After The False Spring - The South

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Jon Connington

The former Hand was late in arriving that morning. By mid-day his retinue finally poured into the courtyard at Griffin's Roost, and Lord Jon Connington made down from his study to greet the possible new ally.

"Insanity, plain and utter insanity!" Lord Merryweather bellowed. "His Grace has lost control of the situation, dismissing me and disinheriting our Prince!" Jon nodded calmly in agreement and ushered the lord indoors. "Come, my lord, the winter winds are particularly harsh today."

It was true King Aerys had overlooked the rising tide of houses hoping to depose him and Crown Prince Rhaegar, but Jon was surprised at how quickly and sufficiently the King had reacted to his prince's disappearance. Though he considered Rhaegar a true friend, Jon was at a loss for why he had apparently kidnapped Lady Stark.

True, Elia Martell had proved frail in her fertility. Jon had been in King's Landing at Aegon's birth, and seen for himself the Princess's brush with death in childbirth. He was of like mind with the Grand Maester's caution that a third child would kill her. Could Rhaegar hope that the lords of Westeros would accept him taking a second wife, like Aegon the Conquerer? Jon wondered. And even so, what could he be thinking choosing a lady betrothed in the light of the Seven to the Lord of Storm's End?

Inside, they met under scantly lit candles. Jon's servants poured a fine Arbor red and Lord Orton's rage seemed to subside bit by bit. They talked of his journey through the Stormlands, and how Orton had stolen away with his small escort while allowing the rest of his household to proceed back to Longtable. They covered the disappearance of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and Jon made sympathetic noises when Orton brought up the subject of his replacement as Hand of the King. Finally Jon felt it safe to return to the subject of most import.

"My lord, you may be aware that several great houses in the South have waited hopefully for Prince Rhaegar to succeed his father on the Iron Throne." He began slowly. "With this recent news of his disinheritance, I can only imagine you would join me in my dismay."

Lord Merryweather gazed pointedly at Jon for a long moment before slowly nodding his head.

"It was my hope, as that of these other lords, that the tourney at Harrenhall could have begun this process," Jon continued. "As you know, the King foiled that plan"

"Those were just rumors," Lord Orton said softly.

"No. It was true," Jon answered.

After another long moment of silence, Orton said, "forgive me, my lord, but why am I here?"

Jon smiled and ran his fingers through his ginger curls. "I was displeased, to say the least, that King Aerys dismissed you. Judging by your display out there in the yard, I can only assume you feel the same. I would hope to invite you to join me in rectifying Aerys' mistake. In restoring Rhaegar to his inheritance and hopefully you to the office of the Hand."

Orton leaned forward and clasped his hands over the goblet. "I'm listening."

Jon's smile widened. "Good," he said as he rose from his chair. "Then please, my lord, come with me."

He lead the former Hand up through Griffin's Roost to his private chambers. One could see far and wide across the vast lands of House Connington from this tower. The Narrow Sea shone on one end and the other was filled with the thickest and richest forest in the Stormlands. Jon checked to make sure Orton had followed him, and opened the door to the Lord's Study.

There in the study three men rose to greet them. Jon moved forward to make introductions.

"Lord Orton Merryweather, may I introduce you to Lord Marq Grafton of Gulltown, Ser Hoster Whent, heir to Harrenhall, and Lord Maekar Dayne of Starfall."

Each nobleman greeted Orton Merryweather pleasantly, speaking praise for his lands in the Reach or his tenure as Hand in turn. Finally the time had come. Jon stepped forward, bearing a the letter they had been working on when the former Hand arrived in the courtyard. "Lord Orton. We would like to ask you to join us in signing a raven to our possible allies as Lords Declarant."

Orton Merryweather looked confused. "Lords...Declarant? Of whom?"

Jon's hand clenched into a fist. His courtly smile was gone, he knew, and he felt bile rising in this throat as rage rose in his heart.

"Of the king. King Rhaegar Targaryen."

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Victarion

The skiff swam quietly down the river toward the castle, a mass of black against the starry night sky. "You are sure he is gone?" Victarion asked.

"Quite sure," his companions assured him. The Frey household soldiers he had recruited for the raid had scouted all morning, before returning to camp with word that Lord Hoster Tully had departed Riverrun toward King's Landing with due haste.

Germond Botley shifted next to him nervously. Victarion elbowed him; he missed the companionship of his brother Aeron. Still, it was good of his lord father to send a fellow Ironborn with him to this hellhole.

