So here's chapter 3 of Charger.
Stanley (Diary)
The Seven-Pointed Star says that marriage is "the truest act of love beneath the watch of the Seven. For whilst the paths of the people will never run smooth, or parallel, the end for a fated pair, man and woman, husband and wife, father and mother, is the same. Their fates intertwine, and will run together until the Stranger comes for them." (Chapter 2, Verse 8, Lines 2-5. Why I was made to read it at a young age despite my repeated protests I cannot understand).
Of course, that is a near-unfathomably simple-minded way on looking at it… is what I would write if this was even partially the truth. No, most think that the truth cannot be named as anything other than something far less idealistic, though I would actually say that it is neither. The truth is merely there, unchanging and existing and eternal, and so it cannot be described with something such as an adjective, at least not accurately. Marriage can however, and thus I will give it (or at least the vast majority of noble marriages) the adjective that I think suits it the best to describe it. That adjective is "pragmatic".
Pragmatism is, as I mentioned not so long ago, a philosophy of doing what is necessary for your goals, honour and law be damned. I follow the law, and what nobles deem as honourable in my life due to wanting to follow the philosophy of my uncle Stannis Baratheon. In that case, I am not terribly compatible with the philosophy of pragmatism. It only makes sense, then, that I disagree with the plans for me set out by my father. That plan is for me to marry Sansa Stark.
Now why did this happen? Well, you'd have to go back in time and know that Jon Arryn, may his competent soul rest in peace, chose to foster a young Lord Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. To summarise, they were great companions, and apparently they enjoyed spending time together (If my father was the same back then, how Eddard Stark of all people managed that is beyond my comprehension). So, when Robert rebelled against Aerys II, Eddard rebelled with him.
I have already written a summarised version of Robert's Rebellion on pages 21-24 of this very book, so I will gloss over the details. To make a short story even shorter, they won, and and Robert appointed Jon Arryn instead of Tywin Lannister to act as Hand (this is the only reason that his reign is not a lost cause, according to the opinion of a random, but quite opinionated serving girl. My mother ordered her to be taken away to an unknown place I did not trouble to find out. I have not seen her since).
So, when Arryn died, I assume my father wanted to go back to his old friend Eddard Stark, and bind the families together. Well, I suppose that me marrying Sansa Stark is preferable to her marrying Joffrey, even if no one has realised it. Father certainly has, ever since that incident with the pregnant cat. I may not know her in the slightest, but it is my duty as a Baratheon of King's Landing to help my subjects.
Because I believe that even I, solitary and taciturn as I am, preferable to Joffrey, for all of his falsely affable posturing, except, perhaps, in a mummer's show. So, If I have to, and it is looking extremely likely that it I'll be what I have to do, then I will perform my duty. Just as Stannis does with wife, and how I think my Father is increasingly viewing his marriage towards my Mother day after day.
Onto other news, tomorrow we are leaving Winterfell. Accompanying us will be Sansa, Arya and Bran Stark. I do not think that Eddard Stark has informed Sansa that I and her may be engaged, and I do not know that, despite it being very unlikely, that the engagement will actually happen. I am admittedly not excellen# with social c, but when Sansa Stark looks at Joffrey I would have to be as blind as Whent's sigil to not notice what was happeni
%#%%
A servant startled me and I spilled ink. I will continue writing later.
Balon
The Prince's writing was suddenly interrupted when a servant from King's Landing burst in, yelling. "My Prince, there has been a terrible accident! B-". He was cut off by Prince Stanley glaring at him frostily and also somewhat terrifyingly calmly. Balon flashed the man a look of pity. His interruption has startled the Prince enough that he broke his prized black goose feather. Only the nib that snapped, but that was enough to send ink flying across the page.
The only reason why the glare was calm was because the Prince was in need of ink, so only some ink was sent flying across the page. However, the Prince was still, if not outright angry, very irritated, even if it showed little emotion. The Prince spoke in a cool tone. "Please do carry on," he said civilly. "I have to know if that incident was to do with Ser Balon finding an irking servant gutted, with his neck removed and sold to cover the expense of a new black goose feather quill".
When he received no answer, he questioned the servant again. "I doubt his throat was cut out yet, nor has he irked me nearly enough, which means you can still answer your Prince, hopefully?" The servant appeared to wake up as he answered, looking away. "Y-Yes, my Prince. Bran Stark has fallen off the Broken Tower." Ser Balon almost jolted in surprise, but caught himself, remaining himself that he was no squire anymore.
"...I see." Prince Stanley sighed, titling his head down as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you know why Brandon Stark was on the Broken Tower in the first place?"
"N-no my Prince".
