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 Lion, the Wolf, and the Dragon
Old Oak of the Reach
Smoke filled the sky as the stench of death and ash plagued Garlan Tyrell's nose, and that of his men. Their horses neighed and reared back as a blackened beam from the scorched remnants of a house gave way and collapsed. With a firm hand, the young lord and knight reined in his chestnut mare and compelled her to press on, turning away from the crumbling remains of those who dwelt in the abode, and towards the ancestral stronghold of House Oakheart. Without looking back, Garlan silently prayed to the Seven, "Mother receive these innocent souls in your gentle embrace. Father bring down your judgment upon their killers and have them burn in Seven Hells.'
The young lord had been sent by his brother and Liege Lord Wylis, to discover the cause of Lady Arwyn Oakheart's absence after being summoned to Highgarden, like the rest of their bannermen. When he rode out, Garlan believed lady Arwyn had been consumed by grief over the death of her youngest son, ser Arys, a member of the Kingsguard and victim of the Burning of the Faith, as the small folk had named the blasphemous event. But the sight before him revealed the true cause, the Oakheart lands and keep had been sacked.
Bodies of the townsfolk lay awry in the blood soddened ground. Man or woman, young or old, it did not matter, all had been put to the sword. However, the torn skirts of several young women told of the greater depravities they had suffered in their final moments of life. As he starred at the bodies, Garlan's mind turned to his beloved Leonette, about how she could so easily share the same fate, his heart filled with anger at the thought. These were not the acts of men, but rabid dogs deserving nothing but the sword. A fate, that if the God's were willing, he would bring about.
Making their way through the desolation, their hearts sank further as blacken smoke rose from the ancient castle. Without setting foot within the stronghold, the second son of Mace Tyrell knew the worst was yet to come. Sadly, this was proven true when the company entered the great hall where lady Arwyn awaited them. Hung from the rafters and bound by her wrists, the matriarch of house Oakheart dangled lifeless before them, stripped of all decency.
As his men cursed and prayed to the Gods before such malice, Garlan could only avert his gaze before giving a stern command. "Cut her down." The knight gave the order again when his men failed to hear him, this time more assertive than before. Heeding their lord's command, the soldiers cut the cords holding the noblewoman in the air, and gently lowered her body to the cold stone floor. Garlan removed his own cloak and draped it over lady Arwyn's battered remains, giving what little comfort he could in this dark hour.
The old widow had always been a welcomed guest in his father's house, proving both wise and compassionate towards others. As her once warm gaze stared blankly at him, the proven warrior gently closed her eyes before speaking. "Forgive me, my lady, for not coming in time to save you and your household. But know justice will prevail, upon my honor as a knight I swear it."
The shattering of glass brought this solemn moment to an end, coming from underneath the high table. Striding towards the sound with swords in hand the errant company were shocked by what they found, Samwell Oakheart, the late lord and ladiy's eldest son, still alive. However, the festering wound on his left side gave reason to question how long that would remain.
"M-My lord," said ser Samwell in a hoarse voice, seeing his liege lord standing before him. "T-The scum… they came in the night… No warning... tried to fight… but_"
Seeing the drifting gaze of his bannerman, the Lord of Brightwater knew time was short and interrupted the dying man's desperate tale. "Easy my friend, tell me who did this. Where can I find the monster responsible for this outrage?"
"M-My mother," rambled the dying man, seemingly unaware of Garlen's questions. "I tried to save her d-dignity..." Even at death's gate the young knight thought only of his family, Garlan commended the man's devotion, promising that they would lay her to rest with all the honors a woman of her station deserved. He asked again after their murderer's name.
"The bane of L-Lannisport… The Reaver of the Jade Sea… Crow's Eye!" With that name a cold shiver ran done Garlan's spine, having been told stories of the mad Greyjoy, the one who struck the devastating first blow against the continent in the Greyjoy Rebellion. The kraken who sailed to the far East rather than bend the knee to Robert Baratheon, plaguing all decent folk with his merciless raids.
His fears were put aside when ser Samwell gripped his arm with utter desperation. "R-Roland… my brother… away to the northern valley… find him and avenge… us." Releasing his final breath, the would-be lord of Old Oak, died in his liege lord's arms. Anger began to burn through the knight's being, anger for the murder of his countrymen, the slaughter of a respected family, and for the one responsible. In that moment, Garlan thought nothing would please him more than to drive his sword through the twisted heart of Euron Greyjoy and the rest of his marauding scum.
However, in a moment of clarity he realized the greater danger the Reach was faced with, while their army was gathering to march East towards King's Landing, their western coastline was left vulnerable. Turning to his men he gave his orders. "Reynard take two men to find Roland Oakheart and inform him of what's transpired here. Hollard send out the ravens, all of them, carrying the same message to every house in the Reach."
"And the message milord?"
Sheathing his sword, the experienced commander turned to the shattered window, gazing upon his fractured reflection, before speaking again. "Tell them that the Iron Fleet has returned."
White Harbor
Awakening to the sound of the Snowy Sept's morning mass bell, the White Wolf's eyes opened reluctantly. His weariness was made worse by the sudden stiffness he felt in his lower-back, but what did he expect, sleeping by the fireplace with only a pillow and a wool blanket was hardly comfortable. Ned Stark's son had certainly slept in worse conditions out of the necessity, such as his ventures North of the Wall, or during the conflict with house Bolton. However, this sleeping arrangement was made to accommodate his bride, who was still asleep, nestled within the fur covers, without any sign of worry troubling her soft features.
It had been four days since the wedding, four days since they agreed to wait until they were more comfortable with each other before consummating their marriage. But to placate the noble families and their expectations, both understood they had to share the same lodgings, at least until they departed the coastal city and returned to Winterfell. Which was not soon enough for his liking. As honorable as his gesture was, he was tired of feeling like a block of wood every morning.
Dressing himself, the young king hoped a visit to the Godswood would help loosen the knots in his back. Besides, Ghost would be getting anxious if he did not visit soon. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to allow his direwolf to reside in the sacred site of the Wolf's Den rather than the kennels. But ever since the mutiny, Ghost hadn't taken well to being penned up, especially in a place like White Harbor. The former runt of the litter had never been exposed to so many people before, most of whom were terrified at the mere sight of him, of the almost mythical beast, spoken of in stories meant to frighten children into behaving. Having seen his four-legged companion tear out men's throats, and ripe their limbs form their bodies, the former bastard felt some of their fears were well founded.
Before leaving, he looked upon the sleeping woman once more, half tempted to wish her a good morning, but the king couldn't bring himself to disturb her rest. Their interactions had certainly grown more trusting and respectful, like that between acquaintances, it still left much wanting on his part. If this was the woman, he was to share his life with, they would have to find common ground to build a relationship upon. A task that would have been easy for his brother Robb, who had always drawn the attention of women, but was daunting for him...
While Jon knew from the start this would be an uphill struggle, only now did he realize the full extent of his task. Forming a bond with a woman while trying to rule a kingdom on the brink of war? The whole notion seemed like its own form of madness. He could only wonder how his father had managed it. Ruling the largest of the Seven kingdoms, leading an army in times of war, and building a warm home for his family. His already revered father now seemed more admirable than ever. Only now, instead of his father, it was him leading his fellow northerners into a war he didn't even want, not with the Night King growing stronger beyond the wall.
Shaking his head, the White Wolf cast such worries aside for the moment, now more determined than ever to seek the solace of the godswood.
"You seem troubled." Mya said softly, her eyes now open as she lifted herself from her sheets. It appeared that while he was transfixed by his worries, Jon failed to notice that his bride had awoken and was now looking at him with sincere concern. "Has something happened?"
Stepping back into the room, the King in the North assured her that it was nothing, just foolish musings that he shouldn't listen too. While she did not outright say anything, the look on her face made it clear she didn't believe him. "I hoped not to disturb your rest."
"I assure you it was the bell that did that." Noticing his apparel, she asked if there were matters of the realm that needed his attention. He imagined that there would be something that required his approval by midday, however at this moment he had the rare opportunity to do as he wished. Jon informed her his intentions to visit the godswood before such a luxury disappeared. "Oh… I see."
For a moment the young king tried to find the right words to say, but in the end all he could manage was asking if she cared to join him. To his surprise, she said yes. Perhaps the eldest child of Robert Baratheon felt just as cooped up within the castle as he did, missing the wide-open space of the Vale's renowned countryside. The prospect of fresh air seemed to drive away any lingering tiredness from the mountain lass, as she climbed out of bed and dressed herself with great haste. When he turned to face her, Jon noticed instead of a dress she had chosen a wool shirt and breeches all draped in her shadowcat fur-cloak. She seemed far more comfortable in these clothes than anything else he had seen her in. 'They suit her,' he thought admiringly.
As they sent out, they quickly picked up a small escort of Manderly guards, saying it was their duty to ensure the safety of their king and queen for as long as they resided within the walls of their lord's keep. However, they were less than thrilled about their ruler's decision to visit the godswood, as it would have been improper for the queen to visit the city prison. Admittedly, the young king hadn't given it much thought when he asked Mya to join him, but the lass was unbothered, saying she wanted to see the legendary Wolf's Den for herself. Their journey thereafter was relatively quiet with only a few servants and townsfolk crossing their path, bowing their heads as they went by.
Upon arriving at the godswood, the guards reluctantly agreed to stand at the entrance, allowing the royal couple to stroll unimpeded amidst the wild grove of trees. While much smaller than Winterfell's godswood, Jon felt at peace here, as he listened to the rustling leave of the heart tree. Moving towards the massive weirwood, they saw its angry face starring back at them, as if it was warning them that they were trespassing. However, neither monarch was affected by the wooden glare.
