So resumes the travelogue.
Wading the Neck, crossing the Twins, fording the Trident, we took the Kingsroad south from
the scraggly North, through the fertile Riverlands, then down into the marshy Crownlands.
Much has been said of this part of the world, of its perennially feuding nobility and unfortunate standing as the continent's battleground, but its day-to-day reality was decidedly more mundane.
Babbling brooks and rolling hills, fragrant meadows and gentle valleys, vast stretches of bocage and hedgerow dotted with plaster and thatch; Fields of golden wheat beside quaint little homesteads, broad-faced men plowing and picking as their women washed and children played, a faint whiff of manure on the breeze; Market towns sprawled at the foot of a sturdy holdfast, all festooned with flowers and pennants, with rows upon rows of bustling stalls, and garlanded maypoles in the square.
All in all, the model of rural domesticity.
It just about bored me to tears.
Looking back on that wasted month, only one thing even remotely stands out: in the middle of the third week, when we were passing through a small patch of shady forest, an actual, bona fide, honest-to-God bandit gang leapt up from behind the trees, swaggered into the middle of the road, and demanded that we empty our pockets.
"Or," the one in front leered, to the whistles and sniggers of rest, "we can have our fun with your lady friend."
I was dumbfounded.
That slovenly fellow at Lannisport, at least, I could understand. There was a war on, and rapine was more or less the Ironborns' national pastime.
But this?
During high summer's peace?
A week from the capital?
Along the only proper road in the entire fucking country?
I don't know which was worse – the utter mismanagement that made the whole thing possible, or the fact that it was so utterly, bafflingly, painfully cliché.
I mean, honestly, a bandit ambush?
Why not find yourself an old, wizened mentor and save the princess, while you're at it …
Christ.
Deserters, I assume, or discharged levies, there were only a few odd dozen of them, decked in mud-drenched gambesons and boiled leather, bolts of silk wrapped around their shoulders and pouches of coin jingling at their belts.
Merry Men of Sherwood, these vagrants were not – no, what spurred them was greed, petty opportunism, that hot-blooded grandeur so endemic of the impotent when given the smallest crumb of power. With their splintery pikes and pig iron swords, they fancied themselves the 'strong' ones, now, and wielded their newfound might with all the subtlety and grace of a toddler who found his dad's gun.
To spare you the details, I corrected this belief, and they lived just long enough to regret their choice of occupation.
Later that evening, while Ed raised our tent on the side of the road, and the other two stretched and groaned by the fire (they'd been riding double since our wagon conked it in the mountains), the question that'd been percolating through my mind since we first left Winterfell finally bashed its way to the fore.
'Why the hell didn't I just teleport there?'
Would've been easy as breathing.
Just a thought, a wish, a flash of light, and I'd have spared us weeks of road dust and rain, bouncing saddles and glaring sunlight, bugs and boredom and hack fantasy bandits.
And what about the drama, the bullshit, the waste, all the defects of mortality – why'd I tolerate any of it?
I'd the means, you know, of shedding my stone shell, abandoning my body, my mind, my self, and becoming something truly transcendental. No more loss, no more pain, just the bliss of pure, unfiltered will.
The mere prospect was beautiful – it filled me with dread.
Dread of losing yet more of myself.
Of abandoning the last of my humanity.
Of forgetting better times.
And yet, as the days wore on, and Brynden began to whine about her sore arse, I found myself thinking it wouldn't be so bad.
V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V
King's Landing smelt like shit.
Surprising, I know.
Just our luck, then, that the gothic monstrosity known as the Red Keep – jagged pinnacles, rust-red stone, perhaps a few vampires lurking in the attic – loomed high enough above that landfill that called itself a city to avoid the worst of the stench.
Past a bounded checkpoint at the end of a narrow street, up zigzag steps cut into the limestone, my minions and I crested Aegon's aptly named Hill and rode through the Keep's outermost gate. Stag-liveried spearmen patrolled the battlements, scoping us as we crossed the drawbridge over a seawater moat, and towards the second gatehouse; progressing under its stout portcullis, we then emerged into an uncovered courtyard.
