I'm not giving up on the story, even though I know many people say that and then do. My updates will be infrequent and unpredictable. Honestly, the main reason is just that I'm feeling a bit lazy at the moment. I tend to write mostly when I'm frustrated with fanfiction, and lately, there have been a lot of great stories featuring morally ambiguous or dark main characters that have been keeping me entertained.
I do not own this story. I am just playing in the world that great authors have written and created.
CH 22 Leon
As I stepped out of the interrogation room, I let out a heavy sigh. I took a moment to wipe my hands with a cloth, trying to remove the blood that had stained my fingers during the intense questioning. I glanced over at Brandon, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking curious. "Well, this was disappointing," I said, shaking my head as I processed the events that had just unfolded. "What do you mean, Leon?" Brandon asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to read my expression.
I looked at him, the frustration evident in my voice. "I just thought he would be more than just a crazy man deluding himself about his actions. I expected him to have a more compelling story, but instead, it was just a jumbled mess of paranoia and fantasy." Tossing the rag onto a table as I walk past. "He has no magic in him. The man is slowly poisoning himself with all the nightshade he is consuming."
I turned back to Brandon "Have him secured and does him with some drafted death as well as the rest of his crew we'll drop them off at Amber Castle." What a disappointment this has turned out to be. I was genuinely looking forward to meeting the mythical Greyjoy. Instead, what I encountered was a person consumed by anger and delusion, completely devoid of any sense of the magical abilities.
There was no doubt that Euron is a talented sailor and warrior. The more I had dwelled into his mind the more I saw that he won most of the battles because of his talent and by creating the mythos of his undefeatable prowess. A little bit of madness from drinking the morning shade made him believe in the tales that he spread about himself.
The fool was deeply entrenched in his own delusions; he truly believed in the powers he thought he possessed. However, despite his repeated threats of being the Drowned God and how he was going to destroy me, he lacked any real magic.
Initially, I had such plans for him. I intended to use him as a sacrificial battery to infuse a series of rituals with energy, hoping to tap into whatever latent magic he might have. I was hoping that he was like his character in the books and he had a hint of powers from the sea. But as I spent more time with him, it became painfully clear that he didn't have even a drop of magic running through his veins.
He had taken to drinking nightshade, convinced that it would unlock visions or enhance his abilities. In reality, it was slowly poisoning him. The concoction seems to be deadening his nerves so he feels less pain. Which makes him push and do things when others would have reached their limits.
I have to admit, though, I was somewhat impressed by the feats he managed to accomplish through sheer persistence. Every small victory he achieved seemed to bolster his belief that he was somehow connected to magic, that he was favored by the Drowned God.
The only possessions of any real value that he seemed to have were a finely crafted ax forged from Valyrian steel. The ax, with its gleaming blade, bore intricate engravings that hinted at a skilled artisan's craftsmanship, making it not just a tool of war, but a work of art in its own right.
I had always been drawn to the raw power and versatility of axes and hammers. There was something about the heft of the ax and war hammers that ignited a passion within me.
Excitedly, I grabbed the weapon and decided to test its balance, swinging it through the air with a few practice strokes. To my delight, it felt incredible in my hand. The weight distribution was perfect, allowing for both finesse and strength in my movements.
Initially, I had concerns about the composition of Valyrian steel. Given that it's incredibly light, I worried that the ax might not provide the heft I needed to deliver powerful strikes. However, I was pleasantly surprised; it had just the right amount of weight that complimented my swinging motion.
In addition to the ax, there were a few other notable items crafted from the same rare steel. Among them was a delicate necklace, its pendant worn but can make out a man holding a spear. There were also a couple of bracelets that sparkled in the light, each adorned with small, intricate decorative designs. A rather large belt buckle, also made of Valyrian steel, completed the collection, its polished surface reflecting the light in a way that almost seemed to dance with the flames of a nearby fire.
Beyond these remarkable trinkets, I noted the presence of several gold and silver coins, their surfaces worn. A handful of rings, each one unique and bearing its own insignia, hinting at perhaps noble lineage.
