The Dragon & The Wolf - XXVI (Patreon)

Chapter XXVI - How time and blood flow

"And the young Tyrell boy told me: ‘I shall walk in the Conqueror’s footsteps!’ The poor boy ended up losing his way in his own gardens. His mother almost lost her mind."

Alicent Hightower and her ladies laughed politely at Lord Fossoway’s story. The Queen had recently entered the seventh moon of her third and most difficult pregnancy. She put a calm hand on her belly and breathed to calm her nerves. The babe had left her restless, it kicked twice as much as Aegon had kicked, leaving her more exhausted than she had been during Helaena’s first year. A wave of sadness and sorrow had seized King’s Landing since Arthur Stark had resigned from his position as Hand of the King, leaving the Red Keep filled with opportunists, and the Royal Family filled with regret.

"The tourney had gone well." That was what her husband, the King, had tried to believe to ease their troubled minds.

But it had been an overstatement. For scandals had been close to spread.

After Arthur Stark’s abrupt departure, both Alicent and Viserys had feared Rhaenyra would drown in sorrow and refuse to leave her room, abandoning her courtship and turning this whole event into a disaster. 

But surprisingly, Rhaenyra had done her duty. As she spent the rest of the festivities covering up scandals by informing Lords, Ladies, knights and heirs, that Arthur had resigned because of the attempted assassination on his uncle, and that his fight with Ser Criston had been a fight for her favor between swornsword and adviser.

She had entertained ladies, had danced with lords and heirs, had complimented knights for their valor and had even attended dutifully the small council’s meetings. 

Rhaenyra had ended the tourney by inviting eight heirs and young lords to remain in King’s Landing. Viserys satisfied himself with this outcome. Rhaenyra had avoided a major scandal, the chosen ones had all proven themselves during the tourney or were from powerful families. And one of them was Laenor Velaryon, which had greatly pleased the Sea Snake and his spouse.

Yet, as her ladies gossiped over the latest rumors, Alicent glanced at her stepdaughter, whose elbow rested on the edge of a window, her cheek in the palm of her hand, her violet eyes were lost in the horizon.

It was rare to see her as such, she had appeared radiant and joyful in public for the past few moons, always smiling, happy, and helpful, the Realm’s Delight in all of her splendor. 

A mummer, those who knew her were not duped. She had concealed her feelings since the day Arthur Stark had left the Red Keep, hiding behind her duties as Heiress to the Throne. But sometimes, just like this one, you could see her losing herself in her thoughts as she looked North, her mind, possessed by the memory of the man she loved.

When news of Arthur Stark’s appointment as Regent of the North had reached the Small Council, Viserys had shared his concerns with his wife, because Rhaenyra had not reacted, at all. She had remained stoic and mute, she had only found her voice again when the next order of business had been drawn.

Alicent wondered if her stepdaughter already knew what she would do. Rhaenyra had recently dismissed one of her suitors, the third since the tournament. That left five potential candidates for her hand: Ser Owen Fossoway, Ser Adrian Tarbeck, Ser Amos Harlton, Lord Jonothor Reyne and Laenor Velaryon.

Did she actually intend to marry any of them, or was she simply biding her time? Was she still hoping to find a way to marry Arthur? Or was she stalling without having a plan in mind?

Her thoughts were impenetrable, neither Alicent nor Viserys had managed to break her shell. But both knew that Stark was still on the Princess’s mind. 

The handmaidens had reported worriedly that her pillow was wet every morning. The maester worried for her health, for she had lost both weight and appetite. She often isolated herself in the skies, flying alone, sometimes for hours. Her father had feared she would fly North to beg Arthur for forgiveness. But she always came back and pretended that she had not gone for hours, sometimes from dawn to twilight.

Another kick from the babe pulled Alicent out of her thoughts, she bent slightly and exhaled in discomfort.

"Is everything all right, your Grace?" The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harold Westerling asked.

All eyes instantly fell on her, including Rhaenyra’s.

Alicent brushed his concerns away.

"Everything is fine, Ser. The babe is simply growing fiercer by the day." She said.

