Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

19th Day of the 10th Moon

The Master of Coin

Half a moon after the tourney had ended, King's Landing had finally calmed down from the craze, and the streets and inns were no longer overflowing. The evening was approaching, and it took Tyrion an hour to finally find the former Hand. The docks were overflowing with Northmen boarding heavy carracks, the green mermen and the grey direwolf banners proudly fluttering in the wind above. Dozens of prized steeds were brought up to the ship's stables, the noblemen reluctant to part with them, even if for a short while.

He saw many of the rugged Northern clansmen, a deluge of short Crannogmen, and the myriad crests of Glovers, Flints, Cerwyns, Ryswells, and Damon Dustin. The relatively unknown barrow-knight had earned himself the moniker Mad Lance after clinching the runner-up in the joust with dogged fervour against Loras Tyrell, only to lose the final round to the Red Crane by a hair's breadth. Yet, now he was clad in the best armour Tobho Mott could offer, all coloured bright yellow and bought by the runner-up's purse. Rumour had it he had even bought a similar barding for his horse. 

After winning the melee, Red Wake Walder was no different; his brigandine was replaced with a heavy plate and a new, hefty poleaxe. While his new equipment lacked any fancy ornaments or colours bar the direwolf livery, the Giant of Winterfell had become an imposing behemoth of steel, reminding Tyrion of the Mountain, if far more disciplined. There was a tall, bulky lad who looked too big to be a child next to the Red Wake; if the rumours were correct, he had somehow recruited Mott's prized apprentice as his squire.

Tyrion's face and stature were easily recognisable, and soon enough, he was quickly brought to the Northern Highlord; Jyck and Morrec helped him dismount and stood to the side.

"Leaving so quickly?"

"It is for the best." Stark shrugged, relief plain to see on his face. The accursed icy blade hung ominously on his belt in some queer lacquered scabbard yet still sending a soft chill in the air, the Northern Lord looking oddly comfortable with it. "A royal order is not to be disputed." As usual, the enormous direwolf was right next to him. The beast was already a head taller than Tyrion at the shoulders, and it felt like Winter could make a snack out of him in a heartbeat. How the Starks dared to trust such beasts, he would never know.

"Well, insolence and ingratitude… might have been mentioned once or twice." He could only grimace at the memory of the king's frothing rage. If Robert Baratheon was a dragon, Tyrion had no doubt he would be spewing fire and brimstone everywhere. With a frown, he glanced at the frenzied docks; the Northerners seemed eager to leave, like a cheating wife fleeing her angry husband. "Impressive speed, I have to admit."

"I won't miss the heat or the scheming fools." With a sign, a wall of Stark guardsmen surrounded them loosely, preventing anyone from approaching. The Northerner leaned closer, voice lowered to a whisper. "We've yet to find the thrice-cursed poisoner."

"We have been… unable to find much proof, either," the words came out sour on his tongue. Procuring a wine tester had proved cumbersome, especially since it meant there was less for Tyrion to drink. "Whoever did it covered his tracks well. This only makes my dear sister suspect the eunuch and the Lord of Storm's End."

Renly Baratheon had been behaving oddly of late, trying to court the commander of the City Watch and pull the Tyrells into his corner. Cersei, of course, had already moved to counter him, and Balon Swann was betrothed to the comely Jocelyn Lannister from the Lannisport Lannisters. The negotiations were easy; Lord Gulian Swann had readily accepted after the generous dowry the Queen had brokered, along with a chance to tie himself to the royals, if indirectly. And the Spider… it was hard to glean what the eunuch was planning besides fanning the flames.

"Cregan Karstark has volunteered to stay, along with some Umbers, Slates, and a contingent from the Lockes, so you'll have two hundred swords to call upon in need," Stark sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. "They will answer your call if the need arises. If only His Grace cared more about the matters of the realm and court than a pair of foolish children on the other side of the world."

