Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Beta'd by Malcolm Tent, Beans, Marethyu, Mike God of Lore
The Unbound
Chapter 15: Winterfell
– Robb Stark –
He missed his father.
The screams and shouts filled the air, the smell of burning stinging his nose.
He had been left in charge of the North while his father went south. It was his duty to keep things under control until his father got back. He'd failed. He'd failed badly.
"Keep moving, we don't have time to stop," Robb ordered, firmly but not unkindly as Rickon tripped. Jon helped their brother back up, and Robb could only blame himself for everything that had happened. His father wouldn't have fallen for such a despicable move.
Winterfell was burning around them, chaos and bloodshed tainting his home, because he'd made the wrong call. His focus had been on the Ironborn raiders that had been encroaching further inland, burning farms and destroying their supplies. When one of his father's banners had arrived at Winterfell requesting an audience, and in such small numbers, he'd seen no reason to turn them away.
After all, House Bolton was sworn to them, wasn't it?
"Robb!" Jon shouted, getting Robb's attention as they turned to look down the corridor they were trying to flee through. He didn't want to flee, and when they'd started this flight he'd had a dozen strong Northern warriors by his side. Those warriors had stayed behind to buy the Starks time to escape.
As he looked at the man swaggering through the hallway toward them, Robb knew those brave men were dead.
"Mother, take Bran and Rickon and get out of here," Robb ordered, his blade drawn.
"No! I won't-"
"Now!" Robb demanded, raising his voice to her for the first time. His mother hesitated, tears in her eyes, before she grabbed the hands of Bran and Rickon, turned to run with a prayer to the Seven on her lips.
"I wonder how far they'll get," the Bolton bastard purred, his walk confident and unbothered by the two blades pointed his way. He was utterly unarmed, wearing no armour and wielding no weapons, and yet… he was coated in blood. Ramsay grinned, licking some of the blood from his lips. "Don't worry, I'll be sweet with her. I may even give her some new sons to replace the ones she's losing today."
Jon gripped his sword, the pair of them sharing a look and nodding. He had no idea what was going on, but the Bolton men who had arrived in the late of night were abominations, seemingly unkillable. He'd watched Roose Bolton take a crossbow bolt to the heart and keep moving.
He didn't expect to win this fight, only praying he could buy his mother and brothers enough time to get out and find help.
Ramsay paused, looking at them both with that eerie smile on his lips. He extended his arms wide, mockingly inviting them to strike first. They didn't move immediately, every second they wasted was more time for the others to escape. Ramsay's eyes, blood red, stared into his soul and after a moment, Ramsay chuckled.
Then, he moved, just a blur in the dark corridors before Robb felt something strike him in the chest. He flew back, rolling several times as he gasped in pain. With how fast Ramsay seemed, he knew that Ramsay had let them get this far, enjoying their struggles. Robb struggled to breathe, letting out a gasp as he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He knew something had broken, and as he coughed up blood, he knew a rib had stabbed into something important.
Jon let out a shout, swinging for Ramsay. Ramsay just sidestepped, moving so fast Robb could barely track him. He wished Jon had gone to the Wall when he had been supposed to, but the chaos from Theon's death had made Jon decide to remain behind. It meant another Stark died today, as Ramsay grabbed Jon's blade, uncaring of the way it cut into his fingers, and simply tossed it away.
Jon fought regardless, drawing a dagger and trying to stab the monster, but they both knew it was for nothing. Ramsay was like a blur, in front of Jon one moment, and behind him the next as a kick to the back of Jon's leg brought him to his knees. More than that, Robb could see bone protruding from the knee that was kicked, Jon screaming as Ramsay grabbed his head and lunged, a pair of long, sharp fangs digging into Jon's neck.
It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before, Jon's face becoming incredibly pale and gaunt as Ramsay drained him. Ramsay smiled as he finally let go, letting Jon slump to the ground.
"Ah, for a bastard his blood tasted so… sweet," Ramsay taunted, standing up and slowly strutting toward Robb. "I wonder, does the blood of a highborn heir taste any better? I bet those sisters of yours are going to be delicious."
Ramsay's sneered taunts were interrupted as he tilted his head and then sighed. Robb heard it shortly after, the familiar sound of claws on stone. The direwolves had been sent to the kennels so as not to intimidate the guests, and he'd not had a chance to get Grey Wind.
As the wolf turned the corner, Robb let out a sound as he saw Ghost, pale white and snarling, charging at Ramsay. As Ghost lunged, Ramsay simply stepped aside and slashed at the passing wolf with his claw-like fingers, but Ghost barely even yelped as he landed, spinning to face Ramsay as he stood over his master, snarling in defiance.