Roughly an acre from end to end, the yard was a practical place, of smiths and launders, dry-packed dirt and drifting sawdust. Brynden, though it'd been some time, still knew it well enough to point us to the stables – "There, in the corner, by those training dummies."
If you've ever been to Monaco, then you'd understand that a limited space with numerous visitors requires a certain ingenuity – the stalls, thusly, enough of them to fit a couple hundred beasts (or so I've been told), had been tunneled deep into the Hill itself. Approaching the entryway – more of a hole, really, sloping downwards, lit by torches – we dismounted, and the stablehands quit their milling about to lead the horses inside.
"Stay or go?" I asked Typhoon, rubbing his chin.
He nickered, pawing at the ground.
"You sure?"
He blew his nose.
"Alright."
I whistled into the ring, and Typhoon astralized; the stablehands started working faster.
Sure, I get it – the Seven, witches, superstition or whatever – but after, what, six, seven months, you'd think they'd have gotten over it.
Not like I'd killed anyone.
Well, not anyone here.
Brynden, arms crossed, took the lead.
"This way."
She guided us up another flight of stairs, through another gate, and into another courtyard.
Seems Maegor had a thing for redundancy.
Grass and gravel, it'd been meticulously landscaped, but boasted not an inch of cover or shade – which, I suppose, was rather the point, judging by the archers' nests studding the wall ahead of us.
This wall, the third, sheltered the castle proper. Nearly twice as tall and thick as the others, it stood at a slight angle, with high round towers marking each bend, and regular embrasures along its length. A colonnade, the 'Traitor's Walk,' ran across the top, where, impaled on a hedge of wrought-iron spikes, the heads of killers and thieves and Ironborn rotted in the midday sun.
A striking visual, if a little grim – probably not the sort you'd want right outside your house.
One last gate; then, a cloister, four stories high, lined with arcades, sandstone floor mosaiced with geometric swirls.
It was absolutely packed.
The jabbering crowd – merchants, gentry, knights; reasonably important people, on the whole, but not so important (or entertaining) that they could drop by anytime and expect a royal audience – had crammed together in a blobby approximation of a line, each waiting their turn for the herald up front to cry their name and usher them into the throne room.
(I later learned that this clump was what passed for open court under the Baratheon administration – in theory biweekly, in practice held on those few occasions that Robert happened to be in the mood. The actual movers and shakers learned to go to the Hand with their concerns, while the commons had given up entirely.)
Chin lifted over their heads (height has its advantages), I scanned for a quick way through; not finding one, I squared my shoulders.
"Please don't," Brynden sighed.
I pretended not to hear.
Of course, many took exception when I barreled through the herd like a freight train, "Hey"-ing and "Oi"-ing and shaking their fists as they toppled like bowling pins, but there really wasn't much they could do about it – the smarter ones, hearing the commotion, simply got out the way. Shoulder-checking a grizzled old banneret, tripping some perfumed Essosi, bewildering the herald, I barged over the threshold into the hall, Ed, Thoros, and Brynden trailing in my wake (the latter twolooking somewhat abashed).
A guardsman reached out to seize me by the arm, but an older colleague held him back; shaking his head, he whispered into his junior's ear, and the reacher blanched.
The Red Keep's throne room was cavernous, almost comically so, dwarfing Casterly's nigh-exponentially, to say nothing of Winterfell's (probably why the rest of the hill was so cramped, now that I think about it). Ivied columns, pointed arches, glowing braziers and high narrow windows, it had a vaguely sinister air about it, shadows creeping in the dimness. Even after nearly a decade, it reeked of the ancien régime: hunting tapestries lazily concealed bas-reliefs of the Freehold, while the hooks that once fastened the polished skulls of Balerion and friends jutted unused from the masonry.
Finally, at the end of the hall, beneath a massive stained-glass of a seven-pointed star, heaped the thousand blades of Aegon's enemies – a lopsided lump of tangled steel, fanned talons, and wrinkled slag.