Tyrion was startled at the number. A more careful look around the dock, and he could easily count over four hundred Northmen, all armed and armoured heavily. Despite not being as flippant and shiny as their southern counterparts, their swords and axes looked no less dangerous, and all carried themselves like bloodied veterans. These were not the sloppy men-at-arms that had grown soft with peace but a part of the Northern elite.

Two hundred of these were more than his father had sent with cousin Daven, along with a multitude of various Lantells, Lannetts, and Lannys, to partly escort Jocelyn, Cerenna, and Myrielle Lannister here and bolster Cersei's forces in the city after the poisoning attempt.

Had Eddard Stark used the tourney as a guise to muster so many swords in the city? Even now, all those Northmen moved swiftly, with practised haste. Tyrion snorted, dismissing the thought as it came. The Northern Highlord was not without cunning but was far too straight-laced for such schemes. No, Stark seemed to have an effortless grasp on his bannermen somehow.

Uncorking his flask and inhaling a mouthful of wine, Tyrion shook his head, banishing the errant thoughts. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that no assassins were sent for Aerys' get yet."

"Has Robert finally found his wits?"

"Nay, it was a matter of coin. The Faceless Men would require a loan nobody would be willing to give, and anything else risks outright war regardless. Our grandmaester argued we might as well poison the Khal himself to avoid any fighting instead."

"The Dothraki would scatter to the four winds should the Khal have no grown sons," Ned sighed, face twisted with disappointment. "But if a Khal were so easily disposed of, the horselords would have been finished long ago. But would His Grace stoop so low to use poison?"

"A coward's weapon, he dismissed it. They want to declare a bounty in exchange for a lordship, but such a move would implicate the Iron Throne regardless and lead to the same war we're trying to avoid." Tyrion snorted; he still struggled to see how a dagger in the dark was less cowardice than poison. "He stormed out of the meeting then, not before sending a summons to my Lord Father."

Eddard Stark shuffled uneasily. "Handship?"

"Indeed, it seems even our king thinks Tywin Lannister shits gold and can solve all problems with a snap of a finger." The truth was that Tyrion wasn't looking for a family reunion anytime soon, but royal summons could not be denied. Worse, he doubted the Lord of Casterly Rock would miss the opportunity to come to court and run the kingdom. But Tywin Lannister was not held back by petty scruples or honour like Eddard Stark.

"Alas, it seems the crown can turn even the bravest man into a craven." Stark looked so profoundly… disappointed. It was odd to see the grey eyes full of steel gone dull with grief. "It is better I leave. The Starks do not belong here, in the South. Do you want me to pass a message to the Princess?"

"Ah, my favourite niece," Tyrion chuckled and took a swig of wine from his flask. "Do send my regards. At least Cella will have Tommen to keep her company, along with the hefty gaggle of ladies she has gathered. I'm surprised His Grace has let you keep your page."

"Until a new arrangement is demanded, I shall honour my word. The lad is all too happy about leaving King's Landing behind."

"Perhaps a change of scenery would indeed suit my nephew." Tyrion sighed. It was no wonder Tommen had taken to Eddard Stark, who treated him like a son more than Cersei or Robert ever did. His sister would undoubtedly express her disagreement at parting with her youngest child vehemently, but she did not have much of a choice in the matter. And it was for the better in the end; Tommen was the spare, and he would be far safer from poison and catspaws in Winterfell.

Winter stood up, and Stark looked at the setting sun. "A long journey awaits, and I'm afraid I must bid you farewell, Lord Tyrion."

The master of coin bowed his head. "Fair winds to you, Lord Stark."

And with that, the Northern Highlord gave him one final nod and decisively boarded the biggest ship flying the direwolf sigil, the formidable form of Winter following obediently, with a shaggy tail swaying languidly in the air. The five carracks were filled, and Tyrion watched as they slowly set sail, the sun's setting turning the Blackwater Bay into a dark, glossy expanse, reflecting the heavy clouds coming from the southeast. The Northern ships had three masts each to compensate for the lack of rowers; it seemed like Manderly was short on manpower for his naval ambitions.

