Chapter 69

Lum was diligently penning his final raven at Last Hearth: two copies of letters, one to Winterfell, from where it would then be sent onward to Harrenhal, and the other directly to King's Landing. He had received no responses to previous missives, save for one from Casterly Rock acknowledging receipt. Given that his letters were attached to ravens braving fierce winds and a colder-than-normal winter, it was unsurprising. Still, he was concerned that they were not reaching Lady Myrcella for other reasons.

"You about done yet?" Ser Jasper asked.

"Almost. The cipher is tedious to work with."

"Better you than me – I don't have a head for all that. Didn't the Lady tell us it alternates every line?"

"It does, but that's still easily broken. It's just letter substitution."

Jasper looked at him blankly.

Lum sighed; Lady Myrcella was right to trust him with the task.

"Anyone wishing to break the cipher can do so easily – it just takes a bit o' time. But that isn't the key to determining what's relevant and true and what's not. Only seven out of the twelve lines contain the true message; the other five can be ignored, and which ones can be ignored depends on the key-phrase used in the first sentence. For example, this line says the voyage will take longer than the moon's final turning. That sounds like a specific phrase used in place of another, but it's just misdirection."

"Seems like a lot of work; what is the harm in someone else reading about the Wall falling?"

Lum shrugged. "In this? Probably not much, but she wanted all my reports crafted this way. Better hope I don't fall off my horse – she'll make you learn her system then!"

Not that the Stranger would claim me, not while I'm useful.

He supposed that was rather sacrilegious, but he truly felt that Myrcella was the Stranger's chosen, the chief acolyte, death given solid form. To Lum, it all made sense. This game of thrones that the lords, ladies, and knights played was a distraction. The truth was that Lady Myrcella was here to confront the dead – to once more set the natural world to rights. Why else would the Seven embody a soul with such restrained malice?

He kept his thoughts to himself as Jasper vowed to do all in his power to keep Lum alive.

When he finished the letter, Lum took his leave of his hosts. Mors and Hother Umber had provided provisions and then requested their aid. The Greatjon was dead, as was his heir. Mors and Hother were his uncles, and they ruled, while the future Lord of the Last Hearth had not yet reached maturity. The tall lad was but a couple of years shy of it and already could loom over Lum. Rickard Umber was upset to be leaving, but he and his sisters were headed to Winterfell, just like Lum, his band, and the remaining brothers of the Night's Watch. Along with them were smallfolk from Last Hearth, with more waiting for them along the road.

"Fare you well, if the savages come, we'll kill 'em 10 to 1," Mors promised with a grim tone.

"Just remember, my lord," Lum warned, "if it comes to it, make sure you poison or destroy any extra vittles."

"There won't be naught left to feed them but our corpses, but aye, most like those will be consumed too. Filthy Thenns." Mors spat on the dirty floor of the keep's entryway.

Hother made a noise of derision. "That's just a rumor folk tell when the night's fires run low. Don't speak words that may not be true and spread more fear, brother."

The two brothers enjoyed their bickering, and Lum knew it was time to be off. It bothered him that he had yet to have a concrete sighting of the wights, but he had seen enough and heard enough. With the Wall gone, they were not going to be stopped. The talk of a mighty host of wildlings, greater in number than the entire force raised by the Stormlands and Westerlands combined, may have been an exaggeration, but even so, if even half that sort of host was fleeing from the Others and their undead servitors, Westeros had to prepare.

Not even Winterfell can hold. Nothing the North can do will stop such a force. Only the Seven's Champion can do so.

***

Jon had made his decision. He knew it would disappoint his father... well, uncle. Melisandre would be pleased, but before he informed her, he wanted to check his thinking with the smartest and best-read person he knew: Sam.

"Your Grace," Sam inclined his head.

"Not you too! I know you've said in public that you must, but it is quite literally just the two of us."

Sam rubbed his hands. "It helps to make it habitual, so I don't forget. The page said you needed to see me immediately. What do you need me for?"

"I've decided to take Melisandre's advice and go out to challenge this King-Beyond-the-Wall." Jon's lips twitched as he paused. "Only, without a Wall, that title is worse than a mummer's farce." His face clouded over. "I shouldn't jest. Nearly all our brothers are dead. Lord Mormont, Pyp, Maester Aemon. Only the small few with Qhorin, and the few with you are the only ones left."

