Oldstones
Arthur's new home still felt foreign to him, even after a year. The sun blazed as fiercely as it did in Dorne, but here, the sea winds swept across the island, carrying a strange coolness that cut through the heat.
Leaning against the lemon tree, Arthur kept a watchful eye on the toddling prince. The child was Rhaegar's, undoubtedly—but there was no mistaking it. The boy was Lyanna's too. It was in the way he moved, small and surefooted, a little wolf already.
Jaehaerys was chasing a small lizard through the grass, his giggles ringing out as he nearly caught it—only for the creature to slip from the toddler's grasp once more. Arthur allowed himself a small smile before his gaze lifted from the boy.
Though the garden's high walls offered safety, he remained alert. The Magister's guards stood watch at the entrances, their spears glinting in the sunlight. He knew all too well that any attempt at escape would be complicated if they turned hostile. But if Pereno Moraqos had intended harm, then Arthur concluded that he would've done so already.
Pereno had been recommended by Arthur's brother as a reliable ally—a rare quality among the magisters of Lys. Arthur had agreed, though reluctantly. Pereno was no honorable man in the traditional sense, but he kept his own code, and his word, once given, seemed genuine enough.
The magister had opened his home to Arthur and Jaehaerys without hesitation, treating them more like honored guests than fugitives. Arthur suspected Pereno saw their presence as a mark of prestige—a chance to host a Westerosi prince and the Sword of the Morning under his roof.
Pereno had risen to Gonfaloniere just over a year ago, a unique title in Lys—head of the city's military. Arthur had been more confused than impressed when Pereno explained that it was an elected position, one that in times of peace was used largely for political maneuvering, with little regard for actual competence or military skill. The magister had called it a stepping stone, his sights set on becoming the city's First Magister in the next election.
Arthur would have cared little about such ambitions if Pereno weren't his host. Still, the magister's protection was a shield, however thin, and Arthur couldn't afford to discard it. Not with Jaehaerys' safety at stake.
His gaze shifted to the maid keeping watch over the prince. Lysara, her name was. A pretty thing, in the Lysene way, with silver hair, milk-pale skin, and eyes the color of a summer sky. But Arthur knew better than to trust beauty in a city like Lys. Her loyalty could be bought for the right wage—one that for now came from the Magister's purse.
Still Lys seemed to be the best place to stay for now, Mudd did not look to be one to be toppled anytime soon. His position as Hand only more secure now according to rumors and letters that his brother routinely sent. Even in Lys and the other Free Cities conversations during dinner were filled with stories of the thought extinct royal house and its new Head and his exploits.
"S-ser, right?" Lysara spoke hesitantly, her voice faltering.
Arthur inclined his head, turning his gaze toward her.
"Is that truly Dawn at your side?" The young woman pointed to his family's greatest pride.
He picked up the blade from where it had been resting beside him, drawing it from its sheath to reveal the strange, pale metal in all its glory. "It is indeed," he replied, his curiosity piqued. "I'm surprised you know of it."
She reddened, clearly flustered. "My little brother is fascinated by Westerosi knights. When he starts talking about them, he never stops." Lysara gave a rueful shake of her head. "He says the Sword of the Morning, the wielder of Dawn, is the greatest knight in all of Westeros."
Arthur smiled wryly. "I always tried to be the best knight I could be. Whether I was the greatest is not for me to say."
"Humility is part of the Chivalric code, is it not?" Lysara replied, her tone thoughtful.
He grinned slightly. "It sounds as though you're more educated on the subject than you let on."
Lysara flushed but there was a glint of intelligence in her blue eyes, a spark that told him she was no simple maid. "Maybe my brother's incessant babbling sparked an interest."
Before Arthur could respond, a sudden scream pierced the air—coming from the manse. In an instant, he was on his feet, Dawn fully bared in his hand, his body reacting before Lysara could even comprehend what was happening.
She stumbled back at the sudden motion, and the light tone that had surrounded them vanished in an instant.
Arthur didn't spare another thought for the girl, his attention fixed on Jaehaerys, who was gazing curiously toward the manse. Arthur's gaze shifted to the entrances; the guards were gone.
"Take the boy to the harbor," he said, his voice sharp and commanding. "There's a warehouse with a red door and the sigil of House Dayne carved into it. My brother's men are there and can protect you both. The Prince's safety is paramount. Is that understood?"
Lysara shakily nodded, but Arthur didn't like the hesitance in her eyes. He stepped closer, looming over her smaller form. Her eyes flickered with fear.
"Use the main roads," he instructed, his voice low and firm. "Don't let yourself be caught in an alley or side street. Protect the boy as if he were your own, and I will ensure a generous reward for your service. I need your promise."
Lysara swallowed hard, her gaze locked with his. For a long moment, they stood like that. Finally, she nodded, a bit more resolutely. "I—I promise to get the Prince to safety."
"Hurry then," Arthur urged, his voice urgent. "I'll escort you out of the Manse."
Lysara quickly darted over to the toddler, lifting him with a startled yip before hurrying toward the garden's exit. Arthur broke into a jog, instinctively taking the lead.
Though his plate armor was stored safely in his quarters, he was still armed with Dawn, and he knew it would take a formidable force to challenge his abilities.
They moved swiftly and cautiously toward the main entrance of the Manse. It was the quickest route, and Arthur had no time for alternatives. They ducked into the shadows whenever anyone passed by, regardless of who it was.
As they moved, Arthur's mind raced. It was becoming clear: a force had attacked the Manse, though the attackers' goals, their numbers, and their competence were still unknown. He could hear the sounds of fighting between Pereno's men and the assailants—clashes of steel and shouted orders.
Eventually, they reached the entrance. Arthur gestured for Lysara to stay low as he guided her behind a thick bush near the gate, the sounds of battle still echoing faintly around them.
Arthur crouched, breath steady, eyes scanning the entrance. Five men. Not Pereno's. Their armor was mismatched, their postures loose with the careless confidence of sellswords.
His grip tightened around Dawn's hilt as he slipped along the garden wall, silent as a shadow.
"Why are we stuck out—" a younger sellsword began, only to be cut off.
"Want me to take your tongue, Denyo?" growled a hulking brute.
The one called Denyo scoffed. "Come on, surely you're not happy standing here like a fucking statue while the rest are looting?"
"Captain's orders," snapped a third man—older, leaning against a pillar. "No one leaves the manse. Now shut your trap before I shut it for you."
Arthur was already forming a plan in his mind. Five armed sellswords were no easy fight, and an open confrontation would draw far too much attention. But if he could separate them...
He slipped back to where Lysara hid in the bushes, her hand pressing firmly over Jaehaerys' mouth.
"Ser, he refuses to be quiet," the maid whispered, fear wide in her eyes.
Arthur glanced down at the boy. The prince's stormy grey eyes burned with determination, his small body still tense from struggling in Lysara's arms. He had only just stopped fighting her, likely the moment Arthur arrived.
"Take your hand off his mouth for a moment," Arthur ordered.
Lysara looked at him as if he'd gone mad, but at his steady gaze, she hesitated—then complied.
The instant her hand left, Jaehaerys let out a shrill cry.
Arthur barely reacted, only nodding to Lysara. She quickly clamped her hand over the prince's mouth again.
"Keep him quiet until you're outside the manse," Arthur instructed. "Then hide him under your dress until you reach the warehouse."
Lysara's face remained taut with terror and confusion, but after a moment, she nodded.
Arthur turned away, refocusing on the entrance. He bent down, drawing a dagger from his boot, gripping it in his off-hand while his other rested lightly on Dawn's hilt. Then, he waited.
Voices drifted closer.
"Thank Pantera," one man muttered. "Think it's the boy we're looking for? Moraqos doesn't have any children, right?"
Arthur recognized the voice—Denyo, the lean, arrogant sellsword who had been complaining. In his hand he twirled a falchion lazily even as he looked around the surroundings.
A deeper voice answered, clipped and certain. "It's the boy. Now silence."
Arthur's eyes flicked toward the second man. Bigger. Hefting a Norvosi longaxe like the new Martell Captain of Guards. A greater threat.
Arthur exhaled once, steadying himself.
Then he struck.
Bursting from the undergrowth, he moved like a shadow, Dawn already in motion—its pale blade a streak of light, cutting straight for the Norvosi sellsword.
The sellsword was fast—surprisingly so for his size—but he hadn't expected a trained warrior. He barely missed the block, and it was his last mistake.
Arthur's blade sliced clean through the man's thick neck, meeting no resistance. The body crumpled, blood spilling dark over the ground.
Denyo cursed, stumbling back into a bush, his falchion slipping mid-twirl from his grip. Arthur turned toward him, his shadow looming over the sellsword.
Denyo scrambled for his weapon, rolling as he reached for the hilt. But Arthur was faster. With the precision of countless hours of training, he slammed his dagger into Denyo's reaching arm, pinning it just as his fingers brushed the falchion's grip.
Denyo choked on a scream, but Arthur was already on him, a hand clamping hard over his mouth, silencing him before he could alert the others.
"How many of you are there, and who hired you?" Arthur demanded, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Anything else, and you won't be with us much longer."
The sellsword's eyes brimmed with tears, fury warring with fear in his gaze. His breath came in short, panicked bursts.
Slowly, Arthur raised his free hand.
