Dark wings, dark words, and the lions stir…
The Golden Queen
"This is madness," the Queen said firmly, throwing the parchment on the ground, beneath her gold-and-crimson high seat by the Iron Throne. "What, will have we to discuss grumpkins and snarks next?"
Qyburn smiled apologetically. "I am sorry, Your Grace, but the reports—"
She snorted. "—are either lunacy or conspiracy. I have yet to decide which," Cersei said. "Do they seriously expect us to believe in ice dragons?"
Grand Maester Pycelle hesitated. "From a learned man's perspective, the current stance is split," the old man wheezed. "There is some evidence to suggest ice dragons either exist or used to exist, and a minority in the Citadel believe that they still might survive in numbers. For instance, there are sailor's apocrypha and other distant legends, mostly from Ibbenese whalers who dare to sail Cannibal's Bay in the northern Shivering Sea, saying that ships that venture too far north will begin to see winged shapes carved out of ice, flying amidst the aurorae, made of glittering blue and white crystal. I have in my study secondhands accounts of captains of Ib, saying that ships that lay sight on them are said to be frozen amidst the ice, trapped forever as the sea freezes around them. Maester Margate famously theorised the possibility that they might be a northern cousin to the wyverns of Sothoryos—"
Cersei snorted and rolled her eyes, causing Pycelle to sputter and trail away. Lord Qyburn was all smiles and explanations, but the Grand Maester was shifting in his seat and the others on the small council seemed fairly uncomfortable too. Cersei felt like slapping them; did they really think that the realm was now under invasion from magical ice dragons? What nonsense would they start speaking of next, perhaps krakens?
It wasn't so long ago that the Wall was giving reports of moving corpses and white walkers, she recalled. The audacity of the lies coming from that place astounded her. Did the cold freeze their wits?
No, Cersei decided. Far more likely it is some scheme of some sort. Who was scheming was harder to guess. The Night's Watch had strong ties to Winterfell, so maybe this was some ploy on behalf of House Stark. Stannis had headed straight to the Wall, so he was a likely conspirator too. Another name that kept coming up was Cotter Pyke, so perhaps this was because of ironborn defiance too.
Too many enemies, too many lies. She instantly distrusted any reports coming from that cold place.
"Your Grace…" Lord Qyburn cleared his throat slowly. "… there have been ravens from across the north, particularly the Shadow Tower, Karhold, Last Hearth, White Harbour, and down to Winterfell. The details vary, but the message… they all report that a large force of wildlings have broken through the Wall."
"How many?"
"The letters seem to suggest between ten to fifty thousand, Your Grace."
Cersei scoffed. "These are the same reports that claim 'ice dragons', I take it?"
"Ice dragon, singular, Your Grace," Qyburn corrected. "It is described as with a hundred-and-fifty-foot wingspan, white scales, and a breath that can freeze oceans."
"I wonder why they didn't throw in tales of armies of unicorns and mammoths as well?" She slowly took a long sip of Arbor Gold from her goblet. "It seems obvious that these reports have been exaggerated beyond all rational sense. I expect five thousand wildlings, at most, would be a more reasonable number."
"Not so long ago, Lord Commander Mormont was reporting a host of a hundred thousand under a… Mance Rayder, if I recall," Ser Harys Swyft wheezed. "He sent many ravens concerning it."
"More likely some frightened fool has counted double," said Orton Merryweather. "Or is puffing up the threat so we will not think them craven."
"And the fact remains that the Wall has been breached," Pycelle insisted. "Lord Bolton is calling for aid."
That made her stiffen. "The north raised in revolt against us, and now they have the audacity to call on the crown to save them?"
"Lord Bolton is—"
"The Warden of North. It is his job to keep the north in order, not mine."
"But, Your Grace, if the realm is threatened…"
"If," Aurane Waters interrupted, glaring at Pycelle haughtily. "I remain unconvinced that any of these reports are genuine."
"There are more letters streaming in daily," Pycelle warned.
"Yet it seems to me to more likely be a ploy; they give us reports of some massive army, and expect us to race to their aid," Waters pointed out. "A foolish trick to draw our armies and fleets away from us, to leave us more vulnerable to real threats. All the houses that gave you those reports are traitors or fools."
Cersei smiled approvingly. Aurane Waters had proved himself a good choice for her Grand Admiral. Pretty, agreeable, and he knew who he was loyal to. "Exactly. They're trying to exaggerate a threat." Ice dragons - absurd! She shook her head. "I consider those letters little more than hearsay and ridiculous rumours."
There were nods around the table. "There is one detail that many letters agree on," Lord Qyburn added. "They say that the leader of the wildlings is a man named Jon Snow - the bastard son of Eddard Stark."
Cersei paused, blinking in genuine surprise. Then she chuckled, actually laughing. "Eddard Stark's bastard?" She said incredulously. "Turned… what is that ridiculous title? 'King-Beyond-the-Wall'?"
The thought of Eddard Stark, the great, honourable Eddard Stark, having a bastard had always made Cersei smile. She tried to recall him from their visit from Winterfell, briefly recalling a dark haired, long-faced, sullen little boy. She had seen little of the bastard, truth be told; Catelyn Stark had tried to hide him from sight like a ugly wart.
Eddard Stark had been so ashamed of him that he sent his bastard to the Night's Watch, she remembered. "This… Jon Snow? How old is he? Sixteen? Seventeen? I thought he took the black."
"Seventeen, I believe, and yes, he did."
So that made Eddard Stark's dishonourable son a deserter as well as a traitor. Perfect. "Bastards are fiends by nature," Orton Merryweather said, drawing an evil gaze from Aurane Waters. "I suppose this one is trying to follow in his half-brother's footsteps."
"And I am sure he will end up lacking a head as well," Cersei said dismissively, but she was still laughing to herself. What a perfect final insult to Eddard Stark's disgraced legacy: his bastard son invading the realm with savages. She had no fear of some bastard boy, with savages and tall tales of dragons.
"I hear that wildlings are savages, Your Grace," Ser Loras Tyrell said, clad in his white cloak standing by the table. Cersei cast him a foul look - the Knight of Flowers should learn to stay quiet. It still irked her that the Tyrell boy ended up on guard duty next to Ser Osmund Kettleblack. "And an army without discipline is no army at all. No wildling invasion has ever lasted long."
"True, true," Ser Harys Swyft said. "Surely the threat has been overstated."
"Yet the rumours are disturbing," Grand Maester Pycelle said with a gulp. "Perhaps we should—"
"Your blood must have turned to milk, if you are intimidated by tales like that," Aurane sneered at the old man. Pycelle flinched as if slapped.
"It seems to me that this is an opportunity for Lord Bolton," Cersei said. "His realm faces a common enemy, one that will unite the tenuous loyalty of his vassals. The wildlings have been foes since times immemorial, and so the north must come together to face them." She paused, taking another sip of wine. "Yet we shall not be unreasonable. After Ser Jaime's campaign in the Riverlands is complete, part of our forces shall march to the Neck to relieve them."
March very, very slowly to the Neck, she thought to herself, and a small part at that. She had no interest in sacrificing Lannister soldiers unduly. "Very wise, Your Grace," Orton Merryweather bobbed.
The north was no great concern, truth be told. It was an empty, cold wasteland. It didn't provide food or great trade. In winter the north would be frozen shut, and Cersei had no interest in committing so many of her men to such a needless conflict. Not when they were already so thin on the ground, and so many more immediate threats around her.
No, the true threats were from the Tyrells, those power-grabbing whores. And from Stannis, as meagre as his forces now were, or even from those blasted peasant 'sparrows' and the dirty smallfolk that infested her city. The Martells also concerned her, the treacherous snakes holding Myrcella as they did.
She thought over it. Still, the north was very delicate, and she had growing concerns over House Bolton's suitability as wardens. "Tell me," Cersei said, "what of the Stark boy that came back from the dead? Brandon Stark, I believe?"
"House Umber has offered him in trade. I do not know of his situation after the news of the wildling invasion," Qyburn said, apologetically.
"Has his identity been confirmed yet?" She remembered Bran Stark quite clearly, from a long time ago. The boy that liked to climb.
"It has not, Your Grace."