The Riverlands had proved duly disappointing to a son of Pyke. Too green and too far from the sea, Victarion had judged the Twins upon arrival. The river helped, but it was still a dismal place to live. Lord Frey seemed to have more sons than fingers or toes, and they all thought to make the Ironborn their fast friend. The only one that Victarion had found impressive was the bastard, Black Walder. He had no cause to trust this son of Lord Frey, though the soldiers promised he would come through.

Still, Victarion was eager to prove himself tonight. He had donned a kraken helm the smithy at the Twins had presented him with upon his arrival. A longsword hung from his belt, and a dirk was at his ankle. Another was hidden under his black doublet.

The skiff came closer and Victarion saw for the first time the seat of House Tully, Riverrun castle. In one swift movement, they all slipped into the water almost silently.

Underwater, Victarion kicked and felt himself pulling ahead of the Frey soldiers. Yes! His heart was pumping as he saw the gate of Riverrun above his head, raised just a hair like their accomplice had promised. He made for the surface as quietly as possible and sucked in air. Germond surfaced right next to him; it had to be said that Germond was an excellent swimmer.

The castle grounds were quiet and dark, and largely abandoned. "We were right to wait," Germond whispered. "Lord Tully took half his household with him to King's Landing. He may not even have guards on the Lady's doors."

"Don't be stupid, of course there will be guards," Victarion shot back.

Once the soldiers had landed in the courtyard, a man appeared from the shadows. Victarion heard one of the Frey soldiers greet him, but could not make out the name over the splashing tide of the riverbank. The man was tall, and older. Victarion recognized him from his welcome feast at the Twins, and the man was wearing an elegant doublet bearing the Frey sigil and colors. He focused his attention on Victarion.

"Thank you, ser, for your assistance tonight," he said.

"I'm no greenland knight," Victarion said indignantly.

The man smiled. "No, but if you succeed, surely my father will knight you, if that is your wish."

Victarion spat, and the man's smile faded. "My lord, there are too many guards at the lady's door to get in undetected, but there is a window to the privy chamber." He pointed to a tall, thin tower on the  southern end of the castle. "I am told a boy much smaller than you was once able to climb to Lady Lysa's bedchambers in the same tower. Surely you can manage the same."

Victarion's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. He turned to his soldiers. "Okay, I want four of you to take the side of the tower, the other four to stake out the front. Germond, you're with me." He turned swiftly and they shuffled through the darkness to the maiden tower.

It was as the man had said. Shallow grips and footholds were everywhere along the stone walls. Victarion and his companion had no trouble gaining the tower, up to the highest window that the Frey man had pointed him to. "Your Lady is in there. Once you give the signal, your men will attack at the foot of the tower, with you charging down the stairs. Lord Tully's guards won't know us until we're on them."

He reached the window and hefted himself over as quietly as possible, which didn't say much. He found himself in a girl's privy as Germond tripped over the same water basin coming over the windowsill. "Shhhhh," he bid him. He pulled the gag in one hand, to silence her, and the rope he wrapped around his shoulder. He then pulled his dirk from his boot and made way into the bedchamber.

The room was virtually pitch black, but for a single tallow candle barely lit. It's embers glowed faintly as Victarion approached the bed, the Lady Lyanna Stark sleeping peacefully before him. Beside her, a mass of pillows and furs stirred. Victarion stopped suddenly as a second woman, younger, sat up and looked him straight in the eye. Then she screamed.

"Get her! Get her!" Victarion hissed at Germond, who pulled his knife from his belt and leapt over the bed at Lysa Tully.

Germond and Lysa landed on the stone floor, and he pulled her up by her hair with his hand wrapped around her mouth. Her screams echoed against his palm until suddenly a gush of blood erupted between his fingers. She'd bit him, and Germond cursed before pulling his hand away. Lysa screamed again, louder, and suddenly Lyanna Stark had leapt from the bed with a short sword of her own in her hands, slashing at Victarion.

Shocked, Victarion tripped backward. She fights like men?! He parried a blow and kicked at her stomach, but Lyanna jumped away. She's still as weak as a woman, he assured himself, and charged her, dirk waving before him. He caught a flash of Germond slitting Lysa Tully's throat to make her shut up as he slashed down the entirety of his target's forearm.

Lyanna cried and dropped the sword, clutching her arm. "Please, don't kill me, take me instead-" she began as Victarion loosened the rope, then suddenly guard after guard banged through the bedchamber door.

Turning, Victarion swung his sword at the first, then second, but the men quickly overpowered him. He found himself face flat against the stone floor, and on the other side of the bed he saw Germond as well, but his empty eyes pronounced him dead immediately. A brave death, Victarion thought approvingly.