A scream tore from the sellsword's throat, but it was cut short as Arthur slammed his hand over the man's mouth. "Wrong choice," he murmured, reaching for the dagger embedded in Denyo's arm. With a slow, deliberate twist, he drove fresh agony through the wound.
The sellsword thrashed beneath him, but it was useless. Arthur held firm.
Then, a voice called from the entrance, making him still for a moment.
"Quit torturing the boy! They want this 'prince' alive!"
It was the older sellsword. They had mistaken Denyo's scream for Jaehaerys'.
Denyo realized it, too. Their eyes met, understanding passing between them.
Arthur leaned in slightly, his grip unrelenting. His voice was calm, almost patient—like a maester addressing a particularly slow student.
"I take no pleasure in this," he said. "Now, how many of you are there, and who is your employer?"
Denyo hesitated, Arthur's hand raised halfway. Then, with a pained look, he finally complied.
"Around four and ten," he rasped. "The rest are inside—tasked with capturing the boy and killing the Magister. As for our employer... only the captain knows."
Arthur absorbed the information, filing it away. "And where is he?"
Denyo swallowed hard. "Probably about to kill the Magister," he admitted through gritted teeth.
"Now will you—"
Before he could finish, Arthur's hand clamped over his mouth once more. Denyo's eyes widened, first in confusion, then in sheer terror and betrayal. He tried to plead, but Arthur didn't move.
"I am a knight no longer," Arthur murmured. "My duty is to Prince Jaehaerys and him alone. And I cannot risk you putting him in danger."
With a swift motion, he wrenched the dagger free from Denyo's arm, drawing a choked gasp of pain. The sellsword struggled, but it was futile. One clean stroke across the throat, and it was over.
Arthur had to move quickly. His first priority was the prince's safety, but once Jaehaerys and Lysara were secure, he would need to protect the Magister as well. If the man died, they would have no choice but to flee the city—something Arthur was not eager to do.
His gaze shifted to the entrance, where three shadows still stood guard.
He looked down at the fallen sellsword, then wiped his dagger clean in the grass before sliding it back into the hidden sheath in his boot.
Finally, he took Dawn in both hands.
To respect every engagement—every opponent—was one of the first lessons he had learned from Barristan. He would not do so now either.
Arthur began his approach, moving as silently as possible. But then—a sharp crack. A stick snapped beneath his foot.
The older sellsword, the one who had scolded Denyo earlier, turned in his direction. Though Arthur remained behind a bush, it was clear the cover was not enough.
"Denyo? Doro? Where's the b—"
One of the others cut him off. "That's not them."
Arthur didn't hesitate. He surged forward.
The older sellsword barely managed to block the strike, stumbling backward in an effort to regain distance.
The second man, the one who had spotted him, let out a war cry and charged.
Arthur moved fluidly, sweeping Dawn from the first blocked strike straight into the second man's plain shortsword. The impact sent a shudder through the sellsword's grip—his guard shattered, his hold barely intact.
Arthur exploited this instantly. With a deft twist of his blade, he redirected the momentum, driving Dawn clean into the man's advancing form.
The sellsword gasped, a strangled cry escaping his lips as Arthur spun aside, letting the man's body collapse past him, his sword clattering uselessly against the cobblestone path.
One down.
Arthur didn't slow.
The last sellsword stood silent, his watchful gaze marking him as the most dangerous of the three. A Tyroshi, judging by his oddly colored beard and hair. Unlike the others, he didn't charge recklessly—he was studying Arthur, calculating.
Arthur had no time for a prolonged duel.
He struck first, a probing attack meant to test his opponent.
The Tyroshi reacted instantly, parrying with firm precision. Then, with startling speed, he countered—his blade whipping around Dawn, aiming to sever Arthur's grip from his weapon.
But Arthur was faster.
With a practiced motion, he angled Dawn's crossguard into the attack's path, deflecting the longsword just enough to send it glancing harmlessly to the side.
A narrow escape—but Arthur had no time to capitalize on it. Instinct screamed a warning. The older sellsword was rejoining the fight.
Arthur caught a glimpse of the man's weapon—a fine, castle-forged blade. He doubted it had been acquired honestly. He even thought he saw the faint etching of a noble house's sigil, though he couldn't place which.
The veteran sellsword aimed a killing thrust at Arthur's exposed side, hoping to catch him distracted.
Arthur barely evaded, rolling away just in time. In that moment, he was grateful he wasn't weighed down by armor—it would have slowed him enough to end the fight right then.
The older sellsword's overcommitted thrust sent him slightly off balance. Arthur seized the opening.
From the ground, he swept Dawn upward in a brutal arc. The blade met flesh, cleaving through both of the man's hands. Bone barely put up a fight before giving way.
A scream tore through the air as the older sellsword collapsed, clutching his bleeding stumps to his chest.
Arthur had no time to spare him a second glance.
The Tyroshi paid no heed to his fallen comrade. He saw only an opening.
With a fierce overhead strike, he brought his longsword down toward Arthur's prone form. The impact nearly overpowered Arthur's desperate block, both blades slamming into the cobblestones beside him. He felt the wind of the steel brushing past his face—too close.
Instinct took over.
Abandoning Dawn for a moment, Arthur drove his fist into the Tyroshi's face. Pain exploded through his knuckles, but the strike did its job. The sellsword staggered, his grip loosening just enough.
Arthur surged to his feet, reclaiming Dawn—and the fallen longsword.
The fight was over.
"Fuck!" The elder sellsword's agonized cry came from the ground beside them, but neither Arthur nor the Tyroshi spared him a glance.
The sellsword met Arthur's gaze, his breath steady despite his defeat. "You are a true warrior," he said, nodding toward Dawn. "And you honor the sword you wield."
Arthur inclined his head slightly. "A fine duel," he acknowledged. Then, his tone turned final. "But your life is now forfeit. Make peace with whatever gods you hold."
The Tyroshi closed his eyes and nodded.
Arthur waited a moment—then drove Dawn into his heart, ending him instantly.
The Tyroshi collapsed without a sound as Arthur slid Dawn free.
He turned to the older sellsword, still writhing on the ground, moaning in agony over his ruined arms. Arthur ended his suffering with a swift, unceremonious stroke.
Then, he called for Lysara.
She emerged hesitantly from the bushes, her arms wrapped tightly around Jaehaerys. Her wide eyes darted across the scene—the lifeless bodies strewn across what had once been a pristine courtyard. Then, her gaze settled on Arthur.
His tunic and face were smeared with blood. Mostly Denyo's, from when he had slit the man's throat—the spray had covered him.
Lysara swallowed hard but said nothing.
"Run. Now," Arthur commanded.
Lysara didn't hesitate. She tucked the prince beneath her dress, disguising his identity as best she could, then took off at a sprint.
Arthur watched until they disappeared around a bend in the road. Only then did he turn back toward the manse, where the sounds of battle still rang out.
He moved swiftly, heading for the Magister's solar—Pereno would most likely be there.
The journey took mere minutes, though it felt longer. Twice, he had to duck into the shadows as roaming sellswords passed dangerously close. Each time, he remained unseen.
At last, he reached the solar. The door had been smashed open.
Inside, eight sellswords surrounded Pereno and his two most elite guards.
Unsullied.
Arthur had heard much of them—eunuchs, trained from birth to be perfect soldiers, stripped of fear, of pain, of emotion. Their discipline was absolute.
But now was not the time for hesitation.
Arthur tightened his grip on Dawn and stepped forward.
Pereno's gaze snapped toward Arthur—frantic, yet determined.
The movement did not go unnoticed.
The central sellsword followed the Magister's eyes, along with two of his men. The moment he saw Arthur, recognition flared in his expression.
"Well, well," he drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Look what we have here—the wayward Kingsguard." His tone was mocking, but there was an edge of amusement. "Then again, a Kingsguard is never truly wayward when they're guarding a royal, are they?"
His eyes gleamed. "I take it you've hidden the boy away?"
Arthur said nothing.
The sellsword only shrugged. "A shame. But no matter—I'm sure I'll make his acquaintance soon enough, once you and these three are—"
He stopped himself, smile widening as if something amusing had just occurred to him.
"Ah," he chuckled. "Where are my manners?"
With a flourishing bow, the man spoke grandly, his tone dripping with mock courtesy.
"Qos, Captain of the Jolly Fellows."
The name rang a distant bell in Arthur's mind, though he couldn't quite place it.
Qos, however, caught the flicker of recognition in his expression. His smile widened.
"Ah, your esteemed colleague—the Bold—might know us better." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "We had the honor of taking part in the humble conquest of the Stepstones. Well, our predecessors did. Most of those poor bastards died, of course. But we survived, reformed, and now, fate has placed a new Kingsguard knight in our path."
His grin sharpened.
"How curious, is it not?" Qos mused, his tone light, almost playful.
Arthur's patience had run thin. "Are you finished?" he asked flatly.
The grin vanished from Qos' face, replaced by an ugly grimace.
"You Westerosi knights," he spat. "Devoid of any life!"
Arthur shook his head in exasperation, his grip tightening on Dawn as he raised the blade, pointing its pale edge directly at the captain. "Say your prayers, Captain."
Qos didn't react to his words as ignores them in favor of the blade.
"This will make a fine conquest indeed," Qos said, a twisted smile playing on his lips.
