Comicpalooza was fun, but I forgot how exhausting cons could be! Thank you for your patience with this chapter.
Chapter 20
It had been three days since her mortifying attempt to seduce the king. Margaery’s pride was still stinging from the event and she wanted nothing more than to return back to King’s Landing and then perhaps back home to Highgarden. She wasn’t going to depart from the hunt early. It was a point of pride and more, it was a matter of appearances.
She enjoyed the outdoors, but these lands were a poor shadow of Highgarden’s splendor. Her cousins, who had stayed within King’s Landing, were also missed. The notion had been for Margaery and Sansa to be the rare ladies on the hunt, rather than part of a larger gaggle. Sansa was polite enough, but she spent much of her time with the king, and Margaery thought it best not to linger around him.
Best the whole thing be forgotten.
A bit distant from the main group, she rode next to her brother and Renly.
“My brother is stubborn. He sees Lord Tywin as too great of a threat to the realm if he set aside Cersei. Too much has happened too soon. Joffrey’s death, Ned’s ‘betrayal,’ and Cersei’s poisoning. Of all the times to worry about the good of the realm, this is the worst.”
Renly was highly vexed at the situation.
Good. He should be, my father listened to him and now the king views me as some grasping whore.
“Did you push for my sister to be betrothed to Tommen? Father will accept that. No risk of conflict with the Lannisters then,” her brother said.
“I tried.” His handsome face took on a look of disgust. “He would not hear of it. Says Tommen is too young and needs someone closer to his age. It becomes clear who he might envision.”
“Who?” Loras asked.
“Arya, or perhaps even Sansa.”
“Sansa?” Margaery said in shock. “Grandmother wouldn’t even consider her being wed to Loras after what happened to her. And now she would be acceptable for the heir to the Iron Throne?”
Loras gave her a look of bewilderment. “Sister, why would you want me to be with her? Especially knowing…”
“At the time I thought it would be an easy way to deepen a possible friendship with her. And, she might welcome a husband who would not press her after what she’d endured. Garlan is already wed, and Willas will do the same, the Tyrell line is more than secure enough beyond just our brothers. As a third son of your persuasion, it seemed neat. But she thought it would make us a laughing stock, and thought the Starks would not be useful.”
Her brother accepted the answer well enough.
Renly answered her initial question.
“Men would laugh in their cups at Tommen being wed to someone who had lowborn take his bride’s first fuck. By all normal considerations, Sansa would most like be wed to a second son of a less established house. To be sure, her father is still the Warden of the North, so there would be offers for her hand, but my nephew is ridiculous.” Renly frowned. “Robert told me he thinks of her as the daughter he and Lyanna would have made together. Despite his differences with her father, he wants her in his family.”
It was petty of her, but she didn’t want Sansa to be the queen. When she befriended others, Margaery was accustomed to being the more desired of the two. While they were both daughters of powerful noble lords, she was not despoiled. The idea that Sansa would be the queen and chosen above her felt obscene. Add to that, the king doted upon her.
“She tells Tommen the oddest tales from Essos and beyond that the lad enjoys. Sansa is older than him, but she’s three years younger than you, so isn’t as stark.”
Loras let out a strangled laugh at the pun, and Margaery scowled at them both. This wasn’t humorous at all!
“And so my father’s dream dies, and you two make crass japes.”
Her brother’s face sobered with gratifying speed.
“My apologies, I beg your pardon. This is no laughing matter; Father will be wroth at this turn of events.”
Margaery gave a contented nod. She loved her brother dearly, and knew he would never truly make light of her despair. He was kind, and valiant, but did not always have proper forethought.
“And I must now contend with a lesser match.”
Renly nodded. “So it seems. I must now also find a bride. Your earlier idea…”
Margaery shook her head. “No, ‘tis foolish. The more I thought on the matter, the more I realized there is little benefit to our houses. You and Loras are inseparable, which means the greatest allies each of our houses have is each other. Grandmother insists that weddings have a purpose. To weaken a potential faction within the Reach, or to secure powerful allies. You are a powerful ally, but you are already secured.”
Renly looked taken aback. He frowned. “Well, tragically, I must be wed to someone, and soon. My brother has grown insistent that I do my duty as a Baratheon, as Tommen will inherit the Seven Kingdoms and Stannis has had a decade to sire a son, without anything to come of it.”
The three were silent for a while and then Loras made some suggestions. Names were bandied about and Margaery thought the idea of Arianne Martell was interesting for Renly. Dorne held long grudges, and were fierce Targaryen loyalists thanks to Elia Martell’s marriage to the prince. For herself, it would be her father’s choice, but there were some clear opportunities. Edmure Tully was yet unwed and not betrothed. Robert Arryn was probably too young, and sickly besides, but rulership of the Vale had made the Arryns powerful.
Robb Stark was technically an option as well, but she doubted the cold would suit her.
***
Jon felt so confined in his own skin. The roiling power when he inhabited Ghost had an addictive quality to it. He had never felt so confident nor as sure-footed as when he wore the thick fur over mounds of hide and muscle. Ghost was larger than the other direwolves. While Sansa would chide him over being prideful over something he had no control over, he did relish that difference. For once, the thing that set him apart was to his benefit.
“Bastard, what is it you and Robb have been up to?” Theon said catching him in the yard as he practiced. The two minders, long-trusted guards of Winterfell, who had orders to follow the Greyjoy around wherever he went stood a respectful distance away.
“You’ve already asked Robb, I’m sure, so why are you asking me?”
Theon gave him a glare.
“It makes sense if it was something between Robb and his trueborn brothers, but you too? Why am I being treated worse than you. I can only think of one reason. I’m tired of being in the dark, Snow. Tell me what is going on. Has my father done something? Did something happen in King’s Landing?”
Jon never liked Theon much, but he could understand why it seemed unfair. To have been given trust and then had it taken away through something not his fault must have felt harsh.
It is the combination of the two. The secret of being wargs and the necessity to be away from him while we learn how to control it, and the minders he now has following him. Perhaps if it was just one or the other, but since it is both at once…
“Lord Stark explained it. Tensions are high, due to southern schemes. Someone set fire to the library and tried to kill Bran. The Starks act with caution. I’m no Stark, but I have no other loyalties. You are, and will forever be, a Greyjoy.”
Theon’s normal cocksure smile was not present. There was fury painted in his features.
“Aye, for near a decade I’ve been under this roof. But I’ll always be a squid, given less trust than a bastard. Come then, let us have a go. If I win, then you’ll tell me.”
Jon shook his head. “Don’t be a fool. I won’t betray Lord Stark’s confidences just because you best me.” He smiled. “But I’ll have a go at a fight, if that is what you want.”
Theon was still displeased, but he agreed.
Tourney blades, no edge to them, and wooden shields were their chosen weapons. In the snow they clashed, and while Theon was taller and several years older, Jon had grown recently. Theon’s anger redoubled when Jon crouched low under a strike and then bashed the shield into his face.
“Fuck!” Theon cursed as he wiped the blood from his lip.
Theon gave a wordless shout and hammered at him, wailing on Jon who took the heavy blows on the shield. Pivoting the shield like ser Rodrik had talked, moving his feet, and ensuring no blow landed fully square, he circled around the berserk fury of Theon’s attack.
There.
Jon finally counterattacked and smashed the side of Theon’s leg, and the man gave a cry of pain and then crumpled to the ground.
“Do you yield?”
Theon threw away his weapon, slowly stood up and limped away with one last hateful look.
It felt good to best him. Jon knew he was more skilled, but for a long time Theon would win in the yard because of his superior reach and size. The gap caused by their physical ages had closed, and now Jon was the better.
He still has his bow if he wants to crow about something.
The family, save for Bran and Rickon, met again. Sansa, through the cat, shared that Margaery had spent time with Robert in his tent. However, it seemed that he was no closer to removing Cersei Lannister as his queen, which meant that Margaery was giving away her maidenhead for nothing. Jon thought that dishonorable. But he then flushed red as Sansa explained that not every girl had theirs intact, especially ones who rode as often as Margaery did.
For their part, Jon shared his successes in slipping into Ghost’s skin and how wonderful it felt. Robb had also succeeded, but he didn’t seem as eager.
“I much prefer to have him by my side. I cannot quite explain it, but when I am within him, it feels lonely. When I am within my own body, he is at my side and we are a… pack.” Robb shook his head. “I get the strangest urges at times as well. It will take some time to get used to.”
Sansa urged them to first grow more comfortable and skilled at slipping in and out and mastering any instinctual urges. The next step would be to experiment with other animals, but she warned that if Arya was any indicator, it would be harder to manage the animal’s urges, and they would have to fight for control.
Jon was ready for the challenge. This was something he shared with his siblings. It made him feel like he was fully part of the family in a way that transcended even his name. The blood of his father ran through his veins and having such a specific and unique way of proving he was as much of a Stark by that blood as they were… it filled him with a deep contentment. He would abide by his sister’s instructions, but he would also look to push his ability as far as it possibly could go.
***
Robert was enjoying the hunt, even as the white hart remained elusive. To be out in the wild and not stuck sitting on an uncomfortable chair while flatterers and lickspittles cozied up to him was a joy. It also helped the company that he kept.
Lord Royce was a bit of a bore, but his sons were livelier. Thoros, the valiant red priest from across the sea, had more than his fair share of amusing jests. And most of all, Sansa. Her able mind was able to grasp all sorts of things quite quickly. Robert vowed that when he returned to King’s Landing he’d try to teach Myrcella the same things he was teaching Sansa.
“Tell me of your brothers. Stannis and Renly vex me in differing ways. I’d hear how things are in your family.”
“I love my brothers dearly. Robb is earnest and practical, if a bit more heated than my father at times. He’s affectionate with us and is even friends with Theon. Robb takes his lessons seriously. He’s no love of ledgers, but is able to grasp them easily enough when pressed.”
“Hah, a lad after my own mind. No use in counting coppers when you have more important things to do!”
Sansa gave one of her rare frowns.
“Your Grace, I simply must disagree. The northern climates do not allow the excess that you have in the south. Coin is needed for food. The winters are harsh, and spendthrift ways are frowned upon. It is not a matter of a different perspective on the value of coin, but the reality of differing environs.”
Robert didn’t like it when people were critical of him, but Sansa was right. When he had journeyed north to make Ned his Hand, he had seen how few people existed there. How even in summer it had snowed. Such a place must have bred those penny-pinching ways into generations of Starks.
I begin to understand him better now.
“I see, and your other brothers?”
“Jon is a bit less open than Robb. Not bearing the Stark name has affected him, and he is not as free to share his thoughts as his trueborn brother. Nonetheless, he is clever and just as eager for the yard.”
Robert smiled beneath his beard.
“Ah, the infamous blight upon the Stark honor.” Robert chuckled. “Proof that his blood wasn’t always frozen!”
“Father said it was his shame, not Jon’s, but many view it differently.”
“Eh, well, come now. Bastards have nothing to their own, not even a name, it makes them less trustworthy than others.”
Sansa was silent for a moment, and Robert worried he had offended her.
“There’s some logic to that, Your Grace, but I prefer to judge a person based on how they have treated me over the reputation of the whole. I differ greatly from Arya, but we have the same parents. If one were to make assumptions about a Stark, how accurate would those beliefs be when thinking about how my sister would behave? Or how I would? The same is valid for the natural born. Perhaps on average, they are less trustworthy, but there are many who are true, and I know that is the case for Jon.”
Robert felt at ease as she responded. He wasn’t sure why he sometimes feared she would melt into tears or look at him as if he was a crass brute, for she never did.
Seven hells, why do I care so much over the good opinion of a child?
“You’ve known him all your life, so, aye, you are probably right.”
“Bran, ah, Bran. He would have made a great knight. He was quick and surefooted before his climbing accident. I’ve sent him some letters… but it has been hard for him. When we left he was still unconscious and not being able to comfort him has been difficult.”
Robert felt a pang of guilt. He was the reason Sansa was not in Winterfell right now. In truth, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Yet even so, he knew he probably had overreacted. It had seemed to be the best way to ensure there was no direct fighting within the Seven Kingdoms, and everyone had agreed.
“Perhaps he could visit…” Robert trailed off, wondering how easy his wounds would make travel. Surely they had healed, but he had been told his legs didn’t work.
Sansa quirked an eyebrow.
“Your Grace, you must realize that my father will not willingly send more children into the south after what has happened. I will content myself with letters.”
Right…
Suddenly wishing to change the subject, he asked about their youngest. Who was also going to be a hostage when he grew older.
“Rickon is an exuberant child. He loves his direwolf, who he named Shaggydog.” There was amusement in her voice. “He is a delight, but still at the stage where I do not know the type of person he will be.”
Robert hated feeling out of sorts, or responsible for any hardship.
“I’ve decided. Rickon need not come south and accept a fostering. I’ll write to Ned.” A sudden thought entered his mind. “Ah, perhaps you could help me with writing it. Your father… well, he infuriates me at times, but you’ve helped me come to understand why everything must have seemed foul to him.”
Sansa’s eyes widened. “Your Grace… I don’t know what to say. While I am more than happy at hearing this, I fear I must urge you to first speak with your councilors. Rash decisions like this should not be undertaken. As much joy as it would bring my family, especially my mother, I do not want you to be hasty.”
Robert could only marvel. No one else in all of King’s Landing would hesitate to accept something she so clearly wanted to share with her family. This was the type of person his boy should have married, had it not been for those brigands. She would have been a queen both wise, kind, and beautiful.
It is not too late.
Sansa had made it clear she didn’t want to consider marriage after losing her betrothed, not for some years. But… who could be better for Tommen? Yes, men would secretly mock him for being wed to a woman who did not come pure to his bed, but what of it? Robert would have tolerated a thousand japes at his expense if it meant he could be wed to Lyanna. Tommen already liked Sansa. Robert knew Cersei would howl of course, but he reasoned that once he explained that he had heard the rumors about Margaery and ordered her to begone or be betrothed… yes, that would ease the strain nicely.
“I’m the king, but I’ll take heed to your counsel. But you will help me write the letter, yes? You know your father, I want to, ah, Gods damn it all,” he fumbled with his words. “I’m still angered at him not seeing reason when it comes to the damned dragonspawn and Dothraki threat, but I hate that we are so much at odds now.”
Sansa was nodding. “I will help in any way that I can, Your Grace. It is my fondest desire that you two make amends. My father loved his time in the Eyrie, most of all, because of you.” She paused thoughtfully. “I am curious, you’ve told me so much about the war against the Mad King, but that was against other knights and men-at-arms. I had heard that the Dothraki disdain the use of armor, wouldn’t that make them easy to kill?”
Robert was quite pleased Sansa had agreed to assist in such a matter. The talk of the Dothraki was also something that he warmed up to more as he explained that they would still be dangerous. They were raiders, they would pillage the countryside, and fierce warriors. She asked questions about which of the major houses would do best against them, and it got Robert thinking seriously about the question.
“Hah, well it depends on where they fight. If they tried to invade Dorne or your father’s lands, well, there won’t be much of a worry. Their horses must have grass, but everywhere else would be the problem. They aren’t good at sieges, but in the open field, that’s where we would need to fear them. We could win a charge or two, but their savagery would make our smallfolk flee and have them run down.”
Sansa asked more questions on how would the smallfolk fight, and if there was anything that could be done to help improve them. It was quite the enjoyable afternoon of conversation. While Sansa had never been part of any battles, she remembered what he had said very precisely and was able to string together details into coherency that made it seem like he was talking to a maester with an iron link.
A fine mind. Yes… My weeping child could do far worse for a bride.
***
Robert was absurdly mercurial. That sort of instability in a king was bad news, but in this case it benefited me. Sucking up to the CEO was an art form. You couldn’t come across as too much of a yes-man, because those were a dime-a-dozen. Instead, compliments and agreement had to be a bit more subtle, though in Robert’s case, I couldn’t be too subtle.
When he offered not to require Rickon to be ‘fostered’ elsewhere I hadn’t immediately jumped at it, because there was another opportunity to present myself as someone who did not want to directly take advantage of the king’s fondness for me. Thereby further ingratiating myself as someone safe he could bounce ideas off of. By taking it to the small council, hearing their arguments, Robert would also easily become irritated with those who tried to talk him out of one of his ideas. And those who supported the forced fostering of Rickon would likely have their counsel deprioritized in the future.
This type of quick thinking required me to be on my game when I spoke with Robert and ensured I closely paid attention to every syllable he uttered. The talk about the Dothraki was interesting, and I found myself missing the tactics and strategy talk with the likes of Zettour from my second life. Having to couch my analysis behind a veil of questions was somewhat annoying, but it wasn’t all that different from the Socratic method.
The Dothraki were simply not a threat, for cultural and logistical reasons. They feared sea water. They never crossed over into Westeros outside of the few odd individual outliers. But even if they were to arrive, I just didn’t see the issue. At best they might prove a flash point to convince enough regions to rebel against Robert, but on their own they were a poor man’s Mongol Horde. I was aware I could be wrong, as my information was second-hand from a few different texts, but I didn’t think so.
As time passed, a few days turned into a fortnight, and I was growing a bit weary. I missed Arya and the longer skin slipping sessions. While the guards outside of my wheelhouse would prevent anyone from happening across my comatose form, something could always happen. I hadn’t mastered the ability to fully slip my skin and still exude awareness around my body. I could do a ‘partial’ slipping where I only lightly entered an animal, but that was more like borrowing a specific sensory organ. So instead, I kept my efforts timed to very short intervals and that made my conversations with my family back in Winterfell brief, and me unable to watch over how Jon and Robb handled their warg sessions.
At least they are making progress. Jon is progressing faster, and Robb is hung up on dreams, but also still making progress. The next step will be taken soon, when they try to warg a different animal than their direwolf. If they succeed in that and they properly bond another like I did with Anna and Eyes, we could establish a very effective communication network.
“No further sightings of the white hart have we seen, Your Grace,” the Huntmaster said carefully. “Mayhaps the first was but a false sighting.”
“I thought you said there were tracks.”
“Aye, Your Grace, there were. It led to a stag of more mundane color and not impressive. We can run it down if you wish and allow you the victory of the kill.”
Robert shook his head. “No, I’ll take no meager prize. I want something impressive, something to make this hunt different than the others.”
They end up deciding to hunt a particularly large boar. Two more days passed and then the finale was upon us. Robert had moderated his drinking quite a bit from earlier in the hunt, but signs of inebriation showed up again as soon as the Huntmaster said they were but a few hours away as they now had confirmation.
I narrowed my eyes as Robert swayed a bit after drinking from a wineskin he handed back to Lancel.
“Your Grace, you told me that boar hunting was dangerous, is it wise to get drunk at the moment of the hunt’s climax?”
Robert waved a hand. “I’m not drink’n any more than yesterday. I’ll be fine. I never miss my thrust.”
“I hear it in your speech, and you swayed just now. Are you drinking something stronger than usual?”
Robert blinked, then glanced at Lancel, who had begun to tremble. When I stepped forward and asked for the wineskin, the squire jerked it away.
“It’s just wine, the king has been t-thirsty.”
If I were in his shoes, I’d have just handed it over. By acting nervous, stuttering, and trying to keep me from it, he all but sealed his guilt. Amateurish, really. But it goes to show why it is important to never be insulting and rude to the help. Robert’s abuse of his squires almost certainly led to Lancel looking for a way to harm the king.
“If it is just wine, hand it over for inspection,” Ser Barristan said gravely.
Robert looked confused. “’Tis just wine. A sour red that I enjoy.”
“Your Grace, you said you were not drinking anymore than yesterday, but Ser Barristan would agree you are, in truth, deep in your cups. There are other possible explanations, such as perhaps you ate less, or have some sickness that has altered how your body handles drink, but those are unlikely.” I said smoothly. “My greater concern is that your squire seems petrified.”
The king’s confusion turned darker. “You are practically shitting yourself, boy, what did you do?”
Lancel took a step backwards, eyes darting around wildly. Visha padded closer. He raised the wineskin and drained the last of it.
“See?” he said desperately. “’Tis only wine. The Starks have always hated my family–”
“No one spoke of poison,” I cut in smoothly, keeping my voice concerned rather than accusing. “But it is easy enough to bring a stronger wine on the hunt. One that would make a man drunker than he expects. Your Grace… you have been hard on your squires. A young man might seek petty revenge by making you miss a clean kill and become a laughing stock. With a boar, though, a poor thrust could mean more than shame.”
Lancel paled further. He looked at Robert desperately.
“She’s lying, I only ever acted as, as, as a squire should. You called for more wine!”
Robert’s face had turned a further shade darker. I saw a worrying amount of rage in it. People who couldn’t contain their emotions were the worst.
“And then you drink it all down, my own wineskin, so we could not determine the proof of ‘er claims, eh?”
“I… I just wanted to prove my-myself.”
Robert was advancing on Lancel and I shifted my position to be between them.
“That was just one wineskin, you were growing drunk in the early days of the hunt as well, but then it tapered off as the hunt grew prolonged. I suspect he was running low, but it would be very doubtful he had none remaining. Have his belongings searched and then the wine tested. A simple olive oil test, or done with pig fat if we don’t have any handy, will allow us to make a comparison.”
Lancel’s face grew more panicked.
“She could have planted the other type of wine!”
Robert’s fury was roused and he ordered it to be done, and that Lancel was to be kept under guard.
“Speak the truth before gods and men, and I might not bash your fucking head in, boy.” Robert threatened.
I doubt he meant for serious ill to fall upon the king, but like many young fools, he didn’t fully consider the possibilities. The king failing to complete the hunt cleanly was just petty vengeance, but being drunk on a hunt is dangerous. Especially now that they were looking to hunt boar, which introduced a much more dangerous element. But not even counting that, you were more likely to fall off a horse if you were drunk as well.
Ugh, somehow I managed to get myself in the middle of this. I would prefer not to be seen as an extension of my father’s animosity to the Lannisters.
“Your Grace,” I took on an admonishing tone. It was slightly risky, but since I’d gained some social currency already by being the one to identify an issue, I felt it was worthwhile. “He’s scared, let me talk with him without your fury. The Demon of the Trident with his ire roused will make even an honest man lose his wits. Give me a few moments to just talk with him?”
Visha walked next to me and rubbed against my leg. Robert saw her and he grunted.
“Bah, he’s near a man grown, even though he looks softer than those pillow boys in Essos.”
“What is a pillow boy?” I asked with feigned innocence.
Robert’s mouth opened in surprise, and then his face reddened slightly. “Ah, if you think it will resolve this, yes, speak with him in private. But he will deal with me afterwards.”
Robert and Ser Barristan moved a short distance away, out of earshot unless we raised our voices.
“Lancel, the sooner you speak truth, the better. Admit you wanted to see Robert humiliated for one of the many insults and mockery he heaped on you. You will be dismissed in shame, but you’ll no longer have to suffer being his squire, and in time people will forget it. Dragging this out, or trying to throw out accusations against me, only hurts you.”
“He’ll kill me! You’ve killed me. You don’t understand… they’ll view it as if I tried to get him killed.”
The boy was panicking.
“Don’t be absurd. Lancel, the king would never believe you have the fortitude to try something. The idea of getting him drunk so he makes a fool of himself is all that he believes you would dare. Stop dragging this out and making it larger than it is. I will intercede on your behalf.”
Lancel looked at me in bafflement before slowly, shakily nodding.
Author's Note: I was debating on if this tread too close to canon, but the white hart was mentioned for its rarity, and nothing would have butterflied that away. Since the hunt took slightly longer to get started, instead of them finding the corpse of the white hart, they never found the body at all. The rumors of the big bad boar would still exist etc.