His own rope binding his wrists together, the household guard of Riverrun brought him down to the Lord's hall, where a gruff knight in black gave Victarion one of the most deadly looks he had ever seen. His cape was fastened by a gleaming black fish brooch. "My lord, this was the man what climbed up to the bedchamber. His friend died fighting us, but we got him alive if it please you."

"It pleases me indeed," the black knight answered, his eyes never leaving Victarion's face. "A kraken is a nice thing to capture alive."

A fat maester shuffled in from the door behind the dais. "My lord," he said gravely to Ser Brynden. For a moment Brynden Tully looked stricken. "Edmure?" he asked. "The boy was sleeping peacefully and his guards reported no activity. Ser Brynden nodded.

Brynden's glare upon Victarion's face only intensified after that. "You killed my niece. You stole into our home, broke our peace, and from what we can assess intended to steal away with Lady Stark as a captive."

"The lady is alive," the maester assured the room. "Though she bares wounds from the incident, which will remain with her forever as scars."

Victarion felt the guard on the right's grip loosen just an inch, and took his moment to strike. He elbowed the man in the ribs as sharply as he could, and undid the knot he had been unloosening slowly behind his back. In one swift movement he pulled the second dirk from his doublet and shot it at Ser Brynden Tully with all the skill he could muster.

His aim was not true. The blade skimmed past the man's wavy black hair and instead struck the trout engraving on the wooden dais. A flurry of fists befell him as the guards overpowered him again, and he found himself held by four men as Brynden walked slowly down below the salt. He came within inches of Victarion's face, and with a fury as Victarion had never felt, the Blackfish's fist met his jaw.

He awoke hours later, the morning sun shining through the bars of his cell, with iron chains binding his ankles and wrists in a dank chamber that surely would flood if the river ran over.

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Victarion

There was tension in the crisp morning air about the Crownlands. He awoke as he always did, with his wrists chained and his ankles tied tight to the stump of a tree. The men were already milling about, some finishing breakfast while others prepared for the day's ride. Victarion laid his head back down in time to see the boots of his keeper approaching.

Ser Desmond Grell had served House Tully his entire life, to hear him tell it. There is not a more loyal man to the trout, Victarion thought.

"Up, up," Ser Desmond said, followed by a hearty laugh. "Ah right, you can't. Keep forgetting." Ser Desmond knelt carefully and untied Victarion from the stump. Rising, two of his men-at-arms hefted Victarion up by his armpits and led him to his horse. The grey palfrey was a nasty animal, bucking and biting at every bump in the road, but being tied to his saddle there was little Victarion could do to stop it, much less dismount.

"Where are we today?" Victarion overheard Ser Desmond asking Ser Robert Ryger.

"We should arrive before sun down," the knight answered.

Victarion's heart skipped a beat and the palfrey snapped at his knuckles. Today, he thought.

They had been on the road a week or more, and while nobody would tell him what was going on, Victarion had surmised as much that he was being taken to the capital to stand some stupid trial. I won't be able to stand it, he thought to himself and smirked. I'll demand a trial by combat and kill whatever bastard they send against me.

Confident he could win, Victarion had said as much to Ser Desmon the first night on the road. The knight roared with laughter. "You think you can defeat Barristan the Bold? The Sword of the Morning? Begging my lord's pardon, I'll have to defy Lord Tully's orders and stick around to see which knight of the Kinsguard gets to bugger you with his longsword." After that Victarion had kept his plans to himself.

His confinement hadn't exactly prepared him for a battle anyway. For all the fish decorating the walls of Riverrun, he had seen scarce a cod in that river cell. The best he got most days was a heel of bread, occasionally accompanied by a bowl of brown. The night Lord Tully left to seize the Twins from Walder Frey, he'd been sent two bowls of brown. The next morning an army departed one way, and one-hundred and fifty men the other with Victarion as their prisoner. He could feel how sore and weak his muscles had become in that cell, going to sleep with saddle sores and an ache all over.

And now the journey was almost over, and he faced a new problem: fight or flight? Realistically, Victarion knew he'd only stand a small chance against a knight of the Kingsgaurd in a trial by battle. A trial by words, however...was not Victarion's forte. There are some words, he thought. Surely Lord Tyrell will want to know how deeply involved House Frey really was at Riverrun. He could choose flight, give up the secrets he'd held close as a prisoner, and appeal for mercy. That is weak, he thought. I am Ironborn, and words are the gold price. I must pay the iron price for my freedom.

The entire day was nothing but an endless debate in his mind over the two options. He hardly noticed the city walls until the blast from Ser Desmond's horn broke through his thoughts. The party trotted forward faster, approaching the city from the Kingsroad.

