The Three houses of Westeros: Chapter 22

Chapter 22:

Ned:

The Red Keep dominated the coastline, a red scar on the horizon as Ned and the royal column clopped and plod their way up the streets, closer and closer, the Gold Cloaks escorting them and clearing the roads of the peasantry. Not that they could beat back the horrid stench.

Still; when was the last time that he’d seen the halls of the Red Keep? Fifteen? Eighteen years ago? Too long. And the memory of the sack did it no favors in Ned’s memory. The flames, the slaughter

Now it sat, far removed from the picture of hell that had burned itself into his memory, which was a welcome change, but hardly one that removed the tension from his shoulders. 

Now as they made their way into the keep and his men dismounted and began to move his effects into the Tower of the Hand, he could see guards and servants moving around the different halls as he walked through, delivering missives and watering plants, cleaning and keeping the castle in order.

And Ned knew, that unlike any man in the North’ that he could not trust any of them. He knew that any one of them could have been a problem, a spy or an informant for the one that murdered a man that Ned had called his father, or an accomplice. 

He was walking into a viper’s den with the only people outside of his household guard and children he could trust being Robert… and two mercenaries. 

That was it. It was a sobering, dismaying reality.

“Milord.” A serf dressed a bit more finely than the average peasant stood at attention. “The Small Council will be adjourning soon.” Ned nodded, and then dismissed his guard, telling them to get themselves settled. It had been a long ride after all and he doubted that he’d be attacked or killed going to or into the small council chambers.

His guard hesitated, but obeyed, the page escorted him through the halls and the double doors he was led to were flanked by goldcloaks that he didn’t know the names of yet opened the door for him. 

Inside the room were several faces he recognized.Robert,  who, having been at the head of the column had arrived a minute or two before Ned himself and did not need to direct his household to the tower of the Hand to get them settled already sat at the head of the small council table, looking decidedly uncomfortable in the chair.

His friend was looking at the mess of papers that littered the Councilroom table like he’d never seen them before. The grand maester, and another man Ned did not recognize were speaking in low voices towards Robert, whose annoyance was growing with every syllable it seemed. 

The first to rise and hold out a hand in greeting was the shaved spider; Varys. A smile that didn’t reach the man’s eyes split his features, and it was a genuine effort for Ned to keep his stony look and not react towards the Master of spies. 

“Lord Stark, it is an honor to have you with us here in King’s Landing, and please accept my prayers. We hope that Lord Dimitri and your son will return unharmed.”

Ned did not extend his own hand to shake. “Extend your prayers to the rest of the North as well.” He answered instead. “Wildlings aren’t a threat just to noble sons.”

The Spider smiled, retracting his powdered hand, seemingly having fully expected Ned not to shake it in greeting. The action and the statement got a snort from Renly Barathon and his brother. The younger of the Storm Lords was closer to what Robert was once upon a time. Handsome, well muscled, though not as monstrously large. Even so, he was probably the envy of every maiden still without husband in Storm’s End. As Renly stood to greet him, this time, Ned did shake the younger man’s hand. 

“Renly, you look well.”

“And you look ready to drop from stress alone Lord Stark,” the other man joked, “I tried to tell my royal brother that this meeting could wait another day-”

“But we have a kingdom to run,” The man that Ned hadn’t recognized who had been speaking to the King alongside Pycelle spoke up.

Standing now, Ned caught the silver mockingbird pin on his shoulder, and Ned might not recognize the face, but he did know that sigil. Baelish.

He was exactly as Catelyn and Brandon had described him from their letters all those years ago. Lord Baelish was a man who was built for scholarly work and using a quill more than then the sword. Even still, the line of grey along his temple spoke of the stress that ruling a kingdom brought upon people. 

“It’s an honor to finally meet you in person, Lord Stark. You’re the spitting image of your brother, he’d be proud to see you sitting at this table.”

“Would he? I’m surprised to hear that, considering your relationship with the man.”

Baelish  chuckled good naturedly. 