They aren't my brothers anymore, but damn me, I'll still refer to them as such!

"Might be that Ser Alliser is still out there."

Jon shook his head grimly. "Aye, that would be our luck – less than two dozen of the Night's Watch remaining, but Ser Alliser survives, somehow. But I doubt it. A miserable whoreson he may have been, but he was loyal to the Watch. He's probably dead in a ditch somewhere in the middle of the Riverlands."

Sam was nodding. "You've decided to strike against Mance. Your war council should be here, not me. What would you have of me?"

"I want your advice, or perhaps – perhaps I'm just a coward. I don't know, but I do know that this step will either make me or break me. Here's my thinking, Sam. If I am this Azor Ahai and Melisandre is correct, I will win. I will crush Mance Rayder and prove it. But if I'm wrong…" His voice trailed off, then continued, "A lot of good men will die. But afterwards… afterwards… we will know. I plan to keep Lord Stark here in Winterfell with instructions to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen if I fail. No more divided loyalties. Everything will be laid bare, and the Seven Kingdoms will unite under my brother."

"But you'll be dead," Sam said in a worried tone.

"Aye, but the survivors will have a chance. Robb is now a hostage in King's Landing. With Lord Stark swearing fealty, it will go better for him. Better a live hostage as security for Father – for Lord Stark's fealty – than Aegon growing restless and forcing the issue with Robb's life."

"Jon, if you don't believe you'll make it through, then this isn't something you should do. Nor should you lead others to their end either."

Jon shook his head. "No, I truly don't know what will happen. I don't want to die either. I want to see Robb, Sansa, and Bran again." Lady Catelyn still held hope for Arya, but Jon had already mourned her. Between the Others, the wildlings, and the bitter cold, hope dwindled by the day. "I want to find a wife, a queen, and father trueborn children to bear my name. I want to read some of those books you always speak of. I want to see the great city of King's Landing. I want… I want so much more. But I need to know for certain. If Melisandre can give us a victory when we are this outnumbered, then she's right about everything else too."

Sam sat in silence, looking at him, but also clearly thinking.

"Melisandre could have warned us about all sorts of things, but she didn't. Either because she can't read the flames as well as she claims, or because she chose to let so many of the Night's Watch die. In either case, you may not want to bet your life on it. This is a castle, designed and built to withstand sieges. The wildlings struggled against the Wall, and Winterfell can keep them out. They'll starve or head south – you don't need to fight them in the open."

"And if they bring down Winterfell the same way?" Jon asked.

"Maybe they can, but we know they'll be nearing Last Hearth soon. If they don't employ the same fell arts that took down the Wall, it stands to reason they couldn't repeat it." Sam sighed. "I don't know, Jon. You are the King, and it is your decision, but it sounds to me like you're taking the easy way out."

Jon snorted in amusement. "Oh, of course. Charging out against 100,000 wildlings is the easy way."

"You don't want to dwell in uncertainty, but you must, as King. When your Master of Whisperers tells you he believes someone is disloyal but lacks proof, what will you do? When your Master of Ships tells you he isn't sure if the fleet can survive the journey during the stormy season, but it's critical for it to do so, what will you do? When you sit in judgment of someone and aren't sure, what will you do? To be King is to dance with uncertainty, to push through, and to learn to live with it."

Sam gave him a long look.

"You want Melisandre's prophecies to be true? Which ones? The ones about Stannis that failed, or the new ones about you? Or maybe you think the first ones were false but these are real? You're not seeking truth, you're seeking permission. And that's the one thing a King can never have."

Jon looked at Sam intensely, but then smiled. "You've made my choice a bit easier, Sam. I'll still be going, but now I know who I will be appointing as the head of the Night's Watch if I survive."

Sam blanched. "No… it's decided on vote, not the King's decree. And I won't ever win that, nor should I! You can't have a coward be the Lord Commander!"