Tyrion Lannister couldn't help but feel some sorrow at Stark's departure. The man had been surprisingly accommodating and fair in all matters, and he had helped him gain a good position; becoming Master of Coin was the best thing that had happened to Tyrion.

Alas, now Eddard Stark would be replaced with Tywin Lannister. A grievous loss, Tyrion decided. Life would get much harder with his father's penchant for control. With a sigh, Tyrion returned to Jyck and Morrec, who helped him on his horse. It was time for his nightly inspection of the royal brothels; the madames in charge were surprisingly accommodating, and he found himself with a different companion each night.

***

21st Day of the 10th Moon

The Prancing Stag

Soon after his brother banished Stark from the capital, Mace Tyrell took his leave. Loras claimed his father had been outraged to not even be considered for the position of a new Hand, but Renly did not think the rose lord looked particularly angry.

Still, Renly began to lose patience at the lack of progress and was forced to confront Pycelle.

"It is not surprising for men to die at eighty, my lord," the grandmaester muttered sleepily.

"Indeed," Renly gave a practised reluctant frown. "But Lady Lysa Arryn has approached me with a claim her husband has been murdered by someone." No such thing had happened, of course, but he needed an excuse. Given how unstable and famously hysterical the Lady of the Eyrie was, nobody would question such a thing. A distraught widow asking after her husband's death shouldn't raise any eyebrows, more so after she fled the city in haste.

"Err," Pycelle nervously tugged onto his chain, face scrunched up in thought. "How can I be of help? My memory is not what it used to be."

After a long and painful two hours of meandering and slowly sifting through the library, Renly finally managed to wrangle out the book Arryn was reading before he died. It was a dreadful old tome called The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Seven above, he felt sleepy just by looking at the yellow pages.

***

Davos Seaworth

He looked at his lord; Stannis Baratheon was lying in his bed, far more peaceful in death than in life. All the worries that had weighed upon his brow were nowhere to be seen. Shireen, all garbed in a black mourning gown, sobbed piteously on a chair, making Davos' heart twist in pain. He could not imagine a greater woe for a child than to bury both parents, not so early.

He had known it was coming, but the blow struck hard anyway; mind muddled, Davos walked out of the chambers just as seven silent sisters had arrived in the hallway. The Stranger's handmaidens would remove the bowels and organs, stuffing the body with salt and fragrant herbs before washing the skin with holy oils. Once done, the lord would be deposited in the Sept for his kin and kith to pay their respects for seven days before departing for his final resting place.

Mind wandering, Davos found himself making his way to the Great Hall, a queer building shaped like an enormous laying dragon. Passing through the red gates at its maw, he heard the murmurs inside.

"-he lungs had festered too badly," Cressen lamented, explaining to the gathered knights and heads of household. All the knights who had answered Stannis' summons after the tragic fire still lingered here. "I tried everything I knew, but all it did was stave off the inevitable."

Nearly two dozen knights of various houses were here along with their squires, especially since Stannis had summoned Elyena Celtigar, Helicent Farring, and Rosey Sunglass to become Shireen's handmaids.

"Valar Morghulis," Monford Velaryon murmured at the side, face heavy.

"Too early." Davos sadly wiped the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. "A great man died today, and the Seven Kingdoms are lesser for it."

Ser Richard Horpe, a dangerous, hard-eyed knight with a scarred face, took a swig from a horn of ale and spoke up, "What of Lord Stannis' last will?"

The murmurs quieted as the attention turned to Cressen. The old maester sadly sighed before slowly pulling out a roll of parchment from his robes, his hands shaking as always.

"In the name of Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, and by the grace of the Seven as the rightful Lord of Dragonstone, I, Stannis of House Baratheon, being of sound mind, do hereby declare the following: Unto the event of my untimely death, all my titles and estates are to pass onto my sole heir and daughter, Shireen Baratheon. Under the event she has yet to come of age, I proclaim Ser Davos Seaworth as her sole regent-"

"What?" Lord Velaryon had stood up from the table, pale face reddening.