“Oh trust me when I say I bear no ill will towards the Stark name for what was done. Lady Catelyn was a woman worth fighting for and to the victor she was fairly won. She is well, I hope?”

“As well as can be given circumstances,” Ned admitted, “I’ll be waiting every night for any letter that comes.”

“I understand,” Baelish  said, “I will be sending the names of some trusted servants and tradesmen in the city who work under me, whatever you wish for them to do, they will, and do not even think of the cost.”

“Very generous of you.”

“The least I can do, your boy rides with the prince while we keep the kingdom together for everyone.”

Ned considered this for a few moments before nodding. More resources for the Wolves to use later. 

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“W-well my L-lord it is a matter of compounding interest-”

“For God’s sake man speak plain!”

Turning to the sound of Robert’s booming, Ned tried to look at what the man was yelling about, but the smirking and laughing from the other members of the court gave him pause. Baelish merely shook his head as he took his seat, and Renly looked ready to burst out laughing at the simple notion of finances from the King himself; Varys simply smiled.

Ned kept his confusion at bay as best he could as he took his seat next to Robert. The King muttered something under his breath as Pycelle did his best to get two words out of his mouth. 

“Bunch of mouth breathing fools, you measters, and I’m supposed to trust you with my health,” Robert said with a roll of his eyes. 

“You’ve done well to ruin that yourself,” Ned commented.

The other men at the table paused as Robert’s head snapped towards him. Fury sparked in the man’s eyes for a heartbeat before he burst out laughing.

“A man who doesn’t enjoy a good wine isn’t a man worth talking to,” Robert said, “But I got to keep me health up! Dimitri tasked me with keeping this kingdom in line and I plan to do it.”

“Oh, the little stag got you to be here?” Renly said, “And here I was wondering why my lord brother had deigned to grace us with his presence.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed; wasn’t it customary for the King to lead the Small Council session.

“Watch your mouth, Renly-” Robert groused. “You’re my brother so I can pop ya right in the jaw without needin to worry about the stormlands rebelling.” He shifted in his chair and looked around the room. “Yes damnit; I’m here because Dimitri isn’t and he asked me to be here in his stead, so from here until my son returns you can expect to see a lot more of my fuckin face round this table.”

“You honor both us and your son’s wishes by being here, your grace,” Varys said with that same false smile.

“Oh shut up eunuch, if I need another tongue in my ass I’ll call you.”

If Lord Varys took that insult to heart, he hardly showed it.

“Still, it does make some matters easier,” Baelish chimed in, “You can sign for these documents instead of having them sent to your chambers as usual.”

“Dimitri’s chambers you mean,” Renly corrected, “Perhaps you can say yes to another of his grand ideas like the renovations of the King’s Road while you take another drink.”

Ned leaned back in his chair, staring at his old friend even as the king stared daggers at his brother.

“Dimitri’s chambers?” Ned repeated. 

Robert shifted in his seat, and now that he was close enough, Ned noticed it wasn’t accommodating for him in the slightest, nor was it well used.

“The boy has a mind for ruling-” Robert said. “- bout the only thing his mother’s blood was useful for, God knows he didn’t get it from me.”

“It matters not if he has the mind for it or not, you're the king,” Ned pointed out.

“Jon helped him out when he was hand, like you will!” Robert pointed out. 

He reached over towards a small box, and opened it to reveal the badge of office of the Hand, the golden pin was picked up in Robert’s large fingers and he looked at it for a long moment. 

“No offense Ned, but I still wish this were pinned on Jon’s chest.” He lamented, Ned agreed. Gods did he agree. 

Even so, Robert planted it on the table and slid it over to him. 

Ned picked it up, looking upon the badge of his new office. 

Pushing down the musings and the feelings that came with him, Ned took a long moment. 

“Be that as it may, old friend,” Ned said, calming himself so that Robert might calm in turn, “This is the small council, and now I hear that your son is more of the protector of the realm than the Demon of the Trident is.”

“His grace is burned with a great many things, we are the lord of smaller matters, so we might ease such burdens,” Varys said.

Ned wanted to argue further, but this was neither the time nor the place; not in front of so many advisors.