"That deal has not changed," Cersei decided. "If Last Hearth truly is under threat, then this Brandon Stark must be brought south to King's Landing with all haste."
"Would not execution be a simpler method?" Aurane Waters said with a frown.
Ser Harys and Orton Merryweather looked appalled at the suggestion. Queen Cersei only smiled. "A ten-year-old boy? Do not be barbaric."
No, I want this Stark kept alive and well as a hostage in King's Landing. If House Bolton proves treacherous to them as well, then keeping the last son of Stark to replace them would be useful. Perhaps this Brandon Stark would be meek, useful and easily groomed. And he's a cripple too, she recalled. A cripple must be very easily held captive - absolutely perfect.
Most of the small council seemed satisfied, but Grand Maester Pycelle still looked nervous. "Your Grace, if Lord Bolton requests aid then we should consider-"
"No, the matter is settled." Cersei shook her head. "We cannot commit any significant forces north, not when there are so many threats closer to home."
"You refer to the ironborn?" Ser Loras asked with a frown.
I was thinking more of the Tyrells, you clutching thorns . "I mean Stannis Baratheon," the Queen said, moving swiftly onto the next issue at hand. "I find this letter from House Celtigar of Claw Isle far more concerning. Is it accurate?"
"I think so, Your Grace. Stannis' ships have indeed been spotted past Claw Isle, heading south towards the Blackwater."
Lord Celtigar is our guest and hostage at the Red Keep, Cersei recalled. The letter had been penned by his wife, and she did not think they'd risk his well-being.
"Then Stannis is retreating back to Dragonstone," Ser Loras said, leaning forward quickly. Well, of course.
"Can we stop him?" Waters said. "We have four dromonds ready to sail, and if the Redwyne fleet is blockading Dragonstone…"
"That letter was penned three days ago," Qyburn reminded. "Taking into account how the crow flies and deployment time, I expect Stannis may have already reached Dragonstone or is about to."
Ser Loras Tyrell looked unhappy. "Then there could be a battle happening this moment on Dragonstone."
Aurane Waters met his gaze. "And if Lord Paxter Redwyne fulfils his duty, then Stannis will never reach the castle."
"We have a force laying siege to Dragonstone, do we not?" Orton Merryweather said, looking nervous. "Two thousand men, if I recall."
"We sent messages and ships to alert them as soon as the news came in, last night," the Queen reassured. "Lord Redwyne has already been informed, as has Lord Tyrell. We have deployed what reinforcements we can spare, but it could well be that there is naught else to do until news arrives."
"So we will just sit here and talk?" Ser Loras fumed.
Mind your tongue, boy. "Yes. Whatever is happening is happening many leagues away, and we must plan for it," she said coolly, turning back to Lord Qyburn. I will have to see about removing Ser Loras from small council meetings. "How many ships did the spotter report?"
"Eight cogs and galleys, Your Grace."
"I recall that Stannis left with twenty-nine." Eight ships - that was what? Perhaps a thousand men? It was hard to judge.
"He did indeed, Your Grace."
"So it is true?" Orton Merryweather frowned. "Stannis was defeated in the north?"
"Either by the wildlings or by storm, the reports are uncertain," Qyburn admitted.
She took a deep sip from her goblet. "Then once again Stannis has been proven a craven!" She proclaimed. "He was defeated at Blackwater and fled north, only to be defeated in the north and flee back here! He has barely a thousand men left and half a dozen ships. How many times must this fool bounce around the realm trying to incite treason, before his men finally desert him and his so-called claim?"
She felt like laughing at the thought of Stannis running backwards and forwards across Westeros, or the thought of Eddard Stark's bastard - ha! Stark had a bastard! - turning savage wildling king.
"That is true, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle said in a laborious voice. "And yet the fact remains that Dragonstone may have just been reinforced by another thousand men. The castle will not fall easily."
"Then we can starve him out, if we must," Cersei said. "Stannis' meagre forces cannot match our fleet."
"Dragonstone is a strong castle," Waters warned. "And its stores are large. It will not fall quickly either."
"We should have stormed it when the garrisoned was weakened," Loras pouted.
"Lord Redwyne has Dragonstone blockaded, has he not?" Cersei said with a shrug. "The Redwyne fleet should intercept Stannis' ships. There may well be no reason for concern."
The discussion continued for a while, but there was little to be done. Stannis' army was finished, but annoyingly he still held two of the strongest castles in the realm. Both Storm's End and Dragonstone were under siege, yet both might still last months even against far superior numbers. The Redwyne fleet was two hundred warships strong, yet ships alone could not conquer a castle like Dragonstone.
It was the hour of the bat when the talk finally eroded Cersei's patience and she retired for the night. During the siege at the end of Robert's Rebellion, Dragonstone lasted for a whole year with a garrison of less than a thousand, and Cersei cursed the thought of spending a whole year with Stannis breathing down her neck.
With luck, a raven would come reporting that Paxter Redwyne had successfully routed Stannis before he reached the castle, but none came during the night. That useless fool Redwyne, weak like a sour grape.
The next morn, she held court and the whole keep was whispering about news of Stannis' return. Ser Desmond Redwyne, some second cousin and commander in the fleet, could only give feeble excuses. "It was the wind!" the aging Ser Desmond protested. "A freak squall took Stannis' ships in past the blockade, and no fleet of warships can defy the wind. We could not stop them, Your Grace."
She scoffed. More likely Lord Redwyne had grown lax on his duty patrolling the Blackwater. "And the garrison at Dragonstone?" she demanded.
"They were ambushed in the middle of the night, Your Grace - Stannis came in too fast, and the warning did not reach them in time. Stannis broke the siege and reached the castle."
She dismissed him angrily. Two thousand westerlands men ambushed and broken. Perhaps Redwyne did this on purpose, just to weaken us further, Cersei simmered. Lord Redwyne sent a message promising to redouble the blockade, but it left her in a foul mood.
Enemies, enemies all around me.
Two days later and she was only just retiring for the night, feasting on wine and lemon cakes when she heard footsteps marching to her chambers. Her door knocked, and Ser Osmund Kettleblack entered. "Urgent news, Your Grace."
"Stannis? Has he been defeated?"
"No, from the Reach. Highgarden claims reavers moving against them. They've taken the Shield Isles," Ser Osmund reported, unable to suppress a tired yawn. The hour was late. "Queen Margaery has called an emergency small council session."
She has done what? Cersei downed the last of her wine in an irritated gulp. Little brat should learn her place.
The small council was already gathering in the shadows of the Iron Throne. It was the hour of the owl, or around about, and Cersei was left feeling stiff and weary as she walked through the gloomy double doors. Despite everything, she couldn't allow the girl of a queen to host a small council session without her, so Cersei had to rush. Her hair was left tousled and uncombed, and her bodice felt lax and pudgy without her usual handmaids to tighten it properly.
The hall felt rumpled and confused. She passed Boros Blount and Meryn Trant, who seemed to be sleeping on their feet. Loras Tyrell and the darling little queen were wide awake, though, looking hassled by the news that just arrived by raven. Dark wings, frustrating words.
"Why is it that these damnable birds insist on arriving at such an hour?" she muttered irritably to Pycelle.
"Ravens do prefer the dusk, Your Grace," the old maester tottered, walking quickly with rackety bones.
"A thousand ships!" Cersei heard the little queen exclaim, her voice echoing through the cavernous throne room. "Your Grace, this must be answered fiercely!"
Her eyes narrowed. She dares say 'must' to me. So the ironborn are gathering against the Reach, in large numbers too, though claims of a thousand ships was met with doubt from the small council. The new king of the Seastone Chair, Euron Greyjoy, had launched an assault of the like that had not been seen since the days of Dagon Greyjoy.
"The reavers come in strength," said Margaery Tyrell. "Lord Hewett and Lord Chester are slain, as well Lord Serry's son and heir. Serry has fled to Highgarden with what few ships remain to him, and Lord Grimm is a prisoner in his own castle. The iron king has raised four lords of his own in their place."
"I see Stannis' hand in this," Cersei declared. "Balon Greyjoy offered my lord father an alliance, this new king has clearly made one with Stannis. Stannis returns just as his new allies launch a raid on the west, attempting to divide us."
