Chapter 28 - A Young Warg's Game of Thrones (Patreon)

Happy Father's Day! I'm a day early, but may not be online much tomorrow. I hope everyone has a great weekend.

Chapter 28

Tyrion found himself very busy. Even though the glass samples had returned from Myr, he had placed that project behind his other duties. As the new master of coin, he was expected to attend small council meetings, review the work of the King’s Counter, the King’s Scales, the harbor masters, toll collectors, and wine factors.

All of them men whom Baelish had put in place. No one here had held his post longer than Baelish had held his.

The ledgers themselves had multiple layers to them. The first set of books was clean enough. The raw coin and who held it. Everything else was a dizzying labyrinth of debts, stake positions in lieu of taxation, investments, and favors owed. Tyrion did not want Littlefinger’s help or his explanations; he had wanted to see for himself what was going on.

Given the importance of his position, he also was treated better by the court, and that involved invitations to dine. Requests for favors. The people who had treated him as a joke now saw him as a lord with influence and sought his friendship. He had little time for it, as most were fools, but it would be stupid to offend the local nobility, especially with everything so uncertain.

Time was also being taken up by his plot to kill the king. He was glad he had ensured redundancy in his efforts, but he was starting to think someone had caught wind of the plot. Men he had hired boarded ships but were not on them when they arrived in King’s Landing. The Dornishman he had expected had never arrived.

I have been careful. I’m not in the black cells, so the king obviously does not know, but then who?

With his uncle here, and his direct command to cease any and all efforts of regicide, he had hoped that Cersei and Jaime would forget about the whole matter. Only they did not. Jaime was clear that if Tyrion did not act, Cersei would. He was left with the choice of doing it himself in a controlled way, or to let his siblings make a bungle of it.

The things I do for love.

Jaime had been one of the few reasons he survived his childhood. The weight of their father’s disapproval, the burn of Cersei’s hatred and contempt for him, the looks from others that ranged from pitying to disgust, it had all filled his mind with dark thoughts. Jaime had protected him. Played with him when he was young. Broke the nose of one of their cousins for their mockery. His brother was a lifeline that had made life somewhat tolerable. Later, when they were separated, it was wine and whores that filled the void. They dulled the loneliness well enough, but they could never replace Jaime.

His thoughts were broken by Morrec announcing Lady Sansa. One of his regrets was that all of his other tasks had prevented him from speaking with her as oft as he used to. She had arrived with the soft smile she regularly wore and Visha at her side. The wolf was bigger than he was, but also moved in almost complete silence.

Sansa has told me her bastard brother’s wolf is even less like to make a sound.

“It is good to see you again, my lady. I regret that I have received the various cuts from Myr, but have had little opportunity to experiment with them.”

Sansa took no offense. “Your new duties take up much of your time, I understand. I had hoped to test my theories, but it is not pressing. At least for me, as I have many years ahead of me before my eyesight fails.”

Tyrion grinned. “I’m not that old. I’m in my twenties, in the prime of my youth.”

“I believe you are… ah, yes, a quarter of a century old?”

He couldn’t help but laugh. Tyrion had been called all sorts of things, but old was not often. The banter was curious, as she seemed to have taken his lessons to heart. Was there a reason she had pressed on issues such as age?

“You have the right of it; I have reached my twenty-fifth name day. Most men do not begin to lose their eyesight until their forties, and even then it is not everyone. Grand Maester Pycelle still tends to ravens and can read the messages sent.”

“He does not always manage them swiftly, so perhaps if our project works, he will attend to his duties with more alacrity.”

Tyrion quirked an eyebrow.

“I detect a note of annoyance. What has our Grand Maester done to offend you?”

She shrugged. “I have written back and forth with my family in Winterfell. It seems those letters take longer to arrive than I would have thought. I know that ravens must be trained and then shipped at some expense at times. Perhaps he is attempting to preserve the number of ravens he has available, or he is inundated with all the messages of the realm. It is not a great burden, but something that could be alleviated with better ways to make out writing.”