Prince Stanley turned to Ser Balon Swann with a long-suffering expression on his face. "I suppose I'll have to ask someone who was there. Knowing my uncle Jaime, he's already there. I swear, the man is drawn to chaos like a moth to light. He'll drag my Mother with him, too." He began walking, lazily waving off the servant, with Ser Balon close behind. Prince Stanley took out his spare quill and quickly scribbled down a sentence.
He turned back to the knight, and the Charger said this.
"I, for once, wish that I was on the hunt. That would mean dealing with this mess-in-progress later. And wouldn't that be great, Ser?"
Robert
Well, this was something troubling, wasn't it?
The little rascal took more from Brandon than Ned in his ways. He could see Brandon's wild roars and teasing grins in the boy's half Stark, half Tully features. Of course, that wouldn't be like any son of Neds, to act like the Wild Wolf of the North. Robert Baratheon sighed and sat down.
He was brooding on the years that had gone past. If that fucking Targaryen hadn't given his Lyanna those roses, how different would things be, he wondered? How many men would stand before Rhaegar, as his subjects, instead of being cold in the ground? How would history progress differently?
He imagined it all. Another tourney won by King Rhaegar, another melee won by him. The Seven White Swords would not be filled with those sots, those brutes and craven cowards. No, instead the Kingsguard would live and be remembered as they were meant to, great foes and warriors all. All of them, in their own ways, chivalrous heroes.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, neared of Dawn and possibly Prince Rhaegar's only equal (Robert would never admit it, but even he did not know how he had managed to only be wounded instead of killed at the Trident. Mayhaps the Gods were behind him, or he could chalk it up to the same kind of luck as one has at dice, or tiles).
Ser Barristan Selmy, the oldest and almost as skilled as the best. A scion of the Selmys of Harvest Hall, slayer of Markus the Monstrous and rescuer (more's the pity for the realm) of Aerys the Mad from Duskendale during the Defiance. Prince Lewyn of Dorne, brother of Prince Doran and the Red Viper, Prince Oberyn. Prince Lewyn had been slain at the Trident, and in such an undignified way! Blindsided and cut down whilst wounded by Ser Lyn Corbray.
Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent, Jonothor Darry... names of great men, doomed by history. Ah, but what would King Robert know of history? His life was doomed to end of a burst stomach, with men pitying the warrior Lord that had been lost to his own vices. His own history would be recorded and discarded, just as Aerys' history before him.
Only thing he could do was keep on going on the course he had set for himself, and ride on to the end. This was the life of Robert Baratheon, he thought. Then he suddenly burst out laughing.
"Where did that come from? I think that melancholic rapist I smashed to bits is rubbing off on me! Ha ha, I may have killed you, Rhaegar Targaryen, but in the end, you won, you bastard, didn't you? You've got Lyanna, and I've got Cersei."
Just then, the door opened, and closed, as if not wanting to look at the wrath of the Queen of Westeros, who had come through it. Nostrils flared, gaze equal parts icy and angry, mouth set in an angered line. No one who saw this face would not be having a good day that day, or in some cases ever again.
Speak of the devil, and she shall appear. Yes, I certainly have Cersei, dragonspawn prince, that I do. The King was in an even more fragile mood than usual, and displayed this in his choice of opening words for the conversation. "What do you want?" Robert Baratheon said curtly.
"Stanley" spat the Queen. "You are poisoning him against me. Just now, when we were discussing the Stark boy, he left rudely instead of spending time with his siblings and I and Jaime. He never acts how a Lannister should, no, instead he acts more like his uncles every day.
And not even the good uncles! He is as bookish as the Imp, and as inflexible as Stannis. He will never be a good warrior or a good Prince. And this is because you never let me near him! I could have taught him right, how to make sure that we are always on top of our foes, forever! I..."
"Teach him right?" Robert said, in a low, furious tone. "Surely you jest! Everything that you've done to Joffrey to ruin him into something that is neither Lannister nor Baratheon, because he, in a perfect world, should not be named either, are things that should not be repeated!
Stanley is smarter than Joffrey by miles. You may think be a dumb brute, but how do you think I won at the Trident, at Summerhall? How I managed to pull away from defeat in Ashford, and hide myself in Stony Sept till Ned and Jon Arryn could help? How do you think I won at Pyke?!
I'll tell you how, I will: strategy! My brother had always been more of a thinker, Stannis, but I managed to plan out my attacks and then crush all of the foes in my path into a fine paste! Stanley is stronger and faster than Joffrey, and would be a better warrior despite having fucking anaemia without being smart, and he can also think his way out of trouble!
