The Bastard of Highgarden [ASOIAF] [SI]

[Dreyden90]

Originally Hosted on Alternate History, I'll be bringing this over to SB in the coming days. Chapter 1 below:

---​

I was about eight years old when my memories came back to me.

It began as a trickle, thoughts and feelings flashing through my head, brief and blurry. Ideas I could not grasp like a word lost on the tip of the tongue. Places I’d never been, faces I’d never seen, songs and stories I did not understand. All battled for time in my mind and it became hard to focus on the hear and now when everything around me seemed nothing more than a waking dream.

Maester Lomys, of all people, triggered the dam breaking, turning the trickle into a deluge.

“Lyonel.” The maester snapped out my name in a tone that always meant he was at the end of his rope. My cousins on either side of me leaned away as our teacher strode across his small chambers toward us, his wispy white hair flying in every direction while a scowl made shadows catch on his many wrinkles. “Where is your head at, boy?”

I blinked and took a deep breath. The smell of salt and wind was still strong in my nose, and the image of a beautiful woman tearing a book from my hands while dragging me toward the water was slow to leave me.

“I--”

“Let’s see if you’ve been paying attention at all.” The maester apparently thought me too slow to respond, and pulled a book from a nearby shelf and slammed it before me. A Treatise on King Robert’s Rebellion, the title read, by Grandmaester Pycelle. “Who was the first lord to declare rebellion against the Mad King?”

“Er, Maester Lomys, we--”

“Quiet now, Desmera.”

The girl pouted at being interrupted, and glance toward Margaery only showed that both my cousins shared the same confusion.

But at least I knew the answer.

“Lord Jon Arryn,” I said, shaking away the last of the thoughts of a beach I’d never been. “He raised his banners when the Mad King demanded the heads of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.”

It was the maester’s turn to look confused.

“That’s… correct,” he said, scratching at the edge of his chin. “But how is it that you know this when I just got through saying we’d start talking about Robert’s Rebellion tomorrow?”

“I...”

It came back to me at once, then. I remembered reading all about Westeros in a series of books, which led me to remember another world where everything Westerosi was nothing more than fiction, which spiraled into the random images I’d been seeing starting to connect and make sense.

It was too much for my brain to process, and I must have passed out, as the next thing I remember was waking up in my bed with a cold cloth being pressed to my forehead by a gentle hand. My mother sat at my bedside, humming The Bear and the Maiden Fair under her breath, and only took a moment to realize I was awake.

“Lyonel!” She smiled, wide but strained, and placed a hand over my bare chest, right above my heart. “How are you feeling, sweetling?”

“Fine,” I said, surprised that I meant it. I went to sit up, but my mother’s hand held firm. “Don’t you move, I’ll go and fetch Lomys.” She tweaked my nose and left my room.

I ignored her order before my door was halfway shut.

My chambers were “comfortably cozy” as my mother always said, and so I was able to cross to my only window in just a few steps. I pulled aside the green and gold curtains and, sure enough, a spectacular view of the Reach greeted me. I was just high enough in the tower the Tyrells called home to see over the first wall, granting me sight of the whirls of color that were the flower gardens between it and the outer wall further down the hill. Beyond that, the great hedge maze continued for at least a mile before being cut off by the slow-flowing Mander. The sounds of steel clashing the general cacophony of people drifted on the wind from the other side of the tower, from the castle town I knew lay beyond the walls to the south.

Okay, I thought as I took a deep breath of sweet-smelling air. This is real.

I remembered years of playing with Margaery, Desmera, and Loras on the grounds below, with both Willas and Garlan tolerating our antics with varying degrees of patience. Endless hours stuck in a room with Maester Lomys with my cousins, learning numbers and letters and history. My mother, Janna, endlessly kind but always sad when she thought I could not see her. My lord uncle and lady aunt, forever indifferent.

But I also recalled over a quarter century more of life in a different world. Memories of a different mother, actually knowing my father, of having a sibling of my own. Twenty years of schooling only to work at mediocre jobs to fund pursuits of shifting dreams and lofty goals. Of loves lost and found, of friends sworn to be forever even as life drifted us apart. Of hobbies and endless media to fill the void.

I thought I should have panicked, or been having an identity crises, but both sets of memories felt right. Felt like me.

I could not comprehend the how or why of having apparently been granted a second life. Hell, I did not even know how my first life ended. At that moment, the only things I knew for sure were that I was somehow in Westeros, and there were going to be White Walkers and dragons to deal with in the not-so-distant future.

“Not terrifying at all,” I said with a wry lilt.

The existential fear crept on me then. My knowledge of the future was limited to the extent of the fifth book, and – frankly – the Tyrells always seemed to back the wrong horse. I was just a kid at this point, a bastard besides, and I’m quite sure Lyonel Storm did not exist in the story I had known.

What could one man do to fight the coming darkness?

I shivered as a cool breeze drifted through the window and reached for the shutter. Need to make a plan. Figure out--

My thoughts screeched to a halt when I caught my reflection in the glass as I pulled the shutter closed. I had never much cared what I looked like in my current life before, but my new knowledge screamed a thousand warnings to me.

Wide blue eyes looked back at me beneath a fringe of hair dark as pitch. With high cheekbones, and a strong jaw, the only thing of my mother I could find in my face was the nose one might consider delicate.

The seed is strong, I thought.

“No fucking way,” I said.

Before I could rightly being to freak out, my door creaked open and my mother walked in with Lomys.

“Lyonel,” my mother said with a fond exasperation, shaking her head. “I told you to stay in bed.”

“At least it is not just me he always disobeys,” the Maester said with an accompanying grumble.

I don’t believe I’d ever seen the man cheerful.

He crossed the room, his chain rattling beneath his grey robes, and I was still too busy wrapping my head around what my appearance met to object to the old man’s calloused hand roughly grasping my wrist to take my pulse.

“All boys have a rebellious spirit at his age,” my mother said, waving a hand in dismissal. She smoothed out the layered green and gold of her dress and sat upon my bed. “It’s a good thing.” She winked at me, brown eyes sparkling with affection.

The maester just scoffed.

“Makes it no less of a pain to deal with. Open.” Lomys tapped my chin and I obliged, saying “ah” and all. Lomys hummed, then nodded. “Fever’s broken, and there are no signs of inflammation.” He turned toward my mother. “Your boy will be fine, my lady. If you’ll excuse me.”

He was halfway out the door before my mother could finish saying thank you.

“Well.” She spared a frown toward Lomys’ back before focusing back on me, her usual smile in place. “I know your cousins Margaery and Desmera will be overjoyed you’re back on your feet. Just this morning they were pestering Maester Lomys to wake you so they could play come-into-my-castle properly.”

She seemed so at ease in that moment that I almost hesitated before asking the question, but I needed to know.

“Mother,” I said, and something in my voice drained the cheer from her face. Still, I pressed on. “Who is my father?”

She studied my eyes for a good twenty seconds, running nervous hands through her brunette curls, before sighing. “Mother always warned me it was only a matter of time before you asked. I’ve never known her to be wrong. Come.” She patted the bed next to her and I obligingly sat down. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and rested her cheek on my head.

“It was only a few months after the rebellion ended that King Robert and the new Queen Cersei were touring along the Mander from Tumbleton all the way to Brightwater Keep. The day they arrived at Highgarden was the first day I met your father,” she said.

I tensed, my suspicious all but confirmed.

“And no man leaves an impression quite like Stannis Baratheon.”

Wait, I thought, incredulous. What!?

 

[Dreyden90]

The Feast of Highgarden
283 AC
---------​

They mock me, Stannis thought, gripping his goblet hard enough that the silver threatened to bend. They know they must.

For countless months he had been forced to watch the encamped Tyrell host feast with taunting cheer as he and his outlasted them, wasting away in starvation in the besieged Storm’s End. At the wars end, Stannis had hoped never to see the likes of Mace Tyrell or Paxter Redwyne in good cheer ever again.

Yet here he was, not four moons later, subjected to participating in their folly by Robert’s request.

And one did not refuse their king.

His jaw clenched, and Stannis took a deep drink to keep his teeth from cracking. The overly sweet honeywine cloyed at his throat.

“And then I spotted the royal prick in the shallows!” Robert’s bellowing voice carried from the center of the high table. His cheeks were flushed from drink after the servants had only just taken away the first course – a medley of clams, muscles, scallops, and oysters from Oldtown.

“A course each for all the Reach has to offer!” Tyrell had boasted not five minutes after greeting their party.

The fat lord of Highgarden now sat to Robert’s left, staring at the king with rapt attention. As if he was not about to hear about how the man he followed into war had died a gruesome death.

“Then it was if the seven themselves spurred me on,” Robert continued. “And I knew no man could stop me from unleashing my fury!” He lifted a full stein to the cheers of the contingent of stormlander men in the hall.

Renly’s men.

Stannis stabbed at his saffron carrots with more intensity than strictly necessary.

“Not even the kingsguard,” Robert said after draining his cup. Behind the king, Ser Barristan stiffened. “Ser Jonothor Darry fell in just two blows before my wrath.”

And his brother escaped mine.

A page in Redwyne colors refreshed Stannis wine, and he drank deep despite the sweetness.

“All say Prince Rhaegar was an able swordsman,” Mace’s wife asked from beside the queen. Lady Alerie clutched her hands as if she did not know the outcome of the story. “It must have been a terrible battle, Your Grace.”

A shadow passed over Robert’s face.

“None are so mighty as my husband,” Cersei Lannister said, all smiles as she reached to grip one of Robert’s hands in her own.

“Aye he put up a fight, but that only made it all the sweeter when the back of my hammer caved through his chest.” Robert took another drink. “I shall never again experience a moment so sweet as seeing the bastard’s broken body at my feet.”

“It was then we knew the gods were with you, Your Grace!” Paxter Redwyne said from a lower table before a silence had a chance to form in the wake of the king’s words.

If Redwyne felt the force of Stannis’ glare from the far end of the high table, he made no indication.

“Here here!” His wife, heavy with child, declared.

Robert preened like a peacock from the praise as men around the hall drank with vigor.

Stannis swirled the remnants of his wine around his goblet before setting it aside.

“Here,” the woman beside him spoke for the first time that evening, breaking what had been a thankful respite from pleasantries. “It would do no good for a prince not to drink to his king, bad wine or no.”

The Queen of Thorns placed a goblet in front of him, full of a clear yellow liquid. He gave her a hard look, but she just quirked a brow and leaned her head toward the hall at large.

There were scattered men focused on him, whispering to themselves.

Tsk. Stannis took the offered goblet and draining it, finding it tart with lemon and spices he could not identify.

The curious eyes turned away.

“A Lyseni drink,” she said. “I find it bracing.”

He nodded to Lady Olenna, but said nothing.

She seemed as content in silence as he, as neither spoke through the remaining courses.

It did nothing to improve his mood, as every jape and shared praise passed between Robert and the reacher lords proved to stoke Stannis’ anger and frustration to the point where he felt the heat radiate from his skin as his blood burned in the effort to contain it.

When the last of the fig tarts were eaten, Tyrell called for the singers and band to begin playing in earnest and begged Cersei for a dance. Only then did Stannis judge he would be able to slip away without protest.

He found an alcove that led to a balcony far enough away for the festivities to be a distant echo he could put out of his mind.

The cool air did little to soothe his heated skin and Stannis braced himself on the balcony railing, looking over the miles of gardens and farmland illuminated by the light of the full moon. The Reach seemed a land of plenty, untouched by the war.

He grimaced in distaste and, unbidden, his eyes drifted to the northeast. Where his new home lay beyond the horizon.

“You’ll guard my realm for me, brother!” Robert had said with cheer, as if he had not ripped Storm’s End away from Stannis’ hands. “We’ll get you married and a Baratheon will hold that bloody rock for all time.”

Dragonstone, he thought. My duty. My punishment.

He cursed the gods for the storm that delayed them and let Willem Darry escape from Dragonstone with the last Targaryen children. For Robert’s pettiness. For Mace Tyrell’s very existence.

For being forced into a marriage to appease the lords outraged because Robert could not bring himself to punish his enemies.

His entire body shook in his anger, his knuckles going white as his gripped the banister.

He took deep breaths in an attempt to clear his head, but found it ineffective.

“My prince?”

He snapped his attention toward the hesitant voice, and the woman flinched, brown eyes going wide before she looked down, demure.

“I had hoped to speak to you,” she said, clutching at the muted gold fabric of her skirts. “I’m Janna Tyrell, Lord Mace’s-”

“Go away,” he said, letting everything he was feeling shine clear in his voice. She flinched back again.

Stannis turned his back on her.

He heard her shuffle behind him. “I know it must be difficult for you. To be here after-”

She made the mistake to try and touch his arm, and he spun, quick as a flash, and grabbed her wrist in an iron gripped.

She squeaked in surprise, and for a mad moment Stannis felt the impulse to throw her over the edge. To force Mace Tyrell to feel a fraction of the grief and suffering he had caused.

But then a strong gust of wind blew Janna Tyrell’s brown curls back, exposing the clear skin of her neck and turning Stannis’ thoughts in another direction entirely.

Her free hand reached up to cup his cheek, guiding his gaze back to hers.

She smiled, hesitant, inviting, and gorgeous in the moonlight.

He kissed her, rough and forceful and full of every raging emotion this day had brought upon him. She did not balk at his intensity, and Stannis allowed himself to be selfish.

Just once.

 

[Alcor]

Huh, I forgot about this. I think when I last read it Lynonel was just knighted and started working in the Red Keep or something?

 

[Dreyden90]

The revelation of my father’s identity spurred a chaotic need for me to figure out just how much or little I actually knew about the world from the stories I remembered. Maester Lomys bemusedly supplied me with his most recent copy of Genealogies of the Great Houses – under his supervision – and I spent hours scouring the text.

And now that I recalled printed text, reading handwritten books was a frustrating exercise in and of itself.

My brief bout with panic proved unnecessary, though, when I found the entries for the latest Baratheons. Stannis had still married Selyse Florent – less than a month after my mother said they met, in fact – and Shireen had been born in 289 AC, which matched up with the dates, as far as I could remember. Perusing the other great houses found all the Stark children, Robert’s not-kids, and other characters I recalled in place and accounted for.

Satisfied that my presence had not already thrown the world into chaos and robbed me of my only advantage in this world, I put my need for the full story of how Stannis Baratheon forgot his honor on the back burner, settled back in my chambers for the night and tried to figure out what to do next.

It was early in 292 AC, just about a month after my eighth birthday, which meant I had at worst six years before the start of canon events, and nine at best if the timeline ended up matching the show’s.

It was the first time I’d ever hoped the show would trump the books, canon-wise.

In either case I had a bit of time to figure out how to keep the realm strong enough to throw back the Walkers when the time came. Which meant I needed to thwart the War of the Five Kings. And stop Aegon VI and Dany. But I couldn’t stop Dany, because dragons would be massively useful against an army of the dead, and – frankly – fuck slavery, so I should let that play out, right?

Even though that guaranteed a Targaryen invasion.

Fat chance on getting Robert to step down peacefully.

Would Stannis? Renly?

There were too many variables.

I let out a sigh and sat before my bed, laying out a quill, ink, and parchment on the ground. Wish I knew how pens worked...

In big, bold, messy letters I wrote – in English, not Westerosi – the words “Goal one: Survive,” and underlined it repeatedly.

Beneath that I scratched out the words “training” and “learning” before setting my quill down and staring at the hilariously short list long enough for my legs to start to fall asleep.

It wasn’t much in the way of detail, but there wasn’t much an eight-year-old could do, let alone a bastard child. I thanked the stars that at least I wasn’t reborn as a lowborn.

To enact any sort of change in the world, I would need influence. To get influence, I would need respect. And the only thing that was universally respected in Westeros was strength.

So, get a knighthood, then figure out how to change the world.

---

That next morning, just as the sun began to glow orange off the Mander, I walked into the training yard, straight up to the master-at-arms Ser Igon Vyrwell, and demanded to be trained with sword and lance.

Ser Igon favored him with a frown, stretching the twin scars that ran from his chin across his face to the left temple. “Not going to run off on us again?” He asked, sarcasm dripping from his words. Several of the men at arms laughed at my expense and I schooled my expression as best I could.

Before the memories of my other life came to me, I had been a rather timid child, and I could never hide my fear of Ser Igon’s scarred visage. After less than an hour’s training I found I preferred the kind company of my cousins to the men in the training yard, and that had not done wonders for my reputation, it seemed.

“I’m ready this time, Ser.” I jutted out my jaw, matched his eyes with my best glare, and stood defiant.

“Won’t be wasting mine just yet,” the aging knight said with a sigh. “Loras!” He barked my cousin’s name over his shoulder, and the boy came jogging up, his green training leathers standing out against everyone else’s dull brown.

“Ser?” He asked the knight, shooting me an incredulous glance.

“Little Lyonel here thinks he wants to fight again.” I barely contained my scoff at the nickname. Loras was two years older than me, but I already matched his height. “You’re to spar with him. Don’t hold back.”

In short order Loras and I faced each other in one corner of the yard under Vyrwell’s bored gaze. I had been provided a wooden sword to match my cousin’s, but no armor. I decided then that Ser Igon might just be a bit of a dick.

“Begin!”

Loras mouthed ‘sorry’ to me before he dutifully followed the Ser’s orders. I tried my best to keep up, searching both lives’ memories for any reference on swordplay, but the fact of the matter was Loras was both older than me and had been training for three years already.

And was a damn natural besides.

I was in the mud with a sword to my neck in less than ten seconds.

Vyrwell laughed. “Still think you wan--”

“Again!” I yelled out the word and rolled to my feet, ignoring the throbbing in my leg where Loras had struck me.

My cousin looked at me like I’d grown a second head, but took his stance nonetheless.

I lasted seven seconds this time.

“Again,” I demanded once more. And did so each time Loras knocked me down for the full morning drill.

By the time it was over, I felt like a giant bruise, but Ser Igon looked me over with a new, speculative eye.

“I expect you back here tomorrow, Storm,” was all he said before leaving Loras and I to our devices.

“I hope he doesn’t have me do this every day,” Loras said, throwing one of my arms over his shoulder. “It’s no fun to just beat you bloody.”

I laughed, which turned into a cough. “I’ll just beat you tomorrow.”

He snorted.

“Maybe in your dreams, cousin.”

“I’ll get better every day, you’ll see.”

And so I did.

Most boys trained at swords with dreams of being great knights, to become a hero worthy of the songs. This seemed to motivate them well enough, but I knew what was coming.

War, against mortal and supernatural alike, was never going to be a pretty picture. The only guaranteed way of surviving was to not take part. The second best chance was to be as close to godlike with a blade as possible. To get onto the level of the legends like Barristan the Bold, Arthur Dayne, or Jaime Lannister.

The greats all had to start somewhere, and so I took to swordplay like it was a damned religion.

I was in that yard every morning and evening. I spent hours pouring over history tomes, focusing on warcraft, famous battles, and the strategies of history’s best generals. I pressed grumpy old Maester Lomys with question after question during our lessons to the point that I believed only my sudden and excellent grasp of numbers and language kept him from throwing me out in annoyance.

When Margaery and Desmera demanded my time (they were the two least thrilled about my change in priorities, but the Lyonel that was their lackey was gone forever), I convinced them that we should go riding instead of playing the games they were so fond of, just so I could have an excuse to get better used to being ahorse. Racing and hawking proved to be entertaining enough, besides.

Within nine months I was good enough to never lose to anyone of an age with me, and could hold my own against Loras to a point where I averaged a win every three or so bouts.

I enjoyed the routine well enough until the turn of the year threw a reminder in my face that canon was coming.

Lord Bryce Caron of Nightsong had thrown together a tourney both to celebrate the year’s end and – according to my mother – to have a chance to show off for a potential match with the great houses of the Stormlands, Reach, or Dorne.

My lord uncle had sent both Willas and Garlan – both just squires – to represent House Tyrell despite their inexperience.

I did not think much of it at the time, understanding my lord uncle’s desire to show off his elder sons. Garlan was a straight up monster in the yard, always sparring against knights twice his age or against multiple foes, and Willas was far from a slouch himself.

But then the raven arrived, bearing news that while Garlan earned a knighthood, Willas became a cripple after his horse collapsed on top of him during a tilt with Oberyn Martell.

It was the only time I’d seen Mace Tyrell truly in a rage, and truth be told half the castle found out about Willas due to the lord’s shouting and cursing of the Dornish Prince that evening in the small family feasting hall once he was into his cups.

“Would you have us end up like the Greyjoys?” my grandmother demanded of Mace when I was convinced he was a hairsbreadth away from having Lomys send for the banners for a march on Dorne. “The Reach is not strong enough to fight six kingdoms at once.” Her acidic tone broke through the fog of anger and I saw something break behind his eyes.

“Something must be done,” he said, his hand shaking so badly wine spilled over the rim of his goblet. “He is my son...” His voice cracked and I spotted tears brimming before he downed his wine and left the hall without another word.

Alerie watched her husband go, clutching Margaery and a protesting Loras close. I sympathized with my cousin, as my mother had been hovering me since the news arrived as well.

It took two months and Willas’ return to lift the somber mood the clung around the castle. Despite barely being able to bend his left leg anymore, the eldest Tyrell child was all smiles and japes, waving away any and all concern.

“It seems this is what the gods want for me,” he told me one day not long after returning when we were both studying in Maester Lomys’ chambers and I chanced questioning his constant cheery demeanor. “It would do me no good to lament what cannot be changed, would it?”

“I suppose not,” I answered.

My respect for my eldest cousin grew tremendously that day, but my guilt at not figuring out a way to change his fate – not even expecting it to happen so soon – persisted.

“Besides,” he said, snapping his book shut and tapping mine, open to a page depicting Ser Duncan the Tall facing off against the Laughing Storm. “I was never much interested in fighting. I’ll leave that to you and my brothers.”

He left not long after, managing to mostly hide his grimace as he limped along with his cane.

I returned to my book, thoughts churning on how to accomplish any meaningful change, with my cousin’s optimism acting as a boon I had not realized I’d needed.

---

“Ser Garlan,” I said the next day, deepening my voice as much as I could. My cousin looked up from sliding a whetstone along his blade. The steel somehow gleamed despite the gray light of the morning.

“Cousin?” He tilted his head to the side, looking me up and down with a quirked brow.

My training leathers may not have been as grand as Loras’, but an hour spent cleaning the set that morning had it as bright as brown could be. A waste of time, considering I’d be landing in the mud within ten minutes, but presentation was everything in that moment.

I drew the dull steel of my training sword, flipping it to a reverse grip with a lazy circle of my wrist before planting it in the ground in front of him.

“Seeing to your new status,” I said with as confident a smile I could manage. “I had thought you may be in need of a squire.”

Garlan blinked at me for a moment before his chest rumbled in a laugh as he stood.

In full mail at his considerable, with his Tyrell curls pulled back into a bun, and the shadow of a beard along his chin, Garlan looked every part a knight far beyond his modest sixteen years.

“I would not go easy on you,” Garlan said at length, scratching at his new whiskers. “Family or no.”

How kind of him to give me an out.

“I can’t be great if I don’t try my best.”

Garlan laughed again, smile brighter than his freshly honed blade.

“Then pick up your sword,” he said, whirling his around to loosen up his shoulder. “And let us begin.”

 

[Dreyden90]

One flaw I was self aware enough to acknowledge from my first life was my tendency to get overconfident any time I became somewhat competent with a new skill.

When it came to swordplay, Garlan ground that notion out of me within a day.

Three months later and I was convinced I was pure shit.

At least while I was on my back I got a gorgeous view of the rising sun painting the forest of apple trees orange and pink on either side of the road. My stomach grumbled as I spotted a choice fruit the size of my fist, mottled gold and green.

“Where did you go wrong this time?” The giant form of Garlan took over my field of vision. His skin was flushed with a sheen of sweat, and I took solace in the fact that it took him some effort to kick my ass at this point.

“Fell for your feint.”

“Again,” he agreed dryly. He offered a hand and hoisted me up like a feather. “You get too aggressive when you think you have an advantage,” he told me for the millionth time. “You need--”

“Patience, I know.” I ran a hand through my sweat-soaked hair and grimaced, trying not to imagine how bad I smelled.

“Then show me.” Garlan assumed a squared stance, longsword held diagonal across his frame.

I took a breath and readied myself. During my training in Highgarden’s yard, aggression was often enough to put my opponents on the backfoot and win a spar, and always was encouraged by Ser Igon. Given that Loras, who I knew to be an excellent fighter from the books, used that style, I hadn’t thought much of it.

And so I brought those months and months and months of habit in fighting Garlan, for him to turn around and tell me I’d get myself killed that way.

And knowing that Garlan was supposed to be as close to top tier as one could be without being Jaime Lannister or Barristan the Bold, I did not doubt the truth of his words.

But it was like fighting Obi-Wan Kenobi. An impenetrable wall of defense until I overextended and then it was over in a blink.

Sure enough, after a half dozen strikes and despite trying to keep my feet moving, Garlan caught the edge of my sword on his crossguard, twirled his wrists a bit and caught my side with the flat of his blade in a counter riposte.

Son of a bitch! I thought, hopping away while holding my side. That’s going to bruise.

“Better,” Garlan noted with a genuine smile. “But tomorrow we’ll focus on your footwork.” He sheathed his sword and I let out a long breath, grimacing as my new injury throbbed with the effort. “Need our friend to take a look at that?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just another reminder of how far I have to go.”

Garlan quirked a brow in consideration but only shrugged.

“Come on then,” he said with a glance toward the sun just breaking over the treeline. “I want to be at speed again within an hour.”

Garlan set out down the road at a light jog, meaning I had to go at a full run to keep up. Within five minutes we turned down a less-trodden road between the trees and came across the third member of our party right where we left him.

“Done with your morning training, m’lords?” Vormund asked as he filled a bucket of water from the babbling brook we set up camp besides.

It was a good thing that I’d gotten used to how little modesty there was on the road, as the man stood naked as his nameday in the water save for the rings of metal he wore on a hempen rope around his neck. Without waiting for our reply he hefted the bucket up and dumped it over his head.

“The water’s bracing today!” The maester-in-training said a moment later, shaking the excess water out of his ashen hair and beard with a furious shake of the head.

“Could do for a swim,” Garlan said, already stripping off his tunic. “But a wash will have to do.”

I could not be sure if it was the case throughout the realm, but I took comfort at least the nobility in the Reach enjoyed the habit of bathing regularly.

“Aye,” Vormund said, stepping out of the calf-deep water toward the dirt-brown robe hanging off his cart. “It’s too bad it doesn’t get deeper for a few miles closer to the Mander.”

“Such is our fate,” Garlan said with a false severity as he got to scrubbing.

Vormund laughed affably. “Lyonel lad, see to the ravens while I ready the horses?”

I paused halfway through shedding my own sweaty clothes to see holding out a hefty sack of feed. I bit back a protest at my own desire to be clean and took it, trudging over to the covered cart with no small amount of hesitation.

I’d never liked birds in my first life, and dealing with the creatures beneath the canvas had not endeared me to them at all.

“Good morning you creepy assholes,” I said under my breath while yanking the canvas from the cage.

A cacophony of bird cries killed the tranquility of the morning in a mishmash of random one syllable words and pure cawing.

The latticed metal was built directly into the cart, towering seven feet tall and five feet deep. Inside, exactly three dozen ravens joined together in harmony to create their racket until I threw fistful after fistful of the seed and grain mixture into the multiple feeding bowls. Chaos quieted to a racket as they got to eating. It amused me that the ravens flocked together in groups matching the color of the bands on their talons.

Even birds stuck with their cliques, I supposed.

Job done, I raced away from the cage before they could do their staring thing.

Twenty minutes later and we were back on the road south to New Barrel, winding between the orchards that gave the Fossoways their sigils.

Garlan and Vormund made easy conversation as they had throughout the trip while I trailed behind both on my little rounsey. It suited me fine enough, as it gave me more than enough time with my own thoughts.

The entire assignment had been one of leisure save for training. Mace had sent us up the Roseroad all the way to Tumbleton, intent on having us retrieve the ravens from six Tyrell vassals on the way back, while delivering the ones raised in Highgarden.

It was not something I thought too much about before, but there was almost always a maester (or trainee, as with Vormund) on the road somewhere with the mundane but crucial task of delivering ravens between castles. Since the birds only remembered the castle they were raised in, it was a constant effort by the maesters to keep every castle stocked with ravens for every other holding in the kingdom.

Guarding such a convoy fell to hedge knights or basic men-at-arms, so it was a tad overkill for Garlan to be assigned to it.

Doubly so since he opted to go fully decked out in full plate whenever we rode, the steel polished so thoroughly it seemed silver under the sun. Between his personal twin roses emblazoned on his surcoat and his destrier caparisoned in gold and green, no passerby could mistake the imposing figure as a scion of House Tyrell.

I suspected this whole thing was Mace’s oh so subtle way of saying “Hey vassals, I still have a son poised and ready to fight for my house, so don’t get any funny ideas.”

Which I got, but it still sucked considering how brilliant I knew Willas could be.

But Mace will be Mace.

“Lyonel!”

I blinked, coming back to the present at Garlan’s muffled shout. He looked over his shoulder toward me and I imagined a look of mild annoyance behind his helm.

“Sorry?”

I fought down a blush at having been caught lost in thought. While these roads never seemed to be altogether dangerous, Garlan made me pay for complacency the next day during training.

“The Ser was just saying you’re a right smart one with history,” Vormund said, with a laugh. “But I reckon the archmaester would have a thing or two to say about your focus!”

“We’re working on that,” Garlan noted dryly, facing forward once more.

“Can’t be helped at his age. Mind’s always looking to the next most interesting thing. Why, I was about his age when I started at the Citadel, but I didn’t forge my first link for three years ‘cause I couldn’t keep to one topic long enough!”

He pulled at the black iron link in his small chain, rattling it around. Several of the ravens cawed at the sound, and Garlan remained quiet, shaking his head.

“For ravenry, correct?” I asked.

“Aye. But it’s copper that concerns me at the moment. The archmaester demands a treatise on,” Vormund paused, puffing himself up and deepening his voice in a mocking manner. ““The underlying causes the First Blackfyre Rebellion.” Wrong son got a sword and the whole realm went to shit. What else is there to say?”

I wondered if it would ever feel normal that all the ‘useless’ knowledge I had about this world was now very much applicable to the day to day.

“Well it all goes back to the Young Dragon, really. Dorne--”

I was cut off by a boy no older than five burst from the orchard, laughing and looking behind him until he ran straight into Garlan’s horse and fell flat on his ass.

I jumped from my horse and rushed to the boy even as Garlan pulled his reins hard to the right to avoid crushing the kid under a literal ton of horse.

Vormund yanked the cart to a stop as I dragged the child out from beneath Garlan’s destrier, and I took some solace in the ravens crying more than the kid.

“Are you alright?” I pulled him to his feet and started checking him over for injuries. Other than an unkempt mop of blond hair and splotchy cheeks, he seemed unharmed.

“You’re a knight!” He said with all the wonder in the world, staring at Garlan over my shoulder with eyes full of stars.

“And you’re a fool, lad!” Vormund yelled from his cart, holding a hand to his chest with a grimace. “What’s got on your ass that you’re running like a madman?”

But the kid ignored him, still with eyes only for Garlan. “Have you fought in any tourneys? I’ve heard a bunch of stories and can’t wait to see one myself! Father says there might be one for the wedding!”

He said it all in a single breath with all the excitable incomprehension only children and fanatics could muster.

“Easy there child.” Garlan kept his voice light, but I could hear the strained edge to it. “Is he unharmed, Lyonel?”

“Seems to be.” I snapped my fingers in front of the kid’s doe-eyes. “What’s your name, kid?”

His face soured. “You’re a kid, too!”

“Older than you,” I said, deadpan.

“So?”

Ugh, children…

“It’s only knightly to name yourself once asked,” Garlan said from the saddle.

The kid puffed himself up in an admirable likeness to a peacock. “I’m the heir!”

Vormund snorted.

With his self important stance, I could see a shield embroidered on his grass and dirt stained tunic; gold, quartered with 4 apples alternating green and red.

“Fossoway,” I said. “Just not sure which Fossoway.”

“Both!” The kid supplied.

“Helpful.”

“Simon!”

A woman’s shout preceded another pair of people to come rushing from within the orchard’s thicket. The first skidded to a halt, falling to her knees to wrap the Fossoway kid into a hug despite his protests. The second woman hovered nearby, clutching her cloth skirts as she tried to catch her breath.

“Lady Leonette!”

Garlan raced to dismount his horse and almost stumbled as made to remove his helm and bow at the same time. An actual blush tinted his cheeks when he stood back up.

“Ser Garlan,” Leonette returned the greeting with surprised joy in her voice.

Huh, I thought, looking between them as Leonette stood.

She was of an age with Garlan, if I had to guess. Petite and lithe, only coming to Garlan’s chest, with delicate features and honey-colored hair she kept in braid coiled at the back of her head, but it was her eyes that drew the focus; big and bright and green.

I understood why Garlan was stricken.

