29.Schemers, Cravens, and Fools

3rd Day of the 8th Moon, 303 AC

Samwell Tarly

It was nearly three hundred miles from Oldtown to Horn Hill by road, a hard stretch even in fair weather. The already long journey was lengthened further by rainy days and mud-soaked roads. His palfrey had broken its leg in the mud, and Sam had to ride the spare donkey, a slow and stubborn beast that liked to bite and kick. The crippled horse was discarded, sold for meat to the nearest inn for a few silver stags.

They had left the road on the sixth day, and as they approached Horn Hill, the few weary travellers they met had brought word of fire and fighting in Oldtown. Each told a different story; in some, the Hightower had fallen, while in others, the Ironmen had been repelled after burning half the city.

Samwell was not made for the saddle. Horses and mules and donkeys were ill-tempered, unruly beasts, and your arse bruised after hours of riding. And the smell, oh the smell.

Worse yet, the rain had soaked him thrice over, leaving him with a runny nose and a sore throat. Both Alleras and Sam could recognise the symptoms—a common chill. It wasn’t terrible, but if left untreated, it could turn very bad or even fatal.

Alas, the scarce few inns on the road didn’t have any herb women or hedge wizards, not that they could deal with the ailment better than acolytes with a silver link.

Sam dared not risk his health, so they rushed to Hornhill through the mud and cold rain.

Even after half a moon, Sam couldn’t get a read of Alleras, for his fellow acolyte still kept a slight smile as if laughing at a jape only he knew.

“I didn’t think you’d be so quick to agree to accompany me to the Wall,” Sam rasped out. “It’s not a place many venture into willingly.”

Alleras smiled softly as always, making Sam’s heart skip a beat.

“I always wanted to travel and see the world, you know? The Wall is merely another place I have yet to visit. It is colder than most, true, but it’s one of the wonders in the world, the grandest monument built by the hands of men. And giants and Children of the Forest, if the old tales are to be believed, of course.”

Sam scratched his nose. The Wall was too dangerous for curiosity, he wanted to say, but he remained silent. He dreaded travelling on his lonesome.

Instead, he asked, “Why’d you go to the Citadel, then? When you forge your chain, you’d be a maester in Oldtown or bound to some keep, unable to travel far and wide.”

“I have a love of knowledge and reading,” Alleras said, smiling ruefully. “But I love freedom more. I always planned to read to my heart’s content and forge some links without swearing any vows, you know?”

“Oh,” was all Sam could say. He had no choice in the matter. He never did. The Night’s Watch’s vows bound him stronger than any prison ever could, and he could either study, return to the Wall, or be branded a traitor. “Didn’t you already sail with your mother?”

Alleras’s smouldering eyes turned misty for a moment. “I did, but there’s more to see than the port cities and small harbours across Westeros and Essos.”

The mood turned solemn afterwards, and Sam felt too tired to inquire further.

At last, Horn Hill was finally in sight.

After his time at the Wall and seeing a battle of his own, Sam could finally appreciate the fortifications of his family’s castle. They were not nearly as formidable as the walls of Oldtown, but they were solid in their own right. Not imposing, but difficult to siege and storm with curtain walls just shy of forty feet tall and a third as thick, all hewn from dark granite. A deep, wide moat surrounded the base of the hill.

The drawbridge was lowered, and they could easily reach the front gate.

A pair of guardsmen showed up from the postern gate to meet them.

“What do a Night’s Watchman and a Summer Islander want in Horn Hill?”

“I am Samwell Tarly.” His voice had grown hoarse and weak from the cold. “Eldest son of Lord Randyll Tarly, and this is my companion, an acolyte of the Citadel by the name of Alleras. I request to see my Lady Mother, Melessa Tarly.”

The guardsman narrowed his eyes, studying them with a hint of disdain. Eventually, he let out a long sigh. “Hold a moment. I’ll fetch someone who can confirm if you truly are who you’re claiming to be.”

“We’re willing to partake in Guest Right,” Alleras added.

The remaining guardsman snorted.

“The old laws of hospitality mean little after the Red Wedding, and only the Lady of the Keep can offer it. You can enter if you surrender your arms, Lady Regent’s orders!”

Sam wondered why a regent would be here for a moment, but then he remembered. Both his father and his brother had perished in the fires of King’s Landing. Talla was the next in line for the Lordship, and at five and ten, she wouldn’t have reached the age of majority that would allow her to rule the Horn Hill lands just yet.

He just hoped that this ‘Lady Regent’ was his mother.

“We’ll surrender our arms, Ser,” Sam said at last, earning himself an irked glance from his companion.

Five minutes later, they were in the gate tower, and Alleras reluctantly handed over his quiver of arrows, two daggers, and an unstrung goldenheart bow.

“It’s a gift from my mother,” he hissed. “You better not damage it.”

The guard who was searching them only scowled. “Why would an acolyte need such a fancy bow?”

“Are you a brigand or a robber to steal so openly?” Sam wheezed out, earning himself a derisive snort.

Yet the man-at-arms continued silently and packed away all their arms after they had been checked, though his hands seemed to linger more on Alleras’ grey robes for some reason.