Tyrion could just ask her outright what she believed. Or if she suspected that Pycelle was reading her missives, reporting on it, and only then passing it off to Sansa or to a raven destined for Winterfell. There seemed little point, and in truth, he only suspected.

“A kind thought. The court has much to say about the new from the Wall. The talk is that you believe it to be true. That the dead arose from their graves and slew the Lord Commander.” Tyrion hesitated. “I must confess, that seems rather unlikely. Why do you believe it to be true?”

Sansa went on to give her reasoning. Tyrion sat back and listened carefully. It was sound. There had been multiple witnesses. The letter had been signed by several ranking officers of the Night’s Watch. Lord Umber had also borne witness and claimed to have helped destroy one of the wights. She went on to explain her reasoning for why alternative explanations seemed unlikely. Finally, she talked about how the very existence of the Wall implied that at some point in history, something more than just different tribes of men necessitated building such a thing.

Tyrion found her oratory captivating. Her careful enunciation and concise way of linking her thoughts were quite effective. Sansa had once again displayed her beautiful intelligence and reasoning capability.

“Were it anything less fantastical, I would believe it. For your father’s sake, I hope one of those other explanations you so thoroughly dismantled proves true.”

Sansa nodded. “My father will be careful. The Wall has very few men. If whatever force animated the dead could do so in large numbers, it would have been easy to overwhelm the Wall itself. All of this is supposition, but I suspect it is someone who can create these wights through some forgotten means, but they can only do so in limited numbers. If so, they represent a dangerous threat, but not one that truly threatens the North.” Her voice took a more solemn tone. “My fear is that the means might be something that could be taught. Two wights took a dozen men to hack to pieces. Lord Umber kept striking and then stomping until nothing stirred. If one man can raise two, if whatever was done can be taught, it would be a nightmare to attempt to stop even a hundred of them.” 

Tyrion still wasn’t sure if he believed it at all, but her thoughts were again sound. Two warriors who could not die until completely hacked to pieces was not a threat to a lord who could summon a host over ten thousand strong. But if more could be created, that would be a nightmare indeed.

“The king has sent Ser Beric. Perhaps more aid will be provided to the North if he lays eyes upon the dead himself.”

“I hope so, my lord. I must confess, beyond just reason and evidence, I have a feeling as well. A worry that gnaws at me. As if this is just a prelude to something vast beyond our accounting.” Her lovely eyes went to the floor, downcast. “As much as I would wish this to be resolved swiftly, I fear this is just the beginning, though I have no rational chain of logic to show for it. If the time comes, when the time comes, and more proofs are shown of this threat, will you lend your voice to the cause of the Seven Kingdoms working together against this threat?”

She worries over her father.

He spread his hands. “All that I can do, I will. My counsel is not like to move many minds. But as the master of coin, I might be able to put a word or two in people’s ears. Remind them of the reputation of Lord Stark, a principled man who would sooner defy his king than let his honor be besmirched. I fear that is the best I can do.”

Her smile of gratitude lifted his spirits.

Perhaps titles and true power were more pleasant than he had imagined. It is a heady feeling to soothe a pretty maid's fears with nothing more than a few words. Even a dwarf could play the gallant now and then.

***

Renly much preferred having more private lunches with Loras and his sister. But now that Margaery was betrothed she had invited Edmure, who in turn had invited some of the noble sons of the Riverlands to join them. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy using his charm to create a positive impression, but he could take more liberties with his affections when it was a more intimate company.

“Oh, no my lord, you do not wish to wed a Frey! Your children will have the look of weasels,” Lymond exclaimed.

Marq laughed. “As if Baratheon blood would lose out to a Frey. But one never knows, perhaps their children would be muscled like an ox while still bearing a weasel’s countenance.” 

Renly let loose a laugh that he did not truly feel. He hated having to figure out who to marry.