“Mayhaps we should be gettin’ back to the castle, m’lady,” the other woman said, tutting as she looked Leonette over. “You’ll have to change your dress.”

Her words broke the two from their staring contest and Leonette looked down to see the splotch of brown marring the otherwise unbroken gold.

“So I will,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. She dipped her head toward Garlan in a bow. “Thank you for finding my nephew, Ser, but we should be going.”

“Of course. Think nothing of it,” Garlan said, his smitten smile still in place.

“But I want to stay with the knight!” Simon complained.

“We’re a good few miles out from New Barrel,” Vormund noted. “Mayhaps the ladies and heir should ride with us?” He jerked a thumb toward the blissfully quiet ravens.

“Yes!” Garlan agreed, Vormund’s leading tone seeming to bring him back to the present. “We are heading in that direction, in any case.”

Leonette looked indecisive, worrying at her bottom lip.

“If it please you, m’lady, the walk is long and we’ve already been out longer than Ser Jon said to be.”

“Plenty of room in the cart,” Vormund said.

“And your lady-in-waiting can use my horse, my lady,” I said with a deferential bow. Garlan shot me an approving look from the corner of my eye.

Leonette’s indecision gave way to a soft smile.

“Such chivalry should not be refused.”

Such was how Leonette and Simon piled onto the cart next to our maester-in-training while I ended up on foot, leading my rounsey by hand.

“I thank the Seven that the little lord found you when he did,” the maid said in a low voice. She rid sidesaddle, massaging her feet with a grimace. “When my lady said we were to take a stroll, I had not imagined she meant the entirety of Ser Jon’s lands!”

Up ahead Leonette and Garlan were making conversation both boring and polite, yet each wore a smile all the same.

It was telling that Garlan kept his helm off.

“She do things like this often?”

“Only of late.” She cracked a spot on her foot and groaned in sheer relief. “You’re a good lad, letting an old woman ride in your stead. What was your name again?”

She could not have been more than thirty, without a speck of grey in her brunette curls, but it seemed impolite to bring up.

“Lyonel. Yours?”

“Rila.”

“Good to meet you Rila.”

She smiled and went about working on her other foot.

Within an hour the orchard trees thinned enough to see New Barrel and its small castle town growing in the distance, surrounded by vegetable fields in every direction.

It was a small castle by Westerosi standards, with only a single curtain wall to protect its keep, which sported just a modest pair of towers that paled in comparison to the height of Highgarden’s smallest. But such was to be expected from knightly house, and one that was relatively young at that.

And only a fool would dismiss the wealth these lands brought to the green apple Fossoways.

The closer we approached the castle, though, I noticed the more strained Leonette’s face grew even as Simon was happily chatting away to Garlan about everything New Barrel had to offer.

Foreboding twisted in my gut.

We made it through the gate and were met with a woman of an age with my mother striding across the open yard just short of a run; the bright red apple broach giving away her identity. A pair of maids trailed after her, lifting their skirts to keep pace.

“Simon!” She plucked the boy from Leonette’s lap the moment he was within arms reach and pulled him close. The two shared the same shade of blonde, and the kid made much less of a fuss than he had with Leonette.

“Lady Fossoway,” Garlan greeted after a moment of being nonplussed. “It has been some time.”

The woman seemed to recall herself and stood straight, still keeping Simon on her hip.

“Ser Garlan,” she said, glancing over our party. “I offer you both congratulations on your knighthood and my thanks for finding my wayward goodsister.”

“I was hardly wayward, Alys.” Leonette took Vormund’s proffered hand to help her down from the cart. “The day was so lovely and my company so lively that we simply lost track of the hours.”

Alys regarded Leonette with a deadpan look that screamed she wanted to call bullshit, but instead let it pass.

“In any case, you are expected in my lord husband’s solar.” She looked Leonette up and down. “And do make yourself presentable.”

Leonette tightened her jaw, but did not argue. She turned to us and dipped her head.

“I thank you once again for your aid,” she said, voice strained. “But I must offer my farewells for now. Vormund, Lyonel, Ser Garlan.” She offered us each a nod in turn, but would not meet our eyes.

“My lady...” Garlan said in a gentle, concerned voice, taking a step forward.

Leonette matched it with a step back. “Goodbye, Ser.”

She turned on her heel and strode to the keep with all the restrained haste her goodsister had shown on the way out. Rila trailed after her with a muttered “Oh, seven hells...”

Garlan looked like a kicked puppy and the knot in my stomach tightened.

“Shall you be needing to speak to my lord husband as well, Ser?” Lady Alys asked, regarding Garlan with a raised brow.

“Yes,” Garlan said after a moment of collecting his thoughts.

“I can show you the way!”

“The only place you’re going is to bathe,” Alys said with a stern rebuke, handing the pouting child off to one of her maids. “If you would follow me, Ser?”

“Of course.” He stood stiff, now, his tone formal. “And if you would be so kind as to have someone guide Vormund to the rookery?”

The maester-in-training had kept quiet against his nature and lowered his head in deference when Lady Alys’ attention turned to him.

“Wylla will show you the way,” she said, and with a snap of her fingers the remaining maid was guiding Vormund away. “Now.” She gestured toward the keep and Garlan fell in step beside her while I trailed behind, choking on the awkward atmosphere.

The solar was mercifully only a short way into the castle, and Alys ushered us in after only a quick knock.

Like everything else about New Barrel, the lord’s solar was small compared to every other one I’d seen, but it was roomy enough to serve its purpose. A fireplace dominated the far wall, unlit on this muggy summer’s day, above which hung a portrait of an armored knight ahorse with a shield bearing the Fossoway green apple. The rest of the walls were covered by a mural of a tree bearing the same fruit, it’s branches weaving over the walls in random patterns.

Westerosi themes were always on point, I mused.

“My lords,” Alys said, as Ser Jon was not alone. The knightly lord of the castle sat at the head of a table hewn from mahogany, gazing at Garlan with an expression of distinct annoyance. With his receding hairline and greying goatee, he must have had at least fifteen years on his sister. “May I present Ser Garlan Tyrell and his squire...”

“Lyonel Storm, my lady,” I provided as she trailed off.

Ser Jon’s eyes snapped from Garlan to me and annoyance morphed into naked anger before the knight hid it behind a cool facade, grinding his teeth hard enough that even Stannis would take note.

I took a step back at the open hostility until the reasoning clicked in the back of my mind.

Oh, I thought. Oh shit.

By his wince, Garlan figured out our faux pas as well.

“Ser Garlan!” Ser Jon’s guest broke the tension with a jovial greeting. He stood from the table and matched Garlan in height. He had an air of of confidence about him, marking him either skilled or privileged. “It is good to see you. How does your brother fare?”

“He heals well,” Garlan reached out a hand and grasped the man’s in a firm shake. “I admit I am surprised to see you hear, Lord Caron.”

The Lord of Nightsong smiled, genuine and with anticipation.

“It was a sudden thing, in truth. Ser Jon and I were just toasting to a finalized negotiation.”

“Oh?” Garlan led, looking back Ser Jon, who had yet to even rise.

The man spoke with a tone as cold as his gaze. “Lord Caron and my dear sister are to be wed within a moon’s turn.”

Garlan had been off his game since we’d ran across Leonette in the orchards, which I was sure was the only reason his hurt flashed across his face clear as day.

He retreated behind courtesy in a flash.

“I offer you my sincerest congratulations, then.”

“I take it gladly,” Lord Caron said with a hearty laugh. “But I overstep myself, you had business with Ser Jon, did you not?”

“Yes.” Garlan focused on Ser Jon. “My lord father sent me along with several ravens raised in Highgarden to replenish your flock, and asks that should you have any issues that require the aid of House Tyrell, state them, and I shall gladly return to my father with word.”

It was the same speech Garlan had given to every lord we met on our journey, and it was always welcomed with jovial approval and an offer to stay the night as the lord’s guest.

Such was not the case today.

“If I have need of House Tyrell, I will send one of my new ravens. Now, if you’ll excuse us to finish our business?”

All else aside, it was ballsy to dismiss your overlord’s son so out of hand. Even Lord Caron’s demeanor cracked against the blatant disrespect.

“My lords,” Garlan said with the shallowest of nods, and we left, not even waiting for Lady Alys to guide us out.

Disrespect beget disrespect.

We caught up with Vormund and were back on the road within twenty minutes, where Vormund had sensed the mood and opted to ride behind us while he easygoing camaraderie we had developed replaced by sullen silence.

It had somehow never occurred to me that my unmarried mother may not have been so single in the original timeline. Only Jon Fossoway’s anger at seeing me reminded me that he and Janna had been married in the stories I knew. The only explanation for his fury hinted at a betrayal, which probably meant Janna was promised to Jon right about the time she met Stannis.

And a betrothed getting pregnant by another man would kill an engagement pretty much every time. And leave one hell of a grudge moving forward.

It was no small injustice with how little it affected the reverse.

I glanced at Garlan’s forlorn expression and bit back a sigh.

Just my being born had caused a ripple I could not control that cost one of the better men I knew a marriage that was by all accounts a happy one.

“I am sorry about Lady Leonette.”

The words would do little, but Garlan still managed to work his expression into a smile.

“Do not linger on the thought, cousin. It was just a childhood infatuation, nothing more.”

Telling him just how wrong he was would accomplish nothing, so I held my tongue.

We rode on.

 

[Dreyden90]

Life as a squire to a knight of Garlan’s growing reputation proved to be a one of constant motion. Garlan only chose to return to Highgarden sparingly, and never for more than a fortnight at a time. Keeping the peace, taking on missions great and small, tourneys, and half a dozen other knightly responsibilities befit of the second son of a great lord took up the majority of our time until I was certain Garlan had treated with have the Reach.

Gaining favor with most, and at least the respect of the rest.

I stood just behind him for it all, but only a precious few lords ever took note of me.

“And your squire.” Those like the stout and shrewd Lord Mathis Rowan would note, eyeing my features and doubtlessly placing my likeness. “How did he avail himself?”

“Well enough,” Garlan would always reply with a critical eye my way. “But he still has far to go.”

“I do my best to preserve the King’s Justice,” was my practiced reply. Always delivered with a sincere smile and a humble nod. “Any new challenge is a welcomed test.”

A good first impression was well worth its weight in gold for me, and was well worth every second spent cleaning Garlan’s armor or tending the horses.

Time pressed ever forward, though, and by the time around my fourteenth nameday, the ever-present worry in the back of my mind grew into a constant internal voice shouting “Canon is coming.”

I needed freedom of movement, and maybe then I could finally figure out how exactly I was going to change the timeline.

“Knighthood?” Garlan asked with plain incredulity the one time I broached the subject around the campfire. “Even Arthur Dayne and the Kingslayer did not earn their spurs until their fifteenth nameday. Loras only earned his this past year. You are but four-and-ten, cousin, have patience.” He bit into his hare then, leaving no quarter for grease to run into his beard. “Your time will come.”

It was a reasonable observation and sage advice, but it was already 298 AC. The story I knew had a very real chance of starting.

And if I was still attached to Garlan’s hip, the soonest I could possibly have a say would be when Renly came to Highgarden, proposing both marriage and a kingship.

And how could a simple bastard hope to stop that when the ball was already rolling, royal blood or no?

So it was that I sat ahorse atop up a hill one morning on the misty island of Greyshield, determined to earn that knighthood in the coming conflict.

“They do make a sight, don’t they?” Jarrett Leygood said from my right.

We were of a height despite him being four years my senior. Jarrett wore orange enameled plate over blackened chainmail, the three sable thunderbolts of his house painted across his breastplate. He would look the image of a knight if not for how the color of his armor clashed with the blood red shade of his hair and an unfortunate case of acne that marred his youthful face.

“That they do,” I agreed, looking to the six knights waiting on the crest of the hill with their gazes turned to the sea. Garlan was joined by Ser Garth Grimm, son of the Lord of Greyshield, along with two hedge sworn to House Grimm, Sers Dantis and Nestar. Ser Erren Florent had met us at the shores north of Brightwater Keep, and Ser Arnol Oakheart – to whom Jarrett squired – had been riding with Garlan and me for some months now.

All were fully armored in plate, atop destriers similarly fully armored, with lances held at the ready.

Compared to them, I felt as if I were a boy playing pretend with my mail and leather ensemble that was already beginning to feel too tight.

“You grow too fast,” Garlan had complained not long ago. “We’ll dress you in plate once your growth spurts have stopped.”

“I would wager Ser Arnol will bring a half dozen ironborn down low on his own,” Jarrett said.

“Ser Garlan could do the same with ease.”

Jarrett laughed. “Whomevers Ser takes out less owes the other a favor, yeah?”

I shot him a conspiratorial grin and nod despite the bubbling anxiety in my belly. In the short time I’d known him, Jarrett’s favorite form of distraction proved to be gambling – if only with chores rather than gold.

Squires did not boast much of in income.

“Sails!” Garlan shouted then, and each of the knights pulled their horses about, trotting in our direction just beneath the southern crest of the hill.

“Our friend wasn’t lying,” Jarrett said with some surprise.

I glanced behind me to the ironborn man held firm between two men-at-arms, Relief pulled at his features beneath the purples, greens, and yellows of his many bruises.

“Taking the black is better than facing the gallows,” I said.

Jarrett clicked his tongue in disagreement. “At least the seven hells are warm.”

“Tallard!” Ser Garth spoke now, the knights having come abreast of us. “As discussed.”

The shorter of the two Grimm men gave a sharp nod and raced up the hill and lay himself flat on the crest, hands shadowing his eyes as he observed the small fishing town I knew rested on the other side.

“And if the day looks lost,” Ser Erren said to the other. “Gut the bastard and ride for Grimston.”

The ironborn man fell to his knees, muttering prayers beneath his breath.

“Aye, m’lord,” his guard said.

“Ready yourselves,” Garlan said to Jarrett and I as the knights formed rank to our left. I spared a look to my fellow squire, who shot me a cocky grin before donning his greathelm. I let out a low breath and adjusted my halfhelm before closing my eyes and waiting.

I was hardly a stranger to combat, but there was a distinct difference between fighting a brigand or a pair of cutpurses and facing down three score rogue ironborn.

Even on such a small scale, battle were chaos, and all the skill in the world could not save you from a lucky shot.

My fist tightened around my lance and I cleared my head. What-ifs could only do so much good.

The echoing rumble of waves crashing to shore was interrupted by the creaking of wood of what I knew would be three longships coming to land.

“For the glory of the Drowned God!” Came a shout, followed by the echoing battle cry of dozens of voices working in tandem.

We waited. Five seconds. Ten.

Tallard took a horn from his belt and gave a long bellow, drowning out the sound of our horses to my ears as we all urged our mounts into a full gallop.

We crested the hill in the blink of an eye, racing down its other half with gravity aiding our speed.

The ironborn had already turned to face us, forming ranks on the beach below to meet our charge without fear.

It had to be a ridiculous sight, I thought. Eight men charging sixty.

But we now had their backs to the sleepy little hamlet, and Tallard gave two sharp blasts of his horn once we were within fifty feet of our enemies.

Twenty feet behind them burst a half a hundred men-at-arms from the town’s outlying huts. A mix of Florent and Grimm men eager for bloodshed.

But then we were on them and I could only spare thoughts to what was right ahead of me.

My lance struck true, skewering two men together before it was yanked out of my hand. I drove my horse on, digging my heels hard into its flank and pulling my mace to bear from its saddle hook. It was a simple weapon – a shaft of reinforced ash topped with a ball of iron the size of my fist – and not my preferred, but it proved deadly enough when combined with my mount’s momentum.

By the time I broke through the line I managed to strike at another three men, landing blows that felt solid even if I had no time to confirm a kill.

When I brought my horse around I saw that the battle was already turning into a rout, the bright colors worn by the reachman already outnumbered the dull greys of the ironborn. All sense of their formation had been shattered, but they still fought with reckless abandon.

I spotted Garlan on foot, his green armor caked with mud, as he defended against three reavers at the same time. His sword moved in a blur. Each failed to get past his defense.

I raced to his aid, the stench of blood and salt and shit assaulting my nose with every breath.

He felled one while I caught up. A swift strike to the back of one’s neck from my mace evened the odds. Garlan kissed his steel to the third’s neck only a moment later.

“Keep moving!” He shouted and rejoined the throng.

So I did.

I ran my horse ragged, waving my mace at every axe wielding pirate wannabe until my shoulders burned with the effort of it. At some point the longships caught flames and Jarrett’s laughter rang over the battlefield, mad and joyous.

The ironmen were only heartened when their retreat went up in smoke.

But the writing was already on the wall.

There came a moment where I could not find a target that was not dead or being secured by my allies. Spinning my horse around in place, I only saw one ironborn still able and fighting Jarrett within a ring of onlooking reachmen.

“I know my future, greenlanders!” The ironborn dodged each of Jarrett’s strikes, a whirl of hair and robes. “The Drowned God protects me!”

Jarrett’s attacks grew more sluggish as the ironborn continued to dance just out of his longsword’s range, and I put heel to my horse once more, intent on intervention.

But my friend overextended before I could, and his foe took advantage. The axe struck Jarrett’s chest so hard the haft split into two.

My breath stole from my lungs at the sight, but I could not process what happened before Jarrett brought his longsword below, cutting clean through both the ironman’s arms at the elbows.

Both fell to the ground.

I hopped off my horse and skidded down next to Jarret, whose gauntlets fumbled ineffectually at the clasps beneath his pauldrons.

“Gods this hurts more than Betha’s five stag special.” His breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps that echoed from his helm. “Get this thing off of me.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” I said, noting the axe seemed to only be embedded a half inch or so. I made quick work of the clasps securing his breastplate and gingerly peeled the steel back. The chainmail beneath the butterflied metal had broken, but his skin was hardly nicked.

“The Mother watched over me.” He took a deep breath, taken easily without his armor restricting him.

“I’d send your prayers to the Smith.” I eyed the breastplate, crumpled and bowed inwards around the lodged axehead. Ruined now, but that blacksmith earned his gold.

“As long as the Maiden visits me to play nursemaid, I’ll praise them all for the rest of the days.” He poked at his cut like a child.

“Your piety is inspiring,” I said, deadpan, and fell back on my ass as the adrenaline left my system.

I plopped right into a slurry of bloody sand.

My gut twisted, and I added its meager contents to the mess with a violent retch.

“The aftermath is always the worst of it,” said Ser Erren Florent, approaching us and offering me a hand up. He’d removed his helmet, and the hair matted to his head had the unfortunate effect of making his overgrown ears all the more prominent.

“Yeah...”

I stared at the corpse of Jarrett’s foe as Ser Erren go the squire to his feet. Blood still dribbled from the stumps of his arms.

I did not even remember if he screamed.

I turned to look across the battlefield through dull eyes. Dozens lay dead, mostly ironborn, waves already lapped at the stained sand, and the fires on the ironborn vessels had become a veritable inferno.

The battle had not even taken fifteen minutes, I realized, and I hadn’t even drawn my sword. All evidence of the skirmish would be washed away with the tide within hours.

It inspired an empty sort of regret within me that begged the question “what was the purpose of this?” despite knowing how much damage we’d prevented.

An odd sense of disassociation, truth be told.

“Come,” Ser Erren said. “There’s still work to be done.”

---​

The longship pyre was joined by a second that evening as we burned the bodies of our enemies. Forty-two in all. Compared to the seven fallen reachmen, battle had been a textbook example of the importance of both surprise and superior positioning on the field.

Information won wars. I knew it now more than ever.

The four burned out villages on the coasts of the Florent’s lands proved what the men we’d met could do, and I shuddered to think of how much damage they could have done had we not gotten lucky our captured man.

All so they could burn every sept they were ballsy enough to attack.

Ermund the Waterbreather, our prisoners named their leader. The way they told it, he was a lowborn man from Great Wyk who’d gained a following by making it a habit to drown himself on a weekly basis and never staying dead for more than a few heartbeats. He and his set out with the will to raid in the hearts. Not for gold or glory, but to spark a holy war.

The thought of it curled my lip.

I hated fanatics.

But their little tale of terror was over. Their leader was slain, and the hero received his just reward as we all were joined by the returning townsfolk that night at the edge of the beach to watch.

“Now rise,” Ser Arnol intoned in a somber tone, all poise despite the bandages wrapped around his head and his newly crooked nose. “As Ser Jarrett Leygood. Knight of the Realm.”

Arnol lifted his blade from Jarrett’s shoulder and the scion of House Leygood rose to his feet, all smiles and cheer.

“It is a fine thing to see,” Garlan said from my left, a relaxed smile on his face. He and I were the only two of our mini cavalry to come away completely unscathed.

“Would that there could be two such ceremonies tonight.”

Garlan’s good mood evaporated with a sigh.

“You availed yourself well today.” His hand found its way to my shoulder in a firm grip. “But there is more to being a knight than skill at arms. Your time will come.”

“As you say,” I said, angling my head to meet his eye. “But the world waits for nobody, cousin.”

I let my frustration get to me and wrenched my shoulder free, going to my friend with excuse of offering my congratulations.

“Where do you intend to go now?” I asked as we crushed each other’s hands.

“After we get this lot back to Grimston?” Jarrett nodded toward the group of surviving ironborn tied together in a tight circle. “Heard about a tourney in King’s Landing before this mess began.” He waved a hand toward the funeral pyre. “I think it is meant to start soon, and I aim to win it.”

I blinked, surprised, and did the mental math.

It seemed far too early to be the Hand’s Tourney. Surely we would have heard word if Jon Arryn had already kicked the bucket?

“What’s it to celebrate?” I asked, doing my best to keep my voice light.

“The crown prince’s nameday, if I recall.”

“Ah,” I said with full eloquence, both relieved and annoyed at once. On the one hand, I still had time. On the other, I was at the point where the original timeline could start up at any time.

Being a passive passenger was always going to be a temporary thing, but knowing that did not make it any easier to take the step into being an active player.

I glanced back toward Garlan, who now stood among the smallfolk, no doubt offering them peace of mind.

A good man, I thought. A rare thing in Westeros.

And I was going to betray his trust.

“Say, Ser Jarrett,” I said, putting emphasis on the redhead’s new title. He preened at the word. “About that favor...”

 

[Dreyden90]

“Easy there, Gwayne,” Willas said in his softest voice. He leaned down over the coal black foal and ran a hand along its flank. The young horse whinnied, but settled back into the hay. Its eyes watched Willas, fearful, but he kept up his ministrations. “Rest now, young one.”

Gwayne drifted off to sleep after another minute and Willas stood with a sigh. The foal was through the worse of his illness, but it would still be touch and go for some time yet.

And it would be a shame to lose this one given the unique combination of its parents.

He made a mental note to write Oberyn once again to give his thanks for the Dornish Mare should the young one make it.

“Keep fresh water nearby,” he instructed one of the stable hands. “And alert me if there are any changes.”

“Aye, m’lord,” he said before racing off toward the well. Willas said a small prayer to the Stranger, begging mercy, and made his way back toward the castle proper.

His knee throbbed with every step and Willas made thought to see Lomys for a poultice when the main gates opened. Garlan rode in, his face twisted in a grimace.

Willas reversed his path and met his brother at the stables. Garlan was already off his horse by the time he caught up.

“Brother!” He greeted with a wide smile. Garlan grasped his hand with his strong grip and bowed his head, eyes flicking to Willas’ crippled leg.

“Willas. How do you fare?”

“As well as always.” He waved away his brother’s concern. “Where is our cousin?”

Garlan’s face fell and he ran a hand through his hair, sending the curls loose of the tie that held them.

“Proving himself a fool.”

Willas raised an eyebrow in question. The scarce days that Garlan and Lyonel spent at Highgarden following the start of the latter’s squiring always left Willas an impression that the youth was thoughtful and inquisitive.

Garlan sighed. “I come only to resupply and beg your fastest mount, brother.”

“Of course,” Willas said, turning to limp toward the far end of the stables. “What trouble has Lyonel gotten himself into?”

“A youthful folly, in truth.” Garlan slowed his pace to match Willas’ gate. “The boy thinks he is ready for his spurs and I suspect he has made for King’s Landing.”

“The prince’s tourney?”

“The very same. He’s like to get himself killed.”

Willas grimaced and felt the pain from his leg all the sharper. He knew well the cost of overestimating your own abilities.

“How far ahead is he?” he asked as they came upon the very last stall. Within, a mare colored a soothing rusty red rested.

“A day and a half,” Garlan said. “He stole away during the night after the Battle of Greyshield.” Garlan shook his head and looked east for a moment. “It was almost smart. I had to finish delivering our captives to Lord Grimm before I could follow.”

“He must feel strongly,” Willas said. He reached into the stall and ran a hand along the mare’s head. Sunstrider woke with a snort, eyeing the Tyrell brothers with annoyance. Willful as always.

“At four and ten we all feel strongly about everything,” Garlan said, irritation clear in his voice. “Most of us are not foolish enough to give into our whims without trusting our elders.”

“I remember how often we spent out in the labyrinth,” Willas said while waving over another stable hand. “Dreaming of leaving Highgarden and making our fame by our skill at arms alone.”

“And they were just fancies, Willas.” Garlan watched as Sunstrider was saddled. “We never would have though to abandon our knights.”

“You speak true,” Willas said, taking the offered reins from the stable boy. “But I just ask you bear in mind how blinded youth can make us to reality.” He guided Sunstrider from the stall, patting her along her neck.

Garlan grunted. “It’s the only reason I am not going to father.”

Willas could only imagine his father would assume the worst of Lyonel’s desertion. Aunt Janna’s pleas would mean little in the wake of perceived insult.

“My Lord Willas!” Both brothers turned to a redfaced page jogging toward them. The sandy haired youth’s eyes went wide when he spotted Willas was not alone, a flush crossing his cheeks. “Oh! Ser Garlan! Welcome back!”

Garlan nodded his acknowledgment, but the page remained silent with stars in his eyes until Willas cleared his throat.

“L-lord Mace requested your presence, my lord,” the page said after gathering himself. “I suppose he would have asked for Ser Garlan to attend him as well had he known...”

“I haven’t the time,” Garlan said. The page opened his mouth to object, but Willas cut him off.

“Tell my father I will be along in a moment,” he said. “And make no mention of my brother.”

The page nodded and raced off from whence he came.

“Go gather our cousin before he does something that cannot be undone,” Willas told his brother. “Sunstrider here was a gift from Prince Oberyn.” Willas ignored how Garlan grimaced. “She is not my fastest, but she has the most endurance by far. You can be in King’s Landing within the week.”

“I thank you, Willas.”

They grasped hands once more and embraced. A brief moment of familial comfort before they once again parted ways.

Five minutes later and Willas was stepping into his father’s solar, trying to ignore how loud his cane clacked against the stone with every step.

Even after all this time it was truly a distracting sound.

Father stood at the far end of the chamber at the window overlooking Highgarden’s western reaches. Grandmother sat at the solar’s lone table, to the right of the lord’s seat, her shrewd eyes looking over Willas in the same way that left him always feeling exposed in her presence. Mother sat across from the Queen of Thorns, offering Willas a strained smile.

“How does young Gwayne fare, Willas?” Mother asked. Grandmother scoffed, but Willas pretended not to hear.

“He’s through the worst of it,” he said. “I’m certain he’ll grow into a spectacularly useful beast.”

“I’m glad to hear so,” Mother said, but her smile did not quite meet her eyes.

“As wonderful as horse husbandry is,” Grandmother said in her typical dry tone. “We have a different type to discuss entirely. Mace?”

His father turned from the window, and Willas noticed a scroll in his hand. A broken purple seal bared a mark he could not make out at this distance.

“Son,” he said without any of his usual cheer. “You know I have been hesitant with promising my children’s hands over the years.”

He stepped away from the window and moved to the lord’s seat at the head of the table. He laid out the parchment on the aged wood and Willas could make out a blocky script, but not the words written.

“Ever since the incident with the Fossoways--”

Grandmother snorted, but his father continued in any case.

“I have debated the merits of seeking alliances within the Reach.” He met Willas’ eyes then. “And without.” He tapped the parchment twice, decisively.

Willas eyed the parchment as if it bore news indicating the end of the world. He had always known, in the back of his mind, that it was an inevitability that he would be promised to another. Yet once he was injured, offers had dried up, and part of Willas’ mind had been convinced he would be exempt from this one expectation.

“Who is it?” he asked, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“It’s taken years to set the terms of the agreement, but the lord has finally got over his dithering and realize you are a better match than any Lightning Lord.” His father met his eyes. “You will bind the houses of the Torrentine with our own.”

Willas clenched his jaw to hide his instinctive disappointment. The logical part of his mind knew it to be a good match. To enter an alliance with some of the Martell’s strongest vassals would only strengthen the Tyrell’s position in the realm. But the idealistic part of his brain still longed to find love on its own.

The way a knight would in the field.

An ideal best left to children of Lyonel’s age; not crippled men past the age of twenty.

“What is her name?”he managed to say.

“Allyria,” Mace Tyrell said with the beginnings of a grin. “Allyria Dayne.”

 

[Dreyden90]

We caught sight of King’s Landing the moment the Kingsroad left the Kingswood.

A kingly sight, was my sardonic thought.

The Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor drew the eye; two massive structures towering high over the city walls from the hills named for Aegon and Visenya.

I had thought that growing up in the gorgeous behemoth that was Highgarden would make me immune to the splendor of Westeros’ castles, but there was something about the sheer scale of the city that took my breath away.

For as large as the structures were, the city they dwarfed stretched for miles between them and in every other direction besides. Half a million people called the city home. Easily the biggest concentration on the continent, and likely the closest I’d ever feel to being back in my old life.

Sanitary considerations aside, I let the wonder of it keep my mood afloat.

An easy feat, given that a second city sprouted outside the walls. Pavilions great and small extended over the hills around King’s Landing, threaded with people in constant motion. Commoners, knights, shop keeps, squires, whores, and nobles alike came together in anticipation of the festivities.

And as we made our way into the throng, I felt just one turkey leg shy of being back at a Renaissance Faire in my old world.

“A wager is a wager,” Jarrett broke out companionable silence as we rode, his eyes trailing after a lovely pair of women walking the opposite direction with arms full of flowers. “But now that we’re here, I admit my curiosity is getting the better of me.”

“I aim to compete.”

Jarrett’s eyes snapped toward me, green and full of disbelief.

“The melee,” he said with doubt. “You’re risking Ser Garlan’s ire for the melee?” He ran a hand through his thick hair, shaking his head. “And here I had it in my mind that you wished for a chance to meet your father.”

“And how would I have done that? Walked up to the Red Keep and demanded to see the Master of Ships?”

Jarrett shrugged. “Hadn’t thought it through, but you’re the sharp one,” he said. “Which is why I cannot fathom why you would trade away squiring for Ser Garlan for a bloody melee.”

“Ser Garlan will understand,” I said, calm in the face of his incredulity. Granted, stealing away in the middle of the night to go and compete in a tournament against his wishes was tantamount to spitting on Garlan’s boots and declaring I had no faith in his judgment. But I was counting on both Garlan’s even temperament and my carefully worded letter to curb his anger.

Well, that and actually proving myself right.

“And besides,” I said. “I aim to enter the lists as well.”

“Would that this were a lesser tourney,” Jarrett said. “But this is one of Prince Joffrey’s follies. Only knights and nobles will be allowed in the joust.”

“It won’t be a problem.”

Jarrett gave me a long look. “Before you ask. I will not knight you.”

I met his gaze with a reassuring smile. “Never planned on asking.”

Knighting another man’s squire was something of an unwritten “no-no” in the rules of chivalry.

Besides, I didn’t just need to be knighted. Had that been the case it would have been a simple matter of bribing the right people and boom, insta-knight.

No, I needed a shortcut to establish a reputation. Being dubbed by Garlan would have been a solid start, but in the need for haste, creating some fanfare would be my next best bet.

I could deal with the fallout from the Tyrells in due time.

“Now,” I said. “We just need to find a blacksmith.” I turned my head and strained for the telltale cling of hammered steel. “Preferably a cheap one.”

---

Jarrett arrived back at our rented pavilion, took one look at me doing my best to turn my plain wooden kite shield into a Jackson Pollock, and let out a groan.

“This the definition of foolhardiness.”

I lined up my horsehair brush with one eye closed and gave it a sharp flick. Fresh yellow splatters joined the motley mess of every other color of the rainbow.

“Aye,” I agreed. “But this is how songs get made.”

“Or how people get dead.”

He sat down on his cot, the wood creaking beneath the weight of his armored frame.

“Have you not read the stories of Ser Duncan the Tall? The Knight of the Laughing Tree?”

“Only one of those ended well.”

“But people loved both.” I traded yellow for blue and continued my work. “Everyone loves the idea of a mystery knight.”

“The smallfolk maybe. But you chance earning the ire of the knights.”

“We’ll see,” I said and placed my paints to the side, satisfied with my work.

Jarrett eyed the shield with distaste.

“It looks as if you slaughtered a unicorn.”

I laughed. “More or less what I was going for.”

The abstract mess of colors would hopefully draw the eye.

“I’m beginning to think you might be half mad.”