Sam shuddered. Was the angry sentry a sword swallower?

“What a cunt,” his companion muttered with a twitch of his lips after they were left around in the bare stone room.

“Many people are mean to those they deem lesser,” Sam croaked out before coughing heavily. His mind was filled with the prospect of spiced honeywine to soothe his throat, a hearty chicken to bolster his ailing health, and a warm and dry featherbed.

Another man-at-arms entered and brought them into the paved outer yard, where they were met with half a dozen soldiers clad in ringmail, led by Ser Halys Hunt, Horn Hill’s master-of-arms.

“Lord Sam,” he muttered after a moment of scrutiny. “It is good to see you here. Who is your friend?”

Hunt’s face looked as if he had swallowed something sour at the sight of his companion.

“This is Alleras, Ser,” Sam muttered, “an acolyte from the Citadel and hails from the Summer Isles.”

The knight nodded stiffly, but the suspicion in his eyes did not lessen.

“I thought acolytes studied in the Citadel or travelled with their maesters?”

“I decided to accompany Sam to Castle Black,” Alleras replied boldly, uncowed by the steel-clad knight half a head taller than him. “I can always return to finish my studies in Oldtown later.”

Two figures dressed in red and green gowns rushed out from the main keep.

“Sam! Thank the Seven, you’re alive!”

He almost melted when his mother, Melessa, pulled him into her warm embrace. Her hands clutched him with desperation that hadn’t been there the last time. His vision began to swim, and he had to duck his head and reluctantly pry himself away from his mother’s grip to wipe his eyes with his damp sleeve.

After gathering himself, Sam managed to inspect his smiling sister. The child he remembered was no longer there. In her stead was a maiden with dimpled cheeks and a willow-like body, almost a woman grown. She would be the future Lady of Horn Hill, ruling the vast lands of Tarly.

His rising envy was quickly extinguished; being a ruling lord and lady meant leading, and leading wasn’t easy. His father had been right; Sam was too craven to lead or take any responsibility. Having other men’s lives in his hands made him want to turn around and run away.

“Let’s change you into something dry and warm.” Melessa’s commanding voice shook Sam from his stupor, and his feet obeyed.

An hour and a hot soak later, Sam, clad in a soft black doublet, was in the private family parlour gorging himself on a table laden with hot food.

His mother knew him best, after all. Yet something in her greeting rankled him now that the bath had bled out some of his tension and relieved his mind.

“Why would you think I am dead, mother?”

Gilly’s arrival and his letter should have spoken of his well-being more than enough, even after his father had spread rumours of his death.

“Do you not know?” Melessa’s face turned grim. “Euron Greyjoy and his reavers attacked Oldtown about a sennight ago. Your aunt Rhea perished in the fighting.”

“So the Hightower fell,” Sam muttered, feeling the strength drain from his limbs. “We heard whispers on the road about it, but nothing… reliable.”

He hated being right, but at least they had missed the fighting. Next to him, Alleras looked particularly worried.

“What about the Citadel?” the dusky acolyte asked, voice laced with trepidation.

“I haven’t asked,” his mother replied sadly. “Ser Baelor Hightower defeated the reavers by daybreak, but they say the cost was bitter. The ravens come with words of fighting in the dark and fire scorching through the city. But I do know that the Hightowers lost half their kin, and for the rest… they’re still counting the dead.”

Alleras paled while Sam just stared numbly at the steak before him. He shouldn’t have been surprised—the Ironmen’s love for cruelty and ruthlessness was widely known. Yet Sam couldn’t bring himself to put another bite in his mouth, no matter how delicious the small feast before him was. His mother continued, speaking of tragedy and death and destruction, and Sam’s fingers reached for the spiced honeywine instead.

On days like this, Sam was grateful he was a craven.

“I sent letters to the Citadel inquiring about your well-being, you know,” his mother finally finished, wiping her tears with a napkin. “They said you were no longer there, and I feared the worst!”

Sam didn’t mind the second hug. He even wanted to console her, to tell her he was now a worthy man—a proud brother of the Night’s Watch.

How proud would Melessa be when she discovered he was called Sam the Slayer? That he was the first man to kill a White Walker since the Age of Heroes?

Yet the empty boasts choked in his throat. Sam did not want to lie to his mother. And if he couldn’t tell her the truth… he would remain silent.

“How are Gilly and little Sam?” he croaked out instead.

“The girl works in the kitchen now.” Melessa’s words dripped with contempt. “Couldn’t you have found a better paramour, Sam?”

Sam wanted to defend Gilly, to say that she was a good woman. But Craster, her father, had gotten her with child. Sam had never dared ask if Gilly’s mother was also one of Craster’s daughters…

His red face from the cold only flushed further, but his mother kept prattling on. “At least my first grandson is a spitfire. He has my eyes! Little Sam has already started walking and drives his minders mad—”

The more her eyes were alight with adoration, the deeper a knife stabbed into Sam’s heart.

The child wasn’t Sam’s bastard, let alone the blood of Tarly. Little Aemon wasn’t even Gilly’s bastard. He was the son of the long-dead King-Beyond-The-Wall, the legacy of Mance Rayder… and he made his mother happy.