That was an understatement, as the babe kept digging her insides like a minor in one of Casterly Roc’s gold mines.

She finally ran out of patience.

"Enough!" She thundered in dismay, and the babe instantly stopped, allowing its mother a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Arthur Stark." She thought, and realized that someone else might have made the connection.

However, Rhaenyra was not looking at her, she was looking at her belly. Alicent’s eyebrows rose in surprise when she saw regret and despair in her stepdaughter’s purple eyes. For as long as she remembered, Rhaenyra had always feared motherhood and childbirth. She had never hid her disgust for the ladies’ duties, disgust that had increased after Queen Emma’s death in the birthing bed. Yet, here she was, envying her belly.

Alicent opened her mouth, but Rhaenyra cut the grass under her feet.
"If you will excuse me, I believe I have duties to attend to."

And she left, or rather she ran, ignoring the bowing of her suitors or the worried look of her stepmother and Kingsguard. Ser Stephen Darklyn rushed to follow her, while Ser Criston Cole remained stoic in the corner of the living room.

Alicent repressed a grimace, she had almost forgotten that the Stormlander had been dismissed from the Princess’ service after the spectacle that had been the dual between Arthur Stark and him. Officially, Viserys had done so because of Rhaenyra’s explanation that her sworn shield had fought for her favor, which was reprehensible because of the kings guard’s vows. And perhaps it had been true enough not to be a simple excuse. But the truth was uglier, Alicent knew it.

Rhaenyra had visited Ser Criston after his defeat at the hand of Arthur Stark. The Northman had broken almost half of the Stormlander’s face, Grandmaester Runciter had done his best to patch up his patient’s face, but the damages had simply been too much; Ser Criston’s now crooked face would carry the scars of his defeat for the rest of his life.

Alicent did not what had been said between the Princess and her former Sworn shield, all she knew, was that the handmaiden that had come to help the Kingsguard clean himself, had found the room stormed and the Stormlander in tears.

Whatever wound Rhaenyra had inflicted upon the man’s heart would mark him far deeper than the ones he now displayed on his face. Alicent had tried to approach the knight by making him her own sworn shield, but Ser Criston Cole’s face and heart were now stone and the Queen would have better luck breaking down the Wall itself than breaking down the man’s shell.

She leaned back in her chair and breathed, everything was so complicated in the Red Keep nowadays, she prayed the Seven that her children would learn to avoid the traps laid down by court’s life. At the rate things were going, she would end up having grey hair before her twenty fifth nameday.

Her children… them too seemed to miss Arthur’s presence. It was as if a part of their world had been taken from them in their sleep and they were now searching the castle for him. Hoping to find him under the bed or in the closet. Alicent wondered if they would ever forget him.

(-)(-)(-)

Viserys Targaryen, the first of his name, lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, was having another bad day.

The moment Grandmaster Runciter had given him the letter from the North, the King knew something had happened. Arthur Stark would not send a raven to simply inform him of a good harvest or to get news from Court, he was done playing their game.

The news were alarming, the Night’s Watch had alerted the Regent of the North regarding an imminent attack on the Wall by an army of wildlings. In response, Arthur Stark had called his banners and would soon host all the Northern Lords in order to lead them North against their common ennemies. Viserys had grimaced, he did not want to tell Rhaenyra about any of this, his daughter was in a fragile state of mind and would end up doing something irrational if she knew. On the other hand, her learning in any other way of this turn of events could be far worse. Viserys had pondered this dilemma for almost an hour, then he finally mustered his courage and went to his daughter’s room.

He found Rhaenyra at her desk, writing and sealing letters with an unexpected ease. Her face, who had once been beaming with energy and joy, was now as unexpressive as porcelain, she rose her eyes from her work and greeted him.

"Father."

"My child." Viserys tried to warm up his words to ease his daughter’s mind, but she remained unreceptive. "What are you doing?"

"I am writing letters for the coming namedays and births of all nobles in the Realm." She said. "I want them to know I am here for them, and it is a way to remind them that I will be their Queen one day."

