Shifting into a raven had been a very odd experience. The eyesight was incredible, and the cold order of the animal's thought process brought Arya's ideas into sharp focus. It was altogether disturbing, and she did not like the experience. Afterwards, she shared her concerns with Lord Brynden.
"Why did my thoughts change so much? They don't change when I am in Nymeria's skin," she asked.
"You are bonded with her. In many ways, you are her. When you slip your skin and shift into other creatures, you blend in different ways. Some skinchangers dislike slipping into prey animals like deer, because it is thought to make them cowardly afterward." His voice took on a note of dry derision. "Mostly talk of the weak-willed, and an excuse."
Arya didn't want to do it again, but she knew she would be tasked to.
"I see the point of shifting into birds, but how is this greenseer ability going to help? Jojen says seeing the future will be useful, but can't he and you already see the future? Can't you just change the future yourself with what you see?"
A dry rasp could be heard. "Child, we cannot change the future, at least not the way you think of it."
Arya blinked. "Then what is the point? Might as well not know it, then!"
"Ah, but knowing the future will allow you to act differently." Arya thought she heard a note of amusement in that arid tone.
"Then that would change the future!"
"No, it would not. For the future already included you learning of the future," Brynden spoke, his voice growing wispier. "At least, that is what it did."
She kicked at the dirt. "You aren't making any sense. If I need green dreams, or green whatever, to see the future so I can act differently, then I am changing the future."
A strange wind stirred in the cave, and Lord Brynden's voice seemed to strengthen.
"Consider time and life like a book already written. You are within the book, and with the sight, you can see what comes ahead. But it does not change the book, because your seeing ahead was also written. Were you not able to see ahead, then the book would be different."
"Doesn't make any sense. And what was that bit earlier? When you said it did?"
Anger coursed through the man like the branches piercing his body. "Something has changed. A bit over a decade ago, the book altered. What was to be has become something else, and now much is clouded and no longer certain. Is this the actions of our enemy? Is this the coming of the red comet distorting our vision? Has the traitor succeeded in his deranged quest and will bring madness to all?"
Arya scowled. "So all that you said before doesn't even matter! We can change the future if it keeps changing."
A low sigh left his frame. "You will understand more clearly by experiencing. You have shifted into another creature. Two steps are left, and then you will gain much more perspective. It will not be long now, Arya Stark."
"What two steps?"
Leaf arrived then, carrying a weirwood bowl. Inside was a thick, heavy white paste with dark red veins running through.
"You must eat this," said Leaf.
Arya wrinkled her nose. "What is it?"
"A paste of weirwood seeds."
Arya felt her stomach churn just looking at it. Buying time for herself she took the bowl and spoon but turned to Brynden.
"And the second?"
"You will learn to slip your skin and move your consciousness into a person. Do that, and an entire new world of understanding will come to you." Brynden's voice was dry and raspy; Arya knew that the day's discussion would soon be over.
Leaf gestured, and Arya sighed. She took her first spoonful and gagged. Forcing down a second and then a third, she noticed that on the third swallow, the taste seemed to change. It was like consuming honey and cinnamon. She finished the bowl and looked to Leaf.
"Now what?"
"You learn how to skinchange into a human," Leaf answered.
Arya felt light-headed. "I can just… take over someone?"
Leaf looked to Brynden, and the man did not speak. Leaf looked uncertain, but then slowly replied.
"It depends. I do not know how it works for you humans, but the power of a skinchanger matters in these things. Where the gift is weak, one cannot do much. Where the gift is strong… but that is not the point of the training. You will be taught by the trees. The trees remember, and you will gain access to their combined memories."
She was tired of being in the dark, tired of being in this cave. Arya was impatient for this 'training' to be over and done with. She wanted to go back to Winterfell.
"Why does Jojen have to die?" Arya asked as Leaf turned to go.
"Die?" Leaf looked at her strangely, or what Arya thought was strangely. "What has he told you?"
Arya frowned. "He said that great magics require sacrifice. He said he was willing."
Leaf looked back at Brynden and then to Arya. She seemed on the verge of speaking, but then did not. Arya was growing impatient. She wanted to know what was going to happen to Jojen.