Sam opened his mouth to tell her the truth about the babe, but the words refused to come out. It would mean crushing Melessa’s happiness and bearing the brunt of her disappointment.

If little Sam Flowers turned into Aemon Steelsong, the innocent orphan would lose everything he had. A doting grandmother, a warm home, and the luxury of the South that wildlings could scarcely provide.

It would be the right thing to do.

But Sam was craven, and he couldn’t tell the truth. He couldn’t bear to see his mother’s smile wilt. To his eternal shame, he remained silent.

“…Do you want to see little Sam now?” Melessa’s words brought him back, and the eagerness in her eyes twisted the knife already stabbed in his heart.

“Maybe later,” he said, trying to focus hard on his half-eaten steak. “I want to rest now.”

Was he going to stay a coward forever?

His mother’s face was filled with concern. “Should I call for Maester Jaron?”

“There is no need, Mother. I have already forged a silver link myself,” he said proudly for the first time, and his mother beamed at him. It wasn’t much, but he had done it with his own effort, without outside aid. “I’ll need some herbal supplies, though.”

“Oh, how you’ve grown, Sam.” Melessa sighed before waving over another servant. “What are your plans now?”

“Return North after some rest,” Sam muttered. “I am a man of the Night’s Watch now.”

15th Day of the 8th Moon, 303 AC

Alleras

They lingered in Horn Hill for five days until Sam nursed himself back to health. Without the infamously stern and capable Randyll Tarly, his heir, and most of their strength perishing in the Desolation of King’s Landing, the Red Huntsmen of the Marchers no longer looked as dangerous. How did such a fierce father beget a craven son?

It wasn’t like Sam was a fool and a lackwit, but Alleras had never seen a bigger craven.

It would take at least a generation for House Tarly to recover both in numbers and strength; a mother and a daughter could hardly lead such a martial House.

At least not in the Reach; it had been done more than once in the North and Dorne, but the ladies in question had to train themselves in arms and warfare. Women couldn’t beat men in strength, which meant they had to put more effort into technique or cunning.

Yet that was not what Melessa had chosen for her eldest daughter, Talla. Like every Reach maiden, the future Lady of Horn Hill was a soft and pretty garden flower. Her future was to find a proper consort and bear as many sons as possible. The man in question had to be capable enough of respectable lineage, yet not too important or ambitious to usurp House Tarly.

Alas, Sam had turned too craven to pick up the bastard babe, if for a somewhat understandable reason. Who would want to raise a child in the cold, harsh North compared to the warm and sunny Horn Hill?

After the last Tarly son had healed, they didn’t linger too long and returned to Oldtown. With the Iron Fleet shattered and the Ironmen broken, a ship was the fastest way to the Wall, and it wouldn’t see them risk going through the war-torn Riverlands and Stormland’s roads overflowing with bandits and sellswords. Not that there was much difference between the two. Of course, Sam had shied away from venturing into a Dornish town to take a ship from there.

Before long, Oldtown’s walls loomed in the distance, almost impossible to recognise after the battle. Faces filled with grief streamed out of the gates, some even marked by angry red burns. Garments were covered with soot or ash, and even the usually eager peddlers wore a grimmer face.

The once cheerful and lively city was now a dreary, half-charred husk. Yet the streets were swarmed with activity, and criers were recruiting sailors for the new Hightower fleet in a quest to attack the Iron Isles. Many men with bloodshed in their eyes gritted their teeth and were swift to enlist.

Others toiled over some of the singed ruins, gradually pushing aside charred stones, bricks, and half-burned logs, sifting through the ash for bones or anything of value.

Yet Sam muttered something to her before they reached the docks.

“What do you mean you’re staying here?” Alleras exploded.

Sam didn’t meet her eyes.

“The Lord Commander bid me forge my chain before returning.” The words were barely audible as the fat man, no, he was still a fat boy even at twenty, shuffled uneasily, refusing to meet her gaze. “Now that the Ironborn are gone, I do not need to return so soon.”

What had her father told her?

“Cowardice is not a sin. Yet cravens die many times before their time arrives, yet the valiant never taste death but once!”

The words of wisdom still echoed in her ears. They were bitter, too. Seven above, why did her father have to die such an inglorious death? Yet those were dangers of living fast and hard—haste only sent you into the embrace of the Stranger faster.

“Fine, go forge your links,” Alleras said thinly. “I shall go to see the North by myself.”

Predictably, Sam’s shoulders slumped as he slunk away towards the Citadel. Would he find another excuse to run away once his chain was forged? Was it because he couldn’t muster his courage to pry the babe away from Melessa Tarly and feared to explain his failure?

Alleras shook her head; it was of no concern to her. The idea of crossing the North was lodged in her mind, and a burning desire festered in her chest to see what the cold realm of Westeros had to offer. Having a taste of the air outside the walls of Oldtown had reignited her desire for travel and adventure, and her ears had gone sore from listening to the old fogies in the Citadel prattle on for years.

Seeing her family on the way there wouldn’t hurt, either. Gods, it felt like an eternity had passed since she had spoken to her sisters.