It was Mya who broke the silence, staring intently at the heart tree. "I've never seen a living weirwood before." She placed one gloved hand against the foreboding tree and ran her fingers down it's carved face. When she pulled her hand back, she saw the blood red stains from the sap. Closing her eyes, the mountain's daughter breathed in the aroma, a gentle smile tugging at her lips as she did so. "Sweet, almost like…"
"Like honey," Jon offered knowingly, standing by her side again. "When I was a boy in Winterfell, my brother Robb and I once dared each other to climb the branches of the heart tree. This was after Old Nan, the nanny to all the stark children, threatened us with tales of vengeful grumpkins and snarks if we were foolish enough to disrespect the Old Gods."
"Mya's smile grew, knowing fully well what that meant. "So naturally, being told not to do something made you want to do it even more." The White Wolf felt his own smile grow as he remembered all the mischief he and Robb made in their youth. From raiding the kitchens for sweets, to burying their father's guests in an avalanche of snow, those were wonderful times.
"Aye, and we knew our father would have us scrubbing the boots of the entire barracks if he caught us, but we did it anyway. Robb managed to climb higher than I did, making him the lookout should anyone come along." Jon could practically see a much younger visage of Robb and himself clinging to the branches above them. The look of excitement on their faces as they raced down when someone finally came. But soon enough joyful memories turned bitter as the realities of recent years settled in. His brother Robb was gone, just like the rest of his family, either dead or lost, save Sansa.
A hand gently touched his arm, looking up the King in the North saw Mya's sympathetic gaze on him. No doubt she had noticed the change in his expression and guessed what he was thinking. News of his father and siblings' deaths had spread across all Seven Kingdoms. Only Bran and Arya's fates remained a mystery. The only news he had received about his younger siblings, was that Arya been seen in the Vale by Brienne, while Bran was seen heading beyond the Wall by Sam. Since then, there had been no word of either Stark.
"We thought we were so clever," the young king said, finally resuming his story. "That we had gotten away with it, but by the time for our history lesson with maester Luwin, father had already discovered what we'd done."
"How did he find out? It could have been any two boys playing in the Godswood."
"At first, Robb and I believed the Old Gods had whispered it in his ear, but he then told us that he noticed the red stains on our clothes and the sweet smell that lingered on us. I suppose there was no man in Winterfell who knew the scent better than him. He'd spent hours polishing Ice under the watchful gaze of the weirwood."
The Mountain's Daughter looked confused at mention of the ancient blade. "I thought your family's ancestral sword was called Longclaw, at least that's what the storytellers said when they described your exploits in the Battle of Bastards after we arrived here?" It was an understandable mistake, neither Ice nor Longclaw were well renowned outside of the North, not like Dawn, the fabled sword of ser Arthur Dayne, one of the greatest knights to ever walk this earth.
"Ice was the ancestral great sword of house Stark, passed down from father to son for over four centuries. Longclaw was the heirloom of house Mormont." His answer invited several more questions from the Queen of Winter; How he came into possession of another house's valerian sword, what happened to his father's blade, and what could possibly compel the bards and storytellers to spread a falsehood in their tales?
The last was the easiest to answer, no doubt the bards thought it would be more poetic if the bastard son of a dead family were to wield their ancestral sword to avenge them, rather than speak the truth. Another reason why he had grown tired of listening to heroic songs, they were mostly lies. With a heavy heart, the young king told her that Ice had been lost after his father's arrest in King's Landing, Only the Gods knew what had befallen the ancient blade afterwards. He then recounted the tale how Jeor Mormont, his predecessor in the Night's Watch, had given Longclaw to him for saving his life.
"I'm sorry about your father," replied the former mountain guide, lowering her gaze as if to ponder something. "The lords of the Vale all spoke highly of him, saying they had never met a man as dutiful and honorable. My mother met him you know, I was only a babe at the time, but she told me that unlike so many other nobles, he treated her with kindness and respect. She was a servant, one who had given birth to a bastard no less, and he treated her with the same courtesy as a high-born lady. He truly was a great man."
Her words were kind and rang with truth, very few ever spoke ill of his late father, and those that did, did so out of spite or jealousy. "He was," remarked the eldest living son of Eddard Stark, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "It's strange, for a long time I felt ashamed of being a bastard, a 'Snow' amongst the Starks of Winterfell, but I never felt ashamed of being his son. He was by far the greatest man I've ever known… I know all children think that of their fathers, but- "
"Believe me, not all children think that of their fathers." The change in her tone was sudden and drastic, while not heated or spiteful, it seemed sad… hurt almost. In all his musings about his own father, Jon had forgotten with whom he was speaking to. It was well known that King Robert had sired many children throughout the seven kingdoms but hadn't taken any sincere interest in their upbringing. In fact, there was only one child that he openly acknowledged as his own during his entire reign. A young boy, whose name was… Edwin… Edmund; something of that sort. His mother was of noble birth, a distant cousin of Queen Selyse, forcing Robert to acknowledge the lad.
Mya, like the rest of her siblings, had gone most of their lives without ever meeting their father. Undoubtedly, this was a source of pain for the Mountain's Daughter, one that he had unwittingly stumbled upon. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- "
"You have nothing to be sorry for," his lady wife assured, her gaze becoming thoughtful and distant as a light flurry of snow began to swirl around them. "I know what my father was, and I know who raised me. It's just… I can't help but wonder what it would have been like if we had met? Would he have dismissed me like he did with my mother? Would he be embarrassed by his servant daughter or- "?
This time it was Jon's turn to interrupt her musings. "Or would he be proud of the person you've become?" At first Mya looked confused, wondering how he could have known what she was going to say. "I've often asked myself the same question about my own mother. My father never talked about her, leaving me to wonder who she was, whether she was still alive, or if she even cared about me."
A solemn smile grace Mya's lips as she spoke, "It seems we are a greater match than I first thought, so alike in parental woes. I've only ever spoken about this to my mother, my friend Myranda and… and one other." The way she whispered the last part, told Jon that there were greater feelings at play here, and while apart of him wanted to know more, something told him this wasn't the time to press the matter. If this person was as important to her as Ygritte was to him, then he understood her need for privacy. The couple stood in respectful silence for what seemed like an eternity.
Suddenly Mya let out a small gasp as her eyes became transfixed on something behind him. As the White Wolf turned around, he saw they were no longer alone, they were joined by his newest moniker's inspiration. True to his name, Ghost had appeared without making a sound, and was starring intently at his master's new companion. As Ghost and Mya starred at each other, he noticed the look in her eyes, wonder mixed with fear. 'Who could blame her,' he thought? After all his direwolf was the size of a small horse and a singular spectacle south of the Wall.
Offering his hand to her, Jon was determined to show there was no need to fear his faithful companion. While hesitant at first, Mya placed her hand in his and together walked towards the snow-white beast. At first the hair on Ghost's neck stiffened, as if he was preparing to defend himself. For a moment the King in the North feared that Mya was the cause of this unusual behavior, until he noticed the striped pattern of her cloak. Ghost had caught the scent of the Shadowcat, and some primal instinct was making him wary. As he whispered this in her ear, he saw a flash of bravery in his lady wife's eyes before she unclasped her fur cloak, stepping forward on her own.
Astonishingly, the Mountain's Daughter slowly went to her knees, untroubled by the cold air. She remained there patiently as Ghost watched with growing interest, slowly moving towards her. Cautiously, Mya extended her hand, fingers curled inward, halfway between them. By allowing Ghost to approach her at his leisure, she diminished the chance of him perceiving her as a threat. 'She certainly knows her way with animals,' he thought. Which wasn't surprising since she spent most of her life tending to them. The direwolf cautiously sniffed the air in front of him, taking in her scent, before rubbing his muzzle against her hand. The young woman gently began stroking the noble beast's thick coat.
Relief filled Jon's heart, for both their' sakes. Had things taken a turn for the worse, he would have been faced with the choice of restraining one of his closest friends or risk alienating his wife, neither of which were compelling. But there was something else, to his shame this encounter disproved any lingering doubts he had about the woman before him. While he defended his choice to marry her to Sansa, the monarch of the Northern Realm couldn't ignore the danger Littlefinger and those in his employ posed. Surprisingly, the former Master of Coin hadn't approached either one of them after the ceremony, instead he had remained on the sidelines. From his sister's tales, Jon understood the man was never far from those in power and made it his business to be in their favor. The King in the North knew Baelish was a difficult man to predict, and that made him a deadly adversary.
He had learned first-hand that an unexpected dagger was far more dangerous than being faced with a thousand drawn swords. Anyone who knew Littlefinger, understood that his dagger was well honed by the intrigues his fellow Southerners reveled in. A gentle laugh put an end to his dark worries, seeing his direwolf lick Mya's smiling face. To his growing surprise he found both her laugh and smile heartening, quite heartening in fact. But such comfort was short lived as a carillon of bells rang in such urgency and volume, and to his greater dismay they came from harbor, not the Sept of Snows.
"Your Grace!" a young, panicked voice cried out. Turing to find a young page running towards them, his eyes wide with urgency and fear. "Y-Your Grace, the o-outer harbor, the ships anchored there… they are ablaze!"
The king barely containing his shock and fury, delayed departure only for his queen to adorn her cloak once more before seeking out to discover the cause of this calamity.
000
Five bloodied men knelt before them, bound in fetters, and dressed in tattered clothes. Considering the attack on the harbor, the city guards hadn't shown restraint when they confronted those responsible. Especially after they heard that a second group had forced their way into the Sept of the Snows and murdered Septon Gyles, the man who officiated the White Wedding. In fact, these five were the only survivors of the mad party, the rest were either slain in the brief scuffle or had thrown themselves to the very flames they started. As Mya looked upon them, they looked no different from anyone else residing in this city, save the pointed star carved onto their hands.
Apparently, they had passed themselves off as builders and sailors to infiltrate the shipyard, waiting for the right moment to put the northern fleet to the torch. In the ensuing chaos at the docks the smaller party had disrupted the morning prayers and stabbed Septon Gyles to death when the priest foolishly confronted them. Thinking of the old priest made her heart ache, from what Wynafryd had told her, the septon was well loved both by the family and the people. Mya remembered his kind eyes and gentle smile; it was so different from the condemning glares she'd come to expect from the Faith within the Vale.
Which made his murder even more bewildering, clearly these men targeted the northern fleet because of the danger it posed, particularly to Cersei Lannister, who wasn't above hiring monstrous men to rid herself of such problems. But why risk discovery by murdering a local priest? II made no sense, if they were mercenaries, they wouldn't waste the time and men when they needed as many as possible at the harbor. As confusing as this ordeal had been, she supposed it was fortunate they had divided their numbers, preventing them from burning any more of the fleet. The harbor master told them they had lost only six ships; four longships and two war gallies. However, the true tragedy in Mya's eyes was loss and maiming of the sailors aboard these vessels. Including Septon Gyles, thirty men had lost their lives on this butcher's day.
Stepping forward her lord husband bayed them to speak, only for one, presumably the leader, to spit at his feet. Ser Marlon Manderly savagely struck the man across his face, knocking out one of his teeth with his gauntlet fist. "Enough," ordered the White Wolf, watching as the prisoner recovered. "Who are you?"
Spitting a glob of blood on the stone floor the man spoke with a condescending grin. "Brother Milton, unholy bastard." Before any of the guards could pay back the insult Jon raised his hand compelling them to stop.
"You serve Cersei Lannister? Did she pay your company to burn the northern fleet?"
The king's questions were met with laughter, as brother Milton sneered at those who held his fate in their hands. "We do not serve that incestuous harlot; we only serve the Seven and our fellow brothers and sisters in the Faith Militant."
This revelation caused an uneasy murmur between all those present. 'The Faith Militant,' she thought, the name bringing back old history lessons with Myranda back in the Vale. If her memory served her, they were a band of holy priests and knights who took up arms against Meagor, the Cruel, and were subsequently disbanded by his successor. While she had been a poor student when it came to needlework, poetry, and other feminine arts; Mya had always enjoyed history, particularly that of the great conflicts of Westeros. As a child she favored stories of her countrymen, of house Arryn and those of her father during his rebellion, back when she thought he would come for her someday. But like that misguided dream the Queen of Winter, thought that the restored cult had been destroyed yet again.
"If what you say is true then why attack us, we've given you no offense?"
"Every breath you draw is an offense to the Seven and their faithful," Brother Milton spat with utter bitterness. "You who worship false gods, gods carved in wood and stone. You who broke a sacred vow and lead soulless heathens from Beyond the Wall to steal that which is not yours to take." If it weren't for the chains restraining him, the Mountains Daughter had no doubts this raving madman would have attacked her husband with savage fury, even if it meant his life. "Ours' is the first blow to strike the Northerners, and it shall not be the last, for the righteous will always strike down the unholy."
"Righteous?" Scoffed Mya unable to contained herself, garnering Brother Milton's attention. "Thirty men are dead, followers of the Seven and the Old Gods. Men who lived honestly and had families waiting for their return. Families who will never see them again because of you, and you have the gall to call yourself righteous." She did not attempt to hide her disdain, for their actions were more befitting of lawless brigands, killing whoever they wished to get what they want. Brother Milton looked surprised by her remark, in fact so did everyone else. With all their gazes upon her, Mya felt very foolish for speaking out of turn, cursing her damned temper for causing her trouble once again.
"And so, the cunt speaks?" sneered the fanatical priest before Ser Marlon struck him again with even greater force.
"You will speak with respect when addressing the queen, or I will gladly cut out your insolent tongue," barked the knight of house Manderly, even as her lord husband ordered him to stand down, threatening to have him removed from the room.
Once calmer heads prevailed, their attention was turned back to the prisoners. Blood running down his mouth Brother Milton fixated on Mya, "I see no queen, just another bastard, begotten from the lust of a sinful usurper, who now covets her sire's throne so dearly she lays with another usurper, this one a pagan. There lies the false Septon's sin, allowing such a union to profane the sanctity of the faith."
The revelation struck like a dagger to the heart. 'Septon Gyles was murdered simply because he presided over our wedding?' As the realization settled inside her mind, she felt a sudden overbearing sense of guilt, if she had been allowed to stay in her mountains, the septon wouldn't have been targeted by these fanatics, he'd be very much alive if it wasn't for her. She could only half listen to the prisoners' continued rants of divine retribution as this horrible realization sank in. It wasn't until the White Wolf's sudden outburst that she snapped out of her stupor.
"Enough," ordered Jon, in such a silent fury that Mya hadn't seen before. Instead of the calm and reserved features she had become accustomed to, the young queen witnessed a domineering scowl and condemning gaze transfixed on the man fettered in irons. "The High Sparrow is dead, your hold in King's Landing is broken, You and your fellow cutthroats have thrown your lives away for a ghost."
A chortle of laughter erupted from Milton's throat, specks of blood staining the stone floor before them, "From the ashes of despair, a new flame rises, one who carries on the High Sparrow's will, The Shepherd. Yes, who better than the humble shepherd to fight off the northern wolves wherever they prowl?" Upon further questioning they discovered that this so-called Shepherd had already departed White Harbor, along with the rest of his followers, and were now somewhere in the vast countryside of the North.
This was beginning to sound all too familiar for Mya, the threat of armed cutthroats looming in the wilderness, waiting for some unsuspecting soul to step outside of their home. The only difference she could see between the mountain clans and these 'holy men,' was that these murderers spilled blood in the name of the gods instead of plunder, which was far more terrifying to the Mountain's Daughter. But they would not have to worry about these murderers for much longer, in admitting to the crimes against the city of White Harbor, and the Northern Realm, they were all sentenced to hang on the marrow.
As they were being led away, one began to cry out, "Mercy your grace, please mercy! I never harmed anyone. I'm not like them, I was born here, as was my da' and his da' before. I'm a northerner by blood." His plea earned him a moment of consideration while the others were escorted to the Wolf's Den. Upon second glance, the queen realized he was much younger than the others, younger than her even, he couldn't have been older than seventeen. Unlike his fellow accused, whose gaze had nothing but contempt, his eyes (one red and half swollen shut) were rampant with fear and desperation. They were searching for some glimmer of hope and compassion between them.
"What is your name?" asked Jon.
"J-Jeremy, your grace," he stuttered, before making his case, "Please, they made me help them, they threatened to kill me, my little sis and my da if I didn't! I swear before the Seven, I wanted no part in it, I never wished any harm on Septon Gyles. The good man that he was, tended to my ma as she died and commended her soul to the Father, he even gave me work, scrubbing the Sept's floors."
She was surprised when Jon spoke, his voice was so calm, almost unreadable. As if all the anger from before had just melted away, as if it had never happened. "That's why they chose you, because you could get them inside without anyone noticing?"
"Aye, your grace, they said that if I refused or tried to warn anyone of what was going to happen, they'd slit my family's throats and throw them to the sea." Mya's heart went out to the boy's plight, to comply with the wishes of vile men or watch his loved ones be slaughtered. However, It then occurred to her that this could all be a lie meant to save his own neck from the block or the hangman's noose. She had heard similar stories from men being brought to the Eyrie to face judgement, a dying mother, a starving child, and so many other lies. But his eyes seemed so sincere as he told his tale, she did not know what to believe.
She turned to her husband who stood there, his face portraying no sign of whether he believed Jeremy's story or not. "Do you have any proof, any witness who can support your claims." Jeremy's face paled, it seemed his fate was growing darker with every passing moment.
"N-No, your grace. The two men who threatened me, dragged me into an alley one night as I returned home. No one saw it happen, and those very same men were killed when the city guard entered the Sept." Even as he said the words, the young man began to cry, believing his life was already forfeit. Mya's heart stirred with pity; she had never seen a man so downtrodden before, so consumed with despair that he wept before complete strangers. She felt her stomach turn, as she realized this young man's life rested on their word. It was a terrifying feeling, deciding whether someone lived or died.
Something compelled her to speak, "Wait! Perhaps… Perhaps the city guard can question his family and those who witnessed the murder." At first it seemed her suggestion would be dismissed, especially since Ser Maron testified his men had caught the murderers in the act with bloody daggers in hand, but her lord husband wished to hear their accounts for himself. As the others set about finding those involved, Mya's eyes met Jeremy's, still glistening with tears. The boy silently thanked her for the chance at hope. But the daughter of Robert Baratheon couldn't help but feel that his gratitude was misplaced. She had no way of knowing if her actions would have any bearing in saving his life.
By midafternoon all those with any connection to the ordeal had been found and brought before them. The first was to speak was the boy's father, a simple fisherman, who desperately assured them that his son would never willingly harm anyone, let alone Septon Gyles. He went on to say his boy was a loyal subject to the King in the North, who celebrated both the Stark's return and the White Wedding. The conviction in his voice was touching, Mya could hear the love and faith he had for his son with every word.
Sadly, the other witnesses were not so generous with their speech. All three stated they had seen the fisherman's son open the doors for the murderers, saying his hands were just as stained with Jolly Gyles' blood as the rest. However, when the king pressed them whether they saw Jeremy take a blade to the septon himself, they reluctantly admitted that he hadn't. "Like a craven rat, he scurried away to a corner and hid while the others butchered Gyles. He deserves to hang, your grace," retorted the last witness.