"I will say no more. When Brynden wakes once more, you may ask him."
Arya nearly growled in frustration and set off to find Syrio. She needed to burn off some of that frustration, and a good duel would do the trick!
***
Jon struggled to adjust to being addressed as "Your Grace" and watching those he'd known all his life bow before him. The weight of his duty already bore heavily upon him, but their deference only made it more unsettling.
Yet, that wasn't his greatest concern. When Lady Catelyn informed him that Arya had ventured north of the Wall, he felt an overwhelming urge to ride out and bring her back himself. But such a quest would be fruitless, as the journey was far from swift, especially with the deepening snows. Instead, he had to settle for sending ravens to the Lord Commander, requesting ranging parties be sent to find her.
The news from the Wall was already dire. The wildlings were drawing ever closer. The Wall had stood for thousands of years, its towering presence a mighty defense, but the sheer numbers in question could make the situation precarious. With that in mind, Jon had ordered the new Lord Umber to send any men he could spare to reinforce the Watch. He had written to the Manderlys as well, asking them to provide whatever aid they could, using any ships that hadn't sailed south. Jon knew those garrisons were nearly depleted, but he hoped that even the smallest reinforcement might help if Mance Rayder chose to strike.
Torn between heading south or staying in the North, Jon settled for a compromise. He kept the bulk of the Northern foot stationed near the border, while his uncle led the horse back to Winterfell. What he really wanted was Eddard's counsel on the matter, unsure of the best course forward.
In search of peace from the weight of expectations placed upon him as King, Jon found himself in the godswood. It felt strange to trust in Melisandre's prophecies while rejecting her god. He was of the North, and his heart remained loyal to the Old Gods.
Two guards stood watch at the entrance. "Your Grace," they intoned in unison.
"Is the godswood now guarded?"
"No, Your Grace, but Lady Shireen often finds solace here. We've stationed men at the entrances to ensure her peace is kept – though you are free to pass, of course."
Jon gave a nod and stepped inside, his eyes soon finding Shireen Baratheon, heir to the claimant Stannis Baratheon – the man his uncle had betrayed to follow him. He couldn't help but wonder if Shireen harbored any resentment toward him. She sat amidst the gnarled roots of the heart tree, and as he neared, her gaze lifted in startled surprise.
"You are the one they are saying is now King. Jon Targaryen."
Jon nodded, his voice steady. "And you are Shireen Baratheon. Know that I honor my father's… I mean my uncle's pledge. We will not use you against your father."
Shireen nodded, her voice soft. "Thank you. Your home is beautiful, but I wish there were more familiar faces here. My father, mother, uncle, even my cousins – they're all either missing, dead, or far away."
Jon looked down, suddenly feeling guilty over it all. "I don't really want the crown; it is just that I need the realms of men to be united." He gave a wry laugh. "Even if it is everyone against me."
Shireen looked directly at him, her expression unwavering. "I've seen you with her; she's the same priestess who once told my father what he needed to do."
Jon knew Melisandre had served Stannis, but now he was curious. "Tell me more about what she told your father."
Some of what Shireen shared with him was secondhand, while other events she had witnessed herself. Jon felt even more troubled now than when he had entered the godswood. Melisandre had done more than merely advise the King; she had compelled him to burn a sept. She had urged him to draw a blade she called Lightbringer. Her description of Longclaw as "a blade of fire" made Jon wonder anew how accurate her visions truly were.
A guard called out. "Your Grace, scouts report riders. Envoys from the Stormlands."
Jon left Shireen to the woods and followed the guards. He should look presentable. There were very few people in the south who had replied to his ravens about the Others. Ser Lum Weiss, on behalf of Lady Myrcella Baratheon, was one of those few.
Catelyn, Maester Luwin, Melisandre, and Sam were gathered. Lady Catelyn recommended that Jon not ride out and meet them and instead have his men provide bread and salt at the gate before having the knights come to him.
Sam agreed. "Father said that a lord should always wait for those of lower station to come to him."