"Stupid mutt, I was going to keep you, but-" Ramsay started again, pausing once more as he turned to see Grey Wind joining the frey. Both direwolves lunged, and while Ramsay grabbed Grey Wind and slammed him into the wall, Ghost bit deep into Ramsay's leg, causing him to let out a shout of pain, kicking Ghost with incredible force. "You-"
More claws. Ramsay even let out a cry that could only be described as annoyance at the sound of more claws beating against the stone floor, approaching from behind Robb. Summer and Shaggydog?
But no, Robb felt his mind race as he realised something. That sound was far too heavy to be even one of the direwolves. And it was getting louder fast as he managed to turn to look at the source. Barreling around the corner, the biggest bear he'd ever seen, barely able to fit in the tight corridors of Winterfell, charged toward Ramsay whose eyes widened in surprise as the bear leapt over Robb at incredible speeds.
Ramsay wasn't idle, grabbing Grey Wind and throwing him at the bear, but Grey Wind, with more grace than Robb had ever seen, recovered, rolling his body so he could use the bear itself as a board to leap back toward Ramsay.
Ghost, even clearly wounded from the kick, wouldn't let go of Ramsay's leg, blood spurting all over his white fur as Ramsay let out a cry of annoyance and then just… burst. Robb started in disbelief as Ramsay seemingly exploded into a swarm of bats, flying backwards as the bear lunged and almost clawed through him, before Ramsay reformed a few feet back, a hateful snarl on his face.
The bear rose up as best it could, letting out a challenging roar, and the direwolves joined it in its call, howling at Ramsay. Ramsay, for all his new power, hesitated before he burst once more and the bats flew back the way he came. Robb knew he'd gone to get more of… whatever he was, and the bear began to shrink.
To his confusion, though there had been a lot of that this night, the bear rapidly shrank to the form of a woman, and doubly confusing was the fact that she was utterly naked as she turned to face him. Her pale body wasn't undecorated, as she was painted in green warpaint, but they hid nothing as she walked over to him, looking at his wounds.
He tried to speak, recognising her as Dacey Mormont, but all that came out was a mouthful of blood. Well, at least he was going to die to a beautiful sight.
"Damn it all," Dacey muttered, leaning over him before she nodded to herself. "I know. It's the only way."
She was seemingly talking to herself, before she took his arm and opened her mouth. She had fangs of her own, though more canine (or ursine, he guessed) than the long, unnatural fangs of Ramsay and Roose. Then, she bit him and he let out a cry.
"Don't fight it, Robb. Embrace the gift," Dacey said soothingly as he felt his blood grow so damn hot, Grey Wind and Ghost limped over to him as he let out a cry of pain, feeling something in his body snap back into place. "Come on, let's get you to your family."
Moving him onto the back of Grey Wind, he had just enough sense to grab Grey Wind's fur as they set off after his mother. He could hear people talking, felt someone touching his hair soothingly, but his mind was elsewhere as he felt himself drawn into the greatest forest he'd ever seen.
Finally passing out, he let himself be drawn into Hircine's Hunting Grounds, running through them on all fours as the wolf within him howled in glee and sorrow.
– Orys Baratheon –
Kneeling, I listen as the High Septon continues his grandiose speech. At the end of the day, the only thing holding back my coronation was a lack of a crown, and I forged my own. With all the Great Houses present in some form or another, there was no better time than now to crown me before the Realm.
The High Septon himself had watched me forge my crown, along with some other high-ranking Septons and Septas. Some were suspicious, others downright fanatical, but what mattered was that I had been able to prove that there was no blood magic going on here, no sacrifices or dragons. Just me, my forge and my own skills. The forge burns hotter than any other in the Seven Kingdoms, but I was untouched by the heat while my observers were sweating and struggling to remain in the room. Some even suggested that the small amount of Targaryen blood in the Baratheon lineage was the reason I was so unconcerned about the sweltering heat. They interrogated Grandfather and others who saw me growing up, confirming that I had zero experience in smithing.
But at the same time, if Grandfather had the secrets to Valyrian steel, he wouldn't have hidden them, but used them to make the Lannisters the most powerful family in the world. Even the most sceptical can't deny that it is highly unlikely he found someone to teach me this art, entirely in secret.
With the crown, my crown, placed upon my brow, I rise with my head held high as he declares me King Orys Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm of Westeros to the cheers of the crowd gathered at the Great Sept of Baelor.
In the High Septon's hand is the new relic of his office. Cast in Valyrian steel, the ceremonial sceptre draws everyone's gaze as he gestures with it. It's a masterpiece, a work of art, and I claimed the designs came to me in my dreams. Atop the rod, a seven-pointed star. They watched me forge it, and the faithful saw me gift it to the Faith. I didn't give it to the High Septon personally, but to the Faith itself, to be wielded by their most holy. It's a symbol of his office, and a gift to show the Seven that I'm a true believer. A priceless artefact given to them for nothing at all. I could hear Mephala laughing as he graciously accepted my gift to the Faith, promising a strong and eternal bond between the Faith and the Crown.
