As always I own nothing,
295 A.C
King's Landing
Wearing a hood, Alton quickly made his way through the busy streets of the capital, his relatively small stature allowing him to slip and weave in between the crows as he made his way to where his contact waited for him.
He had been in King's Landing for over three moons now, needless to say, Ser Barristan's hunch had proven much more than that.
There was indeed someone embezzling the crown. While in and of itself, this was no issue for him to worry over, after all, the more the crown's debt grew, the more certain institutions like the Iron Bank would seek other avenues to see them get their dues. Alton still had to discover who was responsible.
Verifying Barristan's hunch had not been easy, the royal ledgers were not easily obtained but by interrogating enough merchants, it had been evident someone was inflating prices.
It was not much, but every Myrish dress the Queen ordered was usually five to ten percent more expensive. Given her consumption of such garments, those five to ten percent added up to a truly considerable sum. And the queen's garments had not been the only objects to suffer crippling inflation.
Almost everything ordered by the Crown was. From the pentoshi ale the usurper favored to the steelworks ordered to replace the lavish art of the Targaryens.
But that was not even the end of it, he was supposed to meet someone who could tell him more about the goldcloaks and exactly who paid them. If one thing was evident though, it was that there were far more guards on the payroll than there were patrolling the streets of the capital.
Finally reaching his destination, a wooden, decrepit house bathed in the shadow of the ruined Dragonpit. Alton knocked twice and a few seconds later, the door opened to reveal his contact.
"Cara," he nodded to the matron.
"Quick!" she hissed, and Alton frowned.
"What is it?" he asked, stepping inside, to be greeted by small girls running around the older ones. The woman ran a brothel, one at least where the young ones were spared the fate of the older ones, for a time at least.
"You don't know what you've stepped into," she said and led him upstairs, toward her chambers.
"I don't?" Alton asked. Of course, he begged to differ, even if he still ignored who was responsible, he had a few guesses, as few men were powerful enough to even have the leeway to try, much less succeed. Still, he followed the matron.
"No, Alton," Cara turned to give him a small, sad smile as they reached the upper floor. "You truly don't,"
Alton frowned before reaching for his dagger, something felt weird. His eyes widened as he realized there was no further sound coming from below.
"Cara…" he began to warn the woman but stopped as she turned once more, with tears in her eyes.
"I'm truly sorry," the matron said, regret clear in her green eyes.
Alton pulled out his dagger in a single, practiced motion and at the same time, one of the doors on his right opened to reveal two large men, with their swords drawn.
"Shut it filthy whore!" the smallest of the two sneered.
"Gentlemen, I'm sure we can find an arrangement…" Alton tried but the largest slashed his sword at him, "All alright,"
The former company man pounced and his dagger became a blur as he cut, sliced, and slashed his opponents. In close quarters, a sword was a bad weapon choice; he could still make it out of there alive.
He ducked under the first blade while parrying the second, and Alton shoved the largest into his companion, making both stumble.
"I'll get you, cunt!" the man bellowed but Alton was not idle and engaged him before he regained his footing, dagger and sword crossed a few more times and the smallest of the two was being forced to stay behind his larger companion and finally, Alton grinned as his would-be assassin over extended and Alton dug his blade into of his left eye, he twisted and wrenched it out, and the man collapsed, surprise etched onto his face forever.
"You whoreson!" the remaining one screamed, "I'll make sure to find your wife and chi-" he could not finish his sentence, Alton's dagger finding its way through his exposed throat and the thug collapsed with a gurgle.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Alton wrenched his dagger from the man's throat and blood started to spill, drenching the wooden floor.
"Cara…" he called menacingly, the whore was going to die for this, "come out, I'm not going to hurt you,"
"Please," she came out of one of the rooms, sobbing, and it was enough of a distraction for him to miss the door opening in his back and Alton felt a blade slip between his shoulder blades.
"You should have left Littlefinger's business alone…" was the last thing he heard as he grew cold, and his world went black.
295 A.C
Highgarden
"Left!" Olenna called her guard and as silent as always, the giant of a man entered her solar, "Have Margaery sent for,"
He only offered a small bow and was gone the next moment.
Blessed was the day she had taken him and his twin in her service. Unlike most men in her life, Right and Left were loyal, reliable, and though it was belied by their thick muscles, both were quite clever.
She stared anxiously at the scroll in her hand, if she was right it changed everything. But was such a thing even possible?
No matter what argument she could find against it, her rational mind dismissed it immediately. And yet it was not supposed to be possible, every learned man she had ever heard spoke on the subject had been definitive and utterly sure of themselves.
Then again, it would not be the first time those same learned men were proven wrong.
The essential question was to whom it benefitted, what possible interest was there to bury the truth so thoroughly?