"A wise gesture." Viserys approved. His eyes fell on a smaller pile of unsealed letters.

"What about those ones?"

"They are for the Stepstones. Torrhen Manderly has requested the permission to start building a castle on Steelwater, and Laenor Velaryon as suggested the name of one of his cousins for the lordship of Bleakheaven. The Manderlys have offered to use their own ressources to build the castle, so I would have come to you for your approval. As for Bleakheaven, well, Daeron Velaryon will obtain it if he manages to assemble enough forces to protect his land."

Viserys rose an eyebrow.

"You don’t expect the Sea Snake to lend him ressources?"

"It would be inappropriate of us to ask or to put it as a condition, Lord Corlys has already spent many ressources to get rid of the pirates. I’m sure he will consent to spend more for his nephew, but I won’t ask for it. Neither will I ask the Lannisters and Manderlys to protect Bleakheaven for free. If Daeron wishes to establish himself as a lord, then he must, officially, enlist his own men himself. The Sea Snake can always help him and will probably do it."

Viserys nodded, his child had grown wiser in the last two years and was taking her duties very seriously, but he could not help but suspect her unhappiness.

Rhaenyra put her feather down.

"Can I help you with something?"

"Oh no, I simply…" He bit his tongue, there was no easy way out of this. "A raven came from Winterfell."

A chill went down Rhaenyra’s spine and she widened her eyes but tried to remain impassive.

"The Night’s watch has called for aid, an army of wildlings is marching towards the Wall, the Lord Regent has called for his banners."

A moment passed, then another before Rhaenyra frowned.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I did not want you to learn it in any other way."

The silence lasted for a dozen of seconds, the Princess ended up sighing to evacuate her emotions and said:

"Thank you, Father." She said, then she went back to her letters.

Viserys watched with sadness as his daughter was trying to bury her feelings. He gently put his hand on her’s.

"My child." He whispered. "Please, talk to me. Seeing you unhappy makes my heart bleed."

Rhaenyra did not move, Rhaenyra did not speak, Rhaenyra waited for him to give up.

He would not.

"I know why you work so hard."

"I am simply doing my duty." She said.

Her voice was laced with sorrow, Viserys knew better.

"You do not want Arthur’s lessons to go to waste, don’t you?"

Only a blind man would not have been able to read the struggle to suppress her tears on the Princess’s face. Viserys gently rubbed her hand.

"Rhaenyra… I know you do not wish to marry any of the suitors you have kept, so why do you bother? Do you intend to marry Laenor in order to follow Arthur’s advice? Did you keep the others so you could have enough time to mourn?"

Her purple eyes betrayed her terror.

"How…?" She whispered. "How did you…?"

"I know you, dear daughter." Viserys’s voice was filled with as much comfort as he could muster. "I also know that you are trying hard to make things right by doing your best with your duties. Which means that… deep down, in your heart, you’re hoping he will forgive you."

Rhaenyra’s face was stone, but her eyes filled themselves with tears that rolled down her cheeks and splashed her letters.

"It’s all in vain, isn’t it?" She said. "He will never forgive me and I am just wasting time."

"Oh… Rhaenyra…" Her father murmured.

"Even if he… by some miracle, manages to forgive me, what good will that do? He will never marry me, I’m doomed to be alone."

Viserys swallowed hard, his little girl needed hope against her despair, he needed to find a way to give it to her, anything…

"What makes you think he will never forgive you?"

Wrong question to ask, her stone face instantly crumbled.

"Because he believes I have insulted his family." She said between sobs. "Because Ser Criston broke his House’s banner and scarred his face for life. He believes that I have wished for all of this to happen, but I never wanted this. I just… I just wanted him to love me as I love him, I’ve never wanted to hurt him… ever."

Viserys went around her desk to hug his daughter, she buried her face into his doublet.

"I love him so much." She confessed. "I had never felt anything like this, and I have ruined everything…"

Viserys held her tighter, ignoring the pain in his own heart.

"I dream of him every night. Every night… I dream of growing old with him, of carrying our children in my arms, of laughing with them without a care in the world… but then they turn into ash, and I wake alone… I don’t want to be alone. Please… Anything but this… Please."