Arthur's expression remained cold, but internally, he was preparing himself. This was no inexperienced warrior—Qos was clearly ready, believing for some reason that victory was within his reach.
"Are you always this delusional?" Arthur asked, his voice steady.
"Delusional?" The Captain echoed with a grin, unbothered. "No, rather, ambitious."
"They always call themselves 'ambitious' before they stumble at the first step," Arthur replied, his tone laced with disdain. "So tell me, Captain, are there any real abilities behind those words, or are you just a barking dog?"
The smile on Qos' face faltered, his eyes narrowing with rising anger. "Enough pleasantries," he snapped, his expression hardening as he raised his sword.
The tension snapped in an instant.
Arthur saw the Unsullied move in perfect unison, and in that same moment, he surged forward. He had always preferred the offense. When facing multiple opponents, it was the best way to disrupt their coordination, to keep them off-balance and prevent them from working together.
He feigned an attack toward Qos, drawing the captain's attention, then swiftly redirected his focus to the sellsword on the right.
The man had misjudged Arthur's initial movement, lowering his guard to prepare for a counterattack. Arthur struck with lethal precision, Dawn cutting cleanly through the man's leather jerkin. Blood spurted as the blade sank deep, and with a gurgling cry, the man collapsed to the marble floor, his lifeblood staining the once-pristine stone.
Arthur didn't pause to look. He immediately shifted to face Qos, eyes locked on the captain and the remaining guard, both now focused entirely on him.
On the opposite side of the room, the Unsullied and Pereno were holding the other sellswords at bay, keeping them distracted and disorganized.
Qos' face twisted into an expression of disbelief. Who was this fool?
The remaining guard, his face red with rage, charged at Arthur, the distance between them closing rapidly. He seemed to be closer to the fallen man than anyone else—perhaps brothers? They did share a certain resemblance, both in stature and in their proficiency.
With almost embarrassing ease, Arthur swept aside the guard's blade. But this time, he couldn't capitalize on the opening— the guard's sheer momentum carried him forward, slamming into Arthur and knocking him off balance.
A flash of frustration surged through Arthur. Dammit, focus. He gritted his teeth, quickly recovering as the guard's weight came crashing down atop him.
Thinking fast, Arthur used the guard's momentum against him, twisting and dragging him over his head with a fluid, practiced motion. The guard, now momentarily off-balance, was denied the chance to pin him down.
Qos wasted no time. With a now greedy gaze, any confusion or fear gone. He was already on the offensive, his blade a blur. Arthur dodged the first swipe, the air parting with the force of it, and then the second, each movement fluid and instinctual. His eyes stayed locked on Qos, constantly scanning for any advantage, any weapon within reach.
Then, he saw it—the fire stoker by the hearth, just a few feet away. When Qos aimed a deadly swipe at his head, Arthur pivoted, narrowly avoiding the strike. The room felt like it slowed as he dashed for the stoker, seizing it just as Qos pressed forward, intent on ending him.
The stoker had heft to it, its cold iron solid in his grip, but Arthur didn't fool himself. He doubted it would hold up for long, but for now, it was enough.
The fire stoker proved its worth, solid and reliable in Arthur's grip. He parried Qos' next strike, the captain's blade glancing harmlessly off the heavy metal. Without missing a beat, Arthur swung the stoker low, aiming for Qos' shin. The blow landed with a sickening thud, and Qos staggered back with a sharp yelp of pain, his furious expression darkening.
"You fuck!" Qos snarled, his dark eyes flashing with a mix of pain and unbridled rage.
"Yield," Arthur commanded, his voice steady, his fire stoker still held in a firm grip.
Qos' gaze flickered to the stoker, then back to Arthur, his expression shifting to one of incredulity. "Are you a lackwit?"
Arthur didn't hesitate, turning the captain's words against him with a calm yet biting retort, "Are you?" He nodded toward the door behind Qos, where one of the Unsullied finished off the last of the captain's guards, Pereno and the other Unsullied closing in on them.
Qos' survival instincts kicked in immediately, his eyes snapping toward the door. He made a move to bolt, but Arthur was already blocking his escape.
Qos chuckled nervously, the sound hollow. "Very well, I y—"
The sentence died on his lips as the hilt of an Unsullied short sword collided with the back of his head, cutting him off as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he could even fall.
Pereno and Arthur exchanged a brief glance, taking in the chaos that still lingered in the room. After a moment, Pereno spoke, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "Ser Arthur, you have my eternal thanks for this."
Arthur gave a curt nod, his eyes scanning the room. "Don't be so quick to offer your gratitude. There may still be more..."
"Magister!" A voice cut through the tension, and Arthur spun to face the newcomer. It was Moraqos' Captain of Guards, his expression unreadable. "Ser, the assailants have been dealt with. My patrols are sweeping the manse, but it seems we've eliminated all of them. We found five dead sellswords by the main gate, none of my men claim to have fought them."
Arthur gave a short bow of his head, his voice calm. "That would be my doing."
Pereno released an impressed noise. "Will you accept my gratitude now Ser?" He said with some cheek.
Arthur turned back to the Magister. While his knightly instincts urged him to refuse out of humility, the more pragmatic side of him—the side forged in the fires of the Rebellion and sharpened by years of exile—silenced those thoughts.
"If we could speak privately?" Arthur suggested, his gaze flicking to the Captain of the Guards. The Unsullied, true to their discipline, would remain silent, but the Lysene Captain was another matter—he could not be trusted with their conversation.
Pereno inclined his head in agreement. "Of course. Captain, take this unconscious man to a secure room, and keep a guard posted both inside and outside. This man was the leader of the sellsword band."
The Captain nodded, signaling to another guard, and together, they lifted Qos, dragging him away.
Once they were gone, Arthur wasted no time. His words were precise and urgent. "I need you to adopt Jaehaerys. Give him a new name, and if I do not return, wait until he is of age before revealing his true heritage to him. Keep him safe, out of the public eye. If I vanish, no one will believe I would leave his side—perhaps witnesses should testify that Jaehaerys came with me." He paused, thinking deeply. "Lysara, as his maid, will make it more believable if she departs with me. Keep Jaehaerys hidden for at least a few years, then you may display him as you Magister's are wont to do, as your own son of course."
Pereno's eyes widened further as Arthur spoke, his words heavy with gravity. "Are you sure about this? While rare, attacks like these aren't new to Lysene politics. I'm certain another Magister is behind this. Would you truly entrust me with the safety of the young prince?"
Arthur's gaze hardened, his voice unwavering. "I believe it will be for the best. Jaehaerys deserves a future—one that I cannot offer while on the run. Better that I draw attention while he slips away quietly. Perhaps one day I can return to offer him sword lessons, but the gods know when, or even if, that will come to pass." He paused, his expression darkening as a shadow passed over his thoughts. "He is the last I have. The last I live for... after—"
Arthur caught himself before he could continue, realizing he had let his guard slip too far. Such personal thoughts were not for public consumption, especially not now.
Pereno, for his part, nodded with an understanding expression, a flicker of empathy crossing his features. "I may not have children of my own, but I raised my younger sister after our father passed. If anything had happened to her..." His voice trailed off for a moment before he gave a firm nod. "Very well. I'll adopt the boy and treat him as my own."
Arthur felt a weight lift from his shoulders, though a gnawing uncertainty still lingered in the pit of his stomach. He nodded solemnly.
"Drako Moraqos," Pereno declared with finality, his voice tinged with solemnity. "He will be raised by the finest minds I can find, and, perhaps, under the tutelage of the greatest knight alive. He will grow into a great man."
Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the name. Drako Moraqos. The name would work, though Arthur couldn't shake the reluctance to abandon the name given by Jaehaerys' parents. Still, it was for his safety, and Arthur had to make that sacrifice, even if it stung.
The decision had been made, but there was another question gnawing at Arthur's thoughts—what next? Where would he go? His thoughts flickered back to Lysara, and he couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that his desire to have her accompany him on this journey was more than just out of necessity. He had once been a Dornish youth, before being totally loyal to his vows as a Kingsguard, but those vows seemed so distant now. Could he allow himself to cross lines he'd sworn never to cross? What would Ser Barristan or Ser Gerold say if they knew of his fall from grace?
He supposed he had crossed most of those lines now already, what was one more?
Tristifer tipped his glass of Arbor Gold and drank deeply, his gaze never wavering from the man seated across from him.
The visitor's doublet was a rich shade of deep blue, embroidered with the unmistakable sigil of House Redwyne—a meticulously stitched cluster of burgundy grapes that left no doubt as to his lineage.
Lord Paxter Redwyne, the Lord of the Arbor, was four-and-twenty, a few years Tristifer's senior, yet there was no question as to which of them held the higher station. Still, unlike certain Lord Paramounts in Redwyne's homeland, Tristifer had no need to wield his authority to affirm his own importance. He preferred to foster an air of mutual respect, framing their meeting as one between equals rather than as a lord entertaining a lesser vassal.
That did not mean, however, that Tristifer was entirely above a measured display of grandeur. He had personally invited Redwyne to Riverrun for these negotiations, as his new seat was still under construction—progressing swiftly, but far from ready to host guests. At present, it could scarcely accommodate him when he visited the site.
How he would have preferred to receive him in Oldstones, a flicker of wistfulness passing through him. Alas.