It's a… unique feeling as my parents bow to me, the first to pay their respects to the new King of Westeros. I can't say I don't enjoy it, though. I also won't deny taking a small amount of amusement from watching Joffrey bow. Mother has lectured him about the importance of presenting a unified front a million times already today, but anyone can tell that he's far from happy. Myrcella and Tommen are far more graceful. Breaking protocol, father rises and pats me on the back with a boisterous laugh. He's been looking better than I've ever seen him since he divested himself of the crown.
Next, the Small Council pay their respects. Well, aside from Uncle Stannis, given that he's understandably busy. The news that the Ironborn have chosen war came as a shock to the entire council. There are already rumours swirling that I plan to remake the entire Small Council, replacing everyone except my Grandfather, as he's the only one I appointed. They aren't entirely wrong, to be frank.
I can't get rid of Pycelle easily, but it may be time for a reshuffling once the matter of the Greyjoy Rebellion is handled.
Once they have said their piece, the Great Houses are next to swear their oaths of allegiance to me. Father represents the Stormlands, of course. I represent the Crownlands, as I am now the Head of House Baratheon of King's Landing, while he is the Head of House Baratheon of Storm's End. My side of the House consists of me alone, for now. Renly and Joffrey are beside him as they make their oaths, and I pretend to not hear Joffrey gritting his teeth.
Grandfather is next, alongside Uncle Jaime, now clad in a cloak of red and gold and wielding Lion's Fang, his newly-named blade. I've heard rumours that Jaime has already had a bride picked out for him by Grandfather, the daughter of one of Grandfather's bannermen. It doesn't surprise me.
House Tyrell follows in his footsteps, their entire family present as they're here for the wedding. Lord Mace and Lady Alerie, followed by Willas, Garlan and Loras and finally, Margaery. I consider keeping her by my side for the rest of this, but decide against it and simply place a kiss on her knuckles instead. In truth, I'm doing this on purpose.
I love my father, but he had a reputation that he worked hard to earn, and I want to distance myself from it. Remaining proper and chivalrous will help me avoid being painted with the manwhoring brush of my father. I've done my research, and it wouldn't be out of character for my father to openly grope Mother at such events, or even other women during his earlier, wilder years. I want it to be clear that I am not him. I do make sure that the gathered Highborn understand that Margaery remains important to me, however. I also notice Lady Alerie's gaze wandering to both my crown and the ceremonial sceptre. She's hard to read, but her faith is incredibly strong.
House Stark follows after, Lord Stark stern, Sansa proper, and Arya grinning widely. She pouts as I ruffle her hair, but I am the King and I can get away with it as she curtsies. Her father seems proud of how proper her curtsy is, and even smiles for just a moment at our camaraderie.
House Tully approaches next for the Riverlands, as Edmure Tully presents himself in lieu of his father, the bedridden Hoster Tully. Then, House Arryn. Only, there are no Arryns in the capital and Lysa Arryn did not respond to the ravens sent to her. Instead, Lord Yohn Royce pledges the fealty of the Vale in the absence of his liege. It is not a good look for the Vale, and the whispers make the stern Royce frown, but he doesn't let it distract him.
The whispers are far louder with the next one, as Prince Oberyn and Princess Arianne approach. Dorne has been absent from the court for a long time, and the sight of them both paying their respects definitely starts a multitude of whispers. Arianne doesn't flirt, for once, entirely professional as she represents her father.
When even the Martells of Dorne are here, and the Arryns are not, it certainly gets the gossipmongers of the court wagging their tongues. Oberyn is a little too familiar with me for the tastes of most of the Houses, and the fact that he brought his paramour, Ellaria, up with him certainly doesn't win him any favours, but the Dornish do things differently and as long as they remain loyal, I won't hold it against them.
Once the Great Houses are finished, it's time to throw me to the wolves. With the tourney and wedding, it seems that every House has at least someone in King's Landing, and that means it's time for me to greet every vassal of a vassal that wants my attention. I can't start my reign by snubbing my people, after all.
It is a long process.
My smile never wavers, even as the day goes on. A thousand times, I'm asked about my rediscovery of Valyrian steel, a thousand times I avoid the question and the High Septon himself loudly proclaims it to be a gift from the Seven. Lord Monford of House Velaryon is especially pressing, as his line goes all the way back to the old Valyria.
Then, the final act of the day. Going out onto the balcony, I raise my hand as the gathered crowds of smallfolk cheer for their new king. Most of them are here for the free food, uncaring of whose head the crown sits on, but there's the start of something else entirely. I can feel it, through Mephala's webs. Faith.