And for the record, a good Prince has to rule well. Gods know I can't rule for shit, and Stannis does it about as well as me, but Stanley? He's not as rigid. He can bend if he wants to, and will use spies and dishonourable shit like that because he puts his job above his principles."
Just like me, Robert thought. I would have been damned to the Seven Hells for killing those dragonspawn babes, but I would have done it, because after all that, the Targaryens would take revenge eventually. I would have been cursed as villain as well as usurper, and the realm would have been better for it.
He and Ned had fallen out for quite some time after all of that business in King's Landing. He saw no more Targaryens in the capital as a good thing, and Ned... Ned didn't. He took it badly, and what was worse was his tone. Gone was the guttural, Brandon-like cries of war he had heard at the Bells and Trident.
Instead, softly, quiet, such a low volume speech that Roose Bolton would cry tears made of leeches in awe, he broke down the war, and how it was supposed to stop the madness of Mad Aerys, and instead it birthed more madness, madness that had killed two innocents. What Robert had responded in his rage had been terrible.
He had called them Dragonspawn. And the conversation went further down the privy with every passing word. Much like Robert's mood during the conversation, especially after he had remembered this event that had caused him to be so unhappy that he literally jumped at the chance (off the Iron Throne, resulting in the most painful arse-scratching in history (that's one thing the Targaryens never managed. Win for the Stags!)) to go squidding. That may have been the reason he forgave Balon Greyjoy.
It took a literal rebellion to reunite him and Ned. And after that, where did they go? Eddard Stark to a loving family, polite children and simple home, Robert to a throne floating on a lake of his enemies' blood, with the weights of stressful, sad rule bringing him down, deeper and deeper into the lake.
Oh for the- seriously, when did he become Rhaegar writ fat?!
In other words, King Robert Baratheon simply had no patience for any of Cersei's antics. So he walked out of the door and kept going until he went outside.
Balon
This was a regular occurrence.
Apart from his beloved (well, respected, anyway) uncle Stannis, Prince Stanley's favourite uncle was, by miles, Tyrion. When Prince Stanley was not allowed to read and could not find anything else to do, he chose to engage in the closest thing to small talk that he could do, with his Uncle Tyrion.
"So, to summarise," said Tyrion Lannister "Brandon Stark fell off of the Broken Tower."
"Yes." answered Prince Stanley.
"The one tower in Winterfell that would be the least wise to climb."
"Subjective, but yes."
"You say that too much, nephew. Anyway, Bran was noted to climb beforehand, including that tower, but suddenly lost his grip this time?"
"Apparently."
"Oh, and- where were any adults during this?"
"At the hunt, the highborn ones and the knights. Winterfell's servants were in the castle, milling about, the Baratheon-Lannister servants were causing me to break my goose feather quill, the knights were just being knights, and Cersei and Jaime were doing... whatever Lannisters do when they're not making lives a living hell."
"Getting drunker than your father. However, we are great multitaskers: we can make lives a living hell at the same time." Tyrion said sagely.
"Someone getting drunker than my father. That is quite the amusing joke, Uncle. And what is next? I develop the ability to turn air into silver? Or an ability to light a glass candle? Will I suddenly have a crisis of faith and decide I want to cut my eyes out and relive the stories of Benedict, the Blind Septon?"
"That was my favourite stories growing up. I loved the parts where he was an inquisitor, solving crimes and puzzles and foiling plots by evil sorcerers. And when it was revealed he had been blessed by the Seven to regain his sight... I had gooseprickles. Uncle Gerion told me a different version of it though, no doubt about it."
"What happened in his version?" asked Prince Stanley, dreading the answer.
"Well, it begins with Benedict in a village next to Harranhal called Foxtwigs, and he, under investigating something the commonplace call a glory hol-" Tyrion was cut off by Ser Balon raising an eyebrow, a remarkable feat, given that he was also narrowing his eyes and glaring at Tyrion whilst he did so.
Tyrion trailed off instantly, and decided to shift the subject of the conversation away from these perilous waters. "So, how is your father doing?"
"His Grace is bitter, and in one of his moods. Odd thing was, he was quite calm for the majority of the stay here. Must be Lord Stark's influence with his presence. Anyways, we have not seen one of this type for a while."
"Are we talking a level 4?" Stanley had sorted Robert's moods, or what he remembered of them before he went to Dragonstone anyway, into 5 distinct levels. 1 was annoyance, 2 two was shouting, 3 was cold rage. 4 was violent rage. 5 was declaring war. Tyrion thought that that final level not be on an anger scale, because of how likely it was for Robert to do it in the near future.
"No. There are no dead cats. And anyway, it is more... of a quiet sort of mood. Brooding, silent, not outwards rage or suppressed anger. No, oddly enough, there was none of that. Instead, he is sitting alone in the Great Hall. Well, Lancel and Tyrek are with him. I pity him."
