Lyn Gala
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Clash of Ambitions, chat 23-24
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 19:37:01 +0000 UTCI was working on Flying Swords, but the conflict with the villain just felt… wrong. Off. Unbalanced. I had to delete a bunch, and now I’m taking another shot at it. So meanwhile I turned to Game of Thrones as a palate cleanser and as I get closer to the climax of this second arc, it is getting darker. I keep reminding myself that these characters suffered far more in canon, but I find myself shying away from the true darkness of GRRM. Anyway, don’t expect fluffy puppies and butterflies from these chapters. Sorry.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jon held tightly to Arthur's hand as the cart bumped and jolted across the uneven stones of Tolos. Cley had ridden ahead, so he could only hope they had maesters waiting for them.
“Sir Oswell!” Daenerys stood at the front of the cart hanging on to the rail with one hand and her huge belly with the other. “Sir Oswell! Open the gates!”
Jon could not take his eyes from Arthur. It was Arthur who helped raise him. It was Arthur who had sat under the weirwood trees and explained life to him in terms that were far more blunt than his father. Benjen Stark had sheltered him and created a safe place for him as a child, but it was Arthur who had pushed him to stand on his own two feet and to be a man. And now Arthur was pale and his thigh smelled of rot and Jon could do nothing.
The gates opened and Sir Arthur looked up at Jon through slitted eyes before smiling. “I can turn you over to your new kingsguard now.”
“No,” Jon said. “I do not release you. You have to stay with me. With Ser Gerold gone, you are the natural choice to be the commander of the kingsguard, so you must stay to take command.”
“Ser Oswell will serve you well.” Arthur winced as he reached for Jon, patting his knee. Hot tears ran down Jon's face and he wanted nothing more than to refuse this reality.
“Old friend, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?” Ser Oswell stood at the side of the wagon, his face lined with worry.
Arthur chuckled, his voice low. “We should have died with Prince Rhaegar, so any years we've enjoyed since then have only been a very long and sweet dessert to a bitter meal, one I have savored to the end.” Arthur tightened his fingers around Jon's knee, and Jon looked at Sir Oswell helplessly, silently begging him to have some solution. Whent’s gaze skittered away from Jon and he turned to the other three men in the wagon.
“Mine is a simple wound, already healing,” one of the archers said. “I can walk easily enough.” He climbed from the wagon and Rion, a guard, followed. He’d lost a finger and the wound was not healing, but it was not rotting either. Whent called for guards to help the last man, an archer who, during the Dothraki battle, had been struck in the back so hard that he was still bruised and he had trouble moving his lower limbs.
After they were gone and Daenerys stood beside the wagon, Whent climbed in. “It’s just like you, old friend, to leave me to do the bulk of the work.”
Arthur reached for Whent, and they gripped each other by the forearm. “Serve him well,” Arthur said.
“Always. He is my king, and I will see him on the Iron Throne if I must kill every Lannister between here and the Red Keep.”
Arthur let out a long and shuddering breath. “Milk of the poppy,” he asked softly.
Sir Oswell called to someone outside the cart, and a woman rushed over with a vial.
“He is so weak,” Jon protested. If Arthur drank, he would not wake. Jon’s father… his Stark father… had explained medicines well when Castle Lyanna began to produce headache powders. He showed how any medicine becomes poison if used with a heavy hand or when the patient was weak.
“It’s the only kindness we have,” Sir Oswell said. Instead of taking the vial and adding drops to his water skin or even placing a drop on Sir Arthur's tongue, he held the whole vial to Arthur's lips, his hand slipping behind Arthur's head to tilt it up to meet the medicine. Arthur swallowed. Jon's head ached, and his chest was tight. The tears ran over his cheeks as he held Arthur's hand as tightly as he could.
“Rest well, my friend,” Sir Oswell said. He bowed his head and Jon watched helplessly as Arthur took three more breaths. A fourth was slow and labored. A fifth barely moved his chest at all. And then he was still.
Sir Oswell rested his hand on Arthur's eyes, closing them fully. “You served well, and I will ensure that your many deeds are recorded in the White Book,” Oswell whispered. He cleared his throat and turned to one of the servants and Dothraki gathered around the wagon. He seemed surprised by either their number or their composition. The Dothraki looked out of place on this street of manors and trees, but they stood with Daenerys, seventy-three riders who honored her enough to stop raping.
“Sir Arthur's bones must be prepared. Please send someone to the city center, the white temple.” Oswell unbuckled the scabbard from Arthur's side and pulled the Sword of Morning away from his body before placing it on Jon's knees. “Your grace, the sword should be returned to the Daynes.”
With his free hand, Jon rested his free hand on the sword. Right now, he could not care about the sword or the family. He cared about a good man that had been taken from this world because of human stupidity. He wished he had been the one to put a dagger in the savage’s cock, but he’d been exiled to a distant hill to watch, helpless.
“Your grace, let us get inside,” Sir Oswell said. Jon wanted to be a child, to throw a fit and demand that the world be fair. But it wasn't. The greatest swordsman to ever come out of Westros had fallen to fools whose only strategy in battle was an insane lack of fear. There was no fairness in that.
Jon looked up and saw Dany’s three bloodriders watching him, the other Dothraki spread out behind them. Danny was watching him too, her expression full of sympathy. He could accept it from her. She had seen Ser Gerold fall to the same monsters. Arthur always spoke of how the Dothraki were no threat to Westeros, that they had no skill to challenge the military technology strategy of those great lords, or the armor of individual knights. He said he would like to see a Dothraki charge broken on a shield wall or gutted by pikes. But the Dothraki had now taken two of the kingsguard, two men renowned for their talent and skill.
Jon forced himself to let go of Arthur's warm hand. He brushed his damp cheeks with the back of his fingers and reminded himself of all Arthur's lessons about emotional control. He took a deep breath and sat up straighter.
“I will return the sword along with Sir Arthur's bones and a letter acknowledging all the service that he has provided our family.” The letter would have to wait until it was safe to declare himself. No doubt King Robert had already heard that Arthur was in Essos, but Jon had to remain unnoticed if he wanted to keep his Stark family safe. Jon stood and looked down at Arthur as he lay in the cart. His hands were no longer curled into fists and his body carried no strain.