Yet, as the others began chanting for the same punishment, Mya found herself starring at the fisherman, his eyes ridden with fear for his eldest child's wellbeing. She couldn't even imagine what was going through his mind right now. The former trail guide had spent most of her life in the company of such people, those who worked at their trade every day, hoping to earn enough coin to keep their families fed and leave their children something that they can build upon for themselves. Yet, here he stood unable to help his only son as others decided his fate. Had her own mother endured such fears after she was born, and her father had taken the crown? Were there nights where she starred fearfully at the door, awaiting strangers to come and take her child away?
Casting such thoughts aside Mya turned to her husband, who for the longest time sat silently as he considered all that he had heard. When he rose, the entire room went silent, even she found herself holding her breath, anxious to hear his judgment. Their eyes met for a moment, and in that glimpse, she saw fleeting sympathy before it was replaced by the mask of duty. It was then that she realized his decision and her heart sank as he spoke the words. "Jeremy of White Harbor, of the charge of treason I find you innocent… but as king, I cannot overlook the part you played in the murder of Septon Gyles. Therefore, I hereby sentence you to the Wall, where you will atone by serving the realms of men for all the nights to come."
At first no one spoke out of disbelief, the fisherman's son mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if desperate to say something but only for his voice to fail him. Mya's voice faltered as well, she could only watch as the guards slowly pulled the boy to his feet and led him away. The fisherman sobbed, begging the King in the North to reconsider, but it was for not. He was escorted out as well, along with the other witnesses who voiced their disapproval. In their minds the punishment was not harsh enough, making the young queen wonder why they couldn't see how it could have been one of their sons being dragged off, never to be seen again.
She looked once more to Jon, whose face was as stoic as ever, seemingly untroubled by his decision. 'Does he truly feel nothing for his decision? To be able to tear a family apart without remorse?' She wanted to say something, to ask Jon to reconsider, to call the fisherman back and comfort him, but the words simply failed her. They failed her as the small assembly departed, they failed her as her lord husband excused himself to attend to other matters of state, they failed her for the rest of the evening.
She had already changed into her nightgown when the King in the North, entered their chambers. At first, she avoided looking at him, instead she chose to gaze at the seemingly peaceful harbor, the moon's reflection glistening on the horizon. It wasn't out of malice that she acted this way, but rather out of uncertainty. Today's events reminded her just how little they knew each other. Since their wedding Jon had been considerate and kind to her, they had even begun to share parts of their past, but with the trial she saw someone different. Someone unmoved by the pleas of a young boy and his father. She knew that a lord, let alone a king, had to be firm when meeting out justice, but to see it first-hand like that… it was hard to bear.
But perhaps what troubled her most was the knowledge that she had just been a witness to it all. True she suggested to gather witnesses, but what had that done for the boy? Ultimately, it was Jon's decision to make, she stood there and awaited his judgement. That was precisely what she had promised herself she wouldn't be. Shame had taken hold of her tongue, but she could hear his steps draw closer against the stone floor. They appeared to stop several paces behind her. Shifting her gaze the Mountain's Daughter noticed his reflection in the window glass, he seemed to be waiting for her to turn so they might speak.
Unlike before, her lord husband seemed hesitant, anxious even, as if talking to her had become the most daunting task he had taken on. Already tired of the damned silence, Mya took the initiative. "Is everything alright, your grace?"
"I-I want to apologize, for not checking on you sooner." He offered slowly, it certainly managed catch Mya by surprise, thinking it strange that this was what he had to say regarding today's events. "The damages to the fleet were more demanding than I imagined."
Now facing her lord husband, the young queen could tell this was hardly what he truly wanted to talk about, so she waited for him to say what was on his mind. Even though it seemed Spring would come again before he finished. It was strange, Mychel had never lacked for words when he wanted to be charming. An eloquent knight who'd stolen her heart with promises of love and of a future together. That they would run away to some far countryside and live a modest life. But whether the man was a knight or a common thief by trade, a silver tongue often made him a snake. It was becoming quite clear that Jon did not have a silver tongue.
He was a king, one revered by the men who followed him, yet he couldn't find the words to speak to her. It was amusing really, had circumstances been less serious she might have laughed. But her lord husband's words quickly dismissed any thought of levity. "I hoped we could discuss what happened today with the boy. I know it can be difficult to bear witness to such things for the first time."
There was only thing the Mountain's Daughter wanted to ask, one thing she wanted to understand. "Do you really believe the boy deserved to be sent to the Wall?"
"No, I don't." His response was so simple, so firm that it left little doubt that he meant it, but it only made Mya wonder why he passed such a sentence in the first place. "It was the only mercy I could grant him."
"What do you mean?"
The King in the North gave her a grim, knowing look as he explained himself. "You saw how the witnesses reacted, blood has been spilled in the city and its people are calling for the heads of those responsible. If I had pardoned the boy, how long until someone butchered him in the streets in the name of those who died in the attack? At least at the Wall, he has a chance to live, and if he is capable, he may even rise within the ranks of the Night's Watch."
Mya couldn't deny the reasoning of the king, she had seen first-hand the cycle of vengeance in the Vale of Arryn, for every son slain the mountain clans would spill the blood of ten Andals, and for every Andal a dozen clansmen would be put to the sword. It was only then did she realized the futility of protecting the boy and his family from such misguided revenge. 'Are we to post guards outside the fisherman's home day and night or are we to remove them from the only home they've ever known… as I was?' she thought solemnly
Mya knew the answer to her own questions, and as bitter as it was to swallow, banishing the boy was Jon's only choice. Until now her views of justice had been so simple, the guilty were punished and the innocent were spared, but now the Queen of Winter, understood it was far more complicated than that. However, consigning to this greater realization did not prepare her for what her lord husband said next.
"In light of this attack I've decided to ride for Moat Calin tomorrow… and for your own safety, a company of knights and solders will escort you on your journey to Winterfell."
At first Mya couldn't comprehend what she had just heard, Jon had told her that they would be traveling to Winterfell together, so that they could have some time to learn more about one another and the responsibilities she would bear. But to her, it seemed these responsibilities were doing whatever he said without question. She could feel her temper beginning to boil as old feelings of being used and discarded surged through her stomach. This along with the trial were too much for her to bare, giving voice to her displeasure, "So, now that you have your claim, I'm to be sent off to Winterfell? Keeping the fireplace warm as I anxiously await your return?"
As her tone openly expressed her growing anger, her king and lord husband immediately tried to dissuade it. "That is not my intent, the attack on our fleet showed that the dangers we face are even closer than I thought, and I will not place your life in harm's way any more than I already have. You'll be safe in Winterfell; my sister will see to it and help with the burden of ruling the North in my stead."
"Yes, how gracious of the White Wolf to decide what is best for his simple wife without troubling her with such a confounding dilemma." Her eyes bearing into her lord husband, as if challenging him to issue a command, upon which he would discover just how much of a storm resided within her.
But there was no command, no royal decree, just a sigh of frustration. "I'm only trying to uphold the promise I made to you the day we met." The sincerity in his eyes quelled some of her anger, but it wasn't enough for her to forget that, once again, her life was being decided for her. Even though Jon's intentions were well meant, excluding her from making the decision left Mya feeling just as demeaned as she was when informed of her betrothal by her mother.
"I truly appreciate the efforts you have made for my comfort, but if this marriage is going to become anything more than a political alliance, then their needs to be respect between us. Otherwise, you may as well have fucked me on our wedding night and be done with it." This time her remark left the King in the North speechless, his gaze lower to the floor for a moment.
When his gaze met hers again, there was adamant concern in his expression, but Mya couldn't tell whether it was for her or for himself. "You don't understand what is waiting for us, the enemies at our doors, the weight of every decision, and the personal sacrifices for the good of the realm. I'd rather keep you from this until you are ready."
"I never will be, not unless someone teaches me what it means to be the Queen of Winter. I was beginning to hope it would be you, but it seems I was mistaken, yet again, to trust the word of nobles," replied the young woman, disappointed with his answer. As the White Wolf stared at her in surprise, Mya draped her cloak around her shoulders and walked towards the door. She wasn't doing this to be spiteful, she just needed to speak to the one person that understood her better than anyone else. She stopped only for a moment when he asked where she was going, to which the Mountain's Daughter replied with a tired and frustrated voice. "To speak with my mother, If by your leave?"
For a moment it seemed he wanted to say something further, but had decided not to, giving her a silent nod as his answer. Not that she would have conceded if he refused, regardless of the consequences. Closing the door behind her, Mya wasted no time in making her way towards her mother's quarters, ignoring the odd looks from the household servants. She imagined it was a strange sight to see the Queen of Winter, wearing only her nightgown and cloak. But such things were the least of her worries now, she just wanted to speak with her mother and have some solace.
However, when she stood before her mother's door, she noticed muffled voices discussing something she couldn't understand. It was strange, her mother didn't know anyone in the city and the noble families had only spoken to her to ensure that Mya was ready for the wedding. She cautiously knocked on the door, hoping she hadn't interrupted something dire. The Mountain's Daughter was surprised when her mother opened the door looking worried.
"Mya!? W-Why are you here?" Her voice was shaking slightly, something that rarely happened.
Becoming wearier with every passing moment the confused daughter explained her argument with her new husband and that had come for her advice. But a growing question turned within her mind until she couldn't resist any more. "Mother, are you alright? I heard you talking to someone, who is it?"
Before her mother could answer, the third party in the room made himself known. "My apologies, your grace, for disturbing your mother at this late hour, but I had hoped to discuss matters that were in fact, related to your wellbeing." Mya recognized the voice immediately, having heard it many times when traversing the trail to the Eryie, Petyr Baelish the acting Lord Protector of the Vale. Even as he bowed, she felt uneasy, the lords of the Vale often spoke of "Littlefinger' and their clear distaste for the man. The only reason they hadn't ousted him from their homeland was Lysa Arryn and her son's affection for him.