"My Prince, if I may interject," Ser Balon spoke up. "It is most unbecoming of a Prince to speak of his father in this way, in my opinion. In addition," he turned to Tyrion. "by "dead cats", did the Prince mean killed by Joffrey and caused the mood, or killed by the king in a mood?"
"Don't ask." laughed Tyrion.
"Joffrey." answered Stanley. "I don't know what he was against them. Yes, he's killed flies and beetles and hares, but he seems to hate cats. I think he's tried to slit the throat of Rhaenys' old tomcat... three, maybe four times? And that was what only when I was still there. Maybe he's like Aerion Targaryen. Thinks himself a lion in human form, and is killing off all possible competition."
"Yes, well now the number is in the dozens, nephew. Personally, I cannot help but admire his sheer determination." Maybe there is some Baratheon in him after all..., in spite of Cersei's wishes. Tyrion mused to himself, muttering with a smirk. Luckily, this flew over both of his companions' heads.
"Truly, he is the epitome of willpower, now can we talk about someone else? Please? Other than my brother? I have a bad taste in my mouth, and I know it was not because of yesterday's sausage." Said Stanley, subtly shuddering at the thought of that sole sausage.
"Sausages?" inquired Tyrion.
"Singular. Prince Stanley, it seems, has not acclimated to the different taste of Northern pigs." Ser Balon explained. "Speaking of differences, the Prince seeks another opinion on his playscript. I believe he gave it to you last night, and it was named "The Tales of Dunk and Egg?"
"Oh yes. I wrote my notes down, I cannot remember them."
"Very well, Uncle. I will read them now. Good day."
"Goodbye, nephew."
Jaime
Jaime Lannister was guarding the king. He had long since grown accustomed to the quite unshakable feeling of boredom when he was guarding King Robert, and instead, gave himself up to daydreaming, as he had done for most days when he was on guard duty.
He often thought about the only two things that truly excited him in some way, the only times he truly felt somewhat alive: when he was running someone through with his golden sword, or when he was with Cersei. These thoughts often satisfied him on regular days.
But for some reason, today was one of the other days. He did not particularly like the other days. The days were he could just think about familiar, comfortable things were days that he just felt satisfied with his lot in life, days were he could just focus on nothing or wait patiently for the next half-exciting thing.
However, for some reason, and he thought it was because this Northern bastion had reminded him of Lord Stark entering the throne room of the Red Keep, judging him just from the blood on his sword and the slain king lying crumpled on the steps of the throne which he sat on, he was thinking of times... before.
He remembered, most of all, the tourney, even though he was not there. He could still somewhat picture it, just from what he had heard. It was 281 AC. The False Spring was still going strong, and whispers could be heard amongst the squires and washerwomen of the castle, chattering away about how the Endless Summer had come.
The picture was clearer now. The corridor in the wheelhouse, outside of the master's bedroom, it all fell and melted away, or at least, that was what he imagined it doing. Now he saw what the tourney was like... all of the stands and banners and the pageantry.
Cloth banners were draped over specially contracted wooden stands. Harranhal was in the distance, looking both mighty and fallen at the same time: the shadows the colossal structure was receding as the sun rose overhead. He could see the benches on which the nobles sat, with the families of Great Lords having cushions between their arses and the bench.
The herald rose, and began to announce the jousters, facing the eas-
"KINGSLAYER!!" roared the Stag King. Jaime's hand went to his hilt on instinct alone, only stopping in his tracks when his eyes found the face of the King, who was so red in the face from drink that that particular shade of red would have been more appropriate on a blushing maiden's.
"Yes, your Grace?" Jaime answered, subtly bowing his head. Great, this was what he needed, the King to be breathing down his neck this early on the morning. What could he possibly want? Jaime didn't think he had any reason to suddenly be so active right know.
"I've had an idea!" Robert said. "I always thought that Joffrey was going to take my route when he succeeds me- you know, not get that involved in all the irritating politics. Now, what we need is someone who can get all that done, right?"
"I- suppose so, your Grace?" Jaime said, somewhat nervous. A Robert Baratheon on a normal day was bad enough for Westeros. When he started using that surprisingly tactically sound mind of his, all manner of things could go wrong, especially if they involved the Baratheon princes.
"So, we need someone who can read the books as well as Jon Arryn or Littlefinger, someone who can actually keep an army together and lead said army well, like Stannis or Ned, and someone who is willing to do dishonourable things and survive at court, right? So, Stanley!"
