Clash of Ambitions, chapters 4-6 (Patreon)

The politics is really kicking off with this, and we’re starting to see people outside the North move. Dorne is poking under rocks, Essos is in play, and Dany has started her journey with the Dothraki.

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Chapter Four

Jaime gritted his teeth as he walked down the exterior stairs into the training yard. Day two, and he could already see the metaphorical battle lines being drawn. And there was only one person who stood alone. 

Jaime understood that Lord Tarth was without a wife or sister to provide female influence for his daughter. He understood that Lady Brienne was unnaturally tall and had a rather mannish figure, even at the tender age of ten and six. Jaime could even understand that some women wished for the skill to defend themselves. 

But he could not understand why no one had put an end to the foolishness that was Brienne of Tarth. She was far too good with a sword. Had she been inadequate or even ludicrous, the men might have accepted her better. True, they would've made fun of her when she was not on the yard, but they would have sheltered her on the field.

However, she had the great sin of being a better swordsman than most of these southern fools. Even the Dornish stood to one side, not sure what to make of the battlelines drawn on the training field. Jaime had seen those from Dorne fight the Mormonts and the rare women sent by Umber and Bolton and Karstark, but they were not willing to engage here. Hell, even the guards sent by Lord Tarth stood to one side, guarding the lady without showing any sign of supporting her madness.

Jaime eyed the men and wondered which he could shame into partnering with Brienne. Roderick the younger could be easily defeated, but he would provide such an inadequate challenge that Jaime would be unable to help Brienne improve. Dake Durwell would provide an adequate challenge, but if he lost, he would likely declare a feud against house Tarth.

“May I challenge the Lady Brienne?” Quentyn Martell asked.  He was a simple boy, short and plain and far too serious. Jaime was used to eldest sons parading their status and demanding respect, but then Quentyn wasn’t the heir. By Dorne custom, his older sister would take that throne. Perhaps that accounted for his quiet temperament. He stepped forward, spear at the ready.

Lady Brienne stood a little taller. “I would be happy for a challenge in good faith, intended to improve our skills,” she said firmly. She understood that many of the men on these grounds would not act in good faith. She was not stupid. But given that she had no womanly talents, she would have to develop more manish talents, such as knowing when someone dearly wished to start a blood feud with your house.

“Of course, my lady.” Quentyn bowed.

There would be trouble if she injured him, and he was not good enough to avoid injuring her inadvertently if she pressed him. However, he was Jaime’s best option. Jaime could not both duel her and observe her form to help her improve. 

“We shall start with three pairs.” Jaime pointed to six of the men–three from Dorne and three from the assortment of houses he was training, specifying that they must use swords.

“We would be more dangerous with spears,” one of the Dornish men said.

“Aye, you would,” Jaime agreed, “and next week I want all of you to practice with the spear. However, the sword offers many advantages, especially if you face an opponent who knows how to counter the extra reach your weapon provides.”

“Do you think you are one such?”  A tall man from Dorne demanded. He looked toward his prince, but Quentyn watched, his gaze impassive.

“I am,” Jaime said.  “If you can win your bout, I will be happy to demonstrate,” Jaime said.  He would normally avoid conflict between him and the men of Dorne, but any distraction from that great giant of a woman was welcome.  The men he had identified stepped forward, and at Jaime’s word began to spar.

Jaime called out the odd correction.  “Ser Ambrose, do not signal so early with your footwork. You do not need to put out your left foot a minute before you thrust in that direction.  Donlet Hewett, keep your sword higher if you hope to avoid a case of decapitation.”  He stopped one bout to correct a stance and sighed at the frankly mediocre quality in front of him. The Dornish were experts at spears, but they lacked grace with the sword.

After the first round of fights, Jaime was ready to handle the cockless bull that had pushed itself into his life. “Prince Quentyn, Lady Brienne, take your positions in the yard.”  Jaime did not have others fight at the same time because he knew all would want to watch. If Lady Brienne won, the Dornish men would seek vengeance. If she lost, Jaime would face dozens of men who demanded she be removed. His head ached.

Lady Brienne put on her helmet even though Prince Quentyn didn’t, and then both took their positions in the center of the crowd that had pressed themselves against the edges of the training yard.  Lady Brienne raised her sword, and Quentyn followed. From the first clang of steel against steel, Jaime could see that Brienne would win.

She was fast. Not as fast as Jaime or Arthur or Jon, but she had unusual strength to pair with that speed.  Quentyn surged forward, pressing his advantage when Brienne seemed to falter, but Jaime could see the truth. It was dangerous–feigning a retreat.  Too often, it could be turned into a retreat for real. However, this did not.

Once Quentyn had committed himself, Brienne turned into a demon, her sword dancing, striking Quentyn’s over and over until he stumbled back.  Then, instead of following her advantage and kicking his knee as Jaime would have–Quentyn did have terrible footwork, after all.  Instead, she stepped back and raised her sword in salute.

“An excellent fight, ser,” she said.

Quentyn was breathing hard, but he straightened before bowing to Brienne.  The knot of fear in Jaime’s gut loosened. Maybe Dorne and Tarth had avoided war.

“I thank you for the bout, Lady Brienne,” Quentyn offered.