16th Day of the 8th Moon, 303 AC

Cersei Lannister

The panting Burton Lannett rolled off Cersei, his skin glistening with sweat. Even she was still wracked by slivers of phantom pleasure; the knight was a man skilled in the art of pleasing a woman. Her new lover was from a poor cadet branch of the Lannetts and had a comely face. If she squinted her eyes, he almost looked like Jaime, albeit with brittle yellow hair and hazel eyes.

She did not need to lie with some common knight like this, but even a woman like her had needs and had to banish the loneliness. Fervent coupling filled the void Jaime left when he started pretending she did not exist, if briefly.

Oh, why was he so wroth for such trifles? Why was Jaime still sulking around in the Golden Tooth, refusing to return to Casterly Rock? Her brother was Cersei’s other destined half, and he was supposed to be the one who understood her the most.

“Leave,” she commanded when Burton began to fondle her teats. Those were the royal breasts that had weaned two kings, not to be desecrated by his rough hands.

“As you command, my queen.” He gave her one final lusty leer and began pulling on his tunic and leggings before slipping out by the servant door of her quarters.

Cersei wrapped herself in a robe of crimson satin and summoned her servants, bidding them to draw her a bath and fetch her a pitcher of Arbour gold.

An hour later, she was on one of the few terraces in Casterly Rock, lounging on a tapered chair, nursing a goblet of wine and enjoying the sun’s warm caress and the soft breeze. It was the finest terrace in the Rock, the one her father had always used, with a clear view of the Sunset Sea from high above. There was no other like it, carved into the cliffside with masterful precision in a way that shielded it from wind and rain and inlaid with marble and gold. A terrace worthy of a king—and now it was hers alone.

The blue sky stretched on as far as her eyes could see, unmarred by any clouds, and the dark waters of the Sunset Sea had finally calmed down.

One of the foolish pretended was down, now only two remained. Once the pesky Targaryens were gone, nobody would challenge Tommen’s reign. As for the Northmen, her father had shown them to be easy to deal with.

Cersei could feel the victory within her grasp, and she was so close to squeezing it all.

Everything was as perfect as it could be.

Yet a set of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway, interrupted her musings. Ser Robert Strong’s hulking figure blocked Maester Creylen at the door. The maester was grey when Cersei had been but a young maiden, and now his hair was a wizened white. Thin and spindly, he looked like an oversized gutter rat with his narrow face. A grey rat. The old thing was covered with sweat—even climbing the stairs here was a challenge for someone so old. Perhaps it was time to replace him with a newer measter.

With a sign from Cersei, the white cloak let him through.

“What is it now?” she asked coolly.

“Your Grace,” the master bowed deeply, “two letters arrived for you from Winterfell.” A withered hand carefully laid the pair of scrolls on the ebony table.

Cersei sat straighter and let go of her goblet.

“Leave me,” she said sharply, not hiding her irritation this time. The grey rat bowed and quickly scurried away.

Cersei glared at the two letters.

What would that deserting bastard in the North have to say to her?

Would the oath-breaking bastard bend the knee? Or would he choose defiance like his foolish brother and father?

She was almost intrigued as she broke the first seal.

To Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent of Tommen Baratheon

House Stark has no desire to involve itself with the affairs south of the Neck anymore. Your kind invitation is regretfully declined.

How many had died for the crown? Let us bury the feud and let the ghosts rest. Eddard and Robb Stark are dead, as are Tywin Lannister, Joffrey, Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, and his bastard son.

In the spirit of peace, I freely offer you a piece of knowledge that eludes you.

Your daughter, Myrcella, alive and well, is a guest of mine here in Winterfell.

Cersei scoffed. The foolish northern bastard dared to parade the name of her dead daughter in front of her?!

Poor Myrcella, who had died in the fires of King’s Landing?!

A trick. The Northern bastard was taunting her!

Anger coiled in her chest like a serpent, and Cersei wanted nothing more than to toss the letter into the waves below, but restrained herself, if barely.

What if she were alive? What if her sweet daughter had survived?

The Martells had claimed that Myrcella was left in King’s Landing, and her death was not truly confirmed, was it? Even though the treacherous Dornishmen often lied through their teeth, it wouldn’t hurt to see what else this… bastard had to say.

Cersei’s eyes darted to the scroll again.

Myrcella was daring enough to escape just before the fires, taking a ship to White Harbour. Lord Manderly kindly kept her safe until she came to visit Winterfell. Of course, I have attached a message from your daughter, should you doubt my claims. It also carries one of her golden curls as further proof.

In the North, hospitality is sacred, and we aren’t barbarous to noble ladies like some savage brutes. Myrcella is perfectly safe within the walls of Winterfell.

Cersei seethed; he mocked her. He mocked Joffrey for beating up that stupid little bird and for the Red Wedding, too. But she could see the unwritten threat.

Officially recognise the North as a sovereign kingdom and return the stolen half of Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark that your kin so blatantly pilfered. Upon completion, we can talk of peace and cooperation and trade, and your daughter will be returned to you in good health after winter ends.

Jon Stark, the Third of His Name, Lord of Winterfell, King of Winter, and Defender of the North

The baseborn dog, this cur, wanted to steal half of her son’s land instead of crawling over to kneel and beg for mercy. Were all Stark men born fools?