“I’ve made no decision. Many fathers have sent in betrothals. Lord Frey has simply offered a more generous dowry than most, and the pick of the litter, so to speak.”

Edmure choked on some of the wine he was drinking. “Litter… haha, my Lord Renly, please have mercy, or I’ll not live to see my own wedding.” 

“Once is quite enough for a generation, I should think,” Megga said half flippantly and half seriously.

The table quieted a bit. Megga flushed, realizing that her attempt at mirth had landed poorly. As she went to apologize, Margaery spoke up instead.

“’Tis hard enough to find a good pairing. The chance to lay eyes upon multiple potential brides and then discover their temperament is a rare luxury. The Freys do have wealth and can call many swords to their name. Lord Renly is right to seek the best possible match for his house. If he can find one that is agreeable to him, why not the Freys? Is there another specific maid that would be better?” 

Marq mused thoughtfully. A rare thing for him in Renly’s estimation.

“Catelyn Bracken or mayhaps her sister, Bess, both are fair to look upon. You’ll earn the enmity of the Blackwoods, but what of it? House Bracken is an older house than the Freys. And you’d have a better good-father than the Late Lord Frey.” 

Renly saw Lymond snicker a bit, but knew that it was due to the jab at Walder Frey, the man who arrived late to the battlefield. It was thought by many that he arrived precisely when he meant to, ready to claim loyalty to whoever had won.

“In truth,” Edmure began, “I would cherish the thought of you marrying into the Riverlands. You are fine company indeed.”

Renly kept a satisfied smirk from his features. He was used to nobles basking in his presence. And why shouldn’t they? He had a quick wit and  was free with his own compliments. Handsome, affable, and free with his hospitality, who would not enjoy his company?

Talk wandered into other marriage discussions. Margaery hinted that Megga and her other cousins longed for decent betrothals themselves. Renly did his best to aid his lover’s sister in her attempts at matchmaking. Edmure’s companions were not the ones needing to be impressed, their fathers who weren’t here were, but knowing that a potential bride was close with the Flower of Highgarden, soon to be wed to the Riverlands liege lord… well, that would not go unnoticed.

“Who do you think will be the new master of ships?” Edmure asked.

Renly shrugged. “I’ve recommended Lord Redwyne, but my brother is still considering.”

“A fine choice,” Edmure agreed, “but Jason Mallister would not be bad either.”

“An ally or a friend?” Renly asked with a smile. “Either way, you should take caution. You would subject him to listening to the ponderous droning of our Grand Maester.” Renly laughed. “Though you should have seen him earlier this morning. He was moving faster than a man half his age.”

“Oh?” Margaery asked. “Whatever for?”

“I was not about to risk him taking the better part of the day explaining it to me! For all I know he was rushing to the privy.”

A round of chuckles by the party let him know the quip landed. Though Margaery did not join in. She was in some ways a bit too serious about everything.

No doubt she hopes for some gossip she could share with her friends. She loves to be in the middle of intrigues. Loras said it was even more thrilling to her than riding and hawking.

Edmure noticed Margaery’s slight vexation. Renly knew the man was smitten with his bride to be, so he was more sensitive to her moods.

“With the Lannisters and their bannerman threatening the Reach, a worried maester could be cause for concern,” the Riverlands heir said thoughtfully.

Renly waved it aside. “The Lion will roar, but it will not bite. My brother has thrown them a shank of meat with Tyrion’s elevation. No, it would be quite unwise of Tywin to try anything untoward. And Tywin is many things, but not a fool. Robert is most upset that no one has done in the Targaryen girl. He even deigned to show up to another small council meeting and upbraid us for agreeing to Littlefinger’s plan.”

The table shifted a bit. Marq broke the silence. “The Dothraki are savages. What do you think they would do to a would-be assassin? Probably flay them like the Boltons of old. One would need to slay the girl, escape the Dothraki and then make it to Westeros for the prize.”