The Iron Throne.
Even uglier in person.
Down on the floor, up in the gallery, the audience cringed and muttered.
Half-asleep on his throne, the king visibly perked.
Engrossed in his prattle – or, perhaps, now that he'd finally a chance to say his piece, unwilling to acknowledge the interruption – the present petitioner rambled on.
" … at the current tariff, Your Grace, it is simply not practicable to – "
I stepped in front of him.
"Robert."
The petitioner sputtered, skittishly glancing back and forth, and the crowd fell silent.
Brynden swore under her breath.
Then, with that big, booming guffaw of his, Robert jumped to his feet and started down the steep iron steps.
"Marika!"
Strange, hearing it said so fondly.
Positively delighted, he stood on his tippy-toes and clapped me on the shoulder. His Queen and Council, meanwhile, none too chuffed to see me, arranged themselves behind him – Jon Arryn, especially, looked fit to burst a vessel, Cersei the Kind much the same, whilst Baelish and Varys and that doddering old maester (Pucey or something) at least took the trouble to plaster-on a welcoming facade.
Of the lot, Stannis took it most in stride, his jaw and brow no tighter than usual. He struck me as a pragmatic sort.
"It's been too long!" Robert cheered. "How've you been?"
Eh.
"Just great. You?"
"Good enough." Hands on his hips, the king shrugged. "I manage."
I offered a smile. "Well, it's good to be good."
The petitioner sheepishly reminded us of his existence. "Your Grace … "
As if he'd momentarily forgotten where he was, Robert furrowed his brow, but then dismissively waved his hand, eyes all the while fixed upon mine. "Later."
I think the petitioner wanted to protest, but quickly thought better of it, and let Baelish take him aside.
Robert peeled his gaze from me, deigning to acknowledge my retinue. Ignoring Ed, bobbing his head at Thoros (they were, remember, longtime drinking buddies), he leaned over and shot Brynden a questioning frown.
"Who's this, then?"
I gave what might've been a motherly grin, toothy and sharp.
"Her name is Brynden." I never did get around to rechristening her. Well, no matter, there's something to be said for refuge in audacity. "Poor girl, found her all alone in a cave beyond the Wall."
Now, appearances notwithstanding, Robert wasn't a complete dullard, having a respectable grasp on his kingdom's history (he liked reading about the battles). The name Brynden, while strange for a girl, didn't in itself strike any chords – but, combined with the long silvery hair, lone ruby eye, and little black frock …
A Pandora's box of worms best left unstirred, the way he saw it.
" ... Well met."
Brynden grunted – she sounded like a kitten.
The king knew better than to press.
Ever the charmer, Cersei the Pious barged in, slinked closer to Robert, and wrapped herself around his arm. Batting her lashes, she kissed him on the cheek, before trying (and failing) to look down her nose at me.
It was all rather juvenile.
"Hello again," she drawled in her best Regina George. "I see you and my husband are getting along nicely. It must be wonderful" – she side-eyed Thoros – "to have so many friends."
Bitch.
"Almost as wonderful as family." Tilting my head, mostly for effect, I kept my voice airy and bright. "Where is Ser Jaime, speaking of? Never had the chance to properly introduce myself."
The big vein in her neck twitched.
She made it too easy.
"He's watching my son," Cersei hissed, "the Crown Prince." Pursed lips, white knuckles, Tywin-esque glare. "You never know what unsavory characters might be lurking about."
A momentary lull; the queen, scanning the audience, restrained herself, and carved something stately from her sneer. Fingers drumming against a bemused Robert's bicep, she took a second stab at me.
Her pride demanded nothing less.
"I am curious. What was it like, that far North? Beyond the Wall? Wholly divorced from civilized society?" She scrutinized my dress, as if her cleavage wasn't practically spilled across the floor. "Cold, I imagine."
I won't say she was phoning it in (far too spiteful for that), but she certainly wasn't putting her back into it. Nerves, I suppose.