Viserys thought long and hard, trying desperately to find a way to appease his daughter, to make her swallow back her tears. But how could he, when he was not even able to hold back his own?

(-)(-)(-)

Wintertown was a grim place and Igon Waters hated it. For fourteen moons, he has lived in this seven damned town, and for fourteen moons he has hated his face for it, with his dark hair and brown eyes.

He was born in Flea Bottom twenty-six years ago, in a brothel of all places. The Matriarch there had a rule: no wood witch, some men paid double for pregnant whores, and the children would be taken care of until the girls were old enough to work, and the boys were old enough to steal their own food. Igon never knew which of the whores was his mother, no one did. A whore was no mother.

He had fled the capital when he had been ten, engaging himself as a cabin boy for a tyroshi ship. He thrived in Essos as a spy for every magister that paid good money for a child-spy. And when he had been old enough to climb up the ladder in his employer’s business, he formed himself as a baker and a mummer to the domains and mansions of the Magister’s enemies’ and eventually, to poison them. A year ago, his employer, a fat Tyroshi magister named Delakwo Geonesys, had informed him that a Myrish trade partner of his needed a Westerosi assassin. Bednar Fyllonnis had been the Myrish trade partner’s name.

The plan had been simple, infiltrate Wintertown as a baker, and kill a Stark, any Stark.

To do so, Igon had changed his name into Mikhen Snow, and opened a bakery with his employer’s money in Wintertown in which he sold essossi cakes and breads. It did not take long before his exotic creations caught the eye of the lord’s very own Bastard daughter, Sara Snow. Who had made it a habit to buy some of his olive bread every time she returned from hunting. Igon considered poisoning the bread and be done with it, but his employer’s had ordered a Stark’s death, not a Snow’s. So he bid his time, in this dreadfully cold country that he had grown to despise, him who had lived for over fifteen years on the warm western coast of Essos.

Nonetheless, Sara Snow had been useful, since Winterfell’s very own head cook had come to his bakery to buy his bread. Infiltrating the castle would have been impossible for Igon, who knew he’d be caught or at least suspected if a Stark had found himself poisoned mere weeks or moons after he was hired. So he remained outside the castle, silently observing the habits of Winterfell’s staff, where they bought their milk, their meat, their bread, their butter and their ale. The last one was what caught the man’s eye.
By befriending Rorge the brewer in a tavern, Igon learnt that Lord Rickon and his brother Bennard were both picky regarding their ale. They both bought Rorge a small barrel of his best spicy ale every moon, Igon saw the opportunity in that.

First he offered Rorge a piece of freshly baked spicy bread, the brewer found it exquisite, and as Igon had planned, bought him a bit of his essossi spices to try making an even better ale than his own.

It only took one more moon before Rorge came back in Igon’s bakery with an excited smile to buy him more of his spices. Apparently, Lord Rickon had loved this new ale of his and wanted more of it.
Igon waited a moon, he needed to find a way to make sure Rorge would not find the poison in the spices. So one day, he knocked at the brewer door with some bread and spices, and asked Rorge if he could taste this ale that he needed his spices for.

The brewer had accepted, after all, Igon’s spices were the secret ingredient of his now most expensive ale, sharing a mug of it was only fair. And Rorge had been very excited to show how he made his beverage. The poor man was almost forty, unmarried and alone. His brewing boom was all he had, and Igon had almost smiled when he had seen the brewer pour the entire content of his bag of spices in one go, without making sure that it only contained spices.
Igon waited a moon, and then another just to be sure, but he had enough of this cold hell and could not wait to return to Tyrosh. Where Delakwo Geonesys would cover him in gold.

He mixed the Stranger with his spices, sold the bag to Rorge as he did before, and waited. And waited… When finally, news of the Lord Rickon’s poisoning reached Wintertown. Igon had joined the crowd that had gathered in front of the Castle’s gate.

"Is our Lord alive?" A man twice Igon’s age had cried.