“It is good,” one of Dany’s bloodriders said to him in low Valerian, a trading language Arthur had taught him right next to the high Valerian that Jon, as a young boy, had always scoffed at having to learn. He'd even appeal to his father to get them out of such lessons, but Benjen had sided with Arthur.
“What is good?" Jon asked, fully prepared to kill Danny's bloodrider if he suggested that Arthur's death was in any way justified or desired.
The bloodrider’s horse danced uneasily. “It is good to have a son to cry over our bodies so that the great stallion sees how our herd loved us.” He thumped his own chest. “You honor your father.” He pulled his bladed weapon out and raised it in the air before giving an undulating cry, and the other Dothraki followed. Their cries filled the street, and Jon saw townspeople skitter away, running into houses and slamming their doors.
Jon supposed Arthur had been a sort of father. How many fathers was Jon going to collect in one lifetime? How many would he lose? Arthur's death made it clear that anyone could fall in war, and one's skills did not guarantee victory. Maybe Rhaegar had even been better than Robert. Maybe his foot had slipped on the mud. Maybe he had spared a thought for whether or not his northern love had given birth yet. A million things could have happened to ensure that the best swordsman came out the defeated one.
“He was a great man,” Daenerys said softly. “They honor him.”
Jon climbed over the edge of the wagon, the Sword of Morning still in his hand. It was lighter than he had expected. In all the years he had trained with Arthur at Castle Lyanna, Arthur had never shown him the sword, and carrying it now felt sacrilegious, as if the old gods of the Rhoynar watched him and judged him unworthy.
“Lena!” Daenerys shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. The old woman stood at the courtyard's door and opened her arms. Dany threw herself forward, sobs racking her body as she held the old woman, and Lena clung to her in return, petting her long hair and whispering so low that Jon could hear no words.
“What are your orders, your grace?” Ser Oswell asked. Jon blinked. Arthur played at calling Jon king, but he had made their plans. He had decided they would go to Dorne next, revealing his identity to the one kingdom sure to keep his secret once they knew Rhaegar had not dishonored their kin in marriage. Arthur would have decided when they were to leave. He would have decided if they brought the entire staff or kept a manor somewhere for an easy retreat. Now Ser Oswell looked to him.
Arthur’s plan relied on Prince Doran’s willingness to forgive Prince Rhaegar and Jon for their unwitting parts in Princess Elia’s death. Jon did not have the same faith in them that Arthur did, and without Arthur here, he was loath to put his Stark family in danger.
So Jon needed to get information, and he had to move slowly and quietly. He looked back at Arthur's body. He wanted to run straight home to Castle Lyanna and throw himself into the arms of his last remaining father and hang on while Benjen promised to fix everything. But he was a man. He could not do that, and he would not put his family in danger. If that meant he remained in exile until the Baratheon legacy failed, then so be it.
If it never did, if his Uncle Ned never called for a Grand Council, then Jon had to decide what life he wanted. He would not start a war, not for a chair. Better to rule a kingdom the size of a manor than condemn others to die as their wounds rotted. Jon took a deep breath. “We need to find quarters for all the staff. Daenerys's bloodriders should remain near her. And I need all current information on the state of politics in Westeros.”
Ser Oswell looked at him for a moment, a sad smile on his face before he bowed his head. “Of course, your grace. Lena and I will arrange everything.” He turned to the old woman, and she tightened her hold on Daenerys's for a moment before nodding and offering her own of, “Of course, of course.”
o - o - o - o - o
Dany was tired of watching her nephew haunt the corridors and courtyards. She knew how much guilt she felt knowing that Hightower had died in a vain attempt to save her. She knew how much Viserys suffered, seeing the mother who loved and protected him die. She could not imagine what Jon was feeling losing Arthur who had both raised him and died to protect him. The grief flowed from him like a fog, and Dany found herself seeking Viserys. Even his madness was preferable to their nephew's pain.
Daenerys did not find him in his rooms or even in the wing of the house where his bedroom was. Maybe her bloodriders had frightened him into seeking some unoccupied corner of the manor.
She started toward the back of the manor where the kitchens were. Sometimes Viserys liked to steal sweets and tell stories about being a child in the Red Keep and how he would spoil his dinner by convincing the cooks to give him puddings. Dany hoped he was having one of the days where he lost himself in those good memories. She started toward the stairs, but then stopped and turned to Aggo. “Blood of my blood, I would ask you to wait here while I seek my brother.”
Aggo moved closer, his hand reaching as though he would touch her belly before he pulled it back. “Your time for battle approaches. You cannot fight your own war and protect yourself if some danger comes to you from out here,” he argued.
Dany did feel safer for having her bloodriders. Their loyalty soothed the deep fears that chased her at night when she remembered the day of her kidnapping. It was strange – it was Dothraki who took her and her bloodriders might have even been part of that horde, and yet it was Dothraki who made her feel safe. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Blood of my blood, I trust your arm and the strength of your arm gives me great comfort, but I am safe here. If I call, men will leap to my defense.” She pulled her hand back and rested it on her stomach. “The dangers that I have to face are ones that you cannot protect me from. I must fight some battles myself, so I ask that you respect that I must find my brother myself.”
He took a step back and lowered his gaze, clearly ceding to her request.
Dany smiled. Perhaps outsiders thought men had all the power in Dothraki culture, but unlike the Westeros nobility who had rejected a princess they had sworn to uphold in favor of a weak boy and his grasping Hightower grandfather, the Dothraki honored their vow to her. It made her feel stronger.
Dany sought her brother in the kitchens and the high ceiling halls and offices, but she didn’t find him. She moved to the back of the house where there was a second courtyard adjacent to the stables. Viserys always complained about the smell of horse and disliked even the cats that crept into the manor in search of mice, but surprisingly she found him working feverishly on the cobblestone of the back courtyard.
“Brother? What are you doing?”
Viserys whipped around, his hair clumped and greasy, and the smile slipped Dany’s face. “Brother?”
“Have you seen him?” Viserys clutched two small bundles of wood in his hands.
“Seen who?” Today was not a good day. Not only had Viserys slipped from sanity, but it was to be one of his dark moods.