And try as she might, Olenna could not answer this question. Unless…
"Grandmother," Margaery interrupted her thoughts, "you asked for me,"
Maybe a younger, less biased mind would offer a different perspective.
"My child," she smiled, with every moon, her granddaughter grew more beautiful, and most of all, she grew cleverer. "Join me, Left have some food brought and make no sure nobody listens in,"
The now flowered young woman took her seat next to her and without wasting time, she handed her the scroll.
Olenna watched as her granddaughter's hazel eyes widened before she gasped, no doubt reaching the end of the report and a servant entered to deliver said food and drinks.
"Gods be good…" Margaery whispered, "Who is Amory Lorch?"
"You've never heard of him? I suppose that's for the best," Olenna sighed, the man had been a true monster, and had deserved everything inflicted on him, "he was the man that slaughtered Princess Rhaenys, one of Tywin's dogs," she spat, even to someone like her, who had committed their fair share of sins in their lives, what they had done had been despicable, especially when only a silk pillow or a few drops of milk of the poppy would have sufficed.
"How did the Princess die, grandmother?" Margaery asked, face white as a sheet.
"It is said that he stabbed her half a hundred times," Olenna clenched her jaw, he was truly one of the vilest men she had ever heard of.
"Does…" Margaery began, "Who did it?"
"What do you think?" Olenna smiled, she was already asking the right questions. Now was the time to see if she reached the same conclusion.
"The Martells would want revenge…" her granddaughter thought aloud, "but they haven't done anything in five and ten years, so why now?"
Olenna nodded, as with the kidnapping and probable murder of Jaime Lannister four years ago, the Martells had a motive, but they lacked the means, and they likely feared the retaliation Tywin Lannister would bring against them if they were involved. No, it was likely to be the same person or persons that were involved.
"Or the Targaryens," Margaery concluded, "but they are in Essos, aren't they?"
The fact that Targaryens still survived on the other side of the Narrow Sea was perhaps the worst-kept secret in the Seven Kingdoms.
"They are, though I ignore exactly where…"
"You don't think it could be them, grandmother?" she asked, frowning.
"Viserys Targaryen is called the beggar king," Olenna sighed. Everything she had heard about him led her to think he could not possibly be involved, "It is said he already is as mad as his father,"
Margaery sighed, "Could it have something to do with Jaime Lannister?"
"Very good," Olenna praised her, the connection was not as evident as one would think and it had happened years ago, most had already moved past it.
"Could it… No," Margaery dismissed her thought, "but, could there be another?"
"Another what child?" Olenna smirked; she was truly a wonder.
"Another Targaryen," Margaery whispered as low as she could.
Olenna nodded, it was exactly what she had been thinking, and the more she thought about it, the likeliest it was. Small pieces of information that at the time had not seemed important, but that suddenly explained a lot of things as events unfolded and the mystery only deepened.
"A few moons after the rebellion, after having lifted the siege at Storm's End and taking your father's oath of fealty, Eddard Stark traveled to Dorne…"
"I don't understand…"
"Shush child, let me finish," Olenna chided her granddaughter, "most, including I, assumed that he traveled to free his sister, Lyanna, he was next seen in Riverrun a few moons later, he had traveled with six of his bannermen and only came back with one after having slain Ser Arthur Dayne, The White Bull and Ser Oswell Whent, and with a babe, whom he claims is Brandon Stark's bastard as well as with the bones of his sister, said to have died from a fever."
"I know this," Margaery sighed impatiently, "what of it, grandmother?"
"Only Ser Oswell is very much not dead, he has been seen quite a few times across the Narrow Sea," Olenna revealed. It had taken some effort to verify it was indeed the Black Bat, and her thorns had proven her right.
Margaery's hazel eyes widened with the new piece of information. "Isn't Lord Stark said to be very honorable? Why would he lie about this?"
"Why indeed…" Lord Eddard Stark was revealing himself to be much more of a player than Olenna had previously thought.
Margaery gasped as she realized what she hinted at, "You don't think he's Brandon Stark's bastard, do you? You think he is Lyanna's,"
"Yes," Olenna smiled, "I think the Warden of the North has fooled far more people than I would have ever given him credit for,"
It still left her baffled as to how she could have been so wrong.
"Could," her granddaughter began, "Could Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold still live as well?" she frowned, "but if they are where are they? Why are they not with the last son of Rhaegar…"
"Ah," Olenna popped a piece of cheese in her mouth, her granddaughter was following the same thought process and coming to the same questions she had asked herself, "if they are they have stayed hidden well, but even then, why is Ser Oswell Whent, a true loyalist and former kingsguard, not protecting his prince's son, his king?"