"Had I known you would be here, I would have waited to discuss them with you," continued the money lender, rising to his feet. Yet, as she stole a glance at her mother Mya noted the look of worry, her eyes never leaving the Lord Protector of the Vale. "If I may be so bold, my queen, it is not uncommon for such swift matches to breed conflict in their adolescence."
"A match I have you to thank for," retorted Mya, her tone expressing her displeasure, and why wouldn't she? For reasons she couldn't begin to understand, this man had uprooted her entire life; forcing her into the world of politics and placed in a kingdom so far away from the only home she had ever known. A kingdom that was on the verge of war with the Iron Throne, whose current ruler would want her head now more than ever.
However, Lord Baelish seemed untroubled by her remark, in fact, he began to smirk at her. It was unnerving, sending a slight chill down her spine when he spoke. "Yes, done for the sake of the realm and our new king, but as such I feel obligated to offer my services to compensate for any… inconveniences you've endured."
She hadn't expected an offer like that, it almost seemed like the Seven had answered an unspoken prayer, but she reminded herself of what lord Yohn Royce once said, 'those who shook Littlefinger's hand found theirs soiled.' Her skepticism must have been apparent, as the moneylender further explained himself, saying that to the uninitiated the world of politics was a nest of vipers. That to survive she would need a loyal friend, one who understood her plight.
"And how is it you understand my plight, lord Baelish? A lifetime of wealth and privilege in a royal court, makes it hard to believe you could begin to understand a woman who comes from commoners."
This time Baelish stiffened at her barbed remark, as if being reminded of some past indignity. When he spoke his gentle voice had only the slightest hint of annoyance, "Unlike most of the great houses of Westeros, who claim descent from ancient kings and held vast ancestral lands, my house began with my great-grandfather, a Bravosi sellsword. For his skill at arms and loyal service, he was gifted only a crumbling tower, a few acres of land, and a flock of sheep by house Corbray. That was my inheritance, my prospect in life, with no other honorable lord in the Vale believing I could ever amount to anything more."
The young queen was admittedly taken in by the words of the Lord Protector of the Vale. Lord Baelish had done in a matter of decades, what would take noble houses generations to achieve. Essentially raising his family name from landed knights to a powerful lordship. She could now see why so many of her kinsman looked at Baelish with such scorn and fear. His ascension to power spat in the face of the Vale's founding belief that blood mattered.
He drew closer to her, the faint aroma of mint about him, as he placed a hand on her shoulder, like a reassuring family member tending to the fears of a child. "Through diligence, cunning, and above all else patience, I not only survived the intrigues of the royal court but flourished under them. Rising far above the very lords who mocked me in my youth. Those same lords who are now sworn to obey my commands, all in the name of lord Robyn, his grace… and yours, of course. You have been given a great opportunity to do as I have, an opportunity to surpass those who looked down upon you, and perhaps, even reach greater heights than your father. My aid to make this a reality is yours, should you wish it."
Bewitched by his words the Mountain's Daughter, for the first time in her life, began to envision herself not as a mere trail guide, but as a queen. Kneeling before her were all the noble ladies and knights who mocked her mother, Mychel Redfort who betrayed her love, as well as \ his pious family. It was true, every one of them had wronged her in some way. Wrongs that she thought she had moved past, but perhaps she hadn't, as the thought of them humbling themselves grew sweeter. However, the image soured as a torrent of shame swept over her, Mya had been many things, stubborn, hot-tempered at times, but never petty. Snapping out of her trance she searched for the right words, "I… I-"
"I wouldn't expect you to decide at this moment," lord Baelish said cutting her off before she could gather her thoughts. "Only fools act without consideration. It is late, rest on it, my queen." Just like that lord Baelish bowed his head and left Mya and her mother contemplating all they had heard.
To her growing shame, the young queen was considering his offer. The way he spoke made it so compelling to accept his aid and guidance, after all he was a man who understood every aspect of politics, royal duties, and courtesies. Everything she currently lacked and sorely needed. But something inside her was screaming to refuse, to stay away from the man. Perhaps it was how her mother silently trembled in his presence, or perhaps it was how with just a few words he had invoked a side of her that she didn't like. Did she truly want to be taught by someone like that, someone who brought out the worst in others? But who could she turn to then, who not only had a understanding of politics, but could still be trusted?
With profound realization, the name of such a person dawned on her. It was so obvious Mya nearly chastised herself for not considering it before. Someone who not only understood politics but enjoyed it. Someone so unassuming that many saw her as a harmless butterfly in a garden. '…Myranda.'
King's Landing
The small council room was utterly silent as Ser Jaime, two of his forgettable cousins Davon and Damion, as well as ser Bronn awaited the arrival of his sister. While he and his cousins kept a rigid posture in their seats, ser Bronn slouched, placing his boots on the table. The gilded-handed Lannister wasn't sure what disturbed the pair more; the disregard for the regal authority this chamber represented or the very inclusion of the lowborn sellsword. But unlike them Bronn had proven his worth at the Blackwater, their misadventure in Dorne, and the Siege of Riverrun. The irony, that this unorthodox cutthroat had proven a more competent commander than most of the noble lords loyal to their cause, it almost made Jaime laugh.
A few years ago, he would have, but now it only served as a reminder of the poor condition they were in. This meeting was meant to formally address the coming plight of the crown and consolidate their efforts to meet it… as best they could. Four of the Seven Kingdoms were now in open revolt with the North and Vale declaring for the Starks while the Reach and Dorne supported the Targaryen girl. Any simpleton squire could see the near futility of fighting two adversaries on two fronts. It was only thanks to the squabbling of the other factions during the War of Five Kings and their father's ruthless cunning that the Lannisters remained on the Iron Throne. Now that the Proud Lion was gone however, ser Jaime doubted that they would be as fortunate a second time.
The unlatching of the door signaled them all to stand as his sister Queen Cersei, her creature Qyburn and their altered behemoth entered the chamber. Dressed in black as she had been since Tommen's funeral, the Queen passed by him without a second glance. Marking how even more distant they had become in the last few weeks, a prospect he once thought worse than death, but no longer. Once the queen took her seat the rest returned to their own, beginning their fateful meeting.
After a brief inquiry into the stability of the city and the immediate lands surrounding the capital, which were in a state of uneasy peace, the Lioness of the Red Keep, bayed her hand to read aloud the letter bearing the wax seal of house Targaryen.
'To the false Queen, Cersei Lannister.' the disgraced maester began in his eerie, soft-spoken voice. 'I Daenerys, Storm-born, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and last living heir to the Targaryen dynasty. Hereby, lay claim to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros by right of birth. Renounce your crown and queenship, bay your armies to stand down and pledge fealty to the rightful heir to the throne. Do this and you may retain the Wardenship of the Westerlands that your house has held since the days of the Conqueror. Refuse and invoke needless conflict onto both your household and the commonfolk of Westeros. Refuse and you will bring upon yourself the same fate as Harran the Black and his heirs. If by the next full moon, you have not sent word of your decision to Dragonstone, then I will have no choice but to raise my banner and take what is mine with Fire and Blood.'
Jaime had to admit the Targaryen girl had spirit, to make such a demand of Cersei, but knowing his sister, it would only provoke her into taking aggressive action. Perhaps Jaime was giving the girl too little credit, perhaps that was what she wanted? Making Cersei the aggressor in the coming conflict would further incite the smallfolk against their current monarch. The foul taste her father left in the people's mouth with his reign would prompt some to follow their cause… for now at least. If his sister continued down this path by her ill-tempered madness, they may decide that either the Dragon Queen, or the King in the North to be more worthy monarchs.
"She's daring, I'll give the foreign bitch that much." Remarked Cersei as if reading his mind. Another sweet comfort turned sour in recent events, reminding him that there was no getting away from the women he once shared everything with.
The acting Warden of the West, Davon was the first to speak, offering what little advice he could. "Your grace, I assure you we are preparing the Westerlands, already our bannerman are levying new recruits to bolster our ranks for the coming invasion."
"Untrained boys against seasoned warriors and fresh troops eager for a scrap. You may as well slit their throats now." Bronn cheekily remarked. His insolent candor aside, the Kingslayer knew that Bronn was right, their true army had been diminished during the War of Five Kings. The men that would make up their ranks were more acquainted with plows and pitchforks than of swords and shields. Their enemies, both to the North and the South, had properly trained soldiers under and had greater numbers. Both Dorne and the Vale, thanks to their neutrality in the previous war, had kept their retainers at full strength, all of whom were eager for a fight.
Snapping ser Jaime out of his worries was the sudden raising of voices, the growing argument between his cousin Damion and Bronn. Apparently, Davon's only son was growing flustered by the former mercenary's insult regarding their capacity to fight. He could tell that while his idiot cousin was no threat to his second in command, Bronn was getting annoyed with the young knight's drivel, he certainly killed men for less.
Preventing bloodshed within the chamber, Jaime interceded, bringing all their attention to him. "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater is right; at the moment we lack the experienced army needed to fight off both threats."
"Then what do you suggest, my lord? With each passing day our enemies draw closer to us, we cannot afford to wait!" questioned Daimon. The Kingslayer was beginning to see his younger self in the young knight. He wanted to charge in the fray, perhaps hoping to end the conflict with the edge of his blade and earn a place alongside Ser Arthur Dayne, Gawain Corbray, and Gerold Hightower in the songs and tomes of Westeros. But more likely the lad would meet his end at the hands of some nameless squire and be forgotten by history, such was the fate of so many ambitious boys.
"We buy time," the one-handed knight proposed. "Assemble half a dozen or so companies and let them loose on the Reach. While the Tyrell armies deal with the raiders razing their precious fields, we consolidate our armies and fortify our defenses in the Riverlands against the Northerners."