Jon nodded and allowed himself to be fitted with fine clothes and furs. Little details mattered; if he sought a more hostile interaction, he would have his blade bared and resting across his lap. But since this was meant to be a friendly overture, his sword remained sheathed. His advisors offered various bits of etiquette to consider, and soon Jon's mind was crowded with details he had never been formally taught.
He waited impatiently for the arrival. Eventually the doors of the hall opened, and in came two knights. The smaller figure walked purposefully, eyes roving around the room. He reminded Jon a bit of how Qhorin acted when cresting a ridge or entering a tent with people already in it. The eyes noted who was there, if they were armed, where the exits were, and likely more. The figure was dressed in leathers instead of heavier armor, and instead of an arming sword at his side, it was just a belt knife. This was in sharp contrast to one of the biggest men Jon had ever seen.
The massive man, easily as large as Hodor, wore plate armor with a longsword strapped across his back. As he advanced, the guards near Jon shifted uneasily, their attention clearly drawn to the imposing figure clad in fine armor.
He's not the threat. If they did mean me harm, it would be the sharp-eyed one I'd be most worried over.
Sam called out. "You stand in the presence of Jon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm."
Lum and Jaspar both tilted their heads downward. It was not the proper greeting of a King, but it showed at least a modicum of respect.
"I am Ser Lum Weiss, a member of the Stormguard that serves Lady Myrcella Baratheon. This is my brother in arms, Ser Jaspar Storm, also of the Stormguard. We are under banner of truce to learn of this threat in the north."
Sam nodded and introduced himself as a brother of the Night's Watch, Lady Melisandre as advisor to the King, and Lady Catelyn Stark as acting Lady of Winterfell until her husband's return.
"I will give you my testimony, ser," Jon spoke, keeping his voice level, and he hoped regal. "I have fought the Others. I have tasted the cold wind they bring. They are a fierce foe with fell powers, but I have slain them."
Lum and Jaspar listened with stoic expressions as Jon recounted his tale. When he finished, Sam spoke up, adding that he too had witnessed the dead attack, and that the commanders of the Night's Watch could all vouch for Jon's account.
Ser Lum looked at Jon and then began asking questions. How many Others were there? What was the size of their army of the dead? How effective was regular weaponry on both the Others and the wights? How far from the Wall were they encountered? How many other sightings had occurred? Was there a corpse they could provide of an Other? What exactly were their powers? Were the encounters only at night, or did they also happen during the day?
Jon felt a bit bemused by the seemingly endless barrage of questions. He couldn't help but wonder if they were searching for inconsistencies in his account. After more than a dozen inquiries, he raised a hand in exasperation.
"So, do you believe they are real? Do you see the need to unite under one King?" Jon asked.
Lum met his gaze evenly. "That will be for Lady Myrcella to decide. I do not speak with her voice. After gathering all the information you, Sam, and any other first-hand accounts can provide, we will send word back to Lady Myrcella. We will then travel to the Wall and see if we can put eyes on this enemy you speak of and then provide our assessment."
"There are some of the other Brothers of the Night's Watch who were there that night here in Winterfell. I will make them available to you. My advisor, Lady Melisandre, will also share her account," Jon replied.
Jaspar growled, and the guards around Jon tensed.
"Is there an issue with that?" Jon asked in confusion.
Jaspar subsided, and Lum spoke up again. "Lady Melisandre once served Stannis Baratheon. In that service, it is believed that she summoned a demon of shadow to assassinate our lady. Ser Brienne took a nasty scar from the creature before Lady Myrcella could send it back to the Seven Hells." Lum spoke clearly but with an edge.
Jon looked to Melisandre, whose eyes had widened a fraction. "I believe we will have much to speak, of Ser Lum." She looked to Jon. "These men speak the truth, but only as they know it. I will explain more when there are fewer ears present."
Jon felt a massive headache creeping in. He hoped he had made a good impression; they desperately needed the support of the south. If Myrcella could persuade her grandfather, they might rally half the armies of Westeros to confront the Others. As people turned their attention to him, Jon realized that he needed to speak.