Yet something stayed Cersei’s hand as she was about to rip the letter to shreds.

No matter how reluctant, she wanted to believe it. She wanted Myrcella to be alive and well. What if her poor, sweetling was alone in the cold North, surrounded by those savage Northmen and lustful bastards?

Hope was insidious, and once it took root in Cersei’s mind, it could not be banished.

With trepidation, she broke the seal and unfurled the second scroll. A lock of hair fell into her lap, golden and soft like sandsilk. Cersei studied the curls and placed them right next to her golden mane. They were the same shade and looked like the golden ringlets crowning Myrcella’s hair.

‘It meant nothing,’ she told herself.

Suppressing her trepidation, her eyes settled on the second letter.

Dear Mother,

I don’t know if rumours of my demise have reached you, but I am alive and well. The Dornish retinue abandoned me when fighting began in King’s Landing. They boarded their ship and sailed away without waiting for me. I managed to run back to the docks and flee on another vessel that sailed for White Harbour.

Lord Wyman Manderly indeed brought me to Winterfell, and I remain unharmed here, a guest under the protection of Jon Stark.

He asked me to write to you something that only two of us know.

Do you remember that day after Joffrey’s name day tourney when you told me Lollys Stockworth was a tittering dimwit that was so useless even the mother houses would not take her?

I hope you and Tommen are well.

With love,

Your daughter, Myrcella Baratheon

Cersei… Cersei remembered telling her daughter this during one of Robert’s many feasts.

Was her daughter truly a hostage in that drab, cold wasteland they called the North? Or was this some lucky deception?

The anger in her chest drained, like wine from a broken chalice, giving way to worry and a flicker of hope. Myrcella could still live, and that’s all that mattered.

She rang a bell, and a servant quickly came.

“Go fetch for Ser Vylarr,” Cersei commanded, as her mind began to race. She had to get her daughter back, no matter what. “And for my cousins, too. Ser Lucion, Cerenna, and Myrielle.”

As the servant was sent to fetch them, Cersei returned to nursing her glass of wine. Alas, the Arbour gold felt bland on her tongue now.

A quarter of an hour later, they all came, glancing at her with cautious eyes.

“You summoned us, Your Grace?”

“I did,” Cersei said. “I have a task for you, Lucion. A very important matter that can only be entrusted to family.”

“Anything for you, cousin.” Lucion puffed up his chest, proud. He almost looked like Jaime then, but his mane was cut shorter and a dirtier shade of gold besides.

If only her beloved brother were so obedient.

“It’s no easy task,” she said, voice low. “You are to go North, to Winterfell. The Stark bastard claims to host my daughter there. I want to have the truth of this, and you will be my eyes and ears.”

Lucion frowned, making his pale face dimple adorably. It was a pity the maids said he was a poor lover, for he was far prettier than Burton. “It’s been almost a decade since I’ve seen the princess—”

“Ser Vylarr will accompany you,” Cersei said. “He knows Winterfell, and he has seen Myrcella more recently. You will know her when you see her, regardless, for she takes after me in beauty.”

“What is to be done if Princess Myrcella is indeed in Winterfell?” Ser Vylarr was the one to ask.

“If you can spirit her away safely and bring her back to me, do so. If not, stay there, watch and learn of the Northmen and Winterfell, and wait for a chance.” If that fool Baelish struggled to insert spies in Winterfell subtly, she would do it openly.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I was there when your brother attempted such trickery.” The loathing in his voice left little doubt which brother Vylarr was speaking about. “When the Imp tried to free Ser Jaime with mummery from Riverrun, it failed. The Northmen would be fools not to expect it again.”

Cersei’s mouth twisted. She still remembered the cold wind and the snow in the heat of summer. Snow! Was it any wonder that most Northmen were so barbaric? But Ser Vylarr spoke true.

“You shall go there to observe, then,” she commanded. “Get a feel for the bastard’s court, the North’s defences, who’s unhappy with being ruled by an oathbreaker. Only move if you’re assured of success. If Myrcella is truly in Winterfell, her safety is paramount.”

The words settled in silence, as the two knights shared a glance. To Cersei’s satisfaction, they looked almost eager at the task.

Lucion’s brows soon knotted together in thought. “When do we leave?”

“At dawn.” There was no use dallying around. “Go now, and prepare well—take your pick at the most loyal and discreet red cloaks, while you’re at it. Not you, Cerenna. Stay.”

Cersei studied Stafford’s prettier daughter closer. Her golden hair was long and wavy, and her eyes were the shade of dull emerald. She was tall and buxom, pretty enough to turn heads wherever she went, but not nearly half as pretty as Cersei had been at her age.

“Are you betrothed to anyone?” she asked bluntly.

Cerenna shrank like a craven.

“My first betrothed died in the War of the Five Kings.” Even her voice was timid, much to Cersei’s amusement. “The second died in the Stranger’s Feast in the Crossing, Your Grace.”

“The gods smile upon you, dear—unlike my poor aunt Genna, you’ve avoided marrying a weasel.”

Cerenna looked more frightened than thankful. Her body was turned slightly to the door, ready to flee, as if Cersei were a lioness ready to pounce.