"Sit down, my lord. Let us hear the rest of it in peace." Lothor Hardy, the burly master-at-arms, glared sternly at Monford. Seeing everyone was looking at him warily, the Lord of the Tides stiffly sat back down.

Davos, however, was reeling from the revelation. He had no idea how to do any of the highborn things, let alone guide anyone else!

"Ahem," Cressen tugged on his chain nervously and tried to steady his hands as his gaze roamed over the parchment. "I proclaim Ser Davos Seaworth as her sole regent; may he offer Shireen valuable and honest advice as he did to me. Should my brothers agree to it, my body ought to be buried in Storm's End's crypts, together with our forebearers."

"That's it?" Ser Justin Massey looked expectantly at the old maester.

"Indeed, good Sers."

"This must be some kind of mistake," Monford said, voice sharp as a sword. "For the last few moons, Lord Stannis has been drinking the milk of the poppy, which is known to scramble one's wits. This is not a final will inked while sound of mind. Nobody sane would declare a smuggler as regent for their daughter!"

Cressen recoiled from the accusation, his hands shaking even more now. "I assure you, Lord Stannis was lucid when he dictated the testament."

The Velaryon lord snorted dismissively. "Bold words from the man feeding him the milk of the poppy."

"I would never-"

"Perhaps you've lost your wits in your old age, maester, but the truth here is clear." Monford stood up and nodded to a few of the knights. "Lord Stannis confided to me his plans to guide young Shireen until she came of age. Clearly, this onion knight is grasping and must be sent back home to his ill-gotten holdfast instead of leading a young lady of noble bearing astray."

At his nod, Davos found himself grabbed by the Massey Knight and one of the Velaryon men, but they suddenly froze.

"That's not what the will says," Richard Horpe growled, his sword already drawn and at Justin Massey's neck. All the other knights and men at arms stood up, drawing steel and surrounding Monford's men, easily outnumbering them half a dozen times.

"You can't mean to listen to some-"

"Smuggler?" Ser Rolland Storm laughed scornfully, eyes full of violence and a wicked battle axe in hand. "I was there in Storm's End, a young squire when Ser Davos came with the salted fish and the onions. It was the finest meal my tongue has tasted. More than half of us here owe Ser Davos our lives." A round of agreement echoed from most of the men-at-arms.

Lothor Hardy chortled, sword drawn. "Stannis thought you'd pull some foolery like this, Velaryon, and bid me prepare. What I didn't expect was you drawing Massey and Sunglass in this folly. Perhaps some time in the dungeons would clear your mind."

"All this for a common smuggler?" Monford's face was stony.

"All this for Lord Stannis. He talked to most of us the last moon, telling much the same of what the will said," the bastard of Nightsong grunted, then glanced at the men holding Davos, face turning savage. "Stand down, fools, or your heads will line the spikes outside."

The hands holding Davos's shoulders disappeared, and the clutter of steel littered the floor as the Onion Knight blinked in confusion.

***

22nd Day of the 10th Moon

Lord Stannis had kept all the plots he had uncovered close to his chest, sharing his knowledge and suspicions only with Davos. Now, with the lord gone, the burden had fallen on his shoulders. The old maester knew a little and probably suspected more but did not say a word. Shireen herself was not privy to any of her father's woes either.

Stannis had wanted his daughter to be unburdened by the scheming happening in the royal seat; as long as she remained ignorant, she would be safe. Besides, it's not like Davos had any proof other than Stannis' words and suspicions. The old smuggler could see Stannis had been rankled deep inside at the injustice, but he grudgingly let it go. For his daughter.