“What is the plan, then?” Loras asked.

“Varys suggested giving money to sellswords to do it properly,” Renly answered. “Our new master of coin had to find the means to pay for it quite quickly upon taking up the office. He didn’t want to come up short on his first major task.”

Another round of chuckles and grins from the party.

“Who is the Spider making use of in Essos?” Margaery asked.

“There were several options, some company currently serving in Myr was one of them. The realm will be better off when the last Targaryen is dead, but I’m not my brother. I do not share his paranoia. The House of the Dragon is dead. Its remnants will accomplish little and less than even the Greyjoys at challenging my family’s reign.”

“True enough,” Loras agreed. “Even if the savages the girl is wed to could be brought over, they don’t even wear armor.”

Marq shook his head. “Imagine, an entire army of outriders and no knights. What a jest. Truly the people of Essos are primitive.”

Margaery shook her head. “Ser, many would disagree. The Dothraki are savage, but not all of Essos. Even Oldtown is impressed with the works of Myr and Braavos. Sansa is also complimentary of them.”

The Piper knight wrinkled his brow, confused at Margaery’s last comment. “As you say, my lady.” 

Renly grinned. Marq was wise enough not to argue with his future liege lord’s bride, but he was also ignorant of the Starks girl’s reputation for knowledge. Renly had little use for most books, especially those that the author did not bother having illustrated, but few could fail to acknowledge that Sansa had mountains of useless knowledge stored in her mind. Why his brother of all people would get along with the girl was more than a little puzzling.

“Where is my niece? Isn’t she usually invited, here?”

Loras shrugged. “She’s probably speaking with the king. Lady Sansa wants to record His Grace’s account of the war to overthrow the Mad King.”

Renly shook his head. “Not today. She’s with Prince Tommen. They are acquiring a new pet for my nephew, a cat I believe.”

Edmure smiled. “It is good she is getting along with Myrcella and Tommen. She’s made the best of it here. I… well, I don’t wish to be too forward, but you are the king’s brother. Sansa and Arya should be with Cat. Especially with Eddard at the Wall and Bran crippled. Sansa’s asked me not to be too forward with the king, as His Grace can be… well… set in his ways, but I had hoped that you might be generous and act on their behalf.”

Renly wasn’t going to reveal he didn’t have much influence on Robert of late. Instead he would take another approach.

“Sansa and Arya are both sweet girls. But there are reasons for why they remain. And not the ones you know. It will all come to light sooner than late. I can say no more, but you must trust me on this.” 

Robert could never bear to sit on things without speaking. A moon’s turn, maybe a year at best, and he’ll speak of his desire to betroth Sansa to Tommen.

Edmure frowned, but nodded. The Riverlands heir was easy to read and manage. When his brother did speak of it, it would be clear why Sansa remained. More than just a hostage toward Lord Stark’s good behavior, but as the future queen of Westeros. Edmure and the other Riverlands nobles would see Renly as privy to the king’s closest secrets and they would walk away with the impression that Renly still had stood high in Robert’s confidences.

It does remind me to make time to tell Sansa that Penrose is sending a party to the Wall. Best that she thinks I took her request seriously, she will one day be queen after all. I wonder what the Night’s Watch will think of Brienne. Or if they will even be able to tell she’s a woman at all.

Renly chuckled to himself as the enjoyable meal continued.

***

“The vote has yet to reach a majority, my lord.”

Ned concealed his frustration from habit, even though the old maester was blind.

“Do the brothers not see the need for haste?” Ned asked. “The Wall needs a commander.”

“They do, but this is a tradition for a reason. The Night’s Watch lives and dies by those traditions. Any interference will undermine not just the eventual chosen Lord Commander, but the brotherhood as a whole for generations.”

Ned could only shake his head in disappointment. If he could not influence or hurry the vote along, then he would not wait for it. He left the maester, and Ser Rodrik followed him. Once more in the biting cold, he ignored it and sought out the ranger who had recently returned.

