No king should sit easily. Those were the words of Aegon the Conqueror as he had forged the iron throne in dragonflame. He made it so. The swords were sharp on his arms, legs and back, one wrong slip and he would slice himself open on the barbs and twisted steel. He knew that Lord Tywin had disliked sitting the throne, far preferring to rule from council meetings and the Tower of the Hand where he could pass decrees as he wished. Act, rather than react. But since the queen had put the badge of office into his hand and asked for his service, Sebaston had come to find peace atop the cruel construct. Here he could listen to petitioners from the city and beyond and address their concerns. Many of them were rude, many detested him, many thought him inadequate for this office, and many nobles wondered why he, a middling lord from a middling isle that he couldn't even keep safe from the ironmen, had come to this seat. Many, he knew, thought that they would serve the role better. Mayhaps they were right, but Sebaston far preferred dealing with them rather than the king's family. Not the king himself to be sure. King Tommen was sat beside the iron throne, on a desk designed and made for him, in an attempt to make him look bigger than he was. On that desk he was making notes and decrees were placed before him to affix the royal seal.

Sebaston flexed his shoulders. Today would be worse than most. Ordinarily the concerns came from the city or the immediate surroundings, but today the concerns came from the Reach. Lady Arwyn Oakheart, had sent her eldest son Bors to the capital to present her case to the iron throne against House Crakehall, who had sent their own heir Tybolt to defend them.

"Your grace," Bors bowed low to Tommen, "Lord Hand." Tybolt mimicked him. Sebaston noted their garb. Tybolt had come in knightly garb, while Bors, despite his bulk, was dressed in formal finery.

"Present your case to the crown, ser Bors," Sebaston commanded.

"If I may, my lord," Bors beckoned and a dozen smallfolk shuffled forwards, bowing nervously. "These smallfolk are all that remain of the villages of Redroofs and Colben, villages under the authority and protection of House Oakheart since the days before Aegon's conquest. Now they are no more. Raiders came upon them with fire, and only a fortunate few were able to escape to Old Oak."

"If you were charged with their protection, where were your knights?" Lord Baelish asked. He was one of only three council representatives present, the others being Pycelle and himself. The rest were preparing for a council meeting later that afternoon, leaving Sebaston to hold the throne. He was standing next to the throne on the right, and Pycelle on the left. Aside from himself and the king, everyone stood, lords, knights and petitioners all.

"Tell me?" Sebaston said calmly. Ser Bors made to speak, but Sebaston held out his hand. "The witnesses, ser Bors, or were you present when the village was attacked?"

The smallfolk stammered over each other, but with some coaxing, he was able to get as full a picture as could be expected. "No banners, and little armour to them. It certainly sounds like brigands," Littlefinger said.

One of the survivors was a septa. "I only survived because I was collecting herbs in the nearby woods," she said, "even the sept wasn't spared." Sebaston noted the looks on the holy men in the room, dark and thunderous and no doubt the High Septon would hear of it before long. That was the last thing they needed, the High Septon seemed to have a new grievance with every day or message that passed between the Red Keep and the Great Sept.

"They took everything," said a cobbler beside her.

"My question remains unanswered, where were your knights," lord Baelish said.

Ser Bors did not look at the master of coin, instead looking up only at Sebaston. "What knights we have set out to hunt down these brigands, we chased them north where we were turned away at the border of the West, by Crakehall men." He jabbed an accusing finger at Tytos."

"We will not have Oakheart men riding across our fields, whatever violence and disorder they have is theirs to keep."

"Rooting out brigands serves all, if Crakehall will not do it themselves, we would know why, if the answer weren't obvious."

"Make accusation like that at your peril, ser!" Tytos' hand clamped into an armoured fist.

"Initiate violence in the court at yours, ser Tytos!" Sebaston demanded. Ser Loras took a step forward, his hand on his sword hilt. The hall was still simmering with mutters. Everyone knew what it would mean if House Crakehall was sending men to raid the lands of House Oakheart. The lord Crakhall was sworn bannerman to Casterly Rock, and lady Oakheart to Highgarden, one of which controlled the armies of the realm, and the other its fleets and foodstuffs. "Ser Bors, what proof have you that these brigands came from Crakhall lands?"

"We chased them there, my lord Hand, I led it myself. My lady mother demands answers, but our riders to Crakehall receive none. We demand to know why raiders are able to attack us while our banners are raised in the stormlands."