Yes, all manner of things were going wrong at the moment. Jaime thought on his king's statements. Stanley Baratheon, survive in King's Landing? He was the copy of his Uncle Stannis. He'd be able to keep his head above water as the schemers plotted, but if they closed in or he made a single mistake he'd be slain instantly.
Also, lead an army well? He was certainly a better warrior than Joffrey, but he had no stamina. Some warriors relied on fighting dirty (like Sandor Clegane), others on strength, speed and size (like Gregor Clegane, minus some of the "speed" part), others on skill (like his own self) and some on reading their opponents. Like Stanley.
A battle would tire him out, and if he faced a lot of opponents, he couldn't read them. That was his specialty. He had seen it in the Red Keep. Ser Aron Santagar would, on occasion, host melees to keep all of the squire's fighting skills sharp. Stanley won most of the ones he participated in, because he hung back and studied everyone's movements.
But he couldn't say that to the boys father, who was also his king, so he said "Yes, Your Grace." Hopefully that placated the roaring stag king for now: he had hoped to visit Cersei now: she wanted to talk about something, oddly enough. She almost never made appointments like this.
"Right? When I get back to King's Landing, maybe with his new bride, I'll teach him him what little I know of my Kingdom. Stannis can wait a while, I'll send Stanley back as his ward in a year or so."
"New bride?" Jaime hadn't heard of this. Maybe this was what Cersei wanted to talk about? Joffrey was more likely to get married: he was ahead in the line of succession, and could act more like what a Prince was meant to be. So this was confusing.
"Hmm? Oh yes, the eldest Stark girl. Her mother's hair and eyes. Gentle, and kind. They'll work well together. Almost as well as me and Lyanna would have." Robert said, his voice going rather uncharacteristically somber when he said the final sentence.
"Sansa Stark?" They were leaving today, and Jaime noticed that Sansa was packing for the trip. She had almost run into him in her haste. However, Cersei would never forgive him if he allowed this to go through. It was best for Sansa to marry Joffrey, in her opinion.
So, had to do something about this now. "Stanley, and not Joffrey, Your Grace? Joffrey is the eldest, and the girl appears to be quite infatuated with him. I mean, you'd have to be blind to not notice how she looked at him."
"Just because of that, Kingslayer? Are you getting Alfyn in your old age? Just want innocent, blushing maidens to be happy and be with who they want to be with? The world doesn't work that way, Kingslayer. And besides, you've met my son, Joffrey, right? I think Stanley would be a better fit."
"Joffrey can act like the perfect Prince, your Grace, more so than Stanley. All you want is a marriage alliance with the Starks, right? So marry off Joffrey to Sansa. You get the marriage alliance, Sansa Stark gets her idea of a Prince, and Stanley gets to do other things with his time."
King Robert Baratheon thought about this for a moment. Finally, he barked out "Fine. I'll think about it, Kingslayer, and see if you have a better point or not. Because don't think for a second I don't think Cersei put you up to this."
"No, Your Grace." Well, it depends on what you mean by "put you up to it." She would have, if I hadn't beaten her to the stab. How wonderful of me. Jamie kept his expression perfectly clear and neutral. The King eyed him suspiciously.
"Get out of here, Kingslayer." The King dismissed him. Jaime Lannister left without a single word.
Stannis
Melisandre was hosting one of her overly dramatised bonfires again. The nightfires did have one useful purpose though. His wife would have said it was warding off the dark terrors of the night, but Stannis thought it was that they made Dragonstone... not pretty, but less of the feeling of the air filling with foreboding that ahe usually got when staring at the walls.
The walls of Dragonstone were black and dreadful, it was obvious that the Targaryens never wanted to use it as their main castle if the Red Keep was available. He could just imagine a Targaryen Prince of Dragonstone fillling up with pride at his ancestor's accomplishments, but he also imagined a vague feeling of distaste.
He once thought that there was a chance that his brother set him up here instead of his rightful place at Storm's End because of the old Targaryen system, to mark his place as the current heir to the Iron Throne, but over the years, he realised it was probably because Robert, for some reason, respected Renly more than him, and because he was already near the island, his brother's lazy side came out.
Robert was often more wrathful than slothful, and was always full of energy, but he was lazy in his own way, too. He never thought about the consequences of his actions, never rules Westeros from the throne that was his duty and calling, and never sought a change to the life of indulging in pleasure that he had led since young adulthood.
But he was no Renly. He respected Robert for his ability in combat: the raven that announced Robert's victory over Prince Rhaegar in single combat at the Battle of the Trident was one of the few times that he would admit to being genuinely shocked. He had expected a Pyrrhic victory: the Loyalists broken and routed, but his brother floating out to the Narrow Sea to be feasted on by fish.
