered the uneasiness of his voice as he spoke the words. She was sorely tempted to believe them, she told him as much, but she also reminded him that her trust was something he would have to earn.
To his credit, the king had taken her words rather well, no flash of anger in his eyes, no look of hurt pride, only understanding. She believed it was a step down the right path towards understanding one another. How he behaved tonight would help determine many things about her betrothed. Especially when it came time for… for the bedding ceremony. The dreaded highborn tradition of being carried off to their bedchamber and being stripped of her clothes along the way. As if being married to a stranger wasn't bad enough, the chance of being paraded naked throughout the castle was enough to fill her with dread.
A gentle knock on the door brought Mya back to reality. One of her handmaids opened the oak-fashioned door, revealing the grey-bearded ser Davos Seaworth, She hadn't the chance to speak to the former advisor to her estranged uncle. Not only about the kin she never met, but how a southern knight had come into the service of a northerner, and a former bastard at that.
From what she knew of him, ser Davos was a reformed smuggler who came into the service of her uncle Stannis Baratheon after her father won the Iron Throne. The Onion Knight, Mychel called him, laughing as if it were the funniest jest imaginable. Unlike 'proper' knights who earned their station by committing valiant deeds in battle, the smuggler bought his with a crate of onions.
At the time she laughed as well, but now she gave the story more thought. On one hand he was a smuggler who flaunted the king's law for years, and on the other he risked his life and freedom to bring supplies to a starving garrison of men he didn't even know. If such an act wasn't deserving of recognition, she didn't know what was.
"M'lady," the aged knight said, bowing his head respectfully. "Beggin' your pardon for intruding, I've been asked to be your escort for tonight's ceremony at the Sept of Snow."
Mya stood surprised for a moment, she had expected her handmaids, perhaps her mother, the last of her known family, to escort her to the ceremony. "At the king's request?"
"No m'lady, the presiding septon insisted that it would be more befitting of a royal union, if a member of your family's household were to give you away tonight." A half smiled graced the corner of the knight's lips. Apparently, he found something amusing about the idea. "It seems it doesn't matter what gods they follow, priests are unyielding when it comes to formalities., even if it means overlooking a lowborn smuggler presenting their future queen before the realm."
A small chuckle escaped her throat, before she added on to ser Davos' jest. "As well as the fact that their queen was born a bastard and spent most of her youth tending to pack mules. How blessed they must feel?"
"Indeed," laughed the onion knight, "those that follow the faith condemn bastards, now they find themselves swearing fealty to them. It seems life enjoys its ironies." Mya was starting to like this seafaring knight, he seemed far more modest than the knights of her homeland. As High as Honor, the words of house Arryn, expressing how they held honor above all else. The rest of the Vale did so as well, but that belief also bred arrogance as she learned at a very young age. The stigma of being lowborn or baseborn was rampant.
This moment of levity wouldn't last however, for the knight's presence meant that it was time to begin. Taking a deep breath, the anxious bride strode towards the door with all the confidence she could muster, taking ser Davos' right arm and made their way through the keep. At first, they walked silently, the only sound that could be heard was the slight creaking from the lantern in Davos' left hand, but as soon as they stepped outside the onion knight broke the silence.
"You have the Baratheon eyes m'lady." This caused Mya to give him a knowing smile, her mother and various nobles had told her as much her entire life. But it was what he said next that caught her by surprise. "They remind me of your cousin Shireen."
Hearing the sorrow in his voice at the mention of her cousin, she was reminded that word from the North spoke of her death, as well as her father and mother. As Mya looked upon the onion knight's face, she saw the welling of tears in his eyes. Clearly her cousin had been dear to this man. 'Her cousin, she thought, a girl of twelve, taken before she could truly experience life. The mountain's daughter felt a pang of sorrow for never having the chance to meet her.
"What was she like?"
A bittersweet smile graced the gray-bearded seafarer's face, no doubt recalling all the fond and painful memories he had of her cousin. "She was a shy thing at first, being touched by greyscale made her something of an oddity for the few other children on Dragonstone. But beneath that shy exterior was an intelligent girl who was relentless in pursuit of whatever she set her mind to, such as teaching an old smuggler how to read. The same relentless nature her father had but tempered with a gentleness that wasn't to be found in either of her parents."
Mya bit the corner of her lips before asking her next question. "Then my uncle was the cold-hearted man that people spoke of?" Whenever mention of her uncle reached her ear, (which was seldom at best) it was snide remarks about how different he was from her father.