“What are your orders, Your Grace?” she asked, hands wringing nervously.

Cersei took another swallow of wine and swirled it around her tongue.

“When you go North, you will seduce Jon Snow.”

Predictably, her cousin baulked.

“…Seduce him?” she echoed, face growing pale.

There was a trace of defiance in her eyes, then, but Cerenna managed to swallow it.

“I know it’s not what you expected,” Cersei crooned. “But your task is no less important than Lucion’s.”

Her cousin took a step back, ready to flee. “Your Grace, this is not—”

The queen’s smile softened as she stood up, offering a cup of wine to Cerenna. “You can be the Lady of Winterfell, darling,” she whispered in her ear. “I will make you the woman who commands the entire North if you succeed. This is not a punishment, but a gift.”

“I… I’ve never seduced a man,” Cerenna said weakly, but her hand took the cup.

Cersei stifled a laugh. Another foolish chit, easy to mould with words alone.

“Men are easy to seduce,” she said knowingly. “Bastards more so than most. They are all eager to conquer a beauty, to take possession of your body. Your pretty face will make your task easier, I say. Show him some of your charm, flash him an innocent smile once you catch him looking. Bastards are creatures of lust and sin, and they are oft led by their cocks. How can a crude Northman resist such a beauty? Even better if you can wed him and sow discord in his court.”

Cerenna flushed as red as a beet and sputtered incoherently. Was she still a maiden or just a prude? Or was the foolish girl saving her maidenhead for her future husband?

“What if he’s already wedded?” her cousin squeaked out. “Or if the Princess Myrcella is not in Winterfell?”

“What if he’s married? You would be his mistress, even if my daughter is not there,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “Mistress to a king is better than marrying a weasel or some poor, landless knight. Regardless of what happens, I will make you the Lady of the North. Don’t worry, Jon Snow is said to look all rugged and dashing and is a warrior and a commander of great renown. Bedding him won’t be a chore, I’m sure.”

It was a shameless lie that appeased the dim-witted and red-faced Cerenna.

Cersei couldn’t remember how the bastard looked—or if she had seen him at all—and all Northmen were dreadfully dull. But she could begrudgingly acknowledge that the wolves were good at command.

And if history were remotely true, the North was hard to wrestle away from the grasp of Stark by force. Not without dragons. Treachery was the easier option here, but that was a coin the wolves were now all too familiar with to work again.

Yet where swords failed, a lover’s embrace could succeed. If Robb Stark could be so easily seduced by a silver-haired whore from Volantis with a pair of Valyrian teats, then his brother would fall just as easily for a golden lioness of Casterly Rock.

17th Day of the 8th Moon, 303 AC

Jon Stark

Dabbling with wandcrafting proved a very precarious endeavour. Jon could tick off about thirty very explosive combinations and methods that did not work. Thankfully, this time, he performed all the experiments clad in full armour, and he only received a few light bruises that healed within minutes on their own.

The stack of parchment where he jotted his attempts down grew by the day.

Eventually… Jon would fail enough times and stumble upon a proper way to make a wand, but he did not think he was even close as of now.

At least Sansa hadn’t been wroth over her torn gift. Instead, she dutifully promised him a new, better cloak, worthy of a king…

The wedding was fast approaching, and Winterfell had turned upside down with fervour and preparations. Shireen was finally fully healed and joined Sansa in the planning.

Candles, courses, seating, music, bards, and other annoying details were discussed with zeal he struggled to understand. Jon, however, had Manderly and the Blackfish tighten Winterfell’s defences—weddings had become a dangerous affair in the last few years, and he did not want any mishaps to happen.

All the North’s nobility was here for the ceremony and the celebrations, and Winterfell felt like it was bursting at the seams. The Guest House was filled to the brim, and some lesser lords and masterly houses had to be crammed into the inner towers. They grumbled at the indignity but moved to stay there regardless.

Jon continued as before; each moment of his day was fully planned, and there was no time for leisure or contemplation. At least training his body and magic offered a temporary refuge from all the woes of ruling. His squire was finally adjusting to the heavy armour and the intensity of the practice. Torrhen had his first taste of victory, clinching a win against a few of the younger guardsmen in the spars.

Of course, Jon also spent a few hours attending to his royal duties and at least an hour flying with Winter.

Soaring through the sky with their minds merged was the most exhilarating thing, and every time they did it, their bond deepened slightly. A part of him wished to fly from dawn till dusk, but Winter was young still and lacked the stamina, and not all of his duties could be delegated away.

Shireen had happily joined him in the sky over the last week, testing Stormstrider’s new saddle. It was one of the rare times they got together—it was considered poor luck to meet your future spouse too often before the ceremony.

The tradition was very welcome. While his wife-to-be was sweet and kind, Jon struggled with the idea of courting such a young maiden, even if she was more than willing. It was a notion born from a false sense of propriety, but not one he was willing to discard. The foolish questions of ethics and morality from the previous life could be ignored, but not at the expense of his betrothed’s health.

In the end, there was time, and Shireen wouldn’t remain fourteen forever.

While his body was that of a young man of nearly twenty, his mind was far older, even after the merger.