"Yes." One of the guards had answered, exasperating Igon. "His bastard daughter has managed to save him. He is weak, but alive."

The entire crowd had sighed in relief and thanked the Old Gods for their mercy. Igon had cursed them, and cursed the girl that had bought his olive bread for so many moons. He considered poisoning her but quickly forgot about it. Instead, he had waited until she came back to his bakery and had asked.

"M’lady, I pray for your father’s recovery, may the Old Gods have mercy on him."

She had sighed in sadness and frustration, and for a second, Igon saw that she had considered not buying the bread. 

"I thank you, Mikhen," She had said. "I wish my father had as much faith as you do, he has appointed his nephew Arthur as our Regent until his son comes of age."

Igon had shown a horrified face, but was inwardly pleased

"M’lady… is your father…?"

"… he will be gone in a few moons at best. Thank you for the bread."

She never came back after this incident, but Igon could not have cared less. He only needed to wait for the old Lord’s death to pack up and go home, he needn’t take any more risks.

Six moons later, the damn old man was still alive and Igon was furious. He hated Wintertown, he hated the Starks, and he hated this damn bakery. 

Poisoning the Lord again was impossible, since he was still bedridden and everything he ate or drank was controlled by the maester. To make matters worse, the Regent had apparently hired food tasters to discourage poisoning.

However, a new opportunity presented itself: the Lord Regent had called the banners, all the most powerful Lords of the North had been called to Winterfell where a feast would take place. Already, Winterfell’s staff was searching Wintertown for people to hire. Igon only needed to wait, he was the best baker in town, surely, someone would invite him to work in the castle for the time being. If he were to poison Lord Rickon again, the maester would simply say that his first poison was done killing him. No one would suspect him, then, he would leave this fucking country to never return, not even for another thousand gold coins.

The ringing of a silver stag against his counter startled him and pulled him out of his thoughts. A tall young man with dark hair and grey eyes was smiling at him, he was wearing a wolf’s pelt on his shoulders, the sigil of House Stark had been sewn on his doublet.

"Hello, Mikhen, my cousin told me you sold olive bread."

Igon immediately bowed.

"Lord Regent… I…"

"Do you sell olive bread?" Arthur asked.

"I do… M’lord."

"Impressive." He complimented. "How did you manage to obtain olives in the North? Such fruits cannot grow under our sun."

Igon suppressed a snort from coming out of his nostrils, that dumb northerner knew nothing.

"I met a Dornish merchant years ago, m’lord. He sells his olives in jars full of brine to conserve them. His shop is his ship, and he comes to White Harbour twice a year. I always buy as much as I can every time he comes North. He keeps a lot for me because he also trades it for some Chestnut flour that they do not make in Dorne."

He had prepared his lie long before he had established himself in Wintertown. His story could not be verified, the Stark man would not travel all the way down to White Harbor to make sure a Dornish ship that comes twice a year, sold olives. Lord Manderly would not know either, how could he know all the ships that came to his harbor?

Arthur Stark nodded.

"I’ll take a bit of that olive bread then, my cousin Sara told me it was the best bread she had ever tasted."

"M’lord is too kind."

Igon took the freshest and warmest piece he had, wrapped it in a piece of clean linen, and handed it to the Stark. He was about to calculate how much change he needed to return when the Regent bit the loaf.

"Mmmh. Not bad at all…" He said as he chew. "But I believe your Dornish lied to you, those or Essossi olives, Tyroshi or Myrish perhaps. Dornish olives are conserved in olive oil, more expensive to be sure, but always tastier. The Essossi keep those in brine. It is less expensive, and just as effective, but it dulls the taste."

Igon panicked for a second, had the Stark known all along? Had the assassin underestimated him?

"M’lord… I… I swear I did not know! Please take your silver…"

"No need good man." Arthur said with a gentle tone. "The bread was still good, and you did not specify wether those olives were Dornish or Tyroshi. The price was more than fair, the only one that has been duped here, is you. Make sure that Dornish man does not scam you any longer."

Igon exhaled a sigh of relief.

"I will, m’lord, I swear."

"Good." 

