cp9

Chapter 9

The boom of what felt like thunder thrummed through Winterfell, sourced some four miles west of the castle in the run-down rills of what was once the holdfast of House Poole. It was a sad state of affairs, what had happened to the lands of the former stewards of House Stark, as too was what happened to their household, and the Boltons had been further unkind and unwilling to allow them their due. Ruined stonework mottled with the narliest of scents muddled the humble keep, and the walls had been desecrated to the point that it would make more sense to build it anew than it would to repair.

Which I intended to do.

…After our experiments with the wildfire panned out, that is.

In a strange turn of the tide, Meera Reed had decided to stay to help us produce this instead of returning home to her family in the wake of the Long Night. She had been horribly disappointed by Bran's ascension into the three eyed raven and needed to vent her frustration. The foray into developing what would hopefully be our prime weapon offered a rare opportunity to do this without beating a training dummy to a pulp or find a man to rut. More satisfying to behold as well.

"By the sound of that, I'd say things are going well?" I asked my maester, sat in my office.

"Indeed, my king." Maester Wolkan said cheerily, pointing at a piece of parchment in the war room. He held two chain-links up from the monstrosity circling his body, the iron link of warcraft and the pewter link of alchemy. "And it is a fascinating thing to see! Why, from these tests alone I regret not reaching for a link of Valyrian steel. I never would have guessed that blood would have been an ingredient in the creation of the substance!"

"Magical blood at that," I said, nodding shortly.

Wildfire was a close cousin to dragonfire, and its potency showed. Just as dragons were awakened with blood and fire, so too was wildfire formed or blood and fire. Or rather, blood and ash, in actuality. Magical blood at that.

According to Bran, the Wisdoms of the Alchemist Guild were not recruited but instead were bred; coming from a noted line of dragonseeds begun by Aenar Targaryen, who brought his family to Dragonstone from Valyria at the encouragement of his daughter Daenys the Dreamer. Maegor the Cruel established the guild at the behest of Visenya Targaryen. More war-willing than her siblings, Visenya believed that dragons should only be used in dire straits. She thought that their bloodline could create something powerful enough to settle the masses properly without need of their mounts.

They did not agree with her though, and she contented herself in her quiet. Her notion of the guild was only brought up again after they had both died. Grieving for the loss of her brother-husband and sister-wife, Maegor hoped to give her comfort in her cause. A distraction from the pain that welled through her core.

Maegor did not expect such a resounding success. He was pleased regardless, mind.

The Wisdoms took spouses from the bastard children of their Targaryen masters. Each generation held the blood of the dragon, each child was tested and taught what they were deemed suited to learn, and each Wisdom was noted for their maester-like understanding of the world they made to burn.

House Targaryen was one of magic, practiced and purified over the generations. Many of the major houses of Westeros had magic in their blood, diluted though it might be. But the family with the most magic outside of the Valyrian kings was House Stark, especially now. And the blood of the wilding wargs that remained in Winterfell was, I hoped, potent enough to work just as well.

By the sounds of explosions rocketing over the land from miles away, I knew my hope to be true.

Meera, as noted from before, led the testing of the wildfire, meticulously jotting down each improvement and failure made. Gerjuni led the bloodletters, who commanded their leeches to suck the blood straight from the source. Fifteen wargs of various ages were used, summoned back from the Wall with the discovery of this new weapon against the White Walkers, compensated with more food and less chores, and the green flame roared as a result. And Bran led his own division of scribes, tasked writing down and distributing whatever he could think of regarding what might be of assistance.

Only three weeks had passed since Bran had arrived, and already things had changed for the better. My lords had once looked to me with a begrudging sort of respect, for I was the trueborn son of their favored lord. Now that begrudgingness had left them, leaving only their respect. They had even granted me a new epithet: The Wildfire Wolf. A worrisome title when one thought of Daenerys Targaryen and her father the Mad King who loved wildfire quite strongly, but it was still better than the whispered title of Paupered Pup. Those had gone silent upon the first explosion.

It was good to be king.

"Though, from what I have perused, we have not yet reached the full potential of the substance yet." Maester Wolkan said.

"We've not been at it for long. I don't doubt that. I know that there are ingredients that were makeshifted due to us not having them, and it might be that we won't be able to make proper wildfire by the time it is needed. Still, we're moving quicker than I expected, so my worries are little. On a different, though similar topic, how are the scorpions coming along?" Wildfire was not all I intended to see made. Scorpions were powerful weapons, weapons that we needed something fierce. Bran was more than willing to sketch out the blueprints for us. Whatever made the fight against the White Walkers better for the living. And, should Daenerys turn out to be mad, weapons to combat her dragons. "How are our laborers doing? I know we are stretching them thin."

Maester Wolkan's smile turned strained. "Indeed, they are struggling. The smithies are running all through the day and night, as are the lumber mills. The men are growing tired, though they do understand that they are creating something grand."

I hummed. "We'll need to delegate some more then. The smith workers should only be focused on what metals need to be shaped, and the lumber workers need only focus on shaping wood. Give them the next day to pick out strong enough boys from the training yards to put the things together. I want at least one made, and for the method to be shared so others can be made quicker."

"Of course, my king." Maester Wolkan demurred, bowing low enough for his chain to scrape the floor. He stood tall and opened the door to leave.

Petyr Baelish stood in his path.

"Forgive me, my king." He said, his voice falsely graveled. "I had hoped we might have the chance to speak. Matters of your cousin, Lord Robert Arryn."