"Because he's a bastard?" Margaery asked but Olenna waved her off. "Or because there is another, one that is kept hidden by Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower, but surely… It is mad grandmother,"
"Is it?" Olenna chuckled, "What do you know that can melt stones?"
Margaery's eyes widened. "Dragons… but they've gone extinct, grandmother, Maester Lomys is certain of it,"
"And yet, a keep was burnt to the ground, its stone tower melted to the point of crumbling,"
"But-But," Margaery stuttered, at a loss for words, "that's… he'd still be a bastard, with no claim,"
"Think again, sweet child," Olenna smiled tiredly and passed her the large grimoire waiting on the table, the diary of High Septon Maynard. It had been a hassle to acquire the only copy, but it served to have friends in the Citadel, "read," she pointed at the relevant line.
"On the last day of the Seventh Moon of the year 280 after Aegon's Conquest, Crowned-Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sought my person to conduct a second wedding ceremony, to be held in secret a fortnight later at Harrenhal, under the doctrine of exceptionalism and with the full consent of the prince's first wife, I bore witness to Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark becoming one…"
"Even then, if he has a dragon, whether he is legitimate or not will not matter," Olenna said. It would help convince certain pious lords and perhaps play a role in appeasing the Martells for the slight they would undoubtedly feel, but dragons changed everything.
"It changes everything…" Margaery whispered. "We must be prepared," and Olenna smiled truly.
295 A.C
The Trident
Aemon and his four companions directed their horses forwards, to the edge of the ruby ford.
It had taken a little under a moon for them to ride there after paying a visit to the Clegane's lands. If anything, it had reinforced the fact that Gregor Clegane needed to die. There reigned an atmosphere of fear, the few smallfolk they had passed looked emaciated, but more than that, the few eyes he had been able to meet had been utterly terrified.
The keep had been left to rot, with nothing of value inside and no maintenance whatsoever. The main tower had even begun to crumble, and so had the walls.
While taking the river road to go to King's Landing was certainly not the fastest way, Aemon had figured it would be a long time before he ever set foot in the Riverlands again. It was also the chance to add several apparition points that he would be able to use later on.
"It happened there your grace," Ser Jaremy pointed to a spot on the other side of the river. They crossed, the water being shallow enough to allow for it and Aemon dismounted, soon followed by his guards.
"Here?" he asked for confirmation.
"I can't be sure, your grace," the knight of House Rykker answered, "I was injured by this point,"
"A few feet on your left, your grace," Ser Roland directed. "It's where the Crowned Prince battled the Usurper,"
Aemon knelt, taking hold of the soil between his fingers, this was where his father had met his end.
Unlike his first life, he had not spent much time thinking about what kind of man Rhaegar Targaryen was, whether he loved his children or his wives, and though Arthur had never refused him information about his father, he could not help but feel some distance to the man.
Perhaps it allowed him to look at his actions in a more critical light than he had been able to with James Potter, or maybe it was only the fact that he was no child this time. He did not need to see his father as some kind of hero, and by all accounts, he had not been one.
What had gone through his head when crowning Lyanna Stark queen of love and beauty at Harrenhal was something he was unlikely to find out here. Nor why he sought a letter to the father of the girl he was said to have kidnapped would change anything, if it had even arrived to said father.
The truth was, it changed nothing, Rhaegar Targaryen had been a man. A complicated one at that, and he had been only two and twenty.
Aemon discreetly pulled out his wand from his sleeve, "Accio ruby," he whispered. Immediately, a small red stone came flying out of the riverbed and landed in his opened palm.
"My father's host came from the south, yes?"
"We did," Ser Jaremy nodded, "Prince Rhaegar led us to break the siege on Castle Darry,"
"And you did?" Aemon asked, with both his kingsguards in Dorne to protect him. It was the first time he got the account of someone present at the battle.
"There was no siege to break, your grace," Ser Roland answered. "When the Usurper got word of us, the rebels crossed the river,"
"What happened then?" Aemon asked. It was a perfect position, with the Crownlands behind them, the loyalists had safe supply lines, and north of here, there was nothing but the Vale and the North itself.
"Prince Rhaegar led us across the fork, with Prince Lewyn taking the right flank and…"
"Why?" Aemon could not help but interrupt, it made no sense.
"Your grace?"
"King's Landing is in the south, north of here, there is nothing but the Vale and the North, why cross?"
"I'm not sure I understand, Your Grace," Ser Jaremy frowned, and Aemon refrained from the urge to sigh. Despite his insistence, his guards refused to call him by his name unless they were forced, and as a principle, he refused to make it an order.
"River crossing is one of the most dangerous maneuvers to pull off, especially with the enemy on the other side, waiting for you, unless you're forced to, never do it," Aemon explained. This was basic strategy, the muggles had even developed an incredible number of tools to accomplish such while lowering the risk, nothing that magic could not match of course, but it went to say how important of a matter river crossing was to military command.