“I would take it as a complement.”

Jarrett barked out a laugh.

“Well madman,” he said. “The melee will not be long in starting, best get this shit armor on you.”

Jarrett was not wrong about my newly acquired gear. The plate was thin, roughly dented in places, and an ugly, dull grey still stained with the soot and debris from the forge.

I had doubts it would last the full tourney.

But beggars could not be choosers when you only had stags and pennies to trade, not dragons.

Plus my chainmail was still castle forged, so I did not doubt tourney blades would pose any significant threat to my health.

Hopefully.

“I trust there were no problems signing up for the lists, then?” I asked while forcing the clasp connecting a pauldron to my breastplate to close.

“After suffering the suspicions of no less than a half dozen of the king’s men,” Jarrett said while fiddling with his sword belt. “Both myself and the “Knight of the Many Colors” have a place in the jousts.” He gave me a side-eye. “Consider us even.”

Right then, I thought as I donned my new full helm. All that’s left is to kick some ass.

While the tent city sprouted up all around King’s Landings walls like so many mushrooms, the main tourney grounds were set up in the open fields between the Lion’s Gate and the King’s Gate. Stands had been erected and draped in gold and black in the colors of the royal house, crowned by the royal box in the center standing twenty feet higher than the rest. Below, four palisades had been set up for the lists, with the melee ring and archery yard dug in closer to the water. The Blackwater Rush provided a natural backdrop, its current far swifter than either the Mander or Honeywine.

By the time Jarrett and I made it, it was packed. Nobles and anyone of notes sat on the glorified bleachers while scores of smallfolk jostled for position in the “standing room only” section. A cheer rumbled from the crowd as a man, tall and wearing a cape of bright green and scarlet feathers that contrasted with his dark skin, loosed a series of three arrows in quick succession. They hit the target with a good grouping just around the bullseye.

From the way his opponent threw down his longbow and stalked off, the archery competition had just been decided.

While the herald proclaimed Jalabhar Xho the victor and embellished his skills to the rapt audience, I found myself in a queue with dozens of knights and lords.

Funny how some things seemed universal.

As the line moved forward at a glacial pace, I made an effort to spot familiar faces in the crowd.

The royal box was packed. Robert was as fat as advertised, his cheeks flushed as he guffawed at something Tyrion Lannister was saying. The dwarf’s jest was lost on the queen, as Cersei sipped at a goblet with a curled lip and a side-eye toward her husband. Behind her the Kingslayer spoke with smirk of his own and the king laughed harder. Ser Barristan the Bold stood behind the king, vigilant despite the mirth around him.

Joffrey said something then from his seat just beneath the king’s. He placed a hand on the pommel of his sword and smirked, all arrogance and swagger. I could not be sure if it was simply my knowledge of the truth, but the boy was the spitting image of Jaime.

There was the built in excuse that Cersei was Jaime’s twin, but it still begged disbelief how his parentage wasn’t obvious.

Whatever the prince said earned a rebuke from his mother even as both his siblings shied away from him. Joffrey screwed up his face, going red from the chastisement, and sulked with crossed arms.

A truly terrifying sight…

Thousands upon thousands would die because of that little shit. It was a difficult fact to reconcile with the image he displayed.

To my surprise, Tywin Lannister chose that moment to step through the cloth of gold divider to claim the empty seat on Robert’s right I had assumed been saved for Jon Arryn. Bald save for his impressive sideburns, Tywin’s head was lined with permanent creases that spoke of furrowed brows and deep frowns. Robert made a jest in his direction, which the Lannister patriarch met with nothing more than a droll look.

Seven Lannisters to one Baratheon in the royal box. No clearer display of power and influence could be had unless Robert donned a “Team Lannister” jersey himself.

“Your name, Ser?”

I blinked, surprised to find myself at the front of the queue, and answered.

“The Knight of Many Colors”

To his credit, the haggard looking herald only gave a weary nod while scratching my pseudonym down on his parchment. He gestured for me to enter the pit before repeating his question to Jarrett just behind me.

The melee yard was a good one hundred yard by fifty yard field of packed dirt. Given the amount of men entering, though, there was not going to be a lot of room to maneuver until the competition thinned out.

As knights continued to trickle into the field, I let my attention wander back to the crowd lest it start recognizing my nerves.

I found the other Baratheon brothers below the royal seats and to the right, joined by the rest of the small council amidst a group of nobles baring symbols from the houses of the Crownlands and Stormlands. Renly held the attention of most around him, all smiles as gold and silver exchanged hands. Littlefinger was among them, though his eyes were focused further down the row on my father.

Stannis seemed isolated despite the crowd around him. Only old Jon Arryn spoke with him, looking thin frail to me at this distance. Ser Davos stood behind them, eyes darting around him and his stance screaming his discomfort.

The heralds started announcing their list of knights and I shook my head, clearing it of any thought besides the here and now.

There were champions from all over the southern half of the kingdoms in the field, but I only a few names stood out to me to avoid at all cost in the hopes that somebody else would take care of them for me.

Sandor Clegane; Arys Oakheart and Meryn Trant of the Kingsgard; Bronze Yohn Royce; Balon Swann; Thoros of Myr; and because of course he was there, my cousin Loras.

All great swordsman from my knowledge of the story, and many of them more bloodied than I.

Don’t have to win, I reminded myself as I spun my blunted sword around to loosen up my wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Just have to put on a show.

The herald reached the end of his list and bowed out of the arena while Robert stood to his feet.

I fell back into a solid stance and put my head on a swivel, trying to find a likely first target while not overthinking how my armor did not allow me to move with my normal fluidity.

“Good luck, my friend,” Jarrett said, his back to mine.

“See you on the other side.”

“Begin!” Robert bellowed, and I heard Jarrett race off with a battle cry that was soon lost among dozens of others.

Then came the song of steel upon steel.

My first opponent was a man in mail beneath a white tabard bearing the purple unicorn of House Brax. He swung a morning star in tight circles over his head and brought it down as we came together. My instinct was to dodge, but I instead caught the spiked flail on my new shield and angled the momentum so I could sidestep the knight and push him stumbling past me.

I followed my opening with a strike to the back of the knee and a quick blow to the dome of his helmet. Without an edge, a sword became something of an inefficient bludgeoning weapon. It proved effective enough, though, and the Brax man went sprawling to the dirt.

“Yield!” I shouted over the din, placing a boot on his ass.

He raised his hand and made a deliberate show of dropping his weapon. “I yield!” He wheezed out the words and I left him there to find my next engagement.

The melee proved to be vastly different to actual battle. While the noise and chaotic nature of being surrounded by dozens of others remained the same, there was a hint of order to the madness. In knights seeking one-on-one fights in the crowd. The air did not hold the same stink of desperation I remembered from Greyshield.

I expected to spend half my time trying not to remember the Ironborn, but it grew further from my mind with each knight I forced to yield. By the time I took out my fourth – a fumbling man of House Frey – I was joining the others in shouting my mirth in a battle cry. Happy to be part of the spectacle.

Which of course screwed with my focus and let a greatsword get close enough to where I only had enough time to just get my shield between my face and the blade.

A great crack echoed in my ears as I my gauntlet was driven into my visor and I was lifted into the air with enough force to throw me a few feet back. I landed on my back, my left arm throbbing in pain with my shield scattered about me, a shattered rainbow of color lost to the mud.

To my immediate concern, a giant of a man stalked toward me. His helm shaped into the gaping maw of a snarling hound marked him Sandor Clegane, and all the missing fight or flight instincts kicked right into overdrive.

“Yiel--”

I cut him off right as he stood over me by lobbing a fistful of mud straight into his helm’s open jaws and thusly right in his face.

Not the most honorable of moves, but hey, he was the fucking Hound.

Also, I had liked that shield. Superfluous as it may have been with plate armor.

I scrambled to my feet in a squat and wrapped my arms around the man’s legs beneath the knees while the Hound choked on earth. I heaved backwards, engaging all of my core and leg muscles until the screamed a murderous protest.

The Hound realized what was happening and brought his oversized sword down across my back, fast as a whip. My armor bent badly and pressed my chainmail painfully into my back, but it held as I managed to lift the hundreds of pounds of man and steel off the ground.

It was only an inch, but it was enough to steal Clegane’s feet from beneath him.

I drove my shoulder forward, adding my strength to gravity’s as the Hound slammed into the hard ground with a harsh wheeze and a comical puff of dirt.

I got to my feet, kicked his greatsword away, and held my own longsword to his neck. He stared up at me, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Yield.” I wheezed out the word and did my best to pretend like every muscle in my body was not screaming at me in protest and my armor wasn’t making it difficult to breathe.

“Cunt.” He snarled the word and started to get his arms underneath him.

I panicked and kicked the bottom half of his helm’s dog maw so that his head bounced off the unforgiving ground again.

He lay still, then.

“Holy fuck,” I said through labored breaths, backing away. “That just fucking happened.”

I took only a moment to bask in my survival of that encounter and tried to get my breathing under control while surveying the rest of the melee.

To find that I was one of the final few fighters.

Huh, I thought dully and watched as Loras moved away from a downed Balon Swann to engage Thoros of Myr and his sword bathed in green flames. I have a shot.

I didn’t have time to revel in that realization as the only other man besides Thoros and Loras still standing stalked towards me, his bronze plated armor giving off a handsome glow in the afternoon sun.

He stopped five feet from me an assumed a defensive stance. I took a deep breath, winced at the metal digging into my back, and sank into my own form.

“Lord Royce,” I said by way of greeting.

“Mystery knight,” he returned with a brief nod.

Then we clashed.

I hoped to overwhelm him with a flurry of furious blows, but he was far faster than I had expected given his age and he weathered the storm by giving ground.

I backed off before I could overextend. Bronze Yohn just resumed his defensive stance, serene and content to wait for me to resume an offensive.

A patient fighter, I thought. Like Garlan.

Sweat dripped down my brow, my muscles ached something fierce, and I still could not get my breath under complete control. I had no shot at a battle of attrition at this point.

So I went with a feint.

I approached the old lord with a show of aggression as before, but left a few tantalizing openings he would be a fool to miss.

He did not take the bait for the first few traded blows, and it was only the fourth time I pretended to put too much weight on my right foot was he tempted to strike at my exposed midsection.

Had I truly been off balance, I would not have been able to dodge the straight strike to the gut. A blow that would be a sure kill with a live blade.

As it was, though, I pivoted to sideface so Royce’s sword sliced through only air and threw its barer of balance. I grabbed his sword arm at the elbow and followed through on my pirouette. Our combined momentum sent the lord to the ground.

Gravity is the real MVP, I thought with a grin while placing my sword to the back of Royce’s neck.

“I yield,” Yohn said with a coughing chuckle. “Well played, ser.”

I helped him back to his feet. “You fought well, my lord.”

“Not well enough today,” he said while removing his helm. “I wish you luck.” He nodded behind me and made his way toward the edge of the pit.

I turned to find Thoros of Myr standing twenty feet away, Loras nowhere to be seen.

He held out his flaming blade in my direction with a wide, challenging grin. For a man who could make it this far without a helm and wearing only mail beneath flowing ruby robes, I did not begrudge him the confidence.

Well then.

I held out my arms wide in invitation, to raucous applause from the crowd.

Thoros barked out a laugh and charged while I forced my protesting body into a defensive stance.

Note to self. Try not to take a direct hit from a man over a foot taller than you ever again.

The only way I was going to win was to do it in one shot.

So I held my sword more like a bat, and swung with all my might when the red priest was in reach.

Not at the man, but at his blade.

A crunch of rent metal echoed in my ears as my sword cracked clean through the flame weakened steel of Thoros’. We both watched the arc of green flames as the blade went flying, burying itself in the ground a good fifteen feet away.

I took a step back, resuming a defensive stance, but Thoros only looked at the jagged remains of the blade he held with a quizzical expression.

“Well,” he said after a moment, grinning. He dropped the remnant of his weapon and held his hands up. “I suppose I yield, then.”

The cheers from the crowd redoubled to a deafening degree.

 

[Dreyden90]

Banks, I thought while staring at my new chest full of gold. Should definitely figure out how to start a bank. Or get to Braavos.

The prize for the melee had matched that of the archery contest. Five thousand gold dragons delivered in a bronze-stained and copper-inlaid chest that had to be worth more on its own than the armor I’d purchased yesterday.

It was more wealth than I had ever owned, and, frankly, it was unnerving to think someone could just take it and I would be up the figurative creek.

“I still can’t believe you won,” Jarrett said. He lounged on his cot in the dim torchlight, staring at their pavilion’s ceiling. “I mean, the Hound, Lyonel. I lost to a damned drunk.”

It was the dozenth time he’d said it, as if losing to Thoros was a source of shame.

“If he’d had a real sword I’d be half the man I used to be.”

Jarrett snorted.

“I just hope he’s not in the lists tomorrow,” I said, closing the lid to my new fortune and settling back on my own makeshift bed.

“He couldn’t even walk straight afterward.”

I winced at that. Clegane had likely been concussed, but his glare felt strong enough to murder me on its own.

“In any case,” I said. “We’ll have to get up early tomorrow. I need you to buy me new armor.”

The breastplate on mine was busted beyond repair, with the rest of it in little better shape.

Plus I had an idea on how to make myself stand out.

Jarrett grumbled. “Am I to act your squire, too?”

“I’ll owe you a favor this time,” I said. “And pay you for the trouble.”

“I will hold you to it.”

Jarrett fell asleep quickly, his snores filling the quiet air, but I laid awake some time longer.

I had been tempted to reveal myself at the end of the melee. To demand to be knighted then and there, and beg a place in the king’s household. Robert had been in good enough spirits when he praised my victory, but I had hesitated.

I only had one shot at the reveal, and while winning the melee was an impressive feat, the nobility of Westeros valued jousting far, far more.

Gotta earn a place in that damned castle, I thought before sleep finally came to me. Need to be in the best position when I go for it.

---

“I do wonder how your mind works.” Jarrett eyed me up and down and shook his head. “You look as if the court fool wanted play at being a knight.”

“I imagine the smith didn’t give you any trouble once you flashed the gold?”

I tested my range of motion, finding much more room to maneuver than the day before despite its heavier weight.

“He did not, but I have not been judged so harshly since I first joined Ser Arnol.”

“You have to admit,” I said while donning my second new helm in as many days. “It fits the name better than just a mess on a shield.”

My new steel was painted in seven different colors to both match my pseudonym and to earn a few brownie points with the Faith if I managed to create a story today.

A red great helm, an orange gorget over a green cuirass, golden spaulders and blue gauntlets, capped off with a pair of violet greaves. All of my exposed mail had been stained white, as well.

It was a ridiculous getup, but that was the point. It would stick in people’s minds, and either I would win and it would only add to the story I wanted to present, or I would lose and never have my identity revealed.

Granted, I would have no idea what to do next if I did not win, but after coming out on top of the melee I was somewhat more confident than I had been the day before.

“At least no sane knight will want that armor if you lose.” Jarrett shook his head before hefting his orange helm under an arm. “But we should get to the lists. If the prince means to have the tournament finish today, the bouts will begin soon.”

We went to our horses which I had already saddled and made ready. While Jarrett mounted and made off, I spent a moment to speak softly to my mare.

“Rest well, Stormflower?” I asked, stroking her neck. She was a handsome beast with amber fur and a coal black mane. I had grown fond of her in the year since Willas gifted her to me to the point where I had not even risked her in the skirmish with the ironborn. “Think we have it in us to win today?”

She tossed her head and whinnied. Call it sentimentality, but I took it as an affirmative.

I led her toward the tourney grounds, joining Jarrett amongst the pavilions set up for the knights to house in between bouts. I saw others sending long looks my way, but ignored them to study the crowd as I had the day before.

It was packed again, which was something of a surprise given it was no more than two hours past dawn. A welcome surprise came as the Baratheon brothers were all in the royal box proper this morning, even if a half dozen others separated them from each other. One of said peoples was the Hound acting as the crown prince’s shadow, I was happy to note.

Jon Arryn was noticeably still absent from the box. I scanned the faces nearest the royals and spotted him speaking to a man who appeared even more ancient than the frail Vale lord.

A man whose face looked suspiciously similar to a weasel.

My stomach sank.

The Late Lord Frey was in King’s Landing speaking to Jon Arryn. Something ticked at the edge of my memory, just out of reach.

Beside them, plump Lysa Tully’s face was red enough to match her hair and pinched in blatant annoyance. Little Robert Arryn sat in her lap, leaning forward with wide eyes as he looked over the knights assembled.

They had been absent yesterday when Jon had been speaking with Stannis.

The memory clicked.

Fostering the young lord had been the topic that drove Lysa to poison her husband at Littlefinger’s behest.

Said man was currently jesting with Renly, not a care in the world.

Welp, I thought, clutching Stormflower’s reins in an iron grip. Gotta win now to have anything resembling a chance…

Win the tourney, cause enough of a stir to gain Robert’s attention, gain a post in the Red Keep, and proceed to give the timeline the ol’ what for.

The plan hadn’t changed, but damned if seeing the dominoes about to fall did not light a fire right under the ass.

“Your graces!” A herald called in a roaring tenor, standing before the first jousting barrier. “My lords, my ladies! I beg your attention to the lists for the first bouts of the day!”

He rattled off eight names of which none stood out to me as memorable.

Given there were the better part of two hundred competitors, it was hardly a surprise.

I kept an eye out for any notable competition, but none seemed extraordinary by my measure. I wondered then if my judgment was so thrown by growing up with the Tyrell boys, but by the time the herald announced my name, the only knights that gave me pause were Jaime and Loras.

My pseudonym was met with a hefty amount of cheers. I grinned beneath my helm and found the weight of their expectation reassuring rather than daunting.

I rode Stormflower to the third jousting fence and met my opponent in the center. He wore naked steel, and only the quartered gold lion on crimson and blue bridged towers on grey gave way to his identity.

“Good luck to you, Ser Cleos,” I offered.

“And to you,” replied the Frey.

Simple, but pleasant enough, I thought as I made my way to the far end of the field, nearest to the Blackwater.

The herald bid us begin, and I rode Stormflower hard, my lance held firm. I aimed for the center of his mass and broke my lance on his armor while his struck my shoulder and glanced off without breaking. Three bouts later and it proved much the same, with me breaking my lance on his armor twice more before unseating him.

We met in the middle once more and Ser Cleos guaranteed his armor and horse would be delivered to my pavilion by day’s end.

I waved him off, though, claiming a worthy competition was worth its own weight in gold.

Sappy, perhaps, but it earned me the good will of the knight. And frankly, following the purse from the melee, I had no real interest in robbing knights of their wealth.

The field narrowed rapidly, halving with each round and turning into a veritable Frey buffet. None of Lord Frey’s many sons and grandsons made it to the top twenty, and it was my luck that I had matched up against Frey scions twice more by the end of the fourth round.

Jarrett had performed admirably as well, not unhorsing his foes but by beating each by number of broken lances in good order. He earned favor with the crowd when he defeated the likes of Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Addam Marbrand, but his luck ran out when he drew Jaime Lannister upon our return from the mid afternoon break.

“Try to get in his head.” I offered when my friend lamented he had no chance in any of the seven hells. “Ask him instead if he enjoys standing guard while his king fucks his sister.”

Jarrett let out a surprised crack of laughter before shaking his head. “I dare not,” he said, but his nerves appeared settled by my jest.

Even so, Jarrett was unhorsed by Ser Jaime on their fifth tilt.

“There are worse opponents to lose to.” Jarrett was in good enough spirits following his loss. “And I guarantee the Kingslayer is going to win the day.”

When there were four competitors left, the herald seemed to have a need to hype up the matches.

“He earned your love in the melee!” he said, waving in my direction. “And continue to cheer for him in the lists. With victory upon victory, this mysterious fellow seeks grander conquests still! The Knight of Many Colors!”

“And hailing from Driftmark, anxious to prove himself as able ahorse as he is with a ship beneath his feet, the Lord of the Tides! Lord Monford Velaryon!” He wore plain armor but for the decorative seahorse enameled in sea green across his chest. He saluted me from the other end of the list rather than meet me in the middle, and I returned the favor.

When we rode upon the other, he proved more skilled than any of the others I faced that day. He broke three lances on me before I found his number and managed to break my next three while avoiding his blows. On our seventh tilt, we each sent scattered wood in all directions, but Lord Monford’s horse took a bad step and tumbled.

It was a miracle that the lord only suffered a separated shoulder from the fall, but the poor beast had to be put down.

A lackluster win, and one that left the crowd lukewarm.

Their good cheer soon returned though when Jaime Lannister and Loras took the field against one another. Jaime was a generational talent with a blade, but was not quite as naturally gifted with the lance. He relied on speed and bursts of power to overwhelm his opponents while his reputation did the headgames for him. Loras, though, had a knack for finding just the right spot to knock an opponent off balance.

And had an ego a mile wide, that gave no shits to an opponent’s reputation.

I idly stroked Stormflower’s mane while watching the bout, not surprised when Loras managed to unhorse Jaime on their third tilt.

The stands erupted in gasps and cheers at the perceived upset, and my friend was no exception.

“You’re fucked,” he said succinctly when he picked up his jaw from the dirt. “Ser Garlan always said Ser Loras was the better lance, and Ser Garlan’s damned good.”

“And Garlan’s the better sword,” I agreed while mounting Stormflower once more. “But I trained with both since I was a boy.” I took a breath and shot my friend a grin he could not see beneath my helm. “I probably had no chance against Ser Jaime, but I’ll beat Loras in one tilt.”

“You are mad,” Jarrett said. “But I wish you luck.”

Loras and I took our positions at the jousting fence closest to the stands and he took the time to play to the crowd with his helm removed, cantering up the list and waving his lance about. When the herald called my pseudonym I simply raised my lance in salute, and my ego was fed as the crowd cheered for me in equal fervor.

Grinning beneath my helm, I shouldered my lance and stuck Stormflower’s flanks with a gusto when the herald called the beginning of our bout.

When Garlan began my training at the lance with a gusto, it was Loras he sought to test me against. Over the years Loras would always beat me no matter how much I improved, until I learned his tell.

He would always rear back right before he went for the strike, to get a little extra oomph in his attack. It was always just an inch or two, but it left a split second opening that could be exploited. It told of Loras’ skill that he corrected for my read after I beat him several times, but he only ever did so against me.

And he had no idea the Knight of Many Colors knew of it.

Sure enough, as we pushed our horses toward the other with the intent of violence, Loras pulled his shoulder back just a touch.

I unapologetically struck at the opening and the sense of vindication I felt at watching my cousin go ass over teakettle was matched only by the first time it happened all those years ago.

The crowd roared their approval as a mystery knight defeated the Reach’s favored son.

The king bellowed for order after I had taken a victory lap, and quiet fell as I dismounted to stand before my royal uncle. Loras stood to my right, looking quite put out.

“Ser of the Many Colors!” King Robert said with his arms held out in a wide stretch, his voice booming. “You have proved your might and mettle these past days, but I would know the name of the man I call champion!”

“Your grace!” I said in my loudest voice. My helm muffled it some, robbing it of gravitas. “I beg your pardon, but I am not yet a knight!”

The statement drew gasps from the smallfolk and a murmur of surprise from the nobles. I took a steadying breath. Now or never.

I bent my head and removed my helm. The stands were shocked to silence.

My uncle and I shared quite the resemblance, even with my gaunter features.

“My name is Lyonel Storm, your grace. Of Highgarden.”

I dared not look toward my father, and studied the faces of the others instead. Cersei regarded me with a clenched jaw and withering stare, while her father held me with a gaze as cold as it was calculating. Even Tyrion seemed serious, tapping his chin with a frown while Renly grinned like a fool two seats down.

Of a bit more concern were the intent stares both Littlefinger and Varys had locked on me, and the murderous glare the Hound sent my way.

Problems for later, I thought.

By my side, Loras was working his way through shock and onto anger, and he was not the only knight to regard me less than positively.

Robert though, was beginning to grin.

“Your Grace!” I continued after the pregnant pause and fell to one knee. “I beg your forgiveness, but there would be no greater honor than to be knighted in your name. To join your household and serve the crown with all my strength!”

Come on Robert, I thought, keeping my head bowed. You know you can’t resist the spectacle of it all. Take the bait so that I might save your sorry ass.

“Bold and brave and skilled besides!” Robert bellowed, cutting off both my thoughts and the murmuring crowd. “Would that all youths would show such promise!” The king laughed then, and then turned toward his brother.

My heart skipped a beat.

Robert, no

“Stannis! See to it that the boy’s wish is honored. Knight your bastard!”

That caused quite the stir as people who hadn’t put two and two together looked at me with new light.

My father rose from his seat with his jaw clenched and heavy brow furrowed. He did not look to the king, but stared me down as he descended the steps.

I did not think this through, was my only thought as I could not tear my gaze away from Stannis’ glare. The dark blue of his eyes swirled with the fury the Baratheons boasted of with their words.

My throat clenched and I could not find words to speak though I desperately wanted to. I had assumed the king would call for any of the knights assembled to grant me my spurs. A kingsguard, if my luck held, but it never even occurred to me that he would make Stannis do it.

Any chance to bring his brother low, I thought as Stannis reached the ground. His expression only hardened as he came to tower over me. I’m a damned fool.

When he drew his blade I half thought he would take my head.

I lowered my eyes as he bit out the flowery words of the ceremony in his strained voice. His sword thumped down on my shoulders and he bid me to rise a knight, but was already stalking away as I did so.

The crowd was in good spirits and Loras was saying something behind me, but I ignored it all and made to follow Stannis.

If there was to be any salvaging of a relationship, I needed to confront his perceived humiliation straight away.

But a hand gripped my shoulder then, and spun me around so I was face to face with Garlan.

“Ser Lyonel,” he said through clenched teeth. Loras stood over his shoulder, looking just as displeased.

Well, I thought, trying to scramble for words to say. Fuck.

 

[varoksa]

Are you moving completely to SB? cant say i blame you the moderation is far better here.

 

[Dreyden90]

Garlan was not an easy man to anger. I had seen him deal with disrespectful bannermen, scumbag outlaws, stubborn drunks, and obnoxious bootlickers alike without losing his temper. Patience was his defining virtue. Disappointment his weapon.

He levied it against me in full force.

“What in all the seven hells were you thinking?”

He towered over me as I sat on my cot, making me feel half my age. I was lucky in that he had agreed to not do this in public.

“It is… difficult to explain,” I said, wishing I could simply tell him the future. I did not have a fully thought out excuse, having figured I’d have time to pen a letter later on.

“Because you were not thinking,” Garlan accused. He crossed his arms and shook his head, hair waving about his shoulders. “That is the reason you were not ready. Still are not ready.”

“I--”

“You have the skill at arms,” my knight interrupted me. “But you lack for discipline, foresight, judgment, patience, and humility.” He ticked off each virtue with a raised finger and my hackles rose.

There are lives at stake! I wanted to shout. War is coming if someone does not act, and I’m the only one who has a shot at stopping it!

“There are things I want to do,” I said instead. “Need to do. That can only be done in the capital.”

“Stannis Baratheon is not going anywhere,” Garlan said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

It was both convenient and annoying that people kept assuming he was the sole reason I wanted to be in King’s landing.

Loras snorted from his place lounging on Jarrett’s cot.

“And you’re more like to squeeze love from a stone than Stannis Baratheon,” he said. “Would that I knew it was you, cousin, and I could have ended your folly.”

“Or I would have beaten you anyway,” I shot back. The smarter move would have been to let him soothe his pride, but it was too tempting to take down his ego when he was being an ass. “You’ve grown sloppy in your knighthood, Loras.”

His nostrils flared, but Garlan stood between us as Loras got to his feet.

“Enough. You do yourself no favors, Lyonel.”

I sighed and stood, coming up to Garlan’s nose and doing a decent job at staring him down. “I cannot change my decision now, Garlan. It is done. And I am not here to just meet a man who by all rights seems to hate me.”

And that was going to be a right mess to figure out and fix.

I continued. “I can make a difference here, cos. I promise that you’ll see the reason of it in time. Trust me.”

Garlan regarded me with sadness and disappointment. “You’d best hope you do find a place here, Ser Lyonel.” His voice went formal and my throat tightened. “I do not think my father will welcome you in Highgarden after this.”

He turned on his heel and made to leave while my heart panged with homesickness I did not expect.

For all the relatively little time I spent in Highgarden since squiring, it had always been a beacon of warmth, songs, and love offering shelter from the road. I thought of my mother, her kindness never wavering, her love resolute. Of Willas’ endless determination and his pure joy for animals. Of Margaery and Desmera, when their fondness for me had not been tainted by the realization of what a bastard was. Even of old Olenna, whose wit was often as hilarious as it was biting.

Straight up banishment had not crossed my mind as a possibility.

“You do not have to tell him the truth of it,” I found myself saying before I could think better of it. “If you say I had your blessing--”

The Reach’s second son whirled back on me, eyes wide with righteous anger. I stepped back in surprise, falling back onto my cot.

“How could you even think to ask me that!?” It occurred to me that I never heard him shout from anger before. Even Loras recoiled behind him. “You say to trust you? You did not trust me! You made it quite clear how you regard me when you stole away in the night and abandoned your duty. Yet still you ask me to further stain my own honor in your name.”

I gaped at him, at a complete loss for words once more.

That was happening too often of late.

“I don’t know where I went wrong with you,” were his final words as he left, stalking out in a fervor.

Loras left a moment later without so much as a taunt, and any sense of normalcy I held drifted through my fingers like smoke on the wind.

My stomach twisted in knots and chest wrung itself in pain.

“I made the right choice,” I told the empty air around me. “Save Jon Arryn, save the world.”

The words offered little comfort to the gaping chasm where Garlan’s camaraderie had been.

---​

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Jarrett asked me as we made our way up Aegon’s high hill. To my shame, he had been standing just outside our pavilion while Garlan lambasted me

“Don’t have much in the way of choice.” I pulled at the collar of my new doublet. Silk dyed a vibrant green, it had been hastily made when I flashed some of my new gold to a tailor on the Street of Looms. My new coat-of-arms had been sewn on the left breast to my specifications.

A shield split per pale. On the left, an emerald rose on gold. The right, a golden stag, rampant, on black. Both my parents’ houses with colors inverted.

A bit too close to Joffrey’s theme for my liking, but to do anything else would invite insulting one house or the other.

Considering my current footing with Tyrell, I dared not take the risk.

“The king technically offered me a job,” I continued. “I’m going to want to lock it in tonight, lest the opportunity slips away.” I smoothed down the front of my trousers, also silk but of the deepest black, and tried to shake off the feeling that I was walking into a job interview.

My new getup was the close enough to the formality of a suit where old, instinctive nerves were trying to kick in. Not something I wanted to deal with on top of everything earlier that afternoon.

Those emotions were best left bottled up for a better day to work through them.

“I would say you have little chance,” Jarrett said. I was jealous at how easily he wore his own fancy clothes, orange on black like a walking advert for Halloween. “But I’ve already been wrong twice.”

“Even if it goes spectacularly badly, there will still be lords and knights from half the seven kingdoms there. Plenty of shoulder rubbing to do.”

“Don’t I know it.” He ran a hand through his ginger fringe. “Father would kill me if I passed up this chance.”

The lord of Leygood was a rather ambitious fellow, from what Jarrett had told me.

“Mayhaps some lady will have swooned over your dashing clash with Ser Jaime?” I offered my friend a sly grin, but he just gave a rueful laugh.

“Mayhaps."

We had little trouble gaining entry to the Red Keep as the night’s festivities were hosted in one of the castle’s first large courtyards. Well away from the drawbridge to Maegor’s Holdfast.

Lanterns hung on black and gold streamers lit up the yard in a soft glow, and dozens of long tables framed a clearing of thick grass left open for dancing. A bard played a jaunty rendition of The Dornishman’s Wife in a throaty voice, much to the enjoyment of the couples already moving about in spins and whirls.

We were fashionably late, then.

The king seemed well in his cups at the table isolated at the opposite end of the clearing from the gate. He forced a goblet into Renly’s hand with a bellowed laugh and forced his little brother to take a drink, causing far more wine to spill than make it into the stormlord’s mouth.

The display earned a round of laughter from those nearby, and Renly tried to play it off with the expected grace, dabbing at his wine stained jerkin even as Robert clapped him on the back.

I turned away from the two to search for their brother, finding him engaged with Jon Arryn and Davos Seaworth in a corner closer to the innards of the keep.

“I hardly know where to begin,” Jarrett said. His eyes were darting between the various tables, where a motley collection of Westerosi nobility mixed and mingled. No group seemed to stay cohesive for long, as men and women drifted off from one circle to the next at a steady rate.

Networking is a thing in all worlds…

“Well,” I said, eyeing a buxom woman walking by in a purple dress fringed in bronze. Crescent moons had been sewn into her collar. “How about with her? My lady!”

“What are you doing?” Jarrett asked below his breath, but I ignored him.

She stopped to regard me with a quizzical expression before her brown eyes lit up in recognition.

“If it isn’t the champion!” she said with a smile, stepping toward us. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had the honor, Ser Lyonel.”