“I know you've seen him. He thinks to take my throne.” Viserys turned his back and stalked over to the wood pile. It was normally a neat wall of firewood stacked against the stone stable, but it had been pulled down so that logs tumbled across the cobblestones and were heaped into a small hill. Viserys shoved bundles of twigs between the logs, taking time to arrange the wood to whatever exacting pattern he had in his misinformed mind.
“What throne? We have no throne, Viserys.”
He whirled around and waved his finger as if it were a sword that he would threaten her with. “I am the true king of Westeros,” he shouted before he leapt off the wood he clambered onto. He rushed to the door leading into the stable, grabbing handfuls of straw and returned to the mound.
“You are not,” Daenerys said. “You are the Lord of Dragonstone. I am the Lady of Dragonstone. That is our ancestral seat and we will reclaim it.” She would not confuse him with dreams that they could be royals again if Jon took the throne.
“No,” Viserys shouted as he stuffed straw into the gaps in the wood. Daenerys stepped closer, and she recognized the musk of cooking oil. Horror filled her as she spotted the cracked clay jugs tossed among the wood and the oil darkened wood. “Viserys, what are you doing? You should come back to your rooms. You should rest. It is the heat of the day, and you will exhaust yourself.” She took another step forward, and that's when she realized Viserys had taken the three eggs.
She was staring at the eggs so intently that she didn't notice when he leaped forward and grabbed her wrist, jerking her closer to the wood. “He is not a dragon!”
“Who?” Dany asked, although she knew. She just needed to delay Viserys, to distract him.
“The bastard! The bastard would take my throne. He is a Blackfyre! He will not take my throne!”
“Are you talking about Jon?” Dany noticed movement along the upper balcony.
“He is a bastard Stark. He is the usurper’s dog. He will die in fire and blood like everyone who stands against our family,” Viserys shouted.
“Princess!” Ser Oswell came out of the house, his hand on his sword, but when he took a step forward, Viserys jerked her closer to the wood and reached for a lit torch set into the stable wall.
“Ser, stay back! My brother is greatly confused and he has soaked the wood with oil.” Fear gnawed at her. She knew Viserys would never intentionally hurt her, but the story of Aerion Targaryen haunted her. He had drunk wildfire believing he would transform and had died screaming. It did not take a deadly intent for an action to be fatal.
“I will hatch dragons! I will hatch dragons and they will burn the world, and they will burn that bastard first. You are mine. You are not his. You will not marry a bastard and put bastard Targaryens on my throne.”
“I will not marry Jon,” Daenerys agreed. “You saw the grief it caused our mother–having kin marry. Helaena and Aegon, Rhaenrya and Daemon, Aegon the Unlikely and Rhaena. How many times has keeping the dragon blood strong caused misery?”
“You will marry kin! You will marry me,” Viserys screamed in her face, the spittle hitting her skin. “I will kill that horselord scum that grows in your belly and I will put good Targaryen babes in there. Maybe I can cut it out rather than wait for it to be born.”
“Viserys!” Lena cried. She was hobbling as fast as she could, clinging to her cane as she came far closer than Ser Oswell dare. Daenerys saw Jon behind her, hiding in the shadows, which was wise considering the sight of him might lead Viserys to do something insanely foolish.
“Tell them Lady Lena,” Viserys said. “Tell them that I am the king of the seven kingdoms. Me. I am the last blood of the dragon. Me. Not some bastard!”
Lena's gaze flicked toward the torch, and Viserys lifted it high. “Tell them!” He screamed, his grip on Dany’s wrist tightening.
“Viserys, you are the blood of the dragon,” Lena said. “Let her go. If you wish to hatch your dragons, that's fine. You may. But let your sister go.” She reached out her wrinkled hand toward Daenerys, and Dany wanted to reach back, to take comfort in those hands that had held her so often as a child, but Viserys tightened his hold on her, wrapping his arm around her waist.
Worse, not Oswell or Jon or any of her blood riders would be able to save her because Viserys and his torch were right next to the oil-soaked wood. Daenerys would have to throw herself backward and pray Viserys loosened his hold before the flames could take her, but she knew she was about to be burned badly. Maybe fatally.
“Tell them to make me king!” Viserys ordered Lena, his voice ragged and his breath coming so fast it sounded as if he had been running. He was losing his battle against madness, and Dany could see no escape. Her own horror was reflected on Ser Oswell’s face, and she was sure she would be able to see the same on Jon’s if he were not in shadow.
Lena's expression hardened. “So like a Targaryen male to demand and demand and demand and never look at what his demands cost,” Lena spat. Her words startled Viserys so much that for a moment his hold loosened. Dany shifted her weight to escape at the first moment it was possible.
“We are the blood of the dragon.”
“You are the blood of cruelty,” Lena snapped. “How many Targaryen males ripped the family apart? How many stupid Targaryen males have sat on the throne? How many cruel Targaryen males? How many unforgivable Targaryen males have called themselves king? It was always the Targaryen women who held the realm together!” Vitriol dripped from Lena’s words, and Dany was startled out of her fear.
She continued while Viserys stared at her blankly. “It was your mother who would sooth the lords behind King Aerys’ back. It was your mother who would pay the weregeld for wives and daughters who were dishonored in his bed, even when it was her own dear companions who were so dishonored. It was your mother who would soothe your father's insane ramblings, yet when your father was all but lost to his own madness, the kingdom would not make Rhaella the regent. They would not allow a queen to rule because they are all too noble to accept a woman on that throne. They deserve what they get with Targaryen kings because they insist on overlooking Targaryen queens. Now let your sister go. Hatch your cursed dragons. Then leave. Be gone. Your mother would look at you and see only madness and foolishness, but Daenerys is mine. She is the Targaryen who will save the name.”
Lena had been inching forward with each hateful word she spat, and now she was close enough that she grabbed Dany’s hand. But Lena was not strong enough to pull her away from Viserys, and the flame of the torch was far too close. Dany was now the rope the other two pulled on, Viserys on her waist which was now cramping from either fear or the pressure of his hand, and Lena holding her wrist.
“Viserys, the fire is a danger to us as well as Lena. We should move away. Throw the torch from a distance and let the eggs burn. Let them hatch,” Daenerys said in her most soothing voice, even as a ripple of cramping travelled over her belly.