"Forgive me, ser Jaime, but we cannot afford to send so many of our officers into the Reach without proper support, it could prove catastrophic for our cause." The Warden of the West had a point, but fortunately Jaime and Bronn had already thought of the answer to that problem. They would only send a handful of their less crucial knights and officers, the rest were to be commanded by sellswords such as the Brave Companions, various cutthroats hand chosen by Bronn, and even Shagga of the Stone Crows.
The inclusion of the clansmen in this venture certainly razed many questions and outrage from young Damion. "Lannister men taking orders from a mountain dog?! I can think of no greater insult or dishonor to the crown! What madness compelled you to enlist such a beast to our cause."
"Exactly," retorted Bronn losing patience with the boy. "He is a beast, a mad fuckin' beast gifted at killing men and disappearing into the wilds. He and the rest of his murderous lot have been doing it since before you were soiling your small clothes. If anyone can keep the flower cunts busy rooting around the countryside while we get ourselves in half decent shape, its him. So just be glad the old bugger grew bored with the Kingswood and was starving for blood and gold." Naturally, Damion and Davon did not take kindly to the knight of the Blackwater's disrespectful manner.
In fact, the only reason Damion didn't draw his blade was thanks to the queen who compelled her solitary Kingsguard to garner their attention. The beast did so by lumbering over to young Damion, the entire room fell silent save for the slight clinking of Gregor's armor. With each step both father and son grew paler and more tense, fearing the slightest motion might bring about their ends. Jaime watched anxiously as Gregor stopped behind the Lannister knight and placed his massive hands on the back of his seat. The boy looked like he would be sick, no doubt he had heard the stories of the Mountain's brutality, but in all honesty, who in the Seven Kingdoms hadn't?
It was only when the Queen spoke that anyone dare move, "Cousin Damion, while I applaud your concern for the dignity of the crown, my brother and ser Bronn are right. Let the rabble do what they are suited for and let those we can rely on most tend to greater tasks. The crown can rely on you and your father, can we not?" The lightly veiled threat wasn't lost on the pair, especially when the Mountain's hands drew closer to Damion's throat.
"Till our dying breaths, your grace." Interceded the lad's father, desperate to waylay any doubt to their loyalty. To further ensure the life of his son, the old Lannister then addressed the issue of the Targaryen girl and her three dragons, which if the reports were true had grown large enough to rival Aegon the Conqueror's.
Admittedly, Jaime was lost on how they would deal with the return of the fiery monsters of old. Conventional warfare was irrelevant to creatures that could soar above their arrows and render their men to ash in a moment. The kings of Westeros had learned that during the Battle of the Last Storm and the Field of Fire. Neither could they remain in their strongholds, hoping to outlast the storm. That had been Harran the Black's decision and because of it he along with all his heirs were roasted alive when Belerion the Dread bathed Harrenhal in its fire. However, that did not mean the dragons were invincible, they had been slain before.
To his surprise, it was Qyburn who broke the silence. "As commanded by her grace, I along with several other leading minds have attended to the creation of a more efficient scorpion design, one that can be mounted on the city walls or aboard any vessel in our fleet. We have also enlisted nearly every blacksmith within the city, under the supervision of Tohbo Mott, to fashion a stronger metal, one that can pierce the scaley hide of dragons."
The one-handed knight was skeptical, not only because he mistrusted the disgraced maester, but because they had no means of discerning whether their design or miraculous metal would work at all. "Qyburn, I've no doubt in your ingenuity, but should we base the defense of this city on a untested theory?" That seemed to amuse the mad intellect, as it elicited an out of character chuckle from him.
"Ser Jaime, I once told you that the only way to combat disease is to understand it, and the only way to understand it is to study the afflicted. Although the circumstances of war are different, the basic principle is the same. With her grace's permission, we have removed all the dragon skulls from beneath the keep, despite their advanced age the skeletal remains still prove most sturdy, allowing us to determine any faults within our designs or metal composition." It both amazed and disturbed the former commander of the Kingsguard, at how meticulous his sister's new hand was in all his ventures.
By his own admission, the man intentionally cut open dying men just so he could better understand the manner of their deaths. While he initially didn't care one way or the other about Qyburn's experiments or methods, provided they served their interests, Jaime was starting to see the dangers that Pycelle had spouted about. Throughout his life, he had seen men kill out of jealousy, greed, survival, even malice, these were things he could understand, but not curiosity. There was nothing personal about Qyburn's actions, they only feed his insatiable thirst for knowledge and challenged what was possible for mankind. In a way, the once expelled maester was beginning to remind him of the pyromancers Aerys surrounded himself with in the waning days of his reign.
But such worries would have to wait as his sister pressed the meeting forward. "As for Dorne, we'll see if the cripple's spine will endure after his son's head is sent back to him in a basket," The queen's voice was dripping with venom as she condemned their late daughter's betrothed. Jaime had almost forgotten that Prince Trystan was currently confined to one of the towers as their hostage. The boy was the only leverage they had with Dorne, and Cersei was foolishly throwing it away.
"Your grace, Prince Trystan is more valuable to us alive. Executing the boy would only consolidate Doran Martell's allegiance to the Dragon Queen." countered the one-handed twin, hoping to find some reason within his sister.
Sadly, there was no reason to be found in his former lover, for the Lioness long thrived off spiteful vendettas, regardless of how trivial or problematic they became. "The man conspires against the crown, against the house his son's betrothed belonged to. My sweet girl, who died under his watch. It is time he learns how it feels to have a child taken away from him while he is helpless to do anything to save them. I want him to scream as he holds his son's severed head in his clutches, I want him to weep as the dogs devour his son's body, I want him to tremble in his little wheelchair at the very mention of the name Lannister. Come the morning it will be so." With her final verdict hanging over him, Jaime had to refrain himself from speaking out further.
The rest of the meeting focused on the new King and Queen in the North, recognizing the complication Robert Baratheon's daughter posed. The Stormlands were on the brink of civil war between crown loyalists, and the True Stags, as the girl's supporters called themselves. Leading these rebels were lords Eldon Estermont, and Lester Morrigan, the former being the girl's great-grandfather, and the latter a supporter of both her uncles. How fortunate for them to find another Baratheon heir to pledge their shifting loyalties to. Still, the discourse meant they couldn't call upon a reliable force from the region.
There was a sudden change in his sister's demeanor at the mention of the girl's name, her emerald eyes gleamed with unbridled hatred, undoubtedly the memory of Robert plagued her mind. Cersei had endured many indignities since the beginning of their marriage, including the numerous bastards the late Stag King sired in their bedchamber. For the longest time, Jaime wanted to kill Robert for insulting his sister's honor, especially when he did so on his watch, but the children that were the result of his adultery meant nothing to the former Kingsguard. Not even Robert garnered them with his attention, he let Varys make the arrangements so that they were taken care of and kept out of sight. But that did them little good when Joffrey took the throne, starting his reign with their slaughter.
Thinking of the slaughter and this Mya girl, brought a faint memory to mind. It was just after Robert, Jon Arryn, and Ned Stark established the new royal line, the still formidable warrior considered sending for the child he sired during his wardship at the Eryie, in a moment of fatherly concern. Naturally, Cersei took offense at the prospect, considering she had just given birth to Joffrey, Robert's legitimate heir. She even went as far as to threaten the child's safety if brought to the capital. In response, the noble Stag King struck her, blackening her eye, but silently adhered to her demand. He must have known the lioness wouldn't leave the child be if he defied her wishes. As if by the Gods' cruel sense of irony, that's what saved the girl from the fate befalling the rest of Robert's illegitimate spawn.
A lifetime with Cersei left little doubt in his mind that she wanted the girl dead now more than ever, not just for political reasons, but to erase her own mistake and finally be rid of Robert's memory forever. While he silently mulled over his thoughts, his sister commanded that raven's be sent to all the houses in the Riverlands, particularly those that had supported Robb Stark during the war, reminding them of the fate that awaited those who took up arms against the Lion. Quoting the infamous song that illustrated the downfall of house Reyne. The tactic would work for some of the houses, but it was Tywin Lannister the Seven Kingdoms feared and obeyed not Cersei.
'With every cruel act she commits the more enemies she makes,' Ser Jaime silently lamented, as history was beginning to repeat itself. Their meeting concluded with the Queen's promise that Ned Stark's bastard, daughter, and daughter-in-law would be given the same view of the Red Keep after his head was mounted on a pike. The Kingslayer walked in silence as he, ser Bronn, and half-a-dozen Lannister guards marched beside Cersei and her two loyal followers. The halls echoed with their steel booted steps, as the servants cleared the way and bowing their heads.
The younger twin could no longer hold his tongue as they neared the open courtyard, "Cersei… I believe you should reconsider the Martell boy's fate, or at the very least wait until we have the grounds to take his head." At first, his sister acted as if she hadn't heard him, it wasn't until he pressed the issue a second time, that she reacted. With a abrupt stop the entire party waited as the queen turned to face him.
"Since when do you concern yourself with the wellbeing of a traitor's son? A traitor collaborating with the offspring of the madman you killed." Her emerald eyes were cold as ice as she awaited an answer. An answer he didn't fully know himself. What was it that compelled him to speak in defense of the Dornish Prince? Was it for political reasons, or was it a way to honor his daughter's memory, saving her betrothed's life after failing to save hers? Or was it because his journey with Brienne had awoken something within him that he thought was long gone, decency?
The later choice was absurd, a lifetime of this wretched world made him realize that decency was a fool's notion, one that often resulted in the man's death. Besides, even if it was true, it certainly wouldn't convince his sister to spare the Martell boy. "Myrcella cared for the boy, Cersei. I don't believe she'd take kindly to you murdering him."