So, quietly, he placed the pin upon his chest. 

“Very well- lets get down to business then.”

“The first order of business is relatively simple.” Renly cut in with a smirk. “The Tourney to celebrate a New Hand’s appointment has already had its preparations underway, everything should be finished and ready within a week. 

Ned resisted the urge to roll his eyes and put his head in his hands.

“Aye” Robert smiled, already approving it seemed. 

“Respectfully, Lord,” Baelish  started, “The renovation projects as well as other expenses have left us in quite the state, I will need to petition Lord Tywin for more funds in order to compensate.”

Robert waved it away.

“Don’t bore me with counting coppers.”

“Counting coppers!?,” Ned started, “Why would a simple tourney require a loan of all things?”

“For the simple reason that the crown cannot pay for such an expense without it.”

This was just getting better and better “Are you saying the crown is in so much debt it cannot fund a tourney?”

“Quite, As I stated, the recent renovation and large scale projects undertaken by Lord Arynn and the Prince will generate revenue… eventually but eventually is not now and thus there are debts in place.”

“How much?” Ned asked.

“Two million Gold Dragons.” Baelish said with such an easy, cavalier smile Ned almost wanted to punch him because the fact that such a number didn’t elicit horror demanded that the Master of Coin be punched in the face. 

“Two mil- Robert!” Ned looked at the Baratheon King. “You cannot be serious.”

Robert, to his credit, did look somewhat mullish rather than defiant. “It was meant to be a gift for both you and Dimitri.” He said. “Maybe he’d ride a tilt and crown his queen of love and beauty.” The Baratheon King snorted, suddenly morose and depressed once more, as he had been since Dimitri rode off.

Ned sighed “We’ll… discuss this later, Lord Baelish -” He looked to the mockingbird. “Is there any chance this can be canceled?”

“We can always cancel it but frankly, you’d likely lose as much money as you would if you held it.” The Master of coin shrugged. “Knights and Hedgeknights and Lords have come from all the Seven Kingdoms to participate, they’re flooding the streets, the markets, getting their armors repaired, their spurs and saddles fitted, all that revenue goes with them if the tourney is canceled. Not to mention the labor costs of taking down the stands and so on and so on.”

Ned sighed. “I’ll at least ask you to give me an account of the Crown’s finances before you send a letter to Lord Tywin. Along with any notes of previous small council meetings.”

“Of course,” the master of coin said with an incline of his head.

“Now, onto other matters, one’s not involving matters that were left to the prince?”

“Short list that will be,” Renly joked.

Robert grumbled something, reaching for a flagon of ale. Ned nearly asked for his own. 

—

Roddrick Cassel

The road back to Winterfell felt colder than the wall itself. 

Lord Robb was not pleased, that was clear enough; in truth. Roddrick could understand. 

Lady Marianne was like a sister to him, and though he understood the argument that Lord Robb was needed at Winterfell to organize the North and call the Banners if needs be, it would not sit right with any man to return home with his tail between his legs, leaving a sister in the hands of wildlings while southerners fought his battles for him. 

Roddrick knew his place in the hierarchy of Winterfell, he was Master at arms, respected, but not powerful, certainly not enough power to go correcting the son of his liege Lord, the man that would be lord soon enough in his own right gods be good. But in this moment he felt… as though he needed to try and help the boy; at least in whatever small way he could. 

“If you allow me to say My Lord-”

Robb straightened, turning ever so slightly to look at him. His look held a cold distant anger, a resentment; it was foreign on his features, much more fitting for his brother Felix, but in that moment he could see how the two were related. 

Roddrick cleared his throat. “I understand you’re angry, but there’s no dishonor in following the orders of the prince, and every man here will vouch for you ser.”

There was a murmur of assent from the others in the party, a clamoring of “Aye’s” and one man saying clearly. “You’re no Coward Lord.”