As I rifled through his belongings in search of the Valyrian armor that he was said to possess, I was met with disappointment. Instead of the legendary armor that would have undoubtedly been both a marvel to behold and a formidable piece of protection, I found only a decorative set of steel armor. This armor was well-crafted, but it was clear that it was not valyrian steel that I had hoped for. It did have Valyrian steel pieces welded onto the armor, giving it some protection in vital areas.
Another disappointment was the fable horn that was supposed to be in his possession. The horn he had was beautifully carved and had magic carvings in it, and seemed to be made out of dragon bone, though the horn in his possession was no dragon binder.
From what I can understand the horn was probably picked up at a guard outpost since the carvings on it enhance the vibration to allow the sound to travel for several thousand kilometers. It was probably used as a warning the sounds would have been carried into the inner part of Valyria for the dragon Lords to be warned of an invasion.
Even his venture into the ruins of Valyria turned out to be far less glorious than I had anticipated. As I delved into the depths of his mind, sifting through the labyrinth of his memories and thoughts, I had envisioned uncovering a meticulously crafted plan that would reveal the secrets of how he reached the fabled mainland of Valyria. Instead, what I found was a chaotic blend of 80% sheer luck and 20% stubbornness that ultimately allowed him to set foot on that cursed land.
The day he embarked on the journey, a strong wind howled ferociously from the sea, sweeping across the coastline and pushing some of the toxic air away. It was a natural boon, one with no godly intervention, just luck.
It seemed that most of his crew did not survive the ordeal. To my surprise, he did not venture as far inland as I had assumed. Instead, he made landfall at the first port he encountered, the closest refuge available, and even then, he barely managed to navigate beyond the halfway point of the trading bizarre. He raided a few houses and what looked like guard towers. Before he quickly ran back to his ship, since by then half of his crew had died and he was starting to have a hard time breathing.
Still that doesn't diminish his accomplishment; he is the only known person to have ventured into Valyria to steal some of her secrets.
00
It seemed like we were going to be delayed on our trip to Stark Harbor Since the ice trader had taken some damage, not anything major but while they were hugging the coast after escaping most of the storm it seemed like the vessel got trapped on some rocks. Most other vessels would have had their hull of the ship broken into pieces but the Ice Trader only a few scrapes on the hauling the problem is they have to wait for the tide to come back up so the ship can escape from the rocks.
While waiting on the tide, I decided to have the ship hover above the sea and take the opportunity to go fishing. To my utter frustration, I found myself with absolutely no luck whatsoever. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't seem to snag even a single fish. It felt as if the universe had conspired against me, while everyone else around me seemingly possessed a special kind of fisherman's luck. For instance, Brandon managed to hook a magnificent 31.3 kg Black Drum. It was the kind of catch that would make anyone's day, yet here I was, still waiting for a nibble.
As the day progressed, I watched Inquisitor Janice take a well-deserved break. After a bit of rest, she cast her line into the water and almost immediately reeled in an impressive 18.7 kg Black Drum, followed shortly by two 10.5 kg Grey Groupers. Each catch seemed to deepen my irritation as I grappled with my own dismal performance.
Throughout this frustrating experience, Aja Vincent took it upon himself to offer unsolicited advice. With an air of self-importance, he kept trying to instruct me on the finer points of fishing, particularly how to hold my rod and cast my line effectively. "Like this, my prince," he would say, "let me help you there. You need to work on controlling the line, pulling and tugging at the right moments." His nasal, smug demeanor only served to fuel my irritation. It was as though every word he uttered was an unintentional challenge, urging me to do the exact opposite of what he suggested.
To make matters even more aggravating, the sight of him reeling in fish at an astonishing rate only served to intensify my growing frustration. Each time he expertly hooked another catch, I felt a sharp pang of envy twist in my gut.
In the midst of his next demonstration, he paused momentarily, his focus shifting as he began to pull in yet another fish. My irritation mounted as I watched him haul in a sizable tuna, glistening in the sunlight, while several crew members rushed to assist him, their laughter and shouts of encouragement ringing out across the deck.
With mounting disgust, I turned to walk away from the scene, feeling the heat of my embarrassment rising. Just as I was about to retreat to the cool confines of the cabin, I heard him calling out to me. "My, my, Prince, where are you going?" He sounded far too cheerful for my liking.