“I am no lady,” Brienne insisted.

Jaime had no idea what she hoped to prove by making such a proclamation. She was the only child of Lord Tarth, and she was clearly a lady, unless she was hiding a cock somewhere between her legs. It was possible. She did have a rather square jaw for a woman, which Jaime found far less disagreeable than Florent ears, but her rough appearance and square jaw and constant declarations that she was not a lady was making this far more difficult than it should have been.

Quentyn looked to Jaime, as though he had some answer to the enigma that was Brienne of Tarth. Instead, Jaime focused on giving them feedback on their form, ignoring that one was a prince of Dorne and the other a beast of a woman. Both accepted the criticism with no more than a grimace.

Then Jaime shouted for the next pair to enter the center of the ring, and Brienne retired to a spot against the wall unoccupied by any other soul. The next two fighters engaged, and Jaime watched as they circled each other, both too timid to make the first strike. If their reticence came from a desire to study the others' form, Jaime would be impressed. But there was no form being shown at all. They both adjust circled. Like confused vultures that were trying to decide whether the other was dead. Because apparently, neither would strike until the other was already confirmed to be deceased.

Jaime shouted at both of them about wasting time, and then winced when both of them went sailing into the fight with wild blows.

Their fathers had insisted that both boys had the forms and mechanics of swordplay down already, but Jaime suspected their fathers lied. Prodigiously.  Jaime focused on the practical requirements of convincing Reach boys to engage outside the strict rules that turned swordplay into more of a dance than a fight.  By the time he had critiqued all the fighters and set them to different drills depending on their weaknesses, he was exhausted.

Quentyn, with several others, worked on his footwork, following a narrow path with predetermined steps that required him to step nimbly on uneven boards.  He ran the course once before moving to Jaime’s side. Jaime had moved to a shadowed corner distant from any of the drills, which he had intended to give him some relief from his headache, but apparently Quentyn saw only an opportunity to speak with some privacy.

Jaime braced himself for complaints.  Nobles always complained.

“I had not thought my footwork that poor.”

“It is no worse than most Southrons, prince,” Jaime said with a smirk.  Quentyn’s flat glare made it clear that he understood the insult.

Quentyn shifted his gaze to the other fighters. “Where is Arden? Should not your assistant be here to assist?”

“He is escorting young Jon on his tour of the world,” Jaime said.  He refused to give voice to the lie that the prince was Jon Stark.  He wasn’t. Robert Baratheon had legitimized him with his natural father’s name, and that meant that he was Prince Jon Targaryen.

“Yes. Jon.  My father finds him fascinating.”

Until this point, Jaime had not realized they were having the sort of conversation where men spoke of things that were not true to test the depth of the ice they hoped to walk over. Jaime knew he was not as stupid as his father liked to claim, but when it came to letters and politics, he was also not well-appointed to the task.

“Jon is as many bastards are–hungry for more.” Jaime’s gaze caught Lormya Plumm watching from the balcony. The sight gave him a pathway away from the truth. “Some hope he might find favor in Lady Lormya’s eyes.”

“She has too much blood of the dragon to make a favorable match,” the prince said mildly.

“Has anyone at Castle Lyanna suggested they hold animosity for a person’s blood?” Jaime countered.

Prince Quentyn smirked. “Indeed not. The only house you seem to take issue with is your own. You seem set against anyone with Westerland blood.”

“I am not. If I were, I would object to Lady Lormya who is a sensible woman. I am set against my father who treats human life as if it were as cheap as parchment.”

“Which is valuable enough that many cannot afford it.”

Jaime tilted his head. “But not so valuable that a person would be unwilling to destroy it if the destruction bought something he wanted. I know my father’s faults, but I do not judge all of the Westerlands by his measure.”

“If you should, the entire kingdom might be worthy of extirpation.” Prince Quentyn’s face did not suggest hyperbole or mirth, but given when Jaime’s father had done to the Martell family, he was grateful they did not judge him or Tyrion by their father’s measure.  After a long silence, the prince continued. “My father is interested in where Jon Stark might travel. We would welcome him in Dorne. My father feels there is too great a distance between the North and Dorne giving our mutual interests.”

“That is an issue for lords and princes to discuss, but as to where Jon has gone… When I was of an age, I wanted to go everywhere. To see everything.  Being at Castle Lyanna while so many men trained, Jon has made friends across the seven kingdoms. He might travel to any number of castles or holds.”

“Do you know when the young heir would return?”

“Again, young men with hot blood will follow their own inclinations rather than a set plan. I believe your uncle Oberon is proof of that.” Jaime silently congratulated himself for that point scored.

Quentyn was not distracted. “Is that what Jon Stark is–a young man with hot blood?”

“I cannot say what Jon Stark is,” Jaime said, especially given that Jon Stark did not exist. Jon Targaryen was a thoughtful and serious young man who would be a much better king than the fast wastrel currently in the Red Keep.  Tradesmen and merchants alike complained about the tariffs and taxes as they passed through the Neck.  He no longer threw the lavish tourneys that marked the first half of his reign, but the common folk were not forgiving of the fact that he had squandered the royal purse, which the Targaryens had left in excellent shape.

