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

siempie78 said:

Seriously though, Robb does always fall in love with her... and their opinion of one another is always pretty high, I thought...

Anyways, how is Euron's host doing? Or hasn't it attacked Balon yet?

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Quite a lot of a-typical things occurred in this game, such as Brienne losing the "celibate" trait, which allowed her to marry. On a completely unrelated matter, I'm putting the AAR on hold for awhile do to a combination of writer's block and midterms.

Dale kept his hood up against the cold wind that swept through the streets of King's Landing. The grey, overcast sky told him that it would soon be raining. Winter was nearly upon them, Dale felt it in his bones. He'd seen harsher winters than his younger brothers could remember, but he had a feeling that this one would be the worst yet. Every man with sense agreed with him.

Small drops of rain were patting by the time he came to Chataya's. The brothel was warm and dry, and Dale didn't mind the women in various states of undress at all. He'd been away from Leyla too long. He dreamed of his wife, her hair, her lips, her breasts. She was a lowborn woman, his childhood sweet, and they'd long planned their wedding. They had never imagined Stannis Baratheon would attend for some heroics done at Storm's End. But that was years ago and his wife was far away at Storm's End.

One of the women, an older summer islander woman, came up to him. "Wellcome Lord Dale. I am Chataya. What can I interest my lord in tonight?"

"I'm here to be treated like a king," Dale said.

Chataya smiled knowingly and said, "Of course my lord. Dancy can take care of your needs." A young, pretty girl with freckles and red hair came forward and took Dale by the hand. She led him though the warm brothel, past no small number of other lords, Queen's men among them, but no one took any real notice of him. Tonight he was just one of the many lords seeking comfort.

They came to a back room. "My lord's pleasure awaits inside," Dancy said with a smile, and then left him. Dale hoped he'd said the words right then pushed open the door.

He was greeted by the sound of swords being slid from scabbards, and slid back in when they realized who he was. He was in a small, airless room, lit by a single candle. It's only furniture was a round wooden table with a few simple chairs placed around it. There sat Ser Andrew Estermont, a tall fellow whose bushy brown eyebrows seemed to take up half his face. Next to him was Salladhor Saan, who Dale had known long enough to know his friendship was not easily bought, despite his claims to the contrary. Also around the table was Lewys the Fishwife, Omer Blackberry, and Salloreon the blacksmith. All of them were loyal to Stannis, and none were Queen's Men.

"Good," Estermont said, "Lord Dale is here. We can begin."

"Yes," Dale said, sitting at the head of the table, "I call this meeting of the King's Men to order." Ever since King's Landing was taken Dale had begun finding men loyal to Stannis who did not serve the Red God. A little gold had made Chataya more than happy to give them a place to hold their meetings away from the spy infested Red Keep. There were ten thousand spies in King's Landing, and Dale had little doubt a fair number had recently been employed by Alester Florent. "The must pressing issue we must discuss is the threat to my father's life. I convinced my father to get a taster, so at least on avenue of assassination is closed. My spies keep telling me the same thing though. Soon, very soon, the Florents will be making their move."

"Lord Alester is the most cunning," Blackberry said, "He's doubtless the one planning things. Throw him in a cell and the plot with die."

"Or we could just make him die," Salladhor Saan smiled. "I would love to see that rich old man suffer a tragic accident."

Dale sighed. "We've discussed this before Saan. We can't go around-" The door opened again and Dale spun around to face it, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. The other King's Men drew weapons as well.

A girl entered the small room. She wore a heavy cloak, but she took off the hood and gave Dale a good look at her face. Her hair was unnaturally short, especially for a woman's, and she had a slender but shapely body. Her face might have once been pretty, but now was deformed by a scar that ran from her right eyebrow, across her broken nose, split her lips, and ended at the tip of her chin. Dale recognized her quickly enough. "Lady Margaery, why are you here?"

Margaery Tyrell, whose scar was a token from her capture by the false king, gave nothing away. "I am here to represent House Tyrell in your little meetings."