She offered her hand, and I took it and gave her the customary kiss on the knuckles.

“We have not,” I said once I stood. “Might I beg your name?”

Her red painted lips curled into a smile that my pride insisted was not patronizing.

“Lady Myranda Royce,” she said. “A pleasure.”

“It is, Lady Myranda, but I beg forgiveness for my boldness.”

“Oh?” She raised a deliberately maintained eybrow.

“Yes, you see, my friend here made comment that he had never seen someone of such beauty or grace in his life,” I said, ignoring the gaping Jarrett behind me. “But I knew he would be far too shy to beg a dance for himself. So I do so on his behalf.”

“Is that so?” Lady Myranda looked at my friend and gave him a once over. Her smile turned genuine. “I’m flattered. Ser…?”

“Right. Yes. Jarrett,” he supplied as his face was slowly starting to match his hair. I lifted her hand to his. “Ser Jarrett Leygood.” He took her hand from mine and I stepped back.

“I have not had the pleasure of traveling to the Reach,” she said. “You simply must tell me of all its beauty!”

Jarrett’s eyes shot toward me, half panic and half excited, and I offered him a wink while walking away.

By luck or providence, hopefully the Lady Royce would keep my friend entertained for the evening.

I sought my father.

I made it within two hundred feet of his little posse before he spotted me. His jaw tightened and he said something to Davos and Jon Arryn before making haste toward a corridor that no doubt led further into the Red Keep.

This motherfucker, I thought, annoyed, then cringed at the implication.

I picked up my pace to just under a run and raced to catch up to him.

We wound through a half dozen twists and turns, torches casting dancing shadows along the walls, before crossing through a set of iron gates into another courtyard. The tower of the hand and the keep’s sept stood as twin guardians over the open area, the drawbridge to Maegor’s Holdfast open between them.

The yard stood empty save for patrols on the ramparts.

“Father!” I shouted now that I had clear line of sight on him. His shoulders stiffened and he stopped short. He was slow in turning around, working his jaw as he looked at me with eyes shades paler than mine.

Where to start? I thought. A “how’ve you been” seems inadequate.

“Do not call me that,” Stannis said through gritted teeth. He was fantastic at icebreakers, it seemed. “There is no part of me in you.”

I imagined a boy of fourteen in my place, faced with such an outright rejection without meta knowledge to soften the blow.

This is how daddy issues are made.

Lucky for me that I recalled the supportive father I’d had in my first life, and met his disdain with a straight face.

“My lady mother would beg to differ,” I said, deadpan.

“Speak of me often, does she?” His lip curled a bit. “How she made Stannis Baratheon forget his duty?”

Oh joy, I thought, nostrils flaring. Patriarchal bullshit.

“More oft of a melancholy lord,” I said, injecting heat into my voice. “Who’d suffered injustices during the war and earned little reward for it. Yet he still held to his duty. How it made her curious. How she wanted to see if he could smile.

“But please, keep projecting your anger onto my mother,” I continued. “And pretending you are without fault.”

“Do you seek to shame me, bastard?” Stannis stood to his full height and closed the distance between us, towering over me by a half foot. He cut a damn intimidating figure with the shadows dancing in the gaunt lines of his face.

I held my ground, not daring to blink.

“That was never my intention. I only--”

“Was it not? You come to play at war and remind half the realm of my biggest mistake. To earn the king’s favor by offering his brother another humiliation. The Tyrells will find no quicker path to royal grace.”

I came into this aware that Stannis had an ego, but he blew away all of my expectations.

“The Tyrells were clueless to my plans,” I said. “I came here on my own.”

He laughed, hollow and grating and in full disbelief.

I let out a harsh breath at his blatant dismissal. “You see enemies where there are none while planting the very seeds of the disdain that draws your ire so. It seems to me that you’re the type of man whose worst enemy is himself.”

Part of me wanted to turn my back on him and walk off. The king was well into his cups, and certain to grant me a position should I approach him the right way.

But the less pragmatic side of me begged me to crack Stannis.

So I held his gaze, unfazed by his grinding teeth and steely stare.

“There is good to be done in this world,” I said. “And few places are in as much need of it as King’s Landing. I had hoped to begin here.”

“A child’s notion,” Stannis said. Some of the anger drained from his words, though he still stood tense. “And a weak excuse.”

“I admit that my curiosity about you may have weighed my choice,” I lied. “Mayhaps a chance to meet my sister, should I be so lucky, but--”

“You will never meet Shireen.” The anger was back as quick as it left, and he spoke with the complete conviction one usually found in the most devout of priests. “Nor step foot on Dragonstone.”

The implication that I would do little Shireen harm for the sake of land was left unsaid..

“You assume my intention again.” I shook my head in disbelief. The Stannis I remembered from canon was far more pragmatic than this. I underestimated how much he hates the Tyrells... “And your paranoid mind goes to the worst possibility.”

I stepped back, lifting my chin in defiance of his judgment and cutting him off as he made to reply.

“I have no wish to steal my sister’s inheritance, Lord Stannis. The only thing I ever sought from you was the chance to meet.” I looked him up and down. “But I find you disappointing.”

I took only a moment to relish in Stannis Baratheon looking taken aback before I turned my back on him and made to stride away.

Only to find Jon Arryn standing at the gate, a half dozen goldcloaks at his back.

Nonplussed, I dipped my head into a quick bow. “My lord.”

I heard Stannis’ footfalls walking off in the opposite direction behind me. With a gesture, the Hand of the King dismissed the city watchmen as well. They stepped through the gate without a word, presumably back to their posts.

“Racing through the Red Keep without an escort,” the old man said with a raised brow. “You are lucky I decided to follow, lest the guards would have had you in the dungeons by now.”

“I… thank you.” I had not even seen them as I’d followed Stannis.

“And you confront Lord Stannis and accuse him of folly while rubbing salt into wounds long left open,” Jon Arryn continued. “Tell me, boy. Do you have any brains in that thick skull?”

I sighed, suddenly too tired to draw on any anger after spending it on Stannis.

“I’ll admit I may have misjudged the situation.” I paused for a moment. “Badly.”

The Hand snorted. “You at least have a gift for understatement.” His eyes trailed toward where Stannis had gone. “Do not begrudge him his suspicion, boy. It has been a trying time for all here in the capital.”

“That is hardly an excuse.”

“No,” the Hand agreed. “But it is a reason.” He brought his hands together in a loud clap, ending that line of dialogue. “In that vein, I do believe King Robert granted your request for a position here in the keep. We can always use an able swordsman, so--”

“Forgive my continued boldness, my lord,” I interrupted with a bowed head. “But I had thought toward another post of which I could be of better use...”

 

[Dreyden90]

A bit of fun, whipped up in photoshop all quick-like.

Lyonel's personal coat-of-arms:

 

[Dreyden90]

---
Barristan I
---​

Barristan took a deep breath as he emerged onto the training yard. The air on this side of the keep was mercifully free of the stench that plagued most of King’s Landing. He let out a contented sigh. This early, the sun had not yet stolen the crispness from the wind.

Beyond the normal hustle and bustle of servants rushing through their morning routines and the guards on the ramparts, few in the Red Keep bothered to rise with the sun.

He could train in peace. He had hours yet before he was due to relieve Ser Arys.

“You move slower than an overworked mule!”

Barristan’s hope for solitude was dashed by the pair sparring across the center of the yard. They were of a height, both wearing the plain training leathers left for visiting knights and nobles. He knew neither face, but the resemblance one of the boys held to the king and his brothers was unmistakable.

“I have you to thank for that!” The red haired one shouted while parrying a heavy overhead blow with a grunt.

The old knights made himself unobtrusive to observe the two.

“You weren’t complaining at your seventh ale.” Lord Stannis’ bastard moved just enough to avoid his opponent’s counterattacks, conserving energy and turning his defense back into offense with a retaliatory strike.

“My company was much more pleasant.” He caught Ser Lyonel’s blow with the flat of his blade, but it was followed by a punch to the gut that sent him reeling.

“And much more comely besides,” Lyonel said, resting his sword on the back of his opponent’s neck. “But I’d imagine such a night was worth the asskicking waiting you the next day.”

“One could say.” The redheaded knight held up a hand and Lyonel removed his weapon. He stoo d with a grin that belied his pale skin, sweat-drenched brow, and shadowed eyes. “Though the hangover is a bit much.”

“I’d imagine,” Lyonel said drily. He rested his sword against his shoulder. Interestingly, he bore no sign of effort. “But you’re no good in a fight in your state.”

“Does that mean I’m free to go back to bed?”

Lyonel blinked, nonplussed. “You don’t need my permission, Jarrett.”

“Oh?” Ser Jarrett said, head tilting. “Here I thought your fancy new title would go straight to your head.”

“I’m little more than a glorified steward.”

Ser Jarrett snorted.

“If you say so.” He clapped his companion on the shoulder. “But, my lord, I’m off to see if my Lady of Royce also favors this ungodly hour.” He took his leave under the bemused gaze of Ser Lyonel, and Barristan approached the newly minted knight.

“You fight well.” The younger man jumped, startled. Barristan smiled. “Though perhaps your situational awareness could use some work.”

“Ser Barristan!” he said, hastily bowing. “It is an honor, Ser.”

Barristan waved him off. “None of that now. It is rare enough that anyone else graces the yard at this hour.” He drew his sword, and Ser Lyonel’s blue eyes went wide. “I would not have the time wasted.”

To his credit, Ser Lyonel’s footwork saved him from Barristan’s first blow, and he had his weapon ready for the second. Barristan pressed him, hard, determined to get the measure of the green knight.

There were none that would call the Red Keep home that Barristan would let remain an unknown.

Ser Lyonel’s footwork proved excellent, with little wasted energy. Each strike and defense intentionally led into the next movement in a show of fluidity. He had the advantage of strength and was far more patient than most men his age, but speed and experience were on Barristan’s side. It was not long before he had the boy face first in the dirt.

Ser Lyonel hopped back up without complaint. “Again?” He asked with a grin.

Barristan obliged, and they kept at it for an hour until Ser Lyonel glanced toward the sun with a curse.

“I must beg your leave, Ser,” he said with dipping nod. “My duties must be attended to.”

And he was gone in all the rush of youth.

Barristan chuckled, amused, and wondered how long that enthusiasm would last.

He could not deny his own improved cheer as he sought a fresh opponent to wile away the morning hours.

---
Davos I
---​

“Ser Davos!”

The old knight stopped and turned with a quizzical brow raised as he searched for the caller among the dock’s hustle and bustle. Few beyond Lord Stannis addressed him by his earned title, and none did outside the lord’s presence. Beside him, Maric stopped reading from his ream of Braavosi manifests.

He smiled at that. Part of him would always swell with pride that his boys had been lettered.

“Do you know him, father?” Maric asked, pointing toward the approaching black-haired youth. A sense of unease took the Onion Knight.

“Aye,” he said, but he had no idea why his lord’s son would seek him out.

Considering Lord Stannis’ reactions to those fools brave enough to broach the subject that morning, Davos put up his guard.

Anyone who could incite the Lord of Dragonstone’s ire so easily likely meant trouble.

“It seems luck is on my side,” the lad said once he was close enough not to shout. He bowed his head in greeting and hefted a thick tome under his arm. Without his armor it was plain to see that, despite his height, he was younger than Maric by at least a few years. His face had not fully lost the softness of youth, and he wore an easy smile even as the blue of his eyes betrayed tiredness.

Those eyes slid toward Davos’ son.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” He held out his free hand. “Ser Lyonel Storm.”

Maric shot Davos a quizzical look, but remembered his courtesies all the same.

“Maric Seaworth.”

The two grasped hands, firm and brief.

“Good to meet you, Maric, and you as well, Ser Davos.”

Davos considered himself able in spotting dishonesty and ill intent. The skill born in Flea Bottom, honed on the sea, and tempered in Lord Stannis’ service. Yet he sensed nothing from the boy, and could only guess that his friendliness was genuine.

All the more confusing that this same boy caused Lord Stannis to betray such hostility.

He took the boy’s offered hand, noting the lack of reaction to Davos’ shortened fingers.

“And what draws a knight to seek me out today?” He asked, eyeing the bronze falcon-and-moon pin on the boy’s doublet. He had seen similar on member’s of the Hand’s household.

“Would that I were only seeking fine company,” Ser Lyonel said with a grimace. “But I’m looking for the Master of Ships’ office. I’ve heard he keeps his here at the docks, but I’m at a loss.” He gestured around toward the crowded wharf before running the hand through his hair.”

“Lord Stannis will not be there this time of day,” Davos said.

The boy’s shoulders tensed. “That’s probably for the best,” he said.

“Then what need do you have of his offices?”

“Records,” he said. “Imports and exports that used the crown’s coin. Manifests and the like.”

“For what purpose?” Maric asked, leveling Lyonel with an incredulous look.

“To learn.” Lyonel smiled, then, with exasperation. “Lord Arryn has shown good faith by offering me a role in service to the Hand. I don’t wish to repay him by blundering around like a halfwit.” He patted the tome under his arm. “I’ve already retrieved this ledger from Lord Baelish’s solar. Covers the same timeframe.”

“Why focus on trade?” Davos asked, raising a brow. “It was my understanding that falls to the master of coin.”

“Who answers the Hand.” Lyonel shrugged. “And it’s as good a place as any to start.”

Davos sympathized with the boy’s plight. Half of his time in Lord Stannis’ service was spent wondering how he had gotten there, while the rest was doing his best to tread water.

“I don’t see the harm in it,” he said at length. Lyonel’s expression brightened.

“Then I am in your debt, Ser.” He inclined his head again, but Davos waved him off.

“None of that, now. Come.”

Davos led them back on the path he and Maric had been following, while his son and Lyonel struck up conversation behind him. They spoke in low tones, bonding over shared complaints of work so common in boys their age.

Davos never before questioned Lord Stannis’ read on people before, but he wondered what the lord saw in his bastard son that inspired such anger.

“I’m no knight,” Maric said twenty minutes later as he piled a fourth hide bound book on the pile Lyonel held. “My place is on a ship.”

“Even so,” Lyonel replied, adjusting his stance so the weight would not fall on his back alone. “The offer stands. To you as well, Ser Davos.”

“I try to avoid fights,” Davos said with a wry humor. “Not seek them out in the yard.”

The youth shrugged, then took a step forward to regain balance as his books wavered in a threat to topple over.

“I’d best be on my way then,” he said, nodding to Davos and his son in turn. “I thank you again.”

Davos watched him go with a critical eye.

“He looks just like him, doesn’t he?” Maric said once Lyonel was halfway along the pier.

“Aye,” Davos said. Perhaps too much.

His thoughts turned to Shireen, kind and earnest and good despite every injustice she had endured.

An ill sense of foreboding loomed in his mind,

---
Renly I
---​

It was not the throbbing headaches that were the worst, Renly thought, but the ones that placed a constant pressure on the inside of the skull. An insistent pain at the edge of the mind that made it impossible to focus.

He sighed and slammed his quill down hard enough that ink splattered across his desk and shirt, souring his mood further.

A pair of fingers came to rest on his temples, rubbing slow circles. When did he move behind me? Renly closed his eyes and leaned back into the ministrations, groaning in relief.

“What irks you so?”

Loras had leaned down so his breath tickled Renly’s ear as he spoke. A pleasant tingle ran down the stormlord’s spine and his blood began to run hot. He longed for distraction, but could not act on it here. Loras knew that as well, but tempted him anyway.

A habit of his.

Renly hated and loved him for it.

“Inheritance dispute,” he said, not bothering to hide his disdain. It was not often that smallfolk concerns reached the desk of the master of laws, but when they did it was always a mess. “A smithy at the edge of the city. A man’s daughter and brother both claim he left it to them.” He let out a long breath as Loras’ hands moved to his shoulders, pressing into his muscles with a firm grip. “The smith’s guild could not resolve the matter.”

“And so it made its way to you.”

“It’s not even on the Street of Steel,” he said, irritated once more. “I have half a mind to seize the property and let Littlefinger turn it into a brothel.”

Loras snorted and pressed a thumb in the back of Renly’s neck, earning an instinctive groan of approval. He could imagine his lover’s self-satisfied smirk and his willpower was truly tested.

It would not be so difficult to disappear up the stairs to his chambers, he mused, potential visitors be damned.

A sharp rap on the door stole Loras’ touch away, and Renly’s headache and impatience rushed back to fill the void.

“Enter!” He called once Loras resumed his position on the couch across the room, lounging with a book opened halfway.

The door creaked open with deliberate slowness and one his guardsmen poked his head in.

“Someone here to see you, m’lord,” Ser Dale said. Large and strong and simple, Renly could not ask for a better combination in a doorman. “A Ser Lyonel Storm.”

Loras stiffened, his handsome face shadowed with with a scowl. Renly could not blame him for his anger once he’d gotten the full story of his lover. Of how wounded Garlan the Gallant had been.

But Loras had spoken well of his cousin before the tourney incident, and the boy irritated Stannis so wonderfully that Renly could not help but feel some good will toward his bastard nephew.

“Allow him in.” He held up a placating hand against Loras’ betrayed glance. Loras stood and rested a hand on the pommel of the dagger he always wore when unarmored.

Dale nodded and disappeared, replaced by a version of Stannis that had not discovered the joys of grinding teeth and glaring.

“Lord Renly,” he said, bowing his head in the proper deference. “Ser Loras.” He gave the Knight of Flowers a shallower nod. If he was surprised by Loras’ presence at all, he did not show it.

“Lyonel,” Loras replied with a deliberate lack of title, his eyes hard. The boy weathered his cousin’s disdain as a rock did a storm, unwavering.

“Nephew,” Renly said, offering friendly harbor. Only then did Lyonel’s calm expression break into a brief look of surprise. “How can I help Lord Arryn’s newest steward?”

Renly did not know what possessed the ancient lord to bring Lyonel into his service, but he thanked the Seven that he had.

The small council meeting the day before had been almost enjoyable with Stannis’ steely silence and glares toward the Hand.

“Research,” His nephew said, regaining his composure quickly. “I had hoped you would possess copies of the current tax law for the city. Perhaps a ledger of businesses owned and bought and sold as well? Or at least those funded by the royal treasury?”

Renly blinked, nonplussed.

“Doing some light reading?” He asked for lack of a better response, feeling as dumbfounded as Loras looked.

Lyonel chuckled and ran a hand along the back of his neck.

“Odd as it may be, I’m trying to wrap my head around everything to do with this city,” he said. “If I’m to help the Hand to the best of my ability, I believe it will help.”

Admirable, Renly supposed, if in a strange, altogether unusual way. But who was he to judge a boy for his odd fancies? He pointed to the lone bookshelf in his solar, stuck on the far wall and full of dusty tomes.

“You can find a full account of the Laws of King’s Landing among those,” he said. Lyonel dipped his head and made his way toward the shelves, hand trailing over the book spines. “But Grandmaester Pycelle would be who you want to speak with regarding the record of businesses. He and his aides record all such transactions.”

His nephew pulled out a book the size of his chest and turned to Renly with a small smile.

“I appreciate your help… Uncle.”

The familial term came out hesitant, a test of uncharted waters. Renly ignored Loras’ sour expression and returned the boy’s smile.

“Think nothing of it, nephew.” On a whim, he continued, “Mayhaps you can be of some help already.”

He laid out the problem with the smithy’s inheritance to the boy, curious how his mind worked.

“The daughter has the better claim,” he said easily a moment after Renly finished speaking. “If the man left no word, his child would be the sole heir.”

Interesting. “Some of the guild objects to the notion of a woman joining them,” Renly said in a mild tone.

“Surely this is not the first time a situation like this has happened.”

Renly shrugged. “Doubtlessly. But I lack the time to find a precedent.”

The unspoken suggestion hung in the air and Lyonel accepted it with a small sigh.

The brief dour look he wore matched his father’s perfectly.

“I will let you know if I come across such during my research.”

“I thank you, nephew.”

The boy took his leave then, and Loras stared at the closed door to Renly’s solar, shaking his head.

“I don’t even think he sat for a single lesson once he squired with Garlan,” he said. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Your brother’s disapproval may have inspired him to change,” Renly said, already placing the dozen and a half missives from the smith’s guild into a drawer. To be forgotten about for at least a week, or forever if his nephew came through.

“Possibly,” Loras said, his brows furrowed. It was Renly’s turn to touch, then, and offer distraction.

“Put him from your mind,” he said, arms wrapping around Loras’ waist and lips finding the curve his neck. He nipped at the sensitive skin, and Loras made a throaty sound that drove Renly into a fervor. “And come with me.”

---

Jon Arryn I

---​

Jon studied the chaotic mess of parchment and papers that had just been dumped in front of him with a frown. He flicked his eyes up to his newest steward, who stood across from the table with tense shoulders and anxiety shining in his Baratheon blue eyes.

“So,” he said after the quiet grew toward discomfort. “This is what you have been doing with your precious little free time?”

By all measures Lyonel had been diligent in the duties Jon assigned to him over the past week. Bright and inquisitive, he had shown something of an aptitude for administration. A welcome surprise that offered Jon a justification for his recruitment of the boy.

But it seemed the knight be both too curious and too quick to jump to conclusions.

“At first I was just trying to gain a better understanding of my duties, but.” He paused to lean over and tap the open book at the center of the mess. A page with line after line of transactions lay open, notes scribbled in the margins in a hasty hand. “But when I was looking into the crown’s finances, I couldn’t make it make sense. It shouldn’t be possible for us to be in such dire straits. And the further I dig, the hazier it gets.”

He gestured toward the other documents. Shipping manifests, property deeds, writs of credit, and a half dozen other types of paperwork that were an inevitability with trade and ruling a kingdom.

Jon tongued his gums where a molar used to be, taking his time to respond.

“And why come to me and not Lord Baelish?” He studied Lyonel’s body language, noting how he tensed and hesitated. “Speak freely.”

Lyonel looked him dead in the eye. “I think he may be stealing the crown’s gold.”

It was unnerving how easily the boy spoke of treason.

“Baelish is one of the only reasons our coffers haven’t been completely emptied.” Jon did not hide his annoyance, and Lyonel flinched back. He opened his mouth to argue but Jon held up a hand. “His grace is a generous man, as you well know.” Fifteen thousand dragons and a knighthood was no small thing to earn over two days. “It has always been his way, but it has the side effect of being expensive.”

“With all due respect my lord,” Lyonel said, unmoved. “When was the last time you oversaw Littlefinger’s work?”

“Lord Baelish,” Jon said, tone sharp. Lyonel flinched. “Has been in my service for over a decade. He has done nothing but bring profit and show loyalty to me at both Gulltown and here in King’s Landing.” Jon steepled his fingers and leveled his most disapproving look at the youth. “And you come to me after a single week of service to accuse him of betraying not only me, but his King.

“You have an arrogance about you, Lyonel Storm. See to it that you keep it in check, or I may reconsider my generosity.”

Lyonel’s jaw tightened, but he stood his ground.

“I don’t ask you to believe me at my word.” He nodded toward the pile of paper. “Just that you consider the evidence I’ve brought.”

Jon restrained an annoyed sigh. “You are dismissed, Ser Lyonel.”

They stared each other down before Lyonel broke his gaze.

“My lord,” he said, bowing, and took his leave.

Leaving his “evidence” behind.

Jon scratched at his white-and-grey whiskers, considering the pile before him once more.

Keeping Lyonel around court was an advantage if only for his appearance to serve as a contrast to Cersei’s children. But if he was to start chasing ghosts and causing trouble where none was to be found, Jon would have to reconsider if he was worth the risk.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door to his solar opened once more, admitting his wife into the room.

Jon’s patience was preemptively tested at her stormy expression.

Lysa had not been pleased with his plan to foster little Robert on Dragonstone, and had not been shy in voicing her disagreement.

Loudly. Every night since.

His temples began to pound in a warning of the inevitable headache.

“My lady wife,” he greeted, not quite hiding a sigh. Red made its way onto her plump cheeks.

“My lord husband,” she returned just as shortly. She glanced down toward Lyonel’s notes. “Will your duties keep you late tonight?”

Jon almost grasped at the offered excuse, but a thought occurred to him. Lysa was fond of Petyr, and would take an offense to his honor worse than Jon had.

He could at the least redirect her anger for a day. Mayhaps two.

“No,” he said. He reached out to tap the ledger of sales. “Someone got it into their head that Petyr was stealing from the realm.”

Lysa did her best impression of her house’s trout sigil, gaping at the words. Jon schooled his amusement.

“Surely you do not think him capable of such folly?” Lysa asked once she’d found her voice again. “Petyr has been nothing but loyal!”

“I know,” he said. “Which is why the last hour has been quite trying. I could use a break.”

A half dozen emotions passed cross his wife’s face before Lysa settled on smile.

“Perhaps we can supp together?” She angled her head so she looked to him through her fringe. Demure and all vulnerability as she had been years before.

“I would like nothing more.”

---
Lyonel
---​

Just keep your head, I told myself as I approached the Tower of the Hand. The morning sun peeked just over the outer walls, and the breeze carried a lovely mix of salt and piss to my nose.

After a week of sleepless nights and days clawing together all the evidence I could get my hands on, my unveiling of Littlefinger’s treachery the night before had gone less than swimmingly.

Granted, between all the records I’d gathered, there were only enough gaps and sudden windfalls to draw suspicion that something was amiss. I figured out early on that Littlefinger had to have been keeping separate ledgers somewhere, but I hadn’t the faintest clue where to find them.

Still, what I did have should have been enough to warrant further investigation.

But I had not counted on Jon Arryn having a fondness for the master of coin.

He’s a prudent man, I thought, entering the Tower and trekking up the stairs. He will have looked over the books.

I was going over different tactics for my arguments when I entered Lord Arryn’s solar, only to find Grandmaester Pycelle and Ser Arys of the Kingsgard within. They spoke in low tones, and my heart dropped like a stone.

I have a week, was my only coherent thought as I brushed by the two and raced up the stairs into the Hand’s personal chambers. They followed. Two weeks from the tournament. I know I remembered that right.

But my fears were confirmed as I burst into the Hand’s bedroom. Jon Arryn lay on his bed, blankets bundled around his waist even as the lord was still. Sweat still clung to his brow and there was no stench in the air, yet his chest did not rise under my scrutiny.

I approached the bed and reached a shaky hand to press two fingers into his neck and found no pulse.

Jon Arryn was dead. A week earlier than he should have been.

“A fever claimed him not five minutes past.” Pycelle’s wheezing voice spoke gently and with false comfort, but I could not bring myself to turn away from the fallen Hand.

What the fuck do I do now?

 

[Dreyden90]

The funeral was a depressing thing.

The Great Sept of Baelor was packed to the brim as the High Septon droned on about the Crone guiding Lord Arryn’s eternal sole to the waiting embrace of the Stranger. Light filtered through the myriad of stained glass windows painted the commoners crowded in the mezanine a rainbow of colors. Courtiers jostled for position on the sept’s main floor, each wishing to be closer to the king, but not so close to disrupt his mourning.

Even the members of the small council gave the king space as he stood before his surrogate father’s body. He held a wineskin in a shaking fist, and tears pooled in his eyes without shame.

It saddened me to think that Robert was the only one attending that was truly distraught, but I had only known the man for a week, and his memory brought only frustration and anxiety to my mind.

Most others respected him, but few seemed to love Jon Arryn outside the Vale.

And Lysa took her son and had fled with that entire contingent only hours after her husband died.

How nobody found that suspicious in the original timeline was beyond me.

I was just lucky she hadn’t scarpered off with my notes.

I sideeyed Littlefinger standing between Renly and Varys. He looked appropriately somber and had not once glanced in my direction.

A small relief, that, but I would have to keep my guard up in any case.

“Barely a week,” Jarrett said from my right, below his breath. “I doubt my raven’s even reached Father yet.”

He had been invited to join Lord Arryn’s household guard at my request, but had been left behind by Lysa alongside the late lord’s newly knighted squire, Hugh.

“We’ll find a place here,” I said. “One could make the argument that I was brought into the Hand’s service, not just Lord Arryn’s.”

In reality, it was more of a combination of Robert’s lack of oversight and the guards’ familiarity with us that would likely keep us from being tossed to the proverbial curb.

“Until the successor is chosen and kicks you out.”

“I’ll just have to find a way into Lord Stark’s good graces.”

“Eddard Stark?”

“The one and same.”

“Know something I don’t?”

“It only makes sense that he’ll be the king’s choice for Hand,” I said. “It was Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark that won the rebellion together with Jon Arryn. There’s nobody else Robert will trust.”

“There’s talk among the servants that the queen will bring Tywin Lannister back from the West.”

The capital had been blissfully free of Lannisters(and the Hound) once the queen left with her children and brother on a visit to Casterly Rock.

They would probably arrive just in time to receive a raven from the king ordering them to make for the North.

“He’d sooner name my father Hand, than Tywin.” I sighed, imagining how much trouble might have been avoided if that were the case. Stannis might be a jackass, but he was a capable jackass. “But he’ll announce his plans to travel North within the week. Mark my words.”

And so the King did.

Not an hour after the High Septon performed his final rites and the king saw Lord Arryn’s bones sent north to the Vale under guard of Ser Arys Oakheart, did he announce to his assembled court his plans to visit Winterfell.

He did not announce that Ned would be Hand, but the murmurings of the court spoke the rumor to life anyway.

The king sent Pycelle off to send ravens to both his wife and Ned; Littlefinger to scrape together the coin for the journey; Barristan to see to his guard; and Renly to organize the train. Then he stalked out of the throne room without seeing a single petition for the day.

“It seems you are something of a seer,” Jarrett said, bemused. “It explains why you always beat me in the yard.”

“If that were true, I would have taken down the Bold at some point.”

Jarrett laughed, always gratified to see me eating dirt for a change. I couldn’t explain it, either. Barristan was not faster than me, or stronger. Nor did he have an advantage in endurance.

Yet he was better than me all the same. It was quite vexing.

And also not the challenge I should be focused on.

So I begged my leave of my friend and sought after Problem C to throw at Problem A(problem B being out of my reach in the west right now). Given that my only other immediate option was to seek out the king directly, which, if Robert chose not believe me as Jon Arryn did, would mean game over for me. I felt there was little choice but to take the lesser risk.

“Lord Varys!”

The only councilor besides my father to escape Robert’s assignments stopped short in the small hallway just outside the throne room. He turned to regard me in surprise, head tilted at a slight angle while a pleasant smile graced his lips. Warm and welcoming and harmless to those who did not know better.

“The knight of many colors seeks me out?” He asked with a sort of half titter, as if nervous. “How can I be of service?”

He crossed his arms, hands hidden inside the wide silk sleeves of his robes. He spoke with a tone as flowery as the scent that clung in the air.

“It’s regarding Lord Arryn’s death.” I glanced around, confirming we were alone. I tried not to think of mutilated children hiding in the walls.

Listening. Always listening.

It was a supreme effort not to show my anger.

“A tragic thing,” Varys said, his face pinching in grief. “He had always been hardy for his age. It is a great twist of irony that a fever should take him so swiftly.”

“I would say impossible. Not ironic.” I made another exaggerated look around and leaned toward the master of whispers. “I was attending the Lord Hand the night before he passed. He was healthy as always.”

“Grandmaester Pycelle described Lord Arryn’s illness as remarkably rapid,” Varys said gently, reaching out a powdered hand to rest on my shoulder. “It is dangerous to speak what you are about to.”

I studied the man before me that wore a mask of caring. The would-be kingmaker, who wanted war but not for some years yet. Loyal only to the idea that he could create the perfect prince and maybe the restoration of the Blackfyres, would that theory be true. He who was willing to commit horrors to see his ends met, but just as capable and pragmatic if better options presented themselves.

I was unsure if he ever was certain who poisoned Jon Arryn in the original timeline. With the Lannister incest motive hanging over the entire affair, it was all too easy to assume Cersei was behind it.

I bit back a sigh, part of me wishing I could just kill the lot of them and be done with it.

But there was zero chance of getting away with that cleanly, and I was not selfless enough to sacrifice myself to basically hit reset on the realm politics and hope for the best.

Not without a better plan at any rate.

“It is more dangerous not to,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “For I was speaking to Lord Arryn of Petyr Baelish’s treason only for the Hand to die that very same night.”

The look of surprise on Varys’ face was so sudden that I thought it might actually be genuine.

His fingers turned to iron on my shoulder and when he spoke, his voice had gained an edge.

“A bold claim,” he said. “And Littlefinger is a clever man. Cleverer than most. You have proof?”

“Only what I showed the Hand.”

“Show me.”

I took the Spider to my meager room, big enough for only a small table and a bed, with room beneath for my chest of winnings. I laid out what I had the same way I had for Jon Arryn. The inconsistencies in incoming and outgoing goods. the short returns on investment that seemed to always have a windfall when coin was needed. The borrowing of coin when it wasn’t. The gaps in reported earnings, overall.

While it was not proof on its own, it was damn suspicious.

Varys wanted it to be true. The brief crack in his simpering character showed that much. If Littlefinger was out of the picture, he would have no reason to think anyone was manipulating the realm save for himself.