Prince Quentyn looked up to where Lady Lormya was whispering with one of her ladies.  “And she waits for him with no word on when the young heir will return?”

“She is employed, teaching the women of Castle Lyanna her lacecraft. When Jon returns, he will have a chance to know her.” And if Jon gave a second’s thought to marrying her, Jaime would pull him aside and school him plainly. Jon was the prince of the realm, and as the seven kingdoms fell further into debt and disharmony, the odds of him taking the throne increased. He should marry someone like Arianne Martell or Margaery Tyrell–someone who would bring the support of a major house to the union.  Lormya Plumm was a good and talented woman, and she would make a good wife for another, but not Jon. Jaime would propose to her first, if only to keep the prince away from a marriage that would not advance his cause.

“Do you support the match?” The prince’s words were too casual.  Jaime might not know how to play at game of intrigue, but he knew when they were afoot.

“Jon is the son of my liege lord.  I have no opinion on his marriage options.”

“A Lannister claiming allegiance to another house, and a cadet branch at that.  My father is most surprised at you. Your father has not disowned you. It is thought south of the Neck that you are still heir to Casterly Rock and a good match for a southron lady.”

“Your father is a wise man, but it is hard to understand those one has never met,” Jaime countered.  “I have no interest in making a match. If you will excuse me, I find I get a better view of the exercises if I watch from above.”  He bowed his head toward the prince.  “And I believe you have a footwork drill to work.”  Jaime turned his back and climbed the stairs to the balcony where Lormya stood with her attendant.

“Lady Lormya,” Jaime greeted her. He didn’t recognize the attendant so he offered her a polite nod before turning his attention to the yard below.  Lady Brienne was decimating the target she was working.  Even with a blunted sword, she had managed to split the leather.

“We were discussing how unusual it is to have a woman on the training grounds,” Lady Lormya said.  She was also a tall woman, but where Brienne was square and mannish, she was like a reed–tall, straight, moving like a reed dances when the wind blows.  Her long, white hair was gathered in complex braids and pinned in a snood. 

“I believe Lady Brienne’s hands are better suited to my training than yours, lady,” Jaime said with his most polite smile.  He didn’t like having Brienne on his training yard, but he would not engage in womanly gossip.

“I agree. But most men would force a woman to sit in a sewing circle rather than allow her to hold a sword.”

“That was her father’s choice,” Jaime pointed out.

Lormya smiled at him.  “Lord Jaime, we both know you could refuse to train her. To deny it makes it seem as if you are less tolerant–a trait I admire in you.”

Jaime bowed. “I apologize, my lady. I do not mean to imply untruths, but I am equally uninterested in your admiration.”

Her attendant giggled, and Jaime expected Lady Lormya to throw a fit at the disrespect. To be honest, Jaime was already regretting his words because they were unkind.  However, she smiled at him.

“How refreshing. I much prefer men who are honest to those who only seek to impress others.”

Jaime was surprised, but maybe he shouldn’t. Lady Lormya was far from desirable from a political standpoint. Her family was too entangled with the Targaryens to find favor with a match at her social level, and her father would never allow her to marry beneath her. Perhaps she had given up on the great Game of Marriages that fueled the seven kingdoms.

Lormya looked down again.  Lady Brienne had stepped aside to allow another to swing at the target.  “Were Jon here, I suspect he would spar with the lady. I only met him a few times, but he seemed like a lad who valued respect over the forms of polite company.”

Jaime cast a suspicious look at the lady.  “He is,” he agreed.

“The lady is young,” Lormya said.

Jaime looked down. The lady in question was a half a head taller than most of the men, and broader in the shoulder, as well.  “The lady is only three or four years younger than you.”

Lady Lormya laughed. “Yes, she is. But I found those three years between sixteen and twenty to be critical in understanding one's place in the world.”

Jaime had spent those years with Arthur at Barrow Hall on Dustin land. He had frozen his ass off and spent more nights than he could count drunk on northern ale as he mourned for the children he had not saved. Perhaps he should feel more guilty about Princess Elia, but at least he had been there for her final breath. At least he had avenged her. Lorch died before she did, and somehow that mattered to Jaime. But little Aegon had died alone and scared. He didn’t even know when or where bright and happy little Rhaenys died. Sometimes Jaime imagined their killers laughing and that being the last thing that the prince and princess had seen. The years preceding his twentieth had been filled with much, but it had little to do with understanding his place in the world.

“I hope the lady finds what she is seeking here,” Lady Lormya said.  She and her attendant walked away, leaving Jaime standing on the balcony overseeing the drills.

Chapter Five

Hal Mollen stood at the door to his father’s solar, and Robb’s stomach knotted. The man held the role of captain of the guard while Jory travelled with his father, but he had also appointed himself as the one to counter his mother’s Southron sensibilities. When his mother had attempted to ban the girls from the weapons yard, it was he that had come to Robb. Since then, he had reported when she gave orders that appeared to contradict Lord Stark’s wishes.

“Come, come,” Robb said, repressing a wince at the tone. Hal was older than he and had served Robb’s father for many years, and Robb sounded far too imperious. Luckily, the man took no offense. “How is Lady Tansalla faring?”