“Qhorin, of the rangers. I need your counsel.”

The man’s blacks were so faded they might have been grays. He was not uniformed like the parade soldiers he had seen at King’s Landing, but he was just as clean-shaven. With Benjen missing, and presumed dead, all agreed that Qhorin was the best ranger left in the Night’s Watch. They called him Qhorin Halfhand because a wildling axe had cleaved all but the thumb and forefinger from one hand.

“Lord Stark,” he replied quietly and lowered his head.

“Wights murdered your Lord Commander. What do you make of it? They say you have done more successful rangings than any man here. Have the wildlings stumbled across some power that would allow them to do this?”

Qhorin did not reply immediately.

“You believe the accounts of what happened that night. I imagine most of the ruling lords of the Seven Kingdoms will not. They do not know the truth of what is beyond the Wall. The giants, the mammoths, skinchangers, cannibals, and darker things besides. In all my rangings I have not encountered any wildlings with the ability to raise the dead. But I have seen a giant. I have talked with those who have seen a man ride a snow bear twice as tall as a man.”

Ned kept his features as still as stone. Sansa had bade him, practically begged him, never to let anyone know of the ability of his children to skinchange. Not to even let a hint of it be exposed, for their greatest strength is in others not knowing their capabilities.

"Those lands beyond the Wall hold powers beyond our ken," he said, gesturing north, "but the Wall still stands. If wildlings can compel beasts, marshal giants, and command the dead, how then does your brotherhood still hold them back?”

“How many men are the size of Lord Umber? Giants have nearly died out. Dangers exist, but they are not that common. And the wildlings fight against each other. Only now, with the rise of Mance Rayder, have things grown dire. I know what you want, Lord Stark. You want confirmation of what they can do, but I have none to give you. The wildlings have abandoned some of their places. If we want answers we will need to find it ourselves.” 

I was afraid of that.

“Then that is what we will do. I will bring a force large enough to handle a wildling threat, but not too great that it will strain supplies on the march. Advise me on this, and be our guide. The remainder will bolster the Wall. We will have swift riders, and ravens too.”

Qhorin paused. “I will do this, my lord. But know that such a balance will be difficult to strike. The wildlings can outnumber any force you could reasonably muster. They are savage fighters, but have little they can do against an armored charge.” He looked hesitant. “Mance would know this, so if he does seek to destroy you, it will be when such a thing is impossible. Out there, we know of several wildling villages. We can also ride for Craster’s Keep. He trades with us and the wildlings both, so he may know something.” 

Ned rose. “Tell Ser Rodrik what is needed. I aim to move sooner than late.” After a moment, he added. “And arrange for some builders to attend as well. Depending on what we find, it may behoove us to create a forward operating post.”

The latest letter, with a message hidden within a cipher, had warned him of another skinchanger somewhere on the Wall or north of it. If Mance Rayder had someone who could command a bird’s eye view of his forces, Qhorin’s words had all the more meaning to him. The King-Beyond-The-Wall would have the measure of every force sent against him.

And since the enemy skinchanger bested Sansa, I dare not risk her trying again. As much as an aerial view would help in scouting, it is simply too perilous. This will be dangerous, which is why I will need to be careful.

***

Arya exchanged whispers with Sansa.

“Weiss? What kind of name is Weiss?”

“A good one, and since I’ve bonded with him, it felt appropriate to name him,” Sansa replied.

Arya thought the name was stupid.

Better than Eyes. I guess.

She wasn’t pleased with always having to whisper with Sansa instead of talking normally. Her sister insisted, and said that the longer she remained in King’s Landing the surer she was that either Varys was a warg or someone in his employ was. His reputation as the master of whisperers was impressive, and even their mother thought he had some unnatural ability.

“You aren’t going to bond another raven and go to the Wall? To try again?”