Igon quickly busied himself calculating the change, it took him ten seconds, ten seconds during which he took his eyes off the Stark, therefore, he never noticed that his grey pupils had turned milky white. What he did notice, though, what the sudden change of expression when he came back at him. Arthur Stark was done smiling, Arthur Stark looked feral, and before Igon could open his mouth, a dagger came out of nowhere and nailed his wrist against his own counter.

Igon screamed in pain, he dropped the copper coins that he was holding to pull the blade out of his flesh. But another one appeared and his left hand suffered the same fate as his right.

Igon screamed again, which attracted every pair of eyes on the street to him, some women screamed, some guards rushed to his bakery, but they stoped once they realized that their Lord was the culprit.

"Watch him." Arthur commanded, his voice colder than Winter. "Make sure he doesn’t pull out the blades. I need him alive."

Without another word, he jumped over the counter and disappeared in the bakery. Igon tried to move, but the guards seized his hands to prevent him from forcefully removing the blades from the counter.

Igon heard a clay jar being crashed, and saw a rat run out of his shop. Less than a minute later, the Stark reappeared holding three little pots sealed with red cork stopper.

Igon’s eyes widened in horror.

"How?" He thought. "They were hidden among my spices. How could he have known which ones contained poison?"

"Two of those are full." Arthur noted as he weighted them in his hands. "But the last one…"

He opened it and smelled it.

"… Contains the Strangler."

He opened the others.

"You also had wolfsbane, and what I can only guess to be tears of lys. Expensive poisons, even for a good assassin. You’ve been here for what? More than a year?"

He sounded impressed

"What patience! You are the most meticulous assassin I have ever met. I thought you’d have been long gone by now. But I guess you could not go home to collect your gold until your target had been declared dead, could you?"

Igon did not answer, Igon was cursing himself. He had been caught, he had been caught and he had no idea how in the name of the Gods this happened. What was a rat even doing in his bakery, when the smell of the laurel and the eucalyptus that he had collected was supposed to keep them away?

(-)(-)(-)

When Igon woke up, he found himself in a place so dark that he thought himself blind. He tried to move his injured arms and legs but realized his limbs had been tied to a wall. He cursed, and cursed himself again. He should have left Wintertown, he should have established himself in another Northern city and wait for the Lord’s demise to reach him! Six moons! He had had six moons to flee and he had stayed. 

Something moved in the shadows, a light, he heard footsteps. A few seconds later, Arthur Stark appeared in front of the bars of his cell with a torch in hand and a man at his side.

The man’s hair were dark, his skin pink and blotchy, his nose broad, but what disturbed Igon were his eyes, they were pale and feral. It made his skin crawl.

"Hello there, ‘Mikhen’." Arthur said. "Allow me to introduce my friend: Erick Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort."

The newly named Erick licked his meaty lips, looking at Igon as if he were the juiciest steak he had ever seen.

"I won’t talk." Igon warned.

The northmen laughed, Bolton shook his head.

"They all say that." He answered. "But they just can’t stop themselves from singing to me once I start undressing them."

A shiver ran down the poisoner’s spine, he braced himself as the Regent opened the cell.

"His body is all yours." Arthur said. "Keep his tongue and his life, that is all I’m asking." 

"I wish your body was mine, instead." Erick sighed as he unpacked his bag.

Igon gasped when he saw the Bolton carefully displaying a collection of blades of all sorts, Stark ignored him and took a sit on a nearby stool.

"You’re staying?" Erick was surprised.

"He might say things you would consider useless. I want to hear every word that comes out of his mouth."

"There will be more screams than words."

"Then it will be as entertaining as it will be instructive."

Erick smiled a wet-lipped smile.

"Spoken like a man after my own heart." He said dreamily as he approached Igon. "You needn’t worry, Arthur, as we Bolton say: a naked man has few secrets…"

He cut Igon’s breeches and shirt and ripped them off. The poisoner’s breathe quickened.

"… but a flayed man’s got none." He said, and blood flowed.

AN: Sorry for the delay, I'll have a lot more time to write in the coming weeks ;)