"Perhaps Lord Velaryon is right," Davos sighed, looking helplessly at the desk full of letters and scrolls. The lord's chair was mighty uncomfortable despite the velvet lining. "I have no idea how to help Shireen, maester. A regent is supposed to guide, but Shireen has been doing all the teaching here, helping me learn my letters."

"Ah, Ser Davos, it is never too late to learn!" Cressen's shaking hand tugged on his wizened beard. The old man had gone breathless from climbing the solar, but his grey eyes were still bright. "You have me and Ser Hardy to advise you on the matters of regency. Wisdom comes in many forms, and true loyalty is more valuable than gold. A regent must be leal, honest, and have his charge's interest in mind, something Lord Velaryon conveniently forgot."

"What am I to do with the Lord of the Tides and a handful of knights in the dungeons, then?"

"Have them swear fealty to Shireen in the eyes of the Seven before sending them away," the master at arms proposed. "You don't want no rats in your household. Even the strongest keeps can fall to treachery."

"Well then, see it done, Ser Hardy," Davos grimaced, and the knight grunted in agreement. "What of Lord Velaryon?"

"We keep his heir here to foster. The lord of the tides could be moved into… better accommodations or sent back to Driftmark after vowing obeisance. It is not wise to alienate a bannerman, but his loyalty must be ensured."

The former smuggler liked it little, but he found himself agreeing. "Alright then. Perhaps we should start bringing Lady Shireen into those decisions. She is the one who shall rule in a handful of years."

As Hardy and Cressen nodded in agreement, an urgent knock came from the door, and Ser Rolland Storm came in, heaving for breath.

"Direwolf sails on the horizon."

"Since when did the Starks have a fleet?" Davos groaned, standing up, but he received no answer.

Still, after hearing so much about the Lord of Winterfell, the Onion Knight couldn't help but feel dread. Judging by Cressen and Ser Hardy's apprehension, he was far from the only one. Stannis showed no love for the Lord of Winterfell, and having such a powerful man arrive here so soon was worrying.

"The King's Hand is not easily sent away," Cressen advised hoarsely. "But no matter what, the Northmen will keep to the laws of hospitality."

Half an hour later, Davos, heart filled with apprehension, was at the Dragonstone docks, escorting a downcast Shireen, Ser Hardy, five knights and two dozen men-at-arms. Dark, heavy clouds hung heavy above. After sailing for so long, the Narrow Sea was like a cold yet intimate mistress, and the old smuggler could recognise an autumn storm brewing when he saw one.

Five carracks of such size were a rare sight - many preferred to employ oarsmen, who could pick up arms and join in the ship's defence.

Yet, Stark did not seem to have such issues; a single glance told Davos the vessels were filled to the brim with men, easily more than the already sizable garrison Dragonstone possessed.

The Lord of Winterfell was even more formidable than he imagined, his stern gaze pressed down on you like a cold mountain. A hefty retinue followed him down the ships, all of them hard men with bloodshed and steel in their eyes. There was even a giant easily two heads taller than most others, muscled like a bull. Was that the infamous Red Wake who had won the melee in King's Landing? But that was not the queerest sight; a wolf, almost the size of a horse, was prowling next to Stark like an obedient dog.

"Welcome, Lord Stark." Shireen, who looked so small before the Northern highlord, stiffly curtsied and motioned for a trembling servant to bring in the bread and salt. Never before had Davos felt more out of place, and he had accompanied Stannis a few times in court…

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but then Stark decisively tore a piece of bread, dipped it into the salt and devoured it with a single bite. Suddenly, everyone eased, and Davos could only let out a relieved sigh.

"Thank you, Lady Shireen. Where is your Lord Father?" Stark asked, gaze searching through the piers. A chilling scabbard hung on his belt, with a queer crystalline hilt wrapped in leather, looking oddly out of place. The thing made the back of his neck crawl with ants.

"My father… passed away three days ago," Shireen choked out.

The northern highlord's eyes slightly widened before softening like fog. "My condolences."