"Myrcella is gone, murdered by the Sand bitch and her cohort of whores! A Lannister always pays their debts, and Trystan is just the beginning. The others will beg for a death as merciful as his," Raved the still grieving mother, wanting nothing more than to see those who took their child to suffer slowly. The Kingslayer was about to retort when a loud thunk and a sharp gasp cut through the air. Turning abruptly, everyone looked towards the rear guard who stood there shaking. With a slight gurgle the plated guardsman fell dead to the ground, a dagger piercing the base of his skull.
As if from the shadows several figures surrounded them, daggers in hand. Most were dressed as servants but two were dressed in Dornish garb, their faces covered by their scarves. Somehow, they had managed to infiltrate the keep, and had waited for the right moment to strike. As they all eyed each other, hands tightening on their weapons, ser Jaime felt his old instincts take hold, feeling a phantom twitch in his missing hand. Unfortunately, this only reminded him how great of a disadvantage he was at, in such situations.
After almost a year of training with Bronn, he had only regained a pitiful fraction of his former skill. Suddenly one of the assassins charged forward and with the drawing of steel the death's song began. Blocking a sweeping slash, the once fierce knight found himself being pushed back as the assailant pressed forward. His opponent fought in the true Dornish fashion, favoring quick and agile strikes over brute strength. Yet, in a rare moment of inspiration, ser Jaime locked blades with the assassin, before striking him across the face with his gilded hand.
The weight of the blow staggered the nameless cutthroat long enough for the Kingslayer to run him through. As he turned to meet his next adversary, he noticed that several of the guards had already fallen, now lying-in pools of their own blood. This left only Bronn, ser Gregor, two other guards and himself to defend Cersei. But the assassins had suffered losses as well, with two of them cut in half from the Mountain's great sword, while a third had his throat cut open by Bronn's dagger. That left only three Dornishmen to deal with.
One of the scarved figures raced towards the queen before ser Gregor intercepted him, unleashing a powerful one-handed slash aimed at the assassin's neck. To his amazement, the assassin ducked underneath the blade, sliding on his knees against the stone floor before turning on the behemoth. Either fueled by courage or madness the man engaged the Mountain single-handedly. Using his superior agility to avoid several fatal blows, the Dornishman sidestepped past ser Gregor's reach before closing in, landing one of his own. As the giant raised his blade for a overhanded slash, the assassin drove his curved blade into the dreaded knight's armpit. But to his growing horror the Mountain didn't bleed out, instead he simply seized the stunned man by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
The would-be assassin's feet violently kicked as the gloved hand tightened around his neck until a sickening crunch echoed throughout the courtyard. With cold indifference ser Gregor then tossed the limb body aside before setting his sights on his next victim. Ser Jaime hadn't seen such brutality and strength since his brother's trial by combat but wonder and horror would have to wait until later, there was still bloody work to do. It was just out of the corner of his eye, that ser Jaime notice one of the remaining assassins charging at him. Turning to face the threat, the Kingslayer thrusted his blade forward, hoping his opponent's momentum would work against him. The assassin however, sidestepped the blow before tackling him to ground, knife in hand.
Struggling with his adversary, Jaime braced his right arm to keep the dagger away from his throat. But the blade continued to descend towards him, lashing out desperately with his left hand the Oathbreaker grabbed at the man's face. The dagger, however, did not relent until the sworn knight plunged his thumb into the man's eye. Amidst the screaming and curses ser Jaime managed to force the assassin off him, desperately reaching for his sword.
Just as it was within his grasp, the assassin snatched the blade away from him. Starring up at his would-be killer, the eldest son of Tywin Lannister starred unwaveringly into the hate filled eyes… or eye of the assassin. While he had always known death in battle to be a possibility, especially after losing his sword hand, but he never thought it would end like this, with him swordless and on his back. However, he could take some solace knowing he would die in defense of his sovereign ruler, a sacrifice that so many of his former brothers in the Kingsguard had done without hesitation. 'Because they swore an oath…' ser Jaime thought to himself, imagining how his page in the White Book would read now.
'Ser Jaime Lannister, knighted at fifteen by ser Arthur Dayne, for valor against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Sworn to the Kingsguard at Harrenhal by King Aerys Targaryen II. During the Sack of King's Landing stabbed his king in the back. Pardoned by King Robert and taken into his own Kingsguard. Forever known as the Kingslayer. Held captive during the War of Five Kings, and safely returned by Brienne of Tarth. Upheld his oath to lady Catelyn by charging his friend and companion Brianne with the safety and protection of the Stark girls. Died defending the Crown.'
It wasn't as glorious as his predecessor'sentries, but it was the truth. Perhaps that was enough. But such an honest end for Kingslayer wouldn't be so… not today at least. As the assassin raised his stolen blade an arm wrapped around his neck, hindering his movement before a second blade erupted from his chest. The assassin blanched, his one good staring blankly at the blood-stained steel protruding from his body. While a strong yank from behind the blade was removed, allowing a spurt of blood to stain the floor. It wasn't long before the stolen sword fell to the ground, then the assassin, revealing none other than ser Bronn of the Blackwater.
The former sellsword looked at Jaime, as he began cleaning his weapon, wiping it against his britches. When he spoke his voice was weary from the fight, but not even that could hinder his insolent tongue. "I'm getting fucking tired of having to save your blonde ass." Shotting his friend an unamused look, Jaime took the offered hand and rose to his feet. Although short, the skirmish had been bloody, the only other survivors were himself, Bronn, Qyburn, Cersei and ser Gregor of course.
Looking upon his sister, he saw the flash of fear in her eyes before it was swept away by unbridled fury. Both for the assassination attempt itself and how weak it made her feel. Whatever tirade she was about to unleash was forgotten at the sound of painful laughter. Apparently, one of their assailants still had some life left in him.
"You… fools… gah!" the man croaked, clutching his guts with blood pooling around him as they drew near. "Our blades would have been a mercy, but instead… you've chosen to burn."
The Mountain, sword in hand prepared to finish him off, until Cersei stopped the beast with a simple gesture. Taking two steps forward his sister then addressed the dying assassin with a gentle yet condescending manner. "So, this is Doran Martell's grand design? His contribution to the Targaryen bitch's cause? Half a dozen men in the night, armed with their little knives? I must admit it is more than I expected from the old cripple, but much like his spine it proved too weak to stand." His sister's words made ser Jaime wonder about what had just transpired. While fierce, the attempt seemed ill-planned, as there were too few murderers, and far better ambush sites within the keep alone
The reigning queen didn't so much as tilt her head when looking down on the man, adding further insult to his misery. "But perhaps I owe him thanks, now I can send a procession befitting a prince when I send Trystan's head back to your precious Water Gardens."
What was meant to instill fear and despair, instead brought about another bout of laughter, perplexing both Lannisters. "It will be hard… to take that which you no longer have."
"What do you mean." Interjected the Kingslayer, pulling at the man's shirt so that their eyes met. In response the Dornishman merely smirked before spitting in the face of house Lannister's most infamous knight. Wiping away the blood and spit streaking his face, ser Jaime barely contained his anger, but upon noticing the looming shadow from behind, he couldn't help garnering his own smirk. The Mountain's method of interrogation was as simple as it was barbaric. Wrenching the assassin from the ground, ser Gregor took the Southerner's hand within his own and began crushing it.
The man, to his credit, didn't answer their questions until blood started seeping through the gauntlet covered hand of the beast. Amidst the maddening screams he uttered four intelligible words, "A distraction… Sand Snakes!" With a sudden realization, ser Jaime took Bronn as well as the newly arrived reinforcements, leaving his sister under the protection of her beast, and raced to the tower where their hostage was being held. The attempt was merely a diversion, allowing the Sand Snakes the opportunity to rescue their cousin, thus freeing Doran to fully commit his armies to the Targaryen girl. He could only hope that it wasn't too late. But upon arrival, it was clear they were exactly that, the two guards posted at the door were dead.
Throats slashed and their breeches undone, having met the Sand Snakes it wasn't hard to discern what had happened. They had tempted the guards with their beauty, but rather than bringing them pleasure the daughters of Oberyn Martell brought them death. As the commander of the Lannister forces, Jaime couldn't afford to waste any more time as as the quarry grew further and further away. "Bronn, have our men and the Goldcloaks seal all the gates, and make sure every ship stays at anchor. I don't care if you must drag every captain from their beds and throw them into the black cells. No one leaves the capital."
At first it looked as if the sellsword was about to argue the futility of it all, but one look from the Kingslayer compelled him to hold his insolent tongue for the first and probably last time. "For all the good it'll do," the sellsword remarked as he followed his orders with their men in toe.
Starring into his reflection in the pool of blood, ser Jaime marveled at how events had turned against them so easily. Not even an hour ago they had devised a plan that would give them a fighting chance against their enemies, but thanks to house Martell the future of Tywin Lannister's precious legacy grew darker. The Red Viper would be so proud of his bastard daughters, as Dorne's vengeance for their princess drew closer.
Winterfell
Her uncle's arrival hadn't come soon enough for Sansa's liking. In the last week word had reached Winterfell that one of their patrols had been ambushed along the confluence of the White Knife, their attackers had appeared and disappeared like the wind, leaving only two survivors. From their description of their assailants, they were not common brigands or any remnants of Ramsay's followers. What the survivors remembered most about them were the seven-pointed stars carved into their brows. Whoever they were, they were clearly from the South. Very few houses in the North worshiped the Seven, and none of them would strike against their own people like this, regardless of their faith.
As a skilled knight, who commanded her brother Robb's scouts during the War of Five Kings, the Blackfish would undoubtedly track down these murderers and deal with them… permanently. Which was one reason why she was eagerly awaiting his approach in the courtyard with Brienne and Podrick at her side. There was that and the development her uncle wanted to discuss in person. His letter had been vague and cryptic in tone, which was not to be taken lightly from her mother's uncle. Since their reunion, it became quite clear her great-uncle was not prone to subtlety, preferring 'directness' when speaking to others. The eldest daughter of Catelyn Tully found his candor quite endearing. Aside from her brother, Brienne, and her squire there was no one else she could trust completely.