Instead, he had ensured his solar was adorned with calculated embellishments. Behind him hung a great banner bearing the sigil of House Mudd, a silent declaration of his heritage and claim. One wall was dominated by a masterful tapestry depicting the legend of Tristifer IV, the Hammer of Justice—his rise, his triumphs, and ultimately, his fall.
On the opposite wall, twin ivory tusks from a near-mythical Essosi elephant loomed, a gift from a Triarch of Volantis upon Tristifer's wedding. It had taken four men per tusk to mount them, their sheer size and exotic nature drawing the attention of every visitor who set foot in the room.
The great windows behind Tristifer framed a breathtaking view—the Red Fork and Tumblestone converging beneath the castle's mighty walls, their waters snaking into the distance. Say what one would about the Tullys, but none could fault them for their choice of seat.
Across from him, Lord Paxter Redwyne set down his own goblet, his fingers drumming idly against the polished wood of the desk between them. "So, you will not move on the payment?" he asked, his tone carrying a hint of challenge. "Yet you insist on this... non-competition clause for wine? Enlighten me again—why would I want or need this?"
Despite the skepticism in his words, Tristifer could see the calculation in the Reachman's eyes. He was not far from understanding, nor from a shake of hands.
They had been in his solar for closer to three hours now, perhaps more. The bulk of their conversation had been filled with lordly small talk—discussions of realm-wide happenings, rumors from beyond the Narrow Sea, recollections of their youth, and a few tales from the war at Harrenhal. Yet Tristifer found himself most drained by the short but far more intense stretch of negotiation.
He leaned back slightly, swirling the last of his Arbor Gold before flashing a cheeky grin. "Well, you see, if I were fortunate enough to acquire a fine navy in such a short timeframe as you can provide—at a price, of course, greater than what might otherwise be expected..." He let the words hang, watching Paxter's lips raise slightly in amusement at the cheap negotiation tactic.
Tristifer pressed on, "With such ships, I would finally be able to put my pests down in Saltpans and Maidenpool for good. They've thrived off my lack of proper merchant vessels, sucking me to the bone like the leeches they are."
Lord Paxter raised an eyebrow. "And? I am well aware of your troubles, but you seem to have forgotten the part where you convince me what's in this for me?"
"Besides the ships taken off your hands at over market rate?" Tristifer countered, half-serious, half-playful.
"A hundred ships," Paxter corrected, his tone measured but firm. "Do not let that fact slip your mind. And in my opinion, barely over what they would sell for individually. You must account for maintenance, crews, captains, and docking fees as well. They are not free even after purchase, as I'm sure you know."
Tristifer took a slow sip of his wine before raising a hand in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I am well aware of the costs." He set the glass down and leaned forward slightly, his expression turning shrewd. "Now hear this—the Riverlands have never had much of a wine industry, save for a few ill-fated ventures by ambitious lords or merchants. Not for lack of fertile land or ample sunlight, mind you, but due to... unforeseen political consequences. Misunderstandings. Wars. Disruptions of all sorts."
He let that hang for a moment before continuing, "Now, however, we are moving into an age of stability. Trade flourishes under my rule. Saltpans and Fairmarket have expanded for the first time since before the First Blackfyre Rebellion. It is not only possible but inevitable that a Riverlander wine industry will take root. That is why you should value the non-competition clause." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if the vineyards were already thriving and the barrels of Riverland wine merely waiting to be uncorked.
"Oh? Last I checked, the majority of wine consumed in your lands comes from my vineyards," Paxter countered, swirling his own cup of Arbor gold as if to emphasize the point.
Tristifer, of course, was well aware of this. It was precisely why he had already begun quietly recruiting experienced vineyard owners from Essos, bringing in their expertise to cultivate a domestic industry. But that was not something Lord Redwyne needed to know, he would discover it by himself eventually if he wished to.
"A guarantee in the not-so-distant future," Tristifer corrected smoothly. "Look at my ascension to Hand—an event that reshaped the political landscape overnight. Don't believe your wine dominance is immune to the winds of change. The wise prepare before the storm arrives, Lord Paxter."
They sat in silence for a moment as Lord Paxter mulled over Tristifer's words, his fingers tapping idly against the rim of his goblet.
Tristifer could see it—he was close, but not quite there. Redwyne was not yet convinced.
With a slow shake of his head, Paxter finally spoke. "I'm afraid it's not enough. I empathize with your situation, do not doubt that, and I would offer aid freely were it solely in my power. But I have my own concerns, my own responsibilities. I cannot justify this trade without greater assurances. If there is nothing else, I fear we must consider this matter closed." His voice was firm, his expression reluctant but resolute.
Tristifer remained still for a moment, calculating. He had been cautious thus far, working with conservative estimates of future revenue and returns. But he knew the truth—this fleet was not merely a luxury, it was a necessity. If he wanted it, he had to be willing to pay the price.
His mind raced through the possibilities. As Hand of the King and Lord Paramount, there were things he could promise—things Paxter would not ignore.
Exhaling slowly, he rose to his feet. "As a show of good faith, and in the hope of future cooperation and friendship, I will add five thousand dragons to sweeten the pot." He let the words settle before delivering his final play. "And an initial informal union of our houses if circumstances were to align, to seal the deal."
Tristifer extended a hand toward the still-seated Lord Redwyne. "What do you say, my lord?"
Paxter's clear blue eyes flicked from Tristifer's extended hand to his face before he finally rose to his feet.
For a brief moment, silence hung between them. Then, with a small nod of concession, Paxter clasped Tristifer's hand in a firm shake.
Relief flickered in Tristifer's chest, but he kept his expression measured. The deal was struck, but both men knew the importance of appearances. As if by silent agreement, they released their grip in unison and reached for their goblets of Arbor Gold.
Tristifer looked to Paxter for the toast, waiting. The Reachman, now noticeably more at ease, lifted his glass with a pleased expression.
"To continued wine dominance and new alliances."
Tristifer let a grin tug at the corner of his lips before raising his own goblet, joining the toast.
As the Arbor Gold slid smoothly down his throat, he held a silent toast of his own.
To House Mudd. To the Riverlands, once more ruled as they were always meant to be.
The autumn sun was still warm, a lingering gift from the summer that had stretched two years long. Tristifer savored it as his party rode along the disused dirt path, though their horses were far less appreciative. The uneven, neglected track was a clear reminder of yet another thing he would have to address—proper roads leading to his new seat. He could already hear the complaints that would pour in if some highborn lord and lady attempted to travel with a carriage through this mess. For now, a smaller riding party was the wiser choice.
Ser Barristan rode at his left, a familiar and reassuring presence at his side. But to his right was a new companion for this particular journey—his cousin, Robin.
Robin had been busy maintaining his position in the capitol during his periodic absences. Then there was the spy network his cousin operated that worked to supplement the reports Tristifer got from Varys.
His cousin's unwavering loyalty and sharp instincts had earned him more than mere gratitude. Tristifer had granted him the title of Knight of Fieldstone, a fiefdom cradled between the Blue and Green Forks, where they met the Red Fork. Once a personal holding of House Tully, it had now of course ended up in Tristifer's hands.
The land was far from insignificant, boasting a central position in the Riverlands with the Trident's waters forming a natural boundary on three sides. But its potential had long been squandered. It had once been the ancestral seat of House Strong, before they ascended to Harrenhal, and with their focus diverted, Fieldstone had been left to stagnate. Now, all that remained was an ailing keep, untouched since the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, alongside a few scattered villages that were far from thriving.
For Tristifer, the land held little personal interest beyond what it could provide for his cousin. It was a gift designed to elevate Robin's status, to grant him the prestige that came with land and title, and offer him the chance to establish his own noble line. To further this goal, Tristifer had also brokered a marriage between Robin and Alysanne Blackwood, the sister of Tytos Blackwood.
Tytos had been understandably hesitant at first, reluctant to part with his only sister, even if she should have been married long ago had it not been for the upheaval of the Rebellion. The fact that Robin was, in title, only a landed knight did little to ease his concerns. But Tristifer, with his characteristic persistence, had eventually persuaded Tytos to look beyond titles and see Robin for the man he truly was—a man of honor, capability, and loyalty. Tristifer vouched for his cousin's character, assuring Tytos that Robin would treat Alysanne with the respect, care, and devotion she deserved.
Moreover, the union would finally bind their houses together not just by vows, but by law—a connection that would strengthen their alliance in these uncertain times. Though Robin still wouldn't be a Mudd, the fact he was Tristifer's cousin was not too far off and considering the alternatives for marriage ties with House Blackwood the only match Tristifer would accept.
For all that Lord Tytos had proven himself as one of Tristifer's most loyal vassals, the thought of marrying his firstborn son and heir into the Blackwood family felt like a wasted opportunity. From a purely pragmatic standpoint, the value of such a marriage was diminished when it was tied to a friendly vassal, especially when the potential alliances available to Tristifer were far more advantageous.
No Robin and Alysanne had been the perfect match for Tristifer, he hoped they would grow to have a long and happy marriage. They were married relatively quickly a few moons ago now. Lady Alysanne being trusted by Robin to lead the efforts to renovate and refurbish their new shared home.
"Robin, have you decided on a name yet?" Tristifer asked, breaking the silence as they rode along.
"For my House?" Robin echoed after a moment, his tone rising as he caught on to Tristifer's intent. "I do, actually."
"Wonderful," Tristifer said, his eyes glinting with curiosity as they rode side by side. "You'll tell me soon enough. No need to drag it out," he teased, his voice light but with the underlying warmth of genuine interest.
Robin smirked before bowing his head in a playful gesture. "I am now Ser Robin of House Stonebank."
Tristifer nodded approvingly, letting the name settle in for a moment. "The Knight of Fieldstone," he added, considering the title. He paused, rolling the name around in his thoughts, then smiled. "A fine choice, Ser. And how is your Lady Wife?"
Robin's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of distraction crossing his face. "W-very well. Sarra... is close to labor once again, is she not?"
Tristifer chuckled lightly at the stammer, but chose not to press the matter. "Getting closer by the day," he replied. "I would've ordinarily stayed by her side, but Maester Vyman assured me she has time before the little one arrives. So when Ser Edwyn requested my presence, and I was already near Riverrun, there was little reason to remain in the quiet of the Keep. Even Sarra urged me to go, but she insisted I be quick about it."
He glanced at his cousin, his grin widening. "It worked out well that you intercepted me, though. I had no time to waste with that command hanging over me."
Robin raised an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh? Are the rumors about who the true power behind the throne wrong, then?" he teased, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Tristifer's expression wavered between a grin and a grimace as he met his cousin's gleaming eyes. "You already know the answer to that," he replied, his tone half-jesting but masking the deeper truth that Sarra held far more sway over him than anyone else, even now. His wife was no meek Lady hidden away behind closed doors—if there was something she cared about, everyone knew it, and that included him.
Robin chuckled, clearly unbothered by his jests. "What of your boys then? Tristan and Triston? We can at least thank the gods they aren't more than half-siblings, or the confusion with their names would be the least of our problems."
Tristifer's thoughts drifted to his children. He wished he could say that both of his sons were treated equally, but Sarra's feelings toward Triston remained a delicate and unyielding issue. Understandably, perhaps, Sarra had been hesitant to accept Triston fully as her own, despite the bond they shared as father and son.
Tristan, his natural-born son, had never been cast aside or treated differently. Tristifer had made sure of it. Triston had always been involved in family matters, attended to as any legitimate son would be, but there was an undeniable distance between him and Sarra. The boy, now nearly five namedays old, was sharp—too sharp not to notice the subtle difference in the way Sarra regarded him. He saw how she doted on Tristan with a warmth Triston did not receive, no matter how hard Tristifer worked to create an equal bond between them. It was a truth that hurt him more than he liked to admit.
Even though Tristifer made every effort to ensure his sons felt equally loved and important, the walls Sarra had quietly constructed around Triston remained in place. The child, despite his father's best intentions, felt the coldness, and it was something neither of them could ignore.
"They're healthy boys," Tristifer said with a fond smile, a hint of longing in his voice. "Triston is no doubt stirring up some mischief if he hasn't already been punished for his latest stunt, and Tristan is the most pleasant babe, or so the maids say."
Both Robin and Barristan chuckled, the Kingsguard especially having witnessed his fair share of Triston's escapades over the years.
Sarra's new pregnancy had led her to move back to Riverrun, just as she had when carrying Tristan, seeking refuge from the exhausting demands of King's Landing. This time, she naturally had Tristan with her, but it was only after more than one heated argument that Tristifer had insisted Triston join them as well, to keep his younger brother company during the journey.
"I do wish I could visit more often, but Varys is ever watchful. It's almost a full-time job keeping his network off my trail—sending decoys, carefully revealing only parts of the surface network to keep him oblivious to the true scale of my little project."
Before Tristifer could respond, his cousin waved a hand dismissively. "Let's not dive back into work talk just yet. I apologize for bringing it up," Robin added, offering a half-smile.
Tristifer shrugged. "Very well, then. What would you prefer to discuss?"
Robin seemed to mull it over for a moment before his gaze turned back to Tristifer. "You brought a new Kingsguard knight with you to Riverrun. What was his name again?"
"Ser Edwyd Yelshire," Tristifer replied, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "An appointment courtesy of Lord Mace. I finally gave in after the seventh time he bemoaned that none of his youngest Hightower nephews were old enough to fill the Kingsguard slot and represent the Reach in the next generation of knights."
They both heard Barristan exhale loudly beside them. The sound wasn't loud, but it carried a weight of distaste. Both Robin and Tristifer turned their attention to the Kingsguard knight, who had a slight flush creeping up his neck.
"Does this Ser Edwyd not sit well with you, Ser Barristan?" Robin asked across from Tristifer, his curiosity piqued.
"Do speak your mind, Ser," Tristifer urged, sensing Barristan's hesitation. The Kingsguard knight took a moment before responding, his voice steady but firm.
"You can tell Lord Tyrell that he doesn't know a damn thing about what makes a good Kingsguard knight," Barristan said bluntly. "He'd do better to work on his own swordplay before meddling in matters beyond his understanding."
Robin let out a chuckle. "That is the way of lords and nobles, Ser. It's practically their duty to poke their noses into things they know nothing about."
"Don't forget that you're one of them now," Tristifer reminded him with a smirk.
Robin groaned dramatically. "Do not remind me."
"Still, you're not wrong. They have an irritating tendency to involve themselves in everything they stumble across," Tristifer said with a weary sigh. "You have no idea how many lords have approached me, eager to offer their 'mentorship'—as if I were some green boy in need of pointers in the 'art' of ruling."
"The esteemed Lord of 'Greykeep' not offering any valuable insight, cousin?" Robin quipped, his tone laced with amusement.
Tristifer responded only with a mock-irritated look, unimpressed by the cheap jest.
"Be grateful you did not witness the sycophants of King Aerys, Lord Hand," Barristan said, his tone dry as dust. "Their tongues were already stained brown before they even introduced themselves."
Tristifer blinked, glancing at Robin to make sure he'd heard correctly. Their eyes met in mutual understanding before both burst into laughter.
"W-where is this mouth usually, Ser Barristan?" Robin finally managed between coughs of laughter. "Do you save it just for boring horse rides?"
"I said that aloud? Seven help me, you two are obviously a bad influence," Ser Barristan muttered, though the hint of a smirk betrayed his amusement.
Robin chuckled again, clearly enjoying the rare sight of the legendary knight loosening up. "Is that not the keep through the trees there?" Barristan suddenly asked, pointing toward a gap in the canopy where a glimpse of stone peeked through.
"It should be," Tristifer replied, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to gauge how much had changed since his last visit. From this distance, the details were difficult to distinguish however.
The rest of the ride through the forest passed in silence, the only sounds the steady rhythm of hooves against the dirt path and the occasional rustling of leaves in the autumn breeze. Then, at last, the trees thinned, revealing the rebuilt dark-stoned keep of Oldstones.
The fortress stood atop one of the few hills in the area, its commanding position offering a natural stronghold. Wooden scaffolding clung to its walls, evidence of ongoing reconstruction, as laborers moved about like ants.
At the base of the hill sprawled what was neither fully a worker's camp nor yet a true castle town. Rows of tents and temporary structures clustered together, but here and there, proper houses had begun to take shape, smoke curling from their chimneys.
Many of the laborers were former Gold Cloaks who had accepted his offer of steady work, while others were aimless men plucked from the depths of Flea Bottom and the less fortunate corners of King's Landing. These men knew him by sight and bowed deeply as he passed. The rest were local farmhands, sons sent to earn coin before the final harvest of the year.
As they neared the keep, Tristifer took note of the newly laid foundations for the courtyard surrounding it. While remnants of the original Oldstones had remained, his builders had strongly advised him to dig them up and start anew. He had heeded their counsel, though he liked to believe and hope that, a few stones of the old castle had found their place in the new.
The doors of the keep swung open as they rode up, and a small group of men emerged to greet them.
Tristifer recognized them immediately. Leading the group was Maester Allard, the castle's maester and the man he had entrusted with overseeing construction in his absence. Beside him strode Ser Edwyn Blackwood, brother to Tytos, who had accepted Tristifer's offer to serve as Castellan of Oldstones. It was his duty to manage the lands surrounding the castle and oversee its daily affairs.
Lastly came Bryen, the newly appointed Captain of the Guard. A veteran of the City Watch, knighted by him personally, he had once been among Tristifer's most trusted captains in the Gold Cloaks. When offered a place in his personal service, Bryen had accepted without hesitation, bringing a dozen men with him to form the foundation of Tristifer's household guard in Oldstones. His original guards, those who had first sworn themselves to him, were now split between the Tower of the Hand and Riverrun, serving as serjeants with younger, less experienced men beneath them.
It was difficult to believe how much had changed since he had first hired them. Tristifer realized he had not often considered what all this must have been like for them. When he'd picked them up as caravan guards from various towns after leaving Sow's Horn, he had expected them to move on when something better came along. Instead, they had followed him through battle, politics, and now into the foundations of something greater. It made him think of ways to reward the ones who had believed in him for so long.
"My Lord," Maester Allard greeted as their horses slowed to a stop.
"Maester, Sers" Tristifer replied, greeting the others as well, swinging down from his saddle alongside Robin and Barristan. "How goes the construction?"
"Well, my Lord," Allard said with a nod. He gestured behind him toward the bustling worksite. "They've begun marking up the perimeter walls. There's been some disagreement over finer details—nothing to trouble yourself over, just craftsmen and their pride."