"Be welcome in these halls, Ser Lum, Ser Jaspar. You and your men will be given food and drink. Accommodations have been made for your men in winter town. Both of you are welcome to stay within Winterfell itself. When it comes time for your journey to the Wall, you will be given an escort that includes one of the Night's Watch Brothers. Should you have need of aught, Lady Stark will provide."
With that business concluded, he had questions for Melisandre.
***
The battle was won.
But at what cost?
Davos was weary unto death, though he had joined the fray only at its end. His heartache was twofold. Once for his son, Devan, who had earned a squire's death trying to protect the King. And twice for the King, whom the Stranger could claim at any moment.
"It was incredible, Ser Davos," Harrold Hardyng said, his voice touched with awe. "He crested the wall, was thrown back, and clipped a ladder halfway down before slamming into the ground. A fall like that could kill, but not always. Despite his wounds, he climbed again and led the charge into them."
Davos looked at the King, his body marked by countless wounds. Scars from fire and boiling water marred his face and head. His countenance had never been fair, but now it could be compared to that of the Hound. His right arm was braced, broken in two places, while bruises mottled his torso. His left arm had been too damaged to be saved. A blade had cut deep into the back of his knee, and the bandage had turned black with dried blood.
"Maester… will he live?" Davos asked in soft desperation.
The Maester sighed. "These wounds are dire, and he faces infection. He was struck in the head, which is why he has not regained consciousness. The blood loss may be survivable, but it is in the hands of the gods. My own hands have done all they can."
"When… when will you know?"
"It may take time, but I warn you, Lord Hand, he may not regain his senses. The arm was too mangled to save, and much blood was lost before the amputation. Between that, the risk of infection, the head wound, and the burns – any one of them could claim him."
Davos felt liquid come to his eyes. Stannis was not an easy man to serve, but he was the King! And he deserved better than this wretched fate. Harrold grasped Davos by the shoulder.
"We must speak."
"Must we?" Davos replied. Not even a year ago, he would have never spoken to an important noble in that manner.
"Yes. The King had hoped to ride for the coast and take command of the fleet that's coming for us. We may have succeeded in storming this place, but the losses were extraordinary." Harrold's face twisted. "The defenders were lied to. They were told that if they surrendered, they'd be burned alive. That's why they fought so hard and so few ended up throwing down their arms. Madness."
"Did we find Lady Arryn?" Davos asked.
"No, we suspect she's still in the Eyrie. But they have months at most before they freeze on their perch. What we must decide is what comes next."
"What do you mean? Speak plainly." Davos stared hard at the young noble of the Vale.
Harrold exhaled evenly. "The King is gravely wounded and may not survive. The losses here were far too high. If he lives… what condition will he be to lead us? The North has abandoned us, as has much of the Riverlands. Is there even a noble of the Lords of the Narrow Sea still alive? As the Starks like to say, Winter is coming. A fleet led by one of the most able naval commanders comes for our vessels. We either meet them or flee, but in order to do that, we will need to march tired and weary men to the coast. This war – it is not one we can win."
"So you would give up after our victory?" Davos asked angrily. "Our King yet lives, and if he were to die, we will put Shireen Baratheon on the Iron Throne."
"Shireen is held by the Starks, Seaworth. Be reasonable."
"They've promised not to use her as a hostage," Davos countered.
"Oh aye, like they swore their fealty to King Stannis?" Harrold mocked.
Davos let out a growl of frustration. "I asked you to speak plainly – what precisely do you propose?"
"Make peace. Word has reached the Vale that a great Trial of Seven is planned in King's Landing, King Tommen's champions against King Aegon's." Harrold's voice grew more animated. "A trial for the Seven to decide whether the Seven Kingdoms will be ruled by the Baratheons or the Targaryens. We await the victor, and then swear fealty. In the meantime, we offer a truce to the Targaryen fleet."
Davos simply shook his head. "Stannis is the rightful King; will you forswear him now?"
"And you are acting Hand! Think, my lord – if we do not seek at least a temporary truce, our fleet will be smashed. Unless you propose yourself to lead it? Can you win with fewer men and fewer ships against a fresh opponent on the seas?"