I'm here, Victarion thought. King's Landing. Time to win or die.

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Lyanna

Her room at the Twins was a modest one. "My Lady Royce stayed here with her husband," the handmaid had informed Lyanna sweetly on her first night after the battle. These smallfolk must be forced to memorize the Frey family tree, Lyanna thought to herself as the maid went on to explain that Ser Arwood Frey was the only son of Ser Hosteen Frey, Lord Walder's sixth son and his first by the late Amerei Crakehall, his third wife.

The room was not at all to Lyanna's taste, much unlike her room at Winterfell with the expansive view of the snowy castle courtyard. She had spent many hours on that balcony dreaming of a prince, long ago...

"Any water, my dear?" the crone asked.

"No," Lyanna said as sweetly as she could manage, and pulled her son close to her chest.

The maester of the Twins was uniquely practiced in the arts of labor, having performed the births of all of Lord Walder's children and kin. The pain was more than Lyanna had dreamed it could be, so much that she nearly passed out, but Maester Willamen had seen her through it well enough. In the end she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, with beautiful black hair and bright purple eyes.

"Aegon," she whispered into his ear as he nestled against her bosom.


The trees of the Isle of Faces surrounded them, as they clasped hands and she vowed to be his forevermore. The witnesses were the heart trees all around, with not a Child in sight.

"The rumors weren't true, then," Lyanna had said.

"Who can say," Prince Rhaegar replied. "Few ever dare to venture to the island. The potential for what one might discover...it has scared many brave men for centuries."

She kissed him passionately, as she had always been wont to do when he spoke so sadly. She remembered the first time she'd seen him, singing a mournful version of the Dance of Dragons at the great tourney at Harrenhall. He must have seen me crying, she thought when he named her the Queen of Love and Beauty at the end of the tournament.

All her hopes and plans had washed away with the gallant Prince's attention. She had been blind to his intentions, even on the Isle of Faces, when it became too late.

There in the clearing Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen had consummated their marriage, a marriage they knew none but the gods would ever believe or accept. Lyanna remembered that she fell asleep the happiest woman in the seven kingdoms.

The next morning, as they set out to sail across the God's Eye, a trio of rangers patrolled the shore for every mile they could see.

"There's no way to make land without them catching us," Rhaegar said angrily.

"What do you mean, catching us? I'm your wife, you're the future king."

"Do you really think anyone will believe that, Lyanna? Anyone at all? They're out there because they think I kidnapped you."

"But I'll tell them you didn't," she pleaded. "I promise."

The seeds of doubt began to grow as the sun passed across the sky, and Brynden Tully's scouts continued to patrol every corner of the shore of the God's Eye. Had he really loved her like he said when they ran off from Riverrun together? He needs a new wife, I knew that, but he chose me because he loves me, she told herself. It was common knowledge even in the North of Elia Martell's frailty back then, that she'd nearly died giving birth to Rhaenys and many doubted her survival of a second child.

But to think that Rhaegar had used her just to have an heir...Lyanna couldn't accept it, but couldn't shake the notion either. So when they landed at the hour of the wolf, the slim crescent moon barely lighting the ground, it was Lyanna who had snapped enough twigs on the ground to get the Tully's attention. Her theory was proven right when Rhaegar attacked the scouts on sight, and she held back as the Crown Prince died from the sword of a nameless peasant.


"You cannot name the boy Aegon," her brother said furiously.

"He is the son of a Targaryen, a boy always receives a name from the father's house," Lyanna answered.

Eddard paced the small bedchamber, barely able to look at her and the child. His violet eyes followed his uncle left and right as he crossed back and forth across the room.

"My sister," Eddard finally said, "give him a northern name. For the love you bear this boy, protect him from those who might use him. Please, it is what must be done." Ned finally looked down at his nephew's face, and Lyanna saw the love in his eyes.

After a long moment of silence, she reached for the goblet of chilled water and gulped it down. "I think..." she said, "I think that Brandon, well, that might be a good choice as well," she finished quietly.

The relief showed plain on Eddard's face, but she could tell he was touched by the name as well. "Brandon...yes, he looks like Brandon a little," Ned replied, smiling down at his nephew's face.

When Ned had left, Lyanna pulled back her dress to let Brandon feed. She stroked the crown of his head, then graced it with the lightest of kisses.

"My boy," she whispered. "My prince."

"Prince Brandon."