Lady Tansalla had been his mother’s reason for trying to bar the girls from the training yard. She was a Riverlands girl from house Blackwood–twelve and shy as any Southron girl could be. She made Sansa appear bold in comparison, and Lady Stark had insisted that the girls should, as good hosts, remain off the training yards in order to entertain their newest foster.

Instead Robb had introduced Prince Tommen and Lady Tansalla to the water dancing instructor. The man had quite a fair number of students now, and the Stark coffers were paying him well.

“The lady has taken to the bow, although she will not advance past the basic exercises with the sword.”

“Make sure the lady knows she need only do as much as she wishes.”

“Aye, my lord,” Hal said.  He closed the door, and Robb knew something was truly wrong. He set aside the tithe report he’d received from Bolton. He suspected something was wrong, but he could not track the error that would allow him to make any accusation. So he focused on Hal and whatever new disaster he had brought.

“Have you any other report?” Robb prompted him.

Hal rested his hands on the back of the guest chair. “The Lady Stark speaks of being a good host to Prince Tommen and Lady Tansalla. She says they require a place to give proper prayers.”

Robb felt the blood leave his face.

“Aye,” Hal said, “she spoke to the carpenter about repurposing one of the rooms in the old tower.”

The old tower where they were storing the excess goods required for his father’s prediction that the coming winter would be the worst they had ever seen. They had not room to make a sept, even if his father had not forbid it. However, if his mother was using Prince Tommen’s name, Robb could not be seen banning the Southron’s religion. He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Thank you for informing me.” He stood and Hal stepped back, clearing the way to the door. Clearly he expected Robb to take immediate action. Northerners knew that Lord Stark had banned the building of a sept because of the family lore that when a sept came to Winterfell, the Starks would fall. Their bannermen would riot if his mother succeeded.

Robb wanted to march straight to where the carpenters kept their tools and ban them all from listening to his mother, but the prince’s name had been invoked, and there was only one who could counter that move.  Princess Myrcella was most often in the women’s chambers where she embroidered not only her clothing, but that of the other ladies.  She was a favorite of much of the castle.

Robb hated that he must make use of her, but he had no choice if he wished to avoid offering insult. He left his father’s solar and strode down the corridor to where his betrothed would be found.  He stopped at the doorway to the women’s territory.  Sansa, Jayne, Tansalla, and Myrcella were sewing, fabric draped over their laps while the tutor who had come with Lady Tansalla spoke of the conflict between two Vale houses. The story was compelling, and Robb was tempted to listen. He did not know much of Southron houses or feuds, and what he did know focused more on who had cause to support the North and who might find profit in standing against them. But he had a critical task today.

“Princess Myrcella, might I beg some of your time to with walk with me through the godswood?”

Myrcella’s smile lit the room, and Robb felt a tightness in his chest.  He might have said something, but Ser Bywater snorted, ruining his chance to tell Myrcella how her smile affected him.  It was for the best.

“I would be most pleased.” Myrcella set aside her sewing and smoothed her hand over her skirt while Sansa and Jayne giggled. Robb had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Ever since Lady Hornwood had returned to Winterfell with her son, Sansa had been obsessed with every interaction between a man and a woman. She was looking forward to the match, and their father had charged Robb with finding a way to improve the standing of House Hornwood given their loyalty and soon-to-be close ties with the Starks.

Robb held out an arm for Myrcella and escorted her from the castle, Bywater following at a distance.  Normally he guarded Tommen, but Robb did not feel he had the right to question how the royal guards divided their duties, so he didn’t speak on it.

When they reached the shadows of the great trees of the godswood, Robb paused, unsure how to bring up the subject without causing offense.

“My lord?” Myrcella focused on him with such intensity that sometimes Robb couldn’t catch his breath.

“Princess, you know we have spoken on the issue of religion.”

“Of course, my lord. I respect that the North belongs to the Old Gods, and I find great comfort in the silence and the power of these woods, and I feel no conflict in honoring both the seven and the Old Gods. Do not people swear by the gods, old and new?”

Robb smiled. She had such grace, even for a difficult subject.  Robb adored his mother, and her love was so unshakable that it had given him a strength that he would never underestimate. However, she had not been as good of a wife as she had been as a mother. Or perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps her love was as untainted and pure when it came to her husband, but her politics were so often in conflict with the North that his father had often been placed in a difficult position.

And now his mother had cast him in the same role–that of a Northman trying to curb her Southron inclinations.

“Have you spoken to your brother about the issue?”

Myrcella frowned. “My brother? He is a child of ten, and not greatly concerned about the gods. He sends prayers still to the Mother as children do.”

Robb was unsurprised. Despite being of a similar age, Tommen acted far younger than Arya.  No doubt this concern for the prince’s prayers was an excuse by his mother.

“My lord?” Myrcella asked after a silence.  Robb ought not to speak. This was a conflict within House Stark. On the other hand, Myrcella would be a Stark once his father returned to Winterfell and their lands were ready for winter. Robb suspected his father hoped to hold a grand wedding during the long winter–something to cheer the people.

“My mother has, ever since she came to Winterfell, shown great concern that the North dismisses proper worship.”