Reluctantly, I turned back to face him, trying to mask the irritation on my face. "I think I'll just go in for a bit," I replied with a forced smile, attempting to keep my tone light. "The sun is starting to irritate my fair northern skin; I'm not quite accustomed to such heat."
Vincent looked at me with genuine worry. "That may be for the best, my prince. You do have fair skin, and the sun can be quite unforgiving. Perhaps I should fetch a salve to cover your skin so it doesn't blister." His earnestness was almost endearing, but I was in no mood for his fussing.
As I took a few steps away, I waved him off dismissively. "That won't be necessary, Aja Vincent. I think a nice drink and a bit of shade are all I need." My eyes flicked over to Brandon, who stood nearby with an infuriatingly smug expression on his face. I couldn't help but shoot him my most imperious glare, hoping to wipe that insufferable smile off his face. Instead, it only seemed to widen, the insufferable ass.
000
Torrhen Karstark let out a thunderous roar, his voice booming through the chaos as he charged forward, positioning himself protectively in front of Olly. In one swift motion, he slammed his shoulder into Renley Baratheon, forcefully knocking the smaller man down onto the ground. Without wasting a moment, Torrhen swiftly moved, drawing his sword and placing the blade firmly against Renley's throat, pinning him down. The hatred in Torrhen's eyes was unmistakable as he held Renley in place.
Randar Blest and Roose Ryswell charged towards Loras Tyrell with a fierce intensity. With a cry that was filled with rage, Roose Ryswell lunged forward and seized Loras Tyrell by the arm, gripping it tightly. At the same moment, Randar Blest moved in swiftly, grabbing Loras's other arm. Together, they worked in unison, pulling him down and expertly getting him into a position where they could overpower him and pull his dagger from his hand. Randar wrapped his arms around Loras's armpit and neck, locking him in a half nelson, effectively immobilizing him.
Roose twisted Loras''s arm with a brutal force that left Loras no choice but to relinquish the dagger he was holding, letting it slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground. Roose then kicked the dagger away from the Tyrell.
With Loras now at his mercy, Roose unleashed his anger and frustration. He fell upon Loras with a brutal intensity, and the sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the air as Roose slammed Loras's face repeatedly into the ground, breaking Loras's nose and jaw in a series of violent hits.
Dacey Mormont raises her heavy mace in a protective stance over Olly, who lay vulnerable on the ground. Her voice rang out above the fray as she shouted at the top of her lungs, "Rally to the North!"
Before Renley Baratheon's guards could react and defend their lord, the streets and alleyways began to fill with northern men who backed up the Mormont and Ryswell men who were already backing up their liege.
They came pouring in, their faces set in grim determination and fury as they surrounded the Stormland soldiers. In less than five minutes, it seemed as if every northern man still remaining in the city had answered the call, flooding into the street, ready for battle.
Amidst the chaos of the northern warriors, Aja Artos made his way through the throng of men. He pushed his way to the center of the tumult, seeking Lady Mormont amidst the chaos. But as he reached her, what he saw at her feet made him freeze in shock. It was a sight that momentarily stunned him, causing his heart to drop as he took in the grim reality of the situation.
After a brief moment of hesitation, he pulled himself together and rushed over to Aja Lou, who was already at the scene. Frantically rummaging through his bag, searching for bandages and tinctures that may assist Aja Lou. "Lou, what do you need me to do?" Aja asked, urgency lacing his voice. After a long pause Lou looked up at him, his expression somber, and in a soft whisper, he replied, "He's gone." With those words, he lifted his blood-soaked hands, which had been pressing down on the neck of young Lord Olly, desperately trying to stem the flow of life that had slipped away.
Torrhen Karstark felt a rush of panic as the blood drained from his face upon hearing the Aya's news. He quickly gathered his composure, forcing himself to think clearly in the midst of the chaos. "For fuck sake Randar," he said with urgency, "pull Roose off that bastard—we can't afford to let him die. Dacey helped him." His voice was steady, he then moved his attention back to Renley Baratheon.