"Again you cast aspursions on us with no proof but what you claim your eyes see."

"Ser Tytos-"

"I will give you the proof of my eyes, my lord. I come from the war front in the stormlands to answer these accusations against my house, where I count two Crakehalls for every Oakheart."

"My lord," Pycelle said, his voice thin. "This matter is unbecoming of the crown. Lord Lannister and Lord Tyrell are here in the keep, let us bring this matter to them to discuss."

And start another battle right under my nose. No, If I can end this without bringing it before them all the better. He couldn't help but think of how the last war had started, Tywin Lannister sending the Mountain to raid the riverlands and draw out the Hand of the King. He saw nothing of the sort here. Like as not these were brigands, perhaps out of work sellswords from the war taking advantage of the borderlands to pillage at will, or ironmen from the isles looking for plunder. He asked ser Tytos if there were any raids on Crakehall lands. "I know not my lord, we are fighting the war, a raven must needs be sent to Crakehall to hear from my lady mother."

Pycelle said, "My lord, I urge again, let us summon the lieges of these lords and allow this matter to be discussed between them."

"I see a matter of turmoil, disorder and justice, all stem from the crown, Grand Maester." Whether it was border raids or brigandage, Sebaston would learn the truth of it, and crush it. He would not allow these sparks to blow into a wider flame, he was already trying to quash too many fires, he would not and could not allow another.

He looked throughout the room. "Lord Adrien Wendwater, ser Maron Chelsted, ser Qarl Thorne. Each of you are to assemble one hundred men, and you will ride for Old Oak and the lands of House Oakheart and Crakehall under the king's banner. You will learn the truth of what happened and find those responsible. Root them out and sentence them to death. Lord Wendwater, you shall have the command as befits your rank." He bowed. "Ready your men, you leave at first opportunity. "Ser Tytos, ser Bors, you will each accompany Lord Wendwater and abide by his decisions. Ser Armond Waters. You will escort the villagers back to their lands at a slower pace. Ensure every one returns safely."

He nodded to the court scribe who left to begin drawing up the document granting lord Adrien the appropriate authority. Mutterings and murmurs were sweeping the throne room and men and women were slipping out, no doubt running to be the first to deliver the news to Mace Tyrell and Loren Lannister. As long as they didn't come to him together and united, he felt he could sieve the demands that would come, and they never came together and united. Others were looking at him angrily, neither Bors nor Tytos was satisfied with his actions. Such was his lot. A traitor in the eyes of the westermen who would expect him to serve their interests, and a lackey to the reachmen who say him protecting his fellows.

He raised his hand. "There will be no more business presented to the court today." He stood carefully and descended the steps. A worse day than most. With luck the next time the disputes would be easier matters, the placement of border stones, rights of justice or blood feuds.

He stopped by the bottom to look at the notes that Tommen had been making and congratulated him. Tommen asked some questions on the rulings he had made and he answered as best he could - he never knew how to talk to children - but when Tommen started asking questions about broader policy or hypothetical situations, Sebaston directed him to speak with his tutors and sent him away.

Tommen will be a good king when he has come into his manhood, Sebaston thought. But he had to be careful. His position was precarious, if he took too much control of the king's upbringing, he would find himself stripped of his position and sent back to Fair Isle. As much as he wanted to go, he couldn't, he was still needed here.


He hurried to the council chambers to make sure he was the first one there and to take his seat beside the Queen-Regent's. If he could be there first, then he could judge the mood of everyone as they arrived, rather than trying to judge the mood of an entire table. One by one, far easier. He had opted for a lighter grey tunic for the meeting, plain as always, apart from a small Farman badge on his breast. His position was still insecure, and until then, he would dress without ostentation. He missed his finer shirts, but the realm came first.

Lords Loren and Varys were the first to arrive, with Varys discussing reports from his birds around Duskendale, talking of unrest in the recently recaptured town. But before Sebaston could inquire further, Lords Tyrell and Baelish arrived, talking of ships and sailors and how the crown lacked many of both, or the money to make more. Sebaston was well aware of that, and was glad that this meeting was not about that. Lord Baelish was famous for being able to conjure dragons from nothing, but whatever his magic was, it was running thin, even with the restored tax revenues from the far Reach and Dorne now that the war was again confined, the gold was leaving the treasury faster than it could enter.

The Grand Maester hobbled in shortly afterwards, accompanied by ser Kevan, and Sebaston wondered if the Master of Laws had met Pycelle on the way, or if Kevan had taken it upon himself to go and fetch the Grand Maester himself.