Robb shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It's not my Honor at stake, it's Marianne! Taken. Right under my nose. The instant my father was gone. It was my responsibility and I failed, and now I’m being sent home- like a child while… southern ponces fight in our place.” He gestured vaguely behind them, somewhere North, where the Wall still stood. “And my brothers; Theon, all out there but I’m going Home…”

Resentment burned in the boy, finding voice, an abject frustration that would burn for a long time. Rodrick didn’t have the words to soothe him. 

Largely because he felt the same. 

Need or not. Every fibre in him felt his place was north of that bloody Wall. 

No doubt Robb felt it far more keenly. 

Small wonder that he was taking it as well as he was.

There was a rustle in the underbrush, loud enough that they all heard it. A grunting hissing sound. Squinting through the grey of the snow he saw a large shape moving through the trees of the Wolfswood.

“What is that!?” Someone asked. 

“That a bear?”

“It sounds injured.” One of the younger men pulled a bow from his back, nocking an arrow.

“Careful. You might just piss it off.”

“Nae- I’ve got him.” The young-un pulled the bow, the wood audibly straining as he pulled and pulled and pulled. 

Roddrick placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. A sword was no weapon against a bear, but it was better than nothing.

The youth let loose, the arrow whistling through the grey gloom and the beast, whatever it was, went down with a pained yelp.

“Got it!” The young man laughed, dismounting from his horse and rushing over to inspect his kill. 

Roddrick let out the breath he’d been holding, Lord Robb and the others followed behind the young man, no doubt curious to see what it was for themselves.

When they got to it; the young guard was standing over the corpse.

It wasn’t a bear.

It… just looked like a mound of fur.

“What is it?” One of the others asked. 

“I… err… I dont-”

The mound moved, and it took Roddrick a second to recognize that as a kick lashing out and catching the youth that shot it right in the groin.

“OHHH!” The young man’s bow fell to the ground as it slipped from limp fingers, legs, crossing, hands on his private.

“YOU JERK!”

That was a distinctly feminine voice.

The mound sat up and swung a very large stick that smacked against a helmeted head.

The youth fell to the floor, the mound of fur stood up.

And then proceeded to kick the defenseless winterfell guard several times.

“THAT HURT! DON’T JUST GO SHOOTING PEOPLE!”

It was a girl, that was clear enough, one covered in so many, many thick furs you couldn’t even see the girl underneath.

“Err… My lady-” Lord Robb tried.

The mound of fur rounded on them and through the barest slit between the folds of fur, Rodrick was struck by two bright sea green eyes glaring at them.

Also, given the place of said eyes, the girl under the mountain of fur was small…

As in, barely taller than young Arya, small. 

“WHAT!?” She snapped.

Robb offered a nervous sort of smile. “I… apologize. My men mistook you for a bear.”

“They still shouldn’t shoot a defenseless bear!” The girl protested. 

Defenseless Bear!?

Maester Luwin had a word for that kind of statement, something that didn’t make sense. An Ox Moron or some such.

Robb coughed, likely to hide what was no doubt an incredulous laugh. “Quite… Still… a lone woman should not be left in the Wolfswood. I’m Robb Stark. And you’re welcome to travel with us.

The Girl’s eyes widened. “Robb Stark! Oh! The Starks! Yes! Then you can help me find my Cousin!”

The girl began to fiddle with the thick furred hood and… everything covering her face, mumbling through layers and layers as she unwound them.

“See- I came up here looking for him. Uncle Randyll was cruel. He never should have done what he did to Sam.”

“Err… who is your cousin?” 

The girl undid her mess of clothes and now that he could see her face, the tiny svelte child looked like she was in a fur suit more padded than Prince Tommen’s training gear and the lad could barely waddle with it on.

She had pale, perfect skin and a shock of reddish auburn hair atop her head

She smiled brightly, all kindness and sunshine. “I’m Annette Tarly! And my Cousin is Samwell Tarly, of Horn Hill!”

“Horn Hi-” He saw Lord Robb’s jaw fall open.

“My lady, are you telling me you’ve traveled… from Horn Hill to here alone on foot?”

“Well I could hardly take a carriage!” She puffed out her cheeks. “Uncle Randyll would have stopped me!”