"King Stannis was a hard man, but a just one. He put more merit on skill and talent than privilege and titles. His stern and unyielding manner often put him at odds with the great houses of Westeros, even those most loyal to him. Hmm… Salladhor Saan, a somewhat disreputable friend of mine, often questioned my sanity over my devotion to your uncle, especially since he personally cut off the fingertips of my hand."
The future queen's eyes trailed down the armed intwined with her own until they found the gloved hand. It was only then that she noticed the glove's fingers had been sown shut at the first joint. "Your punishment for smuggling stolen goods? I'd have thought that your actions at Storm's End would- "
"Would have made your uncle overlook my past?" laughed the onion knight, as they walked out the front gate and began their descent down the Castle Stairs, where ser Marlon Manderly awaited with his men. "That was not Stannis' way. He once told me 'a good act does not wash out the bad, nor the bad the good.' With one clean stroke he made me a knight in his personal service and raised my family from the gutters of Gin Alley."
"Your still loyal to his memory." It was more of a statement than a question, as it was plain for all to see that the Onion Knight had been proud to serve her father's younger brother.
"Aye," replied ser Davos clearing his throat, looking somewhat troubled. "I've been to many places m'lady and seen many things, but never justice, not until I met your uncle. His respect and faith were gifts he rarely bestowed on anyone, but those he did were truly deserving of it."
"Like you," the mountain's daughter said with a gentle smile, believing the knight to modest to say so aloud.
"And his grace."
Mya turned her head towards ser Davos and amidst the light snow falling around them she wondered if her worries were so plain to see. But before she could ask, they reached the bottom of the stairs, with the stone Seven illuminated by the moonlight ahead of them. A small assembly of the city's inhabitants had gathered alongside the streets leading to the sept. As they walked past, the commoners bowed their heads and gently addressed her as "your grace,' which was troubling for her to hear.
However, a slight tug on the back of the bride's skirt interrupted her worries, when she turned around, she saw a small girl, no older that nine, looking up at her. At first both the guards and the girl's parents bayed her to step aside, but without a second thought Mya knelt and smiled at the child.
"Hello there, is there something you'd like to tell me?" The girl shook her head exasperatedly, either too nervous or too excited to speak. But before the mountain's daughter could say anything else, the girl extended her hand and presented a flower, a blue flower. It was unlike anything she had ever seen before; it resembled a southern rose except it was as pale as frost.
In a small voice, the girl finally spoke up, "A winter rose for the queen."
"What is your name?" She asked taking the rose in hand.
"Mildred, your grace."
"Thank you, Mildred, I've never seen such a beautiful flower before in my life. I will tressure your kind gift for as long as it blooms." Without warning the little girl flung her arms around Mya, much to her parent's dismay. Undoubtedly, such an impulsive act would have been seen as improper by nobles, but Mya did not care, it was a sweet act from a sweet child, one that she returned earnestly. Once they parted ways and resumed their pace the mountain's daughter turned her attention back to the winter rose in hand.
The Onion Knight must have noticed her curious gaze, answering her unspoken question. "A winter rose, m'lady. A bloom only found here in the North. A true marvel, not only for its beauty but for its resilience. Here amidst the harshest winters this rose has the strength to endure and flourish. An inspiring notion to those willing to take the time to look upon it. Wouldn't you agree m'lady?"
Mya considered the seafarer's words, knowing the subtle meaning they possessed. No doubt her stay in the North would be marked by great challenges, but if she showed the strength of this simple rose, perhaps she would not only survive but prosper as well. She had never fallen in the past and she had no intention of falling now.
000
The ceremony had been swift, much swifter than the traditional weddings within the Faith of the Seven. This was meant to accommodate the king's faith in the Old Gods as well his attending countrymen. Even the wording of the vows had been tailored in the Northern fashion, with only the slight inclusion of the Seven when the priest asked who came before the gods in search of their blessing. And when the time came to seal the vows spoken with a kiss, Mya had been surprised, not only for being gently kissed on the cheek by her new husband, but for reciprocating it as well.
She now sat at the king's side in the Merman's Hall with the winter rose adorned in her hair, witnessing the revelry brought on by their union. Loud cheerful music echoed throughout the hall's beams and rafters, as well as the drunken laughter of the guests. Upon every table was a vast variety of dishes and desserts, ranging from smoked salmon to lamprey pie, quail, sweet tarts, and lemon cake. The wine served at the royal table came from lord Manderly's private reserves of Arbor Red.