"Aemon," the Black Bat intervened. Thankfully his kingsguards were not so rigid and it helped they had known him for almost fifteen years, "You` may never find out what forced the prince to cross, maybe he thought to end the war as soon as possible, waiting would have allowed for more to possibly join the rebels,"
"Or he was a fool…" Aemon whispered to the wind, squeezing the small precious rock inside his fist, feeling it draw blood. It had been them that needed to get to King's Landing, and while things had not been going well for the loyalists, they still had an impressive force and a few houses that could still flip to one side or the other. Among those were the Lannisters, they had barely begun marching by the time his father fell, despite what he might like to claim, Tywin Lannister was a coward who would have never dared to raise his banners against his king unless he was assured victory.
"You mustn't judge your father too harshly, Aemon," Arthur lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving a light squeeze, "he was young and it was his first true battle. It is nothing like what books tell you it is, and it's possible he had information we do not,"
He knew full well what battle was like, it was true horror, the likes of which a man should be thankful if he never got to know it for death reigned supreme on the battlefield. War was the wickedest invention of mankind, and one it seemed they could not do without.
Aemon was determined to see the next one brought to a swift end, with as little bloodshed as possible, but he also knew that no matter his intentions, many would die.
But in the end, knowing why his father had chosen to cross did not matter, it only mattered that he had. He had made a mistake, perhaps not the only one, and he paid for it with his life.
295 A.C
Harrenhall
"Are you sure, your grace? We don't have to…" the Black Bat whispered as they made their way across the field leading to the largest castle of Westeros.
The moon was high in the sky but mostly covered by clouds, allowing them to see while remaining unseen.
Harrenhall was truly a sight, the castle was mostly a ruin now, nobody had bothered to repair it after the conquest, and it had stood as a monument to the power of dragons. Even if it had been undamaged, Aemon was ready to bet it would have fallen into disrepair as well.
Maintaining such a fortress was simply infeasible without slaves, a lot of them. And Harren the Black had had plenty of those. But slavery was not something that was condoned by the Faith nor by the Old Gods, only the Ironborns were savage enough in this part of the world.
Still, Harrenhall had not been built there without a reason, its holdings were rich, with large swaths of fertile land, that had gone largely unexploited in the last decades from what his kingsguard told him.
It would take a large investment to ready it for production once more, and probably a newer, sturdier keep that could actually be maned and occupied.
As it was, getting inside Harrenhall posed no challenge whatsoever, not with one of its walls half-collapsed.
"You've given me over a decade of your life Oz," Aemon used the nickname his cousin, Edric, had given the knight as a boy. "The least I can do is let you see your family when we're close by,"
Aemon felt for the knight, his brother and nephews had passed while Oswell stayed hidden, and because of his duty, because he was protecting him, he could not even approach his family in this time of need. And now, only a few members of a once large house survived.
"Thank you," the older man answered, his voice thick with emotion.
"Now, come on," Aemon urged him on, "what tower did you say?"
"Her chambers should be on the third floor of the second one,"
"She won't be sleeping?"
"No, not Shella," Oswell chuckled softly.
"Here," Aemon handed him the cloak as they came closer, the five towers were truly impressive, half were melted, once again, a true testament to the Black Dread's power. It would be years before Starfyre was even ready to try something like that. "We won't see each other, I'll open the doors and leave them open long enough,"
Oswell gave him a firm nod, before disappearing from view.
"Truly incredible…" Aemon smiled as he heard his companion softly whisper, probably trying to see himself in the water.
With only a tap of the elder wand, he too became invisible.
"Let's go," Aemon said and trusted his kingsguard to keep up.
It took only a few minutes for them to enter the walls, it was truly too large to be properly manned, and Aemon kept an assured pace, barely crossing paths with anybody but a few guards he could spot from afar.
"Homenium revelio," Aemon whispered as he approached the second tower and a few silhouettes appeared, marking nine inside. Four were standing, probably guards, the rest were sleeping, but there was only one figure on the third floor.
Not slowing down lest his kingsguard moved ahead, Aemon quickly reached the door, knowing there were none near it, he merely sent a silencing charm at its hinges before prying it open. He rapidly slipped inside and held it open, a second later, he felt something brush against him and refrained to sigh in relief.
"Four guards," he whispered as low as he could, closing the door.
From there on, Aemon walked more slowly, making sure not to make a sound. The interior was as dreary as the exterior, though still maintained, there was little warmth to find.
They easily evaded the few guards that served what remained of House Whent before finally arriving in front of an ornate door that had bats carved all over it.
With another tap of his wand, Aemon became visible once more and Oswell followed his example, taking off the cloak.