—

Jeralt:

“So… the small council is as wonderful as the rumors say?”

The old warrior allowed himself this small jest at his friend’s expense, especially as the Lord of Winterfell came into the Hand’s chambers and went straight for his desk so he had some place comfortable to rest his head in his hand. Shamir said nothing, nursing a goblet of wine as she sat on the guest couch, but the day she drank herself to unreadiness was the day the seven came down from above. The archer simply raised a brow at Ned, who shook his head.

“I knew that Robert never had the patience for his numbers but this is absurd.” 

Jeralt gave a mirthful chuckle. 

“You knew that before he had got a crown on his head.”

“But does the Iron Throne steal the sense of whomever sits upon it?” Ned asked, running a hand through his hair before grabbing a book that a servant had placed there moments before the lord had returned. “I overthrew a mad king only to find a man whose heir is doing his work for him. Tell me you two at least have a plan.”

Jeralt shared another glance with Shamir.

“Not really, haven’t really been able to see much,” the old man said as Shamir wrote down four words to show to the hand.

“Castle crawling with spies.” said the note.

Ned tapped his table, and glanced to the outside. The guards that were there were with the other northman weren’t known to him.

“Probably best,” Jeralt said, stretching to accent the word and answer the question, “We haven’t been here long.”

“Best strike while the iron is hot, you both can speak with my name, and my authority.”

Ned quickly wrote down something and handed it to Jeralt after applying the hand’s seal.

Jeralt gave a low whistle“Hoho! Don’t think I’ve ever had this much weight to throw around, people are going to ask questions about little old me having something like this.”

They will notice. Shamir added gravely.

“Let them come to me if they wish to take up the matter. I have no interest in wasting time.”

Jeralt nodded, and Shamir kicked off the couch.

“Then we’ll be off.”

“When will you report back?” Ned asked. 

Jeralt looked at the woman, a whole conversation passing between the two of them through eye contact alone. 

“Three days.” The Mercenary finally said. 

Another incline of his head, and the two left the room. 

Neither of them spoke as they walked through the halls, no point. Jeralt let his eyes stay forward, knowing that Shamir’s sharper eyes were noting every little glance that came their way. Only when the sounds of the city were getting louder and louder after exiting the red keep did Shamir finally ask the question that she’d been thinking since they left the north.

“So, where do we start?”

Jarelt nearly chuckled.

“Shouldn’t you know, Shamir?”

Of all the places that murders, idiots and fools gathered, there was only one place that all of them spent their coin. So if an assassin of Jon Ayrrn was going to partake in anywhere, only two places made sense.

“The taverns of King’s landing are legendary, as are the whorehouses. Which would you like first?”

The archer thought about it for a second.

“A drink, the royal wine is shit.”

And all of King’s landing could hear Jeralt’s laugh. 

—

Petyr Baelish:

Petyr understood the scarcity of opportunity. Often times they came by only seldomly, and when they did they needed to be seized with both hands. 

And the fact that Prince Dimitri had not returned with his father and the new Hand; well… that presented a Golden opportunity in its own right. 

Because the Prince, unlike his father, was mindful, dutiful. If not for him, Baelish would be a far far richer man and the Kingdom in far more precarious a situation.

So now that he was absent, and perhaps for quite a long time- well, Baelish could begin planting the seeds of… chaos.

And Chaos, of course, was a ladder.

“Ahh-” The mockingbird smiled as he caught sight of his target. “Good evening prince Joffrey.”

The spoiled princeling sneered, still bitter, angry and petulant over his Dog being assigned to his brother. “What do you want whoremonger?”

Petyr Baelish smiled at the boys tone; he’d enjoy the day he knocked this one down from his high horse as well. “Merely passing through-” He assured, although now that your brother is off fighting many of his powers do fall to you.” He continued. “I do hope you use them responsibly, anything can happen and until he returns you are the presumptive heir.”

That was not how it worked at all, Dimitri would need to be confirmed dead thrice over before anyone looked in Joffrey’s general direction, but- the little monster got a curious gleam in his eye.