"This is man's business woman," Estermont said gruffly.

Dale sighed. Estermont was much to old fashioned for King's Landing. "How did you find out about us?" he asked, pressing his sword to her throat. He did not trust Margaery Tyrell, and if she knew of the King's Men others may know of them too.

Margaery smiled, which might have been attractive once, but now it opened the split in her lip and made for a grotesque sight. "You are not the only one with spies Lord Dale. Be assured, the Florents have no idea about your meetings. Lord Alester may know just as much as me, but he is not nearly as good at putting pieces together. There is a free seat." She came over to the table and sat down, apparently unafraid.

"You realize that everything said here can never leave this room?" Dale told her.

"You trust a pirate..." Margaery said, gesturing at Salladhor Saan, "But not a Lady of Highgarden?"

"I grew up on the streets of King's Landing m'lady," Dale said. "There were plenty of girls on the street like you. Just because you're highborn doesn't mean you're any better."

Margaery smiled her grotesque smile yet again. "Well, I like you already Lord Dale. House Seaworth has great potential in you. So, what is the issue of the day?"

"Assasinating Alester Florent," Salladhor Saan explained a bit to quickly.

"I like you already."


They got more done in that meeting than they had in the last ten. Preparations for the feeding of King's Landing were discussed, as well as preparations for Davos's defense. Margaery assured them they could depend on Highgarden should it come to a battle between King's Man and Queen's Men. She also told them Queen Selyse was the least cunning, but the most fanatical of the Florents. Her uncles were opportunists, unlikely to cause trouble for religion. They figured out many ways to undermine their mutual enemies, and addressed a dozen other issues.

By the time the meeting was finished it was the dead of night, and rain had started pattering down. Dale decided to be knightly and offer Lady Margaery escort back to the keep. "Of course," Margaery accepted.

"I can see why Stannis gave your family so much power," Margaery told him as they walked. "Even if your father is uneasy with power, he deserves it. And you are all fierce fighters, as my brother Garlan learned."

"I'm sorry Allard did what he did," Dale apologized. "He's always been the proudest of us, with the possible exception of Matthos. I thought it was a bad idea, but he was right. We needed to show our house's power."

"I was there, and I blame my father far more than your brother. He's always been a fool. If he hadn't been so proud and so greedy Garlan would've never fought that combat. I have no desire to start another feud like the one we have with the Martells. In fact, I imagine I'd be a good match for Allard. If he will have me."

"He might," Dale admitted, while thinking, If father ordered him to, which father would never do. "I was also considering matching him up with Arianne Martell, or even Sansa Stark if she's ever found, but I'll mention it to father. My father does have seven sons though, so if Allard cannot I might find you another. Deven is thirteen, and the king's squire. He might be an able match. Pity I'm already married, I wouldn't mind marrying you."

Margaery seemed surprised. "Really? Even with my scar?"

Dale thought about what to say for a moment. It was usually his policy to remain quiet and listen, to never give anything away, to appear unimportant. But Margaery knew everything about the King's Men. He might as well trust her with something else. He reached forward and kissed her. He still loved Leyla, though she was far away. In King's Landing he had the world upon his shoulders and needed love, something he sensed Margaery could give him. For just a moment they shared a kiss, and Dale felt like he was back in the family castle at Cape Wrath before the War of Five Kings, kissing Leyla and loving her. And Margaery kissed him back, for one moment being a young girl instead of a Lady of Highgarden.

Then something hard struck him on the back of the head.

He fell hard upon the ground and the world swam before his eyes. He heard Margaery screaming, saw a dark shape with a club and dagger advancing on her. "Run!" he managed to shout, pulling at the attacker's legs to send him tumbling to the ground. Despite wobbling legs and clumsy fingers he managed to pull himself up and get his sword out of it scabbard. He caught a brief glimpse of Margaery running through the rain before the attacker lunged at him. He clumsily blocked the first few blows, but his arm was weakening as he used it, and the sword moved slow. The attacker got a lucky strike through, running the sword strait through Dale's bowels.

Dale fell to the ground with the sword still in him. Darkness crawled at the edges of his vision, but he still saw his blood, to much of it, spilling out onto the ground. He thought of Leyla. He thought of what he wanted to name their first child. He thought of kissing her, of running his fingers through her hair. He thought of the woman he loved as he died on the streets of King's Landing.

Cuban said:

Will the young wolf bend the knee ? please say he will

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I don't know... WILL HE?

Dr Pearceson said:

Well that was unexpected...

So with Dael dead, those that leave Allard as the heir to the Stormlands? And what of the King's Men? With Dale dead will they be disbanded?

So many damn questions . Great chapter, I'd say one of the best endings i've seen from you. Also, will Davos extract his revenge on whoever killed poor Dale?

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I work to surprise you. I've got a few other surprises lined up for the next few chapters. *evil laugh*

The orange flames flowed from the hearth and across the table. Snow melted from the assembled men's clothes and pooled onto the floor. Loras was glad for the heat. The snow had begun falling in great heaps as the Royal Army trudged North. Some of the older men said that soon it would be this bad everywhere, but Loras couldn't imagine it snowing like this in Highgarden. They had been supposed to meet with the Northerners outside, but it had proven to cold. So now the lords of the south and the lords of the north were crammed together under one tavern roof as if they were common travelers here to enjoy a meal together.

Stannis looked as if he might not enjoy anything ever again. He glared across the table at the young Northern King. Loras had to keep reminding himself that Robb was two years younger than he was. War had taken it's toll, given him scars and wrinkles. Yet even with those, the Stark's look surprised him. He was not a big hulking brute, but average sized and handsome. The other northerners were exactly as he expected however. They were savages, the lot of them. The worst was the Greatjon Umber, a massive man who was missing most of his right foot and had to walk with a cane the size of a quarterstaff. Across from them was the flowering chivalry of the Reach and the Stormlands, beautiful and graceful. Even if peace is made, our armies will mix like oil and water, Loras thought. Before the war he might have cracked a smile at the thought, but now all he could do was wonder how many lives petty arguments would cost.

"You will bend the knee to me and take a solemn oath never to raise a sword against the rightful king again," Stannis said coldly. Officially they were negotiating the Northerners' surrender, but Stannis didn't negotiate. He demanded. The Red Woman sat at his right side, and Loras's father sat at his left, nodding and trying to look as if he had thought up every word Stannis said. The king continued, "You will give me your brother Bran as hostage to ensure that this is upheld, and that you answer my call to arms whenever I call upon you."

"You have both of my sisters," Stark said coldly, "Why do you need my brother as a hostage as well?"

"I have neither of your sisters," Stannis told him, "Arya was not in the city when we besieged it, and Sansa disappeared." The news shook Stark, Loras could tell, but the northerner did his best not to show it. Stannis continued relaying his terms, "You will give your army over to my command, and march north to fight the wildlings. And as penance for your crime of rebellion, you will receive a hundred lashes."

The last demand sparked and uproar among the Northerners. "I won't see any king of mine whipped like one of the smallfolk!" the Greatjon roared, while Rickard Karstark added, "Why don't you bleed him dry and be done with it if you're so eager?" Loras could understand their anger. Lashing was a punishment for a common soldier, not a lord. It was unorthodox to say the least.

Stark stood and motioned for his bannermen to be silent. "I will except this punishment," he said, "Only if King Stannis swings the lash himself." The Northerners roared again, this time with encouragements. They really are barbarians, Loras reflected.

Stannis accepted the terms, and said the sentence would be carried out the next morning. With that the peace was made, and the meeting uneasily adjourned. The Northerners had a long hard ride back to their camp to announce the news while the Lord of Highgarden eagerly spoke to the king about arranging a victory feast. Loras's father had taken credit for his defeat of the Northern army, but rumors in the camp said he'd slept through the entire battle, Randyll Tarly being the true commander. Having now seen his father with an army on the march, Loras was glad he wasn't leading it when battle was joined. King Stannis often complained how Lord Tyrell's sleeping habits delayed the whole army.

Loras trudged through the snow as part of Stannis's entourage, technically there to advise him (which Randyll Tarly and Lady Melisandre did) and protected him (which his kingsguard did). The result was Loras spent most of his time following the king around and never actually doing anything. As he walked Allard Seaworth fell into step beside him, making the cold, gray day somehow grayer. Loras disliked the Seaworth, most of all because he'd slain Garlan, but for his arrogance and pride as well.

"Hello Tyrell," Seaworth said whistling. "What do you make of Stark? Seems damned tough to me. Wouldn't like to face him in a fight. Anything your highborn eyes caught that my lowborn ones didn't?"

The question made Loras sigh. "I saw that he and his bannermen are barbaric. Stannis shouldn't trust them. When we march on the wildlings we'll be in their land, and they could easily spring a trap and ambush us, wipe out our army."

"You're right," Seaworth admitted, "I didn't think of that. My brother Dale is the real thinker of the family. I'm the warrior, Matthos is the inspiring leader, Maric is the drunk, and I haven't decided on the other three."

Whenever Allard brought up his six brothers Loras couldn't help but feel despair. If Lord Davos secured good marriages for all his sons, there could be seven different branches of lowborns running the Stormlands. Loras tuned out Seaworth's words and tried to think of better days, when he served Renly, not Stannis, or before the war, where he'd won victory after victory on the tourney fields.

"Your Grace! Your Grace!" someone yelled across the snowy field, cutting into Loras's thoughts. He turned and saw a messenger struggling on foot through the snow. He wore the colors of House Stark. "A raven! There was a raven!"

"What?" the king asked gruffly.

"A messenger just came from the the Northerner camp," the messenger explained, breathless, "King... Lord Robb asked me to tell you."

"What is it?" Stannis asked, gritting his teeth.

"Winterfell," the Stark man said, "Winterfell has fallen."

The first course was broiled onions, followed by pork in onion, then fried onions, and Maric was considering executing the cook when a course of fruit blessedly free of onions came. It was the brightest part of his dismally depressing wedding. But he had stood before a septon, said the words, and put a cloak of black and grey upon Brienne's massive shoulders. By all the laws of Westeros he was a married man, and his wife sat next to him at the high table, eating little and speaking less. Her father, on the other hand, looked positively ecstatic, chatting with mother about everything and nothing at all, his young, far more attractive wife at his side. Maric had decided to get as drunk as he could be. After all, he still had the bedding to look forward to. Apparently there was a wager going on whether Brienne would crush him or not.

"Oh at least try to enjoy yourselves my lord and lady!" Maester Rece said, stumbling toward them with a goblet in hand. "It's a wedding! Sing! Dance! Eat!"

Maric wanted to bury his head in his hands and pretend it was all a bad dream. Brienne however, was intrigued by the maester. "You're the maester who killed three kingsguard aren't you?"

"My fame proceeds me!" Rece said, bowing low and spilling wine everywhere. "But you are mistaken. I only slew two kingsguard. Ser Boros Blount was not fit to guard any king. Now let's get a dance going shall we?" The drunken maester danced off into the middle of things. "I am ironborn, look and see me fly! Reaving, taking loot, and making children cry!"

Maric's mother and a dozen others joined in the dance, letting Rece lead them in a chorus of ironborn reaving songs. When things calmed down a bit an old bard came forward. "My lord, my lady," he said, bowing low, "I am Hamish the Harper and I wish to sing a song newly written celebrating your father's glorious raid against the traitor king. It is called The Onion's Trick. Would you like to hear it?" Maric gave it without much thought.

The bard then proceeded to sing for seventy-seven bloody verses about Lord Davos's blood and brave raid under the Red Keep and the titanic struggle that followed. The song left very little doubt in Maric's mind that his father would go down in history as the greatest champion of smallfolk the world had ever seen. The song also made great praise of Maester Rece, claiming he killed three kingsguard and drove the others to the ground with a single hand while grabbing the false king by the neck with the other. It finished with a final verse praising good King Stannis and the mighty lords that served him.