Pycelle frowned. "Stannis and ironmen have long been foes."
"And yet clearly they have joined forces. By raiding in the west, he hopes to distract us from a renewed assault from Dragonstone."
Lord Merryweather nodded eagerly. "He is more cunning than we knew. Your Grace is clever to see through his ploy."
"And we will not rise to the trap." She smirked, turning back to the little queen. "The Shield Islands belong to the Reach. It is for Highgarden to answer this."
Margaery Tyrell stared at her for a moment, open-mouthed, before smoothing her expression. "The best part of our power remains with our lord father, though," Margaery said, with Loras standing behind her. "We must send word to him at Storm's End. At once."
"Absolutely not. I will not let Storm's End fall into Stannis' grasp again, not after the failure Lord Redwyne suffered at Dragonstone. The siege of Storm's End must remain strong and the Redwyne fleet is required in the Blackwater."
"You Grace," Loras Tyrell bowed. "From those strongholds on the Shields, the ironmen threaten Oldtown and the Arbor. With ironborn raiders on the warpath, they can sail up the Mander into the heart of the Reach, as they did of old. They may even threaten Highgarden itself."
"Then you must roust them," she said irritably. "But Lord Tyrell's and Lord Redwyne's forces remain in service to the crown."
"Yet Stannis has eight ships," Margaery protested. "The ironmen have a thousand. Our fleet is more urgently needed in the Reach."
'Our' fleet? She stiffened. The Redwyne fleet belongs to the crown, lady. As do you. Not the other way around.
"Your Grace, the siege of Dragonstone may take a year or more," Grand Maester Pycelle warned, in a low voice. "The siege of Storm's End perhaps just as long…"
"But you would allow such a knife at the capital's throat? I forbid it. The crown forbids it."
"But you must—" Margaery protested, and Cersei's patience finally snapped.
"Enough!" she snapped, and the word rang and echoed through the cavernous hall. Margaery recoiled, Loras jumped to his sister's side. "Mind your tongue and remember your place, girl - I am the rightful queen and you dare to command me?"
The room turned deathly silent, Margaery's delicate little face paled. Cersei could have growled. There was a long pause that no one dared fill.
"Your Grace…" Pycelle stammered nervously. Cersei glared around the room at the speechless expressions and she forced her fists to unfurl. Her nails dug into her palm like claws. She deserves to be snapped at, little slut.
"The hour is late," Qyburn said coolly, his hands hidden up his sleeves. "I fear it is all too easy for passions to run hot where the security of the realm is at stake."
"Indeed," Cersei growled, with a lingering glare at Margaery. She turned to Ser Loras, because at least his effeminate face was easier to look at than that doe-eyed slut. "… How many ships does Lord Redwyne command?" she demanded.
"Two hundred warships and galleys, Your Grace," Ser Loras replied with hesitation.
"And with enemies on both sides, it appears we must divide our forces. Equally." She turned and paced, scratching her chin. "Lady Tyrell, in return for the crown's leave to abandon their post, your father and Lord Redwyne must relinquish command of one hundred vessels of the Arbor to the Royal Fleet."
"One hundred," Margaery repeated quietly. "You would halve our fleet."
"Seems only fair, does it not? I am sure that a hundred fine warships shall be more than sufficient to drive back the ironmen, as exaggerated as their numbers surely are." Her voice was hard. "The remaining vessels must remain in the Blackwater, under the command of our Grand Admiral."
There was a stunned silence. Aurane Waters blinked in surprise, and then grinned. Margaery Tyrell's mouth stammered briefly. "You expect my father to confiscate half of Lord Redwyne's fleet?"
"It is a Lord Paramount's prerogative to command his bannerman's forces, is it not?" As it is for the crown.
Aurane Waters nodded in agreement. "It seems very reasonable to me," he agreed with a nod. "Overly reasonable, in fact, to allow so many ships to leave the capital in such a crucial time, and yet Your Grace is generous. We must combine the Redwyne vessels with the Royal Fleet. Together we can blockade Dragonstone and keep Stannis contained."
"Exactly. I am sure that Lord Mace will understand the need as well - especially since Stannis threatens the very city where his own daughter resides."
Margaery hesitated, but Ser Loras placed a hand on her shoulder. Cersei just smiled sweetly.
They would whine, but they had no good reason to object and Cersei would enjoy trimming the Tyrell's thorns a bit. Doubtless Redwyne would leave his own captains and officers, but under Aurane Waters' command they could see about filling the ranks with more… reliable men.
Any man sworn to the Tyrells over the crown is a man who cannot be trusted, she thought quietly. If they are not culled, the roses might well overgrow the whole kingdom.
Yes, she decided, growing more satisfied with the idea. Let this Euron Crow's Eye bleed Highgarden for us, to put them in their place. Cersei would have to stock up on wine, though. The capital may well lose its supply of Arbor Gold for a time.
The small council meeting ended with forced pleasantries and tired chatter. Little Margaery barely said a word, while Pycelle whined and hobbled away to draft up the royal decree concerning the Redwyne fleet. Cersei smiled and excused herself, dress sweeping across the ground as she bid them all good night.
The meeting actually left her in a good mood. The reavers were concerning, but the thought of Highgarden facing such a threat was appealing. That, and the excuse to steal half of the Reach's navy made her smile.
She could have returned to her own apartments, where Taena Merryweather shared her bed, but Cersei was suddenly in no mood to sleep. Instead, she walked the inner courtyard, heading towards the burned husk of the Tower of the Hand. She stared out over the blackened stone of the Tower, the wreck looming in the faint moonlit courtyard.
First Starks rose against us, she thought, then the riverlands. Then Renly, and then Stannis. The Tyrells were grasping, and her own city was being overrun by peasants under this new High Sparrow. There were ironborn reavers in the west and wildling savages in the north. Why is it that this whole realm seems to be falling apart, everyone trying to steal what is mine?
There were no shortage of enemies around her, Cersei thought with a grunt. Enemies trying to steal her crown, steal her kingdom, or steal her children. She would have to see about playing those enemies off against each other.
She had a serving boy fetch her wine from the kitchens. It felt apropos to savour the taste of the Arbor. She spent the night lingering around the courtyard, staring out over the godswood highlighted under the dark moon. There was a chill in the night, but she didn't mind.
Very quickly, it seemed, she saw the faintest shimmer of dawn over the horizon. Cersei spent the night enjoying the serene of the godswood, with Ser Osmund and Ser Boros standing guard. The serving boy continued to fetch more wine. Arbor Gold was something to be enjoyed at night.
Above, in the holdfast, she caught the glimpse of dark wings coming and going from the rookery. Slowly, she decided to retire. Her head was tingling pleasantly, and she was Queen. She could spend the morning lazing in her apartments.
As she stomped up the serpentine steps, she saw a bearded figure waiting for her. Grand Maester Pycelle was twitching as he approached hesitantly, holding a piece of parchment tightly. Cersei had no patience left for him. "What is it now, fool?" she snapped.
The old man was flustered, out of breath. "I have just received a letter, Your Grace… it is marked from your brother."
"Jaime?" She breathed a sigh of relief. "Good, then I expect Riverrun has fallen by now. How goes his campaign in the riverlands?"
The maester twitched. "No." Pycelle gulped. "Your other brother. This letter is signed Tyrion Lannister."
The Griffin
Jon Connington had never been an easy sleeper. At night, he stared at and through the stone walls constantly, thinking intently about every risk, every peril and everything that could go wrong. Come morning, he pulled himself off his slab of a bed, dressed in velvet and steel, and walked out the door.
He was met by the sounds of steel and boots ringing through the courtyard. The marble buildings of Lys stretched over the horizon, and the waters glittered in the morning sun, while the harbour churned with the sounds of war.
The Golden Company was preparing to set sail again.
Lys had been only a short stopover from Volantis, but still too long for Jon's liking. The city of Lys was too soft, too bright, too perfumed. Too many of his men seemed too content to linger with the bed slaves and perfumed gardens of the Free City. Everywhere he looked he saw soft men, house slaves and extravagant luxuries.