Sebaston greeted them all in turn as they sat and when the Queen-Regent entered, they all stood until she had taken her own seat at the head of the table.

"There is much to discuss, so let's begin." She declared. "The High Septon still refuses to bless Tommen's reign."

"Or condone his marriage to Margaery," Mace Tyrell added. How many sparrows has he sent us now?"

"Forty-one, and not all sparrows," Sebaston said. He had met with all of them himself, many were from these new sparrowing supporters of the new High Septon, a brute named Tominor, a slender man name Fredreck, who played at being noble like child playing come into my castle, and a third sparrow, a woman this time, who addressed him and for half the conversation thought she was talking to the King directly. Others had been septons from across the city and finally members of the most devout. All of them were calling on King Tommen to come to the Great Sept. Sebaston had wanted to agree to it, if only to put the matter to bed and bring the faith in behind them, but the Queen Regent would never allow it.

"Have we not all been to the sept at some point or other?" Lord Mace asked, gruff and impatient. "Will he never relent?"

"Not until the king is before him, and that I will allow," Cersei declared.

"I quite agree, your grace," Sebaston said. There was nothing more to be done on the matter of the High Septon, and so he would remain Cersei's voice on this matter. The more she trusted him as hers, the more she trusted him with other matters that needed a cooler head.

The matter wasn't settled, and couldn't be at the council table, so after an appropriate amount of time dedicated to the issue, they moved on to the next: The distribution of castles in the Stormlands. Here matter were more heated. Cersei favoured stripping all of the stormlords of their castles and titles and replacing them with loyal men. Loren, in contrast, favoured offers of amnesty to be held out as long as possible to induce surrenders among Shireen's loyalists. Lord Mace attempted to walk a finer path that proposed allowing lords to claim castles by right of conquest, he of course had a number of fine and loyal candidates in mind. But loyal to whom. The Gardner Kings of the Reach had attempted to subjugate the Stormlands to the Reach on several occasions, is Mace Tyrell looking to complete that work.

There had to be a stop to that. "Lord Mace, we gave away castles we didn't have once already," Sebaston reminded him. "How many keeps in the Riverlands should be flying with new banners of new lords?" He didn't mention that we lost the war, that always upset the council. "We should wait until the castles are ours before we give them to others."

Loren agreed, reminding the council that Tyrion had been promised Harrenhal and now not only had Robb Stark defeated them in the war, he was now wiping Harrenhal off the map. Other lords who had earned castles and lands in the Riverlands were still smarting at what they had never been able to claim. Sebaston wished he had said nothing, now lord Mace was looking at him like he had sided with the Lannisters.

"And when will that be?" Cersei asked, glaring at her brother.

"As soon as we can."

"I need more information than that."

Loren sighed. "We have increased our strength in the Stormlands by sending soldiers from King's Landing."

"You would weaken our defences here?"

"We have enough to defend against another attack like before. But Shireen Baratheon's army is around Storm's End, when she hears of Joffrey's death, she might be tempted to test our resolve. We need to reinforce the soldiers there. When I go to join them, we will march, and I will go when matters are settled here."

Perhaps seeing Cersei's anger and trying to offset it, Lord Baelish spoke next. "If I may, my lords, I fear that master Reolchis cannot be hedl back much longer. I have spent every meeting assuring him we will do all that we can to repay the loans we owe the Iron Bank, but he is not as easy to mollify as before. Ever since Joffrey died he has become more ardent in his belief that gold must pay back to Braavos."

That wasn't good. If the emissary of the iron bank determined that the regime was crippled by the death of the king, unable to keep order in the city against the High Septon and facing possible reversals in the war, might they at last switch their support to Shireen Baratheon? They could not allow that. Emissary Reolchis needed to be sent away with a very juicy bone as soon as possible. "Send him to the Tower of the Hand, lord Baelish, I will see what can be done."

"Are you sure, my lord? He might take the escalation to expect some sort of result."

Sebaston nodded. "Yes, leave it with me."


Nymar Reolchis was a slender figure in soft plum clothing and a felt hat who took the seat opposite Sebaston when offered. "I hope your stay in the city has been welcoming."

The representative of the Iron Bank maintained an air of forced courtesy. "It has. Although I must say the efforts to get me to go hunting and hawking are getting rather tiresome."