Eddard Stark's face was genuine in a plain and honest way. Davos had seen many men over the years and prided himself on his ability to see under the veneer many liked to portray. And, despite what Stannis had spoken before, Lord Stark was the most forthcoming man the old smuggler had seen. There was not a tinge of arrogance or dishonesty in the Northern Highlord, only steely resolve and… was that compassion?

Had Stannis been mistaken? But what were his goals if Stark wasn't in league with the Lannisters?

Regardless, Davos would remain vigilant and observe.

The silence stretched awkwardly, and Shireen looked so lost when the enormous direwolf just padded over and cautiously nudged the frozen Lady of Dragonstone with his enormous snout. Davos' cry died on his lips as Shireen started giggling while the beast began licking the unmarred side of her face.

With a cough from Stark, the direwolf reluctantly retreated and sat obediently next to his master like a well-trained dog, shaggy silver tail wagging furiously.

Davos scratched his head at the ludicrousness of the situation, tried to remember his courtesies, and sighed. "How may we be of assistance, Lord Hand?" The faster they could send Stark away, the better. 

"A Hand no longer," Stark's face grew solemn. "His Grace no longer deemed my services necessary, and I tire of the South. I had hoped to have a word with Lord Stannis, but it seems I shall have to settle for resupplying and paying my respects. With your permission, Lady Shireen?"

The girl nodded mutely. The Lord of Winterfell was surprisingly humble and easy to get along with for a man of such a storied lineage and even passed through the Sept to pay his respect to Stannis. Lightning whipped through the sky, splitting it in two, followed by roaring thunder, and it began to drizzle. Shireen shyly offered Dragonstone's hospitality for the night, receiving a deluge of grateful nods and grunts from the Northern retinue.

Dragonstone's Great Hall was filled to the brim, and the old smuggler was surrounded by a cheerful bustle as the Northmen made merry as if the day was their last despite the humble feast prepared in haste. Their spirit was infectious, as the Dragonstone knights and men-at-arms couldn't help but join. He spied a big bald clansman, Liddle or something, competing over ale with Rolland Storm while many others watched and hollered in approval, egging them on.

The wolf lord was far more reserved, but Davos could spy his lips twitching in amusement as he glanced around the hall. The old smuggler remained silent, content to observe and let the other do the talking. 

The oddest thing was that the youngest prince, Tommen Baratheon, was here as Stark's page and sitting on the other side of the Highlord. His mop of golden hair looked out of place, but the young boy seemed happy, green eyes drinking in the merriment of the hall with keen interest as he happily chatted with Shireen. This was the first child Davos had seen speak so enthusiastically with the young girl, even ignoring the gaggle of young handmaids surrounding the new Lady of Dragonstone.

It seemed like there was a grain of truth about Stark's alliance with Cersei, but the man appeared so… genuinely carefree and happy, nothing like those scheming highborns wearing fake smiles and empty words Davos had seen aplenty. All he saw was a tired man who wanted to go home.

But his presence alone had Davos feel like he was treading on thin ice. 

A day or two, and Stark would be gone, no doubt, which brought him a good measure of relief. The Onion Knight knew not how to entertain such a highlord and let the others do the talking. Ser Hardy, Cressen, and Shireen were the ones who slowly prodded with what sounded like random questions to Davos, and Stark was generous with his replies.

As the night progressed, the Northern Highlord explained why he was dismissed from the court. The direwolf was at his feet, devouring a pig's roast leg whole, crunching through the bone as if it were straw, and sending chills through Davos' spine. Any doubt the beast was dangerous had quickly evaporated.

The topic slowly steered to the court and then to the Night's Watch and the dangers lurking in the Lands of Always Winter. Davos had heard whispers and rumours about the black brothers and the new reform, but to see a highlord speak of it with such heavy concern was sobering. Still, Stark coughed and began talking of his experiences at court, many of which were outright amusing.

To Davos's worry, Shireen quickly started warming up to lord Stark's friendly demeanour. 