Jon detested such things. That feeling of weakness lingered over the city like a stench. I should be nearing my homeland now, to wage war, not waiting idly in this place.
They were docked at a private harbour on a smaller archipelago of Lys, overlooking the merchants' ships flowing in and out of the white city. The harbour was owned by one Magister Illyrio of Pentos, who had strong connections to Lys too. Many of the city's magisters had been understandably nervous when the Volantene fleet carrying sellswords approached, but they had managed to smooth it over. It gave the Company a respite to restock and resupply before Westeros.
Jon had argued against the idea of a stopover altogether, instead pushing to go straight across the Narrow Sea for the Seven Kingdoms. It would be too risky, he had said, and it wasn't so long ago that the Golden Company had been hired to fight Lys. As it happened, he had been outvoted and then proven wrong, which left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The magisters had been all too eager to accommodate the Company, to see them on their way. There had been gifts to placate them, and they had managed to recruit other sellswords to their campaign, all the while stocking up on all the weapons and armour that the famed tradesmen of Lys had to offer. Eventually, Jon's complaints of 'this is costing us time' had to fall silent when he realised they could gather up to two thousand more men from a short stop.
"My lord," a squire wheezed, rushing to meet him. A young boy, with a thick, fluid Lys accent, and the silver blond hair of Old Valyria. Even commoners had the features of dragonlords in Lys. "A message from Black Balaq. Four more ships from the rear flank have arrived at East Docks."
"They have arrived." After the hard voyage out of Volantis it had been doubtful whether any more ships would make it through the storms. "Has he reported casualties?"
"Few. One ship is crippled. Most survived - including fifty more elephants."
He nodded in approval. The Company's elephant cavalry had always carried the most risk during the journey. They had kept the majority of the elephants in the rear flank of the fleet. The huge beasts were logistical nightmares, but they'd be so worthwhile when they reached the open field.
"Have me updated when a full headcount comes in," he ordered. "Send word to Balaq to report to me with all haste." They would probably be up to nine thousand by now, at least. Only three of their ships had been completely lost.
"Yes, my lord." The squire hesitated. "Also, my lord, Lord Tyrion requests your presence."
"Requests my presence?"
"He is breaking his fast in the solar. Along with Captain-General Strickland and the King."
Jon's eyes narrowed. It was well-known among the Company now, but to hear word of King Aegon babbled so carelessly… "Guard your tongue, boy. His presence is not one to be babbled around," Jon said. "Who are you?"
The squire turned nervous. "Oshio Sathma, my lord," the boy said. "I am the cousin of Magister Sathma. Lord Tyrion recruited me for your noble campaign, my lord, to squire for Commander Strickland."
Under his gloves, Jon's hands tightened. The dwarf had spent far too long making deals with the fat magisters of the city. His mood turned foul. "The crown's catspaw would kill our liege if they knew," he growled. "Secrecy is paramount, and loose tongues cost lives."
"Begging your pardon, my lord."
The Golden Company had already overrun and dominated Illyrio's walled compound. Oshio Sathma led the way through the maze of extravagant Lysene architecture. Doubtless any squire of Harry Strickland would never see battle, only wine and highborn guests, he thought bitterly. Yet Magister Sathma must have still made some sort of deal with the dwarf.
It irritated him to no end that the dwarf was babbling about the king's identity to every merchant lord of Lys. Does he not know that Aegon's identity must be kept secret until we reach Westeros? He risks losing our advantage - we cannot allow them to prepare for this invasion.
I should never have taken the Lannister with us . A month ago Jon could have easily taken the blasted dwarf's mutilated head, but the imp was a wily creature. While Jon had been busy with the goliath task of arranging transport for ten thousand men, the dwarf had been making plans of his own.
As Jon crossed the parapet marble walls, he glimpsed Ser Brendel Byrne and Ser Laswell Peake preparing horses and men. The sight made him frown, moving away from the squire and down to the courtyard confront the men gathering. Byrne and Peake both made a good sight; strong, handsome, dressed in finery. Both were highborn soldiers with rich gold bands across their arms.
"Sers, our departure is soon and this compound is on lockdown. Where are you heading?" Jon demanded.
"Into the city, my lord," Peake replied with a grunt. A hard man, an exiled Westerosi lord. "Magister Allyios is hosting a soirée, and we have secured invitations. We are to attend."
Jon bristled. "We should be preparing for set sail again and you wish to dawdle for parties?"
Ser Brendel looked confused. Ser Laswell's eyes flickered. "Magister Allyios comes with a fleet of trading ships behind him, Lord Hand, and he has been looking to expand towards to the Seven Kingdoms for years. We attend this party now, pay respects, and we are to ensure a dozen trading vessels of provisions sailing with us."
Jon's eye narrowed. "And who gave you that order?"
"Lord Tyrion, my lord," Peake replied, mounting his horse.
Of course. Jon had no patience for such politics and flattery, but the dwarf seemed to live off it. There had been a few orders now given without his knowledge. The dwarf seeks to usurp my campaign.
The Lannister had arrived to the Golden Company as a prisoner, a curiosity. But the dwarf had sharp eyes and a sharper wit. He found a soft spot and pushed himself in.
At first, Jon didn't think much of it when the dwarf started talking to Harry Strickland without him. It kept Homeless Harry's cowardice away from him as Jon had been managing the fleet out of Volantis. But then, Tyrion Lannister signed up with the Golden Company by himself, squirming under Harry's thumbs and escaping Jon's grip. He was a prisoner no longer, he became a member of the Company and Jon had no valid reason to object.
Soon after, though, Harry had the idea of promoting Gorys Edoryen to quartermaster, while Tyrion stepped up to the job of company paymaster. Jon didn't realise just how influential the position of paymaster was.
The Captain-General Harry Strickland was weak and spineless with bloated feet. Tyrion Lannister made decisions that the general didn't want to.
Many of them had been good moves as well. The dwarf gave enough bribes to smooth their passage out of Volantis. He had also weeded out the bad sailors and officers in the crews offered by the Triarchs of Volantis. Tyrion had also insisted that the wives, sons and daughters of Volantene captains travel on different vessels. It gave the Volantenes so much more motivation to keep the fleet together.
It had been Tyrion who had pushed for stopping at Lys, and he manipulated Harry into the idea as well. Jon was Hand of the King, but not even he could easily argue with the commander of his army. He couldn't risk a schism within the Company.
They made the journey out of Volantis in good time, through storms and all. Without the dwarf, it could have been so much worse. Tyrion Lannister had taken over many of Strickland's duties, and quickly proved his worth in the Golden Company after the voyage.
Still, it wasn't lost on Jon how all of his allies ended up on different ships. Whenever decisions were to be made, Jon's supporters would be coincidently out on patrol and the discussion inevitably ended up going wherever the dwarf wanted it to go. The Lannister allowed Harry more time to soak his feet, eat plums and count coppers, and in return Harry became the dwarf's own little puppet. He may as well put motley on the Captain-General and use him as a fool.
The Golden Company was sworn to King Aegon and Jon Connington was the Hand of the King, they should be following him. If it had only been Harry, then Jon would have been in complete control.
Still, Tyrion neatly placed himself between Harry Strickland and the officers, and between Aegon and his army, all the while gradually pushing Connington out of the picture. So long as the dwarf continued making good decisions and proving a capable tactician, however, Jon could not easily object.
Except this should be my campaign. My redemption. I am the commander. Yet the dwarf steals my power and my influence with his blasted meddling behind the scenes.
There's a reason dwarfs are malformed, twisted creatures. Cursed in the eyes of gods and men. Jon's eyes were dark as he marched up the room to the king's solar. He heard laughter and the chinking of glasses. There were five men in the king's solar around the table, chuckling over Lys wine early in the morn, and guards standing outside.
"… About fifty savages surrounding us - trapped in the Mountains of the Moon, just me and my poor sellsword," he heard a voice laugh. "This big one, the leader, comes up and asks me how I want to die. And I reply, 'In my own bed, with a belly of wine and a maiden's mouth around my cock, at the age of eighty'!"
Laughter. Jon heard the unmistakable sound of Harry's guffaw. "I'm sure that that would be a scene!"