The Smallfolk are naturally the most superstitious of my subjects, and the rumours have already begun to spread of the second coming of Hugor of the Hill. I wonder if it was Mother's plucking of strings or the High Septon's schemes to increase the power of the Faith that caused the most of it?
By the time I am finally free, all I can do is collapse into my bed, the sun long-since set.
"Bella, a drink please," I mumble into my pillow, hearing her soft laugh at my very unregal posture. As she approaches, I sit up with a sigh. Gods, my throat is parched. "Thank you."
"I'd offer to help you relax, milord, but the one way I know to help men work off tension would make Lady Margaery a little displeased, I think," Bella teases. She's getting increasingly comfortable with that, and I don't dislike it. She knows to only do it in private.
"I'm not sure my first act as King should be to bed my half-sister, either," I remind her, but she just shrugs.
"I am- was a whore, milord, born to a whore mother. The same lords that would sneer at you bedding kin paid double to have me and my mother in the sheets at the same time," Bella replies softly. "Being brought here was life-changing for me, and Lady Cersei made it clear that I was to aid you however you desire, and I intend to, Your Grace. If you just want me to fetch your drinks and change your sheets, so be it. If you want me wearing nothing but those same sheets, just say the word."
"Thank you, Bella," I respond easily, well aware that this is almost certainly part of my mother's scheming. I know my other acknowledged half-sister has arrived, but I've not met this Mya yet. Father has, and I think she's going back to Storm's End with him when the time comes for him to leave King's Landing. "But for now, this is more than enough."
I won't deny that the idea is tempting, for just a moment. Sex is part of Mephala's domain, and the more I use her powers, the more my libido awakens. Only the risks stay my hand. It doesn't stay my eyes, and I'm sure it is only a coincidence that Bella finds plenty of reasons to bend over, cleavage and buttocks on display.
– Next Day –
"You honour us with your presence, Your Grace," Pycelle simpers as I arrive in the Small Council chambers. I think he knows that I don't particularly like him, and while I can't dismiss him without offending the Maesters, that doesn't mean I can't marginalise him. I suspect he's struggled to be up so early given his advanced age.
"Indeed. It will be an interesting era, with a King that rises with the sun," Varys giggles as I take my seat, gesturing for them to do the same. "I would have thought you'd have enjoyed a long morning, given how busy you were yesterday."
"When things are calmer, I just may, but the world doesn't pause just because I'm tired, and far too much is going on in my realm for me to just sleep through it," I explain. "I was told that there has been a development in the North?"
Lord Stark's frown couldn't be more severe, so I already know it isn't good news.
"Winterfell has been taken," Lord Stark finally reports, and I can only stare in disbelief. The memory of the walled fortress in my mind.
"By the Ironborn?" I ask, my shock clear in my tone. I am almost relieved when he shakes his head.
"No, though they were involved. House Bolton has betrayed House Stark. A raven arrived from my wife, informing me of what occurred. Lord Roose Bolton arrived, just after sunset, with a small group of his men and requested an audience. When he was allowed in, his bastard son, Ramsay Snow, sabotaged Winterfell and killed many of the lookouts before opening the gates for a combined force of Bolton men and Ironborn raiders," Eddard reports, the entire Small Council looking troubled. "Credible reports claim that Roose Bolton was stabbed through the heart several times but would not die, and possessed incredible strength and speed. His bastard was the same, and my own son watched him drain my bastard, Jon, of his blood with long fangs. Ramsay broke Robb's ribs with a single blow."
There's a quiver in his voice as he mentions Jon's death, his posture shaking. He cared dearly for the boy, that much is clear.
"Northern codswallop," Pycelle cuts in, frowning deeply. "While I am sure the Boltons took Winterfell, as claimed, the superstitious nonsense is beyond belief."
Eddard looks like he's a moment away from smacking Pycelle, and as entertaining as that would be, I cut in, while sensing a moment of true dread from Varys, to my surprise.
"Catelyn Stark was born a Tully and is a follower of the Seven. She would not report on mere rumours. Where there is smoke, there is fire. Even this far south, we've all heard tales of a warrior woman who can turn into a giant bear, and monstrous beasts prowling beyond the Wall," I tell the aged maester before turning to Eddard, "You have my sympathies, Lord Stark. How is the rest of your family faring? Has Robb received the proper medical attention?"
"They survived the battle, your Grace. Lady Dacey Mormont saved Robb from being finished off and helped them escape the chaos. Catelyn is bringing the entire family south, with trusted allies guarding their journey," Eddard reports, and I sense he's holding something back but I don't push him for more. "Robb is recovering, but it is a slow process."
"This cannot stand, Your Grace. By betraying their Warden of the North, they betray the Crown," Grandfather cuts in, his tone stern and displeased. I know the Westerlands have been dealing with small Ironborn raids as well.