The chance for control would be impossible to resist.

“This is not enough on its own,” he said, rolling up a scroll of well-worn parchment. “The king has little patience for conjecture, and less for finance.”

“If this fraud is on the scale I imagine it is,” I said. “Then there must be records somewhere. He may be clever, but there isn’t a man with a memory perfect enough to keep such a scheme in his head alone.”

“If such documents exists, my birds will find them.” He gave me a long look. “And I thank you, Ser. You may have done the Realm a great service.”

Then he was gone, and I collapsed back onto my straw-filled mattress, rubbing my eyes.

With Varys ostensibly on my side, I had an advantage, but I still had to figure out how to get Ned Stark to trust me.

I had thought of traveling north with Robert. Befriend the Stark children and through them gain the regard of their father. I could save Bran from his fall and convince Jon Snow not to join the Night’s Watch. Perhaps squiring the former and bringing the latter into my service the same way Jarrett had in all but name.

But then my thoughts turned to the Others. Dragon fire, dragonglass, and valyrian steel. I knew the secret of their weakness, but nobody else in the world did.

If I fell and failed somewhere along the way, who would bring that knowledge? I could leave it to be found. Tell those whose trust I gained of it.

The image Jon Arryn’s unmoving face, still shining with sweat, set my throat to tightening.

I could not risk the timeline of the Wall and beyond going so off track. Bran would need to be the three-eyed raven. Jon would need save the Lord Commander so the Old Bear would send Thorne south with the wight hand. Inspire Sam to be the Slayer.

And even if Bran did not fall, there was a raven to be on its way to Winterfell from the Eyrie, accusing the Lannisters of the wrong treason.

So no, I would not go north. I would not be able to stop myself from trying to save Bran were I there.

The stone of guilt sitting in my gut made sleep difficult that night.

---​

“I’m tellin’ ya, lads.” Maric Seaworth said, gesturing with a hand without regard to the ale sloshing over the rim of his mug. “Lys may be the most beautiful city in the world. But Tyrosh.” He paused, closing his eyes and grinning at sight we could not see. Jarrett and I shared an amused look over our own drinks.

Davos’ fourth son turned out to be a storyteller after his second beer. And to hear him tell it, he was one of the world’s most traveled people despite being only nineteen.

“Tyrosh,” he continued. “Is the most fun. Why, last time I was there I got to drinkin’ with a fine woman. Gorgeous as anything you’re like to find this side of the world.” He outlined a woman’s figure on our splintered table that I was certain was physically impossible. “With wits as sharp as my dagger. And what do I find when get ‘neath her skirts?”

He leaned forward as if to share a secret, drawing us in close.

“A bush dyed as blue as the clear sky. I swear by the seven the stain took a full week to wash from my beard.” He ran a hand through his brown whiskers in emphasis.

I let out a surprised laugh while Jarrett guffawed.

“Gods,” my redheaded companion said, recovering. “I should like to visit the Free Cities someday.”

“And I should like to return,” Maric agreed. “Dale’s going to get father’s lands and the three little ones are going to be knights. Matthos, Allard, and I, though? We’re going to see more of the world than even the Sea Snake himself.”

“As worthy a dream as any I’ve ever heard.” I lifted my wooden cup to toast, and the other two joined me. With a hearty cheer, we each downed the absolute swill the inn called ale and slammed our mugs down with a shared grimace.

“The Shoreman’s Shanty,” Jarrett said, deepening his voice and adjusting his accent to an impression of Ser Davos that had Maric snickering. “Best ale this side of Flea Bottom.”

I had come to the docks mid morning in search of my father, Jarrett in tow as he claimed there was little better to do. I hoped to catch him and begin to mend that rift, if not convince him to stay in King’s Landing. Much like I had a week before, though, I only found Ser Davos and his son in Stannis’ dockside office.

My disappointment must have been plain on my face, for Maric had suggested we all go for a drink, and while Ser Davos bowed out, he had offered up the inn and tavern we were going about day drinking in.

Once the buzz set in, I felt more normal and in control than I had since the moment Stannis’ sword hit my shoulders.

Such was the irony of drunkenness.

“My father has shite taste in drink it seems,” Maric said with a solemn shake of his head. “The Seaworth name is forever shamed.”

“What is a shame is wasted potential,” I said, toying with my empty cup and looking around. The tavern was located just inside the Mud Gate off the docks. By all rights it should have been packed, but instead stood mostly empty.

The ground floor was a good seventy feet wide and half again as long, dotted with small tables like ours in a ring around the edge will six longer tables took up the center of of the space. A great hearth was built into the ground on the far wall, but was unlit. Braziers hung and were lit every ten feet, but held nothing but dark coals. Wholly uninviting.

The furniture was in disrepair, the walls showed their weathered age, and I could not speak for state of the two floors above, but something about this place charmed me.

My thoughts drifted to the chest of near fourteen thousand dragons sitting in my room and a change I could make, actual and whole, even if it would be something so small.

“Another drink, m’lords?” A serving girl came up to us, green eyes bright and a pleasant smile on her lips. She was a lithe woman, tall, and with a comely face dotted with freckles.

“Aye, girl.” Maric held up his cup, as did Jarrett. I fished out a pair of silver stags.

Her eyes went wide as I handed them to her, and I pushed my distaste for the blatant unfairness of this world out of mind to focus on the moment.

“No more for me, I think,” I said to the jeers of my companions. “But I would like to speak to the owner.”

The man in question turned out to be our server’s uncle, who had inherited the Shanty from his grandfather two years prior. To put it politely, he was a drunken mess and had little care about the tavern save the roof over his head.

Twenty minutes of negation and, five hundred gold dragons, seventy-five silver stags, and one single copper star(for luck) later, and I had bought the local equivalent of a bar.

Now I just had to resist calling it Puzzles.

 

[Dreyden90]

I discovered how cathartic having control over something was within a fortnight of my impulse purchase of the Shanty. A hundred and more problems popped up that needed fixing, but all were solvable with a bit of effort. Furniture in disrepair? Find a carpenter on the hill beneath the Dragon Pit to build new tables and chairs and bedframes. Mattresses of low quality? Pay the kitchen staff in the Red Keep for any and all fowl feathers.

Food of questionable worth? Buy a few acres of farmland along the Blackwater Rush. Introduce the farmhands to some concepts from my original lifetime. Concrete? Gunpowder? Printing Press? I had no clue how those worked, but I’ll be damned if the random knowledge of rotating crops and the seed drill did not stick with me for one reason or another.

That would hopefully have the farm turning a profit within a harvest or two, and in the meantime it guaranteed me direct control of the food at the Shanty from farm to butcher’s to table. Leveraging Maric Seaworth for contacts to get me decent spices and alcohol proved a wonderful idea, and the notion to have a bard spend a day at the wharf singing the Shanty’s praises had the tavern packed the day we reopened.

“I’ve not seen so many folks here since Grandfather’s day, m’lord.” Alyssa – the serving girl from my first visit – told me with watery green eyes. She had been horrified when I bought the place from her uncle, fearful what it would mean for her and her employees. Despite my reassurances that I wouldn’t put anyone out, she had not quite warmed up to me until the first payday.

It saddened me that a notion of fair pay was cause for such surprised joy, but I could not deny the loyalty and trust it bought.

I tried not to think how similar it felt to bribing.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” I said from my place in the corner of the main room. In contrast to when Maric, Jarrett, and I had visited, every table was full to the brim with men and women. Most were Westerosi, but I spied folks from the Free Cities and a couple of Summer Islanders here and there. Voices in a variety of languages filled the air between laughter and chants and songs, and a savory smell of well made stew and smoked meat seasoned every breath.

“You find yourselves in a tavern...” I muttered to myself with a half smile.

“M’lord?” Alyssa asked, brow raised.

I shook my head. “Just a stray thought about an old game I used to play. Tell me, is there anyone interesting about?”

The woman had lived in the tavern for all of her five and twenty years, never venturing far beyond King’s Landing. She knew most everyone who would be a regular, and had heard of everyone else that wasn’t a trader or sailor.

She pointed out several known thieves, a couple of popular working girls, a few shop owners, and a captain of a trading cog. Nobody of critical importance, but I made a mental note of each of their faces just the same.

If Varys and Littlefinger could have their own networks of smallfolk, it only seemed prudent to try and start my own.

With any luck I would get into a position where I didn’t have to rely on the Spider to find where Baelish kept his real ledgers.

My bet was in one of his brothels, but the man owned almost a dozen of them and I would only have one shot to get it right.

If the man wasn’t already after me, he surely would go all in if he caught word of me snooping around any of those establishments.

“And they,” Alyssa said with notable disdain, pulling me from my thoughts. She nodded toward the front doors which had swung open to reveal two men in chainmail and golden cloaks. “Are as bad as anything Flea Bottom has to offer.”

“Our city’s finest,”I said, droll. I had expected the City Watch to show up at some point, but opening day was sooner than I’d assumed. “As always, Alyssa, I thank you for your insight.” A faint blush graced her cheeks beneath her freckles. “If you wouldn’t mind pointing the good watchmen my way?”

She blinked. “Surely m’lord would prefer better company?”

“That I would, but I think its best to get this over with quickly.”

She dipped her head and made her way to the goldcloaks, who had been looking around with hard expressions beneath their helms.

Alyssa grabbed their attention with practiced ease and led them to me. I stood and assumed a pleasant, if beseeching smile.

“This a joke, woman?” The shorter of the two asked. He bore a pockmarked nose and hard lines around the eyes that matched his squinting expression. He looked me up and down with distaste. “He’s just a boy.”

“A boy with too much spare coin,”I said with a self-deprecating laugh. The tall one perked up at that, fingers digging into his patchy blonde beard as he gave me another once over.

“You really the new owner of this place?” He asked me, now tugging at the beard.

“As of two weeks ago.” I gestured to the empty chairs across from me. “Join me.” A nod of thanks to Alyssa had her off to see to the other workers to keep everything running smoothly.

The guardsmen sat and I poured them wine from the bottle I’d been nursing that night. A nice, savory Dornish Red that reminded me of a good cabernet sauvignon back home.

They drank deep, with grunts of approval.

“So what brings you to the Shoreman’s Shanty, gentlemen?” I pasted my most benign smile in place.

The older one drunk deep from his cup, red spilling from the corners of his mouth. He burped with appreciation and spoke. “Lord Commander’s worried he didn’t get Ol’ Miks’ usual delivery.”

The old owner’s records had clear, monthly tithes labeled for Slynt, which went to show either how stupid or overconfident he was in Baelish’s protection.

“It’s a dangerous city, lad,” said the bearded one. “Lord Commander Slynt sent us to make sure nothin’ bad happened to Ol’ Miks, but come to find the tavern under new ownership.”

“The seven take Miks.” The old one poured himself another cup of wine. “His swill was never this good.”

“All the same,” Beardy said, rolling his eyes. “Lord Commander’ll be wanting his delivery. Else who’s t’ say how often we can come patrolling?” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Dangerous city.”

“That it is,” I agreed. I would have rolled my eyes at the lack of subtlety if not for the thought of how many others men like these two had threatened over the years. “If one of you would follow me, I can prepare something to take back to your Lord Commander.” I stood, but neither of them did. “And something for each of you as well, hm?”

Beardy took the bait while Squinty just shrugged and tossed back another gulp of wine.

“Smart lad.”

“I know an opportunity when I see it,” I said, leading him past the bar and a worried looking Alyssa. A door to the right of it was nestled against a corner and led to the kitchen and storage rooms, as well as a back door near the stables. He followed me down the short set of stairs into the narrow hall below. To the left, the three doors to the kitchen were open wide, the cooking fires sending dancing light along the opposite wall.

“My offices are just through here.” I opened a door to one of our storage rooms and waved him past.

“Not too smart havin’ it on the ground floor. Thieves’ll have an easy ti-- Ah!” As soon as he was by me I hit the back of his knee with a sharp kick. He fell forward and I jumped on his back, driving my weight into his fall so he wheezed on impact with the solid earth floor. Without hesitation I put a hand to each side of his head, lifted, and slammed it back down, just once.

“Right,” I said, taking a breath and grabbing rope off a nearby pile of flour sacks. My dazed opponent did not resist as I bound his hands behind his back and removed his sword belt. “Now for the other one...”

---​

“What trouble did you manage to find now?” Jarrett asked as I pulled Stormflower to a stop in front of the Great Hall that housed the Iron Throne. My two captured Goldcloaks sank to the ground with heaving breaths, having had to move at a constant jog through the city to keep up. A grueling task in chainmail and heavy cloaks.

I disliked bullies.

Criminal ones moreso.

“Just found some luck in the noonday sun.” I dismounted and worked at the knots tethering my prisoners to Stormflower’s saddle. “Court is still being held?”

“Yes, but--”

“Should… should we be detaining him?” asked the man just behind Jarrett’s shoulder, standing in front of the Great Hall’s doors. “Those are Goldcloaks!”

The observant one wore stag finery, marking him as one of Renly’s men-at-arms.

Jarrett rolled his eyes. “He is a knight, Benos, and a friend. He will have a reason for this.” My friend’s eyes bored into mine. “Right?”

At least he was taking his new position in Renly’s retinue seriously.

“Of course.” I secured the ropes in my hand and pulled a thin tome from Stormflower’s saddlebag. “If you’d be so kind, Benos?” I nodded toward the doors, but the squat man blinked brown eyes at me before looking to Jarrett.

“Open the doors,” he said with a sigh. Benos hastened to obey. “There are many seeking an audience with the Small Council today, I doubt you’ll even be seen.”

“Is Lord Commander Janos here?” I asked, yanking my prisoners to their feet. They protested around their cloth gags.

“Does he ever miss a chance to plant lips on ass?”

“Then I will be seen.”

I dragged the two extortionists through the door into the cavernous Great Hall. Our steps echoed off the marble floor, but the sound was lost in the general din of the dozens of onlookers standing in the gallery. Nobleman and women stood nearer the throne, gathering between the great tapestries depicting scenes of the hunt. Smallfolk were hearded near the back, in the gallery. Most would be from the merchant class, trying to stay abreast of the news of the day.

I joined a small line of a dozen and a half petitioners, drawing odd looks from everyone who noticed the bound Goldcloaks.

Littlefinger, Pycelle, and Varys all sat in cushioned chairs at the front left corner of the metalwork monstrosity that was the Iron Throne while Sers Mandon Moore and Meryn Trant stood at the base of the throne, hands on their pommels and their eyes on a swivel.

Without a Hand and with the King heading north, it fell to Renly to sit the throne as Master of Laws. He lounged in the seat, a slight tenseness to his shoulders giving away his discomfort. Golden light filtered through the stain glass stags behind the royal seat, casting Renly’s shadow long across the stonework. With his violet and cloth-of-gold doublet and easy smile, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was one crown shy of being the ideal image of a king.

The only problem was that Renly was well aware of that fact.

I wondered if he and Loras had already started their plot to replace Cersei with Margaery. I was hardly privy to the machinations of Highgarden anymore, given that the only response I’d gotten from a batch of letters I’d sent had come from my mother. How she managed to convey both pride and disappointment through kindly written words had to have been a gift.

It was only through her that I even learned that Willas was now betrothed.

How Mace managed to steal the promise of Allyria Dayne’s hand from the Dondarrions, I had no idea. Their wedding was set for the turn of the year, which – if my recollection was solid – put it right at the outset of the war from the original timeline.

If everything went well, that wedding would double as a celebration for continued peace.

“And next time you petition for funding.” Renly’s voice brought me back to the present. He addressed three men in brown robes, their heads bowed. “I suggest you speak of more than wildfire.”

The trio of alchemists beat a hasty retreat and I watched them go with a weary eye. Had to figure out a way to deal with them at some point as well.

Renly made efficient work of the remaining petitioners, resolving several minor disputes and wielding his charm as an exacting weapon. It was not an amazing display, but Renly made for a more competent administrator than I had expected.

At least when he was putting in the effort.

He made it to me within an hour, and the murmurings began as soon as I was close enough for the noble gallery to see my companions.

“What is the meaning of this?” the squat, frog-faced commander of the city watch broke from the crowd, his black and gold plate clashing with the growing red of his face. “Release my men at once!”

“Peace, Janos,” Renly said, holding a hand up in the man’s direction but keeping his eyes on me. A single brow ticked up, and I bowed my head without breaking eye contact. “Explain, Ser Lyonel.”

“In brief, my lord, corruption.” I dropped the ropes and held my book aloft. “I recently came into ownership of tavern by the name of the Shoreman’s Shanty, right by the Mud Gate.” Hey, free advertising. “In my review of the previous owner’s records, I discovered a most disturbing trend.” I flipped open the book to a random page, skimmed it, and jammed a finger to the offending name. “Fortnightly payments to one labeled Slynt.” I dragged my finger down the page to the next entry. “Slynt.” Flipped the page and did the same. “Slynt.”

I tossed the book at the Lord Commander’s feet, but his anger had given way to pale fear. I did not dare look in Littlefinger’s direction, and instead sought Renly’s face. He seemed indifferent, but not dismissive. I could work with that.

“Now my lords, what private business exists between two men is but their own affairs, but my suspicions were proven true upon the very first day of returning the tavern to business when these two,” I arced a wave at the pair, whose protests were muffled behind their rags. “Accosted me just hours ago. They came to the tavern, and demanded of me the same payment that the previous owner had supplied their commander.

“Or else those charged with keeping the king’s peace might forget their duty. I imagine they would have been less eager to threaten had they known they were speaking to a knight.” Both winced and lowered their heads. The crowd continued to murmur as I went for the finish. “I say any man who extorts the very people he is charged with protecting is worth less than the shit beneath his boots, and I name you, Janos Slynt, a criminal.”

“A mummer’s tale! Nothing more!” Janos shouted, his jowly face red.

Silence. All looked to Renly.

“These are serious claims, Ser Lyonel.” The lord drummed his fingers along the flat of one the thousand blades melted into his seat. “Ones not made lightly.”

“I am certain even the briefest of investigations will prove me right.”

“What right do you have!?” Slynt stalked forward, but I squared my shoulders to him and he stopped. He turned to Renly, holding his arms out wide. “I have served the realm for many years, my lord!”

“You have.” Renly dipped his head in acknowledgment, and I felt a moment of disbelief. “Which is why I am certain you will not object to an inquiry.”

Janos spluttered. “On the word of a bastard?”

“On the word of a knight.” I bit back. He looked at me with rage in his eyes before sweeping his attention to the rest of the small council.

“Lord Baelish, I--”

“Enough!” Renly shouted, and his voice boomed with an impressive echo.

Janos actually winced.

“Ser Loras Tyrell,” Renly said, and my cousin stepped forward from the pack of nobles. He was dressed in bright green, with his three golden roses slashing across his chest from shoulder to hip. “You will find the truth of this.”

Loras smiled, affection clear in his eyes as he looked to Renly before bowing. “By your word, my lord.”

“Ser Mandon.” The kingsguard stepped forward and turned to Renly with his head held high. “Have a secure room prepared for Lord Commander Slynt in the Tower of the Hand. A member of the kingsguard is to be among those guarding him at all times. The others can be taken to the black cells.”

“As you say, my lord,” the knight said in a gravelly tone. I could not see his expression beneath his white enameled helm, but he grabbed a spluttering Slynt by the shoulder and marched him out without hesitation.

“As to the rest, I think we are finished today.” Renly stood and made careful steps down the throne. “Ser Loras, Ser Lyonel, with me if you would.”

Varys met my for a brief moment as I gathered my dropped ledger, one delicate eyebrow raised. I nodded and fell into step with Loras as we followed Renly out of the great hall and through the winding halls of the Red Keep until we reached his offices.

“You do not understand the concept of subtlety, do you nephew?” Renly asked once the door was shut and the guardsmen cut off.

“Once I was aware of his two-faced nature, I feared any delay would give Slynt the chance to slither his way out from under heel.”

“Allegedly two-faced,” Loras said from behind me, arms crossed. “Why did you buy a tavern?”

I shrugged. “It seemed a good use of my tournament winnings.” Loras’ face curled in distaste at the reminder of his loss.

Renly let out a tired laugh, running a hand through his black locks. “A happy coincidence then, that you discovered this after your investment.”

I met Renly’s eyes. “Seems that way,” I said, holding up the book in his direction. “I would not have made the claim were it not the truth.” Baratheon blue met Baratheon blue as I had a staring contest with my uncle.

Renly blinked first, sighing and waving off my offer of the evidence.

“You are your father’s son, in both your fascination with the law and your ill sense of timing.”

He trailed off, and I did not speak, unsure of what to make of the comment.

“In any case,” he continued. “Loras will follow up on this and get to the heart of the matter. If the gods are good, you are simply mistaken, Lyonel.”

“I don’t believe I am.” I turned to my cousin and handed him the ledger. “You’ll need that.”

He took it with a stiff nod.

“What a fine mess. And he’s Littlefinger’s man, so we’ll have to deal with keeping him away from this as well.” I was pleasantly surprised I did not have to point that out to him. “Ser Loras, take a dozen of my men and get started.”

My cousin inclined his head and took his leave.

“And you, nephew.” Renly sat in a cushioned chair with a breath of relief. “Planning on accusing anyone else of crimes against the crown?”

He spoke with dry sarcasm that I met with a grin.

“Not today, my lord.”

 

[Dreyden90]

It was about the time I assumed Robert would be enjoying the first feast at Winterfell that I found myself in the company of my cousin, the small council, and a score of knights in the Tower of the Hand. The solar was dark, lit only by the dim light of the setting sun, and the one of the two kingsguard remaining in King’s Landing stood under our scrutiny.

Shadows played across Ser Mandon Moore’s stoic face, making his square-jawed countenance more fearsome. To say nothing of the blood spattered across the white enameled armor.

“Tell me, how does a vaunted knight of the kingsguard let this happen?” Renly sounded more tired than angry, but his blue eyes bored into Moore’s unflinching gaze and his shoulders were held taught. The glimmer of Baratheon fury highlighted the younger brother’s likeness to the king.

Ser Mandon remained impassive.

“I know not how he got in. Slynt screamed, then I came in and killed his killer. Then sent for you.”

The former commander of the gold cloaks sat at the head of the solar’s table, sprawled back in his chair with glassy eyes staring toward the sky. His half eaten supper still let off steam on the table in front of him. Maester Pycelle leaned over the body, taking the dagger out of the dead man’s chest with shaking hands.

The corpse of his killer was in far worse shape. Ser Mandon cleaved it in two from the neck to the middle of his ribcage. Varys toed around the edge of the pool of blood the body lied in and studied the dead man’s face.

“Allar Deem,” he declared, voice muffled. I wondered how much of the stench of blood, shit, and roasted chicken was blocked by the fabric he held over his nose and mouth. “Slynt’s former right hand.”

“Convenient he would know a way in without alerting Ser Mandon,” Littlefinger said. I stopped my eyes from rolling. I must have already been on Baelish’s radar, and did not need to fan any flames of suspicion. “Few enough are aware of Maegor’s tunnels and I find it difficult to believe Deem knew precisely the one he needed.”

“There are many servants who make use of those halls,” Varys said, not rising to Baelish’s bait. “A dragon exchanging hands has the awful habit of opening doors.” The master of whispers’ eyes lingered on Ser Mandon for a moment past decorum.

It was good to know Varys saw the dots connect as easily as I did.

“See to it that everyone is questioned, Lord Varys.” Renly turned to his lover. “Did you find anything on Deem during your searches?”

Loras shook his head, bedhead curls swaying. “Deem went to ground before the investigation began.” He shot me a look, but I kept quiet. It was only the happenstance of being in the training yard when the commotion was raised that I was even here. No need to risk getting sent away. “But his name has come up from the dozens of others we’ve stripped of their rank.”

One in twenty goldcloaks had been found to be involved in Slynt’s laundering scheme. At this point about seventy of the City Watch would be trading their golden cloaks for black.

A suggestion my uncle agreed to in his usual ease when somebody else worked out a solution for him.

Some of the cleverer guards must have gotten out of dodge or otherwise hid their tracks well, but Littlefinger’s hold over that aspect of King’s Landing’s day-to-day had been crippled.

Even if there had been nothing to link Baelish to Slynt’s crimes directly.

“Then it seems there is little more to do other than cut away the rest of the rot,” Baelish said. “And let Janos Slynt and Allar Deem be forgotten by history.”

“And forget the lessons they’ve taught us?” I couldn’t stop myself from speaking up. I was of a height with the master of coin and stared him down. He met my gaze without flinching, even smirking a bit. “Slynt should serve as a reminder of the dangers of a man easily bought holding such power.”

“He is not the first to be swayed by gold,” Baelish said with a carefree shrug.

“It matters little how Slynt is remembered,” Renly said with a sigh as he eyed Littlefinger. “His successor will have much and more work to do to set the Watch to rights.”

“Perhaps someone from the Watch Ser Loras has already cleared? A captain from one of the gates?”

“No,” Renly dismissed Varys’ notion with a shake of his head. “I shall choose someone from mine own bannermen.”

I suppressed a smile. The more stormlanders in the capital the better.

---​

Ser Alden Storm proved to be an easygoing man with blonde curls and green eyes, and I had half a notion to believe Renly only appointed him as eye candy.

The natural son of Lord Musgood proved as capable as he was comely, however, and took to his task with an impressive enthusiasm.

Within a fortnight of his appointment, the Watch had settled down from the chaos caused by Loras’ investigation to the regular humdrum of monotonous repetition. Guardsmen rotated five days guard duty with one day of training with sword and club. According to Renly, it was so Ser Alden could get eyes on every member of the Watch on a regular basis.

“Eager to please, that one,” Renly said one evening over a dinner. “But diligent. You did the right thing bringing this to me, Lyonel. I’ll make sure its known you’re to thank for Ser Loras’ well deserved rewards.”

“’E’s a fuckin’ nightmare, I tell you.” I overheard a disgruntled goldcloak lamenting to a working girl one night in the Shanty. “Got ‘is tongue so far up Lord Renly’s ass, ‘e can’t taste nothin’ but royal shit!”

A hard working brown-noser was a far sight better than Slynt. One less thing to worry about and all that.

In the meantime I tried to ingratiate myself with the smallfolk as best I could. Once a week I had a day of charity, gifting out a hearty broth soup for free to any in need of a meal. I employed the local streetrats in menial tasks, offering both pay and a meal for their services. I even lined the pockets of a few septons to come and offer their services at the inn on some days, bringing comfort to the more devout of the population.

The Shanty turned one hell of a profit – quality of service and product went a long way – and my reputation steadily grew.

In an effort to use that popularity, I introduced the basic concept of the “barkeep therapist” to Alyssa and her gaggle of helpers as well. Initially to entice patrons to spend more coin, but it turned out to be a decent font of information as well.

Most of it was nonsense drama of the everyday life of normal people.

There was always a gem in the rough though. The name of a few captains who were willing to smuggle for the right coin. Rumors of folk who could make problems disappear for a price. Gossip over how this lord or that had peculiar tastes.

I leveraged that with another idea borrowed from the old world in a weekly “Maiden’s Day” for women of the city to patron the Shanty without the menfolk being allowed in during the day. It was a deeply unpopular idea at the start, but we grew busier each time. A month after the first, the Shanty was packed with women seeking respite for a time.

Including some of Baelish’s girls.

Given time, I had hopes I’d be able to glean an insight into the inner workings of Baelish’s machinations.

I kept busy outside the Shanty as well. Training every day with the men-at-arms in the Keep. Observing Renly’s court as much as I could. Exploring the tunnels and hidden paths throughout the Red Keep first as part of the investigation, and then out of habit. Commandeering another batch of ravens from one of Pycelle’s aids with a letter each to my mother, Willas, Garlan, Olenna, and Stannis.

Only my mother and Willas responded, and Willas’ was nothing more than a polite ‘thank you’ for my congratulations on his betrothal.

Frustrating as that was, I did not let it affect my focus on my passive preparations.

Time did sneak up on me again, though, and one day I was taking lunch with Renly, Loras, and a scattering of minor nobles from the Stormlands when Renly mused on an idea to ride out and meet Robert’s caravan.

“I should like to join you, Uncle.” I did my best to hide the burst of adrenaline that came with his words.

“Eager to meet your other royal uncle again, are you?” Renly said with a teasing lilt.

“More eager to break up the monotony, my lord. I’m like to forget the smell of fresh air if I don’t get outside the city soon.”

Renly’s eyes squinted the barest amount, but his smile never wavered.

“I could not deny you that, dear nephew,” he said. “If nothing else, the queen’s reaction will be entertaining.”

Several of the minor lords laughed, hollow and awkward, and I nodded my thanks to my uncle.

Now to see about getting onto Eddard Stark’s good side.

 

[Dreyden90]

There were less than a dozen of us that rode with Renly from King’s Landing. Ser Barristan Selmy rode abreast of Renly the entire time, with me being relegated back amongst the others. Renly’s household guard were decent men, but they did not make for lively conversation partners.

My boredom only lasted a few days as we made swift progress with our small number. The King’s convoy had been large leaving the capital, stretching for at least a mile, but when we made it to the Inn at the Crossroads it was clear the caravan had doubled in size.

At least.

I did not get the chance to marvel at the sight of what was practically a roaming city as Renly only sped up with a laugh and rode for the center of it all.

And I found myself in a scene direct from canon. It was somehow just as surreal as the first time I realized I’d been reborn in Westeros.

Sansa Stark puzzled out the identity of Renly with an objectively impressive use of deduction, but I was struck dumb more by the sight of her.

She was a child.

All of eleven years old. Small and thin, babyfat still on her cheeks and a light in her eyes reflecting the joyful triumph of having solved a puzzle. Innocent.

Joffrey was a little shit, and I could understand his casual cruelty. But I could not fathom how the likes of Petyr Baelish and Sandor Clegane could see Sansa as she was and lust after her.

My gut twisted, and it was a struggle to keep a kind smile as the oldest Stark daughter regarded me. She studied my face for a moment and her expression tightened as if she tasted something sour.

Ah, right. She did not like bastards at this point. I took no offense. Children and learned prejudices and all that.

“You have the same look as Lord Renly, Ser,” she said, perfectly polite. “But it is well known he has no children. Your shield bears no design but seven colors, and talk of Prince Joffrey’s nameday tournament reached Winterfell with King Robert. I name you Ser Lyonel Storm, natural son of the Lord of Dragonstone.”

“And a natural innkeeper, at that,” Renly joked. There was a smattering of laughter, but Sansa’s brows furrowed in her confusion.

“I am humbled to be recognized,” I said with a bow of my head toward the girl. “Your grasp of heraldry and reason serves you well, my lady.”

She almost smiled, but then Cersei spoke up.

“All bastards should be so lucky to find themselves in such company,” she said with a smile thin as a blade. Cold green eyes bored into mine for a long moment before she resumed ignoring me. She bid Joffrey to escort Sansa for the day while the councilors and the queen spoke of the business of the realm.

And just like that I was just another face in the crowd.

I hung back until Sansa tied Lady up and Clegane was sent away by Joffrey before I tracked them in earnest.

Once I’d made my decision to stay in King’s Landing, I had spent many hours speculating on the best time to interfere in the situation at the Trident. Part of me wanted to let it play out, hope that the ripples I’d made had enough of an effect for Nymeria to latch onto Joffrey’s neck instead of his arm. But that way probably led to dead Starks.

And I was rather fond of the idea of that family not suffering.

So I kept my distance but trailed after Joffrey and Sansa for the day. They acted like bored kids, for the most part. Sansa simpering after Joffrey and clearly just happy with his attention. Such happened when a kid had fallen in love with an idea.

Joffrey wasn’t even a complete prick for most of it. Only flashing in douchebaggery when he demanded a meal out of a small holdfast not a ten minute walk away from the mighty river.

I recompensed the couple with a handful of Stags for their trouble, once the royal ponce took off, and they were more than happy to supply me with food as well.

By the time the sky tinged with the telltale yellows of sunset, I had started to have the same realization about Joffrey that I had for Sansa. Tall as he was, he was only thirteen. Still a kid too attached to his mother who held his father up to an impossible standard.

But then they ran across Arya crossing sticks with Mycah, playing being at knights, and the prince’s entire body language changed. From relaxed and arrogant to tense and predatory. The pleasure he took in having power over another living being was palpable.

I waited until he held a sword to the butcher boy’s cheek before bursting into movement, a knightly line meant to shame the bastard ready on my tongue.

But Arya reacted much quicker than I had thought she would, and was far closer.

The stick struck the back of Joffrey’s head with a resounding thwack, forcing him into a stumble. Mycah took off running into the woods. Joffrey started shouting a smorgasbord of insults at the girl and swung at her with reckless abandon. A grey blur barreled past me and for a moment I felt the desperate frustration that I couldn’t make a difference.

“Nymeria!”I bit out the direwolf’s name with as much force as I could muster, desperation fueling my tenor. Impossibly, miraculously, the best skidded to a halt and looked to me with a whine as I sprinted past her.

Well trained.

Joffrey was oblivious to my shout, lost in his fury, but Arya’s head snapped in my direction the moment I spoke. Her distraction cost her.