"I have confidence in your ability to smooth it over, Maester," Tristifer said reassuringly before turning his attention to the two other men.
"One more thing my Lord" Maester Allard followed. "A matter of personal interest I would think." The Maester then pulled forth a missive from his robes.
"From Riverrun, it arrived only a short half hour ago"
Tristifer exchanged a glance with Robin before taking the offered letter, the seal already broken. It was from Maester Vyman at Riverrun. His eyes skimmed the parchment, absorbing the words swiftly.
Celia Mudd. A girl, with the blonde hair of her mother and green-blue eyes. Sarra was exhausted but in no immediate danger, the maester assured him.
Relief flooded through him, but it was not alone. Happiness, guilt, and fear warred within him in equal measure. Another child. Another daughter. He should have been there.
"We were preparing horses to send a party with the letter," Bryen said crisply. "If you need them, they're ready for your disposal."
Tristifer exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the parchment before he nodded. "I ride for Riverrun as soon as possible."
"I feared as much," Maester Allard sighed. "Night will be upon you before long, but I understand the circumstances. At least take an escort."
Tristifer turned to him. "How many horses have you prepared?"
"Four."
He nodded. "Then I will take one of the guards with me."
Both Ser Edwyn and Captain Bryen opened their mouths to protest, but he raised a hand, cutting them off. "Send word to Riverrun to dispatch fresh horses and riders to meet us on the road if that reassures you. But I will not be slowed by a large entourage. If we push the horses, we may reach Riverrun by dusk tomorrow."
There was a moment of hesitation before Bryen gave a reluctant nod. "Then I'll see to the preparations immediately."
"Good," Tristifer replied simply.
Objectively, he knew it wasn't his fault that he had missed the birth—Sarra had gone into labor weeks early. But that knowledge did little to quell the frustration gnawing at him. If the labor hadn't been unusually fast, then he had left Riverrun only hours before, half a day at most. The timing was a cruel twist of fate, one that made his absence feel all the more bitter.
There was nothing now however but to depart as soon as possible.
"What did it say?" Robin suddenly asked.
Tristifer snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze turning to his cousin. For a moment, he struggled to process what Robin had said before the realization hit him. "Sarra had the babe—a girl. Celia."
Robin blinked, clearly shocked at first, but that gave way to understanding, followed by an exasperated look. "Are you a god, Tristifer?"
Tristifer froze, confused. "What?"
His cousin raised an eyebrow, smirking. "No? Then why are you blaming yourself for something only the gods could have known?" Robin grinned, a touch of humor lacing his words.
"Congratulations on your daughter, my Lord. Are both well?" Ser Barristan's voice cut through the moment, his tone as steady as ever.
Tristifer glanced at him, grateful for the distraction. "Yes," he replied, though his voice held a slight edge of uncertainty. "Maester Vyman said Sarra is physically well, though exhausted. He mentioned nothing about the babe except that she has her mother's hair... and my eyes."
Robin, sensing his cousin's lingering worry, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "He wouldn't have left out anything important, Tristifer. If the babe were in danger, we'd know. We'll be there by this time tomorrow. There's nothing more to be done now." His voice was steady, calm—exactly what Tristifer needed to hear.
"You are right," Tristifer said, trying to convince himself as much as anything.
"Of course I am," Robin replied, his grin fading slightly. "Though the gods have been cruel to you."
Tristifer's brow furrowed in concern. "In what way?"
Robin's grin reappeared, his tone playful. "Well, that they gave one cousin both the looks and the wits, of course." He looked over at Ser Barristan, who was clearly struggling to keep a smile at bay.
Tristifer sighed dramatically. "If you were not my cousin..." he began, his voice mock-threatening.
Robin feigned innocence. "Hey! How can you know my dreams?"
Tristifer just shook his head, refusing to give the jest a response as he heard the sound of hooves approaching in the distance.
Within minutes, they were mounted on fresh palfreys, and the small party of four was swallowed once again by the dense forest.
Tristifer felt the weight lift from his shoulders as Robin's words sank in, easing the tightness in his chest. The steady rhythm of the palfrey beneath him and the direction of their journey—toward Riverrun, toward Sarra and his daughter—gave him a renewed sense of purpose. The nagging sense of helplessness that had gripped him while waiting for the horses faded, replaced by the clarity of action and the knowledge that there was nothing else to do.
The waters of the bay glittered in the weak winter sun, flowing as they always had. Yet, Tristifer had no desire to take a dip—not in this season. The reason became evident when one turned inland.
Though patches of grass still peeked through, the land was largely blanketed in snow. Winter had come to Westeros. The white raven had arrived in King's Landing a moon ago, marking the end of 285 AC and the beginning of the 286th year since Aegon's Conquest.
When Tristifer had explained to his two-year-old son that the snowfall signaled winter's arrival, Benjen Stark had let out a loud snort. Telling them all that this wouldn't even be considered a light summer snow in Winterfell.
Tristifer had quipped back that not all men were stubborn enough to remain in lands so often ravaged by brutal winters. Benjen had simply replied that such hardship bred hard men.
To be fair, this winter seemed mild for the Riverlands. Even in harsher years, they were rarely buried under snow and storms like the North, but they still received a steady snowfall—enough to pose challenges.
Tristifer pushed thoughts of the weather aside and turned his attention to the man riding at his right.
Lord Jason Mallister, the ruler of Seagard, was tall and lean, his brown hair framing a face set with fierce grey eyes. His sharp gaze only reinforced the first impression of a capable and strong-willed lord.
He was also the man from whom Tristifer had effectively reclaimed land when he restored the ancestral holdings of House Mudd at Oldstones. For centuries, the Mallisters had patrolled those lands, and petitioners had brought their troubles to Seagard. Though the territory had belonged to House Tully on paper, in practice, it had long been under Mallister influence.
Yet when Tristifer reasserted his claim over the hills, woods, and marshes divided by the Blue Fork, Lord Jason had acknowledged that the law was on his side. That did not mean he was pleased about it.
Not only that, but Lord Jason had fought alongside Lord Tully at the Second Battle of the Trident, holding the line until his liege fell and Baratheon fled, surrendering only when there was no other choice.
Tristifer had worked since then to bring House Mallister firmly under his rule. In times of peace, the Mallisters had been among House Tully's strongest and most reliable vassals. Winning their loyalty was no small task. He had taken a step toward goodwill by securing a place for Lord Jason's uncle in the Kingsguard—an honor not easily ignored.
Yet, while this gesture had softened tensions, it had not turned Lord Jason into an ally. At best, the man had moved from skepticism to neutrality.
Still, he had not rejected Tristifer's invitation to discuss a proposal—one that could bring them both great benefits.
"The canal will flow out into the bay directly in front of us," Tristifer said, gesturing toward the shoreline. "I've had surveyors examining nearly every stretch of land between Oldstones and the bay for the past half year. They found a lighter layer of soil beneath our feet, extending all the way to the bay, making excavation relatively easy."
Lord Jason followed his movements with a skeptical gaze.
"This descent looks more like the makings of a waterfall than a gentle slope fit for a river," he remarked, glancing down at the rising terrain behind them.
Tristifer inclined his head. "A challenge that has delayed this project for two years now—and a valid concern." His tone, however, remained steady, untroubled.
Lord Jason took notice. "But you have a solution, it seems?"
"Indeed, we do," Tristifer replied. "Several aspiring maesters from the Riverlands never earned their chains—homesickness got the better of them. But while they were at the Citadel, they witnessed and studied a most ingenious solution to our elevation problem."
"How fortunate," Lord Jason said dryly, though the skepticism in his eyes was now tempered with curiosity.
"Yes," Tristifer said simply before continuing. "The Citadel, as the greatest repository of knowledge in Westeros, both purchases and receives books and writings from the farthest corners of the world. Our homesick half-maesters eventually came across a few YiTish historical texts. One in particular, Lo Shi, described a structure called a lock—an ingenious mechanism that allows ships to be raised or lowered between rivers of differing elevations."
He allowed the words to settle before adding, "They are eager to put this knowledge into practice. They've drawn up at least a dozen designs, which currently litter my solar in Riverrun. However, I have the latest iteration with me."
Reaching into his saddlebag, Tristifer pulled out a rolled parchment and handed it to Lord Mallister.
The lord took the offered plans, studying them with evident interest. Tristifer continued as he examined the design.
"The concept is straightforward—an open-air chamber with gates on either end. By controlling the flow of water in and out, the chamber can raise or lower a ship, allowing it to traverse the elevation and through repeated steps reach the canal system. From there, it would flow into the Blue Fork and eventually the Trident."
Lord Jason traced the illustrations with his eyes, absorbing the carefully labeled diagrams.
"A fascinating idea," he admitted at last, handing the parchment back.
Tristifer tucked the plans safely into his saddlebag, already considering how best to counter Mallister's lingering skepticism.
"Still, you doubt it?" Tristifer eventually asked, his tone edged with challenge. "Do you think it nothing more than a fanciful dream?"
Lord Jason remained unmoved. "Even the best-laid plans can prove impractical—or outright impossible—for any number of reasons. I will not blindly invest my coin and attention in a mere dream."
"A wise habit," Tristifer acknowledged with a nod. "Perhaps, then, you'd prefer to discuss the part of this proposal that interests you more?"