"How did you survive?" That was Aegon's rapt voice, leaning over to Tyrion's side.
King Aegon sat at the head of the table, and yet everyone was still focused on Tyrion by his side. Streaks of blue still stained the King's silver hair. The dwarf sat drinking a very large glass of wine from the castle's rare stock. "Survive? I hired them," Tyrion laughed. "A savage is a very useful thing to have by your side, Your Grace."
Jon stepped sourly into the room. Blasted dwarf. Sometimes Tyrion antagonised Aegon, sometimes he was all charm and tall tales, but the young King had begun to the seek the Imp's opinion. Working his way into the boy's head with every fanciful story and clever jest. Jon had been so proud of Aegon when he announced that he would sail against Westeros, but then he heard that it had all been the Imp's scheme. Oh, he's a cunning bugger, I'll grant you. I should have thrown him off the boat.
"A savage is just a savage. Barbarity is all too common, it's men of honour that are rare," the Hand of the King said as he stepped into the room. Jon turned his gaze from the dwarf, bowing to the king. King Aegon had already washed the blue out of his hair, sitting at the head of the table, young, proud and handsome. "Your Grace."
"Ah, my Lord Hand!" The dwarf said the greeting as if he were the butt of a jape. "How are you? Did you sleep well?" He took a large sip of wine. "In my experience, though, men of honour have very tight lives and brittle deaths. A bit of savagery, however… a bit of savagery can last you a lifetime."
The solar was well-cushioned and decorated. It was the king's solar, but the dwarf sat like he owned the place. Jon remained standing. Aegon had a large goblet of wine as well and the alcohol left his cheeks flushed. Jon glared at his young liege.
"You should not be drinking, Your Grace," he warned.
"Why not?" Aegon said, but they were the dwarf's words. "I am a man grown, I can drink if I wish."
"It is early and there is much to be done. We mean to sail in two nights."
"Then please, Lord Connington," Tyrion offered. "Take a seat. Take a glass. We were just reciting some old war stories."
The two other men around the oak table, Ser Tristan Rivers and Ser Castor Stone, were laughing and drinking too. The scene was a disgrace. The drunken dwarf, Homeless Harry propped up on pillows, and Aegon going along with it all.
"There are duties to attend to," Jon said, voice like ice.
"But it is an important duty here!" Tyrion protested. "It is a duty to enjoy the free moments, the times of peace. You learn more from tales over a glass of wine than you do from charging blind."
"Hear, hear!" Harry agreed. "More haste, less speed, I always say."
That is the commander of my army. You put Myles Toyne to shame. "My lord speaks the truth," Castor Stone said. Another of the dwarf's catspaws. Castor was a young landed knight, hungry for advancement, young, eager but undistinguished, lowborn and with no place at the king's table. Why would they even permit such a man to speak? "Sharing tales of battles over a drink is a long-honoured tradition."
"And what battles have you ever fought, my lord?" Jon said to the dwarf. "What great feats do you have to your name?"
"Oh, you'd be surprised," he said. "I was regarded as the finest foreman of the drains of Casterly Rock in my youth."
"Drains. You managed drains?"
"Oh, you jest, ser." He looked wounded. "But the drains of Casterly Rock are not for the weak of heart. So much gold being flushed away each time my father sat on the loo, it would jam something terrible…"
He shuddered dramatically. Harry chuckled, and Ser Castor Stone laughed loudly. "Mind," Tyrion continued cheerfully. "I did become quite skilled at flushing out filth."
"Indeed." The edge in Jon's tone caused the laughter to stop. He focused on the dwarf with cold blue eyes. "It is barely dawn. You are drunk. You detain the king and the Captain-General with this foolery, while there is business to attend to. Have you forgotten why we are here? It is not for wine and japes."
Aegon blinked. Jon's voice rarely turned so hard with his king. Aegon was like a son to him, but there was no time to be coddled. "There is a war to be won," he warned, with quiet fury as he turned to Aegon. "Now put down the glass."
The room stiffened. With just a few hard sentences he silenced them all. The full intensity of his glare focused on the dwarf.
"You mockery," Jon said, his voice low. "You seek to waste the King's time at this crucial hour?"
Aegon averted his gaze, shamed. He slowly pushed the glass away from him. The dwarf just shrugged. "I thought it would be educational."
"On how to act a disgrace?"
"No." Tyrion slowly extended a beefy finger to point at Ser Castor. "On how to spot a spy."
The room froze. With his other hand, Tyrion took another sip of wine. "It's always useful to tell bad japes, Your Grace. Tis the ones who laugh the loudest that you should be most suspicious of."
Castor blinked. "What is this?"
"This is treachery. Your treachery." The dwarf pulled out a small folded piece of parchment from his tunic, handing it to a stunned Aegon. There was a seal showing a white winged chalice on the front. "That is a letter written by you detailing our numbers, ships and infantry. You entrusted it to a merchant in Lys headed to King's Landing."
The young knight looked flustered, off-guard. "I wouldn't… I would never…"
"You would. I have the proof right here, from your own hand. You are the bastard son of Lord Hersy of Newkeep. You think that by siding against us you could be legitimised by the crown for your services. To claim your father's seat." The dwarf took another sip. "I suspect you've been so eager to drink and laugh so that you could eventually play poisoner and assassinate someone. The King most likely. Did my dear sister reach out to recruit you?"
Castor protested, but the guilt was written all over his face. He was caught off-guard and intoxicated by wine.
Jon's hand went to his sword, but Ser Tristan Rivers was faster. Castor tried to charge out the door, and the knights collided. Tyrion clapped his hands and two guards stomped in and dragged the knight away screaming and red-faced. He kicked the table, spilling expensive wine over Myrish carpet.
"Was he truly a spy?" Aegon shouted. The young man couldn't hold his wine, he also sounded drunk. "What is to be done with him?"
"Execution is the only way to treat treason," Harry Strickland blustered.
"Executed? But then we'd only have a corpse. A corpse is a fairly useless thing, Your Grace." The dwarf's voice was smooth. "Instead, let's keep him alive and keep him writing letters. That way, we can be sure that King's Landing knows exactly what we want them to know."
The dwarf stood up, waddling with a glass of wine still in his hand. He looked at Aegon. "You see, Your Grace, that's the purpose of having these little sit-downs. Some battles are won by spilling blood, others by spilling wine."
Jon looked at him, and back at Castor Stone. How much had the spy reported? Their numbers, their plans? That Aegon was alive? He had been counting on more of an element of surprise, if the Iron Throne already knew…
He turned to tower over the dwarf. "You should have come to me. His betrayal could have been handled diplomatically."
Tyrion looked wounded. "But, my lord, it was."
Is this a ploy? "Let us see this letter of yours. What evidence do you have that Castor was a spy?"
"Evidence? Poor Castor there was approached by an agent of the Iron Throne during the first night in Lys, who offered him the deal. After that, Castor wrote two letters direct to King's Landing via peddlers and merchants detailing our movements, all of which were eagerly accepted. The third letter is in my hand, however, and the fourth will be one that I will dictate." He nodded. "You are welcome, of course, to interrogate all of the witnesses and unwitting accomplices who saw Castor snooping around. There is plenty of proof to his guilt."
"And what of Lysono Maar?" Harry demanded.
"Our spymaster must have missed Castor, I'm afraid. I handled it for him." He turned to the table. "Please could you grab that goblet before it falls, my lord? It's a horrible tragedy to waste good wine on the carpet."
Harry blinked, and then laughed boisterously. Tyrion laughed as well. Aegon eagerly asked questions, while Jon stood stiff, glaring at the dwarf.
This was planned, Jon thought with quiet fury. Of course it was. The dwarf invited me to the solar knowing full well I'd object. He then named Castor as a spy in front of everyone, making me seem the fool while everyone praises his cleverness. He works to shame me.
The Hand of the King hesitated, glancing around. The spilled wine stained the carpet like blood. I had assigned Castor Stone to the king's protective guard. I had thought him young, but bold and a good man. I let a double-agent come within sword's reach of my king…
The dwarf excused himself quickly, claiming he had paperwork and payslips to complete. He trundled away with a bottle of wine to his quarters.