“No. We are the blood of the dragon. We will not burn.”
“Many Targaryens have burned,” Daenerys argued. “You told me of how Rheanera burned, many times. As children, we both burnt our fingers grabbing treats from the fire too quickly. More than our fingers will burn if you drop that torch.”
“No.” Viserys smiled beatifically. “I’ve had dreams. I see us in the fire, rising from it, you and I holding hands with dragons about us. We shall be the rise of a new Targaryen Empire.”
“No. We will burn alive,” Daenerys said. Archers now stood on the second floor balcony, their arrows notched, but even killing Viserys would not save them this close to such a prodigious source of fuel.
“My visions.”
“Are not visions, you fool,” Lena said, and her words carried an infinity of hate. “Do you really think I would let them sacrifice one more Targaryen woman to serve her male kin? You do not have visions, you have poison-stained sleep. I made sure they would not dare to match you with your sister because you are not worth her. And I showed them that. I showed them the madness that lay just under your skin.
“And you, child,” Lena said as she turned her gaze to Daenerys with hopeless rage in her eyes. “Women rule the Dothraki. Why did you return? You could have claimed your own status. You could be one of the rulers of their entire culture. You could have taught them better and built something on the grass sea. That child that would have made you a powerful leader among them, and now it will only mark you as dirty to these judgmental men who believe a woman’s worth lay in her womb. A woman who cannot carry is trash to be discarded. I wanted you to crown yourself as their queen.
Daenerys couldn't breathe. All that time afraid with Khal Drago's weight pinning her to the ground, watching slave girls suffer and children die. The architect of all that suffering was the one woman Dany had yearned for more than any other. The woman who'd sung lullabies to her and taught her her letters. She stared at Lena, not recognizing that woman in this rage-filled face.
“She will not take my throne,” Viserys shouted and then all three of them were tilting forward, thrown off balance by Viserys’ lunge toward the oil-soaked wood.
Daenerys screamed, but her belly was so heavy that she could not escape or fall away from the fire. Lena's cane clattered to the cobblestones, and she followed them into the pile just as the torch touched the wood. The hay immediately sparked and flared. Men screamed. Boots rang as men ran across the courtyard, but then everything was fire exploding around her.
Viserys screamed, and Dany felt her brother's arm slip away, the texture of his skin like melting wax beneath her hand. The fire danced and coalesced into fourteen spots that surrounded her, most of them dying. One after another the flames vanished, but as each disappeared, one flame grew taller and higher and from that flame soared up a stunted dragon, its body heavy and deformed.
It ran toward her and then the dragon became a wolf and then more creatures ran from the flame. Wyverns became flightless dragons became giant wolves and wolves became deformed and lopsided dragons that tried to soar only to wheel in tight circles, their wings too misshapen to give them true flight. The creatures cavorted wildly, their fangs bared, but then the flame turned blue and a blue rose blossomed from the center. All the dragons and wolves stilled as a great horn sounded in the distance.
A red spire rose out of a plain, the mountains in the distance echoing with the sound of that horn, and a great black dragon rose from the spire. It dwarfed the poor deformed things that masqueraded as dragons, and his amber-red eyes found Dany. She fell into them the way one would fall into a deep cool pool on the hottest of days and the pool became a sea with waves that buffeted her. But then white ash fluttered to the ground and white swirls surrounded them. The black dragon’s eyes turned green and it grew larger and larger until the beast struggled with each downstroke of its wings to keep its massive body in the air. Finally, the effort was too much, and the great black dragon crashed into the fire.
The one remaining flame of the 14 burst into life and exploded around her so that she stumbled away from the heat. Small claws grabbed at her, and Daenerys looked down to see tiny dragons crawling on her.
These were not the deformed beasts that had come from the blue flame, but they were not the great mounts of her ancestors either. The tiny beasts climbed up her naked body and when they reached her shoulders, Dany realized that her hair was gone.
She stepped back, away from the heat. And then she stepped back again and again, searching for an escape from the ash and flame until she stepped into sunlight, cool stones under her feet and a great pile of wood with glowing embers in front of her.
Daenerys turned around and Jon was there with Ser Oswell. Her blood riders were there and the household guards. Loud chirps distracted her, and she looked to the side to see a tiny black dragon clinging to her shoulder and crying. She turned to her other shoulder where a brownish red dragon and a beautiful white one clung to her. Daenerys didn't know if she was still dreaming or perhaps dead, but then her stomach cramped and liquid poured out between her legs. Red against the cobblestone. Daenerys passed out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Myrcella woke in the middle of the night, her heart pounding as someone grabbed her arm. “What? Who?”
A young woman hovered over her, a stub of a candle in a lantern in one hand. “Princess, you must get up quickly and dress.”
Myrcella blinked sleep away and looked at the maid whose face was twisted with fear. “What’s going on?"
The maid hurried to the armoire and pulled out a travelling dress before coming back to the bed. “Lord Wyman calls for you, but you must be dressed.” The maid started pulling at her night dress, and Myrcella allowed herself to be stripped down to her small clothes before she pulled on the plain dress.
“Where's my brother?”
“A dresser has gone to see to him. We must move quickly.”
“Why? What's going on? Where's my guard?” All this commotion should surely have pulled one of her guards to her side, even if it wasn't technically proper. Ser Bywater had made it very clear that if security contradicted propriety, then propriety could be hanged, as he liked to say.
“They are holding the gates,” the maid said as she laced the loose corset. She didn’t even properly secure the ends before she retrieved Myrcella’s shoes.
“Holding the gates? From whom?” The maid’s panic seeped into Myrcella’s soul and while the maid worked the buttons on one riding boot, Myrcella started working the buttons on the second. Luckily, the traveling dress was much less restrictive than something more formal, allowing her to bend down.
“Attackers. We are to get you and the prince into the family hall.”
Myrcella sucked in a startled breath and leapt to her feet with only half the shoe buttons done. “Lead away,” she said. She had no doubt that her clothing took longer than Tommen’s, so he would be ready. If there was danger, she had to get him to safety.
