Lucyfer
Said you'd die for me, well -- there's the ground
King’s Landing no longer smelled like shit. Within the Red Keep, it never did, but Tyrion stood out on a balcony and gazed across the city, taking in the scent of rose-covered shit. ‘Well, it’s a bit better.’ The dwarf thought to himself, though within the walls was quite a bit nicer. There it smelled like slow-roasted meats, wine, and yes – roses. There was no escaping the roses anywhere in this city any longer, but it was not a bad thing. Joffrey was dead, and Tommen was now king.
Things were looking up, even if ‘looking up’ meant that Tywin Lannister and Margaery Tyrell were actually ruling Westeros by using Tommen – and through Margaery, likely Olenna. ‘A wonder those two don’t get married.’ Tyrion thought to himself as his mismatched eyes looked out over the city, constantly trying to catch sight of the White and Black banners of House Swann from his lofty perch.
‘At least Ser Balon thinks well of me.’ Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard had spoken well of his character at the trial. ‘I wonder if he has spoken so well of me to Lady Jaena. I wonder if he would take it all back if he knew I would be marrying her.’ The thoughts were dark as he swirled his wine in his goblet. No one wanted to marry a dwarf, even if it came with all the wealth of Casterly Rock.
Everyone now certainly knew that his father was out to end him, as well. It was only thanks to Oberyn Martell defeating the Mountain that Tyrion still stood there. Ser Swann may have spoken well at his trial, but it wasn’t nearly enough to convince the judges that he was innocent of killing Joffrey. He was, as well – though there seemed to be no one searching for the real criminal now.
Attentions had turned to solidifying power.
Sure, Robb Stark was out of the way, but that didn’t mean everything was good. The Boltons would hold the North – for now. There were still many other lands to reel in, and to the amusement of even Cersei, their father had found he didn’t have enough children to sell into marriages. Tyrion was sold, of course, to this Swann woman. Cersei was going to be sold, but last Tyrion knew, it hadn’t been determined to who, after Loras was removed by Sansa. Jaime was still impossible – unmoving from the King’s Guard.
Tyrion didn’t envy him, though.
He drank more of his wine as he considered who his father was bringing. Someone of the West, of course – as if his father would ever marry anyone not of the West. Not a cousin, this time, thankfully. There were enough issues with Lannister Incest running rampant. No, he was bringing a Farman, the ones who should have been at Blackwater, but weren’t. They were off harassing the Ironborn instead. They needed to be reeled back in – they had never truly been loyal. Only frightened by a minstrel.
Time clearly made those fears fade.
‘Should be amusing seeing my father try and bring a woman into his life.’ He thought, wondering if his father even knew what to do with a woman anymore, before he quickly got rid of the thought as it verged on being uncomfortably graphic for his mind. He shut his eyes tight, nose pinching with it, and shook his head hard, once, and then opened his eyes once more. He saw Black and White banners in the streets then.
He heard a knock on the balcony door. He turned, just as Podrick stepped in. “My lord,” he had that sheepish grin on his face, “The Swanns have arrived.”
“So I noticed,” he gestured with the goblet down to the flying banners, as he turned himself towards thedoor where Podrick stood, and waddled on forward. Podrick matched his pace, “Did you catch a look at Jaena?” He asked, curious.
“No, my lord, I—I didn’t,” he shook his head, apologetic, as they started on towards the gates of the Red Keep.
“Ah well,” he sighed, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. After a few drinks they all start to look the same, anyway,” though he probably shouldn’t show up with a goblet in his hands, should he? “Here you are, Pod,” he handed it up to him instead, and Pod looked at it, confused. He didn’t question it, though, the lad just took it and kept walking.
“Do you know anything at all of her, my lord?”
Tyrion shook his head. He didn’t. “I assume she’s female, and I assume she’s still young enough to have children.” Or else his father wouldn’t have arranged it. Someone too old wouldn’t be proper. Someone too old wasn’t even proper for Tywin Lannister himself, he couldn’t marry his son to someone too old. Heirs solidified the alliances that these marriages made, after all. In theory, heirs would make sure neither side turned on the other, out of love for the children if not each other.
Ah, politics.
“If she’s like most women, she’ll detest the very sight of me, until I put on something made of gold. Then she’ll realize she loves me,” he sighed, “that, or she will need a lot of wine to get through our wedding night,” or he would. Or they both would.
“It won’t be that bad, my lord. Shae…,” and Podrick realized his mistake when he was met by a cold glare from the man much shorter than him. He cleared his throat, “I like you. Bronn likes you.”
The imp softened his chilled smile, “Of course Bronn likes me, I pay him,” it wasn’t enough for Bronn to volunteer to save him again, “And you like me as a friend, Podrick. I don’t believe you’d like me if we were going to be married, now, do you?” Then, “Don’t answer that,” as they reached the doors of the Red Keep. Podrick opened them, and they found Ser Swann waiting near the gates. The duo approached, and Tyrion found his throat tightened, unable to find the words to say more than, “Good day, Ser Swann.”
He ought to thank him for his words at the trial, but he couldn’t seem to find it, considering his earlier thoughts that the man might wish to take them all back. Even Podrick looked a bit uneasy as he stood so near the man in the white cloak.
Perhaps he kept imagining a certain white cloaked man was going to come back for his head.
Tyrion turned his attention instead to the approaching party, and hoped he wasn’t sweating too much. Or appeared too anxious. At least he looked good in this dark red – well, as good as he could look. The cut of the tunic at least made him look a little taller. Perhaps he should have added more gold accents. He reached a hand up to push away the stray strands of hair from his face, but to no avail. They just fell right back down, and his fingers reminded him of what else was on his face.
He cursed his scar again in the moment he had to think of all the flaws to his appearance.
~***~
Not far from where Tyrion dwelt in self-depreciating thoughts, another lion was entering King’s Landing upon a beautiful longship of pale wood. The Fair Fleet used a mix of galley’s and longships, but the flagship of Admiral Damia was a longship simply called Mirage. Its ghostly hue had made its namesake famous in a way – many did imagine it as such, and it flew no banners when it came into port, though it was welcomed in all the same. It wouldn’t be mistaken when it was expected.
The Admiral herself stood at the bow and looked upon the port, the silhouettes of figures before her. ‘Odd.’ Her green eyes could pick out the white cloak of a kingsguard, a fine dress, but none of them seemed Tywin from this distance.
“Mrow.”
Up jumped the ship’s cat, a seven-year old thing of orange eyes and silver fur. Idly, the red-haired woman reached out to stroke it, red nails scratching its ears as it came back up to his head. “It’s all right, Tempest.” It was a temperamental beast, but what cat wasn’t?
It wasn’t all right, though.
She had received a summons back to King’s Landing, and she already knew she could not be in Tywin’s good graces for her activities. She avoided coming to assist King’s Landing against Stannis. She had hoped that Lord Baratheon would win, of course – she wouldn’t admit it, but she had hoped. Then Tywin showed up and crossed that hope. Stannis vanished. She didn’t pursue him to Dragonstone as, perhaps, she should have.
No, she played with the Ironborn, until now.
Until the Red Wedding, and the Purple Wedding, and Tywin Lannister’s direct summons. She could have pretended not to receive it, of course. ‘But then I wouldn’t have a chance of getting near him.’ The letter at least didn’t make it seem as if she was going to be punished for her lack of assistance.
Even so, her fleet wasn’t far. Only a couple of ships joined her towards the port, but the rest were near enough that it wouldn’t even take a day to send one of her hawks out to them with a letter. Hawks worked a bit better for her kind of work than ravens. They could be trained to go between the boats, at least. They were also a bit better at catching their own food out of the sea. Easier maintenance. ‘A dragon would be easier.’ She wasn’t getting a dragon anytime soon.
Not unless she wanted to hunt down Euron and see if he actually had the damned Dragonbinder horn. Of course, she’d send a raven to Stannis first – she wasn’t about to engage that psychopath without his backing. She’d seen enough during the Battle of the Fair Isles to know better than that, especially if she was trying to steal something from him. Couldn’t just sink his vessel then. It would be simpler if she could.
The ship came into the port, and she did assist with its anchoring and such, apparently for too long, as the ramp had been lowered and the man in the white cloak walked up. She heard him clear his throat, and she turned to him, recognizing him for a Lannister by the golden hair and the green eyes. Not to mention the cloak. That could only mean Jaime. “Yes? We’re almost done tying things up here,” she gave a pull on a rope to make that clear.
“Ah, yes, I can see that. I was hoping to go ahead and escort Lady Farman to the Tower of the Hand.” He tried for charming, for humility, and all it earned him was a smirk.
“I am Lady Farman,” not. Lady Reyne. Never mind that detail, “though I prefer Admiral Farman,” she said, and watched how his expression changed to shock. “I suppose I should change into something more proper?” Tywin would probably be annoyed if she showed up in slacks and a bodice.
A wry grin came over Jaime’s face. He seemed to think the said, but answered, “No, not at all…it’s more important not to keep my father waiting.” He’d at least get a glimpse of the reaction before he left, and that would be priceless to see how his father dealt with a woman like this. Oh, this just got very, very interesting.
“Mrow!”
Jaime looked down to see the demanding cat, and he gave it a confused look, then bent a bit to pet it, asking, “Do you mind if I take this cat off the ship? His Grace Tommen actually…loves cats, and he’s here to greet you.”
“Go right ahead, that thing is a whore.” She answered, and Jaime kept the amused expression on his face as he took it, while she went on to finish up the work for properly docking the ship. Without needing to change, she soon skipped down the ramp and over to where Ser Jaime was, and where His Grace was, her whore of a cat nuzzling the king’s face while he laughed, and who she guessed to be the Queen by the golden roses looking on adoringly.
Margaery was also the first to look up, and to be taken aback. “O-Oh! Lady Farman, I had not – you look appropriate for an Admiral,” she found her words then, “And this cat is a true sweetheart!”
“Tempest is a whore, don’t let him fool you. He just wants tuna.” As the woman spoke, she staggered a couple of steps and then laughed, shaking her head at the clumsiness.Tommen almost looked taken aback by the blunt language, and Margaery did, too. Yet, it was in her eyes that Damia could see a hint of respect. No doubt, being the granddaughter of Olenna, she was not unfamiliar with such…bluntness. “You have cats, your grace?”
“Yes, I have one. Ser Pounce,” he said, and he held out the gray thing to her. She took it back into her arms, only to offer it to Jaime, who took it, rolling his eyes a bit as he tried to adjust his hold with his fake hand. He didn’t need to be told to run the cat back to the ship, while the Admiral lingered with the royalty. “You should meet him!”
“I would love to, your grace. I quite enjoy cats,” she said, “How old is Ser Pounce?”
“Only a little over a year now, but he’s quite big!”
“As a knight should be,” Margaery giggled. “How old is your Tempest?”
“Seven now,” the conversation was so easily light-hearted with the youngsters, and Jaime returned with that amused, but wry, grin on his lips.
“Well, I’m sure you all can catch up on cats later. Your Grace, by your leave, I would like to escort Lady Farman to your grandfather.”
“Oh – yes, of course,” Tommen consented, though even he gave her a once over for the attire. She was going to see his grandfather, like that? Tywin couldn’t be pleased…was that normal? Wait, did she have a sword at her hip, going to see grandfather? “You won’t be taking the sword with you, will you?”
“No, your grace,” she said, “I’m sure I can leave it with Jaime outside, or some other guard.”
With that, then, Jaime offered his arm, but it wasn’t taken. She just walked on to the stairs, and Jaime chuckled, quickly stepping up to walk alongside her. He was taller – the longer legs helped him to easily match her pace. “You’re planning to upset my father, aren’t you?”
“I’d never dream of it,” she lied, “He likes honesty, doesn’t he?”
Jaime didn’t answer that, just chuckled and shook his head. Cersei would love hearing of this.
~***~
Far in the North, where marriages were the least of anyone’s concerns, the icy wind beat against the bare faces of the many men dressed all in black while they stood at the Fist of the First Men. Qhorin Halfhand’s group had arrived, and now Jon was trudging along the white wastes to peer out into the gusting wind, and try to see what had disturbed the older crow so much.
“I don’t see very well,” Sam was saying nearby, as the Halfhand pointed out into the distance.
“Fire,” he said, and the black-haired bastard had to squint in order to see the rising gray upon the gray sky. As he did, the grizzled veteran glanced back and caught sight of him, before he cast his eyes over the rest of those who had come to take a look, including Sam, Jeor, Swift, and others who had come from Castle Black. “There’s a fire, and the people sitting around it have better eyes than yours or mine.” He stated, and his gaze turned back to the smoke. “And when they see us coming, that fire becomes a signal to give Mance Rayder plenty of time to throw a party in our honor.”
“Have that many wildlings joined him?” Jeor had to ask, and Jon understood why as he glanced to the white-haired bear. Mance had once been a Brother of the Night’s Watch. The fact he had amassed such a large army in such a short period of time, out of his former enemies, was…astounding.
Qhorin didn’t speak with any doubt, though. “From what we can tell…all of them have.”
A hush fell over the Brothers gathered at that ledge of the Fist. Sam and Jon exchanged a look behind Jeor’s back, before they were both distracted again by Qhorin’s voice. Jon turned his dark eyes forward once more. “Mance has gathered them all like deer against the wolves. They’re almost ready to make their move.” The imagery wasn’t really threatening to Jon, until he recalled how he found Ghost.
The dead direwolf and the dead stag.
Perhaps with enough deer…the wolves would falter.
“Where?” Sam asked. A stupid question from someone so smart. Jon grimaced in embarrassment for him.
“Somewhere safe,” Qhorin said, “Somewhere south.” Obviously, beyond the wall. “We can’t just march into their midst.”
‘No…we don’t have the numbers.’ Jon agreed.
“We can’t wait for them here either with just a pile of stones to protect us,” he said, and Jon heard Jeor huff. His shoulders lifted with the breath.
“You’re saying we should fall back to the wall?” He didn’t sound happy about that.
Jon wasn’t, either. He wanted to find Benjen. He wanted to find what happened to all who went with Benjen.
Qhorin didn’t answer at first, “Mance was one of us, once. Now he’s one of them. He’s gonna teach them our way of doing things. They’ll hit us in force and they won’t run away when we hit back. They’re gonna be more organized than before, more disciplined, more like us…so we need to be more like them.” Confusion came upon many faces, including Jon. “Do things their way. Sneak in. Kill Mance, and scatter them to the winds before they can march on the Wall, and to do that, we need to get rid of those lookouts. It’s not a job for 400 men. I need to move fast and silent.”
Eyes moved to the one called Swift, Jon’s included. The bastard of the West had earned that name for his speed, and it must have been useful while he played at being a thief. Jon could only imagine how useful such an individual would be on this mission, but he kept his mouth shut, for a moment, as Qhorin called up his own. “Horker, Stone Snake, Barber.”
Only three?
Jon immediately stepped forward, “Lord Commander, I’d like to join Lord Qhorin,” he said.
Qhorin glanced back, “I’ve been called lots of things, but that might be my first Lord,” in spite of the dreary situation, that comment earned some chortles.
Jon remained serious. Jeor spoke through his own laughter, “You’re a Steward, Snow. Not a ranger.”
“I fought and killed a wight.” Jon reminded, thinking that was reason enough for him to go along. That, and that this was personal…Benjen…, “How many rangers can say that?”
“He’s the one?” Qhorin showed surprise. He’d heard of this, of course. He was warned of it.
“Aye,” Jeor said, “He killed a wight,” he agreed with Jon, “He also let an old man beat him bloody and take his sword.”
Jon couldn’t find a comment to that, feeling his cheeks heat with anger and embarrassment for having that brought up. Sam, blessedly, stepped forward. “I could take his steward duties while he’s gone, my lord. It’d be no trouble.”
Jon passed Sam a grateful look, but kept his lips sealed. Qhorin seemed amused with all of this, and he shared a smile with Jeor. The Old Bear didn’t smile, but he did relent. “I hope you make a better ranger than you do a steward,” he told Jon, then gestured with his head, before he looked around, “You should also take with you Swift,” his eyes soon found the man, “He’s the fastest in all of Castle Black. Should know a thing or two about sneaking,” and he gestured to a lad of sandy hair and green eyes.
Jon glanced back, and gave a quick half-smile to Swift, hoping they weren’t upset to be volunteered for the job, as Qhorin’s eyes fell upon them, too. “That so?” Qhorin asked, then gestured, “Then come on, lad. We’ll have plenty of work for you on this task. Hope you know how to use a sword, too.”
~***~
The Dreadfort was not on any coast, but it was near the Weeping Water. Amara Bolton took the Dreadfort host along the Weeping Water and to the coast of the Shivering Sea to meet the new King of the Iron Isles. ‘Euron Greyjoy.’ The Bolton woman had heard plenty of him. In spite of the name of his ship, Silence, his name and his infamy spread. His madness may have played well with Ramsay.
She’d almost want them to meet.
Pity she couldn’t arrange that and just deal with the victor. No, while Ramsay played with his toys and shirked his responsibilities, she handled the actual Ironborn forces. At least under a new king, not Balon, there may be some hope of ending this conflict. It was honestly quite tedious. The North wasn’t winning anything in these engagements, as they all took place on their own lands.
The Manderleys were being little bitches and not giving up their ships for use to actually hit the Ironborn back – something to deal with later, but it wasn’t forgotten. They wouldn’t even allow it when Robb lived, when Theon held Winterfell. No, they were content to sit there with their fleets and let the North get ravaged instead. They would soon learn that, indeed, the North did not forget, least of all the Boltons. They’d pay, one way or another, for the ravages that others had endured while they stayed behind their ships.
For now, however, Amara would try to get the battles to at least stop. See if Euron could be reasoned with – or at least form a truce. Let him go ravage literally anywhere else. ‘Except Ramsay has Theon and Yara, so that’s not going to be easy.’ Even if everything she heard of Euron suggested he wouldn’t care about Yara or Theon, there was still an image to keep. Tywin Lannister hated Tyrion Lannister, but he let him live and enjoy the Lannister name.
Euron may play by the same stupid Southern rules.
Her troops spread out, not setting camp up as they saw the fleets on the horizon. Amara lifted her hand, and flicked her wrist.
Immediately, trebuchets were rolled forward, and the lines of archers with their oil-soaked arrows came forward as well. She was fully prepared for this to be a trap, and she waited until the incendiaries were loaded into the trebuchets before she urged her black destrier forward, a contingent of five warriors followed paces behind her.
No words passed her lips. None were needed. Shouting orders was pointless. Her soldiers knew what to do, and they knew exactly who they would be answering to if things were messed up. They’d be answering to her, or if she died – Roose. That was a fate far worse than death, and they all knew that too well.
A peaceful land was the Dreadfort, and a quiet people…for good reason. Rather like the man they were going to see, silence was appreciated. Unlike the man they were going to see, there were few rumors of either Amara or Roose. Ramsay was the only one who made noise. The others were left to dread what lied in the silence of the two true Boltons.
The Noble Bolton did not look half as fierce as any of the men with her, but the black-haired woman did have a sword at her hip, and a quiver of arrows at her back. She was better with the bow than the sword, but she knew her way around the blade. The leather armor was black and red, but the curious part – perhaps the only thing that hinted that the woman may share in the Bolton insanity – was the out-of-place pink ribbon that held her hair up.
It was satin and stainless, and the ties of it fluttered in the wind as it held a place, tying her bangs back so they wouldn’t get in the way of her eyes. It had no place, even if it was the Bolton colors. In truth, Amara would have had pink armor just to fuck with people, but right then, she only had the red and black. Pink would have been more intimidating. She may have even worn a pink dress if she didn’t value her life as much as she did – armor was at least going to shield her a bit, and she fully expected something to happen.
She would have expected it from anyone, though. She was just suspicious by nature, and the glint of her silver eyes was fully alert.
teathyme
Things were looking up, even if ‘looking up’ meant that Tywin Lannister and Margaery Tyrell were actually ruling Westeros by using Tommen – and through Margaery, likely Olenna. ‘A wonder those two don’t get married.’ Tyrion thought to himself as his mismatched eyes looked out over the city, constantly trying to catch sight of the White and Black banners of House Swann from his lofty perch.
‘At least Ser Balon thinks well of me.’ Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard had spoken well of his character at the trial. ‘I wonder if he has spoken so well of me to Lady Jaena. I wonder if he would take it all back if he knew I would be marrying her.’ The thoughts were dark as he swirled his wine in his goblet. No one wanted to marry a dwarf, even if it came with all the wealth of Casterly Rock.
Everyone now certainly knew that his father was out to end him, as well. It was only thanks to Oberyn Martell defeating the Mountain that Tyrion still stood there. Ser Swann may have spoken well at his trial, but it wasn’t nearly enough to convince the judges that he was innocent of killing Joffrey. He was, as well – though there seemed to be no one searching for the real criminal now.
Attentions had turned to solidifying power.
Sure, Robb Stark was out of the way, but that didn’t mean everything was good. The Boltons would hold the North – for now. There were still many other lands to reel in, and to the amusement of even Cersei, their father had found he didn’t have enough children to sell into marriages. Tyrion was sold, of course, to this Swann woman. Cersei was going to be sold, but last Tyrion knew, it hadn’t been determined to who, after Loras was removed by Sansa. Jaime was still impossible – unmoving from the King’s Guard.
Tyrion didn’t envy him, though.
He drank more of his wine as he considered who his father was bringing. Someone of the West, of course – as if his father would ever marry anyone not of the West. Not a cousin, this time, thankfully. There were enough issues with Lannister Incest running rampant. No, he was bringing a Farman, the ones who should have been at Blackwater, but weren’t. They were off harassing the Ironborn instead. They needed to be reeled back in – they had never truly been loyal. Only frightened by a minstrel.
Time clearly made those fears fade.
‘Should be amusing seeing my father try and bring a woman into his life.’ He thought, wondering if his father even knew what to do with a woman anymore, before he quickly got rid of the thought as it verged on being uncomfortably graphic for his mind. He shut his eyes tight, nose pinching with it, and shook his head hard, once, and then opened his eyes once more. He saw Black and White banners in the streets then.
He heard a knock on the balcony door. He turned, just as Podrick stepped in. “My lord,” he had that sheepish grin on his face, “The Swanns have arrived.”
“So I noticed,” he gestured with the goblet down to the flying banners, as he turned himself towards thedoor where Podrick stood, and waddled on forward. Podrick matched his pace, “Did you catch a look at Jaena?” He asked, curious.
“No, my lord, I—I didn’t,” he shook his head, apologetic, as they started on towards the gates of the Red Keep.
“Ah well,” he sighed, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. After a few drinks they all start to look the same, anyway,” though he probably shouldn’t show up with a goblet in his hands, should he? “Here you are, Pod,” he handed it up to him instead, and Pod looked at it, confused. He didn’t question it, though, the lad just took it and kept walking.
“Do you know anything at all of her, my lord?”
Tyrion shook his head. He didn’t. “I assume she’s female, and I assume she’s still young enough to have children.” Or else his father wouldn’t have arranged it. Someone too old wouldn’t be proper. Someone too old wasn’t even proper for Tywin Lannister himself, he couldn’t marry his son to someone too old. Heirs solidified the alliances that these marriages made, after all. In theory, heirs would make sure neither side turned on the other, out of love for the children if not each other.
Ah, politics.
“If she’s like most women, she’ll detest the very sight of me, until I put on something made of gold. Then she’ll realize she loves me,” he sighed, “that, or she will need a lot of wine to get through our wedding night,” or he would. Or they both would.
“It won’t be that bad, my lord. Shae…,” and Podrick realized his mistake when he was met by a cold glare from the man much shorter than him. He cleared his throat, “I like you. Bronn likes you.”
The imp softened his chilled smile, “Of course Bronn likes me, I pay him,” it wasn’t enough for Bronn to volunteer to save him again, “And you like me as a friend, Podrick. I don’t believe you’d like me if we were going to be married, now, do you?” Then, “Don’t answer that,” as they reached the doors of the Red Keep. Podrick opened them, and they found Ser Swann waiting near the gates. The duo approached, and Tyrion found his throat tightened, unable to find the words to say more than, “Good day, Ser Swann.”
He ought to thank him for his words at the trial, but he couldn’t seem to find it, considering his earlier thoughts that the man might wish to take them all back. Even Podrick looked a bit uneasy as he stood so near the man in the white cloak.
Perhaps he kept imagining a certain white cloaked man was going to come back for his head.
Tyrion turned his attention instead to the approaching party, and hoped he wasn’t sweating too much. Or appeared too anxious. At least he looked good in this dark red – well, as good as he could look. The cut of the tunic at least made him look a little taller. Perhaps he should have added more gold accents. He reached a hand up to push away the stray strands of hair from his face, but to no avail. They just fell right back down, and his fingers reminded him of what else was on his face.
He cursed his scar again in the moment he had to think of all the flaws to his appearance.
~***~
Not far from where Tyrion dwelt in self-depreciating thoughts, another lion was entering King’s Landing upon a beautiful longship of pale wood. The Fair Fleet used a mix of galley’s and longships, but the flagship of Admiral Damia was a longship simply called Mirage. Its ghostly hue had made its namesake famous in a way – many did imagine it as such, and it flew no banners when it came into port, though it was welcomed in all the same. It wouldn’t be mistaken when it was expected.
The Admiral herself stood at the bow and looked upon the port, the silhouettes of figures before her. ‘Odd.’ Her green eyes could pick out the white cloak of a kingsguard, a fine dress, but none of them seemed Tywin from this distance.
“Mrow.”
Up jumped the ship’s cat, a seven-year old thing of orange eyes and silver fur. Idly, the red-haired woman reached out to stroke it, red nails scratching its ears as it came back up to his head. “It’s all right, Tempest.” It was a temperamental beast, but what cat wasn’t?
It wasn’t all right, though.
She had received a summons back to King’s Landing, and she already knew she could not be in Tywin’s good graces for her activities. She avoided coming to assist King’s Landing against Stannis. She had hoped that Lord Baratheon would win, of course – she wouldn’t admit it, but she had hoped. Then Tywin showed up and crossed that hope. Stannis vanished. She didn’t pursue him to Dragonstone as, perhaps, she should have.
No, she played with the Ironborn, until now.
Until the Red Wedding, and the Purple Wedding, and Tywin Lannister’s direct summons. She could have pretended not to receive it, of course. ‘But then I wouldn’t have a chance of getting near him.’ The letter at least didn’t make it seem as if she was going to be punished for her lack of assistance.
Even so, her fleet wasn’t far. Only a couple of ships joined her towards the port, but the rest were near enough that it wouldn’t even take a day to send one of her hawks out to them with a letter. Hawks worked a bit better for her kind of work than ravens. They could be trained to go between the boats, at least. They were also a bit better at catching their own food out of the sea. Easier maintenance. ‘A dragon would be easier.’ She wasn’t getting a dragon anytime soon.
Not unless she wanted to hunt down Euron and see if he actually had the damned Dragonbinder horn. Of course, she’d send a raven to Stannis first – she wasn’t about to engage that psychopath without his backing. She’d seen enough during the Battle of the Fair Isles to know better than that, especially if she was trying to steal something from him. Couldn’t just sink his vessel then. It would be simpler if she could.
The ship came into the port, and she did assist with its anchoring and such, apparently for too long, as the ramp had been lowered and the man in the white cloak walked up. She heard him clear his throat, and she turned to him, recognizing him for a Lannister by the golden hair and the green eyes. Not to mention the cloak. That could only mean Jaime. “Yes? We’re almost done tying things up here,” she gave a pull on a rope to make that clear.
“Ah, yes, I can see that. I was hoping to go ahead and escort Lady Farman to the Tower of the Hand.” He tried for charming, for humility, and all it earned him was a smirk.
“I am Lady Farman,” not. Lady Reyne. Never mind that detail, “though I prefer Admiral Farman,” she said, and watched how his expression changed to shock. “I suppose I should change into something more proper?” Tywin would probably be annoyed if she showed up in slacks and a bodice.
A wry grin came over Jaime’s face. He seemed to think the said, but answered, “No, not at all…it’s more important not to keep my father waiting.” He’d at least get a glimpse of the reaction before he left, and that would be priceless to see how his father dealt with a woman like this. Oh, this just got very, very interesting.
“Mrow!”
Jaime looked down to see the demanding cat, and he gave it a confused look, then bent a bit to pet it, asking, “Do you mind if I take this cat off the ship? His Grace Tommen actually…loves cats, and he’s here to greet you.”
“Go right ahead, that thing is a whore.” She answered, and Jaime kept the amused expression on his face as he took it, while she went on to finish up the work for properly docking the ship. Without needing to change, she soon skipped down the ramp and over to where Ser Jaime was, and where His Grace was, her whore of a cat nuzzling the king’s face while he laughed, and who she guessed to be the Queen by the golden roses looking on adoringly.
Margaery was also the first to look up, and to be taken aback. “O-Oh! Lady Farman, I had not – you look appropriate for an Admiral,” she found her words then, “And this cat is a true sweetheart!”
“Tempest is a whore, don’t let him fool you. He just wants tuna.” As the woman spoke, she staggered a couple of steps and then laughed, shaking her head at the clumsiness.Tommen almost looked taken aback by the blunt language, and Margaery did, too. Yet, it was in her eyes that Damia could see a hint of respect. No doubt, being the granddaughter of Olenna, she was not unfamiliar with such…bluntness. “You have cats, your grace?”
“Yes, I have one. Ser Pounce,” he said, and he held out the gray thing to her. She took it back into her arms, only to offer it to Jaime, who took it, rolling his eyes a bit as he tried to adjust his hold with his fake hand. He didn’t need to be told to run the cat back to the ship, while the Admiral lingered with the royalty. “You should meet him!”
“I would love to, your grace. I quite enjoy cats,” she said, “How old is Ser Pounce?”
“Only a little over a year now, but he’s quite big!”
“As a knight should be,” Margaery giggled. “How old is your Tempest?”
“Seven now,” the conversation was so easily light-hearted with the youngsters, and Jaime returned with that amused, but wry, grin on his lips.
“Well, I’m sure you all can catch up on cats later. Your Grace, by your leave, I would like to escort Lady Farman to your grandfather.”
“Oh – yes, of course,” Tommen consented, though even he gave her a once over for the attire. She was going to see his grandfather, like that? Tywin couldn’t be pleased…was that normal? Wait, did she have a sword at her hip, going to see grandfather? “You won’t be taking the sword with you, will you?”
“No, your grace,” she said, “I’m sure I can leave it with Jaime outside, or some other guard.”
With that, then, Jaime offered his arm, but it wasn’t taken. She just walked on to the stairs, and Jaime chuckled, quickly stepping up to walk alongside her. He was taller – the longer legs helped him to easily match her pace. “You’re planning to upset my father, aren’t you?”
“I’d never dream of it,” she lied, “He likes honesty, doesn’t he?”
Jaime didn’t answer that, just chuckled and shook his head. Cersei would love hearing of this.
~***~
Far in the North, where marriages were the least of anyone’s concerns, the icy wind beat against the bare faces of the many men dressed all in black while they stood at the Fist of the First Men. Qhorin Halfhand’s group had arrived, and now Jon was trudging along the white wastes to peer out into the gusting wind, and try to see what had disturbed the older crow so much.
“I don’t see very well,” Sam was saying nearby, as the Halfhand pointed out into the distance.
“Fire,” he said, and the black-haired bastard had to squint in order to see the rising gray upon the gray sky. As he did, the grizzled veteran glanced back and caught sight of him, before he cast his eyes over the rest of those who had come to take a look, including Sam, Jeor, Swift, and others who had come from Castle Black. “There’s a fire, and the people sitting around it have better eyes than yours or mine.” He stated, and his gaze turned back to the smoke. “And when they see us coming, that fire becomes a signal to give Mance Rayder plenty of time to throw a party in our honor.”
“Have that many wildlings joined him?” Jeor had to ask, and Jon understood why as he glanced to the white-haired bear. Mance had once been a Brother of the Night’s Watch. The fact he had amassed such a large army in such a short period of time, out of his former enemies, was…astounding.
Qhorin didn’t speak with any doubt, though. “From what we can tell…all of them have.”
A hush fell over the Brothers gathered at that ledge of the Fist. Sam and Jon exchanged a look behind Jeor’s back, before they were both distracted again by Qhorin’s voice. Jon turned his dark eyes forward once more. “Mance has gathered them all like deer against the wolves. They’re almost ready to make their move.” The imagery wasn’t really threatening to Jon, until he recalled how he found Ghost.
The dead direwolf and the dead stag.
Perhaps with enough deer…the wolves would falter.
“Where?” Sam asked. A stupid question from someone so smart. Jon grimaced in embarrassment for him.
“Somewhere safe,” Qhorin said, “Somewhere south.” Obviously, beyond the wall. “We can’t just march into their midst.”
‘No…we don’t have the numbers.’ Jon agreed.
“We can’t wait for them here either with just a pile of stones to protect us,” he said, and Jon heard Jeor huff. His shoulders lifted with the breath.
“You’re saying we should fall back to the wall?” He didn’t sound happy about that.
Jon wasn’t, either. He wanted to find Benjen. He wanted to find what happened to all who went with Benjen.
Qhorin didn’t answer at first, “Mance was one of us, once. Now he’s one of them. He’s gonna teach them our way of doing things. They’ll hit us in force and they won’t run away when we hit back. They’re gonna be more organized than before, more disciplined, more like us…so we need to be more like them.” Confusion came upon many faces, including Jon. “Do things their way. Sneak in. Kill Mance, and scatter them to the winds before they can march on the Wall, and to do that, we need to get rid of those lookouts. It’s not a job for 400 men. I need to move fast and silent.”
Eyes moved to the one called Swift, Jon’s included. The bastard of the West had earned that name for his speed, and it must have been useful while he played at being a thief. Jon could only imagine how useful such an individual would be on this mission, but he kept his mouth shut, for a moment, as Qhorin called up his own. “Horker, Stone Snake, Barber.”
Only three?
Jon immediately stepped forward, “Lord Commander, I’d like to join Lord Qhorin,” he said.
Qhorin glanced back, “I’ve been called lots of things, but that might be my first Lord,” in spite of the dreary situation, that comment earned some chortles.
Jon remained serious. Jeor spoke through his own laughter, “You’re a Steward, Snow. Not a ranger.”
“I fought and killed a wight.” Jon reminded, thinking that was reason enough for him to go along. That, and that this was personal…Benjen…, “How many rangers can say that?”
“He’s the one?” Qhorin showed surprise. He’d heard of this, of course. He was warned of it.
“Aye,” Jeor said, “He killed a wight,” he agreed with Jon, “He also let an old man beat him bloody and take his sword.”
Jon couldn’t find a comment to that, feeling his cheeks heat with anger and embarrassment for having that brought up. Sam, blessedly, stepped forward. “I could take his steward duties while he’s gone, my lord. It’d be no trouble.”
Jon passed Sam a grateful look, but kept his lips sealed. Qhorin seemed amused with all of this, and he shared a smile with Jeor. The Old Bear didn’t smile, but he did relent. “I hope you make a better ranger than you do a steward,” he told Jon, then gestured with his head, before he looked around, “You should also take with you Swift,” his eyes soon found the man, “He’s the fastest in all of Castle Black. Should know a thing or two about sneaking,” and he gestured to a lad of sandy hair and green eyes.
Jon glanced back, and gave a quick half-smile to Swift, hoping they weren’t upset to be volunteered for the job, as Qhorin’s eyes fell upon them, too. “That so?” Qhorin asked, then gestured, “Then come on, lad. We’ll have plenty of work for you on this task. Hope you know how to use a sword, too.”
~***~
The Dreadfort was not on any coast, but it was near the Weeping Water. Amara Bolton took the Dreadfort host along the Weeping Water and to the coast of the Shivering Sea to meet the new King of the Iron Isles. ‘Euron Greyjoy.’ The Bolton woman had heard plenty of him. In spite of the name of his ship, Silence, his name and his infamy spread. His madness may have played well with Ramsay.
She’d almost want them to meet.
Pity she couldn’t arrange that and just deal with the victor. No, while Ramsay played with his toys and shirked his responsibilities, she handled the actual Ironborn forces. At least under a new king, not Balon, there may be some hope of ending this conflict. It was honestly quite tedious. The North wasn’t winning anything in these engagements, as they all took place on their own lands.
The Manderleys were being little bitches and not giving up their ships for use to actually hit the Ironborn back – something to deal with later, but it wasn’t forgotten. They wouldn’t even allow it when Robb lived, when Theon held Winterfell. No, they were content to sit there with their fleets and let the North get ravaged instead. They would soon learn that, indeed, the North did not forget, least of all the Boltons. They’d pay, one way or another, for the ravages that others had endured while they stayed behind their ships.
For now, however, Amara would try to get the battles to at least stop. See if Euron could be reasoned with – or at least form a truce. Let him go ravage literally anywhere else. ‘Except Ramsay has Theon and Yara, so that’s not going to be easy.’ Even if everything she heard of Euron suggested he wouldn’t care about Yara or Theon, there was still an image to keep. Tywin Lannister hated Tyrion Lannister, but he let him live and enjoy the Lannister name.
Euron may play by the same stupid Southern rules.
Her troops spread out, not setting camp up as they saw the fleets on the horizon. Amara lifted her hand, and flicked her wrist.
Immediately, trebuchets were rolled forward, and the lines of archers with their oil-soaked arrows came forward as well. She was fully prepared for this to be a trap, and she waited until the incendiaries were loaded into the trebuchets before she urged her black destrier forward, a contingent of five warriors followed paces behind her.
No words passed her lips. None were needed. Shouting orders was pointless. Her soldiers knew what to do, and they knew exactly who they would be answering to if things were messed up. They’d be answering to her, or if she died – Roose. That was a fate far worse than death, and they all knew that too well.
A peaceful land was the Dreadfort, and a quiet people…for good reason. Rather like the man they were going to see, silence was appreciated. Unlike the man they were going to see, there were few rumors of either Amara or Roose. Ramsay was the only one who made noise. The others were left to dread what lied in the silence of the two true Boltons.
The Noble Bolton did not look half as fierce as any of the men with her, but the black-haired woman did have a sword at her hip, and a quiver of arrows at her back. She was better with the bow than the sword, but she knew her way around the blade. The leather armor was black and red, but the curious part – perhaps the only thing that hinted that the woman may share in the Bolton insanity – was the out-of-place pink ribbon that held her hair up.
It was satin and stainless, and the ties of it fluttered in the wind as it held a place, tying her bangs back so they wouldn’t get in the way of her eyes. It had no place, even if it was the Bolton colors. In truth, Amara would have had pink armor just to fuck with people, but right then, she only had the red and black. Pink would have been more intimidating. She may have even worn a pink dress if she didn’t value her life as much as she did – armor was at least going to shield her a bit, and she fully expected something to happen.
She would have expected it from anyone, though. She was just suspicious by nature, and the glint of her silver eyes was fully alert.
teathyme
Last edited:
