An Arm of Iron-A Narrative Stannis AAR (GoT mod)

Loras was in the sept praying when Solio came to collect him. The Great Sept of Baelor had been burned down by the Queen's Men when the city was sacked, but the sept in the Red Keep still stood. He often found himself there, praying to the Maiden and the Mother and the Father and even the Stranger. But not the Warrior. He could not bring himself to pray to the Warrior.

His father had often talked to him about war. He had told him about Ashford, when he scattered Robert's army before him, then when on to lay siege to Storm's End. He had always made it sound glorious. The songs he'd heard again and again made it sound glorious. Now Loras had fought in a war, taken men's lives, and seen a city sacked, and watched a man be burned alive before him.

His father was a fool who had never fought in a battle, and the songs lied with every verse. Loras had once thought of war as a large scale tourney, but he had been a fool, a beautiful summer knight who thought himself atop the world. Renly had been a fool, Jaime had been a fool, Robb Stark was a fool, Stannis was a fool, Tywin Lannister was a fool, Balon Greyjoy was a fool, along with any man who fought war for power, or honor, or justice. And if men who fought were fools, there was only one thing worth fighting for. Loras looked up at the Stranger's face, darkness with stars for eyes.

“You are too religious I think,” the small, powerfully built Tyroshi said as he entered. “The Queen's Men want to burn this place down to, but the king has forbidden it. I find it odd they call themselves Queen's Men when they always do as the king says.”

“What are you still doing here?” Loras asked, turning from the Stranger's star eyes to speak. “I gave you enough gold to catch a ship home.”

“I like you,” Solio admitted as he walked through the sept, examining each of the gods in turn. “I like you and your rich father too. And I realize there's too much death in Westeros for me to leave just yet.” He stood beside Loras and they both looked up at the Stranger's face. “Do you know in Qohor they have a god called the Black Goat, who is the god of death? In Yi Ti they call death the Lion of Night. In Braavos they call it the Many Faced God, at least a few, and in Westeros you call it the Stranger.”

Loras glanced down at the strange man. “Your point?”

“Death is the only god every man worships,” Solio smiled. “And he is always among the most powerful. Anyway, speaking of these things is not why I came to see you. The king has sent one of his onions to fetch you. I didn't think you'd want to be alone.”

Loras half smiled and nodded. The onions were what Solio called the Seaworths. Loras was not sure how he felt about the them. It seemed there were always more of Lord Davos's brood than he initially thought. He knew one sat on the King's Small Council in addition to the Hand, and one other had killed his brother in single combat. He did not care to meet the rest. Maesters had taught him of every house great and small in Westeros as a boy, but never mentioned the Seaworths. He had no idea why their sigil was an onion or why Stannis seemed to trust them so totally.

This particular Seaworth was a tall one with a plain face, who wore a doublet of black and white, the Seaworth colors. He wore a powerful longsword on his hip, and kept his face down as he spoke. “His Grace requests your presence.”

“What about?”

“He received a raven from your lord father concerning what to do with you,” the Seaworth said, “If you will come with me.”

Loras grudgingly followed. He did not want to do as his father said any more. But never the less, a good son obeyed his father. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you before,” he said.

The Seaworth glanced up from his feet briefly and told him, “I am Ser Dale Seaworth, my father's eldest son.”

This shy knight will one day rule the Stormlands? Loras thought. He can't even look me in the eyes. “I heard your brother was captured during the siege.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Is he alright?”

“Yes, he's fine.” Ser Dale always spoke very solfly, and Loras had to lean in to hear him. He'd have trouble being heard at feasts.

They came into the throne room as the king was speaking to the press of lord and ladies. “...won a great victory over the forces of the Usurper Robb Stark at Riverrun, forcing him farther north. The city has been besieged by his forces. In return for this loyal support I name him Master of Laws on my small council, and he wanted another honor as well.” Dale led Loras through the press of lords and ladies and knights to near the front of the Iron Throne. “He requests a place in my Kingsguard for his son, Ser Loras Tyrell. However, I have already given the seventh spot to Ser Rolland Storm. So I will give him another honor, and join our houses. I offer Ser Loras the hand of my daughter, Princess Shireen Baratheon, heir to the Seven Kingdoms.”

Loras's suddenly felt as if all the air had left the room. “Your Grace,” he bowed courteously, “I am honored, but perhaps my brother Willas-”

“Willas is to old, and a cripple,” the king said bluntly. “When my daughter comes of age, you will wed her. Until then you will command my outriders, and serve on my war council.” Stannis ground his teeth and muttered, “I hope that's enough for your father.”

Every eye in the room turned on Loras. Usually he welcomed such attention, but these looks made him sweat. He should have gotten a place on the kingsguard, that's what should have happened. The kingsguard would have been a good place for him. But his father was too much of a fool for that, to interested in having a grandson on the Iron Throne.

Getting betrothed to a princess should have made any man happy, but it gave Loras a knot in his stomach. Renly. That was all he could think. Renly.

verdas said:

This is one of those AArs I've seen on the main page but never managed to read until now, and I'm glad I did, because it it excellent. Keep it up!

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Glad to have you on board!

Maric had been born in Flea Bottom, where getting a scrap of bread a day meant you were well off, whores were universally ugly, and you did not ask questions about the meat. His grandfathers had been a crabber and a carpenter respectively. Now he feasted every night, and bought whores on the street of silk. Chataya's brothel, highly recommended by all comers. Ask for Alayaya, she was the best.

And she was. She lay at his side now, and another, called Dancy lay at his other side. "I didn't know anyone could twist that way," he admitted, breathing heavily.

Alayaya stood back up and towered over him, naked as her name day. God she was beautiful, with the glowing ebony skin of the Summer Isles. "Is my lord ready for another time?" she asked wickedly.

"Oh yes indeed," Maric smiled.

He was about to engage her once again when Ser Allard Seaworth entered, clicking his tongue with disapproval. "What ever would father say Maric?"

Maric Seaworth, fourth son of Davos Seaworth, nearly jumped out of his skin. Maric Seaworth was the shortest of them. Plain faced and not good at much, his good brother Allard had entrusted him to command the Lady Marya for the attack on King's Landing. He had promptly lost the Lady Marya when a bunch of wildfire exploded in his face. While Matthos stormed the walls and slew every Lannister in sight, Maric had shouted words of encouragement. And while his three older brothers were showered with lordships and knighthoods, Maric had tried to be unremarkable. At that he always succeeded. "Others take you brother!" he shouted in dismay, jumping from the bed and taking a sheet to cover his private parts. "There's plenty of brothels in King's Landing, why can't you go to one of them?"

"Because I'm not here for the whores," Allard smiled, "Although I might return for them later." Maric's handsome and infinitely more talented brother wore full armor, like a real knight, with a fine made black ship and onion surcoat. "Put on your clothes, father sent me to collect you."

"What for?" Maric complained, pulling on his trousers. "I don't need collecting. I'm having a fine time."

"I can see that," Allard noted, then gave Alayaya a wink that made her giggle. "But father wants all his sons lined up like good little boys for the queen and princess. They're arriving today, and we shall be there to greet them."

"Do you think what the raven said is true?" Maric asked while tugging on his boots, and remembering the strange message they'd gotten from the queen before she sailed from Dragonstone. "It sounds impossible."

"I don't know and I don't honestly care to much," Allard shrugged. "Besides, I'm also here to ask you about your betrothal."

That stopped Maric cold with his arms stuck in his shirt. "What betrothal? I'm getting married? Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Blame Dale, it was his idea," Allard said, turning on his heel and starting out of the brothel. "I'm to be married as well. Father wants to ensure the loyalty of his new bannermen by marrying his various sons to their daughters. I'm to wed some Selmy girl. And you are to wed Brienne of Tarth."

"Who?" Maric wondered, trying to get his arm unstuck from his shirt and keep up with Allard's long strides at the same time.

"Brienne of Tarth, only living child and heir to Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall. She's looked about your age I think," Allard smiled. "She traveled with the army until Stannis ordered her to leave. I saw her many times."

"Really?" Maric asked, hoping against hope that Allard was making some cruel jest, like he sometimes did when they were children. "You've seen her, and I'm to marry her? What's she like?"

"We called her Brienne the Beauty," Allard told him, flashing a cunning smile, suggesting there was more to that name than was apparent. "She is a maid, although only just. She had many suitors in the camp, myself among them. That's one of the reasons Stannis sent her away."

Maric suddenly got an image in his head of a girl so beautiful that she broke down an army's discipline. "Really? And I'm to marry her?"

Allard gave him the biggest grin his face could hold. "Yes, yes you are."

They came out onto the streets of King's Landing and for a moment surveyed the ruins. Chataya's had been lucky. Half the city burned down during the sacking, along with Jaime Lannister. For every intact building there were two that were all but gone. Flea Bottom had been hit the worst. A week after the city was taken, after Stannis had regained order, Maric had gotten the courage to leave his ship and look for his family's old home, the one they had before father had become a knight. Nothing remained of it but ashes. Maric glanced toward Visenya's Hill and was greeted by empty sky where the Great Sept of Baelor used to be. And where the Kingslayer had met his end, if what Matthos had told him was the truth. "I was there," he had boasted proudly when Maric asked him about the sacking. "I was there when the Kingslayer was given to the righteous wrath of the Lord of Light."

They came down to the docks, where it seemed that half of King Stannis's army was assembled to greet Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen. The Queen's Men, around a thousand, were drawn up with flaming hearts upon their chests, standing stock still. Behind them rows of other men were drawn up, a few Florent men, a few Tyrell men, and a few Seaworth men, the smallest group. Unlike the Queen's Men they were leaning on their spears and chatting among themselves, but when they saw Allard making his way through them they stood at attention.

At the front of the pier King Stannis stood ready to receive his wife and daughter, wearing partial plate armor and a red crown that made it look like flames jumped from his head. At his side stood the Queen's uncles, Alester Florent, and the Red Woman. The Seven Kingsguard in all their white finery stood on either side of the pier, and behind them all the Seaworths were lined up in order. Father was first, still dressed in plain sailor's garb even though as Lord of the Stormlands he was among the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms. Beside him was Dale, in fine black and grey that appeared to match his mood. Beside him was Matthos, wearing that ridiculous surcoat with the three mermen on it. Last was Devan, a proud boy with his chin held high, squire to King Stannis. The two youngest Seaworths, Stannis and Steffon, where with mother and Dale's wife in Cape Wrath.

Maric and Allard slipped into place and waited with them as the ship in the distance grew larger. Among his finely dressed brothers Maric felt like a fool in his wool shirt and britches. Even his father in sailor's garb was better dressed than he was. He figured he was the last arrival, but then Loras Tyrell made his way to the dock, looking beautiful as always, but rather flustered and nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The Knight of the Flowers was at ease in almost every situation, but the prospect of meeting his future wife was enough to unnerve anyone Maric supposed.

A crowd also began to form. Word about the raven must have slipped out, and they were coming to see if it was true. Maric thought it impossible, but Dragonstone was a strange place, where strange things always happened. But it couldn't really have happened, could it? They would find out soon enough, as the ship was nearly into port. It was called Red Claw, and it was the gaudy ship of Ardrian Celtigar, Lord of Claw Isle. Queen Selyse had commandeered it for her journey to King's Landing and now a fiery heart flew above it's mast.

The first off the ship was a short, fat, hairy man in ill fitting armor was first off the ship. His giant ears marked him as Axell Florent, another of the queen's uncles. He spoke loud and harshly, trying to get his voice to reach all the assembled men, "Announcing Queen Selyse of House Baratheon and Florent, and Princess Shireen Baratheon, heir to the Seven Kingdoms."

Maric had seen the queen many times before, although he always wished he hadn't. She was thin and lanky, with large Florent ears and hair on her upper lip that resisted her every attempt to remove it. Her pale eyes had a spark of madness in them, and she remained stiffly formal as she walked onto the pier to greet her husband. "My King," she said, "I prayed for your victory and knew the Lord of Light would grant it to you. God has seen fit to grant another gift to our daughter."

All assembled held their breath as the princess, a young girl of ten came from the ship. Maric had seen her many times before and knew of her square jaw and large ears, and her face brutally deformed by greyscale. He was in for a nasty shock. The queen's message had spoken true. Shireen's greyscale was gone. Not fading, not receding, simply gone. Even Stannis gasped at the sight. Shireen's entire face was now covered in smooth cream colored skin. She was actually reasonably pretty.

"Father!" she cried, rushing forward to embrace the king. Stannis seemed somewhat stunned by the sudden hug, but slowly managed to wrap his arms around Shireen as well. "Do you see? Do you see?" she said excitedly. "My greyscale is gone!" Without waited for an answer she rushed down the pier, ignoring the Kingsguard that lined it. "Ser Onion Knight!" she waved at father, and embraced him as well. "Hello Dale, Allard, Matthos..." she hesitated before she remembered Maric's name, "Maric, Devan." And hardly pausing for breath she turned to the small army arrayed before her and sized them up like a hardened battle commander, and then asked, "Which one of you is the Knight of the Flowers?"

"That honor belongs to me my lady," Loras came over to her, the nervousness of before gone.

"We're going to get married," Shireen informed him quite sternly, "But don't think I'll marry just anyone. We'll have to talk as much as possible, to make sure you are a true knight. Come." She walked off through the assembled troops, which obediently parted before her. Loras followed behind, smiling and looking considerably more at ease than he had been.

"Now that's a queen if I've ever seen one," Allard joked. "I can't wait until she sits the throne." Stannis and Selyse began to exit as well, followed by the queen's uncles and the Red Woman. After that came the kingsguard, the Seaworths, and all the assembled men who slowly started marching for the Red Keep. They made a grand sight, with Shireen forever in the lead, making comments to Loras about how the city was different then she remembered, and the things she would build when she was queen.

Maric had a grin on his face when his father called him over. "I assume your brother told you about the match I've made?" he asked.

"Yes father," Maric smiled back, "I can't wait to meet her. When is she coming to King's Landing?"

"She's not. I'm sending you south to Storm's End, to serve as my castellan. You will meet her and wed her there," father explained.

I like King's Landing father!" Maric protested, thinking of Alayaya. "You're her liege lord, why can't you order her to come to us?"

"Because I need you in Storm's End to take the oaths of fealty in my place," father explained glancing at the Red Woman as he did so. "I need Dale here, and Matthos has to stay since he's on the small council. Allard and Devan are going north with Stannis's army. I need someone of my blood to take the oaths however, and you'll be more use down there than up here."

"How will I be of more use in the Stormlands?"

Maric's father looked very grim. "The moment they get the chance, the Florents and the Queen's Men will move against me. They're not to cunning, but if they get the better of me and Dale you'll need to raise the Stormlands against them, and should your older brothers die you'll be safe to inherit. This is a vital task, can I trust you with it?"

It was as if the weight of the world had been unceremoniously dumped on Maric's shoulders. He bowels turned to water at the thought of leading men to help his father. He opened his mouth to refuse, but instead he said, "Of course father, what ever you need me to do." And then he gritted his teeth and followed after the miracle princess.

The Iron Throne was not built for smugglers. It was built for kings, great men and conquerors, the likes of Robert and Stannis. So why am I sitting here? Davos thought as the next petitioner came forward. He was a tall, elegantly built man, with a sword swinging by his side and wearing a doublet of blue and white. A rich man, to old to be young, and to young to be old. "Lord Davos," he said, bowing deeply. "I am Darren Rykker, heir to Duskendale. My father has sent me with a query, and I hoped to deliver it to the king..."

"The king left for war yesterday," Davos told him, "He has left me to speak in his stead." Davos reached up and tugged at the collar of his doublet, a thing of black with a white onion sewn in the center. It was more constrictive than his sailors' garb, but Davos could not sit the Iron Throne as a sailor. Today he was Davos of House Seaworth, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Hand of the King, and Lord of Storm's End. If the king gave him any more titles he might be crushed underneath the weight of them. He felt out of place in this great hall, making decisions for these high lords. And his arse was getting sore too.

"Yes..." the Rykker trailed off. "I was hoping to take it up with the king himself. It regards King's Landing's supply of food for the coming winter, more of a matter of sums than anything else. Perhaps your master of coin would be better suited to-"

"Yes of course," Alester Florent interrupted. He was one of the two sitting at the Small Council's table, along with Matthos. "We shall not bore the Hand with such trifling matters. I can discuss the matter with you after we are done here." Without even waiting for Davos to respond Rykker bowed, mumbled a few parting words, and left the hall as fast as he could.

Davos found himself grinding his teeth, just as Stannis was always doing. That was the fourth time that Florent had stolen a petitioner from under him. All day he had interrupted him and undermined his decisions, but never slipped out of his veil of courtesy. All day he had aggravated him, and Davos could do little in response. The lords and knights petitioning saw only a tired old smuggler who had risen far higher than was proper, while Florent was a grand rich lord, dressed in exquisite finery. Thankfully there were only a few petitioners left to go. A baker and his pregnant daughter demanded payment for raising the bastard in her belly, given to her during the sacking. Davos gave him the gold, although Florent said the amount was to much and tried to haggle it down. The next was an old but forceful merchant who demanded that the army help rebuilt his warehouses, which had been burned down during the sacking. Davos explained that the army was rebuilding burnt houses before anything else, and Florent brought up that a lapse in trade would sap the crown's already light coffers. The last petitioner was a little man from the Iron Bank of Braavos, demanding that the new king repay the debts of the old. Davos said they would pay the debt when the war was won and it's expenses had been lessened. For once Florent did not interrupt, and the Braavosi looked satisfied for the moment.

The petitioning was done, and the hall slowly emptied. Davos eased himself out of the Iron Throne and came to speak with the extremely small Small Council. "Any more matters to address?" he asked, sitting at the head of the table to question Florent and his son. Florent stank of wealth, wearing to much perfume and heavy cloth-of-gold. Matthos was little better, still wearing a doublet with three mermen on it.

"Lord Robert Arryn of the Vale is dead," Matthos said. "Sickness took him very suddenly. We got a raven."

"That makes Harrold Hardyng Lord of the Vale," Florent said, "Though he's an Arryn now. And he is young, handsome, and gallant, and he also called his bannermen the moment he became a lord. Some fifteen thousand Valemen assemble outside the Eyrie. We should send a raven to Stannis so he can march on the Valemen too, and beat them down with all the other rebels."

"They have not yet declared for any king," Davos said sternly, "They may yet side with Stannis."

"Lord Harrold is young, eager, and distantly related to the Starks," Matthos shot back, "There's nothing he'd like more than a heroic struggle against impossible odds, which is what the Young Wolf faces with our armies marching on him. Better the stop him before he gets the chance to link up with the northerners."

Davos's son might have been lordly and a Queen's Man, but that didn't stop him from being right. "Send a raven," he ordered, "But offer no council." He knew what Stannis would do. He would demand the young lord's fealty, and if he didn't get it he would destroy him. Davos hoped the boy had the good sense to bend the knee. "If that is all I have other duties to attend to." He wanted to spend the least amount of time possible with Alester Florent.

"There is another matter father," Matthos spoke up, "Although more private than anything. I want permission to wed."

Davos was surprised. He hadn't seen Matthos courting anyone, but if he was in love... "Who?"

Alester Florent spoke. "My granddaughter, Talla Tarly. Matthos thinks it would be a fine match for our houses."

Davos thought about it for a moment. It seemed strange that Florent would want to tie a Seaworth to his granddaughter. But then he realized it was a cunning move. Seaworths had the king's favor, to marital ties would give Florent more influence. The fact the girl's last name was Tarly and not Florent meant he was not overly obligated to aid House Seaworth. There was one problem however. "Has Randyll Tarly approved?"

Alester hesitated. "No My Lord Hand. And we cannot send a raven. His army has been moving swiftly. No one seems to know where exactly he is."

"There shall be no marriage until Lord Tarly gives his approval," Davos ordered. That would delay Florent, or perhaps stop him entirely. Tarly was a proud man, and would be reluctant to marry his eldest daughter to an onion, regardless of how many titles it held.

With that the meeting was ended, and Davos returned to the Tower of the Hand, with a trail of his household guards. It was odd having household guards. Dale had thought it would be a good idea, and Davos had put Grent in charge of getting some. They numbered perhaps thirty now, although more were added every day. Grent fell into step behind him.

"My Lord, there are several more matters you must address today," the former hedge knight said. "Most important is a new leader for the gold cloaks. Her Grace wants Ser Patrek of King's Mountain given the command, a Queen's Man."

Davos sighed. Most Queen's Men were fanatically devoted to the Lord of Light, but some were decent enough. It was sometimes hard to tell the difference. "What do you make of him?"

Grent shrugged. "Seems competent enough, but I can't speak as to where his true loyalties lie. I only met the man once."

Davos found himself wishing he'd not sent Maester Rece south with Maric. Grent was brave and loyal, but had no skill when it came to reading men. Davos decided to arrange a meeting with Ser Patrek himself, to determine whether he could be trusted or not.

As Davos and his escort crossed to the Tower of the Hand, they saw two kingsguard dueling in the yard. Ser Rolland Storm fought Ser Godry Farring. Storm was a fierce worshiper of the Warrior, Farring a Queen's Man, and it hardly seemed practice as they bashed and beat at one another. Stannis had left them behind to guard the queen and princess while he fought in the north, and Shireen was standing to the side of them, shouting, "Hit him Ser Rolland!" while a group of Queen's men cheered on Farring.

"What's going on?" Davos asked as he walked up.

"Ser Godry challenged Ser Rolland to a fight," Shireen said eagerly. "Ser Rolland said he wouldn't waste the effort, and Ser Godry got very angry and attacked him. But Ser Godry is just a bully, and now Ser Rolland is going to beat him. Come on Ser Rolland!"

The two fighters were equally fierce in their faith, but Farring was half a foot taller than Storm, and had better reach. He landed a blow that splintered Storm's shield and knocked the wind out of him. The big Queen's Man took the opportunity to land another blow, sending Storm sprawling to the ground. Farring quickly landed another blow shattered against his enemy's chest, and another that made his ear red, and another that blacked his eye. "Where's the Warrior now?" Farring shouted as he hit Storm again and bone cracked. Storm tried to yield but couldn't get the words out between blows.

"Enough!" Davos said when Farring refused to let Storm yield. "Enough! The man's beaten, stop this now!" When his words had no effect he rushed forward between the two Kingsguard, checking Farring's strikes.

"Get out of my way!" Ser Godry roared. "Get out of my way onion or I'll cut through your layers and make your sons cry!" He lifted his blunted weapon and was about to bring it down on Davos's head when Grent drew his sword and pressed against the knight's throat.

"If you touch a hair upon my Lord's head, I will slit your throat before you can touch another," Grent threatened. Suddenly the yard was filled with steel as the Queen's Men watching drew their weapons and Davos's guard drew their's. A tense silence fell on them, each waiting for the other to move, so they could place blame later. Shireen looked from Farring to Grent to Davos, her face full of excited anticipation. She wants to see us fight, Davos realized, She wants to see blood.

After a good minute of silence, Farring lowered his sword. "If I had a real sword in my hand, you, and your men would be dead right now," the big knight growled, then turned and walked away, followed by the other Queen's Men. Grent and Davos's guards sheathed their swords, and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Davos and Grent helped Ser Rolland up together. "Thank you my lord," Rolland said roughly. He was a fierce looking man with a face covered in scars and a black beard that when down to his chest. "I can't understand how that big bastard managed to get the best of me. I suppose I was getting to confident and the Warrior wanted to teach me a lesson. I owe you my life, as far as I can see Lord Davos." Ser Rolland extended a hand in friendship, and when Davos took it he drew him into a half hug. And then, when they were close for only a moment, he whispered into his ear, "The Queen is going to kill you Lord Davos."

Dr Pearceson said:

Just read all the chapters, very good and well written

Poor Maric, thinking he's going to get some beautiful wife. Oh well, at least he gets to rule the Stormlands for his father.

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Thank you for the complements. And I am looking forward to writing when Maric first meets his blushing (and heavily muscled) bride.

Tyrion had read many years ago that blind men's other senses became more acute. The book lied. It seemed to him that he could hear no more than he had before, even less perhaps. He couldn't tell what he was smelling even if it was shoved right under his nose. All his other senses suffered as well, even his perception of where he was in the world. Sometimes when he was pulled off the horse his feet would strike the ground sooner than he expected, or later. Sometimes when he managed to sleep he would dream and see colors, endless colors all around him, but when he woke he would still be in his dark prison. He would have died the same day Bronn took his eyes if it hadn't been for a Maester named Tommund, a gentle but diligent old man. He'd treated him carefully, although at times Tyrion had suffered extreme pain, and still felt a jolt whenever wind hit them. And whenever the horse he rode took a step.

He'd spent the last few weeks strapped to a horse behind a Stormlander soldier who he didn't know the name of, because all he ever did was grunt, even when Tyrion asked him a direct question. He was supposedly being taken up the Kingsroad to Harrenhal, where his father was camped, but they could be taking him to any corner of the Seven Kingdoms for all he knew. It was true the wind was getting colder, but with winter coming that was true everywhere.

He did however, eventually catch the sent of dung. Enough dung for an army he supposed. Sounds rose up as they approached, shouts and rolling dice and giggles of camp followers. Hammers beat and there was a tinge of metal in the air. Tyrion saw none of it. He had seen Harrenhal once in his life, the day his brother had been sworn into the kingsguard. He knew it was a dark castle, huge, and ruined. He could tell when they rode through it's massive, broken gates, into it's cold, muddy yard. He could tell that thousands of soldiers had come to see them arrive, and hear their muffled laughter at the sight of him. He still saw none of it.

He heard one of his escorts, Maester Tommund from the sound of him, unroll a scroll and clear his throat. "His Grace Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby order Lord Tywin Lannister to bend the knee and join his army to the Royal Army, to march on the North and the Wall." The silence was deafening, but that was not enough to dissuade Tommund. "As a token of His Grace's good faith, he sends Tyrion Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, and the bones of Jaime Lannister. When His Grace's terms are met he will also return Lord Tywin's daughter Cersei Lannister, and his grandchildren, Joffery, Myrcella, and Tommen Waters."

A dog barked distantly. Flies buzzed. And Tyrion heard his father's hard voice say, "I will talk to my son alone."

Tyrion was pulled off his horse and roughly taken by the arm, and dragged faster than he would have liked through some doors and up a stairway. He was then left in a room where he felt a crackling hearth. "Sit down," his father ordered. "If you can manage it."

Tyrion felt a table in front of him, and worked his way to a chair, which he was grateful to sit in. At least in a chair he couldn't run into anything. "My captors have been keeping my throat dry," he said, "Do you have wine?"

"Where you drunk when this Onion Knight of Stannis's stormed the Red Keep?" Tywin asked, and Tyrion heard him pouring something. He hoped it was wine.

"No," Tyrion said. He could have added I was in bed with a whore, but didn't feel like dying just yet. "I was sleeping. The captain of my guardsmen turned on me."

"You should have never trusted a sellsword," Tywin spat. "Because of your ignorance we have lost King's Landing, Jaime and-"

"And the war," Tyrion smiled. "I know. But I repeled Stannis's first attack, and held the city for the better part of a year, eating ravens and rats, waiting for my dear father to relive me."

"Don't you dare blame me for your failures," Tywin accused. "You are a selfish, spineless, vengeful little creature, and I will not let you destroy this family's name."

"And how will you maintain it?" Tyrion asked, "By fighting against Stannis? You're outnumbered, and surrounded, and he's got the family you hold so dear locked in his blackcells. Unpleasant places I will tell you. I imagine they won't stop Cersei's decent into madness. She was barely coherent the last time I spoke with her. And your grandson Joffery Waters, as he's now called, is a fool, and a terror. The future of our family is hanging by a thread."

"Our future died when they burned my son alive!" Tywin roared, and Tyrion heard something shatter.

There was silence between them for a few moments. Tywin was not usually prone to emotion like this. I suppose having one's son die is enough to make even Tywin Lannister abandon logic, Tyrion mused, then said, "So you intend to give him battle?"

"Of course not," Tywin said, "We will march back to the Westerlands and gather more forces. When Stannis marches on us, we will be ready for him. There is no need to fear Robb Stark anymore. His host was defeated outside Riverrun by Randyll Tarly. Some say the Young Wolf has been killed, others say he is captured, that his army is scattered. Either way, Tarly will be to busy chasing the Northerners to give us battle. Once we are back in the Westerlands, I intend to marry you off to Jeyne Westerling. I will also remarry, to Lady Lefford."

"Trying to get another son?" Tyrion asked.

"Yes," Tywin admitted bluntly, "And trying to insure the loyalty of our bannermen. With the war turning against us, a few marriages will go a long way. You were always good for little Tyrion, and now you are good for less. But you can still breed. You will spend the rest of the war in Casterly Rock doing just that."

Tyrion heard his father stand up and walk toward the door. Before Tywin left he had to ask, "Father, if you get another son from this new marriage, will you kill me?"

For a moment, to small to matter for most, Tywin did not respond. "Yes," he said in a hoarse voice, "There is wine on the table." The door shut and Tyrion felt he was alone in the room.

He reached out for the wine, fumbling about in the dark for it. For a second he had the glass, then his fingers turned clumsy and it slipped away, spilling on the table and covering his fingers with wine. It was sweet and sticky, and for a moment Tyrion imagined it was blood. His father's blood.

Cuban said:

Keep it up !

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Thanks for the encouragement. It helps.

siempie78 said:

Poor guy

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I would feel sorry for Brienne too. Maric is hardly Prince Charming.

Klonself said:

You've got an interesting story going, too bad it's marred by your atrocious grammar making it almost too annoying to bother reading.

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Well, when you write your own AAR, you can use perfect grammar.

Dr Pearceson said:

Tywin: Westeros' Family man.

Anyway, another great chapter and I cant wait too see what happens next.

Also will we find out what happened to Robb Stark next chapter?

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Next chapter will be with a new POV character and yes, it will focus on Robb and the Northerners.

Smoke filled her father's hall, curling up toward the rafters. The warm fire crackling in the hall could do little to ward off the wet though. Sheets of rain splashed against the castle's walls, and even managed to drip into the hall. The castle was drafty, as it always was, but no cold wind was enough to make her shiver anymore. The pounding, ruthless, unending rain had chilled her right down to her bones. Roslin's sisters, nieces, and great-nieces all stared at her. Not to long ago she would have been among them, the girls who had never left the Twins in their lives, staring and whispering about the visitor. But her brothers, nephews, and great-nephews only had eyes for her husband.

The King of the North stood before her family, soaking wet from head to toe. Dark circles were below his eyes, and his hair was bedraggled. His face was hard, lean and tired. He wore his full plate armor, usually an impressive sight, but rust had played at it's edges and made him look more like a hedge knight than a king. He was wrapped in furs, as were most of the northerners, and his iron and bronze crown still rested on his head. His great direwolf was beside him, hair matted and wet, yellow eyes scanning her family. The Northern lords were assembled behind their king, save the Greatjon, who could not stand. Rickard Karstark, a gaunt old man with a fierce white beard, stood at her husband's right hand. Old, grey Galbart Glover, Maege Mormont and her daughter Dacey, and fat, bald Manderly brothers. Cold, pale eyed Roose Bolton had once been among them, but had been captured by the Lannisters in a skirmish. For that Roslin was grateful. That lord had scared her more than any wolf.

Her father sat on his chair of black oak. The Lord of the Crossing was a bent, ancient man, confined to a chair by gout. Age had taken is hair and his teeth, and loosened his skin. He looked, as Roslin had so often been told, like a weasel. From his chair he looked down on his good-son, and his king. "So this is it? The Young Wolf has finally been humbled. Heh. Let one defeat break you? Heh."

Her husband gritted his teeth and set his jaw before speaking. "My Lord, my men are tired and need rest. We also need food and horses, so that-"

"So that you can run off north and abandon me here to die!" Lord Walder said sourly. "You steal one of my daughters and abandon me, is that the way of it? Leave your own good-father to the lions and stags. I should never have allow Roslin to marry the likes of you."

Robb was angered by her father's words, and his voice flashed, "I intend to hold the Twins Lord Walder. The supplies I ask for are to help me defend your lands. Do not dare presume to know my mind again."

Lord Walder kept a sour face most times, but Roslin knew her father well enough to know he was surprised. "Well Your Grace, you will have my stores. Let's hope you have the wit to stop the stag before he surrounds my halls."

Roslin saw something else in her half-brother Lothar, who served as her father's steward and always had a cunning look to him. Disappointment. He wants to sell Robb out to Stannis, she realized. He would get few opportunities with Robb's army station at the Twins. Although it had shrunken, it was still a formidable defense against treachery. Slowly, with her father being obstructive and unhelpful, the terms under which Robb's army would be quartered at the Twins was worked out. Roslin payed little attention to such things. She had been raised to be a wife, not a warrior.

After the details had been arranged, Robb went to get the army placed, and the northern lords went with him. Roslin was wondering where she should go when her sisters decended upon her, showering her with questions about her husband and the war and the army and whether the northerners were as savage as they seemed. Amerei (who was known to open her legs for anyone) even asked how the king was in bed. Roslin barely got any words in at all, most of them "yes" and "no".

She had been so excited the day Robb came to choose his bride. He had been fighting in the Westerlands, and taken a minor wound that alerted him to the need for an heir should he die. So he'd left the Greatjon in command and left his army. The day he'd arrived Lord Walder lined up all his unwed daughters of suitable age while his sons placed bets on who the king would choose. Roslin had a hefty lead by the time Robb arrived in full armor with Grey Wind at his side. His mother had also come, and a smattering of Northern lords, Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton among them. He'd walked down the line of girls and inspected each one, asking questions. His mother had walked behind him, inspecting each girl he showed interest in, asking about her mother.

Roslin had been so scared when he came to her. She'd answered his questions as best she could, telling him she had a wonderful singing voice. Then Lady Catelyn had asked about her mother, and frowned when she said the name Rosby. After the king and his mother finished looking over the girls, they talked for a long time. They argued. Finally Robb came forward and asked for her hand. Roslin was so overwhelmed she stammered as she excepted. That night they were wedded before a heart tree in Northern style. Then there had been the feast, and her new husband and danced with her. It had seemed perfect, a song come to life. Then and come the bedding, which was... best not mentioned.

Although Robb needed an heir, his army needed a leader, so he had left the Twins the next day, and Roslin had joined his army on the march. The Northerners were savage, that much she quickly determined, but they had a type of rugged honor. Most were courteous enough, and not one ever failed to address her as "Your Grace". That was what unnerved her the most. She had expected to be a wife one day, but not a queen. Lady Catelyn said she should give Robb council and care, but Roslin could never bring herself to speak up around her husband. He never asked her to sing. The only conversations they had were quick and to the point, with Roslin never saying more than she had too. What if something she said was wrong, and made him angry? She would never forgive herself for making a mistake like that.

During her time with the army, there were many battles, each one more horrible than the last. Robb would come back from battle with his terrible wolf, and his armor and sword would be covered in blood. Wounded men would scream and cry, blood flowing. There was always so much blood. Roslin wanted to help the wounded, to care for them, but fear of all that blood kept her away. She didn't truly see battle until the attack on Riverrun. Reachmen led by Randyll Tarly had caught them by surprise, storming over the wall to take the castle while others fell on the camp. She would have died if it hadn't been for the Greatjon, who had beaten off a dozen attackers. Half his foot had been chopped off by the last one. That wound had been enough to drive him to the ground, bleeding from to many wounds. The attack was beaten off, but only at the cost of many lives.

Robb had never seemed so shaken before. He kept saying, "I was a fool, thinking the Reachmen would go after the Lannisters. They must have forced marched through the night to catch us, practically the same tactic I use. I should have seen it coming." A few days later he ordered a retreat, leaving his old great-uncle to hold Riverrun. The retreat had been followed by storm clouds. Horses died, wounded died, and moral fell sharply. It took eight men to carry the Greatjon, who was near death. Her husband lost weight and spent the nights sleeplessly. He began to take more council from Rickard Karstark, and stopped feeding the prisoners he'd taken. Most were dead now.

Roslin told her sisters little and less. She spent the rest of the day in the cambers that had been put aside for her and her husband. The rain came down in torrents, and she had servants light a fire to keep away the cold.


Robb's lovemaking was urgent and hurried that night. After it was done he rolled away from her and didn't say a word. It was what Roslin had grown used to on the retreat. Her husband might toss and turn and stay awake gazing at the ceiling, but he would not speak to her. She was afraid to speak to him first, so they spent their nights in silence. He did his duty as a king, and that was all.

Perhaps it was being back at the Twins, or seeing her sisters again, but Roslin felt different tonight. A sudden madness took her, and she asked her husband, "Can you win the war?"

For a long time Robb said nothing. He didn't look at her, and he didn't move. "Perhaps. If we go north and stay at Moat Cailin. Father once told me that 200 good archers could hold off an entire army at Moat Cailin. But if we do that, we give all the Riverlands to Stannis. My father knew him, said he was mercilessly just. He would kill every Riverlands lord that remained loyal. He would kill your father, and the rest of your family. I would have to sit there and watch. My bannermen would grow more and more restless as they watched the slaughter. They'd rebel, or I'd have to go south again, to fight a battle against five times my numbers. No. No, I can't win the war alone."

Robb got out of bed and walked to the window. For awhile Roslin listened to the rain fall on the stones above them. "Could you make peace?"

Robb turned back at her. "Yes," he said, "I could end it. For a price."

The castle Stannis Baratheon had given Davos Seaworth was a small thing. It was really just a pile of stones with a couple of servants and a handful of guardsmen. It was not a place to be proud of, at least as far as Maric thought. His father would have agreed with him, but his mother and brothers would have argued the point fiercely. In his youth Maric had gone to the local village to wore and drink away whatever small allowance his father gave him. He'd gotten into plenty of tavern brawls in his time, and lost every single one. Occasionally his brothers took him hunting in the Rainwood, so he could be thrown from his horse and left behind, or run like mad from the very stag they were hunting.

The moment he laid eyes on Storm's End, he knew it was a different place. Some men said it was built with magic, and one look convinced Maric they were right. The fortress of the Storm Kings was perched on the edge of a cliff that dropped a hundred and fifty feet down to the sea. The walls were a hundred feet high, and the stones were so perfectly locked together that they seemed to be fused of one solid piece. Rising high above the walls was a single tower, a huge stone drum. It was a tower so large that it contained the barracks, armory, granary, feast hall, lord's chambers and still had room for the kitchens. And until one of his older brother's came along to take the role of castellan, it was Maric's to rule.

He must have looked a fine sight with three dozens knights and guards riding with him, one carrying the Onion banner of House Seaworth. Maester Rece rode beside him, an optimistic grin on his face, looking more like a jester than a scholar. If I wasn't the one leading this band, it would be fit for a song, Maric imagined. He was covered by a magnificent green and gold tunic that tried and failed to make up for his small, gangly body.

The moment they were off their horses his mother was rushing out to greet them. "Oh there you are! Little Maric all grown up and- oh, is that a fine tunic for one of my sons to wear!" Maric's mothr was a plump, red-cheeked woman with mostly grey hair and a busy disposition. Back at Cape Wrath she'd always been the one to order around servants, and could talk for hours about the accomplishments of her husband. Maric doubted his father's recent accomplishments had made her any humbler, although she still wore clothes that was hard to distinguish from a servant's. "I have knightly sons and a lordly son and now I have a castellany son," she cried, and gave Maric a kiss on each cheek and the forehead.

"I'm not sure that last title really is a word Lady Seaworth," Rece said, bowing.

That made Lady Seaworth giggle, "Oh I like him. Come on son, the lords of the Stormlands can't wait to meet you. None of them have gotten eyes on a proper grown Seaworth. Lord Staedmon is here, and Lord Estermont's son, Lord Buckler's wife, a dozen others I can't remember the name of, and of course Lord Tarth and his daughter."

"Lady Brienne?" Maric wondered excitedly, "She's here? I must meet her at once." Maric had the feeling the whores in Storm's End wouldn't be nearly as pretty as the ones in King's Landing, so he was eager to wed and bed the Beauty of Tarth. He had began daydreaming about her during the journey south. In his mind she was a combination of the the most beautiful whores he'd ever bedded. Rece never answered any questions about her, although he warned Maric not to get his hopes to high. Maric was to exited at the thought of not paying another coin to bed a woman, an entirely new experience for him.

"Oh yes, she's here, she's here," his mother assured him, "She's very shy though, and the wedding's only a few days off. Lord Tarth suggests you'd don't meet her until then."

"I'm to marry her!" Maric exclaimed, aghast, "Of course I'm going to meet her before the wedding!"

"I loved a woman once," Rece said, launching into one of his monologues. Maric had grown very used to the maester's long talks about his life before he went to the Citadel. Anything and nothing could send him into a speech that only vaguely had something to do with what was going on. Maric suspected most were lies, since if all were true Rece's father was a miner, a fisherman, and a hedge knight. This one seemed to be about a woman he planned to elope with, but his father (who was a highborn lord this time) caught him, hung the woman, and threatened to castrate him. Maric gave the maester an irritated look. He was wise and skilled at arms, of that there was no doubt, but the man was uncharismatic to the extreme.

His mother led them into a great feasting hall, where the Lords of the Stormlands (and ladies for the lords away north) were assembled to meet them. Maric's first impression was that the Stormlands must have been full of old men, for faces with wrinkles were far more common then those without. Maric was introduced to what he thought was a hundred greybeards in the hall, but only remembered two. Lord Staedmon, called the "Pennylover" by most, was a hunched, seedy man who looked more like a beggar instead of a lord. And then of course there was Selwyn Tarth, a grandfatherly type who walked with a staff.

Maric was not half so concerned with Lord Selwyn as he was with the beautiful girl who sat beside him, dressed in the colors of House Tarth. "You must be Lady Brienne. My brothers told me of your beauty, and I see now they did not lie." It was the introduction he had practiced a thousand times while journeying south, after discarding several others. He took her hand and kissed it, and looked deep into her eyes, just as Maester Rece had advised. It would have been perfect had Selwyn not burst out laughing, along with half the hall. "What's wrong?" Maric asked, looking around to see what was so funny.

"I'm afraid you have mistaken my wife for my daughter," Selwyn smiled in his grandfatherly manner. "My second wife, to be sure. We married only a month ago. My daughter grew nervous and went to watch the men practice in the yard." Maric couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard Lord Selwyn add an "I hope," under his breath.

"Well I'll go to her then," Maric said, and asked his mother which way the practice yard was.

The Lord of Tarth suddenly became nervous, "Are you sure you don't just want to wait until the wedding?"

"No, I do not want to wait until the wedding," Maric said as forcefully as he could. He was embarrassed and irritated, and he would have no more delays in meeting his betrothed.

Maric led the way out of the hall, followed by Rece and Lord Selwyn. Maric was stopped short when he saw what appeared to be an enormous man in a dress watching the knights duel. Maric stumbled forward as he realized it was a woman. She stood a foot taller than him at least, and possessed a heavily muscled body with no breasts to speak of. Her face's features were broad, and covered in freckles. Her mouth was wide, and her teeth and nose were crooked. She looked terrible in the dress, although Maric doubted any clothing could improve her look. She did not have a single attractive feature, save two blue eyes, totally out of place on her body. "Lord Maric this is my daughter, Brienne," Lord Selwyn said, despair in his voice.

Maric stood there and stared at his betrothed. Brienne stared back, looking like a cornered deer. Lord Selwyn made a few comments to try and sooth the tension, but Maric barely heard them. Finally, a single word squeaked from between his lips, "No..." It was unusually high pitched. Maric turned around and walked back into the main tower. "No," he said again, more to himself than anything, "No, no, no, no, nonononononononono, no, no!"

Rece caught up to him in the long corridor. "My Lord..." the maester said reluctantly, "You must remember that..."

"NO!" Maric exclaimed angrily. "I will not marry that...that...that bear! In bed she'd crush me!" Maric started wringing his hands and pacing. "I must send a raven to father, explain there is no way I will ever marry that monster of a woman. And I will tell him never to do anything Dale suggests again. And the next time I see Allard I will wring his neck for telling me she was a beauty. I will choose my wife from the storm-lords daughters, and get one that isn't a giant."

Rece sighed. "When your father gets that letter what do you think he'll do?" Maric tried to answer but the maester cut him off. "He'll agree to let you marry any girl you want, because he's a good man who only wants his son's happiness. But how do you think Lord Selwyn will react? Three potential husbands have already rejected the girl. He is a powerful and respected man. Your house has risen up from nothing, with only the king's authority keeping you in power. Your bannermen will turn on you. But should you marry her, he will be loyal and grateful, and the rest will follow suit. You must do your duty."

Maric despised Rece for a moment. Mostly because he made so much sense that Maric had no reply. He stuttered and raged, but in the end, he could not refute the maester's argument. "Fine," he said, taking a deep breath to calm himself, "I will marry her."

"Good," Rece replied in a happy tone, "It's not as bad as it could be though, I heard she's quite the warrior."

"I'm not a blushing maid," Maric replied unhappily.

"True enough My Lord, but with all that strength she'll doubtless bare many children. And unless Lord Selwyn's new wife should bare him a son Brienne is heir to Tarth. That means you would found a landed branch of House Seaworth, more than what most of your brothers can hope for. And then of course..." Rece went on to name the endless advantages of wedding Brienne, but all Maric could think of was the bedding. She'll snap me in half like a twig, he thought bitterly.

Dr Pearceson said:

Another great chapter, interesting choice of character.

The relationship between Rosilin and Robb is different too what I expected. In my CK II games, Robb always seems to fall in love with her.

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Robb's marriage is unfortunately loveless. But hey, at least there was no scarlet-colored wedding!