"Here," he whispered and undid the changes to the knight's eyes and hair color and he simply gestured for Oswell to go ahead, it was probably best if the lady found someone she recognized entering her chambers before a stranger did.
Aemon flicked his wand to silence the room, it would not do for them to be disturbed, and pushed to door open. The lady's chambers were bathed in the candle's warm glow, the lady Whent herself had not noticed someone had entered her room.
She was hunched over a parchment at her desk, a quill in her hand.
Oswell closed the door behind them and this time it made enough noise to attract her attention. In a second, her seat was sent flying across the room as she turned around, bringing a dagger to bear.
Both Aemon and Oswell raised their hands in a peaceful gesture, and Shella's eyes widened at once and the dagger clattered on the wooden floor.
"Oswell?" she gasped, her left hand covering her mouth.
Aemon could not help but observe the lady, like Oswell, her youth was long gone. Although he had not known her, Aemon could see the signs of a great beauty hiding under fatigue and stress. Her blue eyes shined bright with a cleverness not many possessed, and though tired, her traits were firm while at the same time delicate.
With Oswell sworn not to father children, the lady Shella approaching her fifties and a few other members already married in other houses, House Whent was bound to go extinct in the next couple of decades.
"Cousin," he nodded, offering a warm smile to one of his last relatives and immediately, the lady almost ran into Oswell's outstretched arms.
"How? You- they told us you were dead,"
"I'm afraid rumors of my demise were over-stated cousin," Oswell smiled as he squeezed one of his last family members in his strong arms.
"But-" the Lady Whent was struggling to find her words as she broke the hug and took Oswell's face between her hands, examining him. "They brought us your sword and armor,"
"At my behest," Oswell nodded, "I truly am sorry, I missed everything…"
"Please, my lady," Aemon interrupted, "it is my fault your cousin had to stay away from yours, for this you have my apology, and my eternal gratitude," he offered a small bow.
"I don't…" the Lady of Harrenhall's eyes widened, having seemingly forgotten he was here, "who are you?"
"He's the reason why Arthur and I plaid a mummery for the past five and ten years, cousin," Oswell said, and Aemon kept silent, trusting his kingsguard to handle the situation. "The reason why neither Gerold, Arthur, nor I were present at the trident, or in King's Landing, or on Dragonstone,"
"You mean to say…" Shella began, eyes wide as possible as she observed him, taking in his unusual eye color, his refined traits, that according to Arthur were indication enough of his parentage.
"I am the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen, my lady," Aemon nodded and there was utter silence. "My name is Aemon,"
Oswell chuckled at his cousin's gaping mouth, opening and closing as if she were a fish out of the water, "You certainly have a way to introduce yourself, my king,"
Aemon winced, perhaps he could have done better.
"But-I," Shella tried, her face had gone pale, "we were told the prince had kidnapped Lyanna Stark,"
"A vile lie," Oswell snapped, "excuse-me cousin, any who knew Rhaegar would have known it was not possible,"
"An according to some," Aemon added with a small smile, "my mother was not one to get kidnapped, I'm afraid it is a lie spread by my family's enemies,"
At once, the Lady of Harrenhall dropped to her knees, to Aemon's surprise.
"Your grace, I would renew my House's fealty to House Targaryen,"
Aemon was about to refuse, thinking there was no need for such when he met his kingsguard eyes and instead, he nodded, meeting her blue eyes with his purple ones.
"In the sight of gods and men, I, Shella of House Whent, the Lady of Harrenhall, do solemnly swear my fealty to you, Aemon of House Targaryen, the first of his name, the rightful king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm," she breathed, "I pledge to serve and defend your crown and realm, to obey your commands and keep your secrets, to uphold the honor of House Targaryen, to deliver justice in your name when necessary, and to provide counsel when sought, may the Seven bear witness to my oath and may the gods strike me down should I falter in my duty,"
With her oath spoken, the lady bowed her head and awaited his answer.
"I, Aemon of House Targaryen, the first of his name and rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm accept your oath of fealty, Lady Shella of House Whent, I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, I vow to ask no service of you that shall bring dishonor to your name and to protect your house when needed. Arise Lady Shella of House Whent, the Lady of Harrenhall,"
The Lady of Harrenhall rose from her knees, her eyes moistened by tears, "You do not know how long I have prayed for the return of a dragon, your grace,"
"And it is heartwarming to be shown such loyalty, my lady," Aemon answered with a smile, "but mayhap you'd enjoy having some time with your cousin,"
"Thank you, my king," Oswell said and Aemon nodded. "I'll go back, find us at the camp,"
He trusted his kingsguard to get out unseen, especially with the help of the cloak.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay, your grace?" Shella asked, "I could have my servants ready a room,"
"It's kind of you, my lady," Aemon sighed, he really would not mind sleeping in a real bed, "but I'm afraid it is not safe yet, though I hope to come back soon," he smiled, "farewell, my Lady,"
"May the Seven watch over you, your grace," the lady curtsied and Aemon nodded to his faithful guard before exiting the room, and at once he turned on his heels and apparated away.