This was without a doubt the liveliest celebration she had been to her entire life, and had she been a guest rather than the bride, she would have been just as merry as everyone else. However, at this very moment there was naught but awkward silence between her and the king. It seemed he was just as perplexed about what to say now as she was. They were married, but hardly new more than each other's names. It only made things worse that her mother was seated close by, silently coaxing her to speak to him. While her intentions were appreciated her actions only added more pressure on the situation.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" The voice of her husband startled her, causing her to nearly knock over her glass of wine. When she looked into his eyes, the mountain's daughter noticed the uncertainty and… shyness. At first Mya thought it would be better to say everything was splendid, but something told her that he deserved an honest answer.
"I… I'm trying to, your grace." While she considered her what to say next, one of the guests, an umber she thought, stood atop of a table, and began singing the Bear and the Maiden Fair. As the tone-deaf Northman belted out the lyrics, the mountain's daughter had to speak up so she could be heard. "I've never attended a celebration as grand as this, I imagine as king you've grown accustomed to them."
"Accustomed may be too generous a word for it," re replied with a small smirk before it faded away. "When I was a boy and we had feasts at Winterfell, I was seated at the far end of the hall while my family sat at the head table. My father's wife, lady Catelyn, saw to it that I knew where I stood, that while I was part of the family household, I wasn't part of the family, no matter how much blood I shared with her children."
Surprised by her lord husband's sudden openness, Mya gave him a knowing look, having once experienced something similar in her youth. "When I was fifteen, I attended the betrothal feast of my friend Miranda Royce at the Gate of the Moon. Not as a servant, but as a invited guest. I was so thrilled when I told my mother, so thrilled I didn't listen to her warning." As she took a sip from her glass, the young woman from the Vale noticed she had the White Wolf's undivided attention. Placing her glass down she continued her tale.
"While Miranda truly saw me as a guest, the rest of the noble families saw me as a 'quaint diversion.' At first, they were content with an odd murmur or jest behind my back, but then some of the highborn ladies remarked to my face about how civil I was, despite my station. Then one made the jest that I was the Princess of the Stables, and the Lady of Mules."
"I'm sorry for that,"
"You needn't be, I found the heart to laugh that night. Besides I learned long ago that their words could only hurt me if I allowed them to."
The king seemed to relax; his posture less rigid than before, even his tone was more at ease when he spoke. "A very wise man once told me the same, 'wear it like armor' he said, and he was right. I only wish I had learned this truth when I was much younger, so much could have been different. What happened to the girl that mocked you?"
Mya could barely stop herself from bursting out in laughter at the memory of what happened next that evening. "The poor thing, someone accidentally spilled wine on her new dress, she left the celebration in such a rage I thought she'd breathe fire and burn the hall to the ground."
A small chuckle escaped the king's throat, it seemed there was a cheerful side to this stoic monarch. 'Who knows' she thought, perhaps someday they would laugh more freely with each other?'
Before she could respond one of the guests called out garnering everyone's attention. As the man approach, Mya strained herself to remember his name. Having met so many nobles in the past few days, it was hard for her to remember them all. He was a large burly man with a unkept beard, one of the mountain clansmen. It amazed her how different they were from the clans from the Vale. They were clearly rowdy and argumentative but didn't seem like the cutthroat marauders she had encountered along the mountainous trails of her homeland.
"My Queen," the man bellowed as he knelt before the royal table, "In honor of your union and to welcome you to the North, I bring a gift on behalf of clan Wull." The bearded northerner gestured a lad to come forward, in his arms was a thick dark fur cloak that was lined with white stripes. That alone told her what animal it came from.
"shadowcat?" it was all Mya could mutter as the cloak was set before her. The beast was a rare find in the Seven Kingdoms, even within the Vale of Arryn. Having only seen one once, for just a moment mind you, in her entire life, the former mountain guide marveled at the predator's soft fur.
The Wull laughed heartily, "Aye, my Queen. A fierce beast, particularly this one. The bitch nearly gutted me when I stumbled upon her hunt in the mountains south of the Wall, not three moons ago. But not even its razor claws were a match for Northern iron. Such a fine prize is only meant to be worn by a beautiful lady, may it keep you warm in the harshest of winters and remind you of your people's strength."