Jon stood and slapped Sam on the shoulder. "Do you think, towards the end, Lord Mormont was a mighty warrior? There's a reason he gifted me Longclaw. He still had some fight in him, but he knew his days of leading from the front were behind him. The Lord Commander need not be in the thick of things; no, he should be in command, ready to make the hard decisions."

"They still aren't going to vote for me." Sam's voice was still unsteady.

Jon shrugged. "They will, after I say I want you for the role. I know you'll be saddened if I die, but now I've given you a silver lining; I can't very well nominate you if Rayder kills me!"

Jon laughed alone; Sam Tarly did not seem to find that even a bit funny.

***

Brienne clasped arms with Lord Commander Barristan.

"The Stormguard is yours, Ser Brienne. I trust you will keep Lady Myrcella safe."

"Only until you return," Brienne replied.

Barristan gave her a wan smile. "I have every intention of returning. Call it an old man's pessimism, but something about these tales from the south sets my teeth on edge. The razing of Oldtown, a dragon, and whispers of Euron bending the storms to his will – troubling, all of it. If the worst befalls me, I am counting on you to do more than just protect Lady Myrcella."

Brienne looked at the old knight in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Myrcella… she acts with honor not because being honorable is right, but because it achieves her goals."

Brienne's face clouded over. "How can you say that? Every action she's taken has only ennobled her!"

Barristan studied her. "Brienne, you know by now that her ladyship is different. Even from childhood, her thoughts took strange paths and turns. Her wits are sharp indeed, but on occasion I have witnessed her utter befuddlement over normal interactions." Barristan sighed. "She convinced me to serve her so that I may teach her honor, but she is no actual friend of honor. She uses it as a tool and upholds its trappings

Perhaps there will never come a time where she must sacrifice this principle, but I believe should the circumstances require, she would do so with no hesitation."

He held up a forestalling hand. "Regardless, I expect you to serve her, even if she chooses the path of ignoble deeds. Just as I stood aside while King Aerys tormented his wife, or slew loyal lords on vague suspicions, or conducted vile torments, so too will you abide by whatever Lady Myrcella wishes. 'Tis better to serve a tyrant than betray our oaths." Barristan gave her a tired smile. "But take heart, Lady Knight, for Lady Myrcella is open to persuasion. The charge I lay upon you, should I not return, is to lead her to the path of honor. Convince her to embrace the ideal – not for the advantage it gives, but because it is right."

Brienne nodded. "I disagree with the way you view her, ser, but I will take your charge seriously. Lady Myrcella will cleave to the virtues of the Seven and to honor, but if she ever does not, I will do all that I can within the oaths that bind me to redirect her course."

"That is all I can ask. May the Warrior guide your blade, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

After her farewell with Ser Barristan, Brienne turned her thoughts to the Stormguard. Lady Myrcella had insisted it expand again. Brienne was unwilling to compromise on talent, yet her lady's vision of the Stormguard as key emissaries, guards, and commanders required more than mere strength. Some would be diplomats, others strategists – but all would be deadly.

Ser Barlow Waters would soon join them in King's Landing. With Barristan's departure, only Ser Perwyn Frey, Bronn, and Brienne remained to guard Myrcella.

Ser Bronn now – the sellsword fought well in the trial. I suppose he has earned it, but he is very unknightly.

Edric Storm, who had been squiring for Ser Beric, was also coming to King's Landing. The boy had continued to grow, and all accounts agreed he bore a striking resemblance to Robert Baratheon. He would still be too young to entrust with such a sacred duty as guarding Myrcella. There was little reason to fear Edric's potential claim to Storm's End, for the Stormlands had fully embraced her lady as their trueborn. Myrcella still wanted Edric, both because he was kin and deserved a chance to make something of himself, and because he promised to become a warrior of great renown.

Brienne hoped Ser Lum Weiss and Ser Jaspar Storm were well. She knew Ser Gladden Wylde and Ser Theo Redstone were at Harrenhal. Ser Theo had suffered grievous injury, but was now well on the road to recovery. The Stormguard were strong, and Brienne would ensure that any future recruits would live up to the core that had been created.

Perhaps some of the Sparrows? Ser Barlow could take some under his wing and train them, and those who prove competent could be added to the ranks of the Stormguard. How did Lady Myrcella phrase it? Something about how the pipeline of talent needed to be refined. I must be butchering it, but she's full of so many odd sayings that it is hard to keep them straight.