Internally, I cursed. That I had not ever spoken to Petyr Baelish yet was entirely intended. I wanted to avoid the prick until I knew how to get rid of him. He was slimy and worrisome and though his ambitions for the future were stunted quite heavily I did not doubt he would do anything in his power to crawl back into the good graces of royalty. Until he was that royalty.

But the topic of my cousin was one I could not refute. Robin was the same age as Bran, a young lord coddled by both his mother and the knights of the Vale after her passing. To better secure our alliance and air any grievances that need be said… Fine. "Of course, Lord Baelish. Come inside."

Maester Wolkan stepped around the protector of the Vale, offering a deferral nod to the man. Lord Baelish entered from where the maester left and closed the door behind him.

As he approached, he withdrew a knife. My heart beat quickly. Ghost growled from by my side.

Petyr slowed down upon sighting the wolf, and raised his hands consolingly. "Forgive me. We have never talked, properly. I wanted to remedy that."

"You wanted to remedy that by wielding a knife?"

"No, of course not, my king. I wanted to remedy that by offering you a knife." And he held the sheathed weapon aloft, just close enough for me to grab it. "This is for you."

I took it, marveling at it. The sheath was made of fine black leather gilded in bronze accents, the hilt polished of dragonbone make, and when I unsheathed the blade, the rippled metal of Valyrian steel caught my fancy.

"I know this," I softly announced, twisting the blade around. "It was-"

"The last man that wielded that dagger meant to cut your brother's throat." Lord Baelish said. "But your mother fought him off. …The other dagger- the one that took her life... I would have stopped that dagger with my own heart, if I could have." He eyed Ghost lowly. "I wasn't there for her when she needed me most. But I am here for her now. To do what she would have done. To protect her children."

He returned his gaze to me, sincerity strong in his eyes. "Anything I can do for you, Rickon… You need only ask."

Had I not known anything of him, known of his misdeeds and the misgivings others held for him, or how he sold Sansa to the Boltons, I would have believed him. Such was the sincerity his body language offered.

But I knew. And that also told me how false his words were. I wanted to see if I could test it further, to determine if I could trace any of his lies from his words. "Do you know who this belonged to?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "That very question was what started the war of the five kings. In a way, that dagger made you what you are today. Forced from your home, driven out to the wilds of the North, into the arms of your traitor bannermen. I imagine you've seen things most men wouldn't believe. …To go through all that and take back your home again, only to find such chaos in the world, I can only imagine what you must be thinking."

"Let's leave that to the imagination then," I told him coldly, putting the sheath down on my desk. The blade remained in hand though, digging along the wood of my chair's armrest. Ghost sat up properly now, his red eyes trailed onto the thin man. "Why bring this to me? Why not Bran?"

"I'm afraid I might have approached this… indelicately. You, able bodied and well growing, would be able to use it better than Lord Brandon. If it please you, I can bring it to him instead."

I grimaced. "No. I will let him know you gave it to me. If he wants it, it is his. Let us instead go to the true reason as to why you are here. What ails my cousin?"

With nary but a pause he continued to speak. "Lord Robert proves worried of pledging his aid to your cause. Not that it is not worthy, but that he feels he needs less liberal bindings than those of your shared grandfather. He proposes a marriage between himself as the Lord of the Vale and-"

"And Sansa?" I cut off, slamming my new dagger deep into my desk, loud enough to jolt him. Ghost snarled at the weaselly lord, and he audibly gulped in his fear. "Careful, my lord. Your promises of her hand have already cost my people much."

"And none can even come close to the grief I felt for that." He said quietly, eyes misting. "I made a miscalculation. After everything that had happened to Sansa in King's Landing, I thought Winterfell would be what she wished. That the only way to get there was with marriage was… undesirable, but better still than what awaited her in the capitol."

"Ah, rape and brutalization are better than what she would have faced in King's Landing, is it?"

"Anything is better than death, your grace."

I snorted a harsh sound out. "Regardless, you are not mentioning an important part. Sansa was in the Eyrie for over a year, safe from all of those troubles. She posed as your daughter, I believe, and as regent to my cousin you would have been able to keep her safe until our cousin came of age. Still, you sent her to the North knowing well what would happen to her."

Standing, even at my young age, I had height over him. I leaned over the table; my arms spread low. "I will bring your request to my sister. I will tell her everything you have said. It will be her decision and hers alone to take this deal or not. And, regardless of it being a rejection or an acceptance, the pair of us will pen letters together for my cousin, to be taken to the Eyrie by my raven. Condolences or congratulations, it matters not. I have never traded words with Lord Arryn before. It's time I do, don't you think?"

Face somewhat pale, Lord Baelish nodded lowly. He stood with a bow and made way for the door when I called out to him. "Oh, and Lord Baelish?"

He turned around, smiling congenially. "Yes, your grace?"

"One last thing." I smiled at him, and it wasn't a nice smile. "You made mention that there is- such chaos in this world, did you not? I just wanted to remind you of something."

He blinked. "And that is?"

"Chaos is a ladder, Lord Baelish. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given the chance to climb but they refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love… Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is… And each step up makes the ladder less stable."

My voice went low, barely above a whisper. "You are near the top, Lord Baelish. And your supports are shaky. Don't misstep."

He left with a quicker pace than I'd ever seen him take, a nervous gait that suited him better than any other movement he'd made in his life.

As I sat down, I dug the blade from the table and held it up, tracing the nail of my pointer finger against the flat of its sharp edge.

Indeed, it was good to be king.