Arya

Life under Ser Amory Lorch had been bad before, but now with Lord Bolton putting Harrenhal under siege it was much worse three weeks of siege had done much to make stress mount on the knight. The vile tempered knight was even more cruel now than he had been before. Rations for the servants fell to nothing more than a single small bowl of watery soup a day. Ser Amory was paranoid about even the slightest hint of disobedience he had people whipped in the yard for even the smallest infraction. People like Pia, a buttery maid, who was whipped to death for speaking out of turn. Arya hadn't liked Pia, she'd been eager to serve, and fuck, the Lannister men, but she hadn't deserve this. Maybe I should have made Jaqen kill Ser Amory instead of the Mountain?

When the deed was done Pia's body was thrown into the bear pit to feed the great black beast. That night, as she lay on her bed of straw, Arya added a new name to her list. Jeryn the Whipper. Not even the prisoners were safe from Ser Amory's wrath, where they had once been given freedom of the castle they were now forced into the dungeons. When one of them, an enormously fat man with a great walrus moustache, protested he was whipped as well and thrown into the bear pit.

The next day it was Hot Pie who was whipped to death and thrown into a bear pit. He had burned a tart. Ser Amory's men dragged him screaming out of the kitchens and into the Flowstone Yard, where he was stripped naked and tied to a post. He screamed even louder as the whipping commenced.

A man shouted. "A stag if you can get him in the balls!"

Jeryn earned his silver. And he earned even more as he hit target after target, ears, hands, arse, and legs. They whipped Hot Pie until his back was stripped of flesh revealing his ribs and spine. They threw his ruined body into the bear pit. Arya made herself watch as they whipped him, as the bear, full from it's previous feasts, tossed her friend around like a doll, she made herself remember.

Later in the day Arya's tasks took her into the armoury, while she waited for a smith she slipped a small dagger into her shift. A smith's apprentice was whipped for losing the dagger. From the store rooms beneath the Wailing Tower she stole some rope and hid it in a crevice beneath the Tower of Ghosts. Another girl was whipped when it was found that there was one too few spools of rope.

That night she waited in her bed of straw, waited for the rest of the castle to be asleep, and then she waited even longer just to be sure. When the time was right she moved, quiet as a shadow just as Syrio had taught her, she stepped over and around the sleeping servants out of the Wailing Tower. Hiding within the great shadows of the massive towers, Arya made her way across the rain stricken yards and into the Tower of Ghosts where she slipped the rope under her cloak, wrapping it around her body.

Arya slipped through the shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. She walked fast, to keep ahead of her fear, and she felt like Syrio Forel walked beside her, and Yoren, and Jaqen H'ghar, and Jon Snow. She clutched the dagger she had stolen from the armoury, she ached for Needle, but for this the dagger would be better. It was good and sharp and small, easy to hide until the right moment. She approached the northwest walls, the most ruined of Harrenhals great curtain walls, where great cracks and fissures and bulges warped the smooth stone.

She stayed to the shadows, grateful for the rainclouds that blocked out the moon and the stars, and crept alongside the wall to the stairs. The stairs were narrow and rounded by dragonfire and three centuries of rain. They looked like melted wax, save for the cracks that lined their surface. She paused near the top of the stairs pushing herself into a crevice where the stairs seemed to pull away from the wall, waiting for the sound of a guard, she hardly dared to breath.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound of boots on stone made her want to squirm but she kept still her grey cloak turned dark by the rain trying to blending into the stone. The guard squelched past the stairs, muttering curses, he never bothered to look down the stairs. To look where Arya was hiding.

Arya took ten slow breaths and then moved, quick as a cat and quiet as a shadow, across the broad flat top of the curtain wall to the crenellations on the other side. She looked over them, the wall seemed even taller than she remembered, and the crenellations to big for her to tie a rope. She touched the rope wound around her chest and belly she had to find something to tie it too. There! A broken crenellation that had melted to form a stone spike that leaned out, away from the wall, like a broken tooth from a dragon's mouth. Arya ran over and quickly looped the rope around the spike and tied a knot, then another, and a third, and a fourth just to be safe. She threw the rest of the rope over the side. She pulled the rope down into the crevice where it seemed the spike might break away at any moment, the better to hide it.

Arya clambered onto the crenellation and found herself staring down into the darkness. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Arya grabbed the rope and swung herself over the wall. Her feet skidded over slick stone but she held herself with the rope hand by hand she crept down the wall. The wet rope burned her hands, sharp edges of stone dug into her feet. But she did it Arya jumped the last five feet and landed on the wet ground with a squelch as her feet sunk six inches into the mud. Arya paused a moment straining her ears for the sound of marching feet, or a horn. But there was nothing.

She took a deep breath and began her journey to the northern camp. She stayed low crouching beneath her cloak, trying to avoid the many small bushes that filled the open ground between the walls and the forests. She stepped lightly to avoid breaking twigs, but she needn't have bothered they were so waterlogged and the ground so soft that they just bent and sank into the mud. At last she came into view of the camp. Arya saw a guard and stood making no effort to hide, instead she approached the guard openly. The guard called out. "Who are you?"

"Weasel," she replied. "I'm a servant in Harrenhal."

"Step forward," the guard commanded.

When she got closer, she saw that he was short and broad with a little wisp of beard. He huddled in a ragged fur cloak, at the edge of the camp. When she reached him she pushed back her cloak so he would see the ragged serving clothes. She could see the gleam of steel under the cloak, he almost reminded Arya of her father's guards, save that his surcoat bore a red man on pink rather than the direwolf of Stark. For a moment she was a scared little girl again, and the rain on her face felt like tears.

"Servant, you say?" He did not believe her. "What brings you out? Did Ser Amory send you?"

Arya shook her head. "No, I escaped. With a rope. I- it's still there you could get in." The guard straightened at that eying her warily. He whistled twice, long and loudly. From deeper in the camp Arya saw someone move in the light of the low fires. It was another northman with steel greaves on his long legs, and a fur cloak over his mail.

"What is it Helman?"

The guard, Helman pushed Arys forward. "Walton, this girl, Weasel she said her name was, said she escaped from Harrenhal, that she's got a way for us to get in."

Walton leaned in front of Arya looking straight into her eyes. Arya stared back. Walton turned to Helman. "Wait here."

Walton returned to the camp leaving Arya alone with Helman the guard. Arya opened her mouth to speak but the words died in her throat. Helman himself seemed content to silence.

It felt like hours passed before Walton returned with another man with a long triangle beard, and wore dark mottled clothes over leather armour, his only weapon appeared to be a broad-bladed dagger.

"Weasel, this is Lorche he's going with you."

The new man, Lorche, left Walton's side grabbed Arya's shoulder and said. "Let's see about this rope shall we." He pushed Arya forward, into the night.

The closer they got to the castle, the closer they got to the ground, first it was simply crouching but before long Lorche was crawling on the ground, he made Arya do the same. "Follow in my wake," he told her. So that's what Arya did as she and Lorche crept through the night moving ever so slowly. It was raining so hard and the ground was so wet that they were practically sliding over a sea of mud. It took thrice as long for Arya to get back to the walls as it had for her to first reach the camp and by the time they reached the walls both were covered in mud.

lorche grunted. "I'll be damned you weren't lying. How in the hells you managed to get out I don't know. But," the man grabbed onto the rope and began to pull himself up. "Best get to business. Hurry up after me." Arya did as she was bid and climbed the slick wall after him.

After Lorche reached the top but before Arya had she heard an abortive gasp and the sound of someone falling. Heart in her throat she climbed as fast as she could and clambered over to see Lorche wiping his dagger clean on the red cloak of the guardsman who had passed Arya earlier.

"Where's a good place to hide him?"

"On the stairs there's a crevice."

"Good," Lorche pulled off the guardsman's crimson cloak and pulled it over himself. Together they pushed the dead man into the crevice and walked openly into the yard like they were supposed to be there. Together they approached a postern gate the least of Harrenhal's gates. The guard there stepped away from the wall. "Tom is that you? Is it that time already?"

Lorche moved quickly and quietly, his head down and his hood up, right up to the guardsman and in a single quick movement pushed him into the archway and cut his throat. His blood sprayed out in a hot gush and he tried to shout but there was blood in his mouth as well.

Arya whispered. "Valar Morghulis," as the man died.

Arya stepped into the shelter of the arch and waited a moment. She waited for shouts, for horns, for trumpets, for an alarm of any kind. But there was only the sound of rain falling on the molten stone yards of Harrenhal. Lorche didn't wait for the man to stop moving to the dead man deep into the shadows.

Arya hefted the beam out off the door and set it aside, she pulled open the heavy oak door and then stepped back into the arch where she was sheltered from the rain. Lorche grabbed her shoulder and shoved something into her hand, gold ring with a red man made of a ruby. "Give Walton that. Now go girl! Tell the camp!" he pushed her through the door and then pulled it shut. Arya didn't waste a moment she ran as fast as she could across the field

She was exhausted by the time she arrived this time the guards were waiting for her, they took her to Walton and when she gave him the ring Lorche had given her he smiled. A man in a red and pink surcoat took her to a large tent near the center of the camp. Two guards outside opened the flap letting Arya and her guard inside. The guard approached a man who was plain faced, beardless, and ordinary, except for his queer pale eyes. Neither plump, thin, or muscular, he wore black ringmail and a spotted pink cloak. Lord Bolton. Of what the man said to him Arya only caught. "Gods smiled on her."

Lord Bolton answered the man, but he was also to quiet to hear. After a brief moment, the long legged man approached Arya and took her by the shoulder and firmly, but not ungently, led her across the yard.

"This is her m'lord, the girl who opened the gate."

A thin smile twitched across Lord Bolton's lips. "What's your name?"

"Weasel," she replied.

"You will say my lord girl. Weasel," he sniffed. "That will not serve. What name did your mother give you?"

She bit her lip, reaching for another name. Lommy had called her Lumpyhead, Sansa used Horseface, and her father's men once named her Underfoot, but she did not think any of those were the sort of name he wanted.

"Nymeria," she said. "Only she called me Nan for short."

"You will call me my lord when you speak to me, Nan," Lord Bolton reminded her mildly. "Are you afraid of leeches, child?"

""They're only leeches, my lord."

"My squire could take a lesson from you, it would seem. Frequent leechings are the secret of a long life. A man must purge himself of bad blood. You will do, I think. For so long as I remain at Harrenhal, Nan, you shall be my cupbearer, and serve me at the table and in my chambers."

"Yes, your lord. I mean, my lord."

Lord Bolton waved a hand. "Make her presentable," he said to no one in particular. "And make certain she knows how to pour wine without spilling it." He stood and left the tent. Moments later Arya heard war horns come to life all around her, and the roar of thousands of men.

It was not even morning when Arya, dressed in a fresh pink and red tunic was brought into Harrenhal. She saw Lord Bolton, the new master of Harrenhal, atop his horse before the assembled host, prisoners, and servants. His squire carried the flayed man banner. "On your knees for the Lord of the Dreadfort!" shouted his squire, a boy no older than Arya, and Harrenhal knelt. Save for the man with the long legs and steel greaves Arya had met earlier that night, Walton his name was, who approached Lord Bolton and spoke to him. He turned away and lifted a hand. "Walton, see to those banners above the gatehouse."

Four Bolton men climbed to the ramparts and hauled down the lion of Lannister and Ser Amory's own black manticore. In their place they raised the flayed man of the Dreadfort and the direwolf of Stark. And that evening, a page named Nan poured wine for Roose Bolton as he stood on the gallery, watching Northmen parade Ser Amory Lorch and Jeryn the Whipper naked through the middle ward. They pleaded and sobbed and clung to the legs of their captors, until they were pulled loose, and kicked down into the bear pit.

Arya filled Roose Bolton's cup, and did not spill a drop. That night she had two less names to say.

Lord Stannis rotting upon the walls of Highgarden!"

There was silence in the hall. Sansa glanced to the high table and saw that even Lord Tywin was surprised. Lord Mace was supposed to say something else, she realized.

The silence was broken by Joffrey who laughed as he embraced Lord Mace. "Of course my lord of course you will have your vengeance. I will give you Stannis' head myself!" A smattering of applause broke out from the attending lords as Lord Mace and his son made their way to a lower table where the other guests of honour were seated.

It was surprising to hear the trumpets announce, after so many great lords with their long titles and retinues, a simple name and a simple man. "Bronn, a swordsman in service to King Joffrey."

Sansa heard the steps of a solitary man, a queer dragging sound, but she could not see this man. For her view was blocked by a plump lordling and his lady wife. All she heard were gasps as the man slowly made his way forward. At last she saw the man, dark haired, dark eyed, lean, and wolfish wearing a dark brown wool doublet, and what he carried.

"Oh gods no," she let slip.

It was a hide. A great hide of smoke grey fur so large it dragged on the floor, though Bronn used both arms to carry it. Despite the time Sansa recognized it on sight, it was Grey Wind. Bronn carried Grey Wind's hide the length of the hall before setting it on the floor beneath the high table and kneeling behind it.

"Your Grace," said Bronn, clearly unused to speaking before so many. "I gift unto you the hide of Robb Stark's wolf, which was slain by my own hands."

Joffrey stared for a time at the hide. "Bronn," he said, his voice full of authority. "I would make you Ser Bronn. Ser Bronn Wolfsbane," he smiled. "And more I gift unto you a sword, a suit of plate, your pick of the royal stables."

Which now belong to Lord Stannis, they had received news of the fall of King's Landing a week past.

"And," continued Joffrey. "With the death of Ser Gregor and his brother Sandor's place in my Kingsguard the lands of Clegane Keep are without a master, or rather they were without one for I grant them to you Ser," and with that Ser Mandon Moore stepped forward, drew his sword and touched Bronn upon his shoulder and his head.

Along with Bronn over three hundred knights were made that day, though Sansa heard not their names nor saw their faces. It was all she could do not to cry when she looked at Grey Wind's hide, and she felt it impossible to look anywhere else. She stared into the amber that had replaced his eyes, and sometimes swore she saw Grey Wind… saw Robb looking back at her.

It took time for all the knights to be given their sers and now the hall was growing restive. None more so than Joffrey. Some in the gallery began to quietly slip away, but those unlucky enough to on the floor or in places of honor were trapped, unable to depart without the king's leave. Judging by the way he was fidgeting at the high table, he would willingly have granted it, but the day's work was far from done. For the captives were now ushered in.

And Sansa's heart broke for she recognized many of them. Smalljon Umber, now Lord of Last Hearth after his father's death, the great fat Ser Wendel Manderly who valued honour above all else, Hoster Woolfield, Torrhen Grouse who was Master of a holdfast two days ride north of Winterfell, Martyn Slate the Lord of Blackpool; and others who she recognized only by their banners, Tytos Blackwood Lord of Raventree Hall and his three eldest sons Brynden, Lucas, and Hoster, Lord Hosteen Root, Lords Norbert Vance and Karyl Vance of Atranta and Wayfarer's Rest, Ser Ryam Frey and many many more.

Joffrey seemed to grow more interested now that the possibility of a beheading was present. He stood from his chair. "You are traitors," he declared. "And the punishment for treason is death. But I am not unmerciful those of you who renounce your treachery and your loyalty to the rebels Robb Stark and Hoster Tully and swear anew your oaths to the crown will be welcomed into the king's peace and all your lands and rights restored you. Those who do not will meet the same fate as your comrades did at the Feast for Crows," Joffrey waved his hand. "Your words will decide your fate."

Northmen do not beg, Sansa thought proudly. But beg they did, by the score northmen and riverlanders alike bent the knee and begged for Joffrey's forgiveness. However a handful remained defiant, though the only great lords amongst them were Jon Umber, and Ser Wendel Manderly.

The giant man stumbled forward in his chains shouting. "I will not kneel to the likes of you! A bastard and a craven! You are no true king! The only king I mean to bend the knee to is the KING IN THE NORTH!"

"Surely you mean the King Who Lost The North," japed Lord Petyr from his seat at the high table, provoking a volley of laughter from the southrons.

Lord Jon continued shouting at Joffrey. "You are scum unworthy of being scraped off my boot! A freak born of incest! Maegor the Cruel born anew!"

Joffrey lurched to his feet. "I'm king! Kill him! Kill him now! I command it." He chopped down with his hand, a furious, angry gesture that sent a goblet of wine flying. From out of the shadows by the high table, the Hound came forward to follow his king's command. He moved quickly from the base of the high table to cut down the chained lord of the Last Hearth where he stood with a single swing of his sword.

For a few moments only silence reigned in the great hall of Goldengrove, but from high in the gallery a voice said. "Thus the fate of all traitors! Hail King Joffrey! Long may he reign!"

"Long may he reign," echoed the crowd though Sansa said it without conviction.

Tyrion

Tyrion stood in the throne room of the Red Keep as he, along with all the other noble prisoners, were forced to watch the coronation of Stannis Baratheon. In the galleries above them watched the lords and ladies of the Reach; Fossoways green and red, Florents, Meadows, and Cuys; the Stormlands Estermonts, Wensingtons, Errols, Selmys, and Swanns; the newly arrived Rykker, Rosby, Thorne, and Chelsted from the Crownlands; And even a smattering of Riverlords, chief among them a man wearing the red salmon of House Mooton, though Tyrion did not think him to be Lord Mooton himself.

The man of the hour was cloaked in cloth-of-gold upon which the black stag of Baratheon was proudly emblazoned in shimmering jet. Stannis faced away from the crowd and toward the monstrous looming presence of the Iron Throne. With any luck he'll cut his wrists on it when he goes to sit. Tyrion wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not but he thought he could hear the grinding of teeth as Stannis endured the end of the High Septon's speech.

At long last the High Septon concluded with. "And in the name of all the gods rise Stannis of the House Baratheon, the King of the Andals the Rhoynar and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign!" The High Septon placed a crown of gold antlers and jet upon Stannis bald head.

"Long may he reign," echoed the crowd though Tyrion said it without conviction. One True King of Westeros?

The High Septon quickly stepped aside as Stannis began his march towards the Iron Throne. A crash of metal on stone made Tyrion jump, it was Stannis' own soldiers, the ones who carried the strange new weapons Tyrion had heard being called hand-dragons. With each step their king took the soldiers bashed the buts of their weapons into the floor and shouted. "ONE REALM! ONE KING!"

Step. Crash. Step. "ONE REALM!" Step. "ONE KING!" Step. Crash.

And on it went the shouts of five hundred men ringing through the throne room like the chanting of a horde of fanatics worshipping their god. From where he stood Tyrion could just see a red haired woman, dressed all in red with a ruby on her choker, mouthing another part to the chant. Looks like she's saying One God…

The chanting mounted as Stannis passed between his only two Kingsguard, Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Rolland Storm who both stood guard at the base of the Iron Throne, and slowly Stannis began his ascent. At last Stannis reached to the summit, silencing his followers, and seated himself upon the Iron Throne his golden cloak flowed down the steps of the Iron Throne, while the stripes of black silk and garnets sparkled on his golden surcoat. If only Ser Rolland or Ser Richard has chosen that moment to emulate my brother.

Davos Seaworth, Stannis' Onion Lord in simple armour and a grey surcoat his only ornamentation being a badge of golden antlers on his left shoulder, stepped forward from his place among the commanders of Stannis' host and proclaimed. "Hail Stannis King!" And the dragonmen answered. "HAIL STANNIS KING!"

Their shouts echoed lightly through the throne room as Stannis waited, seemingly content to bask in the glory of his ascension. He leaned forward, looming over the assembled lords, ladies, knights, and prisoners. He spoke slowly, with certainty, with purpose."Ser Robar Royce, Ser Timon the Scrapesword, Ser Andrew Estermont, Ser Boros Rambton, and Ser Emmon Cuy. Step forward." The five named knights, who each wore well made but unornamented steel plate beneath their cloaks, advanced to the base of the Iron Throne and knelt in their armour. Like penitents before the altar.

Stannis looked down upon the five men, he stayed silent for a few moments, tension mounted slowly in the hall. "You have all served with bravery and with honour. Some longer than others," his gaze seemed to settle on Ser Emmon and Ser Robar before sliding away. "But all of you with distinction. I would reward such actions." Stannis gestured with his right hand, and from behind the Iron Throne came five pages carrying five white cloaks. "A place in my Kingsguard for each of you."

As one the five knights rose to their feet in silence. It was Ser Robar who spoke for the five men. "Your Grace, I speak for us all when I say that this is an honour beyond measure, and that it is with gratitude equally beyond measure that we accept and take our places in your Kingsguard."

The five men doffed their old cloaks of bronze, brown, pale green, orange, and yellow, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and stepped onto the dais to accept their new cloaks of snow white silk. Then the men took their places around the Iron Throne with Ser Richard and Ser Rolland greeting their new brothers with solemn and silent nods.

Stannis met the eyes of each of his new Kingsguard in turn and gave each a grave nod. Stannis flexed his hands and turned his attention back to the crowd. "Lord Eldon Estermont, come forward."

The lord in question was an old man of seventy, bald and white-bearded though still robust and strong of body, a legacy of strength he had passed on to his grandson, who now sat upon the Iron Throne. Lord Eldon wore a cloak of pale green silk bordered with jade turtles and a broad belt of black leather with silver studs around his waist. He knelt on the stone floor before the heap of old cloaks and the Iron Throne. Tyrion strained his ears to try and hear the sound of creaking knees, but he was disappointed.

"My lord, long did you faithfully serve my brothers Lord Renly and King Robert, and before him my father Lord Steffon, and his father Lord Ormund before him. I too would have use for your wise and leal council as my Master of Ships."

Lord Edlon raised his head and faced his grandson. "I would gladly take a place on your council Your Grace."

"Then rise my lord, and be seated."

Stannis hardly waited for Lord Eldon to join Lord Alester at the council table when he called out again. "Lord Ardrian Celtigar, come forward."

The Lord of Claw Isle was a stoop shouldered and sour old man, whose mantle was patterned with red garnet crabs. Like Lord Eldon before him he knelt before the Iron Throne.

"My lord, many times these past years since the castle of Dragonstone was granted to me have you offered your services and your council, both in war and in peace. Further your skill as a man of skill in the matters of gold is well known, and it would please me to have you as my Master of Coin."

More like well known for being the greediest cunt on this side of Westeros.

Lord Ardrian looked up at his liege lord and said. "You honour me beyond words Your Grace, I will gladly do as you bid and join your council."

"Then rise my lord, and be seated."

Seemingly satisfied with filling out his Kingsguard and his Small Council Stannis now turned to other matters. There were other rewards to be given. House Stokeworth was stripped of their lands and titles in retribution for fleeing with Joffrey, those lands were then given to Ser Justin Massey. Allard Seaworth, the second son of the Onion Lord, was given the lands of the extinct House Mallery, whose sole scion and lord, Lothar had drowned at the Mummer's Ford. Two foreigners were also recognized, a man named Masuro Kichashiro who wore robes in a strange style Tyrion didn't recognized that were nonetheless emblazoned with Baratheon stags, was raised to knighthood and promised a place in Stannis' household, while the second, a woman named Asami Sato, was granted a manse in the city and a royal stipend. I'd say she's a mistress, but this is Stannis for the Seven's sake. The septon who had led the smallfolk of King's Landing in revolt and whose name turned out to be Osmond, was honoured with the funds to build a septry in the ruins of Flea Bottom that would work towards feeding and caring for the poor.

The flood of titles and honours being let out was endless and utterly overwhelming, the kind of talk that would send someone to sleep after more than a few minutes. And Tyrion even felt himself succumbing to the grotesque lullaby, until noticed a pattern. The scions of great houses with thousands of years of history behind them were given prestigious yet empty honours, they were promised lands that were not yet Stannis' to give, and, with a great deal of difficulty on Stannis' part, courteously flattered. And yet even as the great estates were given to them the holdfasts were filled with third sons or worse, with hedge knights, or with upjumped commoners, many of whom had served Stannis for years. And the captaincies of Stannis' dragonmen seemed reserved for these men as well. Lord Ardrian Celtigar might have been Master of Coin but it was the merchants of the Antler Men, who had conspired to seize the Lion Gate during the battle, that filled the ranks of the lesser offices. One Realm! One King! Seemed to bang away in Tyrion's mind as he watched Stannis lay the foundations his rule. With his followers satisfied Stannis now looked upon the ranks of prisoners, Tyrion among them, who took up half the hall.

"You have fought for and been captured fighting for the false king Joffrey Waters, that is treason and the punishment for treason is death. And yet I am not without mercy," said he who was infamously merciless. "I once said that there were men good and true who would fight for Joffrey, wrongly believing him the true king. It is for that reason I give you all one chance to make anew your oaths to myself, the One True King of Westeros."

"Ser Jacelyn Bywater," called the king, and the one handed knight stepped forward. "In previous times I spoke often of the corruption that infested the City Watch, a corruption that had its source in the person of Janos Slynt and half of his officers. You were not one of those officers, if you would beg my mercy I would grant it and free you of your chains, and restore you to your rightfully earned position of Lord Commander."

Ser Jacelyn knelt and was freed from his chains. He was the first of many to do so, lordlings and knights from the West and the Crownlands begged a chance to serve Stannis and regain their honour. But only a few were as lucky as Ser Jacelyn. Most of the prisoners were condemned to death after Stannis announced their crimes, others who confessed their own crimes, no doubt after having already been convinced to do so by Stannis, were allowed to live but with lands and titles stripped from them and returned to the crown, some few who had committed particularly heinous acts were forced to join the Night's Watch even after they had confessed.

The mummery continued until only four men stood where there had once been hundreds. Tyrion, Ser Meryn, Ser Preston and Lancel.

Stannis called Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield forward at the same time. The two knights of Joffrey's kingsguard had been stripped of their armour and fine clothes, they had been left only with common undyed wool. Stannis glared down at the two men. "I said men who were good and true would gain one chance to make their oaths anew. However Ser Meryn and Ser Preston you are both neither good nor true, you have both betrayed your oaths, both as kingsguard and as knights, a hundred times or more. Whoring, murder, beating innocents, corruption." Preston and Meryn had began to shiver as Stannis' voice rose as he continued to lay out each crime upon them. "All these by themselves would more than warrant your execution. Not to mention your treason as well." Stannis glanced away for a moment, towards the Onion Lord, Stannis waved his hand dismissing the two men. "Take them to the black cells." Dragonmen dragged the two crying men away.

"Lancel Lannister."

At the utterance of his name, Tyrion's cousin shuffled forward and knelt. It was the first Tyrion had seen of Lancel since they had been captured, his cousin did not look well, his clothes were soiled, his hair unwashed, and he was covered in dirt. The legacy of his stay in the black cells no doubt. Tyrion didn't have a mirror but he expected that his own appearance was just a bad.

"You wish to confess your crimes?"

"Yes Your Grace," Lancel mumbled.

"Then proceed."

"Adultery, I… I fornicated with Queen Cersei. Treason a- and regicide, upon the command of my lover, the queen, I conspired to bring about the death of King Robert and place the abomination Joffrey Waters upon the Iron Throne."

"Such crimes are worth death," intoned Stannis.

"They are Your Grace, but I throw myself upon your mercy and ask to be allowed to join the Night's Watch to live out the rest of my days in service to the realm," Lancel said these words by rote. The crimes are real enough I'll grant, but this is not but mummery just to make Stannis' seem even more the righteous avenger.

"Let this act of mercy not be forgotten," said Stannis. "Take him to await his passage north." Stannis looked away from the weeping Lancel. "Tyrion Lannister," he called.

In silence Tyrion waddled away from his lonely place. Like those before him Tyrion knelt before the Iron Throne. He had to arch his back and neck too see the black and gold figure enthroned far above everyone else.

"Tyrion Lannister, you have committed the crime of treason in fighting for the false king and in aiding his flight from the capital into the arms of other traitors, in so doing you have prolonged a war which will cost the lives of tens of thousands more of my subjects." Tyrion clenched his fists. If you're going to take my head be done with it already.

Stannis tapped a finger in the Iron Throne. "You will sail with your cousin. To the Wall," Stannis stood and addressed the gallery. "This council is done. You have my leave." The two dragonmen reached Tyrion, each taking him by an arm and all but lifting him off the floor as they dragged him out of the throne room. Tyrion allowed this indignity only because he was struck dumb that he still had his head.