Amidst the chorus of cheers and banging of cups, the young queen was at a complete loss for words. 'Her people,' she thought. Feeling a great weight on her shoulders as she draped the cloak around her. She hadn't done anything worthy of such a gift nor the devotion demonstrated before her. Yet amidst these lingering doubts was a stubborn fire that compelled her to remember the rose and ser Davos' words.
When she thanked lord Wull for the gift, another lord, Roose Ryswell, stepped forward informing her that the finest mare ever bred at Rider's Rest awaited her in the stables. Next was her old friend Miranda Royce, presenting a crescent-moon brooch made of the finest silver. Then came a fine hand mirror, a decorative dagger, and finally a woven piece of fabric bearing a crown stag and a direwolf.
The joy of these gifts was short-lived, as one of the more sodden knights addressed the royal table. "My King, the vows have been said, the guests have drunken their fill, and the gifts have been presented. Is it not time for the bedding ceremony?" At the mention of the dreaded wedding tradition, Mya's heart stopped. She had almost forgotten, As the first true royal wedding for the North, custom demanded the ceremony take place. As the chanting began to grow, the queen closed her eyes and braced herself for what was coming.
However, what the king said next surprised her. "There will be no bedding," His voice was calm and even, silencing the chanting crowd that very moment. As all looked to the king, none more transfixed than the mountain's daughter, the king answered their unspoken question. "I would not wish to dishonor house Manderly by breaking a man's jaw within their walls." This brought laughter to many, Mya included, but more out of disbelief than anything else.
In a single motion the king stood up and extended his hand to her, although still dazed she gently took it. The newly wedded couple courteously bade a goodnight to the guests and their hosts before making their way towards the chamber prepared for them.
Coming to her senses as they traversed the hallway leading away from the feast, Mya leaned closer to her lord husband and whispered, "Thank you."
The Stark king turned to her with a solemn smile. "I felt that I had put you through enough this evening my lady." It seemed that his grace was indeed trying to live up to the promise he made, and while this was just the first step in earning her trust, it was one she appreciated. A slight flush came to his cheeks as he spoke again. "My lady- "
"Mya," she interjected.
"What?"
"I think we can drop the formalities when we are alone and should call each other by our names," she replied with a slight grin. "After all we are man and wife now." The jest managed to elicit a small smile from the warrior, something she imagined was an uncommon thing, considering the burden he bore and the loses he'd suffered. She could scarcely imagine what it was like to lose so many loved ones in just as many years.
It was then she noticed the door to their chamber at the end of the hallway, she felt a surge of anxiety. No doubt the court expected them to solidify their marriage this night, and perhaps even sire an heir, strengthening the dominion of the Northern Realm. But now, the mountain's daughter didn't know what to expect anymore
"Mya," he replied as they stood before the looming door, "I want to assure you that we… that nothing need happen tonight." Surprised once again, an overwhelming sense of relief swept over the young queen. Yet, that didn't change the expectations of the royal court, a king without an heir was almost as dangerous as a king with too many. When she addressed them, her husband's response left her speechless. "Wouldn't it be better if we knew each other as people, before we know each other as husband and wife?"
Taking in his words Mya found herself smiling. "Yes, I think it would be best Jon."
King's Landing
Starring out from the Red Keep, Ser Jaime dwelt on the charred remnants of the city where the Sept of Baelor stood. The former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard found himself looking out at the horrendous sight as he had done before in the last few months. The forty year old knight had no love for the monolithic temple and why should he? It was just the fruition of another mad Targaryen king's delusions, a harmless delusion, but a delusion none the less. In a grim way it was almost ironic, a place meant to bring hope brought about their doom.
"I wonder if the High Sparrow and his cultists found comfort in dying under the watchful gaze of their silent Gods.' The only regret the Kingslayer had about the fanatic priest's death was that wasn't given the chance to drive a sword through his pious skull. The Sparrow earned his fate, for what he did to Cersei and for turning his ne-… his son against his family. Jaime Lannister's heart ached at the thought of Tommen. This wasn't like Joffrey's death, where he felt nothing, true he did everything he could to try and save him, but it wasn't out of fatherly concern, only the duty of the Kingsguard.