He also respected Robert, ironically, for what Stannis thought was his brother's biggest failing, and what would probably be the cause of his possible undoing: his mercy. Robert was famous for forgiving his foes. Instead of purging the council of liars and deceivers that had obviously not really taken a true side: Mace Tyrell had no reason to keep his entire force down besieging him at Storm's End for the whole war.
He turned his mercy into a strength: by crushing the foes that refused his offerings, he had a few, not many, because it was the Ironborn they were fighting, but a few, Ironborn surrender at Pyke. How that happened Stannis never learned, and he had had a grudging respect for the upsides of Robert's greatest weakness.
He remembered it like it was yesterday. The air was cool and salty, the weather glum. He hated that day. Both for the fact that the weather reminded him of Dragonstone, and the fact that he knew that Robert would not allow him on the battlefield. He would be tasked with the seizure of Great Wyk, and he knew this the second he walked into the tent.
Tywin and Jaime Lannister were there, with Lord Tywin looking as regal as the day that Stannis saw him first, in the throne room of the Red Keep. Ser Jaime Lannister tried to match his father's cool and dignified expression, but he was betrayed by a smirk that told his intentions to all: he had volunteered to be on the war council, but because of Tyson's insistence, but because he wanted to see chaos unfold between the lords that had to work together.
And to almost no-one's shock, things erupted not that soon after things started. They disagreed about when to attack the castle, how to attack it, whether they should move against Great Wyk first, who would get the honour of breaching the wall, if they even should attack the castle at all... it was the definition of madness.
Stannis gave up on attempting to keep the others in check around the third argument, and resolved to wait out the chaos until the king, who had intervened two times, came back from his mid-council drinking session with Thoros of Myr. It was the same strategy used by the Old Lion, oddly enough. However, Tywin's face was placid and cool instead of Stannis' scowl.
The attack itself was something he remembered clearly. Thoros of Myr was the first through the walls, clambering over the ruins that, he later learned, brushes the second Greyjoy boy. The sword coated in wildfire served as a beacon to guide the rest of the thousands upon thousands of troops through the walls towards the centre of Pyke. Not that it needed one. In their haste to rush towards the beach, at least a score were trampled by others, including one minor Lord from the Westerlands.
Or so he had had it from Richard Horpe, who was thought to be roughly the eighth man or so through the gate, behind Jorah Mormont. Horpe was knighted for his actions during the battle. He had been his informant and the Stormlands and Renly's court ever since they had met in the aftermath.
So many events had transpired over the years, and Stannis saw to it himself that he remembered each and every one of them in near-perfect detail. However, there were some mysteries that eluded him to this very day. Were his assumptions about the father of Cersei's children true, or based on simple chance? Was there a way to send letters and messages into King's Landjng without being detected by that Lannister puppet, Pycelle?
And, perhaps the most important of all due to the range of factors and possibilities: what was Baelish up to?
This particular fact was something that vexed him for quite some time. He was always suspicious of the genial, affable, smiling man who always seemed to pull coins out of the sea and dump the information of how in the world he got them in their place. The problem was, he was hiding more things than Stannis thought.
Most people like Littlefinger were just mere criminals with a simple knowledge of economics and finance. Con artists, false insurers, loan sharks and embezzlers, driven by an arrogant belief that they could never be caught due to knowing how to operate in a system that many nobles did not even bother to think about, let alone understand on their level.
But Lord Petyr Baelish was certainly hiding something. What that something was was impossible to know at this point. However, it had something to do with those damned books do his... and perhaps Braavos? The Baelish family was originally from the Free City of Braavos, after all. That had been one of the reasons to bring almost all of the Royal Fleet with him: he could at least stall the Iron Fleet if it did attack.
What Baelish was up to vexed him even more than what Varys was up to. You could deal with Varys. Just double check who is working for who and who is actually loyal to who. But Littlefinger worked in a way that Stannis could barely even understand, and definitely not compete with in the same terms.
Whatever was about to happen would have ramifications for all of Westeros.
Joffrey
Joffrey searched for the right weapon in the stores where his father kept them. They had only been guarded by one person, and that was easily remedied by the fact that the Prince ordered to enter. The man hastily stepped aside, not really wanting to be anywhere between the Prince and his goal. He also didn't particularly want to be anywhere near the Prince and a weapon, either, so he called on his partner for an early switch.
Joffrey wanted the prefect murder weapon in order to rid the world of the cripple. In fact, the boy should count himself lucky, shouldn't he? To be fair, it was just how the world worked. Those with power killed those with less or without. He could do it because he was the Prince. In fact, the boy would probably be grateful to him: he would have a merciful death, killed whilst asleep.