I cannot make this decision. Stannis would never countenance peace were he awake.
"You are right, Winter is coming. Which makes any attack into the Vale unlikely. Lord Redwyne is well known for his prowess at sea. Instead of battle, we will give the order to sail to Braavos; let Redwyne waste his time circling the coasts of the Vale and the North while we await our King's awakening."
Harrold gave a grunt. "You are like him, inflexible and stubborn to the doom of us all. Yet, I will not have it said that I am an oath breaker, despite the counsel of many who say we should desert you; I will serve."
Davos thanked him and saw that the ravens had been sent with instructions for their fleet. Two of his sons were on those vessels, and he could only hope no one would get any ideas in a foreign port. Davos saw no other way to preserve the last significant military asset his King had left. The Vale needed to bring in the harvest and deal with the hill tribes, who were growing bolder in their raids. Beyond setting a strong guard at the Bloody Gate, there was little else he could do to influence the war for the Iron Throne.
***
Sansa laughed as Elinor Tyrell concluded her story.
"And he thought that would work?"
Elinor was grinning with mirth. "Fools are of every station, even noble born."
Jeyne giggled at that, and was about to speak when there was a knock on the door.
"Lady Tyrell, Lord Tyrell has instructed me to take you to his solar. A raven has come, and there is dire news," called a guard.
Sansa stood, not letting concern appear on her face. She was the Lady of Highgarden now, and if there was troubling news, she would take it as a lady should. Lady padded beside her as they left Elinor and Jeyne.
"What news, ser?"
The knight's lips thinned. "The Shield Islands have been attacked."
Sansa had been diligent in learning about her new home. The Shield Islands were a set of four islands west of Highgarden.
House Chester of Greenshield. House Grimm of Greyshield. House Hewett of Oakenshield. House Serry of Southshield.
When Sansa arrived, she saw her husband, Olenna, the Maester, and the knights, Jon Fossoway and Parmen Crane. Sansa remembered that Ser Jon was married to Willas's aunt. Parmen was a renowned knight who had been instrumental in leading House Crane back into the Tyrells' good graces after their brief declaration for Stannis.
Willas approached her with a slight limp and kissed her on the cheek. "It is good of you to join us, my lady wife. Grave news has arrived, and some decisions for the safety of those I cherish must be made."
Olenna's lips thinned. "This is Highgarden, not an easy bastion to conquer. The Ironborn are a dire threat, of course, but the idea that they could take this place is absurd. You have more wits than most, grandson, but this is foolish."
"A precaution, my lady," Ser Jon replied. "We know not their numbers, or their intent. Sieges, even ones that have little hope of success, are not without their dangers."
"Bah." Olenna waved off.
Sansa looked confused, which prompted Wilas to explain how the force of Ironborn was quite large for mere raids. All four islands had been attacked at the same time and had fallen quickly despite each containing stout keeps. A force like that needed to be taken seriously.
"Their efficacy alarms me, grandmother. I would sleep better knowing you and Sansa are safe. It would be a quick journey along the Mander to Cider Hall or even New Barrel," Willas argued.
"Perhaps if you had sired a babe with your wife, there would be some merit in it. But since you have not, she should remain here with you. As should I, since I'm the only advisor you possess with any wits," the Queen of Thorns sharply replied.
"I don't want to go!" Sansa spoke loudly. Lowering her voice, she looked down. "My mother would never have accepted leaving Winterfell if it were attacked. If the lady of the house were to leave, it would dispirit the defenders."
Olenna cackled, "Well now, what do you think of that?"
Willas frowned. "My lady wife, while you have already endeared yourself to this household, all would know that the purpose is to shield you from the brutalities of war, not that there is a real chance this place would fall."
Ser Parmen chose to speak up, "My lord, in truth I think the chances of the Ironborn sailing up the Mander to try to take Highgarden are low. They may pillage the rich lands around it, but they aren't complete fools. The Arbor is also vulnerable and far less defended. They may even try Oldtown, not realizing that its muster has not moved."
Ser Jon tilted his head. "Ser Parmen makes a good point, my lord."