"Lord Stark," she said, words slow and hesitant. "How does one deal with unruly bannermen?"

Even Tommen perked up next to her, listening on with keen interest.

"It depends on their misdeeds," Stark said with a thoughtful hum. "The vows of fealty go both ways, and honour and mercy can go a long way to smoothen out any future trouble. Yet, a liege lord must always maintain a position of strength, and infractions must be punished fairly."

"Well-" the woes with Lord Velaryon quickly left Shireen's lips while the Northerner listened with quiet attentiveness.

"The man follows the Seven, does he not? Keep him quartered away for seven days, then offer him a chance to redeem himself while keeping young Monterys here to foster."

"A chance to redeem himself?" She echoed curiously.

A deafening cheer overtook the hall, and they all paused, only to see Rolland Storm passed out on the table while Liddle swayed unsteadily but with his arms raised in victory. The clansman was helped aside as Ser Richard Horpe challenged Dustin to a drinking match, much to the crowd's joy.

Stark chuckled, shaking his head with unveiled amusement once the commotion dwindled. "Monford Velaryon has yet to swear any vows to you. You've done well in sending his men away. Let him give his oaths of fealty and offer him a choice - stay here as an advisor to redeem himself or return home. Have Stannis's final testament sent to the king, who would be honour-bound to ensure the will is followed. Many problems melt away at the face of the crown's power."

Shireen's face lit up.

Davos scratched his head, feeling somewhat foolish. A glance at Cressen told him the advice given was heartfelt. Truth be told, he had no idea what the Lord of Winterfell was up to anymore and couldn't even begin to guess. It didn't matter - he'd be out of their hair by the next noon. Still, a few words from Stark had quickly resolved a conundrum that had given him a terrible headache. He was not suited for that regency thing one bit and, to his dread, realised that five more years of this headache awaited him.

But he would learn. For Shireen. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too late for an old dog like him to learn some new tricks.

Bells chiming heralded Patchface's arrival. Wearing an old tin bucket like a helmet, the fool scuttled sideways towards Shireen and grabbed their attention. The poor soul had been quiet of late.

"Under the sea, frost turns to fire, and the wolves fly upside down," his motley face was twisted like a grotesque, one half laughing, one half crying. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

Many laughed at the words, but a chill went down Davos's spine.

***

23rd Day of the 10th Moon

The Bold

The court felt far emptier these days, but a rising tension could be felt brewing among the courtiers. While some lingered even after the so-called Northern Tourney ended, the semblance of order and calm was gone with Stark absent. Mace Tyrell had also left the city shortly afterwards, dragging away a hefty retinue of Reachmen. If the rumours were true, the rose lord was angry for not even being considered for the Handship when he was in the city over Tywin Lannister, who was two kingdoms away.

Not only that, but since the Lord of Winterfell had resigned, His Grace's rage had cooled off, and he had been deeper in his cups than usual. Especially so, for tonight was a feast celebrating the Queen's thirty-third name day. Even now, the king took thirsty gulps of dark ale and thick wine as if it were water. Barristan couldn't help but feel sorrowful; the honest, brave, and valiant warrior that spared him at the Trident was long gone.

But he remained silent as usual; it was not for the white cloaks to judge.

Then, Pycelle hobbled over and whispered something in the king's ear, nervously holding a parchment roll in his grasp.

"What do you mean Stannis is dead?!" Robert's bellow thundered like a whip, halting any merriment and silencing the bards. Everyone whipped their heads to look at the royal seat. Even the usually unflappable Queen looked… confused.

"Ehm," the old maester hemmed and hawed, but a dangerous flush crept up the king's collar, and Pycelle moaned piteously, trembling hands unfurling the message while hunching over. "It's inked by Maester Cressen of Dragonstone, Your Grace. Lord Stannis passed away from a festering fever."

"Stannis cannot be dead!" Robert stood up, swaying drunkenly, the silence growing deafening. It was little wonder as Selmy saw him consume enough wine to knock out three men. "Where is Ned?" The king's face grew red as he looked around uneasily, but nobody dared speak. "Answer me, damn it!"