Myrcella’s eyes grew large and her mouth opened.

“She long wanted a sept, and I fear she uses your brother’s name to build one.”

“But the legend says that your family will fall if there is a sept here.” She had genuine horror in her voice, and Robb loved her a little more for caring so much for his family, even when they had only a betrothal between them–not a marriage.

“Aye.”

She swallowed.  “I looked on your parents and thought them perfect.” Her voice quieted to a whisper. “Especially compared to mine.”

Robb moved close enough that her skirt brushed against his legs. “No marriage is perfect and every husband and every wife must work to keep it strong or else life will pull them apart.  No one is immune from having their own desires and preferences.”

“But to risk the family…”

“She does not believe in the Old Gods or the old legends,” Robb said. “She acts to bring the North and South in closer alliance by easing the way for the Seven in the North. From her point of view, she strengthens the Starks.”

“By disrespecting their beliefs.” Myrcella’s ire was engaged now.

“By valuing her own beliefs so much that she has made no room for ours.  For mine,” Robb added after a moment. His mother knew Robb believed in the danger that the Old Gods would take revenge if they allowed the Seven into Winterfell, and she still pressed her suit.

Myrcella put her hand on his.  “She will not use my brother’s name. I doubt he knows of this, but I shall talk to him about the disrespect of putting up house banners in another’s keep and make sure he understands the gods are not less mindful of such manners as are we, their people.”

Robb nodded in relief. That was one burden he did not have to carry.  “Thank you, Princess.  I shall talk to my mother.”

“I have the easier task.” Myrcella’s expression was full of sympathy.

“I do,” Robb agreed, “but I am the Stark of Winterfell and my father trusts me to hold the keep in his name.  It is my duty.”

Myrcella’s smile was enough to shine through the shadows. “I find I admire men who know their duty and do it unfailingly.”

“Then I shall endeavor to act in a way that inspires goodwill in both you and my father. He respects the same.” For one moment, Robb was tempted to tell her everything–Jon’s true lineage, her mother’s infidelity, the lack of a true heir to sit on the throne and her grandfather’s likely response to all those events.  War was coming, and she complimented him for doing his duty when his family was set to contest her brother’s right to the throne.  The North would not march for Joffrey. They had strict orders to sit in Winterfell and demand a Grand Counsel at Harrenhal to choose a new king.

However, duty forbade him to speak, and Myrcella would not be happier or more prepared for the future if she knew. All Robb could do was delay their marriage so that if she wished to never see him again after the truth was known, she was free to break the betrothal. Robb would not keep her if she would be free. However, he prayed to the old gods that she forgave his choice to keep the secret. 

“I must go to Tommen.  Good day, my lord.” Myrcella curtsied and headed back toward the castle.

“Stick to the rocky path if it’s the right one,” Ser Bywater said quietly. “A smooth path can lead to a treacherous destination.” He looked at Robb for a few seconds before he followed Myrcella. Robb had not expected to find support from the royal guard, but he appreciated it.

Robb knew his mother would be in her solar this time of day. She managed the kitchens and staff, which required significant bookkeeping. Despite his dread, he walked to her door, his heart heavier with each step. He did not wish for this conflict.

Her door was closed, and Robb knocked at it.  After a moment, she called for him to enter, and he pushed the door open. Her face lit with joy and she stood.  “Robb! Did you have some matter you required help with?”

He sat in the guest chair, and she sat as well. “I still feel the Bolton tithe is incorrect. They report the same amount of grain gathered with each harvest. Either their maester seeks to avoid doing the sums or they hide grain.”

“They’re Boltons. I’ve told you my opinion, but you will not find proof from your father’s solar.”

“And I have not the authority to ride to Dread Fort and make accusations.” And even if Robb did have that authority, he would not press it unless he had an army at his back. This was an issue for his father to sort.

As if she had read his mind, his mother nodded and said, “Your father will sort this when he returns. Did you simply wish for a break from your duties?” She sounded amused as she smiled warmly at him.

“No,” Robb said slowly, “I had heard of the carpenters being given a task that contradicted Father’s orders.”

His mother sat up straighter. “I spoke with them.” She fell silent.

“About a sept.”

Her lips pressed into an angry line. “Tansalla Blackwood and Prince Tommen are both of the Seven.”

“And Teron Greyjoy and his nurse were raised to worship the Drowned God. Shall we build a temple to them? Will we build a house of worship for each guest?”

“Am I a guest in my own home?” his mother demanded.

That took the strength from Robb’s argument. He had not meant to imply that. “This is your home. You know that.  Mother, I love you. I don’t want you to give up your faith, but you have worshipped in your room for many years.  Lady Tansalla and Prince Tommen can do the same.  No sept may be built in Winterfell or the Stark family will fall.”

“Superstition and willful ignorance,” she snapped. She was so quick to speak or act, even when her words caused harm, and Robb tried to avoid taking offense.  She did not mean to call him ignorant.

“There is as much proof for the Old Gods as there is for the Seven,” he said.  A soft padding came from the hallway, and a moment later, Grey Wind walked into the room, sitting at Robb’s side and staring at his mother. Robb let his fingers tangle in his wolf’s fur, taking strength from the connection.