295 A.C
King's Road
The sound of swords clashing in the distance had the five-man party speed up their horses, and Aemon gestured for Arthur, Jaremy, and Roland to wait with the cart while he and Oswell continued toward the fight.
Both he and his kingsguard kept on their horses as they arrived upon a sight that had both gaping.
Bandits were attacking an armored knight. His first instinct was to jump into the fray and help this lone knight but the way he powered through and clinically dispatched each of his opponents at a time was almost mesmerizing.
The five bandits were coming at the knight with little cohesion and for it, they were punished. With his greatsword, he cut cleanly through one's padded leather and the man's guts spilled out, a moment later, the knight was forced to push back an attack coming from two opposite sides and took the first opportunity offered to behead one of them. There were now three.
As another began to attack the knight, an arrow suddenly found its way through his neck and he collapsed in a heap of bones and flesh. Oswell had taken it upon himself to lend aid and it was enough to distract the knight's last two opponents.
However, said knight took advantage of it and soon enough, he stood alone, his greatsword dripping with the blood of the bandits, looking right at them.
"Come on," Aemon urged the mare forward and whistled for the others to join them, "let's meet this knight,"
As they approached, he could finally gain a true measure of the knight in question. He was tall, at least six foot five, and large, and given what they had just witnessed, he was very skilled with a sword as well.
However, as they dismounted, the knight planted his sword in the soil and took off his helm and Aemon almost gasped, refraining at the last second. However, Oswell could not manage to fight the same urge.
The knight was not a man but a woman. The tallest woman he had ever seen if he excluded Madame Maxime, the half-giantess and former headmistress of Beauxbatons.
Sweat covered her, admittedly, ugly features. But to know that a woman, no, a young woman, she could not have been more than twenty namedays, had laid waste to multiple opponents with apparent ease was just incredible.
"My lady," Aemon bowed, recovering quickly from the surprise he felt after having dismounted and the others repeated his gesture, both her armor and sword were of fine making, enough to assume she was of high birth.
She had short blond hair, a face covered in freckles, and deep blue eyes. He would certainly not call her pretty, but she was formidable in her own right.
"My lords," she offered a small bow of her head.
"No lords, here my lady," Aemon chuckled, "only a merchant and his escort,"
"I did not need your help," she proudly stated.
"I could see that," he chuckled but raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "You were formidable, I've never seen a woman fight that well, especially with a sword,"
"And you have seen many women fight?" She raised an eyebrow while sheathing her sword.
"My companions and I are from Dorne, my lady," he smiled, "Women are expected to learn to fight there, but most favor other weapons,"
"Such as?" she asked and he could tell she was truly curious, he could not imagine being a woman her size and looks would have been easy. Especially in northern kingdoms where women had to fit many expectations and were raised to become wives and produce heirs.
Aemon knew better, his whole life he had been surrounded by strong, independent, and extremely willful women. Ashara had been the perfect example of that. Even the two mothers he had not known would have balked in the face of any calling them weak and probably taught them a lesson or two. Ginny would have made sure bat wings sprouted out of the nostrils of any that dared to even think it while Hermione would have verbally and if necessary, magically crushed them.
"Spears, whips, bows, mostly weapons they can use their speed and agility with, may I ask your name, my lady?"
"Brienne of Tarth," the blonde giant of a woman answered, "May I know yours?"
Aemon immediately remembered one of his mother's many teachings, Tarth was a small island on the coast of the Stormlands and outside Shipbreaker's Bay, House Tarth reigned as masters of the Island and it often provided reprieve from the storms the kingdom was named after.
"Aemon Sand, my lady" Aemon gave her his fake name with a smile, and his companions introduced themselves, either bastards or men with no family names.
Unlike many they had met on their travels across the Riverlands, there was no reaction on her part at learning she was dealing with men born on the wrong side of the sheets.
Despite having expected the scorn and bias people held towards bastards, it was one thing knowing and one thing seeing. How a religion that preached all children were innocent and to be protected could also preach a child was evil because of the circumstances of their birth was and would always remain beyond him.
"Are you, perchance going to King's Landing, Lady Brienne?" Aemon asked, he could not help but be curious, he could tell that someone like Brienne of Tarth was not someone you met just every day.
"I am heading to King's Landing, yes,"
"Would you care to accompany us? The roads are never entirely safe and my companions and I would certainly appreciate additional protection," Aemon quickly spun a tale. There were only a few days of travel left before they arrived at the capital and he did not doubt that between himself and his guards, they could repel any attack.