The maid retrieved the candle from the nightstand and hurried into the hall, turning toward Tommen’s room. Myrcella followed, her heart pounding painfully hard. A door opened, and the maid stopped so fast that Myrcella ran into her back. Before she could panic, a boy of ten or so appeared in the hallway, and Tommen followed.
“Myrcella, do you know what’s happening?” Tommen rubbed sleep from his eyes.
“Only that someone has attacked and our guards are holding the gates.”
The maid whispered, desperation clear in her voice, “We have to hurry.” She ushered them down a short hallway. But instead of going to the top of the castle where the views would be best and the breezes cleanest, she led them down. At first, Myrcella feared they were being betrayed, but the weapons hung on the wall memorialized the great leaders and heroes of house Manderly. She should not be surprised that a northern house would place the family in a lower level where winter could be held at bay, but sometimes her brain still assumed that every castle functioned like the Red Keep, that every lord behaved like her father.
She wondered if their father's death was in any way related to this attack. She tended to assume that coincidence was manipulation with an unseen manipulator, just like she assumed that it was manipulation that all of the fine fabrics had been claimed before Sansa wanted to make her maiden cloak. However, Myrcella had no idea who would attack them. The realm was at peace.
The maid reached a large double door carved with fish and mermaids. The wood was grayed with age and the hinges made with heavy black iron. When the door opened, Myrcella expected to see a private solar or small reception hall. Instead, it was the lord's bedchamber. Shock left her unable to move forward. Lord Wyman was sitting, both feet on a stool as a servant fitted shoes to him. “Good, good. You're here. I had not anticipated putting you in the middle of the realm’s most recent troubles, but we must speak. The men who have come fly Lannister colors, but I cannot say with certainty that they are your mother’s kin.”
“Surely no one would risk Lord Tywin’s wrath by flying false colors,” Myrcella said. Their mother had told them many stories of her father's greatness and his terrible retribution when others challenged him. Myrcella had only vague memories of the man herself, but the glee with which her mother described his cruelties and the songs that were sung about his destruction of entire families made her believe that he was a fearsome lord indeed.
Lord Manderly took a sword that his page handed him and slid it out of the scabbard to check the edge. “They may be Lannister soldiers. I know not. But I do know that the kingdom stands on the brink of war. Your Uncle Stannis has published to the realm that both your brothers are bastards.”
“How dare he!” Myrcella snapped. “That is treason!” She put an arm around Tommen’s shoulders and pulled him close as if to protect him from such vile words.
Lord Manderly grimaced. “Princess, there are rumors that your mother was most unhappy that you took after your father. They say that she cursed your coloring.”
Myrcella looked away, tears threatening even though that was a pain she had long ago decided she cared not about. Many girls had mothers who cared little about daughters.
The page who had been fastening Lord Manderly’s boots finished, and the lord stood. “The rumor is that your Uncle Tygett fathered Joffrey and that your cousin Lancel fathered Tommen. I care not if this is a vile rumor spread by Lord Stannis to gain power or whether this is truth. The North will not stir for any reason other than a Grand Counsel. However, the rest of the realm prepares to fight. The Stormlands are split between Lord Renly and Lord Stannis with most favoring the former. The Reach and Dorne are silent. The Westerlands and the Crownlands hold for Joffrey. Holster Tully claims the Riverlands will wait for a Council, but word is that his son favors Renly. The Vale is deadlocked. Jon Arryn is old and unable to control his lords. Some wish to stand for Joffrey but Bronze Yohn Royce argues the boy is unworthy of the throne and likely not a legitimate son. Some push for him to back Stannis, but the Vale is in too much disarray to support anyone at this time.”
He had given her so much information that Myrcella couldn’t sort it well enough to ask a coherent question. “But why…” She stopped, unable to focus on one thought. When had the world fallen into madness? Why had it fallen into madness? Why would her own uncle speak of her brothers in such vile terms?
“Prince, Princess,” Lord Manderly said, “we must know if you would go with these Lannister men or if you would return to Winterfell.”
Tommen spoke before Myrcella could. “We already said we would rather return to Winterfell. The choice is ours, right?” He sounded frightened, and Myrcella tightened her arm around his shoulders.
Myrcella knew what he was thinking. If they went back to the Red Keep while Joffrey was king, neither of them would be safe. He was a cruel boy, but was it possible that he was not her father's boy? It was true that Tommen and Joffrey did not favor their father, but could not a child favor his mother? Robb had the beautiful deep red hair of the Tullys even though his father was a Stark.
Myrcella frowned. Robb also had the long face of Stark, and while his mother’s eyes were the blue of a bright summer day, Robb’s were the blue of winter with gray clouds staining the color. Lord Stark existed in Robb’s face. Tommen’s round face lacked any of the virile strength or squareness or a Baratheon. His slight build looked like their mother or even Ser Jaime, both of whom had a lankiness that contrasted a Baratheon’s stoutness. Tommen did not just favor their mother, he was a near copy of her every feature. And if this rumor were true, people would kill him to keep him from the throne. Even the suspicion was enough for many, she thought. Those who worshipped the Seven hated bastards, and she knew they would die before kneeling to one.
“Will we be safe in the North?” Myrcella asked. Maybe it was a fool’s quest to trust the word of a lord as faithful to Stark as the Manderly’s, but she judged herself an excellent judge of who might be lying to her.
“Absolutely, Princess,” Lord Manderly said. “Lord Stark was very clear that there was no way to prove the parentage of your brothers one way or the other and a Great Counsel was the only way to solve this conflict. The North will not involve themselves in any Southern politics. And you are our future Lady Stark. Your safety and the safety of your brother are secure, no matter who claims that throne. Whether Stannis or Renly or Balon from the Iron Islands sits it makes no difference to the North. You’re safe.”
Lord Manderly had spoken to Lord Stark about her brother’s parentage. And from the sounds, Lord Stark had not defended her mother’s honor or her brothers’ parentage. Her mouth was dry as she considered what that meant. No need for power would motivate him to suggest such things, which meant they were likely true. Myrcella looked down at her little brother–at his bright green eyes so full of fear. For a second, she was disgusted at the danger that her mother had put them all in, but then she decided it didn’t matter. Tommen was her brother either way, and she loved him. She would always love him. Part of her might even love Joffrey, although that emotion was far more strained.