Joffrey's repugnant nature made it impossible for him to grief the boy's passing, the only sorrow he felt at the time was for Cersei. But Tommen had always been kind and gentle. A well-behaved boy, nothing like Jaime when he was at that age. Perhaps that was what endeared both Tommen and Myrcella to him? How different they were from him and Cersei. And now they were gone, he would never have the chance to do away with the charade and be a father to them. 'Tommen and Myrcella gone, father gone, Tyrion fled, and Cersei…''
His sister troubled him dearly, in the last few months she spent more and more time locked away in the tower, only speaking with Qyburn and their monster. A few attempts had been made on her life since she destroyed the Sept, some by nobles, some by commoners who lost someone in the blast, but all were in vain. This was becoming all too familiar for ser Jaime. The Seven Kingdoms on the brink of war once again, men being burned alive by wildfire, and an increasingly unstable ruler on the throne.
He had hoped that things could be as they were between him and his beloved sister, but that hope like so many others was fleeting. Fate had put him in this position before, standing by while monstrous acts were being committed. The one-handed knight knew how this story might end, and he feared that possibility more than anything in his life. If could he just reach Cersei then perhaps they could keep history from repeating itself. But should the worst come to pass…
"There you are," remarked his infamous companion, ser Bronn of the Blackwater, walking down the corridor in the same careless manner Jaime once had. "Your sister's been asking after you, says there are matters of state to discuss."
The sellsword knight wore his all too impertinent expression, telling Jaime there was more he wanted to say. "And?"
"I once told your brother that I wasn't his toddy and I'm not yours either. So, next time you're not on speaking terms with your sister find someone else to be your fucking messenger."
Ever since returning to the capital, Bronn had been in a foul mood, with all the brothels destroyed by the Faith Militant, and many of the court ladies being dismissed, the mercenary had little company and entertainment to pass the nights away. It was somewhat disheartening for Jaime to realize that this murderous, crude, and disrespectful mercenary was the closest thing to a friend he had now. "If you had said that to me just a few years ago- "
"Aye, but we live here and now, and with your one-hand a thirteen-year-old sheep-fucker with a limp could take you." Before the Kingslayer could retort Bronn turned about and started towards the throne room. Catching up to his disreputable right hand, ser Jaime found himself wondering what the sellsword turned knight thought of his sister's actions, considering his instrumental role in the Battle of the Blackwater. "You've been staring at me for weeks now, so ask whatever shit question ya have and be done with it."
"Would you have done it, lit the fuse that ignited the wildfire, killing thousands of innocents, if Cersei ordered you to?"
"You and your brother," remarked Bronn shaking his head. "So worried about people liking you, even if it means your life, and that's exactly what it'll cost if you quibble about innocence and guilt. I'm a black-hearted sellsword, and more importantly I know it, pay me the right amount and I'll gladly kill whoever and however many you want."
"And what price would you have asked of Cersei if she came to you for the job?"
"I would have asked for one of the kingdoms for that deed and from recent experiences I would have demanded payment up front."
This argument was getting old, especially for Jaime, who by nature was not a patient man. "You have my word; you'll have everything house Lannister has promised you."
"You've been promising a lordship, a castle, and a high-born beauty for over a year now and I've yet to receive any of them. As pampered a shit he was, at least Tyrion paid me with actual coin and not promises."
That was the last straw for Jaime, "Don't say his name in front of me." Even after all this time hearing his brother's name said aloud, plagued him with sorrow, anger, and guilt. Sorrow for never telling Tyrion the truth about Tysha, anger for his father's murder at his brother's hand, and his guilt for making it possible by letting him out of the Black Cells. It all festered within him, driving him mad trying to understand it all.
They spent the rest of their short journey in silence and when they reached the imposing doors to the Iron Throne, Bronn merely gave him a look telling him good luck. In truth, he would probably need it. Opening the ominous doors, the Kingslayer saw his sister, Cersei Lannister Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, sitting upon the Iron Throne.
'The queen that most wanted dead, now more than ever,' he thought grimly. His eyes fell on ser Gregor Clegane as he approached, the behemoth looming at Cersei's side like a dog garnered in gold plate. The armor of the Kingsguard, the last to exist within the city, since the other suits had been incinerated along with the men wearing them. If Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne, or Gerold Hightower, could see what was left of their order of knights they would be ashamed and undoubtedly try to slay the monster.
But ser Jaime doubted even all three of the legendary knights could match the Mountain in combat. Even before Qyburn used whatever dark arts on him the giant didn't feel pain like a normal man. And now, he doubted that even beheading the resurrected knight would put an end to him. As the commander of the Lannister armies stood before the throne, he felt the blood-red eyes of of ser Gregor staring completely devoid of emotion. The Mountain that Rides, was now a monster in both spirit and appearance.