Delaying efforts, Sebaston was sure. "You don't partake?"

"I am not like you westerosi lords, who can call upon rents from their estates to fund such activities. I am a humble employee of the Iron Bank, I get paid to do my work, and all these attempts to entertain me interfere with my work here."

"I understand you have been meeting with the Master of Coin, has he not been able to assist you with your work?"

"He tries, but his assistance comes as promises and excuses. For a decade we have had promises, and for three years we have had excuses. The Iron Bank has had it's fill of both. We have loaned much gold to King Robert. Under the terms of those loans, we want the money we are owed."

Straight to the point then. "As I am certain Lord Baelish explained, we do not currently have a means of repaying, firstly, we are still at war, and secondly, rebel fleets blockade the bay, we cannot send gold out without it falling into the hands of our enemies."

That didn't impress master Reolchis. "I came through the Vale of Arryn, still part of your Seven Kingdoms, I understand, there was no blockade there."

"But we no longer have a land route to the Vale, the King in the North controls those roads, and until our relationship is more certain, we cannot put treasury gold into wagons and send them across his territory."

"I believe I said, my lord Hand, that the Iron Bank has had its fill of excuses."

"It is no empty excuse. If we could rely upon sending gold to you, I would gladly order it put onto ships this very day, but we cannot rely upon that gold not falling into the hands of our enemies." Reolchis didn't reply, he just stared. "But speaking of the Vale, that might be a solution."

"How?"

Sebaston didn't want to resort to this, he doubted Cersei would have agreed and the risk was great, but they couldn't risk the Iron Bank deciding that they wouldn't repay their loans. So he would act with the authority of the Hand of the King. "When this war began, the Vale took no side, husbanding their armies and their strength. Due to Stannis Baratheon's fleet controlling the seas and the Riverlands being a war zone, the Iron Throne is currently owed two years of back taxes from the Vale that have not yet been delivered. I will have the documents drawn up to allow you to claim those taxes as your repayment." He didn't like it. He had hoped that the influx of tax money when the war was done could be used to rebuild the burned sections of King's Landing, make it better than before. And until then, if the Vale were to stay out of the war, then that was better than them siding with Shireen Baratheon. He had to pray they didn't see this as an antagonism to push them away. Unlikely, but the lords of the Vale were a prickly lot, and he was sure they would look less than kindly on a banker coming to collect their taxes rather than a representative of the crown. "Would this be acceptable to you?"

Reolchis stroked his chin thoughtfully. "My understanding of the tax revenues is that this will not be enough to cover the monies we are owed."

"But it is better than nothing, and all that is in our means to repay at the moment, until the war is over and the bay open."

"And you cannot tell me when that will be."

"I cannot promise. With the luck of the gods, shortly."

"Very well. I will accept your proposal on behalf of the Iron Bank, on one condition. Until the war ends, we may collect the annual tax revenues from the Vale to cover your debt."

That would be unpopular, but Sebaston saw no other choice. He knew that he could get Loren and Mace to consent by claiming that Reolchis had insinuated the Bank would support Shireen Baratheon if it didn't get its money. But Cersei… He would have to get her in a good mood. And he had plans for that gold, he was hoping the money that would come in after the routes were opened would allow them to rebuild King's Landing. I will just have to find another source.

"I can accept that, on one condition of our own. Our fleet is fully engaged in combatting the rebels, as such I cannot provide escorts to the shipments. While you are collecting the taxes for repayment, they cross the sea in your peril."

"That is unacceptable." It was a bold request. With the money in their possession, the repayment would have been considered to be repaid once taken on board a ship in the Vale docks. If it was lost to storm or pirates, it was not held the fault of the crown.

"You must understand, we cannot escort the money, this is the only way."

"And I say to you, my lord, the Iron Bank absolutely cannot accept these terms." Sebaston reached for a bottle of wine. He had learned from his dealings with the Lannisters and Tyrells that when the principles were agreed, absolutes were rarely absolute. It took many hours of haggling and drinking to make the deal acceptable, but master Reolchis left with a means of repayment, and Sebaston sat back in his chair knowing one more matter had been settled, at least for now.

Two days later Sebaston was working at his desk in the early hours of the day. Reolchis was gone with a royal charter granting him the right to collect the taxes of the Vale, the council were mollified, although Lord Baelish and Cersei were resistant at first, the rest agreed with Sebaston's actions. Loren had shrugged and muttered that the money wasn't coming out of the treasury, so it was no great loss. Mace Tyrell was less certain on the idea of pawning off the right to collect taxes to a foreigner. But Sebaston had met him earlier that day and promised favourable tax exemptions for food from the Reach once the war was over, so that the Vale could not undercut them now that the Reach had suffered the fires of war, so in the council, he also agreed.