Willas looked around the room. "Very well, I ask for counsel because I value it, and will not disregard it. Send the ravens warning the coastal holdings that the Ironborn are likely to strike soon. I would feel better if we strengthened the garrison here. Send word to Tarly, Fossoway, and Ashford to send half of their remaining soldiers here. While I suspect he'll refuse, again, send word to Lord Leyton to have his horse patrol the coasts."
Ser Parmen frowned. "Something must be done about the old fool. He cannot ignore commands of his liege."
Olenna nodded sharply. "His son is at least responsive, but says he cannot act without his father's approval. After the war is over, you will need to command his son, Ser Baelor Hightower, supplant him. Say that madness or senility has overtaken the elderly Leyton and be done with it." Her voice dropped to a lower register, but Sansa could still hear it. "Probably true anyhow."
"A headache for another time," Willas replied, "but perhaps his refusal to attend the muster of my father is fortuitous. The Ironborn will be most surprised if they try to attack Oldtown and the Hightowers."
Sansa listened in on the rest, though the numbers went a bit over her head. She wished she had paid more attention in her lessons. She had always been more focused on needlework, singing, practicing her courtesies, and learning the Faith of the Seven. Maester Luwin had taught her sums, but the way her husband and his advisors rattled off numbers for food and men, and swiftly understood their impact, impressed her.
She was glad that she was staying. Highgarden was so wonderful and joyous, and while she and her husband had not yet lain as man and wife, he dined with her each eve. Outside of dearly missing her family, she was happy and wished to preserve this magical time for as long as she could.
***
I wasn't a fan of putting all my eggs in one basket, but the upcoming Trial of Seven was important enough to do so. I had wanted Ser Addam Marbrand to be given command, but unless the contingent from the Stormlands traveling with Ser Roland provided a contender, Ser Addam was the best choice to round out my seven. That left me with a decision to make about who would take command of my 10,000. Lord Alesander Staedmon was not the greatest tactician, but he had participated well enough in our roundtable discussions on the war. He was also quite loyal and could be trusted. He had fought in my first Trial of Seven, so repaying his original devotion with a command also served a purpose.
What had ultimately convinced me, beyond just his good showing, was that Ser Addam had sparred with my now-deceased Uncle Jaime in their youth. When you practiced with the best regularly, you learned. He was also flexible enough to understand the strategy I was going for. With his addition, I now felt reasonably confident of our success.
Ser Barristan's leg was nearly as good as new. The Hound continued to impress with his absurd strength and endurance. I had tested it one day. The powerfully built man could run for several hours in his plate armor, and then spar. Whatever Thoros had done, it was clear that Sandor Clegane had not just been healed, but improved.
However, some of those improvements had come at a cost. Clegane had never been talkative, but now he could go days without speaking unless prompted. When I badgered him with questions, he repeatedly mentioned that food had no taste, and only strong wine interested him. It took an absurd number of high-alcohol-content drinks for him to even begin feeling their effects, far more than most humans could survive.
We neared King's Landing, and at the designated spot, a hundred of my knights and I broke off to meet the incoming delegation. I scanned the various banners and heraldry; the Crownlands and Reach banners were the largest in number. I rode ahead with Ser Barristan and Ser Brienne, and three figures approached.
The lead rider I recognized by description as Lord Jon Connington, Hand to Aegon Targaryen. The rider next to him was unfamiliar. He had thick silver hair, which made me think it might be Aegon for a moment, but I soon noticed a streak of black running through it. The third rider, based on his heraldry, bearded face, and broad shoulders, I identified as Ser Garlan Tyrell, the current heir to Highgarden.
"Ser Barristan," Connington spoke as he gave a respectful nod, "when this matter is concluded, you would be welcome to rejoin the Kingsguard."
I was amused by the little power play and discreetly signaled Barristan that it was fine to respond.
"It has been some time, Jon. I am glad you are alive, but I fear you will be disappointed. I am one of the seven who will participate in the trial. I will either be victorious, or the Stranger will take me."
"I thought you were a cripple now," the white-haired man spoke curtly.
I observed Lord Connington scowl and send a warning glance at the man.