Torrhen's gaze was hardened as he addressed Renley, "Do you have any idea what you just did?" But Renley, refusing to acknowledge Torrhen's question."Get your sword off of me," he demanded. "I am the King's brother!" The third Baratheon brother's tone was a peculiar blend of shouting and an almost squeaky indignation, as if he were trying to assert his authority but was struggling to maintain his composure.
Renley's attention was drawn to the sight of the Tyrell boy lying broken on the ground after Dacey and Randar had pulled Roose off of him. "Loras!" he shouted, his voice filled with worry and frustration. After a moment, he shifted his focus to Roose, his expression now one of fierce hatred. "You will pay for that, you fucking northern savage! When my brother hears about this, he will have your heads"
Ignoring Renley, Roose rushed over to Olly's lifeless body, his face filled with panic and desperation. He dropped to his knees beside Ollie, the two Aya instinctively moved aside to give him space. Roose gently touched Olly's face, his fingers trembling with fear before he turned his gaze to the wound that marred Olly's skin. He quickly grabbed a piece of cloth, trying to apply pressure to stop the bleeding, his heart racing as he cried out, "No, no, Olly, you're okay! You're going to be okay!"
Desperation clawed at him as he looked up at Aja Lou, pleading, "Please Lou, save him! Just save him! He's not dead—he can't be dead!" Roose's voice grew more frantic, laced with anger and fear when no one moved to help. "What the hell are you standing there for? Save him, you useless cunt!" he shouted, his words filled with raw emotion.
Roose felt the weight of helplessness settle over him. He just looked at Olly's body for what seemed hours then in a daze, he stood, his mind racing. Barbrey she's gonna be devastated. Leon, he's going to be murderous. Olly's face for a brief moment was replaced in his mind by the roguish grin he always had when telling his story of his escapades.
Blinking, he came back now seeing again Olly's his lifeless eyes and pale face covered in blood. The sound in the world around him started to dissipate as all he could hear was the blood from his heart pounding in his ears as he unsheathed his sword. He stood still for a minute, with the back of his sleeve, he wiped away the tears that had begun to fall, sniffling as he attempted to regain some semblance of composure. Then almost as if he was stuck in a trance he turned his gaze back to Loras, who lay motionless on the cold ground. A blank expression crossed Roose's face, masking the turmoil within him as he began to shuffle towards the Reach lord's still form.
Just as he was about to reach Loras, Dacey stepped in front of him, blocking his path. With a firm push, she tried to force him back, her eyes filled with a mix of determination and concern. Roose, fueled by hatred, attempted to push past her, driven by an instinct for revenge. But Dacey stood her ground, pushing him back once more. The two began to wrestle, Roose struggling to maintain his grip on the sword in his hand.
"For the love of the gods, help me!" Dacey shouted, looking around at her fellow northerners. "Somebody help me wrestle him down before he does something stupid!" Her voice rang with urgency, two men wearing the livery of House Ryswell, rushed to her aid. Together, they helped to restrain their lord.
To this scene, the loud clamor of several of the city's Gold Cloaks, rushed into the area. Their shouts echoing off the walls as they accused everyone of breaking the king's peace and commanded everyone to disperse and clear the street.
The leader of the Gold Cloaks pushed his way through his man into the front glaring at the northern, then noticed Renley Baratheon lying on the ground, raising his voice as turned his attention to Torrhen, pointed directly at him. With a commanding tone, he demanded that Torrhen drop his sword and surrender. This order did not sit well with the other northerners gathered in the street, their expressions filled with anger.
Tensions rose, and a fight was about to break. The Gold Cloak commander slowly realized the situation he was in and started to slowly back away with his men to get reinforcement. At that point, a group of riders clad in Stark colors came charging into the street from behind the Gold Cloaks. One of them raised his voice to draw everyone's attention, announcing that the Lord Hand was on his way.
00
The remnants of the previous night's revelry were scattered across the surface—empty wine skins, crumbs from a hastily abandoned meal, and an assortment of tankards that bore witness to Robert's boisterous celebrations. He sighed deeply, the sound heavy with concern and exasperation. Across from him, in stark contrast to the disorder of the room, was Robert, looking disheveled and worn, his face pale and marked by the unmistakable signs of a hangover.