It was certainly better than living your whole life as a cripple, or, Gods forbid, asleep. When people are that weak, they aren't people anymore. Just objects. Only those with power mattered. That's why people would always care about him more than they would these Northern barbarians or those perfume makers in the Reach or those Dornish boy-fuckers. Seriously, the Targaryens must have been stupid as well as mad, to not punish those stubborn sand-people with steel.
No matter what Stanley said, he did learn all about Westerosi history, if only because Mother and Pycelle were feeble nags. He didn't care about it, except those battles and wars, and he did know that the Blackfyre Rebellions were somewhat caused by those Dornishmen. Traitors breed and multiply like hares, so it was best to shoot them as much as hares.
Speaking of Northern barbarians, the eldest wolf bitch was someone he wanted to shoot in the leg and watch bleed out, as punishment for being annoying and acting like some blushing maiden. He was stunned by how poor the courtesy was, not poor as in content, because she said exactly the correct things, but because of how shyly she said them.
Flushing and reddening like a tomato or a bloody wound every two seconds, trying to speak to him of children's tales, of all things. He was not a child. He was a Prince, and someone who was already asserting his place. Not as the top dog, because that title belonged to his Hound, but as the Heir to the Iron Throne. No-one could take that away from him, even if he died.
And Joffrey did not plan on dying soon. When he ascended to his place, he would make the Seven Kingdoms the greatest it had ever been, everyone under his total control, and with him the greatest king. Sansa Stark might get some of his praise, but not a lot. It was good for the King to be a little generous with his possessions every now and again, because it made people want to be trusted by him.
And that, instead of hiding under Casterly Rock, is how you run a kingdom. He'd have to discuss that with his dear Grandfather some time.
Eddard
Lord Eddard Stark. The Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North. And now, Hand of the King too. And someone who had, through very little effort of his own, ensured Stark blood on the Iron Throne.
The news were old now, and he had grown used to thinking about them, however, he did was not any less surprised. Why offer a seat of on the Small Council, and a marriage alliance with the Crown Prince, the heir apparent to the Iron Throne, to the Starks?
Just a few know his ago, Robert had come to his solar to discuss the arrangements of the marriage, and they hashed out a few of the most obvious details. Eddard had insisted on this, because most details were sometimes explicit, but Eddard knew that somewhere along the way, there would be a time where he would rely on these terms.
These arrangements included where the marriage would be (King's Landing. He knew Sansa would enjoy the Southron culture and chivalry in a way that the Lord of Winterfell would barely understand, even if he tried his hardest), and what sort of wedding it would be (Eddard would prefer them to be wed in the eyes of the Old Gods, before a true heart tree, but both Sansa and Joffrey followed the Seven, and there wasn't a proper heart tree in King's Landing anyway).
They also discussed whether or not there would be a bedding after (Robert was all for it, but he allowed Eddard's suggestion of it being up to the choices of both of the couple-to-be, so as to further gain a better understanding of what they wanted on one of the most important, and possibly happiest days of their lives).
And also, Robert apparently wanted to switch the groom to be Joffrey in Sansa's stead. Maybe he thought that Joffrey was more deserving, being the Crown Prince? Or maybe it was because it was obvious to all that Sansa would cherish Joffrey more than Stanley. Not only did she take an obvious liking to the heir apparent, but the benefit would be greater for her as well.
Personally, Eddard thought of the two Princes, Joffrey and Stanley Baratheon as... adequate, but not an exact match for his eldest daughter. Sansa was a bright, clever child, but more used to dealing with people and peace rather than difficult decisions and war. He didn't think that women could not handle it- if he did in his youth, Lyanna had beaten it out of him- , but he just didn't think that Sansa would particularly like being the Queen.
Power has different effects on people, very different effects, but, as he was taught by Maester Walys, formerly Walys Flowers, born to a Citadel scribe and a Hightower girl in Oldtown, there is a sort of a system of people in power. This theory was called the system of authority, and was well taught beyond the Walk too, for it originated from a First Man legend.
The system was drawn with two axes (perpendicular lines, not weapons. Brandon and Robb both made that mistake, though Robb didn't do it half as much as Brandon), and on the ends were listed opposing attributes. Usually, the h-axis listed foolish-wise, from left to right, whilst the v-axis listed weak-strong (as in how peaceful or martial they were) from bottom to top.
No-one claimed that this served as an accurate depiction of leaders, and there were probably many different systems and graphs and problems studied at the Citadel and by some of the more bookish lords, but it served as a basic way of organising some rulers throughout history into groups.