"Clearly he's never met my father," Maric said to himself.

"What do you mean?" Brienne asked. The music, laughter, and excessive drinking had made her a bit more open as the night went on.

Although he had not meant to speak with her, Maric found himself answering. "My father is the humblest of men. He's Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of the King but still thinks of himself as a common smuggler from Flea Bottom. And if you stripped away the titles that is what you would have." He turned to his wife and smiled. "We've delayed this long enough have we not?" Maric stood up, wobbling under the weight of wine, and let his voice carry over the music, "Fine lords of the Stormlands! There is something that still must happen at this wedding and it makes a dandy rhyme! Time for me and my... lovely wife... to get to bed!"

The room erupted in roars, although some of the older men looked worried at the prospect of carrying Brienne up so many stairs. Never the less they descended upon her with gusto, striping her of her dress and, with some difficulty hauling her up on their shoulders and carrying her up the stairs. Then it was Maric's turn. Half the women present rushed at him, among them Leyla , Dale's wife. They pushed and prodded him up the stairs while removing his shirt and tearing off his pants. Finally they rolled him into bed with his new wife, who was, unfortunately, completely naked (as was Maric by this time).

The bedders retreated behind the door and continued to make rude remarks. "Put it to her!" Maester Rece shouted through the door. "I can tell you the story of my first night at the Citadel if it might get you in the mood?"

"NO!" Maric cried, "We're fine! Could you just leave us?"

"Right! Of course my lord!" Rece said drunkenly. "Now do any of you lovely ladies wish to bed a fighting maester?" After that the voices slowly faded away.

Maric turned from the door and was suddenly staring into his wife's eyes. "You have beautiful eyes," he said as a reflex, and then realized it was true. Although the rest of her face was a mess her large blue eyes were startlingly pretty. She said nothing in response to this. "Are you scared? I am," Maric admitted truthfully. "I've been with other women, but none were like you."

Brienne shifted nervously. "My father betrothed me to three men before you," she said, "But they refused me, or I refused them. He said I had to marry you, that it was my last chance for a good match."

The words made Maric laugh. "A good match? I'm a drunk my lady. You're the first woman I've gotten into bed for free, and that's only because my father is a great man whose won a dozen titles. During the Siege of King's Landing while my brother's were off winning glory I ran a hid."

"Tell me about battle," Brienne asked, "I was trained for it as a girl but I've never seen it. What's it like?"

"Terrifying," Maric responded without hesitation, "I had command of my own ship when we attack the city the first time. The Imp had some nasty surprises set up for us in the form of a chain and wildfire. Everything on my ship started burning, along with all my men. I didn't even try to save them, just jumped into the water and swam. Reached my brother's ship and he hauled me aboard. He'd been quick and clever enough to maneuver through that burning hell. During the second assault he stormed the shore and left me in command, but by then the battle was won. That is my great war story."

"I wish you luck in your next battle," Brienne told him.

"I hope I don't have a next battle," Maric smiled, "But if I do I'l have you at my side, and that's some comfort."

Brienne looked confused. "You plan to take me into battle?"

"Of course," Maric laughed, "I'd imagine you could outfight most of the knights in this castle, so why wouldn't I? Seems an awful waste."

"Well... I did not expect that," Brienne admitted, "Thank you." Slowly she reached forward and clumsily kissed him.

Look at her eyes, Maric thought, Stay on her eyes. She really has got beautiful eyes...

Finganforn said:

Wildlings?! Or perhaps the Ironborn?

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I would love to tell you but SPOILERS!

verdas said:

I've heard of AI Wildling invasions but never seen one, hope that's what it is, but probably Ironborn.

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Maybe... both?

Dr Pearceson said:

Dale might be the thinker, but recently he's been having grave thoughts (get it? grave.)

Also, poor Robb Stark, getting lashes. Still at least he survives.

Also, who took winter fell? Probably the Greyjoys. Hopefully this will lead to an awesome battle of Robb and Stannis vs Balon and Theon

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I'll make a character for you in the AAR just so I can kill you for that pun. Also, 100 lashes has killed many a man.

The sept was quiet. The only sound Davos heard was his son's slow breathing. For a full two days Matthos had stood vigil over his brother's body. Davos was almost afraid to talk to him. "Matthos?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes father?" Matthos answered without turning.

"I brought you something to eat," Davos said, indicating the bread in his hands.

"I'm standing vigil father," Matthos said through clenched teeth. "You're not supposed to eat anything when you're standing vigil. It's tradition."

"Then it's a fool's tradition!" Davos exclaimed, "Now eat something."

Matthos turned to face his father. Davos saw rage in his eyes, a fiery, vengeful hate that went strait through him. "Aren't you mad father? Dale is dead. Your son and my brother. Killed by that bastard Alester Florent. I'll kill every Florent for this!"

"You can't say things like that," Davos cautioned, "There is no proof it was the Florents. And this keep has ears in the walls."

"It was them," Matthos said with utter conviction. "Before this I wanted to be one of them. The Lord of Summerhall. A fancy title and a highborn wife..That was what I wanted. A talked with Alester Florent, I arranged to marry into his family, I dined with him many nights. I thought I could rise above my birth, make everyone forget I was born in the stink of Flea Bottom, join the noble classes. But they're not noble. There is not a scrap of nobility in any of them. I'll kill all the Florents, even the Queen. I'll kill that fat bastard Mace Tyrell and every Lannister left alive. And if anyone tries to stop me I'll kill them too."

"Don't be a fool Matthos!" Davos roared. "You'd be throwing your life away!"

Matthos looked taken aback by his father's sudden outburst. "Father, I want vengeance. Don't you?"

"Yes," Davos admitted, "But we can't overplay our hand. We only have a few guardsmen, and there are many Queen's Men. I won't make the same mistakes Eddard Stark made. And I won't risk your life. I'm sending you to Claw Isle."

Matthos looked astonished by the announcement. "Claw Isle? Why would you want to send me to the middle of the Narrow Sea? You'll need me here father, to support you."

"I have already lost a son," Davos said, "I will not lose another. You will go to Claw Isle and ask Lord Celtigar to loan money to the crown. Stannis wants fresh troops, and the Iron Bank will not lend us any more gold. Celtigar has enough wealth to help us. It's an important job."

"An important job?" Matthos said, "I should be helping you fight the Florents, not being your errand boy!"

"Just do as I say!" Davos said angrily. He wished Matthos could just stop being stubborn and go. He could not lose another son. He would not lose another son.

For a few moments there was silence between Davos and his son. Finally Matthos said, "Fine. I will go to Lord Celtigar and beg him for gold. If that is what you wish father." He turned on his heel and started to leave. Halfway to the door he turned back and asked, "What do they call Celtigar again?"

"The Red Crab," Davos answered.

"The Red Crab," Matthos repeated. "He sounds like a lovely person."

Roslin had no idea why the king had summoned her so late at night. She had to admit she was terrified of him. Barely a week earlier she had watched as he beat her husband within an inch of his life, covered his back with welts that dug so deep they sometimes exposed the bone. She had stayed by her husband's side, but nothing she did seemed to comfort him. She failed him as a wife, just like she failed at everything. There were no brave knights coming to carry her away. She was stuck as a poor, mumbling, wife who couldn't look anyone in the eye.

She walked past the fierce-looking kings-guard and into the king's tent. He sat looking over a map of the North. Stannis scared her, almost as much as Roose Bolton had. Around him stood his generals and advisers. There was The Red Woman, a beauty to be sure, although her hair was cut, and the shortness stunted her looks. But she had eyes like fire and an unsettling calm about her. There was Mace Tyrell, a fat, aristocratic man, and his son Ser Loras. Roslin had heard many tales about Loras's handsomeness and bravery, but all she saw was a wispy, sullen-faced boy around her own age. There was also Randyll Tarly, a balding man with a face like iron. They all looked at her as she entered.

"You... sent for me... My Lord?" she asked, stammering.

"You should refer to His Grace as... His Grace!" Mace Tyrell said immediately. "To address His Grace as anything else is an insult!"

"I'm sorry," Roslin apologized. "Why did you summon me... Your Grace?"

King Stannis looked her in the eye. "How is your husband? Will he be fit for battle soon?"

"I.. I don't know," Roslin said, then silently cursed herself because she did know, but was to nervous to say it. "I don't think so though," she corrected, "the maesters say he is still very ill. Why?" She then cursed herself for asking such a stupid question.

"The Wildlings have breached the Wall, sacked Winterfell and are moving South," Stannis said. Roslin was shocked that he actually bothered to answer her question. "I will not sit back while they destroy the Northern half of my kingdom. They are ill disciplined. I was hoping your husband might lead night raids on their camps, help reduce their numbers before before we engage the bulk of their army."

"Oh," Roslin said, not knowing how else to react. Then Mace Tyrell started talking about how Loras could lead the raids and she figured she was no longer needed, and slipped out of the tent.

As she crunched through the snow in the dark to spend another night not helping her husband, she contemplated how difficult everything had become. She had gotten everything she ever wanted the day she married Robb, and it had turned out to be worth nothing at all. At the Twins she had learned songs and poems of war and love. Now she had seen the bloody aftermath of war, and didn't want to see it again. And she had discovered that marriage could be loveless.

Ahead she heard grunting and what sounded like something being torn. She investigated and saw a man, a knight by the look of him, whacking a log with his sword. He wore a tunic with an onion on it, and she immediately knew who he was. Ser Allard of House Seaworth, the house that Stannis had turned into lords of the Stormlands. She had heard of them everywhere, although no one seemed to know exactly where they came from. Some said they were a minor house from the Stormlands that had been advanced by Lord Davos's ambition, and that Stannis was a fool to think him so loyal. Another rumor said they were an ancient house, founded in the Age of Heroes by a rather odd hedge knight who had such an affinity for onions that he was called "The Onion Knight". And she had heard mention that they were lowborns who Stannis had elevated for saving his life, although she found that one hard to believe.

"Whats wrong Ser?" she asked nervously.

"Brother!" he said, and Roslin noticed tears coming down his cheeks. "My brother was murdered. Now I'm heir to the Stormlands. It shouldn't be that way. He was the smart one, the one who would have made a good lord. I'm just a fighter, a fool in armor and a sword. I was never meant to be my father's heir. I'm no good for it."

"Don't say that," Roslin said, "I'm sure you'll do the best you can. That's all any of us can do."

"Easy for you to say," Allard growled, "All you have to do is look pretty for your husband. That's all you noblewomen ever do. And luck for me I'll have my pick of the lot of you now that I'm my father's heir. I'm a, what do you highborns call it? A good prospect. Father's will sell their pretty daughters to me because they want an alliance with my father. To hell with that. I'll never marry, no matter what my father orders."

Roslin was taken aback. Perhaps the story of the Seaworths being elevated lowborns was not just rumors after all. "That's not true. Not all noblewomen are like that. You'll see."

"Go away!" Allard roared, rounding on her, "You're just a stupid girl!"

Roslin burst out crying. The war, her marriage, her failures, and it was a knight calling her stupid that finally broke her.

"I'm sorry!" Allard said instantly, "I'm so sorry m'lady, I didn't mean too..."

"I know you didn't. I'm sorry for your brother." Roslin ran back to her tent over the snow, and managed to dry her tears before she went to bed. As she lay there, listening to her husband's labored breathing, she decided something. The world is not a song, she thought, There is no knight coming to rescue me. The world is full of wars, blood being spilled, and brothers dying. So I will be hard. I will never cry again.