“The Seven have guided their people through the world,” she protested.

“The Seven guided their people–the Andals–to leave Essos to kill and burn large parts of Westeros.  The Old Gods were here before the Seven appeared on our shores.  They are equal, but the North belongs to the Old Gods.”

“So you believe I should betray my beliefs.” His mother’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

“You should follow your beliefs, but the worship of the Seven shall not be spread in the North. Father is clear on this, as am I.  Their worship is not part of the North.”

“What do we teach that is such an abomination to you? Do you object to the Mother advocating for peace or the Father for advocating justice? Are you against the Crone’s admonition that we should prepare for the future or the Smith’s that we find productive ways to add to the world? The book of the Seven offers great wisdom, but you would ban it and dismiss the beliefs of all of Westeros!” Her voice rose, and Robb prayed to the old gods that no one could hear this fight.  Many of the servants had long memories, and the Seven were not popular with those raised in the North.

“I would stand for the faith of my fathers,” Robb corrected her. His anger was rising, but an alien calm washed over him, and for a second, his mother’s outline blurred as he saw her as she sat, but superimposed over that was a washed out version of his mother where her blue and yellow embroidery stood out from all the grays and blacks and whites of the other colors.  Robb blinked, startled by the image.

She drew her brows down in a frown. “You disrespect mine. Your Father was raised to worship trees, but I have always tried to teach you to respect everyone’s beliefs. I am disappointed that you would try to ban children from their proper worship.”

Robb took a deep breath. “I ban nothing but the building of a sept or the attendance of a septa or septon.  Our guests can, as you have, display their statues in their room. They may read their holy book or act as they believe right, but I will not bend on this issue.” Robb’s stomach soured and part of him wanted to run away from this conflict, but his bannermen expected him to act as the Stark in Winterfell, and his father had made his own expectations clear.

Robb had to stand up for Northern values.

“I am being a good hostess. The prince must have a proper place to worship, and he shall.” His mother tried to stare him down as though Robb were a child attempting to steal a sweet rather than a man of ten and six, and the acting Stark of Winterfell.

“He shall understand that putting a place of worship for the Seven here is no different than putting a Baratheon or Tyrell banner up in a Stark castle.  Baratheons and Tyrells are both welcome here, but a good guest does not hang his own colors, and the gods expect the same respect.”

His mother’s face was hard, and Robb would rather face a charging bear, but he firmed his resolve.  “The Seven and their denigration of those born outside marriage vows makes it hard to reconcile the faith with the beliefs of Northerners. It is an offense to every man of northern blood and the old gods to pretend otherwise.” 

His mother slapped a hand on the desk.  “Your love for your cousin excuses much, Robb. I understand that he is not the sort of bastard to give in to his base nature, which is a credit to Benjen and your lord father. But bastards, in general, are more dangerous.”

“Any man who is dismissed as lesser becomes dangerous,” Robb countered.

“Your faith would have us sacrifice people to trees,” his mother spat. In all the years this debate had festered in Winterfell, Robb had never heard that before.

“Your faith used to beat people to death in the streets. What our faiths used to do has little to do with how we worship now,” Robb said. “I do not claim the old gods are fair, and I know Theon Stark likely fed the blood of innocent women and children to weirwood trees just as the Faith Militant once beat people to death for failing to pray loudly enough. But today, the North follows the old gods as they are now, and neither Father or I will ever allow the Seven in any room of Winterfell where people may gather.”

Robb stood, and Grey Wind stood at his side.  His mother’s mouth was open, as though she were going to continue the argument, but Robb walked out.  His stomach hurt so much that his throat burned and he needed to find milk to soothe it.  He hated fighting with his parents, but better to argue with his mother now than his father after he returned from touring the North and shoring up their people for the coming winter, and the coming war.

Chapter Six

Jon flinched away from the worshipful looks the staff sent him as he walked next to Arthur. He had been raised the son of Lord Stark of Castle Lyanna, so he knew the attentive glances that good servants offered their lords, but this was something else. Something deeper and far more frightening. 

Jon kept his gaze forward and ignored it as best he could. An older man and woman appeared in a large open doorway. They stood far enough apart that not only did Jon get the sense that they were not lovers but also that they had some unpleasantness between them. She was truly an ancient lady, perhaps even older than the Queen of Thorns who Jon had met once during a disastrous dinner. While it had been amusing to watch the lady Olenna Tyrell ignore every social grace in order to embarrass Catelyn Stark, it had also been intensely uncomfortable.

Catelyn Stark might technically be his aunt, but she had made it abundantly clear that she disliked bastards. The fact that he had been legitimized that very day had not tempered her feelings in the least. And strangely, the Lady Olenna had delighted in poking that particular sore. This woman had a bit of that same sharp gaze to her, as though she were searching for some weakness she could exploit.

The man was not as old, but his hair was graying and his face was lined, and he looked fully capable of taking that battle onto the tournament grounds or field. He had wide shoulders, and even if Jon had not been given their names ahead of time, he liked to think that he would've recognized Oswald Whent, the bat. This was one of the kingsguard who'd protected him and his mother when he was born.