The other area where she could seek additional talent was the City Watch. Much of their corrupted ilk had been purged during recent events. The ones used to assault the Tower of the Hand had been the worst of the lot. Then, when things had turned grim, some deserted, while others died in the fighting. Those who remained were a mixed group, but many looked to Lady Myrcella with reverence. The tales of her slaughtering their treacherous brethren had spread even more widely than those of her Trial of the Seven, her surviving the Moon Door, or her defeat of the shadow demon. Given the momentousness of those events, it was clear what an impact Myrcella had made on the Gold Cloaks.

Ser Leo Blackbar will be loath to lose any of his standouts, but the Queen has been accommodating. It can be arranged with little bother, should I find a good candidate.

Ultimately, it would be up to Myrcella to make the final decision, but it was Brienne's responsibility to provide her with names and 'headhunt' potentials. And when Lady Myrcella gave a task, Brienne treated it with the utmost seriousness.

***

The crowds that gathered whenever I ventured into the city were obnoxiously large. Many among them neither needed alms nor took them; they merely came to see me and their new Queen. Despite my feelings, I maintained a cheerful mien and did my best to play the part. Employees may grumble among themselves, but never before their superiors.

"I will tell the King personally; it is ever his aim to ensure the prosperity of all," Margaery was telling a tradesman who was dealing with a simple shortage of workable materials to craft his wooden baubles. While raw materials were available, there was a profound shortage of smithies, and much of the existing stock of nails and other essential crafting supplies was reserved for rebuilding homes and constructing new ships.

"Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you." The man seemed pleased, but I felt compelled to temper his expectations.

"The Queen will bring forth your concern," I said plainly, "but you must all consider the circumstances. Until shelter is restored over people's heads, little can be done to ensure you have the necessary goods for your work. I would not have you cling to false hope, but perhaps you could consider a substitute for your process?"

I offered a few ideas, and the man nodded slowly. As he turned to go, he bowed to the two of us. "Thank you for bringing my plight to the King, and thank you for blessing me with the Smith's wisdom."

He left, and Margaery turned to me. "I did not realize you were so well acquainted with our supplies and materials. It would not have gone amiss if a pittance of material had been supplied to the woodworker."

"It wouldn't be an efficient distribution of resources; the only gain would be..." I paused. "Ah, I see. You would cement his loyalty. That was the purpose. I apologize, Your Grace, for interfering."

Margaery smiled at me. "I do not mind; he walked away well pleased regardless. I just wished for you to understand what I was doing." The Queen took my hand in hers and looked me in the eye. "I hope we can be of like mind and act together through this dangerous time."

Her doe eyes were easy to fall into. It was strange, as within this body I had rarely entertained a carnal thought, but with her...

I must be on my guard. For one, this body is too young for… such things. But more importantly, it jeopardizes my thinking and would cause no end to problems for my position. Not that I believe Margaery looks at me in that manner; it is just her efforts to create a closeness to tighten our bond. I'm sure she is quite unaware of the effect she is having.

"I concur. The Stormlands and the Reach have been trading partners and sometimes allies along the Dornish Marches for many generations. House Baratheon once wed into the Targaryen line; perhaps that can happen again in the future."

Margaery's smile grew broader, showcasing her flawless teeth. Dentistry wasn't a thing in Westeros, though the issue with tooth decay wasn't too terrible. The lack of sugar in much of the food helped counteract the absence of toothpaste. People did still brush their teeth or pick at food with splinters of wood. Margaery, though, might as well have been a dental model.

Focus, she's talking!

"… some other cousins. Though we could look at some of the other vassals."

"Ah, well, Your Grace, I believe I will wait until I am older before making any serious pursuit. While I am confident we will triumph and unite the Seven Kingdoms, there is more fighting to be had, and I would not wish to endure the sorrow of betrothal only to lose my betrothed."

"Quite understandable, but do give it some thought. Binding our two regions together through marriage will strengthen Westeros," Margaery replied.