"Working early, brother." He glanced up from his desk.

"I'm always working early, Androw. I need to get as much done as I can before people start hounding me with requests. So, what is it?" He saw that face enough to know that a request was incoming.

Androw sat before him. "I wondered if you had considered my earlier request."

Sebaston clamped his lips together so he didn't groan out loud. "I have not. There is nothing more to consider."

"It is within your power, just slide the document in front of the king. You said yourself Tommen seals whatever he is told to seal."

"He does," he is a good lad after all. "But all the same, I will not ask him to sign a decree of legitimisation for you."

Androw's face darkened with anger. Sebaston had never entertained the notion of legitimising Androw, but still his brother acted like he had snatched away a promised cake. "Brother, you are unmarried with no children, you must think of the security of House Farman."

"We have a sister, who is happily married to a man I like and trust with twelve children. The line of Farman is secure enough. And in any case, that wouldn't help you. You are my mother's bastard, not my fathers. We don't even know what family we would be legitimising you into, unless you wanted to hunt down the sea captain who seduced her and ask him." Sebaston took a sip of water. "I have promised that I will push for you to be granted a castle of your own once the Stormlands are taken, but I cannot legitimise you."

"You could make me one of my mother's house."

"And how, pray tell my dear brother, would I inform Lord Grim that he has a new grandson? Everyone would see that as me, a westerman ensuring that my brother, another westerman, has a claim on a title in the Reach. I am trying to keep the realm together, brother. I will not burn those efforts for you to have our mother's name." Androw understood that the matter was over and stood to leave. "I shall return to my duties, my lord Hand."

Part of Sebaston wanted to call out to him and ask him back to make sure all was well, but he needed to work, he would do it later.

He didn't get through much more work when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind him from the bedchamber. He kept working as they entered the room. "You didn't sleep well last night. You should still be in bed."

"I can't, Duncan. I need to work."

"You can't work if you're worn to exhaustion. Come back to bed." Duncan laid his hand on Sebaston's shoulder, but he shook it off.

"I thought you wanted me to relax, not get excited?"

"We don't have to fuck, we could just talk, we haven't talked properly since you were named Hand."

"Oh, and what would we talk about? I can hardly discuss affairs of state with a bard."

"Why do you think everything must be about your position. Maybe we could talk about simple things."

"Like what?"

"Oh I don't know Seb, anything. I could thank you for getting me a position in the Queen's household."

Sebaston shook his head. "I just made an introduction, you earned your position as one of her bards."

"Well thank you anyway."

"My pleasure."

He heard Duncan sit down behind him and felt the bard staring at the back of his head. Nevertheless, he kept working.

"Are you enjoying your new position?"

He stopped, very carefully set the quill down and turned in his chair. The lithe bard was sprawled all across a lounger, his shirt loose, his lute propped up against the wall beside him. He replied very carefully. "Am I enjoying it?"

Duncan shrugged, taking a swig from a cup balanced on his fingertips. "How am I supposed to know? We haven't spoken of it since you were named Hand."

Sebaston took a calming breath. "What do you think is enjoyable about this? I am trying to keep the two most powerful families in the southern kingdom from tearing this fragile realm apart. I am trying to command a war from afar against an enemy that by all rights should have yielded and yet refuses to do so. I am trying to steward a nine-year old boy with a kind heart and no training in lordship to a throne that would consume him and you ask 'am I enjoying it?' And what is ranged against me but a Queen-Regent who is becomiong more erratic by the day since the death of her son, the king which, need I remind you, happened on my watch. Two great lords who seek to drain as much power from this regency into themselves, one of them being my liege lord, and the other seeks to become my in-law. I have no strength to stop them as they buy power and influence across the capital and you ask 'am I enjoying it?' And if I fail, then no matter my achievements or failings in the past, it all will be for nothing, I will be the Hand of the King who oversaw the failing of this kingdom. Forever. And you ask 'am I enjoying it?'"

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Not enjoying it then." He put his drink down. "Why not resign, return to Fair Isle?"