Sansa sighed. “Father expressly forbid it. At least for now. Ana is in Winterfell and Jon has been able to bond with a dog named Shadow. I’m going to attempt to ‘fight’ with him over Shadow and test what tactics may work. I don’t want to try to do it with you in the case both of us are laid low by it.”

Arya shivered, she still remembered the time Sansa had entered Nymeria.

“I… I could try to slip my skin into a cat again. It is uncomfortable, but I could try.”

“Yes, you should try, but not for the purpose I am trying with Jon. You having another animal you can easily slip into is good. In fact… I recommend trying Tommen’s new pet.”

“Ser Pounce? That’s also a stupid name.”

Sansa gave her a look. “Tommen picked it himself, and he will be the future king of Westeros. Don’t say such things around him, please.”

“He’s not like Joffrey, all he’ll do is cry.” 

“No. He’s gotten better at that. It should not pain you to be friends with Myrcella and Tommen.”

“They are boring!”

“Myrcella is going on the next hunt. Why not get to know her better before it? Nymeria will enjoy the Kingswood.” 

Arya sighed. Arguing with Sansa never worked. She just beat you down. She always had an answer.

“Fine,” she whispered crisply. “I’ll spend more time with them and try to slip into Ser Pounce later. Anything else? I don’t want to be late to my lesson.”

Sansa shook her head and Arya left the room. Harwin and Alyn were at the door, and Harwin broke off to follow after Arya. They exited the Royal Apartments and came across the very interesting drawbridge connecting the holdfast to the rest of the Red Keep. It was down, like it almost always was, allowing passage across the dry moat. The moat itself always fascinated Arya. The spikes drew her eye and she remembered stories of how Helaena Targaryen had been impaled by them.

Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard was guarding the passage and instead of the usual small group of guards there were half a dozen red-cloaked ones with him.

“Where are you going?” 

“Lady Arya is attending a dancing lesson,” Harwin replied.

“How long will you be there?”

Harwin frowned. “Ser, what affair is it of yours?”

“The Stark girls are under the king’s care. In these troubled times where your lord musters his men, I want to ensure his daughters are safe.”

“I have Nymeria, I will be fine!”

“Are you saying we cannot leave?” Harwin asked.

Ser Meryn shook his head. “No, you are free to, but you will have an escort. Wait here.” 

Arya was growing impatient, but within a few minutes four Gold Cloaks arrived.

“Godwyn, take these men and escort Arya Stark to her lesson, remain with her and ensure she returns to Maegor’s Holdfast unharmed.”

One of the Lannister guardsman ventured forward with the four Gold Cloaks as Arya headed to where Syrio taught her. Since the Tower of the Hand was now occupied by Lord Royce she didn’t feel it appropriate to make use of the small hall there. Instead, Syrio trained her in one of the smaller buildings he had rented near the foot of Aegon’s Hill. They crossed the courtyard and out past the King’s Gate. There were far more guards than usual.

“Why so many soldiers, Godwyn?” Harwin asked.

“I’m not privy to the thoughts of lords and captains of men,” Godwyn replied stoically.

Hear with your ears.

Arya kept her gait even, but she felt something was wrong. She recalled the wretched dream from two nights ago – the one Sansa had dismissed as nothing of importance. Arya wondered more about it now. Her dream had been very confused. It was jumbled, full of heavy shadows  that were difficult to make out. But Arya remembered a bleeding lion. And a wolf… no, it was a dog, she decided. A dog that was just the size of a wolf. Nymeria let out a small whine. Godwyn cast a wary glance at the direwolf.

See with your eyes.

The Lannnister guard was nervous, but the four members of the City Watch looked bored and unconcerned.

Something is off. I will tell Syrio. He’ll know what to do.

Telling him about dreams wasn’t telling him about skinchanging, right? Arya reasoned it wasn’t. Sansa might disagree, but she hadn’t specifically told her not to. Her sister used that same sort of thinking all the time with her parents, so it had to be acceptable.

And if Syrio says it is nothing, then it is nothing and Sansa never has to know!