"Indeed," Jason agreed. "For instance, where exactly will this arsenal be located?"
"There," Tristifer said, pointing toward a seemingly unremarkable patch of snowless grass at the bay's edge. "As you can see, it's surrounded by trees that can be used immediately for construction. The keep will be positioned between it and the canal, allowing for a swift response to any attack on either—or both." He glanced at Jason before adding, "Was all this not detailed in the plans I sent you?"
"I've read through it," Jason said, his gaze sharp, "but I wanted to hear it from your own mouth as well. You do realize this entire project is... ambitious, to say the least? I don't even want to think about the cost."
Tristifer met his look without hesitation. "Lord Lannister's reparations will cover about a fourth of it. In addition, the Crown considers this a project of realm-wide importance and has agreed to contribute half of what Lord Lannister is providing. Lord Tyrell has personally committed to matching the Crown's share in exchange for discounted fees for ships flying Reachman colors. As for timber, Lord Stark has been persuaded to supply enough for the entire project in return for no more than ten cogs built within five years of the arsenal's completion."
"How generous," Jason remarked dryly, still unconvinced. "Yet you still seem to be missing a considerable sum."
"The Crown is negotiating with the Iron Bank for a loan to cover four-tenths of the cost. That leaves about a tenth to be shouldered by the Riverlands. With the agreement of Ser Quincy Cox, Lord Mooton, and Lord Whent, that remainder is now divided between them and House Mudd's coffers."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "And you want me to 'pitch in' as well?"
"For a share of the profits, yes," Tristifer replied firmly. "And only for a set number of years. The exact terms can be negotiated, but it will not be indefinite."
"Let me be direct, then," Lord Jason said, his tone firm. "What will you do when a fleet of Ironborn longships sails into the bay, slaughtering and enslaving every worker they can find? Will you simply replace the men and resume work, or will you abandon the project entirely?"
"Neither," Tristifer replied without hesitation. "I've already spoken with our Master of Ships, Lord Velaryon, about stationing roughly half of the Royal Fleet in this very bay—and, hopefully, at Seagard as well." His voice carried quiet confidence.
For now, the arrangement was only secured for a year, far from enough to cover the entire construction period. But Tristifer was certain he could either extend the agreement or find an alternative before the time was up. Regardless this was not anything Lord Mallister needed to know now.
Lord Jason's surprise was evident, though it was quickly joined by satisfaction. He immediately grasped the significance of such a deployment—a powerful deterrent against any Ironborn incursion for as long as the fleet remained.
For all their pride and ferocity, even the Ironborn would think twice before challenging half of the Royal Fleet outright.
"And will I be the one footing the bill for this stationing?" Lord Jason asked, his sharp gaze unwavering. There was little that escaped his notice.
"I would think shouldering half the cost would be a fair compromise, considering the protection they will provide to these lands," Tristifer replied evenly. "As for the specifics of payment—whether through taxes or other means—we can settle those details later."
"You seem to have thought of many answers, my lord," Lord Jason admitted, his expression betraying a hint of approval.
Tristifer met his gaze evenly. "I knew I'd be speaking to a lord who values more than just glory or bragging rights—one who prefers details and sees the value in proper investments."
Lord Jason chuckled softly. "You have a way with words, my lord. Whether they carry true weight remains to be seen."
Leaning forward slightly, he continued, "This keep you mentioned—have you given thought to who will hold it?"
Tristifer nodded, though his answer remained measured. "I've considered several options, but I have no definitive answer yet." He met Jason's gaze. "What I am certain of is that a castellan or commander will oversee it in its early years, at least until any lingering threats—Ironborn or otherwise—are accounted for. I realize the keep sits quite centrally within your lands, Lord Jason, but I'm afraid it will not be held solely by House Mallister."
Jason's expression remained neutral, though Tristifer could tell he was waiting to hear the reasoning behind this decision. That patience, that willingness to listen, was something Tristifer appreciated.
"This keep will be a jewel of the Riverlands, one of its greatest assets—like the Reach's farmlands or the Rock's gold mines," Tristifer continued. "For that reason, I do not wish for old feuds or disputes to cloud its protection. Its guardians must be chosen with the realm's stability in mind." Then, as if offhandedly, he added, "That said, I understand your cousin has recently been blessed with a daughter. My congratulations to him and your house."
Jason's brow lifted slightly before he inclined his head. "And to you as well. Little Celia, correct?" he asked with a polite smile.
"No child better behaved, the maids tell me," Tristifer said with a chuckle. "Tristan, however, is shaping up to be a rather spirited soul." Their eldest son had been driving Sarra to despair with his boundless energy, only slowing down when near Tristifer—or, much to his wife's chagrin, Triston. While Sarra disapproved, Tristifer found it rather heartwarming that his two sons had bonded so well.
Jason smirked knowingly. "I see. And tell me, do I smell the makings of a betrothal in all this?" He asked the question directly, steering the conversation back to the heart of the matter.
"While I have yet to decide on the lord who will hold the castle," Tristifer began, meeting Jason's gaze steadily, "I would have your cousin's daughter be its lady and the mother of a new Riverlander house."
He let the words settle before adding, "So while it may not bear the Mallister name, it will always carry Mallister blood."
Lord Jason remained silent for several moments, his expression thoughtful. "You bring an interesting proposal, my lord."
Tristifer leaned in slightly, pressing his advantage. "Is it interesting enough? Consider this—the Riverlands have not seen a transformation of this magnitude in centuries, if ever. This will happen, with or without your cooperation. The real question is whether you wish to reap the rewards and take your place in a stronger, more prosperous Riverlands."
His voice carried quiet conviction as he continued, "A Riverlands that the other kingdoms will see as a true power in the realm—not just a battlefield to be trampled or a prize to be carved up for their own gain."
Lord Jason's lips curled into a small smile, and there was something akin to respect in his eyes. "You certainly seem to believe your own words."
Tristifer simply nodded, letting the statement stand on its own.
The Mallister lord took a few moments longer, his gaze drifting over the landscape as if trying to picture the future Tristifer had painted.
"You're not wrong," he admitted at last. "The Riverlands have long remained... stagnant." He exhaled slowly before continuing. "Still, few men could have convinced me of this plan, even if they presented it in the exact same way. But you? You are one of those few."
Jason turned back to him, eyes sharp with appraisal. "The whole realm has had its eyes on you since you became Hand. Some expected your downfall, others hoped for it. I'll admit, I didn't think you would last longer than any Hand since Lord Tywin. And yet, here you stand—full of ambition, backed by gold, and driven by purpose."
Then, without hesitation, he extended his hand toward Tristifer.
Tristifer met Jason's blue-grey eyes as they shared a firm handshake, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, with a sharp whistle, he signaled one of his servants from the entourage. The man approached with measured steps, carrying something with deliberate care.
A shovel.
Tristifer took it from the servant's hands and turned back to Lord Jason, a small smile playing at his lips. "To mark this historic moment, I would have you break the ground—the first of many who will shape this canal."
Lord Jason took the offered shovel, the flicker of appreciation in his eyes revealing that he understood the weight of the gesture.
With steady hands, the Mallister lord drove the blade into the cold earth. A firm press of his boot sent it deeper, cutting through the cold soil. Then, with a decisive lift, he turned over the first mound of dirt—the first stroke in what would change the Riverlands in irreversible ways.
The air was cold and damp, thick with the scent of dust and stone. The only light came from the lantern Varys carried, its flickering glow casting long, wavering shadows against the ancient walls. Maegor had not designed these tunnels with comfort in mind, and after more than two centuries, time had done little to soften their harshness.
When Varys had first discovered them two years ago, he had been genuinely pleased in a way he had not been for years now.
The tunnels granted him unparalleled access to the Red Keep, the city's many hidden corners, and even Maegor's Holdfast itself—all without fear of detection. What had once required careful maneuvering, whispered words in darkened halls, and his little birds scurrying unseen through corridors was now made infinitely easier. His spies no longer relied solely on shadows and luck; they now moved through the hidden veins of the castle, gathering whispers that would never have reached his ears before.
Already, he had uncovered the uncomfortable truths of over half the Crownlander lords—their vices, their ambitions, their weaknesses. Every secret was meticulously recorded and copied twice over: one set sent to Illyrio, a safeguard against unforeseen misfortune, and the other hidden within the anonymous buildings Varys had quietly acquired throughout King's Landing.
A reliable system.
Power was not merely in whispers but in the assurance that those whispers could never be silenced.
Should someone stumble upon one of his caches, they would be hard-pressed to locate the others—let alone account for the copies stored safely within Illyrio's manse. No, these secrets were his alone to wield, to keep, to destroy, or to expose.
Tonight, it was the latter that occupied his mind.
Tristifer Mudd—Hand of the King, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands—had proven as difficult to manipulate as Varys had anticipated. The man was shrewd, pragmatic, and not nearly as susceptible to the usual pressures as others in his position had been. More frustrating still, Varys was certain that the Hand's cousin's brothel network was far more sophisticated and extensive than he had initially believed.
Varys had uncovered fragments of the operation over the years, pieces he had once believed to be its whole. In hindsight, they had been too amateurish—careless messages, poorly concealed movements, whispers left just audible enough to be caught. It had all been a distraction, a carefully woven illusion designed to keep him chasing shadows while the real network remained untouched.