She simply nodded in answer, apparently not a woman of many words, something else he could appreciate. "Call me Brienne,"
It would mean that the visits to his children would be limited for the next few days but without being able to explain it, Aemon felt it was something he was supposed to do.
"Alright, Brienne, shall we?" Aemon offered and she answered with another nod and they both mounted their horses.
295 A.C
Sunspear
"My prince," Areo Hotah bowed, "this messenger arrives from Lannisport," he gestured to the man following him, surrounded by two Dornish spears, and said messenger fell to his knees, his head bowed and presenting a small wooden crate.
'Lannisport?' Doran thought to himself, the lions were foolish if they thought they could get anything from them.
Doran Martell looked on questioningly, before being taken by a coughing fit, Doran raised a hand and his manservant brought a water-filled cup.
"My prince," the messenger wheezed out, without meeting his eyes.
"What is it you carry messenger?" Doran asked with narrowed eyes.
"I know not, my prince," the messenger kept his eyes firmly on the ground, "I was told to deliver it to you and you alone, and to not open the scroll nor the crate under pain of death,"
"Please, Areo," Doran nodded without rising from his wheelchair. The pain was particularly excruciating this day and gestured for his loyal guard to bring said crate.
The messenger had been properly cowed by whoever had given him this, it only made Doran more curious.
"Let me open it, my prince," Areo said, and Doran nodded, it was unlikely he could muster the necessary strength anyway, "Should I find something to hurt my prince and your life is forfeit," he warned the now shacking messenger.
His six-foot-five guard was very protective, a man in whom the Prince of Dorne could trust his life. Still, Doran could not help but watch on curiously as the crate was unsealed and his usually stoic guard gasped, before bringing quickly the crate to him and Doran's black eyes widened in surprise.
He had no issue knowing who this face belonged to, it was one of the few he wished he had the strength to squeeze the life out.
"Send for my brother," he ordered and one of the servants rushed from the hall. "Who gave this to you?"
"He- He was cloaked my prince," the messenger stuttered in fear, "I could not see his face, I swear it on the Seven,"
"You're sure it was a man? And what of this scroll you mentioned?" Doran asked urgently.
"I am, my prince, he was taller than me, almost as tall as your guard,"
"Here, my prince, he had this on him as well," Areo handed him a sealed scroll.
Expecting to see the sigil of a House, Doran was disappointed there were none. He easily broke the seal of wax and began to read.
To the Prince of Dorne,
We may not share bonds of blood, but I can assure you I share in your grief over the loss of your sister and her children. While I shall quieten my identity as of now, know that we share a purpose in seeing justice delivered for the innocent blood spilled.
It is my hope this token proves my intent to remain true to my task until all those responsible have paid for their heinous act, be they rulers or ruled.
May this gesture bring a semblance of peace to the mourning hearts of you and yours, my prince.
A friend of Dorne,
Doran frowned, throwing another look inside the box, he could not help but smile. Word of his death had reached Sunspear a moon ago, and Oberyn had celebrated, but to be delivered his head, in a remarkable state was priceless. The only thing that could have possibly brought greater satisfaction to him or his brother would have been to be the ones to plunge the dagger the man had been slayed with.
"Brother!" Oberyn hailed as he entered the throne room of the tower, a wooden crate under his arm and a smile gracing his face.
Ellaria was on his other arm, she too, was wearing a wide smile, their leathered boots making no sound on the marbled floor.
"What is this?" he asked, spotting the still kneeling messenger and the crate on his lap, with his faithful giant of a guard towering over him.
"Brother, Ellaria," Doran greeted them, remaining seated as he knew it would be impossible to get out of the wheelchair, "Come, give this man a room to rest and make sure he leaves safely," he instructed the guards on either side of the messenger, and they hoisted him up with nary an effort, before offering a small bow and leading the man away.
Dorne was not a safe place for any Westerlanders, but the man had done them a great service.
Oberyn approached with a curious look on his face and his paramour attached to his arm, as always.
"You sent for me?" he raised an eyebrow, "Ellaria and I were…"
"I care not for your bedroom activities…" Doran sighed.
"Who said it was in the bedroom, brother?" Oberyn laughed and Doran coughed, not wanting to give his younger brother the satisfaction.
"Even so, I suspect you will find this much more pleasurable," Doran smirked, nodding to his guard who took the crate to his brother.
"More pleasurable than sex with me," his paramour raised a doubtful eyebrow but at the same moment, Oberyn freed his arm from her grasp to pull out the severed head of Amory Lorch.
"Beautiful," he whispered, examining the pain-stricken features of what must have been an excruciating death.