Jon went to go see Castor Stone. The man was babbling excuses as Company soldiers stripped his golden armbands and threw him into the wine cellars acting as dungeons. He spent the hour questioning the man, demanding to know exactly who recruited him and what he wrote. After only a few punches from the interrogator, Ser Franklyn Flowers, Castor was left a wailing mess.
He just watched, fuming quietly. There should only ever be one answer to treachery. It disgusted him to have to keep filth like Castor alive.
Before long, the news had spread and any who even knew Castor Stone came quickly to denounce him and deny their own involvement. Jon knew there must be accomplices who, knowingly or not, had helped Castor send those letters away. Jon would see all who slacked or assisted either lashed or hung.
Still, it was the thought of the smirking, ugly face that really caused Jon's teeth to grind. Jon's posture was as stiff as stone as he walked to seek out the Lannister.
Jon had assigned the dwarf one of the dankest, cramped storerooms in the compound as his quarters. He had intended it as a slight, but Tyrion didn't seem to mind. The dwarf fit quite snugly into the small office, while Jon was left gritting his teeth as he tried to squeeze himself through the door.
"My Lord Hand!" Tyrion grinned, and bowed. He still held the bottle of wine. "You honour me with your presence. Are you here for your payslip?"
Jon's eyes narrowed. "I promised you once that you would die before you touched a bottle of wine again."
"You did indeed," he agreed. "Awfully foolish of you to do so, if I may say so myself. Why make a promise when you have no means of upholding it?"
I could gut you. I could split your malformed twisted skull in a single cut. Back on the Shy Maid, he certainly could have done so too. Nobody would have objected to an execution when the dwarf had been Jon's prisoner. Now, though, Tyrion Lannister was a listed man of the Golden Company and under Harry Strickland's protection. As feeble as the coin-counter was, Jon still needed the Captain-General of the Golden Company. The dwarf had too many friends in the Company, and he was gaining more every day.
Focus. Patience. But Jon had little patience left. "How did you know that Castor Stone was a spy?" he demanded.
"I thought that would be obvious," the dwarf said with a twisted frown. "I was the one who hired him to spy."
Jon's hand clenched in his glove. The tips of his fingers felt numb as they hovered over his sword in its scabbard. "I was the one who hired a mummer in Lys to approach him, pretending to be a Lannister agent," Tyrion explained. "I put the idea in his head that he could sell information to the Iron Throne. He then sent the offer directly. I also paid mummers to approach several serjeants of the Company, but you'll be relieved to know your sellswords are a loyal lot. They all reported their encounters to our spymaster, and two of the mummers almost died making their offer, actually."
Jon glared. The dwarf's voice was slightly slurred and intoxicated, but smug. "Castor Stone made the choice and sent off the letters all by himself, however," he continued. "Nothing that my dear sister wouldn't learn anyway, and it verifies him for when we send the false information through."
"And yet each time you talk of Aegon's existence you give the enemy more time to prepare. You have been dealing and talking to the magisters."
"Yes. I have made our ventures seem like a grand quest of legend. Many magisters are quite eager with the idea, just as they were during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I wager we could recruit another thousand reinforcements from Lys alone." He scratched his chin. "With the support of Lys and the wealth of all the cheesemongers behind us, we could buy more mercenaries, sellsails and pirates into our venture."
Jon's face twisted. "I intend to put the Rightful King on the Iron Throne and you talk of recruiting pirates."
The dwarf just shrugged. "A soldier is a soldier. And I also hear that my sister has stopped paying the Iron Bank of Braavos. We make our case properly and the Iron Bank will be more than happy to finance our efforts to put the realm to rights. That is all support which can make or break any campaign." He smiled. "So yes, that is why I wanted to stop in Lys."
"So you claim," he growled under his breath. "But you've been spending more time with whores than anything else in the city."
"Oh yes, the whores are important too," Tyrion agreed, taking a deep gulp. "I was wondering if Lys is where whores went. Your soldiers have been enjoying the whores as well."
The Hand of the King hesitated. He's a cunning creature. "Mind your place, dwarf. You have no business giving orders to any of my men."
"Yet you've been so busy." He grinned, noseless face wrinkling. "And the men have been following."
That's what disturbs me the most. "And who gave you the authority?"
"I am the paymaster now. Sellswords follow those who pay them, even in this Company."
First he takes over as paymaster, and then takes the job of spymaster and commander. A month ago, Jon could have killed him, but now? Damn him, he's made himself indispensable.
The Hand of King considered his options. Killing him seemed so tempting and so satisfying, but also useless. It felt like he did when Jon agreed to work for the Spider; simply talking to the fiend was slimy, disgusting.
"What do you want?" Jon said finally. "No more games."
"Me? I'm a creature of simple desires," Tyrion said. "I want my right as Lord of Casterly Rock, of course, and I have already agreed to share the wealth with all faithful friends who help to place me there. I could be King Aegon's most loyal retainer in the west." He paused to think of it. "Oh, I also want to rape and murder my sister."
Jon's face twisted. He likes to make people uncomfortable. Do not raise to the vulgarity. "You wish to rule."
"Rule? No, I have no interest in ruling. If we're considering just rewards, though… well, I did quite enjoy my time my time as Master of Coin. I would be satisfied taking that position again." Liar.
"Reward for your service?" said Jon, his voice a quiet sneer. "And which service is that? Undermining the campaign? Distracting my officers?"
"Have I not been helping? I think this venture stands a very good chance, truth be told. We have ten thousand loyal and seasoned men and the realm is torn. If Dorne declares for Aegon, with some financial support from the Free Cities, and if we convince my sister to make a few bad moves…" He mused, and nodded. "Yes, I think the Golden Company could finally succeed this time."
He motioned at a letter on his desk. "Speaking of," Tyrion continued, "when we reach Westeros, I wish to send this letter away to King's Landing, Casterly Rock, and perhaps a few other select places. In the spirit of spreading disinformation."
Jon looked suspicious, but picked up the parchment. It was written in a smooth, practiced hand. The words were fancy, pompous. The first line read; 'Lord Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin, Rightful Lord of Casterly Rock and falsely accused and sentenced, return to reclaim my rights and lands with the assistance of the leal and just men of the Golden Company of free brothers'.
Jon paused, lips moving as he tried to make sense of it. "This letter is lies and slander. You would claim that you hired the Golden Company?"
"We have the benefit of surprise. Let us offer a distraction from Aegon Targaryen altogether," the dwarf said. "Instead, let us spin the tale that Tyrion Lannister recruited and hired the Golden Company, joining up with Jon Connington, to retake possession of Casterly Rock. We present this to the Seven Kingdoms as a Lannister invasion, rather than a Targaryen invasion."
He seeks to usurp my whole invasion. "This is a coward's and a fool's game to seek recognition that is not earned." Jon's voice was hard, and bitter. "You have no place leading this campaign, dwarf. None."
"But if that letter is sent then Cersei will believe that I am responsible. And her response to that will become the same as it has always been wherever I am concerned; irrational." Tyrion grinned. "My sister is a very predictable woman. Mention my name rather than Aegon's and I guarantee you she will destroy herself."
Jon shook his head. "No. The realm sees you as a murderer and kinslayer. We must unite the realm behind us. You could taint the image of the whole campaign."
"And yet if the Tyrells believe that this is a Lannister problem, rather than their problem, then they are going to be far less willing to rally against us. The forces of Highgarden would prefer to sit back and let us bleed the Lannisters first. And my brother Jaime will be reluctant to lead his armies against me. Cersei will spit and scream and become more and more unreasonable, and will only succeed in driving everyone away." He held up his stubby arms. "With a few letters and a small lie, I could break the realm apart."
That I believe. His eyes narrowed. "And what of Aegon?"
"King Aegon Targaryen stays in the background, quietly rallying support with Dorne and mustering his forces. When the bodies start to burn and the realm sees the options they have, they will raise for Aegon instead."
Jon's lips curled, but he paused before replying. "The battle plan is solid," Tyrion continued. "Your intention to take Griffin's Roost is a good one. We seize the castle, establish ourselves across the stormlands and Cape Wrath, raising forces among the disgruntled storm lords. Let the Tyrells bicker while we reach out to Dorne, and then Aegon starts gathering banners to him. The true threat to the Iron Throne goes unnoticed for as long as possible." He nodded. "You lead the men in the field, I can manage the papers and the letters, while we both leave Captain Strickland plenty of time to soak his weary feet."