Joffrey struck a diagonal slash that bloomed crimson. Arya fell back, Sansa screamed, and Joffrey followed up with a snarl.

I finally made it between them and caught his blade with mine. A twist of the wrist had his sword arm flying wide, and I hooked one foot behind his ankle and punched him in the solar plexus at the same moment. He went sprawling to the muddy ground, wheezing. I stood over him, sword poised, and for a moment – just a moment – I considered killing him there and then.

Common sense quickly reminded me that I liked my head connected to my shoulders, thank you very much.

“Stay down, cousin.”

Joffrey glared at me and wheezed again, still not able to draw a full breath. I kicked his sword away – it landed in the Trident with a satisfying plop – and turned to Arya.

Nymeria had padded over, and was licking tears off the girl’s face as she whimpered, her tiny arms crossed over her middle and doing little to stem the flow of blood. I swallowed my fear and knelt in the mud next to her.

“Arya,” I said, keeping my voice as level as I could. “I’m going to need to move your arms, okay?” The girl looked at me with wide, fearful grey eyes and I did my best to smile. I pulled her arms away from her middle and she could not help but to scream.

Sympathetic tears burned the back of my eyes.

“You’re hurting her!” Sansa accused in shaky, hoarse voice.

“I’m saving her. Come help me,” I ordered her without sparing a look as I took in the younger girl’s injuries.

Her leathers and tunic were ruined, but had saved her life. The cut went from the middle of her belly to the curve where her neck met her left shoulder; far shallower toward the bottom than the top. The cut bled with vigor, and I was sure Joffrey had at least knicked her collarbone, if not break it outright.

“There now, tough one,” I said as Sansa took hesitant steps up to my side. “That’s hardly a scratch.”

“H-hurts more th-than I thought it would,” Arya managed to say, her eyes screwed shut.

“Aye, they never talk about this part in the songs.” I glanced to the older girl. She was pale as a sheet, shaking, and crying as she looked over her sister. I sighed and started doffing my tunic and tearing it in two. “I need to bind the cut and immobilize her arm until we can get her to a maester. Sansa.” The redhead blinked and looked to me, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “I need you to hold this-“ I held up my tunic. “-in place while I do so.”

I didn’t wait for her to nod, laying half my tunic over Arya’s wound until just below the collarbone. “Put pressure here, and here.” To her credit, Sansa did so despite her shaking hands. I tied the fabric I had left into a makeshift sling. I grabbed her left wrist and hesitated, taking a breath.

“Not going to lie, my lady,” I said. “This is going to feel like the seven hells are burning through your shoulder. On three.” Arya nodded, putting on a brave face.

She braced for three, I went on one.

Mercifully, she passed out from the sharp pain before she had the chance to suffer. I used the sling to bind her arm over her stomach, both locking it in place and using it to keep pressure on the rest of her wound.

I sent a mental thanks to Garlan for his well-rounded training and hefted Arya in my arms as gently as I could.

“And you,” I looked over my shoulder to glare at Joffrey. He watched the reddening makeshift bandages with a wide-eyed fascination that twisted my gut. “Best be ready to explain to Lord Stark why you tried to kill his daughter.”

His face reddened. “The little bitch attacked me!” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “You attacked me. My mother will have your head!”

I rounded on him, careful not to jostle Arya too badly. He flinched back as I towered over him.

“We will take what happened here to His Grace,” I told him with as much disgust in my voice as I could inject. “How the crown prince tormented a boy and nearly murdered a highborn lady. I imagine the court will be most interested in the type of man their future king is.”

“How dare--”

“Lady Sansa.” I turned my back on the spluttering prince and met Sansa’s watery eyes. She looked lost. Torn as she glanced between her sister and the prince. I could almost hear the shattering of her dreams as if they were glass. “I’ll need you to lead the way toward your father.”

She blinked. Once, twice, then nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but shook her head, dabbed her eyes with a sleeve, and started back toward the caravan.

I turned my back on Joffrey and followed. Nymeria padded along at my side, whining whenever Arya made a pained grunt.

I suppressed the budding sense of guilt and tried to focus on how to talk my way out of the situation to come.

 

[Dreyden90]

Had it been so long ago, Ned wondered, that his life had been simple and full of the joy of family?

Ned was far from a stranger to grief, but its sting had never been so keen as it had been these past few weeks with his worry for Bran. When he saw Arya lying limp in the stranger’s arms, his breath had been stolen from him. He discovered a new level of fear as iron gripped his heart.

To his shame, he had frozen in that moment, unable to contemplate the possibility of losing two of his children within weeks of each other.

Gods, how would he tell Cat?

Jory – good, reliable Jory – had kept his wits about him and called for a maester without delay.

It had brought Ned back to the present and he lost himself in issuing instructions to his household until he was in his room at the inn, watching one of the caravan’s maester’s applying a poultice over Arya’s stitched wound.

Sansa stayed close to his side, clutching his hand for dear life and shaking. He allowed nobody else in while the maester did his work, but had Jory and Alyn keep the knight who’d brought Arya just outside the room.

He would get the truth of what happened the moment his youngest daughter was safe.

The maester straightened with a stretch, bones and joints cracking in spite of his young age. He turned to Ned and grinned a sad smile.

“She is not in danger now, my lord.” The maester wiped his hands clean with a cloth at his waist. Sansa gave a cry of relief and hugged Ned tighter than she had in years.

“She will recover?”

“The cut will heal cleanly, but...” he trailed off with a glance back toward Arya. “It is a good thing the young Ser kept her arm from moving or the damage to her shoulder may have been worse. It will have to be the same for the next moon’s turn, maybe two.” He faced Ned again, meeting his eyes. “She should recover most, if not all of the use of that arm once the bone heals. But I must warn you, my lord, it is going to be painful. Dreadfully so.”

Ned closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer to the old gods.

“Is there nothing to be done save waiting?”

“Were she a woman grown, I would have her dosed with milk of the poppy,” he said. “Constantly. But it will have to be done sparingly, lest it do more harm than good. And she will have to keep still, for as much as is possible.”

Ned almost let out a laugh at that. The thought of Arya keeping to one place seemed an impossibility.

“Thank you, maester.”

The man bowed his head and left. Ned was left alone with his daughters, one unconscious and the other still with tears in her eyes

He forced his eyes away from Arya and pulled his oldest girl in front of him with a gentle tug.

“I need to know everything that happened.” He tapped her chin to raise her eyes to meet his. Scared and sad and as blue as Cat’s. “The truth of it, quickly.”

She took a shuddering breath and told the tale. A day with the prince, happy and wonderful until they came across Arya playing at swords with the butcher’s boy. How Joffrey had wanted to punish the boy for attacking a highborn lady, and how Arya defended her friend by striking the prince. That Joffrey flew into a rage, and Ser Lyonel had intervened but not in time.

“Then he had me…” Sansa trailed off and raised her trembling hands, still stained with her sister’s blood. She swallowed thickly. Ned squeezed her shoulder even as his gut roiled with worry and rage.

He had to speak with Robert. Before the prince had a chance to spin his own tale.

“Will you send Arya back home, father?” Sansa asked once she regained her voice, still full of sorrow and concern.

Would that I could send you both back, Ned thought. If this was the type of man Joffrey would become, Ned would break the betrothal that night and pack both girls back to Winterfell. But King’s Landing was closer than home, and disregarding a marriage pact was no simple thing. Much less so breaking one with the king.

“No,” he said at length. Sansa’s shoulders sagged in relief. “I’ll be counting on you to help mind your sister as she heals. Gods know she will not enjoy having to keep still.” Sansa nodded again, and Ned worried that not even a flicker of annoyance crossed her features.

It sunk in then, how scared she must have felt, and he drew her into an embrace.

She clung to him tighter than she had in years.

“Father,” she said into his chest. “Will I still have to marry him?”

Ned held her closer before pulling away. “I must speak with the king,” he said and led her to the door with one last look toward Arya. His throat tightened again, but he pushed past it.

“Alyn,” he said once they were in the hall. “Please take Sansa back to room and have two men posted at her door.” His steward nodded and wrapped an arm around Sansa’s shoulders, guiding her down the hall. “I’ll need you to stand vigil here, Jory.”

“My lord,” he said with a shallow nod. He took position in front of the door without complaint.

“And you.” Ned turned to the last. The boy was of a height with him, and for a moment he was struck with nostalgia. At first glance he was a mirror image of Robert, but the differences did catch the eye after a moment. A nose too small and a face too thin. It had been some years since Ned had seen Stannis Baratheon in person, but he could well see the Lord of Dragonstone in his bastard son.

“What do you need of me, Lord Stark?” the young knight asked, and Ned realized he had trailed off.

“I’ve had the tale from my daughter. I would hear it from you as well.”

The boy nodded. “I came across the prince holding a blade on some boy and ran to intervene. Lady Arya was closer and did so first, and hit the prince with a stick. The boy ran away and Joffrey flew into a rage and attacked Lady Arya. To my shame I did not reach them in time to stop the prince from injuring her.” He glanced toward the closed door. “Will she be all right?”

“In time.” Ned tempered his rising anger and prayed he would keep his composure. “We must see the king.”

Ser Lyonel gave a grave nod. “Of course, my lord.”

They found Robert out in a pavilion by the queen’s wheelhouse, using it as a makeshift solar. He sat at a camp table, his wide frame taking a side on his own, with a cup in hand and his wife hovering over his shoulder. Lord Renly lounged to his left, looking bored as he chatted to Ser Barristan in a quiet tone.

“There you are, Ned,” Robert said with a grumble. “I was about to send a man to bring you here. And Stannis’ get, too. Good. I would soon have a clear answer for this unpleasantness.”

“Unpleasantness?” Cersei spoke with disdain. “The bastard attacks your son and you call it unpleasantness?”

Ser Lyonel’s hackles raised, but Ned placed a hand on his shoulder before the boy could dig himself a grave with angry words.

“Where is Prince Joffrey?” He spoke with as even a tone as he could muster.

“The Kingslayer is to bring him here once the maeseter is through with him.” Robert looked to the tent’s entrance with contempt before shaking his head and regarding Ned with a softer expression. “How does your girl fair?”

“Arya will live,” Ned said. Robert raised his cup and drained it in one gulp.

He slammed it down on the table hard enough that the wood creaked. “First gods damned bit of good news I’ve heard all night.”

“And the other girl,” Ser Barristan said, voice soft. “Sansa?”

“Shaken.” Ned turned his attention to the queen. “But clear in her account of what happened.”

Cersei’s lips curled into an unpleasant smile.

“Such a trying experience can color—”

Robert interrupted her with a fist banging on the table. “Enough, woman! I will have the story from the boy directly without your honeyed words.”

Cersei looked to have a retort on her tongue, but her brother entered the pavilion at that moment, a petulant Joffrey in tow. His wrist was wrapped and mottled purple skin showed through his open tunic over his sternum, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Ned had to fight the instinctive anger just the sight of the boy raised.

“Cousin,” Ser Lyonel said in greeting, poorly hiding the contempt with which he spoke. The prince’s attention snapped toward Lyonel and he flinched back hard enough that the Kingslayer had to catch him. He recovered a moment later, face going red in anger as he glared at the knight.

“What is he doing here? He tried to kill me!”

“I disarmed you. Bit of a difference, there.”

Renly snorted. “Lyonel trains with Ser Barristan most days, nephew. If he wanted to harm you, you would be dead.”

“I’m—”

“Enough!” Robert cut off his son’s response. “I would have the truth of it. You, boy.” He pointed at Ser Lyonel. “Speak.”

The knight bowed his head toward Robert and did so. He told the tale calmly and with poise, even as Joffrey grew redder and more agitated with every word. Cersei tried twice to interrupt, and Joffrey once, but both wer silenced each time by a glare from Robert as he, too, grew wroth.

“It is treason to lie to your king, you understand?” Robert had advanced on Lyonel as the boy spoke, looming over him with his considerable girth. Lyonel did not balk.

“My word is my honor.” He matched the king’s eyes. “And I’m prepared to defend it to my last.”

Robert glared at the knight for a tense breath before glancing toward Ned.

“You believe him?”

“Sansa speaks to the same,” Ned said, quiet as a northern wind. He looked to Joffrey and his jaw clenched. “I know he speaks true.”

“He lies, Father! I—”

The sound of fist hitting flesh brought deafening silence in its wake as the prince went crashing to the ground. He lay still, half his face already swelling and turning an angry red, and a fresh cut leaked blood from his temple.

There was a beat of silence, and then Cersei ran to her unconscious son, falling to her knees at his side. “How dare you!” she shouted toward the king. “Is this the king’s justice? Attacking our son on the word of a bastard!”

Robert rounded on her, red in the face and words coming as a roar. “On the word of the Lord Paramount of the North and the Hand of the King! He should be so lucky if that’s all that comes from this! Gods. Wars have been fought for less.”

Ned’s thoughts went to another crown prince; a different daughter of House Stark.

Promise me, Ned.

Bile burned the back of his throat and he forced his attention to the present. Sansa was safe. Arya would live. He focused on that.

“Everyone but Ned, leave!” The king ordered over his wife’s continued objections. The tent emptied, with Cersei lingering only until the Kingslayer hefted the prince into his arms, and soon it was just Robert and Ned and a deafening silence between them.

The rage left Robert in a blink. He lumbered back to the camp table and poured two fresh cups of wine, offering one to Ned.

Ned took it, but remained quiet as the king drank deep.

“What to do, Ned?” Robert sank into the undersized chair. “What to do.”

Had it been anyone else, Ned would sooner have their head on a block or send them to the Wall to take the black. Royalty was judged on a different standard, though.

“I would have the betrothal broken, to start.”

“We can’t,” Robert said. “The Tyrells, Martells, and a dozen other bloody houses are just waiting for a single break in our armor. Lysa’s already run off back to the Vale. If the Starks and Tullys do not stand with me, the beggar king might just find himself equipped with the Redwyne and Dornish fleets to go with his Dothraki horde.”

There was truth to Robert’s words.

“With respect, Your Grace. I will not allow my daughter to be endangered by your son, no matter the consequences.”

“My son,” Robert repeated. He knocked back the rest of his drink and threw the cup with enough force that it cracked one of the pavilion’s wooden poles. “I’ve let his mother ruin him.” He ran a hand through shaggy black hair and leveled glazed blue eyes on Ned. “I’ll squire him to Selmy. Have the Bold break him until he understands how to be a man.”

“And if it that is not enough?”

“Damn it, Ned!” Robert reached for the jug of wine, but only succeeded in knocking it off the table. He cursed and kicked it across the tent. “Are the lions the only ones I can count on now? There are years before they have to marry. If Selmy can’t fix him, I’ll disinherit the little shit and we can deal with the consequences then.”

Ned let out a breath, a hint of relief coming for the first time in hours. “Then I would ask that Tommen start as a squire as well,” he said. “For one of my men. Jory.”

“Fine. Fine! I will not have war between us, Ned.”

“Nor I, Robert.”

Another long moment passed between them before Robert shouted for his squires to bring more wine and Ned took the chance to beg his leave.

With any luck, his face would be the first Arya saw when she woke.

 

[Dreyden90]

If the caravan had been moving at a crawl before, it could now be described as a veritable trudge. The king’s party had continued on ahead at their regular pace, and within several days of moving on from the Inn at the Crossroads, the Stark contingent was on its own. I opted to hang back with the northerners in an attempt to speak with Ned.

Plus I now found myself with a partner on horseback more often than not.

“I don’t get it,” Arya said as Stormflower walked along at her most sedate pace. “Why didn’t the prince attack the Dread Pirate Roberts while he was in the bed?”

She had been miserable these past days, and railed against her lack of independence. She could not guide a horse on her own, though, and riding in a cart proved too agitating to her shoulder. And so she sat ahorse with her father or one of his men or me, making no secret of her frustration for the sling I’d cobbled together for her.

So I distracted her with stories from my old world. To at least take her mind off the pain.

“You’d be surprised how far confidence will get you.” I explained. “When Wesley told the prince what “to the pain” meant, he did so with such conviction the prince lost sight of what was for his fear of what could be.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Sansa said, riding beside us. She developed a habit of hovering over Arya like a mother hen these past days. That Arya hadn’t complained once was telling how much her injury was affecting her despite her brave face. “That the horrible man was defeated by cleverness. Please say that Wesley and Buttercup were married?”

I grinned at her and gestures to the horizon with the hand that wasn’t keeping Arya from moving. “And lived happily ever after.”

Sansa swooned at the thought, but Arya grunted.

“I bet he had more fun as the Dread Pirate than being married.”

“Maybe so, but love is an adventure all its own.”

Her nose scrunched in distaste and I laughed.

Ahead of us, Nymeria and Lady burst into sudden motion. They ran circles around each other, nipping at the other’s tail, before both went down in a grappling heap of fur.

Arya looked to them with a melancholy expression while Sansa huffed out an irritated “Lady!”

The two direwolves separated and hopped to their feet, poised and walking along with wagging tails as if nothing ever happened.

“To live a life so carefree,” I said, eyeing the two overgrown puppies. “Must be nice.”

“I dreamed about it,” Arya said. I tensed, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I was Nymeria and running through the woods with Lady. We chased cats and deer but didn’t catch any, then played in the Trident until we each had a half dozen fish.”

“Sounds fun.” To anyone else, or in any other world the dream would mean little beyond a child’s fantasy. But if Arya was having wolf dreams already…?

Well, I had no idea how that would affect anything to be honest. It was something well outside my control and I leaned into my optimistic side and hoped it only meant good things.

“What of you, Lady Sansa?” I asked to break my chain of thought. “Any interesting dreams?”

She paled immediately, and her hands clutched tighter on her reigns until they shook.

“None worth speaking of,” she said in an admirably level voice. I held back a curse.

Nightmares. Of course she would have nightmares.

“Just as well, since I have another story to tell. Have either of you heard the tale of Lady Merida the Brave?”

---​

We were about two days away of King’s Landing when a rainstorm took us by surprise and forced us off the road in the early afternoon to make camp. Despite the frustration of another delay on our journey, I was grateful for a chance to finally catch Ned alone save for his guards.

The man had spent every moment not on the road with his daughters. I could hardly begrudge him the time, but it made accomplishing my secondary goal of having ridden out with Renly in the first place more difficult than I anticipated.

So I didn’t hesitate the moment I saw Septa Mordane practically shoo him out of the girls’ pavilion a few hours after we stopped for the storm.

“Lord Stark?” One of the Stark men, Alyn I believed, called through the canvas. “Ser Lyonel Storm to see you, my lord.” He glanced at me hunching over my books and scrolls to protect them from the rain. “Says he has some business of import, my lord.”

Ned sounded his assent and I rushed into the shelter, smacked with both its humid heat and musty smell. Furs squelched beneath my boots, not having escaped the downpour before the tent. Ned sat at a camp table, scratching away at a piece of parchment in the torchlight with an air of finality before turning to me with an expectant set to his expression.

I gave brief thought to who he would be writing to before speaking.

“I’m not sure if you are aware, my lord, but I was briefly in Jon Arryn’s service before he passed.”

“His Grace made mention,” Ned said with a shallow nod.

“Ah, good. Well,” I paused, still debating on how best broach the topic. “Permission to speak freely, my lord?”

Ned’s eyebrows flicked up, curious. “You’ve earned that much and more. Come, lad. Sit.” He indicated a stool across from him and I crossed the tent, laying out the records in my arms.

“What’s all this?”

“Financial records for the realm,” I said, tapping the ledger for effect. “And they weave a tale of intrigue.”

I explained it all as I had to Jon Arryn, but with less hesitation. Ned would only know Baelish through reputation and the knowledge he had tried to duel Brandon for Cat’s hand. No inherent loyalty and overconfidence to blind him as it had the older lord.

Ned rubbed at his temples, staring up at me through the gaps in his fingers.

“And you showed this all to Lord Arryn?”

“The very night he died.”

Ned’s only tell was a brief flaring of his nostrils.

“You suspect foul play?” His tone was quiet, cautious, and deathly serious. I met grey eyes and suppressed the sensation he could see right through me.

“I only knew Lord Arryn for a fortnight.” I hedged. “But he seemed in all regards to be a healthy man. When he wasn’t running the kingdom, he was running around the city with my father. I don’t believe he ever stopped moving.” I squared my shoulders. “So yes, I suspect Baelish. Lord Varys is even now searching for further evidence.”

“You’ve told the Spider?”

“I had few options,” I said, droll. “I don’t trust Lord Varys fully, but I at least know he distrusts Baelish as much as I do.”

“A thin thread of faith.”

“Which is why I’m bringing it to you as well, Lord Stark. I came to King’s Landing to do what good I can for the realm, and that remains my intention.” I placed a hand on the ledger. “I know I’ve stumbled onto something here. I just need help to unravel it all.”

A quiet fell between us. Rain tipped and tapped on the canvas roof, wood crackled in the fire, and Ned studied me all the while. I could see the indecision weighing in his mind between what Lysa must have written in her letter and the knowledge I brought to the table.

“You say Jon and Stannis spent--”

“Ned!”

The canvas flaps flew open, and a figure came into the tent at a pace just shy of a run. I blinked in surprise, hand halfway to my sword, but Ned was already striding across the tent to pull the stranger into an embrace.

Their hood fell back, revealing auburn hair and fair features with eyes as blue as Sansa’s. Ned laughed in joy, pulling back from the hug just enough so he could kiss his wife with a passion that left me feeling a voyeur.

Catelyn responded with a matching fervor.

Just as my brain got past How the hell is she here? and onto I should probably...go…, they broke apart.

“I was waiting for you in King’s Landing,” Catelyn said as they leaned their foreheads against each other’s. “When the King’s Party arrived without you I feared the worst. Then Petyr spoke of Ayra and I had to come find you.” She pulled away fully, gripping Ned’s hands in her own bandaged ones while she studied his face. “Tell me our baby is safe, Ned.”

“She lives,” he said, and smiled. It was more genuine and happier than I’d seen him be these past days. Catelyn sagged into him. “And heals well.” He glanced down to their hands and pulled hers up to place a gentle kiss against a bandage. “Are you well? What has brought you south? Has Bran woken? Has he told you what happened?”

Catelyn’s face fell and she shook her head. “He had not woken before I left. But, Ned.” She trailed off, something in her voice breaking. “Someone sent an assassin after our son. If not for his wolf, both Bran and I would be dead. What have we done that our children have to suffer so?”

“He did see something,” Ned said in his quiet voice, eyes distant and staring at the middle distance. “That’s the only reason anyone could...”

Tears fell from Cat’s eyes and Ned wrapped his arms around her and I wanted to leave. To let them share their grief and worry in private; but I couldn’t let them try to figure this out on their own with only Lysa’s lies to guide them.

“My lord.” I spoke at hardly more than a whisper, but both Ned and Cat jumped in surprise. They looked to me and I was surprised to find there were tears brimming in Ned’s eyes as well. I averted my gaze. “Forgive me, but I doubt these tragedies are not related.”

Granted, Littlefinger having Lysa kill Jon Arryn and Joffrey hiring a cutthroat to kill Bran were not directly tied to Cersei and Jaime’s adultery. I still needed to implicate them enough for Ned to keep on that trail after I managed to take Baelish down.

If I could take Baelish down.

“Who is this?” Catelyn regained her composure with admirable speed, wiping away her tears and and looking at me, poised and confident as any lady in course.

“Ser Lyonel Storm,” Ned said. “Apologies, but I had forgotten he was here.” He let out a small sigh I almost missed. “He is the one who saved Arya’s life.”

Cat’s expression softened in an instant and she bowed her head to me. “Then you have my unending thanks, Ser.”

“It is appreciated, my lady.” I dipped my head lower than her bow. “But if you could tell us all that you know, we may be able to piece together a clearer picture.”

Catelyn did so, telling the same story as canon of trying to meet with Ser Aron Santigar and instead being intercepted by Varys and Littlefinger. She handed off the dagger to Ned as she spoke.

It was a plain thing despite the richness of its make. A blackened dragonbone hilt and over a half foot of ash grey valyrian steel.

It boggled my mind how Joffrey was foolish enough to suply the cutthroat with that blade of all things.

“Petyr knew the blade,” she continued. “He says he lost it betting on the most recent tournament when Ser Loras Tyrell was unhorsed.” Her eyes cut to me briefly. “And that Tyrion Lannister won it from him.”

I gave Littlefinger credit for the narrative he weaved between Lysa’s letter and guiding the Starks’ suspicions.

“Odd,” I said as she finished. “I recall Lord Tyrion complaining at the feast that night about losing everything he bet on Ser Jaime the round before.” A lie, but one that did not need to be proven, only cast doubt on Baelish’s story. “It would not be Littlefinger’s first lie.” I gave a pointed glance toward my ledgers.

Ned rubbed at his temple again. “Do you trust Baelish, Cat?”

Lady Stark looked nonplussed. “I knew him when we were children. He offered Ser Rodrik and I shelter in King’s Landing. I don’t know of a reason he would speak falsely.”

A thought occurred to me at her words.

“Where did he offer you shelter, my lady?” I asked.

A faint blush rose to her cheeks and she looked mildly affronted.

“I ask not in judgment of you, but it is important.”

She named one of his brothel’s nearer to the Red Keep and I held back a grin even as Ned’s face flushed with an indignant anger.

Baelish kept his precious things close at hand, and I doubted there was anything he treasured more than his obsessive ideal of Catelyn.

Got you, fucker.

“We cannot take him at his word,” Ned said after taking a moment to gather himself. He rolled the dagger over in his hand, staring at it with distaste. “I will do as you intended and bring this to the master-at-arms. Valyrian steel is a rare thing. If Ser Aron knows it, then it confirms Littlefinger lies.”

I left them along not long after that to spend time with each other and their daughters. A moment of happiness for them in the calm before the coming storm.

 

[Dreyden90]

The Red Keep’s armory was the closest thing I had found to a true library in Westeros. Even in the most organized maester’s chambers, an aspect of chaos always made its way in. Not so with Ser Aron Santagar’s small hall.

Every inch of the fifty foot hall was used and arranged in a grid. On the left, weapon racks and tables were covered in weapons ranging from dirks to glaives, increasing in size the further down the hall. On the right, mannequins and chests contained armor. Similarly displayed as the weapons with the heavier armor further in from the door.

Everything had its place. The man used labels for everything, which threw me for a loop the first time I entered.

“The bastard knight with a bastard sword,” Ser Aron said as soon as I closed the creaking door. He looked to me and my companion with curiosity in his dark eyes. “And I do not know you.”

“This is Jory,” I said. “One of Lord Stark’s men.”

A small smile broke on the knight’s face and he rounded his makeshift desk to approach us. He held out a hand to Jory and stood to his full height. All five foot none of stout Dornishman coming only to Jory’s chest.

“The Hand’s men are always welcome here. I admit I have been looking forward to seeing northern steel.”

Ser Aron enjoyed his position as master-at-arms. I half suspected he had no interest for anything else from blades.

“It’s much the same as any castle forged steel,” Jory said, bemused. He sent a brief glance my way.

Santagar scoffed. “There’s always a difference to a discerning eye. But this is not what brings you today. Does the Hand require armor for his men?” His eyes slid over to me. “Does this one need more paint remover?”

I held back a grimace. Santagar had not been a fan of the Knight of Many Colors’ mishmash armor.

“We just need to confirm if you recognize a weapon,” I said, waving towards the northman. Jory withdrew the dagger from a sheath on his hip and held it out to Santagar, dragonbone handle first.

Santagar took the dagger in a gentle grasp, a smile pulling at his lips as he studied the ash grey steel. “Valyrian,” he said, a bit breathless. “Oh yes I remember this. A simple design, made elegant by the material.” His eyes flicked up from the blade and locked onto Jory’s. “Last I saw it I was loading it amongst the King’s chosen weapons the caravan north. How did it come to be in your possession?”

“This was the king’s?” Jory’s voice rang with disbelief.

“Aye, he won it from Littlefinger when this one unhorsed the Knight of Flowers.” He used the dagger to point to me. “Wouldn’t stop talking about it takes a soldier to judge a joust. But you did not answer my question.”

“That’s the Hand’s business, I’m afraid.” I held out a hand to take back the dagger. Santagar gave it up with some reluctance. “If you’ll excuse us, sir?”

Jory and I made our way back to the hall and spoke in low tones.

“If it was just on a cart with a bunch of other weapons, it could have been anyone in the caravan.”

“Someone who doesn’t know what valyrian steel is worth, surely,” Jory said, eyes flicking up and down the empty stretch of hall.

“Or someone arrogant enough not to care, and I doubt anyone who doesn’t know what valyrian steel is has a grudge against the Starks.”

Jory looked thoughtful. “It proves Littlefinger lied, in any case. Lord Stark will need to know.”

“Go on without me.” I gave him the dagger. “I need to make sure my inn didn’t burn down while I was away.”

Jory raised a brow in question but did not press when I offered no further explanation.

He went on ahead and I slipped back into the armory.

“So,” I said to Ser Aron just as he was settling down with an oilcloth and a mail shirt. “I find it curious the king would not keep such a dagger on his person. Are there more of its like in the collection?”

Santagar glanced up to ceiling, squinting. “A few smaller daggers, a handful of arrowheads. Bits of old armor and a half dozen or so maester’s chainlinks. Some ancient coin, too, if memory serves.” He gestured behind him with his oilcloth. A knee-high chest sat in the back corner behind the armor displays, its polished redwood exterior begging to be noticed. “Under lock and key, so don’t think you’ll get a look.” He went back to scrubbing the mail. “Hand’s business or no.”

“Just satisfying a mild curiosity,” I said, making a mental note of the chest’s position and leaving Santagar to his cleaning.

---​

“A hero returns to the city!” I looked up from my notetaking to find Jarrett weaving between tables with a smile on his lips and another knight at his back. “First Lord Arryn, now Lord Stark? You have a way with powerful men, my friend.”

He clapped my shoulder in greeting and sat down next to me, already reaching for the pitcher of mead to pour a glass.

“I’m always at the right place at the right time,” I said with a shrug, folding my parchment and pocketing it. “Ser Alden, first time at the Shanty?” I gestured to the remaining free seat and the blond stormlander. He plopped down with a soft thump and an easy smile.

“Jarrett has been making boasts,” he said. “I believe it went “the mead is fine, but the maidens are finer”?” He fixed a look to a blonde serving girl passing by – Barra, if memory served – and made a show of straightening his cloth-of-gold tunic.

I let out a long suffering sigh. “Make a drunken jest once, and this one will never let you forget it. The maidens are off limits unless they choose not to be, but we do have the best honeywine in the city.”

I raised my hand and – perks of being the boss – Barra had a fresh flagon at our table within a minute. She did an admirable job ignoring Ser Alden’s lingering stare.

“She looks half a queen,” he said, taking a sip of his mead and then doing a double take. “And this is fit for one! Who knew you weren’t full of shit, Jarrett?”

“You owe me five stags,” Jarrett said, nonchalant.

Alden waved him off. “You’ll get it as soon as I can get Littlefinger to open up his purse.”

“How fares the Watch?” A fresh worry entered my mind. Had Baelish gotten his hooks into the new lord commander? Renly had been certain the knight was eager and dutiful and loyal.

“Splendid, until the king decided he wanted to host another tourney.” He took a long pull from his cup, draining it. “In truth, it is why I’m here. After the purge, I’m short on men and need coin, Ser Lyonel. Lord Renly gives me twenty men and points me to Littlefinger.” He sneered. “That miserly cunt tells me the realm cannot afford more watchmen and that I need to make do.”

Probably a “no” on being in Baelish’s pocket, then.

“You did replace his man,” Jarrett said.

“Who took more gold than I ever use. I don’t understand it, truly.”

“I suspect Baelish knows well how to hold a grudge,” I said. “And may want you to fail just so he saves face.”

“Which is why I suggested he speak with you.” Jarrett pointed to the direwolf pin on my front pocket. “You have the Hand’s ear. Ask him for his aid so I don’t have to hear this one’s bitching every time I want a spar.”

Ned had been even more displeased about the tournament than he had in the original timeline and had practically divorced himself from the proceedings entirely.

“I’ll speak to him when I can. He is a busy man.”

Turns out running a realm is slow, busy work. And hinders the speed an investigation can be run. Dramatically.

I respected that Ned wanted to be thorough. Still having his men want to retrace all of Jon Arryn’s last days was reasonable. He was convinced there was a bigger picture in play than just Baelish, even after Jory confirmed the valeman’s lie. The fact that he was right did not stop my frustration built on a fortnight of no action.

That Varys had made no progress on that front either left me stewing.

“That is all I ask. I had half a mind to bring this direct to the king and queen before Jarrett stopped me.” He stood. “I’ll see you in the yard, Jarrett. Ser Lyonel.”

He made his way through the tavern toward the bar, making a beeline toward Barra. I laughed as the girl only rolled her green eyes at his coming and sought shelter down the basement hall to the kitchens and storage space.

“You make interesting friends when I’m not around.” I noted to Jarrett as Ser Alden collected his dignity and left with his head held high.