"Who is it, my love?" Ellaria asked her paramour, completely undisturbed by the gory sight.
"Why it is Ser Amory Lorch," Oberyn laughed and Ellaria eye's widened, before launching the head in the air and letting it drop on the marbled floor with a disgusting thump.
"Brother," Doran reprimanded him with half a smile. Someone would have to clean that now.
"Oh, I wish it had been I…" Oberyn thoughtfully said, a smirk on his face at what Doran assumed was him thinking of doing the deed himself, he would not pretend to have not wished the same for over a decade.
"This came with it," Doran handed him the letter.
"No crest?" Oberyn asked and he shook his head, watching intently as his brother began to read and then passed it along to his paramour.
"What would you have me do, brother?" Oberyn asked, "It tells us nothing,"
"No, it doesn't…" Doran drummed his fingers against his armrest, could it be?
An oddity of the last decade had been reports of Ser Oswell Whent, a man supposedly dead. Most of them had come from sources who had never met the kingsguard, and yet, Doran had, and the description had matched.
"It is time for you to visit Starfall, I believe…"
"What could the Daynes have to do with it?" Oberyn frowned, "Only Alysanne and her son remain…"
"Perhaps nothing, brother," Doran answered, "and perhaps everything,"
295 A.C
Winterfell
"We'll take about your mother when you're older," his father concluded firmly, leaving no room to argue, "now, Jon, I have work to do,"
"Yes, my lord," Jon answered through clenched teeth, and understanding he was dismissed, left his father's solar, doing his best to control the anger he felt. Whenever his father refused him information he felt was rightly his to know, he could feel his anger almost boil over, but through deep breath, Jon had learned to manage it.
No matter that his father claimed him as one of his own, he would always be nothing but a bastard.
Lady Catelyn made sure to remind him of his position daily, as did the Septa Mordane, and their bias against him had been transmitted to Sansa, who was truly her mother's daughter, both in looks and mindset. Thankfully, this was not true for the rest of the Stark siblings, Robb, Bran, and Arya had all resisted to their mother's drivel, none more so than her youngest daughter who was pure wolf without a single trace of the trout.
He had tried for years to satisfy Lady Stark's exigences, hoping foolishly that she would one day show him the same love she showed her children. And no matter how much he tried, it was not to be, until he had finally acknowledged it was pointless.
Some part of him, now that he was older, understood her bias. Even as a bastard, he was still a threat to her children's claim. Not that he would even one day try to claim what was not his.
Still, his mind clouded by the most recent disappointment, Jon hardly paid attention to his surroundings and as he turned around the corridor, he collided with Maester Luwin.
Jon's dark grey eyes widened in surprise, "Maester!" he exclaimed, "I'm so sorry," he helped the man to his feet and handed him his fallen scroll back.
"No harm done, young Jon," Maester Luwin waved him off, "but do pay more attention,"
"I will maester," Jon bowed his head, still mortified and the maester took off with hurried steps, making him frown. When was the last time he had seen the maester in such a rush? His eyes widened once more, last time had been years ago, when the Ironborn had rebelled.
Overcome by his curiosity and finding little patience to obey his father's orders in that moment, Jon followed, making sure not to be noticed, and sure enough, Winterfell's maester entered the lord's solar. Jon moved near the door, making sure to stay far enough that he could listen without being noticed.
"My lord, we have received news from the South, a most disturbing one," the voice of maester Luwin came out muffled.
"What is it, Luwin?" his father asked.
Jon squashed the little voice telling him that eavesdropping was not honorable, so was hiding the truth.
"Ser Amory Lorch's keep has been burnt down," Maester Luwin said.
'Who was Amory Lorch?' he asked himself, a knight apparently, but one he had never heard the exploits of. And the Old Gods knew he would have if Bran had ever heard of him, and the boy had seemingly heard of every knight there was.
"That man is no knight," his father scoffed.
"As you say, my lord,"
Jon frowned, for his father to have such a reaction the man must have done something horrible.
But knights were supposed to be honorable, to protect the innocent, and be braver than others.
"Do they know who did it?"
"No, my lord, but Lorch's body was found, perfectly preserved amidst the fire, stabbed over fifty times, and beheaded,"
His grey eyes widened and he almost gagged at the thought of one suffering such a fate. He had seen many men lose their heads in the recent years, mostly deserters of the night's watch and a few hardened criminals. But their death had been quick and clean, delivered by a single stroke of Ice.
Deciding not to try his luck any further, Jon backstepped and began to head back to his room. His mind focused on Amory Lorch's fate. What monster could inflict such death on any? To stab someone fifty times, it told either of rage or sheer violence from the murderer.
No one would go to the effort for any other reason.
And he could not picture such a crime that deserved such a fate.