And Petyr’s smile got just that little bit wider.

—

Archmaester Ebrose:

It was not uncommon for the Citadel to play host to various lords and ladies of the seven Kingdoms. Often times, particularly learned or academically inclined lords, sent their children, particularly their third or fourth children, to the Citadel for a greater education so that they might serve as advisors for their elder siblings who played at lord years and years later.

Typically Ebrose did not waste much of his time on them. They were a dime a dozen in terms of nobility present and far far too rarely did they ever amount to anything either in academics or in inheritance. To foster relations with those youths could and largely did prove itself to be an utter waste of time, one need only look at the many other noble scions who tried to curry favor with those of a higher station and wasted so much time that they never learned anything and were reduced forevermore to be pages and scribes for their betters. 

But every now and again, there was an exception. A mold breaker that bucked the trend.

And unfortunately it had to be the biggest pain in his backside that could ever have been conceived.

The sheer potential just had to be hampered down by what must’ve been the most lackadaisical and indolent, apathetic attitude a man could have.

If the boy just pushed himself even for a moment… he could achieve so much.

It was with this thought in mind that the Archmaester shoved the doors to the observatory open with a thunderous shout. “LINDHART HIGHTOWER!”

The youth with hair dyed a forest green was laying flat upon a table, refusing to move and none of his contemporaries had the nerve to force the issue. While House Hightower family line was extensive and there were many many in line for the seat of Lord Hightower before the grandson of Lord Leyton, it was no secret that Lindhart was his favorite grandson, academically brilliant as the boy was.

The Archmaester hower was a man that had well over two decades on Lindhart’s grandfather, he was too old to give a fuck anymore about propriety.

And he also knew that Lindhart could not care less regarding how he was addressed. 

“Hello Ebrose.” The Boy drawled, hands folded atop his stomach, lines upon lines of shadows playing out across his body from the sun beaming down through the dome like observatory glass above.

“Get yourself off that table before I have it thrown out of the balcony with you on it!” He threatened. 

“I’ll do so presently.” Lindhart promised and proceeded to not move a single inch.

Ebrose sighed, marching over towards a nearby desk, it would take just a moment to concoct a foul smelling herbal mixture that he knew Lindhart detested. It would shoo him out of the grounds. 

“I swear-” He muttered. “If you took half as much of an interest in anything as you do your own indulgences-”

“I see.”

“-You would-” The statement was so unlike Lindhart that it brought Ebrose up short and he turned looking over his shoulder towards the boy who was still laying flat across the table. “You see? You see what?”

“It’ll return.” Lindhart was mumbling to himself, and now Ebrose felt just the faintest glimpse of worry. Was the boy affected by some… malady? He hoped it was not madness. That mind of his could not be lost. It would be a tragedy of the highest order.

Forgetting his plans to brew a concoction he marched over, looking at the young man. “Lindhart what is-”

He stopped.

There, playing across the shadows of the window, he noted the very faintest of crude light warping… lines. Carved lines…

Lines-

He turned looking to the window, a window covered in myriad scratches that his old eyes could barely see from this distance.

He looked back to Lindhart, to the lines that could only have been scratched and chizzled onto the priceless window by him. And noticed immediately the pattern they were making.

All coming together around the scratches that converged around Lindhardt’s right eye.

“Comet arrives, Magic returns.” The boy said, and the words made the Archmaester grow cold.

“What did you say?” He whispered, as if saying it too loud would make it come true.

But Lindhart didn’t even look at him, still staring straight up at the window at the patterns and mathematics only he could see.

The minute passed, and the lines shifted ever so imperceptibly, no longer so perfectly aligned across the boy’s body.

Archmaester Ebrose listened to his next words with muted, silent horror.

Lindhart blinked. “Six months, three days, eleven hours, fifty nine minutes.”

And then the boy closed his eyes, seemingly ready to fall dead asleep again.

Ebrose was too frozen to wake him for a long while.

(X)(X)(X)

More and more pieces are coming together.

Oh and look, Lindhart and Annette finally showed up too :D