"You're not doing this for King Aegon. You don't care about him, or the cause. You just want to gain everything for yourself."
"Doesn't everyone?" It was jape, but those mismatched eyes were hard.
Jon hesitated. The dwarf was clever, but… "No." He shook his head. "I will not suffer you derailing this campaign. Mind your place dwarf. Manage the payslips, but if I hear of you giving orders to my men again then I will have you flogged."
"Well, isn't that a shame." Tyrion sighed. "I only mean to be helpful. After all, I think you need someone like me."
"You think wrong. No one needs you."
"Yes father…" he muttered so softly under his breath, before smiling and saying, "but surely the strain of managing such a campaign must be taxing for you alone? With your condition?"
Jon froze. He felt his shoulders stiffen. Mismatched eyes narrowed at him, unblinking. He has a piercing gaze too. "What are you—"
"Greyscale. How is your hand, Lord Hand?"
No… he can't know…
The dwarf chuckled, standing up slowly. "You think nobody would wonder why a man who shunned alcohol would suddenly start drinking the bitterest wine every night in his chambers alone? Let me guess, did you think that asking for a pot of vinegar would be too obvious?" He chuckled. "Did you also wonder whether wearing thick leather gloves even in the heat of Lys would go unnoticed?"
Jon shuffled his hands, twitching. Tyrion scratched his chin. "And, thinking back to the Bridge of Dreams, there was so much panic when I fell into the water but nobody ever stopped and checked you, though you pulled me out, did they? Did I ever thank you for that?"
The silence stretched out. His head whirred. Jon took a deep breath, his shoulders shaking slightly. "Who else knows?"
"Nobody, as far as I'm aware. Most men are very oblivious creatures." He tutted. "But let's keep it discreet, hmm? No need to create an unnecessary panic."
Oh, the bastard…
"Do you see why you need me, Lord Connington? Why, if I were flogged, who knows what I might shout in my pain? If I were killed, who knows what letters I might have squirrelled away previously?" His voice was almost soft. "And how long would the King… or any of the officers, actually… suffer a man in such close proximity who is carrying such a horrendous disease? That does not seem healthy for you, Lord Hand."
Jon forced his voice to harden, but he could feel the situation slipping out of his control. "What do you want?" He demanded lowly.
"Nothing. I'm here to help." He cocked his head. "I just hope that you are not going to object to my help any further. Let us work together."
The bastard.
"I'm not unsympathetic." The dwarf smiled, while Jon's jaw tightened and his mouth seized. "You are loyal, capable, and I understand why you would keep your condition discreet. You wish to see your life's regret redeemed at all costs, and I am hardly one to judge."
He paused. Jon kept quiet, unable to reply. "If you wish," Tyrion offered, "I could arrange some training accident in the practice yard? Perhaps something that could sever your hand cleanly, and raise no suspicions."
Jon's gaze flickered. The dwarf caught it. "Ah. Or is it already too late? Both hands infected, I take it?"
He nodded without a word. The bastard dwarf. The conniving little fiend.
"Ah, my sympathies," Tyrion said kindly. "I can understand your wish to accomplish something with the years you have left."
"If you try to blackmail me again, you will see your own death far before I do," Jon promised darkly.
"I would never dream of it. I only want to reach a compromise between us."
Never compromise. A lifetime of war had taught him that. "Compromise is for the weak and the craven. The only thing that matters is certainty." He kept his voice low. "I will see Rhaegar's son taking his place on the Iron Throne before I go."
"And I am here to assist," Tyrion smiled widely. "Mayhaps this could be a glorious partnership, then? Together we may accomplish what one alone cannot?"
You have no use. You are just too awkward to dispose of. Was this what Lord Tywin felt? Still, Jon just nodded curtly.
Tyrion paused. "However," he said, "there is yet another concern. Even if we could take King's Landing, and the Iron Throne, our forces will have difficulty holding the Seven Kingdoms together without assistance." He shook his head, and tutted. "Even if Aegon triumphs in the field, we will need Daenerys to secure the realm for the Targaryen regime come again. We will need her dragons."
"I am aware. She will come to her nephew's aid. For now Queen Daenerys is distracted in Meereen."
"So she is," Tyrion said with a nod. "And thus we must give her a reason to come west all the sooner. Rest assured, I will provide one. The cheesemongers of Lys are well-connected."
Jon didn't reply. This dwarf and his schemes could threaten everything I've worked so hard to achieve, he thought bitterly. Blasted cursed little fiend.
The dwarf stood up with a smile, motioning to the door behind him in a small gesture. Jon glared at him furiously. "I look forward to working with you, Lord Connington," he said with a short bow. "But forgive me if I do not shake your hand."
Alayne Stone
The Vale of Arryn stretched before her, a picturesque expanse of ancient, cultivated lands, a horizon aglow with countless pale gold, ripe fields of winter wheat, all periodically dotted by lesser and greater townships. It was beautiful. It was almost home.
Right now, Alayne Stone was not in the Eyrie, but rather standing on the battlements of the final castle of the Gates of the Moon, which was a hard structure, drab and pale, but sometimes the view alone made it the trip worthwhile.
Alayne stood on the battlements of the keep, watching out over the valleys and sharp peaks. She could see low hanging clouds rolling across the mountains, and the Tears of Alyssa sprinkling down the Giant's Lance.
The wind was so cold she had to wrap herself tightly in her woollen furs. She was wearing a thick wool dress with an overcoat, but the wind at this altitude had a piercing bite to it. Winter is coming.
Snow blanketed the heights of the Giant's Lance above, but below the mountain the autumn lingered and winter wheat was ripening in the fields. From below, she could hear the laughter of washerwomen at the well, the ringing of steel on steel from the knights at their drills.
"You should not stand so close to the edge, my lady," a voice called. She turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered and rough man looking at her with concern. "It is dangerous."
"Ser Jorah." Alayne lowered her head respectfully, just like she had always been taught. "You've returned. How fares the lower castle?"
"Very well, my lady. Lord Baelish is to return later this evening."
"That is good. He has been gone so long I was concerned he would miss the tourney."
"I doubt your father ever would."
"Lord Baelish," Alayne chided. "You should address him as Lord Baelish, ser."
"Forgive me, my lady."
"That is quite alright, Ser Jorah."
The knight lowered his head respectfully, stepping back. His hair had been balding when he arrived, but now he had shaved his head entirely, somehow making himself seem older and wearier. His face was weathered by lines and old scars. He was a big man, formidable and fearsome, but there was a certain softness in his eyes as well.
Lord Baelish had gifted the knight with a fine steel plate engraved with the likeness of a bear's head, its maw gaping on the centre, with greaves and gauntlets to match as well as a thick brown velvet cloak. Somehow, the finery seemed almost awkward on him. He had been in boiled leathers and dull iron when he arrived.
Ser Jorah was most certainly not a comely man, but Alayne could understand why Randa enjoyed flirting with him sometimes.
"Do you mean to compete in the tourney for the Winged Knights?" She asked.
He shook his head. "I think not."
"You and Ser Shadrich are both not, then." She looked at him curiously. "Why not? I hear you were quite the jouster. You won the tourney at Lannisport."
"That was more fluke than skill, my lady. And this tourney is for the Knights of the Vale, I doubt I'd be welcome."
He's uncomfortable, she noticed. Shifting on the spot. Alayne had to learn quickly how to spot the little signs. "A pity then. The Brotherhood of the Winged Knights could use warriors of such skill."
"I am sure there are plenty in the Vale."
Personally, Alayne didn't really want Ser Jorah as part of Robert's private guard either, but it was good to stay respectful. She had envisioned the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights as Lord Robert's personal kingsguard - eight of the most noble knights sworn to protect House Arryn. Each knight could walk proud as the strongest in the Vale, a mantle that both kept the Lord of the Vale safe and the knights loyal. Ser Jorah would be a good protector, no doubt, but he would do little to appease the Vale lords.