"How is Renley?" Ned inquired, concerned creeping into his voice. Robert rubbed his temples, clearly still feeling the effects of the previous night's excess. "The maester believes he's sprained his arm," Robert replied, his tone laced with irritation. "But other than that, he's perfectly fine. You'd think with a simple injury he'd be more composed, but no—he won't stop moaning and complaining about Lorus. It's relentless. He's demanding that I have Ryswell executed for what happened."
Ned shook his head slowly, an expression of weary understanding crossing his features. "Leon will not allow it, Robert. You know this as well as I do." Robert's frustration boiled over, his temper flaring as he slammed his fist down on the table, causing the tankards to rattle ominously. "He won't have a choice! I'm his king!" he growled, his voice low but filled with an unmistakable fury. "His deaf uncle beat the son of the Lord of Highgarden, for the gods' sake!"
An uncomfortable silence followed, the tension palpable as both men processed the implications of what had just been said. Ned took a moment to gather his thoughts, inhaling deeply before exhaling a long breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders. "He won't allow it, Robert," he finally said.
Robert, still simmering with anger, poured himself a generous helping of wine, the liquid swirling darkly in the cup. He glanced at Ned, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly as he spoke again, this time with a softer tone. "I know this," he admitted, the frustration in his voice giving way to resignation. The two men sat in silence for a moment, the air thick with unspoken thoughts, both aware that the path forward would not be easy.
00
As the small council convened in the dimly lit chamber, the members took their seats around the heavy wooden table. The Commander of the Gold Cloaks had just delivered his report regarding the recent altercation that had cast a shadow over the realm, and King Robert Baratheon, after dismissing the commander with a wave of his hand, now turned his attention to his councilors. He glanced around the table, finally broke the silence with a simple, yet loaded, "Well?"
Pycelle, the aging Grand Maester, was the first to seize the opportunity to voice his thoughts. With a tone that dripped with false sympathy, he spoke, "It is indeed a tragedy what has befallen young Lord Olly." His voice took on a more serious note as he continued, "However, we must acknowledge that this does not excuse the actions of the Northmen." His concern grew more pronounced as he pressed on, "Assaulting the King's brother is nothing short of treason, my Lords."
Ned Stark, seated at the table and representing the North, was quick to defend Roose and Torrhen. His voice was firm and steady as he countered, "Torrhen only acted to protect Renley by placing himself between him and Olly. I believe Roose's actions were entirely understandable given the circumstances." He looked around the table, hoping to garner some support for his position.
Cersei, ever the opportunist, seized the moment with glee. "Understandable?" she echoed, her voice dripping with disdain. "The King's brother was assaulted by your northern brutes. That is treason, plain and simple." A smirk played on her lips as she relished the discomfort that hung over the room like a thick fog. "And all of this fuss over the death of a bastard," she added dismissively.
"Enough of your insolence, woman!" Robert barked, fixing her with a fierce glare that silenced her momentarily. He then turned his attention back to Ned, his expression serious. "I want all the Northerners out of King's Landing," he commanded, his voice heavy with authority. However, before he could elaborate on his intentions, Stannis Baratheon, his brother, interjected forcefully. "Robert, you cannot be serious," Stannis began, his voice cutting through the tension. "Are you truly suggesting that we allow Ryswell and Karstark to leave unpunished? Karstark assaulted our brother!" His gaze was intense, challenging Robert to reconsider his stance.
Baelish, nodded in agreement with Stannis, though he tempered his words with a hint of deference. "I think Stannis raises a valid point, as does your grace," he said, lowering his head slightly in a gesture of respect towards Cersei before continuing. "It would set a dangerous precedent if we allow these offenders to go without facing any consequences, your Grace."
Ned Stark leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper yet heavy with a weight that seemed to fill the room. "You stupid fools, you don't have the slightest idea of what's coming." The members of the council exchanged startled glances, caught off guard by this unexpected fervor emanating from a man they had always known to be calm, collected, and respectful. This was a side of Ned Stark they had never witnessed before.