Barristan looked at him. "Ser Gerold, as bold as your reputation suggests. I was sorely wounded, but it has not kept me from the field of battle, nor will it prevent me from winning my King his throne."
I cleared my throat. "Lord Connington, I trust the agreement still stands? The trial will commence within a fortnight. By then, the men I summoned from the Stormlands will have arrived."
He turned to me. "Lady Myrcella, King Aegon's word can be trusted. They are but a few days away, and our outriders have already made contact. We would not wish to give any excuse. My King knows that winter is coming, and the Maesters believe it will be a harsh one. The sooner you bend the knee to the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, the sooner Westeros can prepare."
"Excellent. I am looking forward to meeting King Aegon. As a precaution, we have brought out vittles. My last stay within the walls of King's Landing was discomforting."
"Not to worry," Ser Gerold replied, "there are no other Lannisters in the city."
I looked at him solemnly. "My mother may have been the one who last touched the poison, but it was another hand that prepared it. That hand is most like still sitting on Aegon's small council."
"A grave accusation, my lady," Garlan Tyrell said directly. "Is there any proof of this claim?"
"Ah, Ser Garlan. I must thank you for the honorable campaign you conducted in the Westerlands. My grandfather was most wroth at your success, but I have been told the smallfolk were not overly abused. As for proof, come now, do you think someone as slippery as Lord Varys would be so sloppy?"
"If you feel it necessary, that is your choice," Connington said. "Twenty beds have been prepared in the Red Keep; the remainder of your men will have places in the city."
I didn't overly care. I had done the political calculations; I didn't think Aegon could afford to try to kill me through treachery. His honor and reputation were on the line, and with his powerful allies in the chivalrous Reach houses, he had to at least put up the appearance of honor. If the worst should occur, I would prioritize my safety and flee using my abilities. I was reasonably certain that I could get to a window and escape from there. The city would erupt, and I would rejoin my army.
"Excellent. I will be staying there along with Brienne, my seven, six squires, and five servants," I replied, enjoying his surprised expression at my choice of companions rather than mostly knights.
"You, of course, are welcome to feast with the King, but you will be searched for weaponry, and none – your personal guards included – will be allowed to carry blades near the King."
I waved away the concern. "Your King is justifiably worried that his guard is insufficient compared to my Stormguard, so I understand and consent to his precautions."
Connington's eyes narrowed with irritation, and Ser Gerold laughed.
"You should have been born in Dorne with that tongue. Maybe it wasn't the Kingslayer who gave Robert horns, perhaps it was someone further south. Say, was Prince Oberyn at the tournament in King's Landing some 13 years ago?" Gerold remarked.
"A cruel jest, considering," I replied sweetly.
"Oh? Why, do you not want to be reminded of your mother's infidelity?" Gerold asked in an amused tone.
I shook my head. "Ser, not even your King views me as baseborn, so that wasn't what made it cruel. I would simply hate to be viewed as a kinslayer for killing Prince Oberyn."
His expression took a dark turn. "You didn't kill him; only those zealous sparrows think that story is true. Will you tell me next how the doves flew you down from the Moon Door?"
I had not heard that one. In fairness to Dayne, some of the stories being repeated about me were quite outlandish and false. I debated how to respond, and decided for the unvarnished truth told in a way that would have him think it a lie.
I sat up straight in my saddle. "Doves did not carry me down from the Moon Door. But I did slay Prince Oberyn. He wasn't quite fast enough to beat me. I also slew more than a dozen others that day. I have killed hundreds of my enemies and survived every assassination attempt on my life. I am the architect of many of the victories in this war. I will not speak upon every rumor and story, but know that I am the deadliest person you have ever met."
I looked away from him then, and let my left-hand tremble slightly. He smirked, and I suppressed a grin. I doubted having him underestimate me would ever be important, but it cost me nothing to put on the song and dance, and who knew what strange path the future could take. I didn't like to admit it to myself, but even partially replaying the trick I played in Dacia with my little announcement did amuse me.
Connington spoke to Barristan. "Ah, youthful boasting – some things never change, do they?"
Barristan turned his head and softly replied, "Some things don't change."