He was both impressed and indignant.
Those arrogant… fools? No, he could not even call them that. He had been the fool, allowing his own assumptions to cloud his vision. He had believed them to be ignorant, immature, and inexperienced. And because they had seemed to confirm those assumptions, he had stopped looking deeper.
The secret passages had granted Varys access to nearly every corner of the Red Keep—save for one. The Tower of the Hand remained stubbornly elusive. His little birds had discovered a tunnel that led to its foundation and provided entry, but no further. Inside, only the known servants' passages remained, and Tristifer's men patrolled with near-paranoid diligence. Guards changed shifts with deliberate overlap, ensuring there was never even a moment's lapse in security.
It was almost excessive.
And yet, it left the Tower of the Hand a blind spot for him.
Varys had attempted more traditional means of infiltration—gold in a willing palm, whispered promises to pliant ears—but Mudd's men proved unyielding. The first guard offered a bribe had immediately reported it. Varys' man had been seized, questioned, and wrung for every last drop of information. Fortunately, the man had known only what he had been given: a Dornish merchant with a heavy purse and vague instructions.
Varys' hand remained hidden, but it was clear now—bribes would not work alone.
A distant glow flickered ahead, growing steadily as Varys neared. He extinguished his lantern with a practiced breath, plunging himself into near darkness. When he emerged from the tunnel, the Blackwater Bay stretched before him, its surface barely touched by the sliver of moonlight overhead.
The exit led to a secluded beach, shielded by thick foliage and flanked by jagged terrain where few, if any, would tread. Towering stone walls enclosed the cove, casting deep shadows that swallowed the land beneath them. Resting against the rocks was a single rowboat, its hull painted in dark hues and tipped over to blend seamlessly with the surrounding stone.
Varys was not a man of physical labor—far from it—but he had arranged things carefully. With a measured push, he rolled the boat upright, then guided it across the sand, its wooden frame whispering against the shore as he eased it into the bay's calm waters.
Jumping in, he settled himself swiftly, his hands moving with practiced ease as he slid the oars into their respective forks. The only thing left now was to row.
Varys dipped the oars into the water, the gentle splash swallowed by the vast silence of the bay. He pulled steadily, keeping his strokes smooth and measured, ensuring minimal noise. Each stroke carried him farther from the hidden shore, it was one of his favorite sights as King's Landings lights and the looming form of the Red Keep against the dark sky shrunk as he rowed away.
His next attempt to infiltrate the Hand's tower had been more methodical. He had carefully groomed attendants, training them for months to slip unnoticed into the ranks of Tristifer Mudd's servants and guards. It had taken nearly a year to cultivate three candidates—loyal, competent, and utterly convinced of their roles.
When the next opening in the Hand's staff appeared, they applied. One by one, they advanced through the selection process, passing interviews and vetting with ease. Then, they vanished. No trace, no bodies, no whispers of their fate. A few weeks later, the positions they had vied for were filled by unfamiliar faces—men and women Varys had no influence over. All his meticulous planning had been erased as if it had never existed.
He didn't know for certain what had gone wrong, but he had his suspicions. Ser Robin Stonebank, as he called himself now, had either woven a near-total intelligence network throughout the capital, or he and his men had stumbled onto Varys' scheme by sheer dumb luck. Either possibility was troubling.
For weeks, Varys lived in quiet paranoia, watching for signs that his own network had been compromised. He expected to be exposed, to be confronted, to hear whispers in the corridors of the Red Keep about his dealings. Yet nothing came. The council meetings continued as if all was normal. Tristifer Mudd showed no sign of suspicion, no mention of spies uncovered, no tightening of security beyond what was already in place.
It was as though his failure had been noted—and then dismissed.
While his agents had been undergoing training, Varys had also been preparing a final contingency plan: assassination. If he could not manipulate the Hand and his cousin, he would remove them from the board entirely.
He had set his plan in motion with precision, having the daily movements of both men studied down to the smallest detail. He had secured weapons within the Red Keep itself, bribed key individuals to look the other way at the crucial moment. It had all been proceeding as intended—until disaster struck.
A Gold Cloak raid hit the safehouse his agents had been using. Every conspirator was captured before they could act. Their heads now adorned the spikes along Traitor's Walk.
Varys had kept his distance, ensuring that no ties could be traced back to him. He had not recruited the assassins directly but had nudged the right people—a band of Stormlander rebels, still seething with hatred over the fall of Stannis Baratheon and the exile of their so-called king. Their thirst for vengeance had made them too predictable.
This time, Varys at least had the version of events that Tristifer had shared with the council. The Master of Laws, Randyll Tarly, who had been ended Ser Robin's interim position two years ago, had pressed for more details. The Gold Cloaks, after all, fell under his command on paper, though he had appeared just as uninformed as the rest.
The story came from Gold Cloak Captain Lucas Stone, who claimed to have been tipped off about a suspicious group of Stormlanders. Acting swiftly and independently, he had managed to catch them off-guard, only later submitting a detailed report of the operation.
Varys could not shake his unease. Who had provided the tip? An agent of Ser Robin, perhaps? Or just another informant on the City Watch's payroll? The answer eluded him, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.
As he reflected on the situation, his eyes scanned the horizon, and it was then that he saw his destination. A shadowed shape loomed in the distance, barely visible against the night, anchored by a small shoal just off the coast. Varys maneuvered his rowboat toward the vessel, a galley, recognizing it by its distinctive outline. He guided the boat carefully up beside the ship and spotted a lone rope ladder hanging over the side.
Fastening his rowboat to the ladder he then begins his climb. It was tiring and completely unfamiliar to his usual routine, but Varys had little choice. He gritted his teeth and ascended, each step a slow and deliberate effort. By the time he reached the railing, his arms burned from exertion, and his breath came in quiet, measured huffs. A hand appeared, weathered and calloused, offering assistance. Varys hesitated for only a moment before accepting it.
The deck was dimly lit, the crew barely acknowledging his presence as he steadied himself. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the creaking of wood underfoot.
Then, from the shadows, a voice he had not heard since before the rebellion cut through the silence like a blade. Deep, measured, authoritative.
"Varys, the Spider."
Varys turned, his face betraying nothing. A figure emerged into the dim glow of a lantern swaying from the mainmast. The flickering light danced over a fine red doublet, the golden lion stitched proudly upon the breast. His bushy side-whiskers caught the glow, leaving no room for doubt.
Varys bowed his head slightly, his voice smooth as ever. "Lord Tywin, it has been too long."
Tywin Lannister regarded him coolly, expression unreadable. "I am sure you have been beside yourself in my absence," he replied dryly. "Yet here we are, summoned to a meeting of such... discretion."
Varys clasped his hands together, the very image of deference. "I have always valued discretion, my lord. As do you, I suspect, given your choice of arrival."
Tywin's sharp gaze did not waver. "I did not sail under cover of night for idle chatter. Speak plainly."
"Very well," Varys said smoothly, reaching into his robes. "I now have in my possession the complete financial state of the Crown and its treasury for the 287th year after Aegon's Conquest." He withdrew a small bundle of neatly stacked papers and extended them toward Tywin.
The Lannister Lord took them without hesitation, his keen eyes scanning the pages with practiced efficiency. The dim lantern light cast shifting shadows over his face as he flipped through the reports, absorbing their contents in silence.
"I see," Tywin finally said, his voice as controlled as ever. His lips twitched—just a fraction, but enough for Varys to notice. "These are... illuminating." He turned another page, then folded the stack with deliberate care. "You have brought me some very interesting reports, ones that will no doubt prove useful in the days to come."
A pause. His green eyes flicked up from the papers, fixing Varys with an unreadable stare. "If there was nothing else?"
Varys stifled a sigh, his gaze flickering toward the hanging rope ladder in the distance. He should have known better than to expect pleasantries from Lord Tywin in such a setting—business was business, and the Lion's temper was as sharp as ever.
"Of course," Varys said, his voice smooth, betraying none of his frustration. "But I am sure your... person of interest on Dragonstone would find these reports most enlightening as well." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air, then shifted his attention back toward the ladder that led to freedom.
Lord Tywin's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Let me handle my matters, and you handle yours, Spider," he replied curtly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
"Until we meet again, my lord," Varys said, his voice silky as he had always practiced, before climbing over the railing. Neither expecting nor receiving a reply.
His mind was already plotting the next step. If he couldn't dismantle the man in power, then he would bring down the very foundation on which Mudd stood—the King who upheld him. And as fortune would have it, a pretender lay just beyond his reach, anchored in the same bay, ripe for manipulation.
Mudd had risen through rebellion, how poetic that he would fall through the next one.
End of Chapter
This was the penultimate chapter of the story, where we travel from 285 to 287 with Varys in the end.
We return to Arthur and Jaehaerys a year after their arrival in Lys. Ending up with Jaehaerys' adoption to a Lysene Magister. Jon Snow is firmly off the beaten path now, we will see how Drako will develop.
Tristifer now has a merchant navy, a new daughter, and Oldstones being built. Lucky him.
Varys has not been sitting on his hands though and now Lord Tywin plots as well.
Next chapter will be a shorter epilogue. I have also decided that at least the first and second chapters of the story need a rewrite which I may do before the last chapter, but I will see.
A sequel is being planned but nothing concrete yet.
Thank you all for reading!