Jon still struggled with the idea that he had been born a prince. A bastard prince, but a prince nonetheless. 

“Arthur!” Whent moved towards them, grabbing Arthur's forearms and Arthur gripped his in return. 

“Whent!” You have gotten old.

“And you have gotten bald and scarred.”

Arthur ran a hand over his short cropped hair. When it started growing aboard ship, he'd been horrified to realize that he had not needed to shave the crown. Now he had a shining top with stubble short-shaved at the sides. “It has been twenty years,” he said. “I suppose we should both expect some changes.”

Whent turned toward the old woman. “Did you know Lena when we served at the Red Keep?”

Arthur bowed towards the old woman. “Indeed, I did. I was very grateful to hear that you and the Queen had escaped Dragonstone safely, and I was devastated to learn of the Queen's later death.”

Lena kept her gaze on Jon even as she answered. “She had no business trying to give that man another son, but the king was never reasonable when it came to sweet Queen Rhaella.”

Arthur clenched his jaw before answering. “No, he was not. Aerys was not reasonable in many things.”  He turned to Jon.  “This is your grandmother’s dearest friend.  Lady Lena Rowan, lady-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella. Lena, may I present Gajon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.”

“Please, call me Jon,” he said as he bowed to the lady.

“You should be called Gaemon.  It is the name your mother favored,” Lena said sharply. 

Jon had not expected to be attacked so quickly. Even the Queen of Thorns had largely let him be at that awkward dinner, only using him as ammunition against Lady Stark, never attacking him directly.  “Had I been raised by my parents and Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella and even yourself, I have no doubt that I would have been happy to be Gaemon, brother to Aegon and Rhaella. But my mother and uncle agreed on a name that would sound like Gage to the Northern ear because the North was my home.  So I am now Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, who is proud to have been raised in the North. 

“Come, let us move inside,” Whent said, stepping aside and gesturing for them to enter the villa.  There was an awkward moment when Jon didn’t move, waiting for Arthur to take lead as the elder. Then he realized that Arthur was yielding to him as the son of Rhaegar.  Jon was not a fool. He knew that his legitimization papers gave him his natural born father’s name, which was Targaryen. That was logical only if they hoped he would take the throne–if they could cast him as the lost prince.

Jon was intensely uncomfortable with that, but he stepped into the dim villa, moving to the right when Whent waved vaguely in that direction. The villa was fine and well-appointed, but it was not grand or royal or even particularly luxurious. It was the home of a merchant who did well, but not exceptionally well.  A few pieces of art hinted at the Targaryen roots of the family, a tapestry here and a carved stone figure there.

He touched the wing of a stone dragon no taller than a man’s forearm.

“It is a carving of Syrax, my lord,” Lena said as she passed him to settle into a carved settee.  “She carried only Princess Rhaenyra and no other, dying trying to stop of the bloodshed of other dragons when rioters charged the dragonpit where those great fools had chained the animals.  Thus died the greatest strength of the Targaryen rule.”

“The carving is impressive,” Jon said, unwilling to discuss Targaryen history when he knew so little. Growing up, Arthur had insisted that he had to understand the Targaryen reign to understand power, but Jon had not paid the details as much attention as he should have. He knew Princess Rhaenyra had claimed the throne after her younger half-brother was chosen over her.  He knew the civil war they started had marked the beginning of the end for the Targaryens in Westeros. He didn’t know what blame each side carried in that disaster.

Lena sighed. “Impressive. Yes, I imagine it is.” She nodded her head toward Jon, but he was grateful that she didn’t seem infected with the same reverence as the rest of the staff.  Whent and Arthur had followed, each taking a seat near the door. Lena turned her attention to them.  “What do you have planned to retrieve the Lady Daenerys?” Her voice cracked with grief. Jon imagined that if this woman had been a companion to the queen, she would have been the one who raised Daenerys, so her grief was that of a mother.

“We will find her,” Whent said firmly.

Lena turned toward him, a vicious snarl curling her lips. “You have done little so far to inspire any faith that you will put Daenerys's needs ahead of your own, but that is an old problem of yours, is it not, protecting the wrong member of the royal family?”

Whent sat straighter, but otherwise had no reaction to the viscous attack.  Arthur, on the other hand, sucked in a startled breath. “I could not seek out Daenerys with Hightower dead,” Whent said with obvious frustration. It was clear this was an old argument of theirs.

“So you think me incompetent to run a household without you here to tell me how many pounds of flour are required for dinner? You know nothing of how this household works. Nothing.”

“You need protection, and I was the last one left.” Whent’s voice was steady, but he was pale. Jon imagined this conversation was costing him much, and he looked to Arthur to see if he was going to stop the attack.

“Peace, Lena,” he said. “Whent must do his duty, and as long as there was a member of the royal family in residence, he could not leave without another kingsguard to take his place.”

Lena snorted. “You are kingsguard with no king. Yet you insist that you still carry that title.” She considered them with disdain.

Arthur and Whent both stiffened, but it was Arthur who answered. “We carry that title until the day we die.”

“Or until everyone you are charged with protecting dies, which feels far more likely in this circumstance.”