Standing before the Throne, ser Jaime knelt but his eyes never left his sister's. Hoping to see sign of recognition, that the woman he loved was still there, but her emerald eyes were cold as ice.
"My Queen,"
Her tone matched her eyes as she addressed him. "Ser Jaime, your absence in recent weeks has been noticed. I would have thought the security of the realm would be a more concerning matter."
"As your grace, may recall I tried speaking with you repeatedly, but I was told you were in deep council with your hand."
His sister did not take the remark kindly, visibly clenching her fists on the throne. "In light of recent events, Qyburn has proven to be one of the few reliable courtiers. Not only has he tirelessly worked towards the restoration of the crown's authority, but also reorganized our spy network, revealing the many dangers that encircle us. As well as the shortcomings of those claiming to be loyal." Ser Jaime was bewildered by her remark, what had her new pet been whispering in her ears?
"Ser Jaime," his sister replied, interrupting his musings. "When you were dispatched to the Riverlands to put down the rebels responsible for taking Riverrun from its rightful lord and masters, were you aware that their leader was the disgraced traitor ser Brynden Tully?"
'So that is what she's crossed aboyt,' the Kingslayer realized, knowing that by allowing the Blackfish to leave with Brienne he had given the old knight the opportunity to fight another day with more swords at his side. A smarter man would have lied to save himself from his monarch's wrath, but ser Jaime was tired of lying. "I was aware, your grace."
"And yet, he is not currently in the black cells, awaiting the gallows or the headsman as is the punishment for treason."
"Your grace, my orders were to retake the castle and given the more pressing dangers that lingered here in the capital, my swift return outweighed the importance of an old man and the handful of rebels who wouldn't surrender at Riverrun." Tension was beginning to build in the room as the Lannister twins starred at each other.
With a flash of anger in her green eyes, the queen scowled at her brother. "It seems you've made a grievous error in judgment ser Jaime. Brynden Tully has joined the ranks of his murderous niece and her bastard brother, who was hailed as the new King in the North, and now the North is preparing to march on us once again."
Granted the eldest son of Tywin Lannister knew that Ned Stark's last living children had taken up arms against the Boltons, but he hadn't heard of their victory or of the bastard of Winterfell's coronation. Without Varys their ability to address important news from the other kingdoms had been severely hindered. "Brienne, I hope you realize just how profoundly you've changed Westeros, all because of your mule headedness," he thought quietly to himself.
"And to make matters worse, that loathsome wretch Littlefinger not only convinced that brat of Lysa Arryn to pledge his kingdom to the Stark cause, but he also offered the Bastard King one of Robert's low-born ilk for his queen. I imagine he's bedding the little whore as we speak. Do you see what their intentions are? They intend to take my throne. Them and the Targaryen girl."
That news sent a chill down the Kingslayer's spine, the thought of another Targaryen upon the throne was like a nightmare made real.
The mad rantings of Aerys Targaryen echoed from his darkest memories. 'BURN THEM ALL, BURN THEM ALL!" The former Kingsguard would remember that phrase till the day he died.
Drawing out a parchment his queen and sister strode towards the candelabrum, stopping to stare at him once more. "The Targaryen bitch sent a copy of this letter to all the great houses of Westeros, demanding their fealty. While we hold the Westerlands, and Crownlands' forces the decrepit Prince of Dorne along with the old hag Olenna Tyrell have pledged themselves to her. Because of you we face two pretenders and their armies, But regardless of your incompetence we will do as we've done to all the pretenders who came before them."
Jaime then watched as his sister take the letter and press it against the candles flame. Soon enough the whole parchment was consumed by fire and crumbled away on the cold floor. "We will kill them. We will kill them one by one, until there is no one left besides us. We will kill them all."
As his sister's words settled in, he felt a sense of dread not only for the war to come, but for the glint of madness in his sister's eyes illuminated by the fires around her.
And that is chapter six. Again, apologies for the long delay, but school and work have kept me busy.
A few points, I'd like to address, Jon and Mya's relationship is going to be a slow procress. And while I was tempted to have them consummate the marriage (not unheard of in medieval settings,) I wanted that to occur after a heart-to-heart talk about their respective past loves. I'd rather not do too much too soon.
Also I am aware of the lack of action in recent chapters, which will be resolved in the next chapter. On that note I am unsure when that will be because my immediate schedule is quite busy. So please be patient, follow, favorite and please review. Ideas and constructive criticism are welcome, just keep it civil.