We helped hand out more bread under the watchful eyes of Ser Perwyn, a Kingsguard, a squad of Gold Cloaks, and a squad of Tyrell soldiers. I also spotted a trio of Tyrion's ears in the crowd. Tyrion was an exceptional find, and I would be sad to lose his burgeoning talent when he inherited Casterly Rock.

And won't that be a mess. Tyrion now has Aegon's backing, but he'll never have Tywin's. I managed to convince Margaery and Tyrion that it would be best not to push the matter until my grandfather passes. Which could be a decade or even more, given his general good health. But then no matter his wishes, once he is gone, he can't enforce them any longer.

"We'll have another new face on the small council during our next gathering."

"Has a Master of Laws been decided?"

Margaery shook her head. "No, that post remains unfilled for now. Until the Citadel situation is resolved – Gods let it be soon – we have appointed a temporary Grand Maester. Maester Werric has served House Caswell for many years and has overseen over a dozen births. I don't expect any great wisdom on too many other matters, but tradition is of some import."

I nodded. I doubted they wanted Pycelle for the role, though technically, he was still alive. By referring to the title as temporary, they could cross the bridge of whom they would select as the next Grand Maester carefully. With the Citadel currently destroyed or in Ironborn hands, the Maester's political power was in jeopardy.

"It won't be long now before the birthing begins," I remarked.

Margaery nodded. "Yes, it would do my heart well if I hear of my brother's victory over the Ironborn before my motherly labors begin. The timing of these things is tricky, and Maester Werric has said we should be so fortunate only if an immediate pitched battle between my brother and the Ironborn occurs upon his arrival."

"We aren't even sure if they will meet your brother on the field. They are raiders; it is just as likely they will have either sailed for another target, struck Highgarden and triumphed and then left, or struck Highgarden and were repulsed. Either way, this is most like to be a long campaign for Ser Garlan and Ser Barristan."

Margaery rubbed her stomach thoughtfully. "Perhaps, but with this talk of a dragon, I anticipate that this Euron will seek open victories."

I had briefed Barristan on my thoughts on how to handle dragons. Based on my quick perusal through the library in the Red Keep, dragons of that age did not have scales that could turn aside blows so easily. Arrows would be a danger to more than just its eyes. The dragon's ability to inspire terror and ignite part of the battlefield aflame were the biggest threats.

"It is good to hope for a swift victory, but do not place your hopes on that news, Your Grace. Worries over the battle will not make your labors any easier."

"As you say, Myrcella. Come, the sun has begun its setting; it is time to return."

***

While observing the proceedings of open court, Tyrion could understand why Aegon would be viewed positively, as a step up from the previous kings. He loved his nephew Tommen, but the boy did not quite cut a kingly figure. Joffrey, who had murdered a high noble prisoner and valued hostage in open court, was even worse. Robert Baratheon rarely sat in judgement, except on rare occasions. The less said about the Mad King, the better.

We gambled, and we lost. But it could be worse.

What the crowd of knights, nobles, and guards did not know was that the cases that had been brought before Aegon were mostly shams. Tyrion was still trying to figure out if Aegon knew how little of the cases he ruled on were real or not. The young man had seemed shrewd enough, but trusted his inner circle too much.

Was Varys the one to arrange the sham trials with clear and simple outcomes? That would be like him, but I doubt he would act alone. Margaery? Connington? The Dornish acting on behalf of Doran to ensure that the King appeared to rule with justice?

Tyrion didn't know, and didn't dare risk telling the new King. From an outsider's perspective, the King asking a few questions to probe holes in the wealthy lender's story, leading him to break down and admit to falsifying records, was a sign of a powerful mind and a strong leader. It would go rather ill for his reputation if the 'moneylender' was an actual mummer, who had stolen from the 'widow,' who was his sister.

Tyrion assumed at least some of the cases before the Iron Throne were genuine, but his ears weren't that good. He'd only uncovered two blatant fakes, but, based on how people had acted, he suspected it was easily another half-dozen false stories for Aegon to dramatically rule and judge correctly over.

The next petition to the throne caused Tyrion discomfort. It was a Priestess of R'hllor, though at least she was shorter and stouter than Melisandre had been described.