Jon had been right, the old woman, like Olenna Tyrell, knew exactly how to use words as weapons. Instead of defending himself, Arthur turned his attention to Whent. “Do you have any information on her current location?”

Whent shook his head. “They have gone east into their sea of grass, but it is so vast that I have no idea how you will find them. I have collected maps for you, and I have offered rewards to anyone with reliable information, but so far, I have only rumors, and they all disagree with one another.” 

Arthur did not seem's disturbed by this confession. “The gods old and new will guide us to her,” he said, “and we will bring her back.” He did not make any promises about what condition she would be in when she returned, and after talking to their traveling companions over the previous months, Jon had no illusions. The barbarians were savages who believed that anyone who could not defend themselves deserved little better than to be worked to death. It was a unique sort of madness they showed as an entire culture. But from what Jon had learned of his aunt, she was a capable woman who would survive long enough to take her revenge against her captors, he was certain of that. Jon would allow no other thoughts space in his mind

“We shall be here for a week while we gather supplies and search out allies and information,” Arthur said. “How is Viserys?”

Whent winced, and Lena's expression turned weary. “He is as mad as ever,” she said into the heavy silence. 

Arthur seemed to age in the space of a moment. “I had hoped that this would bring him back to his senses.”

“You assume his love for his sister outweighs his fondness for his own mad thoughts,” Lena said, “and that assumption is incorrect.” She ran her fingers along the carved arm of her settee, rubbing the wooden rose.

Arthur said calmly, “I had assumed that the Targaryen madness does not appear so young and rarely appears until they have faced some great tragedy that overtaxed of their ability to maintain emotional balance.”

Lena looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “I believe that having his entire family massacred and being driven from his home and hunted like a beast might qualify as personal tragedy,” she said dryly.

“No doubt, no doubt,” Whent said in a conciliatory tone. “But it is best that the boy not see you here, Arthur. He seems to be under some delusion and your appearance would encourage more madness.”

“What delusion does he suffer under?” 

“Suffer is the correct word,” Lena said. Jon knew his uncle had been older at the time that the family fell, but no doubt he had still been young enough that Lena had been a significant figure in raising him. No doubt she felt the pain of losing yet another Targaryen child, especially given that his grandmother the Queen had lost so many to miscarriage and stillbirth and infant death. How many children could a woman love and lose before she was too broken to open her heart to another child?

Whent explained, “He believes his sister has arranged this marriage, that she will return leading a horde of Dothraki warriors who will cross the sea and reclaim his throne for him.”

The room was silent after that, and Jon could not imagine having such thoughts when one’s own sister was being defiled and harmed.  Jon had never met Daenrys, yet he was homicidally furious at the thought of a man using his aunt that way. He wanted revenge against the horse lord, not to find some advantage in it.

Arthur leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Does Viserys truly believe that a Dothraki would follow a woman’s commands–that his sister could turn barbarians into trained soldiers who would serve him? And what use would a Dothraki be against armored knights of the realm?  If they were masters of the bow, I would fear them, but the arakh is a melee weapon. It succeeds only against unarmed villages and in mass attacks.  Dothraki must massively outnumber armored soldiers if they hope to overwhelm them.  One knight with a lance could cut through a half dozen before a Dothraki could get near enough with an arakh to pose a danger, and even then, the knight has his shield and armor to combat the weapon in close combat.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” Whent warned. “They are fearless, throwing themselves into battle in order to die and join their horse lord in the afterlife.  And the sight of them screaming a hill, wave upon wave, can unnerve the most highly trained men. That’s why so many in Essos want Unsullied guards. They don’t panic and that gives them an edge. Many an armored army has gone into full rout upon seeing the Dothraki screaming for their blood.”

“Not one I’ve trained,” Arthur said darkly.

“How I have missed your irrational perfectionism.” Whent smiled. “But if Viserys sees you here, he may see it as a sign of his coming victory. Stay out of the east wing.”

Arthur looked at Jon for some reason before he nodded in agreement. “Perhaps you can show us our rooms and we can get some rest. We had been traveling for several months, and the bathing facilities have been lacking at best.”

“And I do know how you like your baths,” Whent teased Arthur. “I have a suite set up for you in the guest quarters, and another for you, Jon,” Whent said.  Both Arthur and Lena looked constipated at the name, but Jon smiled at Ser Whent.

“The name separates you from your Targaryen heritage,” Arthur warned. Again.  

“I understand that a name shapes how others view us, and I choose to present myself as a Northman. Offering others that name will help them both understand me and avoid unnecessary conflicts. Northmen are known for fighting for honor and family, and others should understand that about me if I carry a northern name.”

“Someone has taught him his lessons,” Lena said, narrowing her eyes to study Jon.

“It is why I stayed in Westeros,” Arthur said. “Sadly, he learned too well that a man must make his own choices and find his own path because the scallywag will no longer listen to me.”

“On the matter of names, I will not. I am Jon Targaryen, raised in the North with the blood of the dragon.”

Whent stood and crossed the distance in two steps before he clapped Jon on the shoulder with a heavy hand.  “Good for you, your grace.  It takes strength to know who you are.  Follow me, and I’ll show you your rooms.”

As they left, Lena stood, watching them, her grief writ on her features.