"You dismissed him, Your Grace." Renly approached cautiously, head bowed. "Lord Stark left, back to Winterfell."

"Left?" Robert snatched a newly filled goblet of wine and drained it in one gulp. "Left he says. Well, summon him back!"

Renly's face looked like he sucked on a sour lemon, but he schooled himself, nodded humbly, and retreated from the throne room as if on fire. Selmy couldn't help but notice the crown prince was gazing at Robert with undisguised admiration.

"Pycelle," the king barked, snatching the parchment from the cowed maester. His frowning, unfocused gaze floated unsteadily through the ink. "What mummery is this?!"

"It's Cressen's personal signature and your brother's seal, Your Grace," the old man mumbled. "He has served House Baratheon loyally for half a century. There can't be any mistakes here."

"Stannis cannot die to some fever!" Robert declared, words beginning to slur together. "I tire of these jests. I want Stannis to stop hiding in that dark castle and answer my summons, damn it! Send for him. Your king commands it! And old man Cressen, too!" Pycelle bowed deeply and hobbled away with surprising speed. Robert's massive paw of an arm angrily swept through the table, sending plates and cutleries sprawling on the marble floor. "What are you all staring at? Out, damn you. Out with you all!"

The courtiers fled, relief on their faces as if they were pardoned from the block, and Selmy couldn't blame them. Unlike Jaime, who escorted the Queen out, and Greenfield, who was shadowing the crown prince, the rest of the white cloaks had no excuse to leave.

"Not you, Tyrek, Lancel!" The royal squires halted halfway to the door, looking like frightened deer. "Bring me more wine. And ale, too! That's all you useless fools are good for anyway."

The two Lannister boys stiffly carried over more and more jugs of wine and ale, and the king kept drinking and drinking.

One cup turned to two; two cups turned to four, and more; none dared tell him to stop. It would be of no use, Selmy knew, as the king would only take it as a challenge and drink harder. It was not the kingsguard's duty to advise the king but to guard him.

Selmy prayed then for the king to pass out from drinking, and it seemed like Robert Baratheon had the same idea. Yet it seemed that no amount of wine and ale could lay the king low; it only made him more drunk.

"Damn it, I need to piss," he slurred out and stood up uneasily. Blount came over to help the king steady himself, but Robert pushed him away, sending the knight tumbling on the floor. "I need no help walking!"

Sharing a glance with Moore, who was helping Blount up, Selmy sighed and followed the swaying Robert Baratheon as he made his way to the privy. Yet, two steps out of the throne room, it seemed he couldn't even remember where he was going. It was a small wonder a man could be so inebriated yet still awake.

"This way, Your Grace," the old knight softly corralled the drunken king towards the nearest privy with bedrooms nearby; it did not seem like Robert Baratheon was in any condition to make the journey to Maegor's Holdfast.

The Seven finally seemed to be taking pity on him as Robert listened. The king swayed after him, still refusing any help. Moore and Blount cautiously followed a handful of steps behind.

"The privy is further than I remembered," he complained with a heavy slur as they passed through the dim-lit hallways. The men-at-arms standing sentry were still as statues, but Selmy could see pity in their eyes as they looked at him. It pained him far more than any wounds taken in battle.

"Only a little more, Your Grace," Selmy promised as they went around the corner. "Just down the stairs."

Robert staggered down the stairs in question, making the old knight tense. His attempt to aid the king was met with a hard shove and an angry glare, making Barristan step away with a grimace.

Just then, Robert Baratheon misstepped with his wobbling feet and tumbled down forward. Selmy lunged forward, grasping for the king.

A tearing sound echoed ominously as the Lord Commander of the kingsguard was left with a torn sleeve in his grasp while the Demon of the Trident stopped at the bottom of the stairway, dead still with his neck bent at a wrong angle.