It made for an odd dynamic. Saying he was a three-century-old fossil wouldn’t be correct, having melded with Jon Snow’s soul, mind, and body. It would be more accurate to say he was a young man with far too much experience and wisdom than was proper.

Today, had endured yet another dreadfully boring council meeting. A tedious discussion on the logistics, details, and duties of the host that would be sent to the Wall. Over four thousand swords, jointly led by chieftain Hugo Wull and Jon Umber, would depart as soon as the wedding vows had been said.

“Your Grace, some lords have suggested we go south and claim the Crossing,” Manderly said without enthusiasm. “It’s a strong keep that has never fallen, built on a strategic road. Whoever sits on the crossing can control much of the Green Fork and the upper Riverlands.”

The dislike of the idea was practically oozing from his every word.

“The weasel’s den is cursed, I say,” Glover muttered, face grim. “Breaking the sacred rites of hospitality invites the wrath of the gods, and no pious man should dare set foot there. Just look at the Nightfort!”

Jon had never had the pleasure of seeing the infamous seat of the Thirteenth Lord Commander, though. Perhaps he would venture there one day, to see if there was any curse as claimed. Time. There was never enough time.

His mouth twisted. “What use do I have for the Crossing?”

“It is… defensible,” the Hand explained quietly, “and the lands it commands are rich and fertile. It was not just bridge tolls that made the Freys rich and powerful. It’s already built, and ripe for the picking.”

How many lords and chieftains had gathered to persuade Manderly to speak of this?

They weren’t wrong, but those were words of ambition and greed—or perhaps a misplaced need for vengeance over a pile of rocks.

“The North is not lacking for fertile land but for hands to till and tend to the vast lands we already have,” the king said with a dry smile. “Expanding my realm would not solve the problems plaguing my kingdom. If anything, it will only make them worse.”

He took a swallow of ale and continued, “Besides, why would I want to involve myself in the mess that is the Riverlands? They called it the Graveyards of Armies before the Conquest, and even today, the name is more than apt.”

“A most prudent decision, Your Grace,” Wolkan said quickly. As Grand Maester, he had only donned new robes, still grey, but in soft cotton, and trimmed with silver runes across the cuffs. “First, it would start with one keep to secure a strategic advantage. The local lords would either bend the knee or turn to fight you, and you shall see yourself fighting more. The one keep would become two, for you need to protect your new position, the two would become three, and before you know it, Your Grace would have conquered half of the Seven Kingdoms and shall be at war with the other half.”

He was exaggerating—history had shown that most of the Riverlords had no issue bending the knee to a Stark or a dragonlord.

“Aptly said, Grand Maester,” Locke beamed. “There is another matter no less important there, I believe. Moving armies into the Riverlands might see us butt heads with Daenerys and her dragons.”

Wyman Manderly rubbed his eyes, his head drooping ever so slightly. The last few days had been heavy on the fat old lord, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a full night of sleep in a week.

“Twins aside, would the Mad King’s daughter let the North go unmolested even if we do not oppose her?” The Hand retorted. “The Targaryens are greedy, like their sigil. They lust for riches, powers, and even women. The skies cannot have two masters, just like a kingdom cannot have two kings. I’m afraid a clash with Daenerys is an inevitability.”

“Perhaps,” Jon allowed, voice tight. “Only time shall tell. For now, she needs to establish herself in the South and will probably focus on Aegon and Tommen. Regardless, making moves on the blind is too dangerous. Edwyle, redouble your efforts in the South.”

“It shall be done, but I will require more coin,” the spymaster said.

Gold resting in the treasury was worthless, Jon knew, and putting it all to work was far better. House Stark had done well in hoarding wealth, but he had other, easier ways than taxation of procuring gold if necessary.

The king waved the concern away, “The coin flowing your way shall be increased by half. Anything else of import?”

Edwyle smiled sheepishly.

“I’ve heard some concerns,” he murmured, averting his eyes. “Some say that Lady Shireen might be infertile due to her affliction with greyscale.”

Jon snorted. “A load of bollocks.” The Gaelic cleansing ritual had removed any trace of the affliction and had made Shireen a paragon of health. His magic had confirmed it, too.

“It’s not only that,” Locke continued with a grimace. “Supposedly, her mother, Selyse Florent, had great difficulty conceiving.”

“That is not necessarily true.” Wolkan tugged his six silver links. “That is a superstition with little evidence to support it. If you ignore Selyse Florent, you will find that Lady Shireen’s grandmothers were healthy and fecund. Besides, the traces of greyscale are completely vanished, and Lady Shireen is as healthy as an auroch, if a tad too young for childbirth.”

Jon huffed. “Indeed. I will hear no more of this nonsense.”

They had the decency to blush.

Given the number of maidens who had tried to grab his attention, he shouldn’t have been so surprised at the pettiness of the rumour. Women could be just as ambitious as men, and twice as vicious. Or perhaps this was his bannermen’s unhappiness with his choice of bride? Too bad, they would have to learn to come to terms with his decision, no matter how bitter.

Yet, that discontent could brew into something more dangerous down the line. He would do well to find a sworn shield for Shireen, preferably one of the shield-maidens of the North. It was not appropriate for men to shadow a queen everywhere.

“Your Grace.” Glover brought out a stack of parchments, weariness etched deep into his face. “We still have to fine-comb through the previous laws and taxation. I have also received plenty of beseechers, and people are beginning to wonder when the royal court shall be opened for petitions—”

Requests, problems, feuds, laws—ruling a kingdom was one tangled web of trouble, and a king had to juggle more things than a court jester. Then there was the royal court, the backbone of every kingdom. It had to be carefully managed, kept separate so no part was stronger than the others, and they all kept each other in check while serving the king. The sheer quantity of background knowledge and consideration required behind each inane decision was vexing. It didn’t help that he started from scratch because House Stark had lost all its loyal retainers in the War of the Five Kings.

Gods, it was tiring. More tiring than swinging a sword or wringing out the magic dry from his veins. Foes and beasts you could slay and hunt, but fools, idiots, and lickspittles aplenty, trying to weasel their way into your good grace.

No, Jon had to figure out a good way to delegate so that he could only deal with the most important matters; otherwise, he would be driven mad before long.

Hugo Wull bowed deeply, which made him look like a hunched-over bear with his bulging belly. “You called for me, King Stark?”

“That I did. Take a seat.” Jon motioned to the empty chair. He poured his favourite ale into two tankards before pushing one to the Chieftain. “Drink.”

It was a great honour to be served directly by the king, and judging by the stunned look on Big Bucket’s face, he knew it too. But the chieftain quickly gathered himself and grabbed the mug.

“To the North!” he said, raising his cup for a toast. Smiling, Jon followed, and they drained their tankards in a single breath.

“Good stuff ‘n strong as proper ale ought to be,” the chieftain said, letting out a guttural burp as he patted his great belly. “From Ethan’s brewery down the White Knife?”

“Aye. He and his sons came in person to gift me five of his prized red oak barrels for my wedding. A good man.”

Ethan Stout hailed from a distant, impoverished cadet branch of House Stout of Goldgrass, now considered the finest brewers in the North for over a century.

Besides, he was far from the only person bringing gifts to Winterfell. Far more would come from the nobility, eager to please the future royal pair and curry every scrap of favour they could. The merchants would be no lesser in their gifts. Winterfell’s treasury and larder quickly swelled with various gifts and curiosities, including some outright rare works of art and craftsmanship that were worth a small fortune.

He had been baffled at the sheer enthusiasm at first, but in Wyman’s words, it was the king’s peace. In less than a moon on the throne, he and his men had swept the realm clean, and the merchants and smallfolk loved him for it. It felt… better than he thought it would.

Peace meant survival in a harsh place in the North, and law meant fairness, cooperation, and prosperity in the face of adversity. Farmers, hunters, peddlers, crofters, coopers, sailors, shepherds, everyone could go about their day safely, knowing that Winterfell’s authority would smash down upon any brigands, outlaws, and murderers with extreme prejudice.

It showed that his decisions not only mattered but could affect the lives of many. A king ruled his domain as he wished, but the responsibility for the lives of his subjects weighed on his shoulders.

Remember, Robb, Jon. Fealty is a blade that cleaves both ways.

This was true for all of your bannermen and smallfolk. Even now, Ned Stark’s lessons lingered in his mind, carrying nuggets of wisdom to be uncovered.

The crown in his head pulsed with power. It was faint that any lesser wizard would have failed to notice, but it was… stronger than before.

The creak of Hugo’s chair broke Jon from his musings as the greying chieftain’s massive frame leaned forward. “So, how may I serve?”

Jon’s face curved into a smile. This straightforward attitude was why he liked the clansmen so much.

“My queen-to-be is in dire need of a sworn shield,” Jon said. “I seek a shieldmaiden as skilled as she is loyal. But I find myself stumped, for I know not of such dames worthy enough to earn the honour. I would have chosen Maege’s daughters, but they shall inherit a keep each, aside from the youngest, who is too young to fight, let alone guard others.”

Hugo’s eyes lit up.

“I see,” he said, his jowls jiggling with excitement. “How ’bout my lass?”

“Aren’t all three of your daughters long married?” Jon refilled the tankards with ale. “And your granddaughters are still children, not old enough to fight.”

“I have more than three, King Stark,” the chieftain said, a proud smile blooming on his meaty face. “My Jyanna is four and twenty and good with the war axe—she killed five of Bolton’s men in the Battle of Winterfell. But she’s a Snow—her ma was a Norrey. The Old Norrey gave me a nice scar when we fought to see who would raise the babe.”

That pried a chuckle from Jon’s throat; for all of their straightforwardness, the mountain clansmen loved to quarrel over the smallest things.

Jyanna Snow… a woman grown and blooded in battle. A bastard, but that was a boon. Those born on the wrong side of the blanket grew up faster and had to fight harder for everything they had. It made them more eager to serve, too, as that was often the only way to rise from the muck.

Jon would know after growing up as a bastard himself.

“Jyanna Snow,” he mouthed, cocking his head. “I want her in the yard tomorrow at dawn. I shall test her mettle myself.”

Hugo Wull’s smile threatened to split his face.