"Your Grace, I am Theranna of Volantis. I serve the Lord of Light and have been sent by the Slave of R'hllor to take the place of Thoros of Myr, who had been granted rights within King's Landing by Robert Baratheon. Your coming has been foreordained, oh mighty King. I would aid you in the unification of the realm, and warn you of the dangers from the south and to the north."

Tyrion knew that Volantis was the home of the largest temple of that religion, a religion that held little favor within King's Landing.

The King narrowed his gaze. "Your sister priestess once claimed Stannis Baratheon was the rightful King. And after that, my Master of Whisperers informs me that she now backs the claim of my potential brother in the North. It seems your kind is opposed to my reign."

"All things work toward the end that the Lord of Light has designed. Melisandre is arrogant enough to believe that the flames dance at her whim. She sees truths in the unknown and ignores what she does not wish to see." Theranna looked solemn and grim. "In simple terms, Your Grace, she cannot be trusted."

"And you can?" Varys asked in a lilting voice.

"I have not been corrupted by Asshai. I have lived all my life within Volantis and submit my will to the Lord of Light. I do not ask you to believe every word I speak, Your Grace, just that you allow me to speak them to you when you need counsel."

"No. I follow the Seven, not some foreign faith," Aegon said, his voice firm. "You are not a guest in the Red Keep. Like any who travel to King's Landing, should you obey our laws, we will not penalize you for your beliefs. However, I would advise you to tread carefully. The people do not like your kind at all, and given recent events, I cannot guarantee your safety."

Tyrion watched as the Red Priestess lowered her head in graceful submission. "As I foresaw. I will remain in the city, and when you face your most difficult decisions, I will be there to be summoned as needed."

After a few more audiences, the court was adjourned. As Tyrion turned to go, Varys approached.

"Tyrion, might I have a few words?"

He agreed, and soon found himself in a nearby room. A servant in brown robes joined them, carrying parchments.

"As agreed prior to the Trial of Seven, His Grace has agreed to back your claim to Casterly Rock after your father has met the Stranger."

Tyrion had already heard it from Myrcella. Though part of him wished to rub it in his father's face, he knew that the realm needed stability and unity.

Perhaps I can tell him on his deathbed.

"His Grace is too kind; though I lent my voice, Lady Myrcella always abides by her word. My contribution did not alter her course."

Varys gave him an inscrutable look.

"But of course," the eunuch said smoothly. "I'm sure your presence by her side was purely decorative."

Tyrion smirked. "Ah, yes. Just another face in the crowd, just there to provide needed advice in case anything unexpected occurred."

Varys stared at him in silence. "You play the jester well, and I have missed your japes, but we are past that now. The times are deadly serious, and I need to know what purpose secret messages from the North are serving."

Tyrion watched as the enigmatic but welcoming face seemed to morph into something far less cordial. The servant next to Varys laid down parchment.

"Lady Myrcella has cleverly manipulated events and the faith of the people in King's Landing. She is a master player of the game, almost untouchable. You, my Lord Tyrion, are not. Consider carefully what secrets you wish to keep from your new King."

Tyrion looked over the message. Recognizing exactly what it was. He laughed.

"This is what has you concerned, Lord Varys? How long have you had this?"

Varys did not so much as blink, merely stared.

"You're seeing shadows where there's only fog, my friend. Ser Lum went north to check the rumors – nothing more. He's not laid eyes on any 'wights' or 'Others' as of yet, but he's confirming the Wall's fallen. What did you expect?"

Varys frowned. "If that is true, why? Why create this extra layer of obfuscation?"

"Operational security, of course," Tyrion said with a less playful edge to his voice. "Though, I'm curious – how often does a letter end up in your hands before it finds its rightful owner?"

"As often as is necessary. A loyal vassal should have no need to hide secrets from the King's advisors."

"Ravens can be brought down before they arrive; it is only wise to take precautions. You won't be satisfied with anything I say, Varys. If Myrcella was less loyal to her oaths, you would already be dead. Try not to give her cause to second-guess her course."

Tyrion picked up the letter; he had spoken honestly, and Myrcella had been wondering when word from Ser Lum would arrive. This would be welcome news to allay any fears he had fallen along with the Wall.