"I agree," I say immediately. "The Ironborn are traitors to the Crown, they showed this when they chose to attack the Royal Fleet. By allying with them and using this chaos to settle ancient grudges and advance their own ambitions, the Boltons, too, are traitors. Strange things may be afoot across the Seven Kingdoms, and likely beyond, but traitors are a very real threat that must be dealt with."
I think for a moment, seeing my council waiting for my judgement.
"Call the banners, especially those of the Vale, the Reach and the Stormlands. They're to march north and retake Winterfell from the Boltons, and to capture the Dreadfort. I will be stripping House Bolton of its title and lands for this crime. I want the Riverlands and the Westerlands looking west. I won't have them expose themselves to the Ironborn vultures," I declare, seeing the gratitude on Lord Stark's face. "The Riverlands and the Westerlands are to support my Uncle Stannis' campaign against the Ironborn. I refuse to allow this to go on any longer."
"And what is to be done with the lands once stripped?" Varys asks. I can tell he's a little distracted by the rumours of the Bolton's powers.
"The North has always governed itself, and I do not intend to change that. They'll be given to the Warden of the North, to handle as he sees fit. I won't permit traitors to remain in power, but the North will handle the North," I reply simply. Eddard gives me a sharp nod in response. "Pycelle, I want some trusted Maesters to go north with the banners. Whatever is going on, I want to get to the bottom of it."
"I'll contact the Citadel at once, Your Grace," Pycelle promises. Even if he doesn't believe it, or doesn't want to believe it, having the Maesters investigate will help confirm the worst. I already know this is Daedra-related, but I can't say that.
"If I may, Your Grace," Varys cuts in smoothly. "I fear that the Vale may not answer your call."
"Is Lysa Arryn not the sister of Catelyn Stark?" I ask, getting a nod from both him and Lord Stark who looks just as confused as I am.
"She is indeed, however, my little birds have sung of her declining mental state after she received word of Petyr's death. They were very close, and she seems to be in denial about his role in Jon Arryn's death," Varys explains softly. "Some claim she is even having secret meetings, calling for her vassals to rise against you for your 'tyranny'."
Damn it all, will that man haunt me for the rest of my reign?
"Lord Stark. I want you to take the men you brought south and go north when my father's banners are raised, go via the Vale and ensure they obey. Call for Lord Royce, and send out ravens to the Lords of the Vale. Lysa Tully may be their true liege lord's mother, but I won't let one woman's grief cause an already perilous situation to grow worse," I order, getting a bow from him.
"Perhaps Brynden Tully should be contacted? He's Cat and Lysa's uncle, and the Knight of the Bloody Gate," Eddard suggests. I just nod in agreement.
"I also want runners sent to meet Lady Catelyn and her party. I'm sure she has escorts, but I won't risk our best witnesses falling to bandits, Boltons, or Ironborn," I continue.
"It will be done, Your Grace," Eddard promises. Moving on, for now, I listen as we get a few updates from the Royal Fleet. From what I'm hearing, the Redwyne and Royal Fleet outnumber the Ironborn considerably, but the Ironborn are proving incredibly elusive due to a thick fog that is covering their movements. If it becomes a true skirmish, we almost always win, but the Ironborn have faster ships and will often simply flee rather than face the combined might of the Redwyne and Royal fleets.
When it rains, it pours. What a mess I've inherited. I am pleased, though, don't get me wrong, I'd rather deal with this than leave it in Father's hands.
"Your Grace," Grandfather cuts in as we finish up discussing the Ironborn. With Lannisport and Seagard now supporting Uncle Stannis, there's little else I can do myself. It's all a waiting game. "I've made good headway into the sheer depths of corruption that we're dealing with in the wake of Baelish's actions and it is truly dire."
For even Grandfather to call it dire, it must be bad.
"Explain," I say, tired of hearing the word Baelish.
"Through a campaign of blackmail, bribes and favours, he's made sure to plant people that owe him in countless important positions within King's Landing, many of which he used as part of his endless schemes," Grandfather replies. "So far, I've confirmed the corruption of the Chief Gaoler and the Undergaoler, the King's Scales, the Keeper of the Keys, the King's Counter, the Warden of the King's Mint, as well as the Chief Steward, and Understeward. This is in addition to the harbourmasters, tax collectors, customs sergeants, toll collectors, pursers, and more."
Mephala, hurt Baelish more, please.
The answering feeling of reassurance that she was way ahead of me makes me hide a smile, sighing and rubbing my forehead for a moment. There's a burst of whispers around the table, all shocked at the depths of his corruption.