That, and the woman really needed some new material – hypocrisy aside, you can only call someone a whore so many times before it goes stale.
Entertaining a diversion this might've been – Cersei the Chaste really was a fascinating specimen – finer things awaited me than a shitflinging catfight. Clicking my tongue, I shrugged off the queen and gave Robert another smile, this one decidedly mischievous.
"Hear Her Roar."
The dismissiveness slapped her harder than insult ever could.
He coughed a chuckle into his closed fist; then, yanking his arm from Cersei's grip – she didn't even bother feigning hurt – he leisurely sauntered back towards the throne, inviting me to follow.
I did.
With a sweeping gesture towards his tetanus infection of a chair, Robert shot me a grin. "So, what do you think?"
"Needs a few pillows."
"Hah! Ghastly old thing … " His lip curled. "Half a mind to melt it down." He cast an eye about the room: red stone and black tile, dragons etched into the brickwork. "Build myself a new one … "
Pausing, hand on his hip, he turned to face the crowd.
"Court's over!"
To the din of murmurs and shuffling feet, the onlookers filed from the hall – Arryn, grumbling, set about the usual damage control, the other councilors finding their own excuses to slink off into the background.
Cersei stayed scowling.
"So, what's next on the itinerary?" I looped my arm through his, and together we made for the doors. "If you say a feast, I'm bashing someone's skull in."
V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V
Robert loved hunting.
The stalk, the chase, the kill; the communion with his primal savagery, and the nagging risk – however slim – that he might instead land himself above his prey's mantelpiece.
It made him feel alive, like a man, in a truer, purer way than anything else could anymore. Drink dulled his senses, Sex left him empty, and War had been tainted by the memories of mud and stink, rubies in the ford, tufts of fair hair peeking from beneath a Lannister-red cloak.
Lyanna loved hunting, too.
I could take it or leave it.
Bloodhounds and beaters howling in the distance, he and I and a handful of his entourage tromped through the underbrush.
Using a winged spear as a walking stick, Robert combed the treeline; hands casually tucked into the folds of my dress, I strolled a few steps behind, a passive observer.
Frankly, at my weight class, and that of the game on offer, actually partaking just would've been poor form.
"I don't suppose you'd like to talk politics?"
He snorted, boot scraping against a rock.
"Rather disembowel myself."
"Come now," I tsked. "What would the people think if they heard their Good King Robert being so uncouth to a lady?"
He gave my snicker a dirty look.
"They'd think what their Good King Robert commands them to."
A hum.
"Seems you have this whole government thing figured out."
He trampled a fern.
"Aye. Life's easy at the top of the dungheap. Do this, gimme that, sit, stay, roll over" – then, in something of a falsetto – "Yes, Your Grace, of course, Your Grace, it'll be my pleasure, Your Grace. No more taxes, or summons, or bows to some creature you'd sooner rip in two." His voice, by now, had taken on a decidedly jaded edge. "Now all the whining children beg me to wipe their arses."
Running his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair, the king loosed a sigh.
"And I can hunt whenever I want."
Suddenly, a rustle.
Robert screeched to a halt, hand held off to the side, the rest of us bunched behind him.
His spear creaked as his grip tightened.
A pause.
Then, clods and grass flying, a slavering boar erupted from the bushes.
Robert lunged.
The boar squealed.
The spear caught in its ribcage.
Frothy pink blood painted the leaves.
Swiping its tusks, the boar bolted away, and the spear ripped from Robert's grasp, dragged along through the thicket.
Robert sprinted after it.
We found the boar in a clearing some hundred yards away – collapsed on its side, shredded lungs wheezing, blood pouring from its snout.
Dagger in hand, the king straddled its back, yanked on its wiry mane, and slit its throat.
Embarrassing as it is to admit, I genuinely enjoyed his company – I can't say I loved him, not truly, but there was a spark of something.
Hands dripping red, Robert laughed, and wiped his brow with the back of his forearm.
"Big fucker, ain't he?"
Honest, animal attraction, if I had to give it a name, and a quiet sense of kinship.