"My nephew loved his brother," Ned continued, his tone now more impassioned. "His mother, who he devoted himself to, cared for Olly as if she had given birth to him herself. You must understand, he will not just be grieving; he is a prideful man, one who is quick to anger when provoked. Did you all forget what he did to the Greyjoys? That was not an act of mere vengeance but a display of what he is capable of if slighted. I cannot predict how he will react but I can assure you that it will not be peaceful. You don't know my nephew like I do. He can be cruel when he feels wronged, and he will not take an attack on his family idly. Instead of all of you throwing more oil onto the flames of this conflict, you should be devising a strategy to soothe his anger before it engulfs us all."
"Lord Stark, are you suggesting that prince Leon will openly rebel against His Grace?" Pycelle inquired, a look of concern etched across his face. Ned Stark took a moment to gather his thoughts, his brow furrowing as he considered the ramifications of the situation. "No," he replied firmly, "I do not believe that Leon will go so far as to raise his sword in open rebellion. However, I fear that he may very well seek vengeance against Highgarden. The wounds of past grievances run deep, and I cannot shake the feeling that he will use this for retribution. I cannot tell you how much he hates to Reach."
Ned's gaze swept across the table, taking note of the various expressions etched on the faces of the council members. He paused momentarily at Cersei's scornful scoff, which only deepened his resolve. Turning his attention to King Robert, he slowly unpinned the Hand of the King symbol from his cloak, holding it in his hands with a reverence that reflected the gravity of the situation. He stared at it for a moment, lost in thought, before placing it down on the table, positioning it as close to Robert as possible. "I cannot be your Hand, Robert," he declared firmly. "I will support you in negotiating and in calming my nephew, but I cannot take a side in this matter. My loyalties are divided, and it would be a disservice to the realm for me to accept a role that I cannot fully embrace."
Robert's face flushed crimson with frustration as he slammed his fist on the table, the force of his anger causing the goblets to rattle. "Yes, you bloody well can! I am your king! If I say you're my Hand, then you're my bloody Hand!" His voice echoed against the stone walls, a testament to the rising tensions that filled the air. At this moment, Cersei seized the opportunity to interject. "My love," she began, her tone dripping with feigned concern, "Is it truly wise to trust him? Just look at where his loyalties lie. You must see that they do not align with ours. My father, or even Jaime, would make a far better Hand of the King. They have the cunning and the strength to help you deal with the barbarians and the chaos that is brewing all around us."
"Shut your mouth, you foolish woman! You're only here out of courtesy, and if I hear one more word from you, I will personally drag you out of this room," Robert snapped. At that moment, Renley stormed into the room, his presence electrifying the air. His eyes locked onto Ned, and he erupted into a tirade, shouting and demanding that Robert take action against the so-called savages. Renley's voice was filled with indignation, his frustration boiling over as he gestured wildly, insisting that something must be done. Robert, having reached the end of his patience, rose to his full height and, without a moment's hesitation, delivered a sharp slap across Renley's face. The force of it sent Renley crashing to the ground, stunned.
"You stupid fool! This is all your fault!" Robert shouted, his rage palpable. "You and your buggering lover had to go and play your pathetic word games with young Stark. When he mocked you for what you were—too cowardly. You let your precious Loras stab him in the neck while he is walking away. I should bash that cunt of Tyrell's head in right now."
Renley lay on the floor, momentarily stunned anger flickered in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by confusion. It took a moment for the implications of what Robert had said about his beloved to sink in, and slowly, his body began to shake with fury. "Loras did nothing wrong!" he shouted back, his voice rising in pitch. "That northern bastard called his sister a whore! I merely made a statement about her honor. Loras was just defending his sister, as any true knight would do!"
Renley's indignation surged as he recalled the slights they had endured. "They mocked us Robert, they called you the fat king and labeled me a sword swallow and a incompetent craven. I overheard several Northerners during our journey; their contempt was palpable. They think they're better than us, and that bastard needs to be reminded of his place."
With every word Renley spat, Robert's anger only intensified. "What do you know about being a knight?" he thundered. "The only sword you've ever truly wielded is Loras's! You and your cowardly lover stabbed a boy in the back while he was walking away—how is that knightly behavior? Now get your useless, miserable ass out of this chamber! I swear to you, if I hear another word from you, I will leave this room and bash Tyrell head in, and then throw you into the black cells to rot!"