"It seems Baelish had your father's trust by supplying him with wine and women, and Jon Arryn seemed unwilling to consider the man he had appointed as corrupt, something Baelish used to great effect," Grandfather continues bluntly. "In addition, Baelish was covering up the corruption of Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, who had been taking bribes and selling positions and promotions. It appears this was brought before your father, but Baelish convinced King Robert not to replace Slynt on the basis that anyone who took his place would be worse still."
"Apathy is not an excuse for permitting such corruption. The Gold Cloaks are tasked with upholding the King's Law, my law, within King's Landing. Renly?" I prompt, watching him jump. He doesn't talk much at these meetings, and he looks frozen for a moment before he sighs.
"I've not dealt with Slynt much myself, but I can confirm that there were rumours about his corruption a while back, but they faded in time," Renly says, to the lack of amusement from the entire table.
"Oh, they never faded, Lord Renly," Varys simpers, causing Renly to flush. I've always known him to be a carefree man, and I suspect he's enjoyed the renown of his position without actually bothering with the responsibilities of it. Maybe he's more like my father than either cares to admit. One simply likes swords while the other prefers sheathing his own.
"Strip Janos of his position and arrest him, pending an investigation. I won't have the Gold Cloaks remaining as thugs in uniforms," I sigh. "If his deeds are severe enough, it's the block or the black. He's dug his own grave."
"Do you have any preference for who should take the position?" Renly asks, as I pause and consider it for a moment.
"Offer the position to Garlan Tyrell, as a temporary measure," I decided. From what I know of him, he's both a deadly warrior and a true knight. He's also unlikely to indulge in corruption himself, given his reputation and already considerable wealth. Margaery has also mentioned that she's unhappy with Loras getting Steelthorn, the Tyrell blade, since it should have gone to Willas first, and then Garlan before Loras. This position isn't the most glamorous, but if he can help clean up the Gold Cloaks, he's bound to make a name for himself. Additionally, he's to be my goodbrother soon, and I want the Smallfolk to know that I will take measures to keep them safe.
Grandfather frowns slightly, but he doesn't object. I'm sure he'd prefer a Lannister man in the position, but there's about to be a lot of open positions for him to fill with men he can control. I trust that while he might use it to the House Lannister's advantage, he won't indulge in Baelish's style of corruption. Grandfather will be tasked with removing Baelish's pawns and replacing them with trustworthy men, and I know he'll put many retainers from Houses sworn to him into the positions. If Baelish had had more restraint, he could have filled the slots with his 'friends' and profited without going into the realm of utter corruption. He got too greedy and wanted everything instead of settling for merely a lot. The difference is just a matter of restraint, which Grandfather has.
"If Garlan refuses the position, I may have to borrow Uncle Kevan from you, Grandfather," I add, getting a nod from him. Kevan really would be my second choice, but Garlan is close at hand, and there are more benefits to him taking the position. I'm also testing Grandfather a little, to see if he interferes with Garlan's offer.
"There is one other matter, Your Grace," Varys says softly, getting my attention. "Daenerys Targaryen has slain her brother, Viserys, shortly after her wedding to the Horselord, Khal Drogo."
"A kinslaying? Why? What happened?" I ask, frowning.
"My source is not entirely certain, but he believes that Viserys attempted to… invoke the right of first night upon his sister, and was slain in the attempt by Daenerys. There are tales of her doing so with a blade that glowed with a golden flame, which didn't hurt Daenerys herself," Varys continues. Ah, Daedric fuckery at its finest. I wonder which one this is. "Your father feared that Daenerys would lead her new husband across the seas to attempt to reclaim her father's throne and wished for assassins to be sent before his attention was distracted."
"I am not my father. I've inherited much from him, but not his hatred and obsession with the Targaryens," I reply simply.
"And yet, this girl does have the largest khalasar at her command," Renly retorts, a frown on his face. "If they come across the sea-"
"If. And that is a big if, given the fact that the Dothraki are terrified of the open ocean and have no ships," I cut in. "Tell me truly, do you think many would raise their banners in her name if she crossed the ocean? She may be the daughter of a King, but who would support an attempt to put her on the throne?"
"She's a kinslayer and a woman," Tywin responds bluntly. "And now, the broodmare of a Dothraki warlord. I hardly think the Great Houses will rally around a horselord's whore who was raised outside of the Seven Kingdoms. Even still, perhaps it would be better to kill her before it can become a risk."
"Or we'd enrage this Drogo and give him cause to head for the ocean. Are they headed for the coast?" I ask, and Varys shakes his head.
"No, Your Grace. They're headed far to the east to Vaes Dothrak," Varys explains.
"Monitor her movements, and inform me if she makes contact with any group that could supply the khalasar the ships needed to cross. I am not going to send assassins after what is likely a traumatised girl who just had to kill her own brother to prevent him from raping her. As long as they remain on their side of the Narrow Sea, they are of no concern to us. We have enough problems at home without inventing new ones," I order.
Ilithia warned me not to get distracted by the East. Is this what she meant? I suppose it doesn't overly matter; it doesn't change my decision regardless. Unless Daenerys becomes set on reclaiming her father's throne, she is not my enemy. Viserys might have been able to get more support for a return to Targaryen rule, but Daenerys?
Westeros has not historically done well with accepting female rulers at the best of times, even when they are the rightful rulers. The Dance of Dragons is just one example of that. Daenerys is a kinslayer, and no amount of reasoning will get the Faith to forgive that. It's why Oberyn took full credit for the Mountain, because Sandor struck the final blow against his own brother and even that would be seen as sinful. It won't matter what she claims, many will see it as her father's madness taking root in her. She has been raised in Essos, and she's married to a Dothraki. She couldn't be less suited for the throne if she tried.
"And if she breeds?" Grandfather asks. "Her children, or her children's children, could cross the sea to reclaim what they see as theirs."
"Then they'll die for their ambitions. If the Dothraki cross the sea, they'll find only Westeros steel waiting for them, but I won't start a war acting in haste. Vaes Dothrak is a holy place for them, is it not? Where bloodshedding is forbidden. Killing the most powerful Khal's wife on route, or at Vaes Dothrak itself, is begging for them to rally and invade," I point out, getting a nod of acceptance from him. "Until she's pregnant, and until we know her intentions, I won't act with haste. I won't slay her for what her grandchildren might do. My time is better spent ensuring the realms are thriving, so that any threat we face, whether it comes from the Dothraki or anyone else, is met with a unified, powerful kingdom."
"So be it, I only hope you do not come to regret this clemency," Grandfather says bluntly. "And are ready to do what needs to be done if she does turn her gaze west."
"Do I strike you as unwilling to shed blood, Grandfather? I won't tolerate any threats to my realm. If Daenerys Targaryen chooses war, she'll find no mercy from me. And it isn't clemency to not want someone dead for the crime of existing. If we started killing everyone with Targaryen blood, I fear the realm would become rather empty," I point out with a chuckle.
"As you say, Your Grace," Grandfather responds. He doesn't agree, but he's backing down at least. I'm sure we'll have this conversation again down the line, if Daenerys ever becomes pregnant or the khalasar comes too close to the sea. I have had a bloody start to my rule, but only the blood of those who have wronged me or truly deserved it. As it stands, Daenerys Targaryen has done neither.
"If that is all for today, I think we can call this meeting to a close," I finally say, looking around to see if anyone else has anything to bring up.
"One small matter, Your Grace," Pycelle says, drawing our attention. "There has been much whispering about an impending reshuffling of the Small Council. With so many highborn in King's Landing, you understand. Ambitions are burning, and it isn't uncommon for a new King to replace the Small Council upon his ascension."
He trails off, and I can almost see his desire to point out that his position isn't assigned by the King but by the Citadel, but he manages to silence himself.
"Lord Stark will be returning North and returning his badge of office. He was chosen by my father for their close friendship, and the North needs their Warden back, given the chaos," I confirm, and Eddard just nods in agreement. "As for any other reshuffling, that will come after the Ironborn and the Boltons have been dealt with."
"Most wise, Your Grace. Our dearly departed Littlefinger may have claimed chaos is a ladder, but those who use such chaotic times to climb are rarely worthy of the positions they snatch away," Varys agrees. The draconic tint to his aura has been fading recently, barely even noticeable now. Maybe he was counting on Viserys, but knows Daenerys won't work for whatever he was scheming.
Calling the council to an end, I smile to myself. Despite the dire news and grave situations we had to deal with, it was a productive meeting, and I think it went well in fully demonstrating that I'm not nearly as passive as my father. He treated the entire realm with a general apathy, but that is not how I intend to rule.
As everyone goes about their business, I spot Renly approaching me.
"Uncle," I greet with a nod, getting one in return.
"Your Grace. I simply wanted to tell you that I will be leaving the position of Master of Laws once this Greyjoy business is dealt with," Renly says, watching my eyebrow rise in surprise. "I'm not a fool, Orys, and I don't want to put you in a position of having to fire your own uncle. I was a passable Master of Laws in Robert's reign, but I can already tell that your reign is going to be far more… demanding. It's smoother for us both if I leave of my own accord."
"A fair point. I did plan to replace you, I'm afraid. This mess with the Gold Cloaks is going to need someone more serious than you to handle," I admit. He just laughs.
"You have someone in mind already, then?" Renly asks, getting a nod from me.
"Uncle Stannis. I plan to reform the Gold Cloaks as part of my plans for King's Landing, and I need someone utterly immovable to whip them into shape," I explain. "As for his current position, either Paxter Redwyne or perhaps Wyman Manderly to placate the North after Eddard's removal, even if it is one he agreed with. We'll see how the Ironborn situation develops first."