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Davos

Davos never had much need for gods. He sauntered past a dimly lit sept, voices rising with some hymn about the Mother or the Maiden or the Warrior. Few roamed the streets of Flea Bottom these days, especially after the fires. He had Flea Street to himself for half a mile after that sept, passing dark window after dark window with not a candle lit.

The city has gone rancid of late, Davos had observed. This was his home, but never in his life had he seen it so fearful or deadly. The fires across the city had struck terror in many hearts. Each day more peasants gathered in the squares, chanting for Stannis or Viserys or even now the baby Brandon, depending on the square you went to. And even more smallfolk had taken to spending their days gathering outside the Red Keep begging for food or coin or mercy.

Davos had no time for that. The smuggler’s trade was on the rise as of late, and he had just returned from an engagement in the Narrow Sea. Tomorrow morning he would be a hundred golden dragons richer. Unless I sleep through the morning, he thought to himself.

As he reached his apartment above the Dragon’s Breath Tavern he heard the scuff of fine leather boots a block away. Straining to see in the dark, a patrol of guards had passed him without so much as a glance. The wisp of a green cloak as the last soldier rounded the corner out of sight was all Davos had to see. Upstairs, he found his straw bed waiting. He barred the door and laid down to sleep.


That morning he woke with the sun, thank the gods, and rose quickly to meet his employer on the Street of Steel.

There was no trace of Green Cloaks on any street he walked, but he noted the increase of crowds gathering in Fishmonger square as he passed. Today they chanted for Brandon. Must have supplanted the Stannis supporters somehow, he thought. Perhaps he met the same end as his brother. One less highborn, at least.

In the mess hall below an inn he found his employer, a jubilant Summer Islander who always wore robes to match his eccentric personality.

“Ah, Davos, my boy.”

“How are you, Salladhor?”

“Well, very well. My men tell me you brought back the most precious cargo in five summers! Where is this prize, I ask you?”

Davos shifted uncomfortably. “I thought it best to keep it hidden, for now. It is safe.”

Salladhor leaned forward, and his black eyes narrowed. “The question is, is it real?”

Davos had always worried that his thoughts were being read, ever since an uncomfortable encounter with a red priestess in Volantis. He tried not to think of the very real dragon egg currently stowed away in his apartment, and said only, “Yes.” He could see the doubt in his friend’s eyes, but there was hunger there as well.

“How can you prove it?”

Davos thought for a moment. Finally he said, “you heard the stories about how the mad king killed his sister?” Salladhor nodded. Davos continued, “this…prize that I have found...I believe it was the same item he used in the ritual. There are scorch marks all over it, burned so deep even the waters of the Rush didn't wash them away.”

His friend’s eyes widened. “The mad king…” He began, “...he did this, yes. But it failed.”

“So?” Davos said. “A sane man like you can surely figure it out.”

Salladhor laughed. “Okay, okay, my friend. You will bring this to me tonight upstairs where I have a room. If this prize is real, you will go home to your wife five hundred dragons richer.”

“I want a hundred up front,” Davos said forcefully.

“Fine, fine,” Salladhor waved his hand and one of his captains produced a heavy bag from beneath the table. “But if you don't show up tonight, you're his problem then.” Salladhor gestured to his guard, a gnarly old pirate who Davos knew had a reputation for disemboweling those who failed to repay his employer.

Davos rose steady, the bag in his hand, and left the inn. As he passed by Fishmonger Square, the tangle of smallfolk had nearly doubled in size, and there were now Green Cloaks blocking the entrance of the Mud Gate.


That night, his prize and his gold locked and hidden away, Davos stepped out to the street for a warm bowl of brown from his favorite pot shop. The layer of grease floating on top was a nostalgic sight, when he could remember being a poor boy scavenging the streets of Flea Bottom and looking enviously at the knights and merchants and whores who could all afford a bowl of stew with grease on top. How far I've come, he thought tartly as he took another gulp full of aurochs and cabbage and carrots.

He was so engrossed in his dinner that he didn't even notice the shadowy knight approaching him until the man sat down in his booth and stares across at him.

“Can I help you?” Davos asked through a mouth full of peas and broth, some of which trickled down into his beard.

“My employer requires your services, Lord Seaworth.”

Davos laughed. “Piss off, I'm no lord. And Seaworth is just a name I made up. I've no noble family like you.” He returned to his bowl but was stopped from taking another mouthful when a heavy thud landed on the table. Davos recognized that sound.

By the looks of the hempen bag, it was double the size of the one Salladhor had given him that morning. Davos stared at it and set down his spoon. “What do you need?” He asked, much more politely than he'd been before, but he couldn't help but add, “and don't try flattering me again with ