Chapter 26
“Is that where he learned of those tales?” Robert asked with a laugh.
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ve claimed them to be Essosi, but in truth, I take an Essosi tale and make some alterations to it that I think he’ll find more enjoyable. He loves stories where the hero saves animals.”
His boy was soft, there was no denying it, but maybe tales of valor could stiffen the lad. It was odd to him that both of his sons had been so unlike him, but in completely different directions. He still harbored notions of fostering the lad somewhere to strengthen his character, but with Stannis only having the one daughter, and Renly still unwed, it was probably wise to keep him safe in King’s Landing.
“I’ve mind to withhold story time from him if he doesn’t shape up in the yard, but I’d not wish to take away one of your joys.”
Sansa raised her eyebrows a bit and then pet her wolf.
“Maester Kaeth wrote a well-respected book called the Lives of Four Kings. In it there is some discussion about what motivates people. I prefer the term stick and carrot. Some lords, knights, smallfolk, or in this case children, do better with sticks, and others with carrots. For Prince Tommen, I would suggest a carrot. Set a target for him, some means of measurable accomplishment, and then if successful reward him with being able to pick out a new pet. I can even go with him and assist.”
Robert leaned in a bit. “A reward for doing what every other noble lad has done?”
“I’ve never been a parent, Your Grace, but it has always worked for my parents in rearing me. That’s how I received permission for the expansion of the Winterfell library.” Sansa looked disheartened for a moment, and then shook her head and returned to her sunny disposition. “If Tommen continues to disappoint, you’ve lost nothing in trying. What specifically do you want him to accomplish in the yard?”
He didn’t necessarily care for him meeting some specific task, but in not acting like a weeping woman. Tommen didn’t have to grow to be a great knight, just not one the realm would laugh in their cups at. No man could follow a weeping commander. But now that Sansa had put it in words, he could think of some sort of accomplishment to go for.
Robert scratched at his beard as he thought. He liked that Sansa was always ready to speak, but once there was something that gnawed at his thoughts, she gave him quiet to ponder. Everyone else always tried to add their ideas and proposals. Cersei was the worst of them, but it wasn’t as if the others were all that much better.
“Are you excited to see your uncle?”
“We aren’t close, but family is always important. I am looking forward to seeing Edmure. Learning about the Riverlands from my mother and comparing it to a book is one thing, but her recollections were from when she was a child. Ser Edmure has been a man grown for some time and he’ll be able to shed some light on some of those old tomes.”
Robert laughed. “You and your books, Sansa. Do they truly give you such joy?”
She nodded, and answered, though it was most like at least the third time he had asked that over the months she had been in King’s Landing. “Yes, they do. I find knowledge fascinating. Just as some prefer duck over boar, or sour wines to sweet ones. I find myself more at home with a new text than in other activities. I do also value novelty, which was why I was so grateful for you bringing me on the hunt.”
He was pleased that she had enjoyed it. Would Myrcella enjoy it as much? He hoped so. He found his daughter much more difficult to speak to. There just wasn’t anything in common. He knew nothing of needlework, had never enjoyed singing or learning musical instruments. Robert had tried to talk to her about things he enjoyed, but he saw no spark of interest. She just listened politely and added nothing. It was damnably frustrating, and when he cursed, not at her, just at the damn situation, she had flinched! He had never laid hand on her, why would she flinch?
Robert had grown sour after that and left her.
“I’m glad. You are invited to the next hunt as well; it will be Myrcella’s first.”
“How delightful, I’ve done my best to reassure her that it is indeed a novel experience. I’ve already helped her pick out some riding clothes.” Sansa hesitated for a second. “I don’t wish to make too many demands on your time, but with the subject of books has drawn me to an idea.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“I would like to write a book about the war against the Mad King. The famous battles, the various factions, and more. I want it to be not as a song, though perhaps I will collect the various poems I have made of it as well, but as a tome that can teach young nobles about the craft of war.”
Robert laughed. A woman writing a book about a war? The idea was rather amusing. Sansa kept her same serene expression, despite his mirth. That was why Robert loved her. He could be free around her. She said something that tickled him because of how ridiculous it was. Yet, she didn’t grow sour, or take offense.
As he thought about what she was doing, he realized it was not so foolish. She was going to get information from him about the war. In truth, it was truly his thoughts about the war, his words, put on the pages of the book.
“That will stir some feathers! I doubt many lords or maesters will take such an endeavor seriously.”
“Perhaps not, but that is due to the biases of the Citadel. Maesters do not ride to war, and yet they teach it to the noble sons of the realm. The link of iron is ubiquitous on maester’s chains.”
Robert barked out a laugh. That much was true. It was rather queer when he thought about it further. Maesters taught everything, but how was it that they could teach something they themselves never did. He looked at Sansa and connected the pieces. If a maester could teach war even though they never participated in battle, then why couldn’t a woman?
“Aye, I see it now. If a maester can do it, why not you?”
She nodded. “Of course, I would not be teaching it. I would simply be collecting the wisdom of actual participants in conflicts. It would be most interesting to not only take in first-hand accounts, but to ask the battle commanders what they were hoping to accomplish, why they set the battleline the way they did, and their thoughts on what the enemy commander was going to do.”
Robert was nodding as Sansa grew more animated.
“In time, I could ask Lord Tarly, Lord Tyrell, and others on what they were hoping to accomplish in the various battles. By writing down the thoughts of all the battle commanders, I can create a true legacy, the first of its kind for future generations. Ser Barristan was probably in the councils of the Targaryens during the Battle of the Trident; he too would be wonderful to talk to and get his account.” She smiled. “Such an undertaking would take some time, but I’d wager I could complete it before Tommen is of the age to understand such things, and he could be the first noble son to enjoy the works of a full treatise on the war against the Mad King. No doubt the Citadel would write something in time, but they often like waiting a generation or two before writing a history of something.”
If it makes her happy, so be it.
His enthusiastic support brought another smile to her face. That was good. If Sansa’s carrot actually worked on Tommen, then she’d have earned the favor of making the lords sit down and tell the girl about their wars.
***
Margaery’s grandmother had extended the invitation to Edmure Tully and company to dine at the manse on the evening of their arrival. Margaery knew that her grandmother always set the table for these kinds of meetings to showcase the power of their house. Lord Renly, the king’s brother, was there. As was Sansa and Arya Stark. Multiple other nobles were there as well, some from the Reach and others from the nearby lands surrounding King’s Landing.
Edmure had arrived in a doublet of blue velvet, freshly brushed and clearly changed after the road. That alone pleased Margaery; the man had taken the trouble to make himself presentable. He wanted to impress her.
As he should.
Across the attire were threads of silver silk arrayed in fish-like designs. Underneath it was a crimson undershirt, completing the colors of House Tully's sigil. Nobles did not in truth always wear their house’s colors, but upon first meetings like this, there was something of a tradition in some places.
Greetings were exchanged and Margaery could tell by the way the Riverrun heir’s eyes were glued on her own attire that he was well pleased with the match. When it came to courtship it was Lord Hoster and her own father who would make the decision, but if Hoster had not wanted the match he would not have sent his son. Margaery and her brothers had convinced their father, so unless Edmure turned out to be a complete boor or had some other undisclosed infirmity, they would be wed.
Edmure had to tear his eyes off her when Sansa and Arya approached. Edmure’s face descended into pure sympathy as he embraced Sansa and murmured softly to her. With a start, Margaery realized that the person she knew Sansa to be was likely completely at odds with how many nobles would imagine her daily experience to be like.
Margaery knew her as a noble lady who never seemed to be disturbed. A tranquil lake that seemed to accept all splashes as temporary issues to be tolerated and then worked toward. There was no sign of a broken woman whose betrothed was brutally murdered and her own virginity taken. There was nothing about her that suggested she was a hostage and that her father was a disgraced man at odds with the king.
How strange – I had forgotten what an unenviable position most lords of the realm would presume her to be in.
Margaery knew that they had a mistaken view, for they could not know how close Sansa was to the king. Nor her sense of poise. She knew her own appearance in court was similar, she always kept in control of expressions and responses like her grandmother taught, but she also had never had anything truly wretched happen to her like Sansa.
Edmure exchanged a shorter greeting with Arya and ruffled her hair some. Arya was not at all like her sister, a wild thing who was only slowly growing a bit tamer. During formal feasts she was quiet as a mouse, but when she spoke at small gatherings, she was quite forward and in some respects hilarious, though unintentionally so.
Renly greeted Edmure next and a few quips had Edmure, despite being older than Renly, laughing. The Lord of Storm’s End had that gift. She supposed it was one of the reasons her brother had grown so attached. Merriment in a pleasing form was a welcome combination.
Her grandmother was her usual pointed self.
“Were you waiting for our Margaery to bloom? If so my son never made mention to me. Why are you so old and no woman to warm your bed. There isn’t anything wrong with you, is there?”
Edmure was taken aback. “Ah, Lady Tyrell, I, well, that is to say, my father had already wed his daughters.”
“What’s this? He would be content with you being childless and letting one of the Stark boys inherit?”
“N-no, that wasn’t the case at all. Just that if the most wretched of misfortunes had befallen our house, we would still have options. Fortunately, if this union proceeds, no such drastic measures would need to be taken.”
Her grandmother went to speak again but Margaery saved the man.
“Tell me about Riverrun. I’ve never visited and I understand it is a three-sided castle?”
Edmure was quick to launch into the details of his ancestral home. Topics shifted throughout the meal. Edmure asked Renly what all had happened with his good-brother. What had caused Eddard’s disgrace and the situation with his daughters.
Bold to do so, but this should be safe company.
Margaery saw that at the other tables, Edmure’s companions were getting along well with her cousins and other ladies of the court.
“Lord Stark is known for his honorable conduct,” Renly supplied. “He quarreled with the king over what to do with the pregnant dragonspawn. In the end he was not forced out of his position as Hand, he resigned it himself. That much is true. Then, when my brother learned of Lord Stark’s thought that perhaps Lord Arryn was slain by the Lannisters, it all came to a head. Much of the small council thought it wise to ensure the North did not find cause to call their banners and make war to avenge Lord Arryn, or some other madness.”
Her grandmother sniffed. “And in the end he called them regardless, and tells tales of the dead walking and Lord Commanders murdered in their sleep by children’s tales.”
Margaery gave her a look, but Sansa interjected before she could chide her. They found the game rather useful, Margaery chiding her to appear reasonable and well-intentioned, and the infamous Queen of Thorns tolerating her granddaughter’s faux scolding.
“The Lord Commander is dead, and several members of the Night’s Watch and Lord Umber swears there were wights that night. The bodies of members of the Night’s Watch required dismemberment before they would stop their assault.” Sansa’s voice was solemn. “My father taught me that the Wall has stood for thousands of years, and was built to keep out more than wildlings. Perhaps it was some trick of the light, some sort of illusion or perhaps some fearsome concoction that gives men mad power and resilience beyond what warriors are used to facing. Perhaps.”
Margaery looked at Sansa in a new light. The way she had pitched her voice, the seriousness, the element of creeping horror, but mixed with a delicious and commanding tone of knowing while adding the derision for her alternate explanations. ‘Twas quite impressive, and Margaery’s esteem for Sansa grew a notch.
Edmure looked unsettled. “Riverrun received the ravens as well. It seems rather unbelievable. Far easier to believe that maybe there was some treachery afoot. How do you even kill something that isn’t dead?”
“King Robert seemed to do a good enough job at it Pyke,” her grandmother spoke dismissively.
Renly and Loras shared a laugh, and even Sansa gave a polite laugh. Edmure looked confused.
“What? I do not understand.”
Margaery suppressed a wince, but Sansa filled the gap.
“Just as my father adheres to the old gods, the people of the Iron Islands keep their Drowned God. One of the old sayings that is a part of their faith is that ‘what is dead may never die.’ Lady Tyrell was making a jest.”
Edmure laughed. “Ah, well, you caught me unawares, my lady. I suspect my friend Ser Marq would have caught that.”
Margaery did not find it objectionable that he was ignorant of what had been said. Instead, she was rather taken by how he did not take offense to be looked at like a fool. Whether that was from genuine confidence in his station, or if it was due to wanting to avoid anything that would jeopardize the match, she could not say. Either way he handled it well enough.
“The Piper boy? The one with an obscenity as a crest?”
“Grandmother!”
“Seven preserve us, how the local septon tolerates it, I’ll never know. Surely you would not allow your friend to display his coat of arms at a wedding to my granddaughter. It would offend the gods.”
Edmure leaned back in surprise. He looked at his friend, a few tables down, then frowned. All eyes were on him.
“The Pipers are leal vassals to my house.” Edmure replied firmly. “I will not dishonor them by not allowing them to attend attired as they see fit.”
“Good,” she said with a nod. “If you didn’t have a spine, you wouldn’t be worthy of my granddaughter.”
Margaery beamed at him and their gazes met.
Yes, he’ll do.
***
Tyrion relaxed in the arms of the well-paid whore. He had needed this. Things were growing ever-more complicated. Cersei was demanding things happen immediately. His hatred for her had been an old thing, long held since childhood, but now it had soared back to the forefront of his thoughts. Even as he was working to murder the king, for her, she had been plotting behind his back and attempting to turn away one of the few people who he held genuine affection for.
Sansa had given him a fascinating project to work on. She had taken his lessons to heart and even somehow pushed him into the master of coin position. The girl, now two-and-ten, was one of the precious few who saw value in him beyond his name. Saw that he was more than a stunted, lecherous dwarf. And his sister had tried to turn her against him. His guts swam with burning bile at the thought of Cersei succeeding in her aims.
Tyrion didn’t want to kill Robert. The problem was that if he did not then Cersei would do it anyway, and botch it and lead the realm into war. Jaime was the best sword in the world, but one man couldn’t win a war on his own.
My father has made too many enemies.
With a groan Tyrion lifted himself away from the warmth of human contact and got dressed. He had far too much to do. There had been unexpected setbacks in the plan. He worried that it was more than just simple second-guessing and fear overcoming greed. Tyrion had used several intermediaries which meant that he wasn’t worried that the plot had been uncovered, but it was more than passingly strange that two elements of it had disappeared.
“Leaving so soon, my lord?”
The whore’s auburn hair was still disheveled from their nightly exertions. Even in the light of day she looked beautiful. That wasn’t always the case with him and whores, especially when he was in his cups. He would remember this one and be sure to visit regularly.
He gave her a quick kiss. “Unfortunately, duty calls. I am the master of coin you know.”
“Hmm, yes, your coin is masterful.”
Tyrion grinned. He did enjoy when a whore had at least some ability to also use their tongue for wordplay. He gave her some extra silver and went down to enjoy a meal with Jyck and Morrec before beginning the day’s work.
“Were there any problems last night, Morrec?”
“No, m’lord. He said the ship moves in the night and just like you said, he didn’t expect coin this time.”
Tyrion smiled, pleased at least some of his hirelings were not disappointing him. He had a number of merchants to meet. Salloreon, a master armorer, Dallon, a shipwright, and Chataya, a brothel owner were only three and all before noon. Then there would be six more as he attempted to pierce through the rather ridiculous accounting Baelish had done of the royal accounts.
He’s clever, there’s nothing on the face of it that shows how much he has been pocketing.
There was also a web of agreements he was slowly unraveling. The merchant game was one that was cutthroat. Provide a high enough bribe and suddenly your rivals were being harassed or even arrested by the Gold Cloaks. It was simply easier to spend some coin and make the problem go away. Janos Slynt was working fist and glove with Baelish.
“Tell me, Morrec, do you think there is anyone in King’s Landing who can’t be bought?”
“I wouldn’t know, m’lord. I ‘spose the Kingsguard like your brother. They don’t own anything, got no lands, so probably not them.”
Tyrion knew that wasn’t true. Barristan and Arys were the only ones who Cersei had not suborned. Boros, Meryn, Mandon, and Preston were all his sister’s creatures.
As is Jaime.
If that one fact were not true, his life would be so much easier.
“Seven compared to hundreds of thousands. You might have said the High Septon at least.”
Morrec coughed. “M’lord, I may not know much, but I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could lift ‘em.”
“Wise of you, Morrec, wise indeed.”
Word had arrived his uncle Kevan was coming to King’s Landing. He’d get here before Tyrion’s plans were ready. He had told Jaime to make sure Cersei didn’t share any information with Kevan. His uncle would not approve, and neither would their father. Whether she listened, who could say?
Letters can get intercepted, his was vague. Does our father already know what his children are plotting?
Lancel and Tyrek had gone to the Westerlands, so if Lancel spoke of his part with the wine and why… Tyrion rubbed at his face. His family never made things easy.
***
Lord Eddard Stark was greeted by Bowen Marsh, Ser Alliser Thorne, and Othell Yarwyck. With those old men of the Night’s Watch was also the Greatjon. Ned had dined with these men before. Bowen was the Lord Steward, the one who oversaw the stewards of the Night’s Watch. In the Night’s Watch there were three orders. The rangers were the fighting arm of the Watch, the men who went on rangings north of the Wall. That had been Benjen's order. The stewards were responsible for cooking, cleaning, handling the ravens, and managing the supplies that were sent to the Wall. The builders were the carpenters, miners, woodsmen, and those responsible for keeping the Wall functioning as a bulwark. All could fight.
Othell led the builders and Ser Alliser was the master-at-arms for Castle Black. Behind them loomed the Wall itself, a pale cliff of ancient ice that rose so high Ned had to crane his neck to see the top. Even after all these years, its size mocked belief. The wind that came off it carried a biting chill, and the shadow it cast left Castle Black dim even in the middle of the day. Men called it the greatest fortification ever built, but standing beneath it, Ned thought it looked less like a wall and more like the edge of the world.
“Dark days, Lord Stark, dark days indeed. We are most thankful that you have come,” Bowen bowed.
“My lord!” The Greatjon boomed. “Now that you are here all will be set to rights. The tales are true. I saw it with my own two eyes. I ripped the wight in half and it still came at me. These things had more strength in death than they ever had in life, I swear to you by the gods we hold to, the dead walked and killed.”
Bowen shuddered. “He speaks true, Lord Stark. We lost several brothers, good men who thought they faced men of flesh and blood in the night. They stabbed deep, and died for it. Only by hacking them to pieces did we stop their fell advance.”
Ned believed them. These were serious men, not known for drinking or allowing dark fancies to grow in their minds.
At least for the Night’s Watch men. Jon is known for his drinking.
“I would like to see the bodies. I would also like to know who the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is and what else we know. How many of the dead walk? How is this done? How can we prevent it?”
“The Watch will choose the next commander. Both Ser Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke will have votes; they should be arriving any day now with their proxies. Who can say which one of those will win.”
“Or perhaps it will be another,” Bowen said with some bite.
Umber clapped Ned on the shoulder. “Gods! Can you imagine it? Even here on the Wall there’s naught but politics. At least up here a man will say it to your face if he’s your enemy.”
Ned nodded grimly. The North had its own politics, of course. Wherever people lived, they played games where someone would say or do something for advantage. The difference was that oaths were held to and the false mask of friendship was not nearly worn. Galbart Glover misliked the Umbers, and he made that plain. He did not go around pretending to be the Greatjon’s friend only to knife him in the back. The North played their games, but it was clearer. Loyalties and grudges were drawn starkly, not blurred through false friendships.
“When?” Ned just asked.
“It depends, the count is not always decided on the first round,” Othell said solemnly.
Ned exhaled with frustration. “I have need of the Night’s Watch. It would be better if one was selected as soon as possible so we can learn the extent of the threat.”
Greatjon rumbled. “Lots of rangers have gone missing. We’ll be blind if we don’t go out there ourselves.”
“If you go out there, you’ll die,” Ser Alliser said bluntly. “It isn’t a question of your valor, but without rangers to guide you, you’ll perish of starvation and the cold.”
Ned nodded. That matched what his brother Benjen used to say. As dangerous as the North was, the true North, as he called it, made it look like the south.
“That is why I have come here, ser, and not just ordered my men to bypass Castle Black. Between Lord Umber and me we have several hundred men, but more are being mustered. Riders from the houses of Forrester, Bole, Branch, Woods, and Glover are not far behind. The Dreadfort and Karhold are also mustering more men than all of the Night’s Watch and will be here within a month. Wagons of grain, oil for torches, and arrows in the thousands along with horses. I do not take this threat lightly and I believe you saw what you saw. As I said before, I need answers. Knowledge of our foe and their capabilities.”
“We’ll tell you what we know, what little that is. Maester Aemon has some thoughts as well,” Bowen replied.
Alliser snorted and then spat. “Blind men and their foolish tales accomplish little and less. What we need is information. We need to find the wildlings, capture some, and then make them talk. The savages must know something.”
Ned knew that before all of this there were worries that Mance Rayder, the so-called King-Beyond-The-Wall, had gathered many of the disparate groups of wildlings under one banner. Before going south that had been one of his worries. That in the years to come the Wall itself would be challenged by a proper wildling host while he was stuck in the south as the Hand.
Sansa often said that more flies can be gathered with honey instead of vinegar. Would it be possible to treat with the wildlings? Silver or a lash may be more useful than just the lash.
“We shall see, ser, but not before a new Lord Commander is selected.”