There were many that questioned the exiled knight's presence, and his loyalty to House Arryn. Lord Baelish had been all too eager to bring Ser Jorah in, however. "Ser Jorah is a simple creature," he confided to her once. "A man of little intelligence and low ambition. Varys used him for years on the promise of one day letting him come home. He provided quite useful and reliable information."
"Yet why is he here now?" She had asked.
"Oh, he has nowhere else to go. The Spider is no longer around to pay him, so he came to me instead," Petyr laughed. "His Queen kicked him out, and the Starks are dead. He wants to return as Lord of Bear Island and I can help him get there. Like I said, very simple, but useful enough so long as you prod him in the right direction. The man is too straightforward to scheme."
Some of the Vale lords had grumbled about the exiled knight, but Lord Baelish had hired him as a personal guard and kept him out of the way nicely. He doesn't know who I am, Alayne told herself. Sansa Stark and Jorah Mormont had never met, except perhaps when she had been a very small child.
But still, sometimes she caught him staring at her, curiously. Then again, she found more and more gazes of men lingering on her. As she grew, her body became more womanly and Alayne knew that she was turning heads more often recently. Still, somehow there was something different in Ser Jorah's gaze. She wondered if the knight had a lady he fancied.
Perhaps she was just on edge for the upcoming tourney. The tourney where I will meet my betrothed, Ser Harrold Hardyng. It was a fortnight away, but the date loomed. Even the sight of the grand mountains and immense expanse of the valley could barely calm her fluttering heart.
Alayne loved it here. She felt alive again, for the first time since her father… since Lord Eddard Stark had died.
"If you excuse me, ser," Alayne said with a curt bow. "I should return."
"Of course, my lady." It looked like there was something else the knight wanted to say, but he didn't.
Lord Petyr returned late that night. There was no warning or announcement, just a group of riders from Gulltown returning to the castle near dusk. The next morn Alayne met her father breaking his fast in the lord's dining hall, feasting on porridge, mint leaves and summer fruit while sorting through parchments scattered across the table. His eyes were red and tired and he looked quite annoyed.
"It really is becoming quite irritating," Petyr muttered as she approached, not looking up from his papers. "I thrive on chaos, but at a certain point it becomes too much even for me."
"What is the concern, Father?" Alayne asked.
"Oh, many things. We all knew that Queen Cersei would destroy herself, yet her brother giving her an extra push was really quite unnecessary," he sighed, muttering under his breath. He looked over two rain-soaked parchments, both marked with a seal bearing a white winged chalice, before pushing them to one side. "And very annoying. Cersei has issued a 'royal decree' commanding the stormlands, the Vale and Dorne to muster men for the defence of the crownlands."
"Truly? She has?"
"Indeed. She demands it. Quite strictly too," he said with a humourless smile. "Apparently our dear Queen believes that the best way to fight a war is by starting three more."
He normally laughed and teased more around her, but now just Petyr looked weary. "Is that why you have been gone for so long, Father?"
"In part. And yet the most truly concerning situation," he said slowly, lowering his voice, "is the one developing in the north. It appears that land is in dire straits. Sooner or later we may just have to cordon it off at the Neck." Petyr paused, glanced at her, and frowned. "Actually, tell me Alayne, what do you remember of one Jon Snow?"
Alayne blinked. Petyr very rarely even referenced her former life. She didn't want to talk about it. I am his daughter, and we don't speak about this out loud. Why is he mentioning Jon? "Jon… you mean my half-brother?" She whispered. He nodded. "… I… he was my fath… he was Eddard Stark's bastard."
Just the thought of her old life made her shiver. Remembering Winterfell again brought back so many old feelings.
"Could you describe him for me?" Petyr pressed. "I want to know more of this Bastard of Winterfell."
Why is he making me remember these things? "Um… dark haired, narrow face, grey eyes." She remembered a boy of fourteen. "They would say that he looked like his father."
"No, I care little for his appearance. Describe him. Describe his personality. Was he loud, angry? Temperamental or calm? Sensitive or reserved?"
"He was…" Alayne hesitated. "Sullen, quiet. Distant, much of the time. Jon used to constantly compete with Robb, or tease Arya. When it was just his—other siblings, Jon would be lively, but with my mother or with any guests he would turn sour. Especially as he became older. He didn't laugh so much."
Petyr's eyes sharpened. "'Other siblings,' you say?"
Alayne's eyes turned distant. "We didn't… we hardly ever spoke," she eventually admitted.
"The life of a bastard among highborn," Petyr scratched his goatee, fingers drumming. "So near, and so far."
Why is he—? Alayne's eyes flickered to the desk, but Petyr turned over a few parchments so she couldn't see what was written there. "Jon Snow was resentful, then? Did he curse his trueborn siblings?"
"No," Alayne squirmed slightly, "I don't… think so? He would play with Arya, he teased her often. He used to truss up her hair something terrible, and mother would spend hours trying to comb it straight. And Jon and Robb were constantly challenging each other. Jon was the better sword and he would always win in their spars, but Robb was the better lance and the better rider."
"And when Jon was sent off to the Night's Watch?" Petyr insisted. "To be exiled from his home and disavowed by his father. Did that leave Jon bitter?"
"No. No, Jon wanted to take the black. He insisted on it. Uncle tried to dissuade him, but he said that even bastards could rise in the Night's Watch, that…" Even a bastard could prove his worth.
Her throat jammed. Jon is the only family I have left. My last living sibling. "… I never knew Jon very well," she admitted. "Mother never wanted me around him. We rarely talked, we never had much to do with each other. They said he was a bastard."
And so am I, now.
"Indeed." Petyr looked at her critically, eyes sharp. "In my experience, every man or woman is defined by two features: the things they love, and the things they hate. Answer me, sweet thing, who did Jon Snow love, and who did he hate? And where does his family fall on that spectrum?"
Alayne gulped. "Arya. He used to love Arya." Her lips pursed. "And Robb too. As for hate… I don't know. Maybe Mother? Jon never liked the way Mother treated him."
"Hmmm… one last question, and please consider it carefully. Do you think the bastard brother that you knew could grow to be a cruel man? Could he be vengeful, evil even?"
"I… I do not know," Alayne admitted. A year ago, she might have replied "No", but she had learned not to underestimate cruelty and its wickedness.
"What a pity," Petyr muttered, musing.
"Why are you asking me such things?" she asked. "What is Jon to you?"
"It appears that a… Jon Snow, claiming to be your very Jon Snow, is causing waves in the north. And in quite a spectacular fashion too," Petyr said, keeping his voice low. "Many of my plans for the north threaten to be undone by a bastard that I never even knew existed. So now, I must decide whether to try to stem the tide, or let the chaos run its course."
"Jon is on the Wall. He joined the Night's Watch."
"Was on the Wall," he corrected, and then paused. "Well, he still is on the Wall, but he's most certainly not a sworn brother anymore."
"What has he done?" she asked, voice trembling. Seeing Petyr so concerned made her nervous.
He forced a smile, but then seemed to hesitate. "Nothing you need concern yourself over. Forgive me, sweet Alayne, it has been a long trip and I am quite tired. I should not have pressed my burdens onto you."
She just stared. Petyr smiled again, before standing up and retiring to his study. He kissed her on the lips before he left. Alayne wasn't sure what to do. The corridor was silent as she walked away.
Jon, she thought. What could Jon possibly have done at the Wall that could make Petyr so concerned?
She felt numb as she retreated to her own chambers. She passed Ser Jorah and Ser Shadrich, their eyes on her as she walked quickly through the hall. Maester Colemon found her to say that Sweetrobin was calling for her, but Alayne was in no mood for the lordling's attention. Instead, she claimed she had a headache and excused herself to her chambers.
In her room, she closed the door and collapsed into her mattress. She felt tears in her eyes.
What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me, that even the thought of Winterfell again makes me cry?
The wound left by her family never healed. It was more than a scar, it was like a missing limb. Like the loss of her brothers, her sister, mother and father had cut something away from her.
I am not that person anymore. I am Alayne Stone, betrothed to the heir of the Vale. I am happy here. I have a new life.
She would have to clean herself up before leaving her room. She could not allow anyone to see her cry.