A small traitorous part of her whispered that going to Winterfell would give the Starks unrivaled power. No one had questioned her parentage, so that might make her the only uncontested and legitimate child, and she was betrothed to Robb Stark.
But she refused to allow herself to think in those terms. The Starks did not chase power the way most people in Myrcella’s life did. And she was a woman. Women could not inherit–the Dance of the Dragons had proven that–and Robb's responsibilities were to Winterfell; surely he would not abandon his people for the Red Keep, especially when he loathed the place.
And if Myrcella returned to King’s Landing, her mother would arrange a more advantageous marriage, something in the south that involved great gifts of gold and treasures. Wylis Tyrell was still unwed. Her father never would've approved such a match, but Myrcella could imagine her mother seeking that very alliance. A few years ago, Myrcella would've approached such an arrangement with the equanimity expected of a royal princess who would marry at her parents' behest, but she'd been promised to Robb. She had given her heart to him, and she would not allow herself to be snatched away by a cynical ploy for money.
“We will return to Winterfell," Myrcella said as loudly as she could with her throat dry and her chest constricted.
“See them out the family passage,” Lord Manderly ordered the maid. “I shall go down and try to talk to the soldiers. Arrows have been exchanged, but men who are brave in the absence of a lord will often yield in the presence of one. I will tell them that you and Tommen have gone.”
He buckled his sword belt around his impressive girth and started toward the door. Tommen retreated to a spot behind Myrcella, all of the courage he had found in the previous months having fled in the face of this danger. Lord Manderly stopped beside Myrcella and rested his hand on her shoulder. “You will be safe and Winterfell, Princess. The North has never forgotten of a vow, and when Lord Robb took you as his betrothed, he promised to protect you.”
Myrcella frowned. “Lord Robb? Should you not say that Lord Stark will protect us? Has not Lord Stark returned to Winterfell?” She understood the importance of reinforcing the North for the coming winter, but surely the Warden of the North needed to return to his castle if events were so dire.
Lord Wyman's hand tightened on her shoulder. “Lord Tywin now stands as the hand of the king, and he has refused to give Lord Stark permission to leave the Red Keep. Lord Stark ordered me to return North and carry word to his family that the North was to remain closed despite his being held hostage against their cooperation.”
Myrcella’s stomach twisted so hard that for a moment she thought she might be ill. Lord Tywin was now hand of the king. Lord Tywin who earned his fame slaughtering families.
Lord Manderly patted her shoulder. “Now, I must go try to talk to these brigands at my walls. The family tunnels will take you to a distant stable. You and whatever guards can reach you before the moon rises must travel hard for Moat Caitlin. It is the closest reinforced position, and they will have soldiers enough to escort you to Winterfell. Now go.” Lord Manderly strode out of the room, and the moment he was gone, Myrcella felt bereft of his strength and presence. As long as he was there, she could imagine that he would solve any problem, but now it was her responsibility–one she didn’t want.
She looked at the maid. “Lead us,” she ordered as she lifted the hem of her traveling skirt with one hand and caught Tommen’s hand with her other.
The family tunnels were hidden behind an armoire, rough cut, and narrow–more an emergency escape than any regular part of the castle. There were no torches lining the wall or places to sit. There were only uneven rough steps down and both her and Tommen stumbled several times as they hurried to follow the maid. The darkness and the silence were so absolute that Myrcella almost felt as if she'd been buried alive, but she hurried on. After a number of minutes, a point of light came hurrying toward them from the far end of the tunnel. It was a boy in rough cloth who carried the stench of horses.
“Lannisters have taken the stable,” he called once they were close to one another.
The maid gasped. “And the hidden door?”
“Is still hidden. My brother made sure of it, shifting hay in front,” the boy promised. The maid was breathing fast and the hand that held the candle shook.
“Does the tunnel go anywhere else?” Myrcella asked.
“No, my lady,” the maid said.
So the two options were to hide in the tunnels or to return the way they came. It was possible Lord Manderly would convince the Lannisters to retreat, but Myrcella doubted it. Lannister soldiers would rather die in the field than report a failure to Lord Tywin.
So would her and Tomm be better served here or in the castle? The castle would have many exits. Myrcella looked at the stable boy who was about the same size as Tommen. In a fight, the Manderlys had the advantage since this was their home, but even if they fell, two more servants coming or going from a house the size would not be of any note. And servants could easily find disguises.
“We go back. You will need to find us servants clothes so that if we need to flee, we can move unnoticed.”
The maid looked relieved to have some direction and she nodded. “Yes, Princess.” She crowded past Myrcella in the narrow tunnel and ran up the stairs that they had only recently just stumbled down.
“Myrcella?” Tommen whispered, fear in his voice.
“Think of this as a story, the kind the maester used to tell when he was teaching you histories,” Myrcella suggested.
“People usually die in those stories,” Tommen said in a tiny voice.
“We shall not,” Myrcella said fiercely. They were Baratheons. They withstood the storm, and even if a storm came, they would stand long after the winds failed and the rain stopped. She towed Tommen along until they reached the hallway with Lord Wyman's room.
An older woman stood there now, keys hanging from a heavy belt. “Seven save us,” she said. “What are you doing? You were to take the prince and princess out to the stable!”
The stableboy spoke up. “The Lannisters seized it.”
“Seven save us,” the old woman whispered again.
“I thought it would be best for us to dress like servants. That way, should we need to leave, we can do so when it might be normal for a servant to leave the castle,” Myrcella said.
The older woman seemed to think about that for a moment. “Aye, that's a good plan. You should hide in the lord's chambers until it's safe.”
“When will it be safe?” Tommen asked.
“I don't know, young Prince,” the old woman said, “but I do know it's not safe for you to be moving about now.” She hurried into Lord Wyman’s chamber and gestured for them to follow.
“Is it proper to hide here?” Myrcella asked.
“Right now, it matters not a whit what is proper,” the old woman said, “Focus on keeping yourself and your brother alive and nothing more. Honor means little to a woman if she has no breath to speak of it.”
For some reason, hearing a Northerner speak poorly of honor frightened her more than anything, but she followed the woman into Lord Manderly’s chambers. The old woman went to the unmade bed with gold sheets and velvet covers and raised the mattress up. In no time, she had split the bottom of the mattress with a small knife,and she started pulling out feathers and ticking.
“Get over here girl,” the woman ordered the maid. “Lift your skirt, create a sling for this.” She pulled armfulls of feathers and ticking out of the mattress, pushing it into the maid’s dress, which she held like a makeshift basket. “Carry this to an unused room and drop it in a corner.” When the old woman deemed that enough had been removed, she gestured Myrcella closer. “You and the Prince will hide in here. Make no sound unless Lord Manderly comes alone. Do not trust any servant or guard you may see, no matter what colors they wear.”
“Surely the danger cannot be that much,” Tommen said. “Surely soldiers would not change the coat of arms they carry.”
The old woman looked at Tommen with pity. “Your grandfather locked children in a mine and flooded it. Mewling babes in their mother's arms, crying toddlers, old women–he had no mercy for any of them. Do you think such a man would hesitate to order his soldiers to carry another man's shield if it got them what they wanted?”
Myrcella put a hand on Tommen’s shoulder. “It's good advice. We’ll listen and follow it.”
Myrcella’s heart broke for Tommen who had tears slowly rolling over his cheeks. His greatest pleasure was saving kittens, and now they must speak of the atrocities that men committed. Worse, they spoke of atrocities their grandfather committed and the danger they were in from rough men who might go too far to find them. And these might be Uncle Stanis or Uncle Renly’s men in false colors, and they might want to kill Tommen because of the rumors. They had certainly never shown any real interest in having nephews or a niece. Uncle Renly bought them a present on name days, but that was the extent of their interest in family. Perhaps they would even try to use her to control Robb, although Robb would never dishonor his father's orders, not for her. Not for anyone.
Myrcella climbed into the slit in the mattress, guiding Tommen to lay right in front of her as the old woman lowered the mattress down and then rearranged the feathers that remained. With only a couple of inches of feathers between them and the edge of the mattress, Myrcella could see the room in blurry outlines. The gold sheets gave the world an odd glow that was almost peaceful if not for the dreadful circumstances.
Tommen was crying softly now, and Myrcella held a hand in front of his face to make sure that he didn't inhale feathers. “We’ll be okay,” she promised him softly. Inside, she cursed fate. If a storm at sea had slowed these attackers only a week, it would have given the wagon time to return from Winterfell, but she could not live in those might-have-beens. They were here and attacking the castle gates. There was little she could do to change either fact. They only had to survive.
The old woman left, closing Lord Manderly’s door behind her, and they lay there for a long time. The mattress ticking around them made her itch and the board beneath was hard, but Tommen still managed to fall asleep. Myrcella was not so blessed.
She lay in the dark and listened to every sound waiting for soldiers to come bursting in and tear them free of their hiding place or for Lord Mandalay to come with his booming voice and laugh and tell them it was all a mistake. She waited for either extreme even as the windows let in the first morning light. When the door finally did open, she had fallen into a sort of stupor, a trance where nothing seemed real. Where she imagined she was still back in Winterfell laying in her bed having a strange dream that she would tell Robb about in the morning.
But when she saw who had come in, she knew it was no dream. Lord Manderly was bloodied, one eye shut with swelling as he led a dozen Lannister soldiers into the room. Myrcella put her hand over Tommen’s mouth to keep him quiet as he woke, and she felt him go stiff as he too saw who had come.
“This is the last room,” Lord Manderly spat out, his words more angry than she'd ever heard the jovial lord use. “And they are not here either. I told you, I sent them to Winterfell.”
The soldier in the fanciest armor backhanded Lord Manderly so hard that he stumbled to the side, but he stayed on his feet. “Then why do your servants report seeing them here yesterday?”
Lord Manderly stood taller and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand before squaring off with the soldier. “Because they were here until unidentified sails were reported. If I fear my guests are in danger, I do not report to my household on their movements.”
“Then send a raven to recall them.”
“Shall I send a raven to Winterfell, good sir? Shall I tell my sovereign lord's heir that he should send his betrothed back to be taken hostage? I promise you, no matter what words I use, that is the message that will be received. Accept that your mission here has failed. Return to your master and tell him that.”
Myrcella was afraid to even breathe. Everyone knew how Tywin Lannister reacted to subordinates who failed. Lord Manderly was as much as telling this man to go kill himself. She held her breath, praying for his safety.
“You assume the prince and princess are our only objective,” the soldier said. “Just do as ordered and let us worry about our orders.”
“White Harbor is in the north. Lord Stark is master here, not Lord Tywin, so I care not for your objectives.”
“Lord Tywin is the hand of the king, and the king says who is master and who shall shut up and serve.”
“Not even a king has that much power. This is Lord Stark's territory.”
“And where is Lord Stark?” From the smug tone and cruel smile, this soldier knew something of Lord Stark’s fate.
“I believe he is enjoying the hospitality of Lord Tywin,” Lord Manderly said in a bitter voice, “but that does not change the fact that we will follow his orders till the end.”
Tommen’s breath was coming in quick little gasps, and Myrcella rubbed tiny circles on his chest to try and calm him. Right now the men's yelling would hide any noise, but they were far from safe.
“Lord Stark will take the king's orders just as you will. So you tell me how you are going to get the prince and princess back here,” the soldier ordered.
Lord Manderly stood taller. “I'm not,” he said in a calm voice.
The soldier pulled his sword, and now Myrcella had to fight the urge to gasp. She wanted to burst out of hiding, demand that they stop, that they spare Lord Manderly’s life. Their freedom was not worth this price.
Lord Manderly looked down at the sword before making eye contact with the soldier. “If you are willing to threaten a lord, that means you were given orders to threaten me, maybe even to kill me, before you ever left the Red Keep. After all, Lord Tywin doesn't issue threats that he is unwilling to follow through on. Do you think you will find my son more pliable than I? Do you think my son will break faith with Lord Stark? Perhaps you think my son can magic the prince or princess out of thin air.” He waved his hand at the empty room as if to emphasize that there was no one hiding here. “My son will stand firm for Lord Stark just as I have, just as Lord Robb will carry out his father's orders. You Southerners – do you think so little of your sons that you expect them to give up their honor the moment their fathers blood runs cold?”
Hot tears ran over Myrcella’s nose and dripped onto the board beneath her. Surely this man would not kill an unarmed lord. Surely her grandfather would not have ordered such a horror. A whisper of a memory floated into her awareness–older servants accusing Lord Tywin of ordering the rape and murder of Princess Elia and the murder of her young children. Myrcella had thought the servants were making up tales, but now she was unsure. Lord Manderly seemed so confident in his claim that Lord Tywin had ordered whatever these soldiers planned to do.
“I assume your son is not as stupid as you,” the soldier said before he thrust his sword through Lord Manderly’s stomach. Myrcella gasped, unable to control her own reaction, and Tommen gave a little cry, but both sounds were swallowed by the cheers of the soldiers and the rasping gasps as Lord Mandalay sunk to his knees. He clutched his stomach as the soldier pulled the sword out and blood and guts began to spill.
“You Northerners believe yourselves untouchable,” the soldier said. “You yielded easily enough to a few spies and a few bribes. The rest of the North will fall just as easily. If we have to fight our way to Winterfell to get the prince and princess back, then we shall.” Lord Manderly was losing color from his face, and Myrcella tightened her arms around Tommen before thinking to finally cover his eyes so that he would not have to watch their kind host die.
“Search the room,” the guard ordered and his underlings scattered to the corners. They threw open chests and the armoire. One crawled under the bed and another tore paintings and tapestries off walls in search of hidden alcoves. But none of them thought to look inside the mattress–the mattress that now felt like a shroud. They were buried alive, trapped in a golden shroud as Lord Mandalay died on the floor. Myrcella didn't know how long it took for the soldiers to finish their search, but the whole time she watched as Lord Manderly’s breaths became more pained until finally he was coughing blood on the stone floor and then twitches in his limbs stilled.
“Nothing,” one of the soldiers said.
“Damn them to the seven hells,” another swore. “I am sick of these stubborn Northerners.”
“Hopefully his family will be more amenable,” the senior soldier said and then he gestured for them to all leave.
Myrcella lay there, tears running down her face.
Lord Manderly said Lord Tywin had ordered his death, and the guards had not disagreed. Myrcella was more determined than ever to get herself and Tommen free of her kin–Lannister and Baratheon alike. They couldn’t be trusted. And Robb needed to hear of his bannermen’s death. When she was Lady Stark, these would be her people, and her heart ached at the disrespect Lord Manderly had been shown.
Light was spilling in through the windows before a man in torn and dirty clothes stumbled in. “Prince? Princess?” Myrcella tightened her hand around Tommen’s mouth, but he drove an elbow back into her side, startling her into letting go.
He cried out, “Ser Randall!” Only then did Myrcella recognize the man who had guarded them for a year in Winterfell.
He rushed to the bed and looked under, but Myrcella was already pushing the mattress up and off both her and Tommen. Feathers spilled out over them, and Ser Randall looked nearly ready to cry as he touched each of them on the arm as though checking to see if they were real.
“Where are the others? Ser Bywater?” Myrcella asked although she already knew the answer. Ser Randall might be dressed like a servant, but there was a thickening around his waist that suggested a bandage, and he was not moving well.
“Ser Bywater sent me to get you, and the stewardess revealed your hiding place. The Lannisters have pulled back into the main hall and courtyard, so we need to go now. Right now.” He tried to stand, but he stumbled to one knee, and Myrcella darted to his side to keep him from falling over.
“Ser, you cannot ride. You won't survive. We should find a place to hide here until they leave.”
He shook his head. “They were sent to occupy White Harbor. They won't be leaving, and I am not long for this world either way, Princess. But my last duty to you and my last promise to Ser Bywater was that I would get you to the horses so you could ride for Moat Cailin. The stable boy put rocks in the shoes of several horses to make them look lame so they would be left at the lower stables. This is our only chance. We have to go now.” He forced himself to his feet and pressed his hand to his side over the thick bandage.
“The Manderlys?” Tommen asked, a quiver in his voice, although his eyes were dry, only the tear tracks on his dusty face revealing the truth.
“Ser Garlan has claimed Wynafryd and the Lannister men dare not challenge him. The Reach has too much power, so she is safe.”
In that, Myrcella heard a darker truth. The rest of the Manderlys were not safe. She wondered if they had been imprisoned or killed or if they were suffering some tortures. She sent a prayer for Ser Garlan’s soul, asking the gods old and new to protect him and his betrothed. Maybe Garland could extend the protection to Wylla, assuming she had not fled.
For the first time, Myrcella understood why people wanted power. She understood it in her gut, because there was nothing she wanted more than power over these men who had condemned such a good family. And she would see them punished. “Come,” she said to Tommen before she got to hand under their savior's shoulder to help him toward the family tunnels.
“Princess, no, if you know where to go, you should run.”
“I will not leave you to die at the hand of these Lannisters,” Myrcella said, ignoring the body of the Lord of White Harbor who would never laugh again. “You will go with us to the stables, and if you cannot ride and if your wound is enough to be fatal, then at least you shall die among allies.” It was a poor comfort, but in this day of horrors, Myrcella had nothing else to offer him. “Come,” she said, pulling on his arm.
The man stared at her as though judging whether she would fight him on this, but after a second, he nodded his agreement. Tommen exclaimed, “Wait!” before he arranged the mattress as best he could to make it look normal. “We don’t want the Lannisters to discover that we were still here when… when he… said we had gone,” Tommen’s gaze avoided Lord Manderly’s body.
“Aye, good thinking,” Myrcella said. She was going to get her brother to safety, and then she was going to figure out how to help Lord Robb take back White Harbor so she could see all these brigands hang. None of them deserved to still draw breath, not after the sins they had committed in this place.
Comments
Lyn Gala
I am giving the women a lot of control here, aren’t I. I hadnt’ realized how much, but you’re right. They have agency, even if they’re doing absolutely the wrong thing (even if they have a valid point). They do put a lot of bad kings on that damn throne. But I feel like I should apologize for how dark it turned.
Mandy Lancaster
No fluffy puppies but a lot of very strong women. In a world that stripped women of agency at every turn you have given them their proper voices. While I weep for the losses this chapter I cheer for those who will carry on.