He poured himself a drink. "Because I cannot. Right now, I am just about able to keep things together. If I leave, who replaces me? Maybe someone better, but maybe someone worse, maybe someone who is overwhelmed by events. And if they are and this kingdom fails, and I was not here to stop it because I gave up and ran home to my isle, then what does that make me? I would be just as guilty of letting it all fail." He drank, slowly and deeply. "So I must stay, and do what I can."

"Why did you even accept the position?" Duncan got to his feet and took his hand, rubbing it gently. "I don't like what it does to you."

"I took it because I thought I would be Hand of the King for a year and a half in which time I might do some good for the realm and bring some benefit to my house before Joffrey came of age and named a Hand for himself."

"But then he died."

Sebaston nodded. "But then he died."

Duncan nodded. "But I'm still right, Seb, you need to relax, how about we have dinner, you and I and no talking about the realm, tomorrow?"

He smiled, wanting nothing more in that moment. "I can't tomorrow, I'm dining with the king and queen-regent."

"The day after then?"

"The day after I'm dining with the Tyrells, where Lord Tyrell will no doubt offer me another of his nieces or cousins to wed. And before you ask, the day after I dine with Lord Loren, but the day after, I am available. Will you join me then?"

Duncan grinned. "It's decided, I'll join you then!"

"Excellent, now go on, before the queen notices you are late and starts asking questions."

Sebaston returned to his work. He spent the morning writing commands, warrants and drafting charters. He signed contracts for ship construction and horse breeding and wrote letters to the leading lights of Most Devout, who had not yet fallen under the sway of the High Septon to continue his plans to resolve this particular problem. Then got up, cracked the stiffness out of his back and headed into the main keep for a meeting with the Master of Coin. He crossed the courtyard, nodded his respect to ser Jaime who rode in from the city in his white plate, and entered the keep. But when he knocked on the door to Lord Baelish's room, he found it empty, apparently the Master of Coin had been summoned by the queen. He sighed, at least that gave him a few moments to stop. He turned and made his way to the godswood. It was almost always empty and a good place to clear his head.

Except this time it was not empty. "Lady Daenerys?"

Daenerys Targaryen jumped. She was kneeling in front of the Heart Tree and turned to face him. "Lord Farman, what are you doing here?" She stood up and dusted off her knees.

"I might ask you the same thing. I wasn't aware that you worshipped the old gods."

"I don't, but I wasn't praying for myself, I pray for Sansa."

"Ah," he knew they were close, Daenerys was friendless now, but apparently still thought of Sansa. He shook his head at the pity of politics. "Well, don't let me disturb you." He sat down on a bench on the narrow cobbled path. A moment of peace, no wonder she comes here with no one else to spend any time with but the whole court watching out for a murderer. He closed his eyes for a moment and rested.

He heard footsteps on the cobbles and opened his eyes to see Daenerys approaching him. "Can I-" She whipped her hand across and the dagger in it slashed Sebaston's throat.

Pain, red, sharp and cold at his throat. Blood jetting from the wound onto the stones beneath him. He heard himself gasp and choak and rasp as Daenerys' stabbed him in the back, driving him to the stones. She knelt beside him, dipped her finger in the blood and drew a tear on his face. The blood was hot as he was cold and it all came to him. The hatred in Joffrey's killer, who else could hate him so? Who else would want to bring ruin upon the regime of Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister with such brutal cruelty? Fool, damned dying fool!

Daenerys was gone. The King! He had to warn the king, he had to save him. He stabbed his fingers into his bleeding neck, feeling the pain burning as blackness drew around him. He drew frantically. He finished the 'T' and got halfway through the 'a' when his fingers ran dry, they felt heavy. He dug them into his neck again, gathered more blood. He finished the 'a' and the 'r' but he then couldn't move his hand, his fingers were heavy, he had no feeling, his elbow was twitching, but nothing was moving, he was cold, he was alone, he was afraid.

My king! His vision was fading. The king… must… be warned… He tried to draw, to finish the name, but his strength left him, he collapsed on the stone. Forgive me… Jeyne…. Androw… Duncan… my King…

The last thing Sebaston Farman saw was the blood spilling from his neck and washing away all the letters he had been able to draw on the cobbled stone.


A/N: A little over half-way through now guys and girls. Thanks for sticking with me. The next chapter is an appendix of all the positions in Robb's new Kingdom, since I figured it would be good to have it all in one place if anyone wants to reference it.

Blackhawk 43: The Vale is still essentially huddling up to stay out the war at Lysa's command.