“I don’t get why you wanted me to keep an eye on him.” Jarrett let his jovial facade fall and he rubbed at his eyes. “The man’s a prick, but capable enough.”

“Call it justified paranoia.” I pulled a small bag of silver and slid it my friend’s way. “I owe you a favor on top of that, if his company is so draining.”

“You can only hear about which noblewoman he wants to fuck so many times before you want to punch the smug off his face.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” I said and pulled the parchment I was working on back out and laid it flat on the table. “By asking your help.”

Jarrett eyed the sketched map with some confusion.

Now that I knew which brothel Littlefinger favored, I'd had Alyssa and the other barmaids needle information out of Baelish's girls until I'd cobbled together a full floor plan.

“You once asked me to “share the glory.”” I tapped a room near the back. “How about exposing a corrupt Master of Coin?”

 

[Dreyden90]

The leathers clung tighter than he remembered; the plate rested heavier. Robert strode out onto the long gallery overlooking the training yard with purpose. A light fog obscured the morning light and when the king breathed, he tasted the sea. It turned his thoughts to Storm’s End, steadfast and overlooking Shipbreaker Bay.

The Eyrie came to mind then. Home. Frigid mountain air cleansing the lungs with every heaving breath. Crossing steel with Ned under Jon Arryn’s critical eye. Blood and sweat and tears spilled in that stone yard for years. Earning every bit of skill that would one day win a kingdom with his chosen brother by his side.

The sight below him paled in comparison.

Knights and men-at-arms milled about. They sparred. Ran drills. But there was no heart in it. No boisterous cries of battle. No laughter over victories. No despair in defeat.

Hollow. Just another day in King’s Landing.

Robert drank deep from his wineskin, draining the Dornish Red to a drop. He gestured for more and a fresh skin was in his palm in seconds, his younger squire performing the task without a word.

Tyrek Lannister. The only lion worth a shit.

Robert watched the men for an hour. Then two.

Men came, trained, and went about their day. Some others joined him on the veranda but gave him a wide berth and queer looks.

Robert almost laughed. If all it took to keep the lickspittles at bay was to wear his armor he would never have taken the damn steel off.

The sun climbed near its highest peak when Cersei stepped out from the Keep trailed by a hoard of ladies-in-waiting. She stopped short upon seeing him, turned up her nose, and made a show of going to the opposite end of the gallery. As far from Robert as was possible while still overseeing the yard.

Robert chuckled, relishing her silence over the rages he’d endured these last weeks.

Two blond heads drew his attention back below.

Tommen bounced from step to step, almost as wide as he was tall in the layers of padded leather Cersei insisted on for him. He trailed after Ned’s man, chattering away and swinging a wooden sword with every step.

His other son pulled his focus. In fine red leathers and with his golden hair curling down to his shoulders, Joffrey had never looked more like his mother to Robert’s eyes. He gripped the railing until the wood creaked in protest.

“Weak,” spoke the men in whispers. “Always moaning and bellyaching. A craven,” said others. “The Mad Prince,” the smallfolk named him when they thought nobody was there to hear.

The tale of what the boy did to Ned’s girl reached King’s Landing faster than the caravan. Whatever reputation Joffrey had lay in tatters. His performances in the yard served only worsen matters.

Robert saw the truth of it as Selmy moved the boy through the paces at a glacial pace.

“No, my prince,” the Bold said every few minutes. “Watch how I move. Footwork is vital.” They would cross steel, and Joffrey squealed in protest every time Selmy struck him with the flat of his blade.

Even little Tommen put on a better show.

Each repetition stirred Robert’s wroth. The boy shamed the Baratheon name with every passing second. A fortnight of training and this was all he had to show for it? So arrogant. So weak.

His son.

The wood cracked beneath his fingers.

“Wine.” He bit out the order as much a growl as speech. Lancel went to poor a goblet but Robert snatched the pitcher from him. The Arbor Gold tasted sour on his tongue but he drank it down anyway. “Hammer!” Robert bellowed and Tyrek hefted the weapon into the king’s fist. He strode down the winding stairs to the yard and all eyes turned his way.

“Your Grace,” Selmy said with a deferential bow as Robert got near. He ignored the old knight and raised his sword in the prince’s direction.

“On your guard!” he ordered. The boy had time only to widen his eyes before Robert was on him, swinging with his full might. Joffrey jumped back out of the way.

“Father!?” He cried out, fear at the edge of his voice.

Robert wondered how scared Ned’s little girl was as the prince raged at her.

His next swing cracked a training pole in two as Joffrey ducked out of the way with a yelp.

“Defend yourself!” Robert ordered and Joffrey snapped into a sloppy stance, sword held crossways across his body.

Eyes wide and legs trembling, the bloody fool was going to try and parry.

Robert cursed under his breath and pulled back on his third strike’s momentum. The hammer hit the sword and wrenched it from Joffrey’s grasp with ease, but Robert could not stop the solid metal before it struck the boy on the shoulder with a loud pop.

Joffrey went to the ground and clutched at his dislocated shoulder, wailing.

Robert shook. With rage or shame or sorrow he could not say.

He stared at his son writhing in pain. With those golden curls and tearful, Lannister green eyes, Robert could almost imagine he was someone else’s.

Then his mother was there, looking almost his twin. She screeched at Robert with no thought to the people around them. She clutched the crying Joffrey to her skirts

A deep exhaustion settled into his bones and he left without so much as word.

When he made it back to his solar he ordered his squires to leave him and he was alone save for Meryn Trant outside the door.

In his solitude Robert sank deeper into his cups and thoughts.

He remembered Rhaegar’s chest caving in to his mighty blow. Rubies and royal blood staining the Trident red. The mad horror frozen on Aerys’ face in death, still at the foot of the Iron Throne where the Kingslayer skewered him. Of dragon children, never to grow old and curse the realm with their existence.

When that failed to cheer him, he called for a whore with the Northern look.

Within ten minutes one was beneath him, making all the right noises, but Robert remained distracted.

If Lyanna had lived, he wondered as he emptied his seed into the girl with a grunt, what would their children be like?

He rolled off the whore and ignored her as she went about cleaning herself up.

If they had a son, Robert imagined he would look like Ned, but have Robert and Lyana’s wildness. He smiled at the queer image. A dutiful lad. Natural on horseback and proficient with the hammer. He wondered what they would have named him?

He drifted off to sleep with those thoughts in his head and a smile on his lips.

 

[Dreyden90]

“Come on!” Arya called over her shoulder, breaking into a run now that they’d cleared Maegor’s Holdfast. “We have to hurry or we’ll miss it!”

“Arya!” Sansa called in indignation, huffing. “Slow down!”

Even as off balance as she was with one arm tied in her sling, Sansa still couldn’t run as fast as Arya.

She laughed. “You’re as slow as Septa Mordane!”

“We’re not all part horse!”

Once, Sansa’s barb would have stung, but a month with her sister always around made her immune.

Watch over your sister in King’s Landing, Sansa, mother had said that night in camp. Do not let her stray from your sight.

Sansa hadn’t.

Those few weeks where Arya could barely move had been torture in boredom.

Listening to Sansa and Jeyne Poole go back and forth over this knight or that lord was bad enough when Arya could distract herself with needlework or whatever else the septa had them doing.

With only being able to use one hand, she was not even allowed to do anything but watch the others work.

She’d fallen asleep so much that she feared Septa Mordane would break her other hand with how much she whacked it.

She swore she would have gone mad if not for Ser Lyonel and his stories. He was just as good a storyteller as Old Nan, Arya thought.

Then the bumbling old maester told Father that she could walk around on her own again and start to use her arm a bit, here or there, and Arya needed no more excuse to run off from the Septa’s attention.

To her surprise, Sansa always followed. She left behind Jeyne Poole and her gossip to run around with Arya. To explore the keep, talk to the smallfolk and servants, watch the knights in the yard. She would act annoyed at the start, but end up laughing as much as Arya did.

She kept doing it, too, even after Father reprimanded them.

At least once or twice a week they would sneak around, and Arya found she liked Sansa.

She’d never been so surprised about anything in her life.

A hand grabbed the back of her tunic and yanked her back. Her shoulder twinged in pain, but a hand covered her mouth as she grunted.

Sansa held a finger up to her lips and pointed toward the Stables.

Harwin was saddling up a horse and Arya would have run right into him, distracted as she was.

“Thanks,” she whispered against her sister’s hand and the redhead nodded. They waited five minutes after Harwin disappeared out the gate before bolting to the stables. Arya’s eye caught on a handsome beast she knew well.

“Stormflower!” she greeted the horse with an open palm and the animal snorted in recognition, leaning into her pat. “We should take her.”

“What if Ser Lyonel finds out?” Sansa asked, wrangling her hands and looking over her shoulder as if saying his name would summon the knight. “He’ll be cross if means to ride her today.”

Arya was already trying to yank a saddle down off a crossbeam with one hand. “He likes us,” she said and Sansa flushed. “He won’t get mad.”

It took until Ayra almost brought down the saddle onto her own head before Sansa helped. Between the pair of them it took half an hour to get Stormflower saddled and ready to go.

She was the most patient horse Arya knew, and took to Sansa’s direction with ease.

“To the King’s Gate!” Arya declared, holding up her good arm to point in a random direction. Stormflower whinnied and Sansa – barely taller than Arya – slapped her hand down so she could see.

“I know where to go, Arya,” Sansa said.

They rode Stormflower down Aegon’s Hill and through King’s Landing proper at a slow pace. The road bustled with activity every which way Arya looked. Vendors shouted wares ranging from fruit to cloth to swords and armor. The crowds grew thicker the further toward the edge of the city they rode, the smallfolk celebrating the tournament set to begin the next day.

The city watch was out in more numbers than Arya had ever seen as well. She knew Father had Jory and dozens of other Stark men help the guard, but she saw far more cloaks of red paired with the gold, than grey.

“Who do you suppose will win the tournament?” Sansa asked as they passed through the wide open Kings Gate. They had to make way for a knight wearing brown with a ploughman sigil and his retinue and so pulled off the road into the beginnings of the pavilion city sprouting up around the walls.

“Ser Lyonel won the last one,” Arya said, and turned her eyes up the Kingsroad. Dozens of other groups of horses and carriages approached the city from the horizon.

“The Knight of Many Colors,” Sansa said with a whimsical sigh. “Just like a song.”

“He’ll probably win again.”

“I suppose so,” Sansa said, eyeing a knight riding by in white with a bear paw sigil. “Though there are supposed to be many more knights and lords this time.”

“Ser Lyonel could take them all,” Arya said, certain. A thought occurred to her. “Do you think the King will make Joffrey fight?”

The King had made a habit of sparring with Joffrey near every morning she and Sansa went to watch the training yard. As much as Arya longed to be in the yard, practicing with Needle, it was almost as much fun to watch the prince get wailed on.

The king even wasn’t quite so fat as he had been in Winterfell.

“I hope so,” Sansa said, and her arms tightened around Arya’s middle. “I hope so

More knights and lords rode by, and Sansa put a name to every sigil they saw. The Crownlands, Riverlands, Stormlands, and Reach were all well represented, though Arya could not pick out a famous knight out of the bunch. The first familiar face came Imp rode by, japing with a man of the Night’s Watch.

Both Arya and Sansa tensed, but the Imp never looked their way. Surrounded as they were by smallfolk and revelers, Arya supposed they didn’t stand out. Even on Stormflower.

“Maybe we should head back to the Keep,” Sansa said once the Imp was well out of sight.

Normally she would argue, but something about seeing a Lannister when they had no guards around to protect them shook Arya’s resolve. “Yeah,” she agreed, and Sansa kicked Stormflower’s flank to send the horse on a trot back toward the city.

Until someone gave a sharp whistle in a pattern Arya thought came from a song and Stormflower stopped despite Sansa’s command.

“I do believe that’s my cousin’s horse!” A man pulled up next to them, riding sidesaddle on a honey-colored horse just as handsome as Stormflower. He was too thin to be a knight, and one of his legs barely bent at the knee besides. Even Arya remembered the gold rose on green of House Tyrell, though, and knew the man from Ser Lyonel’s stories of Highgarden.

Behind him were a handful of others in the same colors, though she could not guess their names.

“Lord Willas Tyrell?” Sansa named the first man before Arya spoke.

“You have me at a disadvantage, my lady.”

“Sansa Stark,” she said, and held Arya closer, “and my sister, Arya.”

Willas’ eyes widened for a brief moment before his smile grew wider.

“It is fortuitous then, that we have met.” He whirled his horse around to point to each of his companions in turn. “My brother, Ser Garlan.” A man who was definitely a knight bowed his head in greeting, brown curls falling from a knot to frame his face. Arya felt Sansa suck in a quick breath and rolled her eyes.

She did not understand what Sansa liked so much about men.

“My betrothed, Lady Allyria Dayne.” A women with olive skin, black hair, and violet eyes waved a delicate hand at them. Arya noticed the nearby smallfolk had taken to staring at her.

Probably because of her eyes, Arya though. She’d never seen anyone with purple eyes before.

“My cousins, Sers Hobber and Horas Redwyne.” Willas continued. Two square faced and freckled boys not much older than Lyonel waived. “And my dear aunt, Janna Tyrell.”

A woman with a kind face and wavy brown hair smiled at them. “My son has written of you two and how you met. I should like to hear the tale in person.”

“Perhaps you can tell it while taking us to Lyonel? I’m sure he’ll be needing his horse back,” Willas said with an amused chuckle.

“We’d love to,” Sansa said, polite as always. “Ser Lyonel spoke of his inn, often. He’s not serving my father today, and so must be there.” She prodded Stormflower’s flanks again. “If you would follow me?”

“It’s just by the Mud Gate,” Arya said as both Allyria and Janna fell abreast of them, the men trailing behind.

“The River Gate,” Sansa said with a click of her tongue. Arya rolled her eyes. “Ser Lyonel is quite proud of it.”

“He has mentioned, in his letters,” Janna said, still smiling. “Now tell me, Ladies Stark. What happened that has my son so fond of both of you?”

Sansa flushed again, but regained her composure and told most of the story as they cantered through the streets.

“He saved my life,” Arya capped off the story once Sansa had finished.

“Lyonel always did have a fondness for heroics,” Janna said, wistful.

“And a craving for attention,” Ser Garlan said from behind them, grumbling. Janna shot an annoyed look over her shoulder.

“It’s almost like a song,” Allyria said, holding out a hand to give Arya’s a squeeze. “You’re so brave, little one.”

Arya sat up straighter, blushing and pleased despite being called little.

“This must be the building?” Willas asked as they rounded a corner. The Shoreman’s Shanty looked brighter than the buildings around it, the freshly stained wood standing in sharp contrast. Smallfolk formed two lines hugging either edge of the inn, collecting bowls of soup from two women under Ser Lyonel’s watchful eye.

He looked up when Janna called, his eyes widening, and then he ran faster than Arya had ever seen him move.

“Mother!” He cried out and lifted the woman out of her saddle from the ground, spinning her around in a bearhug.

Arya thought of Robb and Bran shying away from her mother’s affections and wondered if it was Lyonel that was odd, or her brothers.

“Easy, Lyonel!” Janna protested, while laughing. “I’m not so young as I used to be.”

“Nonsense,” the young knight said despite lowering his mother to the ground. He looked to his cousins, beaming. “I was not expecting you all for the tournament, but I am truly pleased.” He looked to Sansa and Arya, glanced to Stormflower, and blinked. “Though I do wonder how you met the Ladies Stark. On my horse?”

“We borrowed her!” Sansa blurted out, and Arya would have grimaced if Lyonel had not laughed in response.

“So you did.” He looked to the others. “Come, let’s tie up your horses and head inside. We’re almost booked full, but I’ll be damned if I can’t get all of you the finest featherbeds in all of King’s Landing...”

---
Jarrett I
---​

Jarrett eyed the well-adorned building ahead of him, trepidation weighing as heavy on his shoulders as the sack of coin hanging from his hip. He tugged at his new, cloth-of-gold tunic to straighten it out for the thousandth time, but it did not make him feel any more at home in the finely made clothes.

“If you are that nervous,” Lyonel said, droll, “we could always switch roles.”

Jarrett glanced to his friend and his uneasiness doubled. With his wig and shawl loose blue dress, Lyonel passed for woman at a glance. An ugly woman. With no tits or ass to speak of. But a woman nonetheless.

As long as nobody looked at him for more than two seconds.

“I’ll pass,” Jarrett said at length.

“Good,” Lyonel said. “Because I did not spend the better part of an hour trying to sneak out of my own Inn without my family noticing me just to not have to use this disguise.”

“I still don’t like this plan. If you’re right about Baelish and this doesn’t work, humiliation will be the least of our problems.”

“It will work.” Lyonel’s voice brooked no doubt. “Nia, Sara, and Pera all said the same story with no knowledge of each other. Baelish uses a rotation of girls here, andt here’s only one person in that brothel that will bat an eye at a new girl wandering about. Now go take care of her. I’ll follow in a minute.”

Jarrett took a steadying breath, shook his head, and rounded the corner with his head held high.

Two beauties beckoned on either side of the silk-draped entrance, their eyes holding hundreds of promises as they waved him inside. Music wafted through the rooms, a soft harp doing little to cover the sounds of pleasure drifting from the floors above. The main foyer was not free from debauchery, as whores wandered around with endless amounts of flesh on display as they tempted clients with every passing breath.

There was so much to see that Jarrett found himself rooted to the spot, comparing everything he saw to voluptuous Myranda Royce…

“You’re new,” came a voice right behind Jarrett. He startled, whirling around to find an older woman gazing at him, one delicately maintained brow raised in curiosity until she spotted the money pouch on his hip. Shorter than him by a head, Jarrett saw that time only had just started taking its toll on the woman. Whisps of grey mingled with the brown of her curls and lines creased at the corners of her eyes and lips. But those eyes were big and blue and shined with awareness that left Jarrett feeling naked as his nameday.

That her figure could rival any of the other girls in the room was just a bonus. A glorious, glorious bonus.

“You’re the madam?” He asked, forcing his voice to be level. She gave a tiny nod and another glance at his hidden coin. Jarrett hefted the sack up to chest level. “I’ve come into some coin, and I’m looking for the best.” He gave a lingering look up and down. “And I’ve clearly found you.”

She looked at him, incredulous and unimpressed. “Your charm is horrendous.”

Jarrett could not stop the flush that rose to his cheeks. “But my coin is fantastic.”

“My night cannot be bought. But I do have--”

“Then an hour,” Jarrett interrupted, falling on Lyonel’s backup plan. “Five hundred dragons for just an hour of your beauty.”

It was a ludicrous sum, but Lyonel was all in on this gambit. The madam did her best impression of a fish for a few, long seconds before snapping her jaw shut.

There was no way she could refuse such easy coin without risking her employer’s wrath, and she knew it.

“Very well,” she said and smiled as she took Jarrett’s hand. It was soft and warm in his grip, and her thumb started tracing lovely patterns over his knuckles. He gulped and felt much better about this plan.

She tugged him along, and Jarrett risked a glance back to the entrance to see Lyonel slip inside, his head bowed.

Good luck, he offered one last thought to his friend before fully committing to being the distraction.

---
Petyr I
---​

Patience, in Petyr Baelish’s opinion, was the greatest asset a man could have. His had been tempered the day Brandon Stark introduced him to the taste of steel and tore Catelyn Tully away from him. How he wanted to rage against the unjustness of the world! But then he had been visited by each Tully sister in turn, tasting their love and whispered words of devotion.

Cat was lost to him after that, doomed to marry the Northern savage. But Lysa, dim but loyal Lysa, was always within his reach as the new Lady of the Vale.

Frantic couplings in darkened corners were well worth the value of access the younger Tully offered to Jon Arryn. To King’s Landing.

So Petyr learned the value of the long game. Working his way into Jon Arryn’s good graces while Lysa spoke of his value to her husband’s ears. Years of work had seen him rise from disgrace to the vaunted position of Master of Coin. To the point where every man in five answered to him first, not the King.

These past months had been a trial, though. Lysa had acted too hastily in killing her husband. What should have taken weeks had taken a single night, and she cast further suspicion on herself still by fleeing in such haste.

All because some bastard knight proved to be clever.

Petyr clicked his tongue against his teeth, annoyed at the loss of it all. If Lysa had the foresight to bring the boy to Petyr instead of panicking, he could have had recruited the boy to his cause. Now, Lyonel Storm was becoming a thorn in his side.

The loss of Slynt and his influence in the city watch would take years to recover.

Worse, the boy was clever, and kept himself in the company of first Renly, and now Stark. Too connected to make disappear, too well liked to go against publicly. Worse still, Varys had been slowly, ever so slowly, attempting to encroach on Petyr’s network of traders and whores.

Petyr scoffed at the notion. His gold spoke louder than the Spider’s whispers, and the fate of Jonos Slynt was as clear a message as any on the price of failure and potential betrayal.

Even so, Petyr felt his plans teetering on a knife’s edge between fruition and years of setbacks. A boon came when Cat – beautiful, angry, and desperate Cat – stumbled back into his life. The right words had her inflamed against the Lannisters, urged on by letter he had Lysa pen.

He had been certain that when Cat left to find her husband, that Stark would seek him out within days of his arrival.

It had over a month, now, and Stark had not so much as looked Petyr’s way in any matter not related to the Hand’s Tourney. His sources told him that the Hand had met with Varys on multiple occasions, but Petyr knew, deep in his bones, that Lyonel Storm was to blame.

Any more delays and he might just risk seeing to the boy’s end.

For now, it was time for another push.

“The Master of Coin to see you, my lord,” one of Stark’s men called through the oak doors after hammering on it with a mailed fist.

There was a pregnant pause before Stark’s gruff voice bade him enter. Petyr entered to find Stark sitting behind a plain desk, faced schooled and stoic. Notably, the valyrian steel dagger was lain at the side closest to the door, unsheathed.

Petyr doubted he could expect bread and salt.

“What can I do for you, Lord Baelish?” With his voice cool as the northern winds, Petyr imagined Stark was used to intimidating those around him.

Petyr answered with a smile and a gesture toward the blade. “I come out of concern. It has been some time since Cat first came to me with whispers of a murderous plot.”

“It has,” Stark agreed, and continued to stare.

“I had expected you to seek me out. For us to find your son’s would-be killer.”

Stark let out a laugh, cold and dismissive.

“I’ve heard word from Ser Aron Santagar,” he said. “I don’t care what games you care to play, Littlefinger, but I will not be lied to.”

Petyr adopted a look of regret. In truth, his tale of losing the dagger to Tyrion Lannister had been something of a gambit, but the situation was far from unsalvageable.

“I would not ask your forgiveness, Lord Stark,” he said without an attempt at denial. “I would only ask you hear my reasoning.”

Stark eyed him for a long moment before sighing and closing the book he had been perusing. Old, yellowed velum crinkled and released a puff of dust in the air, and Petyr recognized the tome from when it sat on the desk of the last Hand.

Good, Petyr thought. If Stark was already doubting Cersei’s children, this would be all the easier.

“Our dear King Robert loves you like a brother. Better than his brothers,” he said. “The moment Cat told me of what happened to Brandon, I knew it could not have been the king.”

“That does not explain your implication of the Imp.”

“You are not the only one who received a letter from Lysa Arryn.” Stark stiffened and Petyr hid a smile beneath a stroke of his goatee. “In truth, she’s now twice begged me to leave King’s Landing for fear of the Lannisters. She always did have a soft spot for me.”

Petyr took a seat across from Stark without invitation but was met without protest. He withdrew a letter he’d had Lysa draft from his breast pocket and handed it over to Stark. Lysa’s words begged him to come take a place in the Eyrie, to be away from King’s Landing and murderous lions, to be a guiding figure in Robert Arryn’s life. Platitudes of family and legacy and duty.

“It does not take much logic to put it together. Only the kingsguard and the royal family would have access to the King’s royal armory, even in the caravan. So the question becomes, what did Brandon see in that tower that someone would want him dead?”

Stark’s eyed the closed tome before him. “Cersei,” he said. “The Kingslayer.” Eyes as grey and deadly as live steel raised to meet his. “Why name the Imp?”

“A moment of panic, I admit. I feared Cat would confront either the Queen or the Kingslayer straight away and get herself killed. The Imp is farther away. Less of a chance for something to happen she could not take back.”

“You erred,” Stark said, with distaste.

“I was cautious,” Petyr said. “It has been many years since I’d last seen Cat.”

Stark glared at him for a long, silent minute. The man would never like him, but Petyr did not need that for Stark to play his part.

“And what of Jon Arryn’s death?”

“Maester Pycelle claims natural causes,” Petyr said. “But he has been Tywin Lannister’s man since he was Hand under the Mad King and Jon Arryn was hale for his age.”

Stark rubbed at his temples. “And how is the tournament being paid for?”

Petyr blinked, nonplussed. “Pardon?”

“Our coffers are nearing empty. How did you find the gold?” Stark sounded exhausted.

“I hardly see the relevance,” Petyr said, mind flashing back to Ser Lyonel’s ledgers that frightened Lysa so. To his own records. “But by adjusting the budget, taking loans, collecting on our loans. I am good at what I do, and what I do is pay for the King’s fancies.”

“Rubbing two stags together and getting a dragon,” Stark said, but the jape sounded foreign from him. A mummer reading a line.

Still, Petyr allowed himself a small chuckle. “In a manner of speaking.”

Stark sighed, deep and weary.

“What you’ve said fits with what I have found so far, but that does not mean you’ve earned my trust.”

Petyr smirked. “You should never trust anyone with something to gain, Ned.” Stark’s nostril’s flared at the familiar name. “In King’s Landing, that’s everyone.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Then we may be able to work—”

“Lord Stark!”

The oaken door burst open and in ran Ser Lyonel Storm. He’d traded his mismatched armor for silken clothes that would not be out of place at one of Petyr’s establishments. Behind him, the same guard that had hassled Petyr wore a bemused grin and reached to close the door.

The bastard knight skidded to a halt at the sight of them. Blue eyes widened in surprise, then worry. He eyed Petyr with open combination of disdain and disgust, leaving a cold feeling to settle in Petyr’s chest.

The last time he’d seen that expression had been on Brandon Stark’s face as the brute lumbered over him with bloodied steel.

Some part of Petyr longed to rip the valyrian dagger from Stark’s desk and drive it through the boy’s skull and he rose, sensing danger.

“Ser Lyonel.” Stark’s tiredness still rang true, but some of the hardness had left his tone. “I released you from your duties hours ago.”

“You did, my lord,” the bastard spoke. “But I’ve had something of a breakthrough.”

“If you have business, I should—“

“No. No you should not.” Ser Lyonel cut him off and stood between him and the door. Every one of Petyr’s instincts told him to get out of the situation and retreat to a place of strength, even if he had no idea why.

“A breakthrough, Lyonel?” Stark asked in almost a whisper, but he, too, was looking to Petyr.

“Aye,” the bastard said and pulled a bag off his shoulder to dig out three tomes Petyr knew intimately. “We can prove treason. Just a matter of how much treason.”

His blood ran cold, and the powerless boy Petyr left behind in the Riverlands clutched at his heart.

How? was Petyr’s only clear thought at that moment. They should have been impossible to find lest someone knew exactly where to look.

“You’re under arrest, my lord.”

Petyr did not rise to Stark’s sarcasm and kept silent, urging his mind to come up with a way out of the situation.

He came up empty.

 

[Dreyden90]

---

Petyr II

---​

He thrived on chaos. The unexpected was his oldest ally. Staunch and true as no man or woman could ever hope to be. No other mind on this world could hold a candle to the magic Petyr could weave with an occurrence of upheaval and a moment to think.

“These things are a lot harder to play than they look,” the bastard knight said. Clumsy fingers plucked at lute strings to produce off pitch notes and screeches that left Petyr’s teeth on edge.

Four hours since he’d had Stark wrapped back under his influence. Four hours since Lyonel bloody Storm stormed into the Hand’s office at the worst possible time with the only evidence that left Petyr vulnerable.

Four hours since the same knight set himself on a cot lain against the only door to Petyr’s gilded cell in the Tower of the Hand.

“The Dornishman’s wife was as fair as the sun, and her kiss was a wonderful thing!”

Petyr had long since stopped trying to block his ears from the awful singing. His headache pounded with more ferocity as his fraying, frustrated patience waned with every moment.

“Stop….”

“But the Dornishman’s knife was sharpened black steel…”

“Stop!” Petyr shouted, bursting from the stone floor and stalking toward the bastard. Storm smirked and moved a hand from his lute to the blade sheathed at his hip.

“And its kiss is a terrible thing,” Storm spoke the last line, thumb stroking the dragonbone handle of the knife that Petyr once held as a point of pride. “Please try to escape, Littlefinger. Then I might actually get some sleep tonight.”

Petyr clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to cool his blood. If by some miracle he could kill Lyonel Storm while unarmed, two of Stark’s most trusted men guarded just without. Salvation would only come with the King’s judgment.

He took a deep breath in through his nose, and let it flow out through his mouth.

“Shame,” Storm said, moving back to strum the lute as Petyr stepped back. “A coward to the last, it seems.”

Petyr weathered worse insults with easy grace, but the constant annoyance by this smug bastard twisted in his gut until he snapped.

“You know nothing about me, bastard.” The words came as little more than a snarl.

Storm just gave him a bored look and strummed notes Petyr did not recognize.

”You tried so hard, and got so far. But in the end, it didn’t even matter….”

Petyr turned his back on the bastard and sat back to the floor. Ignore it, he demanded of his mind. Think.

Storm played a few aggressive notes and smacked the strings to drop them into an abrupt silence.

“I know everything,” he said. Petyr sneered though the bastard could not see it. “I know you’re a man who cannot forget the past. A pathetic son of a bitch that would doom the realm because one woman never loved him.”

Petyr let out a long breath, recalling the night after Brandon Stark had nearly killed him. How Cat had nursed him and given him her maidenhead and cared for him afterward. His favorite memory. It always calmed him in the past and did so again now.

“Catelyn Tully gave herself to me well before any other man touched her.” And he would have her again. He would figure out a way out of this and see his plans fulfilled.

Setbacks were accounted for.

Lyonel snorted. “That was Lysa, not Cat.’

Petyr turned to send the boy an incredulous look. How could he even think to know of this?

“You were so out of it on milk of the poppy that you had Lysa twice and imagined Cat. Poor girl was always taken with you.”

“You speak of things you don’t know. That you can’t know.” It was a lie, surely. But how would he even know where to attack with such a lie? The only possibility was that Lysa was in communication with him, but no.

She was far too loyal.

“Yet I do. I know many things. You secreting away piles of gold from the crown is hardly your most offensive crime.” He put down the lute and started counting off on each finger. “Bribery. Blackmail. Convincing others to perform murder. Selling children into sexual slavery. And, of course, adultery. I do wonder if Sweetrobin is Jon Arryn’s, or yours.”

The last was a question Petyr did not know the answer to, but he had only ever heard Lysa refer to her son as Sweetrobin, before.

He had been betrayed.

He slumped back against the wall in disbelief.

“Convincing Lysa Arryn to murder her husband. Having her write the Starks to blame the Lannisters? The Starks would have gone to war, and the Tullies with them. With your power over Lysa, you would have brought about the end of all three realms that played a role in your humiliation.

“How pathetic does a man have to be to doom thousands to death for the sake of wounded pride?”

“You have nothing but the ramblings of a woman gone mad with grief.”

“I have your ledgers, which will be more than enough for your head to roll. Lysa’s tragedy will come to an end soon as well. That poor woman never had a chance once you got your claws into her. You’re poison, Baelish.”

“There are other things you aren’t aware of. Things that could doom the realm,” Petyr said, a clawing desperation starting to writhe in his chest. “If you’re so concerned about war, I can stop it.”

Storm let out an amused breath. “Cersei and Jaime will see justice, in time. Joffrey and Tommen ought to be in black by year’s end. But do go ahead and accuse the queen of incest while on trial. I’m sure Robert’s rage will not extend to you. At all.”

Petyr shook his head. “Who are you?” He couldn’t be just some bastard from the Reach. Nobody could know as much as he did.

Storm smirked. “Divine intervention.”

He spoke no more and continued playing awful music on the lute.

Petyr did not sleep, that night.

---

Eddard II

---​

Ned found Robert taking breakfast alone in his private solar. The king was bleary eyed and ruddy faced as he heaped bacon and eggs onto his plate, but otherwise looked closer to the warrior Ned remembered than he had at Winterfell.

Robert had shed at least two stone in the past month.

Ned thought of the boy Gendry, in Tobho Mott’s shop, and put out of mind how much more similar he appeared to Robert, now. That was a problem for another day.

He took a seat across from his king and waited for the man to wash down a massive mouthful of food with a swig of ale before speaking.

“Do you remember what I said last night?”

Robert had been well into his cups with Tyrion Lannister and a man from the Night’s Watch, Yoren. While Ned was pleased the Watch would get more bodies, the company had not lent itself to royal business.

“Business that couldn’t wait for the Small Council meeting,” Robert said around a healthy belch. He gestured toward the platters of meat, eggs, and fruit. “Go on, eat something and tell me what this important business is.”

“Robert,” Ned said, and his tone stopped Robert from taking another swig and look at him seriously. “I speak of treason.”

Robert set his tankard down with a deceptive gentleness. “Targaryens?” He asked in a whisper, blue eyes boring into Ned’s soul.

“No, thank the gods.” He could only imagine what adding a Targaryen loyalist onto this mess would mean. “But treason all the same.”

He withdrew the ledgers Lyonel found and started to run through the evidence. The king’s eyes glazed over in minutes, but he grasped the main concept.

“The reason the realm is so indebted to Tywin Lannister,” he said while cracking boar’s rib off a rack. “Is because Littlefinger’s been stealing all our gold?”

Ned thought of the tournament set to start later that day, but decided that was a fight for another day.

“More or less.”

“Seven hells.” Robert ran a hand through his wild mane of hair. “Can we get any of it back?”

“My men found some in the city already,” Ned said. “The books mention safe havens in the Vale that are out of our reach. For now.”

“Some good news, then.” Robert drained his cup. “Have you taken his head already?”

“He’s the Master of Coin. He’ll need a trial. At least a show of one.”

“Bah! There’s a tourney to watch today!” The king sounded almost petulant. “You have the numbers written in his hand, it’s enough. The fewer who know about this, the better.”

“Your Grace.”

Robert looked to the sky at the unspoken rebuke. “Fine then! Gather the swindling cunt and bring him to the council room. I’ll have the Bold gather the bloody rest of them.”

Ned offered a shallow bow and was halfway out the door when Robert called after him.

“And find my son! If he’s not going to learn in the yard today, he may as well learn how a king deals with treason.”

The very thought of Joffrey sitting in judgment of someone sent a deep chill down Ned’s spine. He obeyed his king’s request all the same.

----

Joffrey I

---​

Joffrey drummed his fingers against the worn oak of the council table, utterly bored. He sat to the right of his father, in a place of honor, with Clegane as his shadow. Uncle Renly was to his right, with an empty seat beside him. Across the table, Maester Pycelle and Varys whispered to one another while Ser Barristan stood vigil. With Stark bringing Littlefinger, the only member of the small council that wouldn’t be present was his Uncle Stannis.

The thought of Stannis being present made Joffrey grimace. As hard to believe as it was, this meeting could get more boring.

The chamber’s doors creaked open and Joff perked up. He did not give much care to Littlefinger, but seeing his head roll would be amusing nonetheless.

Stark walked in, leading a bedraggled and chained Littlefinger that was flanked by two Stark guards and a man that instantly had Joff’s blood up.

His bastard cousin. How the hell was he a part of this?

He smacked his hands on the table and made to stand, but a glare from his father had him shrinking back in his seat.

Joff’s shoulder throbbed with phantom pain.

Stark took a seat next to Renly and his guards retreated out of the chamber. Littlefinger stood at the foot of the table, pale, bedraggled, and with his hands shackled before him. The hunch of his shoulders and absence of his cocksure nature would have amused Joff if not for the bastard standing behind the Valeman.

Standing tall with a raised chin and crossed arms, he wore black and yellow as if he had any claim to Joff’s house. The prince gripped the edge of the table hard enough for his knuckles to turn white.

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” Father spoke with the impatient tone Joff knew too well. The king slapped a meaty hand on a pile of books resting before him. “Near a decade ago you were tasked to keep watch over the crown’s coin. Instead, it’s been discovered you’ve been bleeding us dry and playing us all for fools for years. You have one chance to save your head. Speak.”

Littlefinger licked his lips and raised his eyes to meet the king’s. Joff saw a spark of the lord’s typical flare light behind grey-green eyes.

“Everything I have done, I have done for the realm.” The bastard scoffed and the king outright laughed, but Baelish pressed on. His voice gained volume as he spoke. “For every feast. Every tournament. Every loan asked of the crown. There is always coin. I make sure of that.” Baelish raised his chained hands to gesture at each council member in turn. “Renly’s gold cloaks. Stannis’ ships. Everything the maester uses. From your guard’s armor to your food and ale, Your Grace, I keep this realm running.”

“While hoarding away gold and silver at your private manses.” Stark said, unimpressed.

Baelish waved him off. “Capital to invest and enrich the crown.” He looked to the king. “Your generosity is not cheap, Your Grace. I’ve needed to keep coin off hand to ensure it isn’t completely spent. A model I borrowed from the Iron Bank.”

“An institution,” the bastard interrupted out of turn. Joff almost grinned and looked to his father, eager to see his rebuke of the boy. The king glared at Baelish, face redder than normal, but he let the bastard speak. “Which you’ve indebted the realm to. Millions of gold dragons to them. Millions to Tywin Lannister. All this coin you keep to yourself, only returning a fraction to the realm as needed or else risk being found out.

“Your tongue is gilded in fool’s gold, Baelish. Your lies can’t save you now.”

To Joff’s disbelief, the King was nodding along, his face getting less red. The other councilors all looked indifferent like Pycelle or nodding along like Renly.

How? How were they even letting this bastard speak!?

Baelish agreed. “The word of an upjumped bastard! Against a loyal servant to the crown. It saddens me you even—”

“Enough Littlefinger! That is my nephew you speak of.” The color rose once more in the king’s cheeks. “And he has made clear your treason. I’ve heard enough. Somebody fetch Ser Il—“

“I know who killed Jon Arryn!” Baelish shouted, moving forward to slam his hands on the table. “Lysa Tully committed the deed!”

Silence reigned. Even the bastard knight looked surprised.

“Lord Arryn,” Pycelle spoke with his huffy, indignant voice. “Died of natural causes.”

“Poison did the deed. I can prove this.”

When Father spoke, Joff felt a shiver down his spine. “Speak quickly or I will have your head myself.”

“I confess she has always had something of an obsession with me since our youth. In truth, I entertained her attentions but never knew the depths of her attachment. Lord Stark knows of a letter I received from her, begging me to come back to the Vale after Lord Jon passed. I believe she poisoned him in a misguided attempt to be with me.”

It was Stark that responded in anger. “That is my wife’s sister you accuse.” His jaw twisted and he glanced toward first the king, then the bastard. “And it makes no matter to the crime you’re guilty of.”

“Lord Stark is right,” the bastard said, nodding to the Hand and meeting the king’s eyes. “Your Grace, this scum’s greatest weapon is the lies he wields. If Lady Arryn had any role to play in Jon Arryn’s passing, the matter has no bearing on this one’s treasons.”

“Aye,” Father said, though the metal cup he held bent in his grip. “Ned and Ser Lyonel are right. We will summon Lysa Arryn to question, but you, Littlefinger, are guilty.”

The king nodded to Stark and smiled at the bastard.

The simmering anger bubbled over in Joffrey just as Baelish looked to him with wide, wild eyes, about to speak.

“Give him a trial by combat!” He shouted, standing.

He felt everyone’s eyes on him, but he held firm, staring down his cousin. Baelish’s jaw snapped shut with an echoing clack.

“He’s served the realm for years, as you said Father.” He dared not turn to look at the king or risk losing his nerves. “And he claims his actions are for the good of it. And if he is right, there’s worse traitors than someone stealing some gold. Let the gods decide!”

Everyone looked to Father save the bastard.

“Are you volunteering to defend him, Your Grace?” The bastard said Joff’s title like a joke. In a moment of fierce pride he wanted to accept and cut the bastard down for his mockery.

“I will not have my heir get himself killed defending a traitor,” the king said. Joff’s pride took a hit even as one part of his mind sighed in relief. “Nephew, as eager as you are to fight, will you represent the crown?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“Then Baelish, what is your preferred weapon?”

“I’m not a fighter, Your Grace. I need time to find a champion.” Baelish’s voice gained an octave and he tried to put distance between himself and the bastard.

“You have none. I have a bloody tournament to enjoy,” Father said.

But Joffrey spied an opportunity.

“Dog,” he said. “Fight for Baelish.” He heard Clegane stiffen behind him, and a half dozen sets of eyes looked to him in disbelief.

“As you say, my prince,” Clegane said in his low voice. The man stepped around the table and towered over the bastard by almost a foot and was much wider besides. A tick of unease passed over his cousin’s face and Joff felt victorious.

The Hound would kill the bastard and the world would start making sense again.

“Your Grace,” Stark objected, but the king was staring at Joffrey, his face going toward purple in his anger.

Joff did his best not to shrink back.

“It is his right,” the Grandmaester said around a cough, hesitant.

“Lyonel,” Renly said, eyeing Joff with contempt. “If you don’t—“

“It’s alright, Uncle,” the bastard said. “I volunteered knowing he would name a champion. The prince has just seen fit to grant me a challenge.” There was a twenty foot square of open space between the table and the door. The bastard moved to the center of it, drawing steel and straightening a gauntlet.

“No blunt swords to save you this time, boy.” Clegane taunted, following.

“Still upset you didn’t get to kill a butcher’s boy, Clegane?” The Hound spat on the ground and bared his steel with a growl, though Joff did not know what angered him.

“Get on with it!” Father ordered, and the men met engaged in a flash of steel.

Clegane lashed out with sweeping strikes with a strength that would cleave a man in two. The bastard refused to parry the blows, sidestepping each swipe but unable to counterattack as Clegane recovered in the blink of an eye to attack again.

If they were out in the open, Joff imagined the bastard would keep retreating until Clegane got tired, but instead his back hit a wall and was forced to parry a strike.

They locked blades, arms straining as each tried to out-muscle the other. Clegane inched their joined blades down, using his height to press the bastard further back against the stone. He kicked at Clegane’s ankle, sending the Hound off-balance enough to stumble to the right while the bastard tried sneak by to the left.

Clegane caught himself against the wall with his sword arm and brought his mailed fist back to crash against the back of the bastard’s skull.

Storm sprawled to the ground and Clegane lunged an off-balance strike at his back, but the bastard scrambled quick enough that the blade scraped along his leg instead of his spine.

“Fuck!” the bastard cried out and tried to get back onto his feet, but the left leg gave out on him and he went back to the ground in a clatter. Blood pooled from the wound onto cold stone and something in Joff screamed in pleasure. His breathing quickened as Clegane regained his balance and stalked toward his opponent and struck out with his blade.

Storm rolled and scampered away from each strike enough that only the edges of his armor took damage. Joff almost gave voice to his frustration at each missed attack until Storm ran out of room again, forced to crouch on one leg with his back against the councilor’s table. Stark and the others scrambled out of the way, but Joff leaned closer, almost licking his lips in anticipation.

Clegane brought his sword down from overhead in a mighty blow that Storm caught with the flat of his blade, but his arms shook with the effort of it and he had nowhere left to escape.

“Finish it!” He ordered his Dog, and Clegane leaned further into the attack. Joff held his breath, on the edge of savoring sweet victory.

Then Storm angled his body and dropped his sword, and all of Clegane’s momentum carried his blow down into the oak table, steel biting deep into the wood.

Before the Hound recovered, the bastard withdrew a dagger that Joff knew from his hip and lunged it toward Clegane’s heart.

They were too close to dodge, and valyrian steel slipped through a gap in the Hound's armor in a precision strike.

Clegane let out a choking breath, and had only enough time to look down at the blade piercing his chest before Storm twisted it with a squelch.

The Hound crumpled to the ground and Storm collapsed against the table, grimacing.

He dropped the dagger onto the wood to reach and grasp his leg, and Joffrey stared at the bloodied weapon.

How easy it would be, not even a foot from him.

Baelish started laughing, mad and loud enough to rip Joff’s eyes away from the dagger that was never meant to make it back to King’s Landing.

“The realm will burn without me!” Baelish shouted, pulling at his chained hands and backing toward the door as if he could escape. He pointed to Father. “Your legacy will be nothing but ashes and whoresons, you imbecilic, shortsighted, cuc—!”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Storm said, lowering his hand as Baelish crumpled as the Hound had, valyrian steel embedded in his throat. “But I was quite tired of hearing him talk.”

A beat of silence, then the king laughed and slammed his fist against the table. “That was the King’s Justice, nephew, and rightly done. See to his leg, Pycelle. Renly, draft a letter to the Eyrie. See if Littlefinger’s bullshit bares any fruit.” The King rounded the table and clapped Storm on the shoulder as he passed, nearly sending the boy to the ground. “Now I can go enjoy a bloody tournament. Ned!”

Joff’s blood rumbled in his ears as he looked from his father’s retreating back to the bastard being seen to by Pycelle.

I will kill him, he promised himself, and stalked out of the room without a glance back to his fallen Dog.

He would need another.

 

[Dreyden90]

I thought I’d feel a sense of pride. An accomplishment made after months of toil. An evil, petty man taken out of the equation for the betterment of Westeros as a whole. Yet my mind was beset by only two things.

The overwhelming sense of what next?

And the sharp jab of a needle pulling through tender flesh every few seconds.

I let out a low string of curses as string pulled another inch of my calf wound taught.

“The milk of the poppy would help, Ser,” one of Pycelle’s lackey maesters said, monotone. Denys, I thought his name was. Grumpy and annoyed seemed to be the default mood for every maester in the city. My mind briefly turned to Vormund, and I wondered if the cheerful trainee lost his spark when he forged his tenth link. Then Denys stabbed me again and I let out a hissing breath. “And I could get this done much faster. Without the squirming.”

“I need my mind clear,” I said and did my best to keep my leg still. I pressed my forehead into the council table. Pycelle had me lying on it with pressure on my wound before shuffling out with the rest of the small council. I was gladdened when one of his assistants returned, rather than him. “How much longer?”

“As long as it takes,” Denys said with another merciless jab.

“It will make an impressive scar, Lyonel. Best not rush the maester’s good work.” I craned my head around to see Renly stepping toward the table. He dodged the two pools of blood with a grimace before taking a seat that wouldn’t make me break my neck to look at him. He didn’t speak right away and watched the maester stitch me up in silence as I laid on the table.

I took his lead and kept quiet until Denys slathered on an ointment that stung something fierce and wrapped up my calf. As the maester left I flipped over and slid off the edge of the table to put a tentative weight on the leg.

“Gods I hope this heals quick.” I grunted, took a step, and had to catch myself on the table. The pain was not overwhelming, but its sharpness caught me by surprise.

“Loras will be disappointed he won’t get his rematch.”

“Now you can bet on him without feeling guilty.” I japed and attempted a few more steps. I managed to limp along now that I knew what to expect.

It was less than pleasant, but I was far better off than Sandor Clegane.

How that fucker had enough strength to rend through the back of my greave and still manage to cut through a chunk of flesh was beyond me.

A solid thunk drew my attention back to the table. Renly had stabbed the valyrian steel dagger into the oak and stood. Its steel glimmered grey in the dull light without a trace of either Clegane’s or Baelish’s blood.

“I wanted to make sure this got back to you,” he said as I hobbled over to it. “A fine weapon, though I’m curious how it came to be yours.”

“Another bit of bad business that needs resolving.” I yanked the blade free and stared at it for a long second. I had not expected to need to kill today, and I owed my life to having this dagger on my person at all. I swallowed against a sudden bubbling of bile and sheathed it on my hip.

Never relish in killing, Garlan had once told me. But never balk from your duty, when it is necessary.

Wise words and a more moral philosophy than most in this world. I did my best to embody it.

“You attract trouble, nephew.” Renly cocked his head to the side, studying me. “At first it amused me, but now it seems to me that you court it.”

“I do,” I said. Part of me warmed and was humbled that Renly cared enough to be concerned. “What’s the point of being related to royalty if we don’t use it to do some good in the world?”

“By the gods if any doubted you’re Stannis’ your bullheadedness would convince them,” Renly said, exasperated. “You’ve done well, Lyonel, but mind the enemies you’re making. You’ve handed the prince another humiliation.”

“I can handle Joffrey,” I said. I wondered how long it would take for the story of the crown prince defending a traitor to get out to the public. Whatever tattered reputation the boy held would be ground to smithereens. “And he put himself in that position today, not me.”

Tywin Lannister would not be happy with the legacy his grandson was building.

“You grow too bold,” Renly said. “Joffrey is the crown prince and far above your station.” He glanced around but spoke before my tick of ire could grow. “He may be a little shit, but he is the heir to the bloody kingdom. You are a bastard, however skilled you are it will not matter. If he becomes king…” Renly trailed off and snapped his fingers. “You’re as good as dead.”

If, dear Uncle? Not when?

Was he already planning something? His own coronation, or intrigue with the Tyrells?

Thoughts for another time. For when my leg was not throbbing and I could properly focus.

“What of Lysa Arryn?” I asked, changing the subject. Renly’s irritation showed clear on his face. “Of Littlefinger’s businesses?”

“I have half of mind to send you to Storm’s End,” Renly said, ignoring my questions and stunning me with the offer. “You can do your “good” there and assist my castellan. Out of Joffrey and Cersei’s reach.”

I gaped at him for a long moment before I pulled myself together and shook my head.

“You honor me, my lord,” I said, falling back into formal speech. “But I am in the Hand’s service. I have duties—”

“Always duty.” Renly interrupted me with a scoff and turned to stride toward the door. “How that word irritates me. Fine then, I must go draft a letter to the Lady Regent of the Vale calling her to question for treason and find buyers for over a dozen gods be damned whorehouses. Enjoy the tournament, nephew!”

His sarcasm lingered in the air longer than the echo of the slammed door.

“Did I just turn down the Stormlands?” I mused aloud, still nonplussed. It was a major leap in logic from helping a castellan to becoming the heir to a Lord Paramountcy, but I could think of no other purpose to send me there, given what I knew of Renly’s preference for men.

And dear gods what would Stannis’ reaction be to the very idea.

I shuddered.

“Few would,” A voice echoed in the empty room and I jumped, startled, and landed on my bad leg.

“Motherfucker!” I went tumbling to the ground in a clatter of steel and reached for my bandaged leg. Thankfully, my hand came away dry.

“A feat that’s impossible for me, I’m afraid.” Varys’ voice held a lilt of amusement as he approached me from a side of the room I thought had no doors. He offered me a hand up that I took begrudgingly.

“Hilarious,” I said and glanced from whence he came. The walls looked solid. So much for having discovered all of the castle’s secrets in my weeks of exploration.

“I find levity helps in most situations,” Varys said. He did not bother with his simpering act, giving me an appraising look. “I wanted to pass along my congratulations to a victory well earned. Though it seems almost rude to have done so without consulting me.”

“There was no time,” I said. The last day had been a flurry of activity from the moment the Tyrells showed up without warning to rushing back to the Red Keep with Baelish’s ledgers. “Once I had the evidence I went to Lord Stark and then I wasn’t about to leave Baelish out of my sight…”

Varys smiled and something cold crawled down my spine.

“I admire your dedication, Ser, but I must caution against your recklessness.”

“I had everything I needed. He was too dangerous to be left to his own devices.”

“In that I agree,” Varys said. “But now I worry about the consequences. There are many still out there who were under Petyr Baelish’s influence. Without a master, I wonder how much harm they can cause.”

“We’ll find them, in time.” I said, already tired of defending myself.

“Yes, and in time the city will recover from this upheaval. Lord Renly spoke well, and so I will not admonish you further.” Varys reached out and grasped one of my shoulders in his pudgy, dusty hand. “Patience will serve you well, moving forward.” He cast a quick but lingering look at the dagger on my hip. “Especially when dealing with crimes against the crown.”

A warning as subtle as a knife to the calf.

Too soon, too soon. The line came back to me. What good is war now?

I resisted the urge to pull away. “I’ll take your advice to heart,” I said and mustered a smile. I met the Spider’s eyes and tried not to think of Danaerys Stormborn and her Dothraki screamers. Of Aegon the Might-Be-Blackfyre poised to follow in her wake.

I am not a threat, I thought instead, urging passivity from every pore.

“We all serve the realm as best we can,” Varys nodded and pulled away. “Just always bear in mind the cost of your actions, Ser.”

Then he crossed his arms into his oversized sleeves and he stepped toward the main doors without another word.

---​

The process of getting out of my armor, hobbling to the stables, and trotting down to the tourney grounds took far longer than I anticipated, but it at least granted me time to think.

The Lannisters had to be next.

As scary as the possibility of having Varys as an outright enemy was, there would be ways to contain him if the blowback of Cersei’s adultery coming to light.

Which would have to happen soon.

I hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with Ned about his conversation with Littlefinger that I interrupted, but I could only assume it had to do with the Lannisters. Ned was already on the trail of Robert’s bastards and had dug deep through the genealogy book as well. If he had not already put it together, he would, and soon.

I’d have to make sure he went to Robert first, not Cersei.

I didn’t see that as a potential problem unless Ned and Robert had their falling out over Danaerys’ pregnancy.

How I hoped my presence butterflied that away, but I could not count on it.

Sooner the better, then.

After the tourney, I thought, though, once I made it to the jousting grounds. Hundreds of lords and ladies packed into bleachers on either side of the lists, with thousands more smallfolk huddled on the ground. When dozens of houses aren’t here to see Robert’s weakness. Or his rage.

The sun was just cresting past noon by the time I found the rest of the Tyrells. They were quite near the royal box, to my surprise. I could hear Robert’s laughter clear over the din and the Stark girls were just a few rows over, sitting with their septa.

“There you are Lyo—what happened to your leg!?” My mother moved to get up from her seat but I waved her off and plopped down next to her with a relieved groan. My leg throbbed something fierce.

“It’ll heal,” I said. “Just had a bit of a trial by combat this morning.” I kept my tone as light as I could, but both my mother’s, Willas’, and even Allyria’s concerned looks only worsened. So I explained, “are you all familiar with Littlefinger?”

I gave as brief an overview as I could, keeping an eye on the lists for any interesting match up all the while.

“The Hound,” my mother said in disbelief. Her hand hand had found mind and gripped it tightly, shaking. “You fought the Hound.”

“He beat the Hound,” Willas said, shaking his head. “After uncovering a treason. It explains why you had no time for family last night, at least.”

I winced, having skipped out on their surprise arrival not an hour after they settled at the Shanty to go rob a brothel.

“Well, by providence I have no other distractions for the remainder of the tourney,” I said with a small laugh. I tested stretching the ankle of my injured leg and was able to get full range out of it. “Though it seems I missed the melee.”

“Garlan took the victory.” Willas grinned with pride. “He beat both Thoros of Myr and Lord Bryce Caron at the same time at the end.”

“The crowd must have loved that.”

“The people already seemed fond of the Tyrell rose,” my mother said, having collected herself when I did not keel over after five minutes. She gave a significant look to the sigil sewn on my chest. “Mother’s instincts were correct, it seems.”

Ah, I thought. “That’s why you’re here,” I said. I could not blame them, truly. I was gaining something of a reputation in the city, and there had been exactly zero chance that Loras would not have written home about me. Still, a part of me felt hurt despite the logic of it.

“Only in part,” Willas said as I watched the Redwyne twins set up to face against each other. “Things at home are… uneasy.”

“We seek the king’s blessing of our wedding,” Allyria spoke up for the first time. She reached to take Willas’ hand in hers. “Then none could speak ill of the union.”

“And now is the perfect time to remind the King of our fealty,” Willas continued. “Especially given what you’ve done for the realm these past months.”

“And I wanted to see my son, who hasn’t been home in several years,” my mother said, flicking me on the ear. “So don’t get that look on your face.”

I ducked away from her attack as Horas and Hobber somehow managed to unhorse each other for a double elimination.

“Are things truly so bad in the Reach?”

“Garlan will have to marry soon.” Willas ran a hand through his hair. He’d cut it short since last I’d seen him. “Loras and Margaery, too, I fear.”

“So soon after yours?”

He nodded. “Royal favor can only help.”

“Enough talk of doom and gloom,” Mother said before I could respond. “Lady Allyria, you made brief mention of the sunsets over a Torrentine waterfall...”

The two ladies took over conversation from there, debating the virtue of visual wonders Dorne and the Reach had to offer. I listened with a polite ear and kept one eye on the matches. None drew much of my interest save for Jarrett getting himself unhorsed by Ser Lyle Crakehall, and I almost found myself falling to slumber against my mother’s shoulder, reputation be damned.

Until a herald announced Ser Hugh of the Vale and I remembered the two fateful jousts that were supposed to happen that day.

I sat to attention, but it was not the Mountain that the herald introduced, but Ser Alden Storm. The captain rode out on a horse black as pitch, matching his stained chainmail. The gold cloak of his order whipped about his shoulders as he gave a lap to the cheers of the crowd. He relished in the attention, and flexed an arm to the crowd, showing off a crimson favor tied around his bicep.

I relaxed again, and mused about how many other things would have changed without my direct interference. Ser Alden unhorsed the inexperienced Ser Hugh in one tilt, but the green knight walked away with nothing but injured pride rather than a lance in the throat. Ser Alden made a show of bringing his favor to the mouthguard of his helmet in a faux kiss, to further cheering as Ser Hugh stalked away.

“Oh look, my love,” Allyria said, pointing to the near end of the lists. “Your brother rides next.” Loras was mounting his mare, the sunlight glinting off the engraved flowers on his helm. He gave a jaunty wave to the crowd as he trotted out, to a much larger applause than Ser Alden.

“He rides against the Mountain,” Willas said, mouth set in a grim line. On the opposite side of the lists Gregor Clegane dug a meaty heal into his giant of a horse in a vain effort to get it to calm down. He seemed little more than a golem in his head-to-toe grey plate.

“They aren’t supposed to meet until the finals,” I said, dumbly.

“Luck of the draw has no care for dramatics, cousin,” Willas said.

“I suppose,” I agreed, and tried to snap from my daze. Did Gregor know his brother was dead? Would anyone be able to stop him if Gregor went crazy this time?

My leg throbbed and I made to stand.

“Lyonel…?” My mother asked as I was already making my way down the stands as Loras and Clegane rushed toward each other in a thunderous cacophony of hooves and steel. Lances crashed and earth shook as the Mountain tumbled to the dirt, his helmet flying away with enough momentum to bounce a solid ten yards away.

I watched it in slow motion, my leg making me too slow to reach the ground in time.

Loras removed his helm and bowed to the crowd with a smile, savoring his victory while Clegane called for a sword and beheaded his horse in one fell swoop. The crowd was slow to quiet at the action and Gregor turned to stalk toward Loras, his square face clenched in rage.

“LORAS!” My cousin’s name ripped from my throat in a bellow. Somehow, by some miracle, he heard me over the crowd.

It saved his life.

He turned toward the Mountain in time to see the blow coming, but not avoid it entirely. Loras crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain, clutching his face. Crimson dripped from the edges of the Mountain’s sword and he stood over my cousin, raising the gigantic blade like an executioner’s axe.

“Enough!” The king shouted. “Clegane, stand down!”

The Mountain paid no attention to the king and moved to end Loras’ life.

Then Garlan was there, having sprinted from the knight’s pavilion at full tilt the moment I cried Loras’ name. He swung his sword at the Mountain’s knees like a baseball bat and metal clanged as Clegane’s left knee bent the wrong way. The giant of a man fell to his right knee, his attack flying wide of Loras’ by a good foot.

Garlan, always an efficient fighter, used the rebounding momentum from the blow to Clegane’s knee to bring his blade back around overhead and swing clean through the Mountain’s exposed neck.

His head toppled to the dirt and silence reigned.

 

[Dreyden90]

Loras would live. That was the good news.

A wicked red line ran from the front of his chin, over his cheek, and through his left eye. The maesters did an admirable job of keeping the stitches small, but it was still a gruesome sight. He would not lose the eye, they told us, but he would never see from it again.

I did not look forward to how Loras would react once he woke.

The moon began its climb in the sky by the time the maesters left the pavilion, and Willas, Allyria, and my mother had taken their leave to rest. Garlan opted to stay in the small tent by the jousting grounds to stand vigil in case his brother woke, and I hesitated before staying behind as well.

I sat on a camp stool next to my unconscious cousin with a groan and rubbed at my eyes. I needed sleep.

But Garlan had done a thorough job of ignoring me the night before, and I would have it out with him before the wound between us festered even more.

Garlan stood at the tent’s entrance, stoic and looking outside as if the ghost of Gregor Clegane would rise and attack at any moment.

I watched Loras’ chest rise and fall for a moment before speaking.

“That was fine work against the Mountain.” I rubbed at my aching calf, the feel of steel rending flesh still fresh in my mind. “The realm is a better place with him dead.”

“Loras will take comfort in it, I’m sure.”

Sarcasm sounded odd from Garlan.

“Better to be down an eye, than a head.”

Garlan grunted. His disregard hurt, a clenching pain at the center of my gut.

It came with a spark of annoyance, though.

“I would offer apologies,” I said, then. “But platitudes accomplish nothing. I won’t have this ill will between us forever, Garlan.”

“Ser,” he said, still not deigning to look at me.

“Why bother coming to the capital if you can’t even stand to look at me? Willas could represent the family well enough.”

“When I’m given an order, I obey it.”

“You’re acting petul—”

Loras’ breath hitched and we both snapped our attention to him, silent until his breathing evened out once again.

I ran a hand through my black locks and sighed, my annoyance abated. “Look, Garlan—”

“Ser Garlan.” My uncle’s voice came softer than I’d ever heard it. I could only see his shadow through the canvas. “I’ve only just been able to get away. How does Loras fare?”

“He will live, Lord Renly,” Garlan said and glanced past me toward his brother. “Though the injuries are,” he trailed off, measuring his response. “Severe.”

“I would like to offer a prayer, if I could?”

“Of course.” Garlan moved aside and my Uncle stepped inside. He looked composed, at first glance. Any not looking for it would miss the tense set to his shoulders, or dismiss how his throat was drawn taught by a clenched jaw. He stopped short when he saw me as he passed around Garlan and I saw the pain behind his eyes before he glanced away.

“I expected you to be abed yourself, Lyonel,” he said, eyes giving nothing away when he looked back to me. Another tragedy of the world I now lived in that Renly had to hide his fear and grief at his lover’s injuries. It was another problem I could only hope to lay the groundwork to a resolution for in the coming decades.

If we all survived the ice zombie thing, anyway.

“I ought to be,” I said, then stood. “But family is more important. Ser Garlan, a word?”

I couldn’t help but reach up and offer Renly a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder as I passed, but I did not linger. Garlan gave Renly a long side-eye, but I grabbed his arm and kept walking.

With the opportunity to shake me off and send me to the ground as I hobbled along, it gladdened me that he just chose to follow.

It was the least I could do for Renly to offer him a moment alone.

Though Garlan kept his eyes on the pavilion as we stepped away. “Now is really not the time, Lyonel.”

“Ser,” I said back.

I could be petty too.

His nostrils flared and he ripped his arm free, sending me into an off balance stumble to the ground. I wheezed as my back hit the packed dirt.

Probably deserved that.

“I told you then,” I said as I made the painful climb back onto my feet. “That I did what I did to do some good in the world.” I met Garlan’s eyes when I was back on my feet, for the first time noticing we were of a height with each other.

When did I hit six feet?

“You sought to make your star rise,” he accused. “Be damned the consequences.”

“I’ve seen a traitor brought to justice.” I held up a finger and began counting off. “A man who would kill children because he was ordered to is dead. I’ve made a safe haven for the smallfolk here in the city and I’ve done my best to put your lessons into action at every turn. But please, go ask the Queen or Prince Joffrey just how far my ‘star has risen.’

“Then see the Stark girls to realize how the acclaim is not the reward.”

“I’ve heard the stories, Lyonel.” He said, holding up a hand. “But I wonder if you hear the rumors that come with them?” He matched my gesture, counting off. “Why did he have to seek out the king for knighthood? What’s going on in Highgarden that they missed his potential? Was Mace Tyrell trying to hide royal blood from the king? Was Ser Garlan blinded by jealousy? Was there another fallout between the Tyrells and the Baratheons?”

I blinked. “That’s all ridiculous.”

Garlan snorted. “Our enemies don’t need it to be true. They just need the whispers to exist.”

“Why would they care so much about what I do?”

It made little sense. To the reacher lords I should be little more than some bastard related to their liege. No different than the handful of Flowers already born to the Tyrell rose.

Garlan turned his eyes to the sky and whispers a prayer. “Because you were by my side for years. Every keep, every holdfast. All they knew of you was who your father was, and that you were in service to House Tyrell.”

And two plus two equaled everyone assuming the Tyrells had some form of royal favor from that, however slight. And when I left Garlan to seek my knighthood…

“Then you abandoned us. And House Tyrell looked weak. Still looks weak. And now Father has us here to save face.”

“I never intended—”

“Because you only thought for yourself. Because the realm has problems and Ser Lyonel Storm is the only one capable of solving them.”

Part of me wanted to answer his sarcasm with a deadpan yes.

“I already intended to speak to Lord Stark about giving Willas the Master of Coin position,” I said instead. I simply wouldn’t be able to justify what I’d done to Garlan if all he saw was the negative affect I’d apparently managed to have on House Tyrell.

Gods, was their position with their vassals truly so weak?

Garlan’s face looked stuck halfway between annoyance and surprise.

“Whatever you may think of me,” I said, showing my back to my cousin and starting the long trek back to the Shanty. “Know that I never forget where I come from. Good luck in the joust tomorrow, cousin.”