Joffrey would be a strong king, but not necessarily a wise one. Joffrey seemed to inspire a sort of unconditional loyalty in his personal guard, the Hound, thought that may have just been loyalty enforced by money. Eddard always preferred for his soldiers to think a little, without jeopardising or ignoring his orders. It made them more flexible, and more likely to adapt to new circumstances.
Of course, discipline was needed. The ability to rule over the people was useless if the people did not want to be ruled. Every Lord knew that, even without it being drilled into their heads endlessly by their Maesters in their morning and afternoon lessons.
So, in his own crude way, Joffrey was ensuring that his reign would be uncontested, but if he did it later in life, when the long winter would come after all of this time of summer and peace, the people of Westeros would not take to it well. As someone once said, the seeds of war are often sowed in periods of peace.
As for personality, the boy seemed spiteful and claim what cruel, and there was no doubt that he was aware that he was a king's son. He acted like it, like he was greater and better than everyone else, because, at this moment, it looked like the Prince thought, that the Throne was not only his to claim, but what was governed from it was his to control.
Now, for Stanley. Stanley's personality could be described as cold, and aloof. There was an almost inhuman feel about him, as if he was separate from the rest of the people in Westeros. He was certainly intelligent, and a fairly good warrior, but he didn't swing the hammer as well as Robert did in his younger years.
Stanley would be a strong king, and wise, Eddard thought.. but he might also probably be like his uncle Stannis in terms of his view towards justice, completely by the books and to the letter, if the tales were true. The Prince apparently preferred to talk with his favourite uncle, Tyrion, as far as Eddard could gather, rather than acting like Joffrey.
Bran had told him, the day before his fall, that Prince Tommen had told him that the two eldest Princes hated each other, and in their younger years as well as now, played numerous pranks on each other, that ranged from Joffrey putting water outside Stanley's door and causing him to slip in the morning, to Stanley stealing one of Joffrey's favourite daggers, and revealing its location only after an elaborate game of search.
Despite having been told to be as serious and sensible as possible during the King's stay at Winterfell, it somewhat amused Bran that the dagger had ended up, in Stanley's words, "where daggers go to visit their cousins". It was found by a washerwoman, tucked away behind the Iron Throne. Joffrey was not pleased.
Having two Princes that disliked each other with a stubborn passion would not be agreeable for cooperation, but judging from the Stanley's personality, there was a very improbable chance that he would be able to move past that grudge.
Perhaps, and even if they didn't it would be Eddard's task to rule the Kingdom. He could not deal with Southron politics at all, but he would try his best to do so, for Robert's sake, and the realm's.
Cersei
The Queen of Westeros could not be called a happy person, in general. Cunning, manipulative and more than a little arrogant and very proud of her status she was without a doubt, but happy was something that very many people thought she was, but her smile was a sort of mask. In her mind, it just would not do for anyone beneath her to see her as anything but perfect, after all.
The ideal Queen. Loved and respected by all, with a wonderful family that she just adored. The realm was at peace. The Targaryens were far way and could not trouble them. Harvests were bountiful, tourney's were numerous, and the summer had not ended for 10 years. All was well.
At least, on the surface it was. To the ignorant, it was. Robert was the one person in the world she hated more than anyone, and his brothers were little better. Stannis would rob her children of their right to the Iron Throne. Her children, her precious little lion cubs... he would see them imprisoned, or worse, killed, all to put his diseased nephew on the throne as a puppet.
Everyone knew Stannis was jealous that Robert had the Iron Throne and the youngest brother Renly had Storm's End. He had ground his teeth so hard in response to the announcement that Cersei has expected his teeth to shatter and break apart. She wished it happened then. It might have stopped him from grinding his teeth so often.
Cersei Lannister was in her rooms. Winterfell was warm and adequate for her to be in, and unlike a lot of the other castles that they had visited, there was no woman that was even remotely comely enough that she would be annoyed that Robert was sleeping with them. If anything, she pitied them. Having that drunken and bloated cow on top of them made for just too tragically droll an image.
She would have to thank these Northerners for breeding their servants to be oh-so-homely. Robert would leave here miserable enough, despite the company of his best friend down south to King's Landing. Things would only get worse for the cow from there, she would see to that.
And then it would be time to engage in a spot of cattle mutilation. The time was perfect. Jon Arryn was dead, Hoster Tully was dying, the North would be shaken by the death of their Lord, and Stannis would be left friendless. She would rally Westeros and come down on him and his thinly-veiled power play immediately.
Cersei Lannister smiled to herself. She was going to enjoy herself these next few months.
This took way too long, right?
I hope I'm getting Stanley's character right. He's the only one where I can't look to canon to help me with writing.
If there are any continuity errors, please let me know! I hate retcons, but I despise continuity errors.