"Stannis would certainly thrive there. He might even enjoy stomping out their corruption," Renly agrees with an almost lazy smile. "I plan to remain in King's Landing, now that Storm's End is Robert's problem. It is good not to have to call him 'Your Grace'."
"I imagine you'll stay wherever Loras is," I reply, seeing him freeze before he relaxes slightly. "I'll be glad to have you around, either way."
I mean it as well, as I do genuinely enjoy his company. He makes a better courtier, charming and easygoing, than he does a council member. His popularity with the Smallfolk, even after the rumours, is also useful to me. As we part ways, I pause, believing that Ser Barristan wants something as he follows before I sigh, causing him to tilt his head.
"Your Grace?" Barristan asks. "Is there a problem?"
"I forgot that you're my guard now. I was wondering why you were here instead of with my father and was curious what you wanted," I admit, getting a soft laugh from him. "It's been a long two days."
"I can only imagine, Your Grace," Barristan agrees with a small, amused smile. "I did wish to speak to you about the empty slot now that the- Jaime Lannister has been released from his vows."
"I do apologise for not discussing it with you first, Lord Commander," I say respectfully. Barristan the Bold is someone I want to keep on my side.
"I advised your father to remove him after he broke his vows and slew King Aerys, but I was overruled. No matter the reasons, a Kingsguard cannot take the life of those they have sworn to protect," Barristan replies calmly. "But it still leaves us with an empty position."
"I've considered Loras Tyrell or Balon Swann for the position, but I want to wait until the singles end to see if there are any truly standout warriors at the tournament," I explain, and he nods, seeing the logic in it. Kingsguard are for life, they aren't easily removed, and if I appoint someone and then someone better comes along, I can't just replace them. "At least with Loras, there's no risk of him breaking his vows by taking a wife or fathering children."
For just the briefest second, I spot a tiny smirk on his face, but it's gone as fast as it came.
"As you say, Your Grace," Barristan replies.
"Then, if that is all, I want to make an appearance at the tourney grounds. The grand melee is today, after all," I say, setting off as he follows behind. "I should take up my swordsmanship training again. I've been slacking since I left Casterly Rock with all that's been going on. Perhaps you could pick up where my last mentor left off?"
"If that is what you desire, Your Grace," Barristan agrees easily as we make our way. It feels a little silly to still be playfighting here when so much is happening, but cancelling the tourney would do nothing but cause unrest. It takes time for the banners to be raised, after all.
— Bonus Scene — Arianne Martell
She'd been going about this wrong.
It hurt her to admit it, because she had been enjoying poking fun at Margaery, but this was not a fight she was going to win. Orys was too proper and took his duties far too seriously to abandon his bride days before their wedding, but at the same time… she wasn't going to settle for less than the best, and the best man for her was Orys Baratheon.
In the end, she didn't necessarily need him as a lover, she needed him as an ally against her father for when the time came that he tried to replace her as his heir. To that end, starting their relationship by antagonising his future wife had not exactly been the smartest move she could have taken.
Tyene had been most useful in coming up with a new plan, because her sister in all but blood could wander the Grand or Royal Sept freely, playing the part of the devoted faithful with the greatest of ease. Despite having a Septa for a mother, Tyene was likely the most blasphemous of all the Sand Snakes, but nobody who met her would ever suspect it to be so.
There was also the matter of an increasingly Dornish presence in the capital making her nervous. Did her father know she was planning against him? She'd seen Lord Franklyn Fowler in court, and his twin daughters, Jeyne and Jennelyn. Lord Fowler was one of the few Dornish lords strong enough to challenge her father, and wasn't likely to be working as a lackey for him, but even still, it put her on edge. Even Sylva had arrived, allegedly for the tourney. King's Landing was truly flooded with highborn from across the Seven Kingdoms.
Orys was King now, and beyond that, he was the King that brought Gregor Clegane to justice and that would make him popular in her homeland. The Mountain was a legendary monster, the type that children feared was hiding in their closet, and while Uncle Oberyn had struck the final blow, it had all been made possible by Orys Barathon, first of his name. He'd been the one to make right the greatest insult to Dorne in recent history. To avenge her lost aunt Elia. The King who forged Valyrian Steel. The Blessed King.
The Seven remained the primary faith in Dorne, and a divine-blessed King who had brought the Mountain to justice was exactly what she needed to ensure that Doran couldn't possibly remove her from her rightful position. She didn't know what was real when it came to the rumours, but she also didn't care. It didn't matter what was true, only what was believed.
As the flap of the tent opened, she turned to speak to whichever of the Sand Snakes had returned first, before she froze in bafflement as an entirely unexpected figure entered instead.
"Mother?!"