Her uncle would only change his stubborn ways if it were a matter of great importance. 'But what could it be,' she thought as the restored gates opened, welcoming the company of riders within their walls.
Riding at the head of the column was the famed veteran of House Tully, grey cloak coated with snow. Upon drawing back his hood, the grey-haired knight dismounted his horse, before handing the reins to the new stable master. As he stepped forward, ser Brynden looked as serious as ever, bearing the air of a respected commander. For a moment, even Sansa was taken in by the proud appearance of her uncle, the hero of half-a-hundred battles, the envy of many young lads aspiring to be legendary knights themselves. Just being related to him filled her heart with pride, pride for her mother's house, and being her mother's daughter.
"Lady Sansa," her uncle politely addressed as he bowed his head, a faint smile gracing the corner of his lips as he looked upon her.
Returning the smile, she simply replied, "Uncle." When their eyes met Sansa embraced him in a sincere hug. As his arms wrapped around her, it never ceased to amaze the eldest Stark girl how someone so stern could be so gentle at the same time. "It is good to see you, uncle."
"And you child. You look more like your mother every time we meet." His kind words brought both joy and sorrow to her. All her life she had wanted to be like her mother, but at the same time it served as a reminder that she was gone… murdered by the monsters garbed in the silk and vibrant colors she dreamed of as a child. When the Lady of Winterfell thought of her younger self, she felt so frustrated and ashamed of how taken in she was with Joffrey, his mother, and all the other ladies of the royal court. From the very moment they set foot in her family's ancestral home, every kind word, every sweet promise had been a lie, and like a fool she believed them.
How much horror had her family endured because of her desire to be a princess, in love with her noble prince? She now understood why Arya couldn't stand her growing up, not even she could stand the memory of her younger self. Yet, it was only because of the ordeals she suffered she had grown wiser, and more adamant in her own fate 'What was the saying," the eldest Stark girl silently mused. 'Wisdom often comes to us at a hefty price.' That price had been her innocence and most of those dearest to her heart, but innocence wouldn't save those who were left.
Noticing her uncle's concern gaze, she put aside her musing and like the dutiful lady of the household, invited him and their present company into the great hall for a private audience. Lady Stark, noticed that ser Robin Ryger, her uncle's second in command, wasn't joining them. Instead, they were joined by three figures with their hoods drawn over their faces. Under normal circumstances this would have caused the young courtier concern, but these three strangers were brought before her by the Blackfish. If he even suspected them of treachery, they wouldn't have gotten within a hundred leagues of Winterfell, and her uncle knew how to make them vanish without a trace.
Sealing the doors to the great hall, Brienne and Podrick stood watch as the others gathered around the king's table. The first to speak was her uncle, explaining his departure from Motte Cailin. "As commanded by you and his grace, my men and I garrisoned the ancient keep preparing advanced parties to scout out the Riverlands and see what houses would stand with us when the time came. Upon arrival, we fortified its defenses, as unlikely as it was that our presence would garner the attention of house Frey or worse Lannister. A lifetime of warfare has taught me one thing, if one prepares for the worst, they can never be taken unaware." Ser Brynden Tully then gestured for the three strangers to step forward.
Now in full view the strangers drew back their hoods, revealing two men and a woman. "But not even I knew what to expect when they came riding up the causeway asking to speak with me," her uncle continued. "I bring before you Gunnar Wood of the Wolfswood, who served as one of my outriders on the march to Riverrun and in Robb's incursion to the Westerlands. Rhena the Huntress of Bear Island, and Bennard of the Stony Shore."
The first two, Gunnar Wood and Rhena had the typical look of the North, dark of hair, pale complexion, and average height. Their companion, however, was taller by a foot, his skin looked dry, no doubt from living on the coast all his life, but what truly drew the young lady's attention were the scars on the right side of his face. They ran deep from his temple all the way down to his jawline. She couldn't even begin to imagine what could inflicted such wounds, or how he survived them. As the lady of Winterfell continued to gaze upon him, she was reminded of another similarly maimed man, one she hadn't thought of in years. Someone who, despite his gruff and harsh manner, had shown her more kindness and honesty than anyone in King's Landing, save lord Tyrion.
Sansa couldn't help but wonder what had happened to her grim protector, after he disappeared during the madness of Stannis' assault on the Red Keep. Part of her hoped to see the Hound again, to thank him for watching over her and for trying to open her eyes to how the world could be. But such musings would have to wait, as she noticed her fixed gaze was making the man uncomfortable. She then turned her attention to the other two, "You are all of the North? Why where you south of the Neck?"
Gunnar Wood was the first to speak, "We all marched south with your brother, the late King Robb, after he called his banners to arms. We fought proudly for the King in the North, until the damn massacre the singers call the Red Wedding."
"In one bloody night, we not only lost our King, but our home, and our freedom. We… we were left with naught, while the same treacherous bastards who cut us open, were granted everything we fought and bled for." finished Rhena, hands clenched into fists. Despite the distance between them, Sansa could see the anger in her eyes, an anger she knew all too well. Taking turns, both the woodsman and the archer from Bear Island continued their story. How they escaped the slaughter by mere chance, resorting to banditry to survive while being hunted by the conspirators, and slowly gathering others like them. As they finished the tale, Sansa let out a remorseful sigh, reminded that her family hadn't been the only ones to suffer at the hands of house Frey, Lannister, and Bolton.
Her attention fell on Bennard once again, realizing his wounds had most likely occurred at the hands of one these fiends, most likely house Bolton. From what she saw during her captivity within her own home, the eldest Stark girl learned first-hand that most of the soldiers shared their master's sick notion of amusement. She approached the silent ox, much to his and everyone else's surprise. "House Stark is forever indebted to you… all of you, for what you've endured in our name. I assure you that justice will be done to those responsible. We will also see to it that you are properly compensated in coin and safely returned to your homes."
It was the very least she could do, they had suffered enough on their behalf, and deserved some measure of peace. However long that was before the War for the Dawn, as her brother called it, began in earnest. But in this moment, it simply felt right to do this, an act of decency towards others without expecting anything in return. It had been so long since she had done something like this, it almost felt like she was reviving a part of herself that had been long dead and buried. But she then noticed that instead of looks of gratitude and relief, her guests seemed hesitant.
"My Lady, that's not why we came here today." replied Gunnar Wood as respectfully as possible. Catching her by surprise, Sansa took a moment to comprehend what she heard. "Each and every one of us lost someone we cared for. We don't want to return home, not while their killers still live." Sansa looked to the others who silently nodded in agreement, their eyes longing for the blood that was owed to them. She could not deny she had felt the same desire and had gleefully satisfied it by feeding Ramsay to his own hounds. To deny them of their request would make herself a hypocrite.
But as the lady Stark considered it, she realized the opportunity presented to her. Here before her were loyal northerners, eager to fight their enemies, whose allegiance couldn't be bought, and had no qualms about performing… less honorable deeds. A pang of guilt suddenly gripped her conscience, to use her countrymen in such a way, one that will no doubt lead to some of their deaths. But it wasn't for her own benefit, it was for her family and the Northern Realm. Perhaps if she told herself that enough times, she would believe it.
Turning to the company's leader, she made her proposal. "Lord Wood, I offer you a choice; to join with my brother's army, to serve at his beck and call and face our enemies in the open field, or to be of greater service to your Kingdom, countrymen, and house Stark." At first the woodsman looked both surprised and intrigued as she continued. "To defend us all from false friends and traitors alike."
"My lady?" he blurted out in confusion. Knowingly, the Lady of Winterfell explained to him that the fate of her father and brother had taught her the dangers of betrayal from their own ranks. If they were to avoid another massacre, they would need keen eyes and hears to ferret out any would-be traitors. They would also be given the freedom to deal with these individuals accordingly. Upon hearing her words, the three rogues looked to one another, nodding in agreement. While not as momentous as her brother's election as King in the North, the auburn=haired lass felt a surge of pride and confidence as they knelt before her.
Yet as Sansa looked upon their new followers, she realized that before they could even contend with Littlefinger's agents, she would have to test them. Fortunately, fate had given them an opportunity to do so.
Baying the to rise, the daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark gave them their first command. "Gunnar Wood, not long ago one of our patrols were set upon by brigands bearing the seven-pointed star. Those brigands are now hiding in the countryside. I hereby charge you with finding them and to deal with them in any fashion you deem necessary, save for their leader who is to be brought back here so they may stand trial." As they swore to do as she commanded, Sansa experienced a moment of clarity and inspiration, realizing the perfect name for their company. They would guard her secrets with silence and bring the only boon the Stranger granted to men. They would be the Silent Brotherhood.
Finally, chapter seven is done! Apologies for the long delay, but work, graduation, and writer's block really slowed things down.
So, to sum it up, every faction is experiencing complications to their plans, whether it be fanatics, Ironborn raiders, assassination attempts/escaping prisoners. Jon and Mya are still trying to figure each other out and their situation, and like any realistic couple there are going to be arguments. For the record, Daenerys will not be one of them later in the story. While I recognize the drama potential, I can't get past the whole aunt/nephew thing (Bleurgh). Any Targaryen relative shippers will just have to make do with the fact that Jon and Mya are very distant cousins.
Littlefinger is plotting of course, hoping to reconsolidate his position, Jaime is desperately trying to manage the unfavorable odds against them, and Cersei's growing madness. All the while Sansa is trying to establish something the North lacked in the War of Five Kings, a network of versatile agents.
Please let me know what you think, what needs improvement, as always constructive criticism is welcomed. Thank you for your patience.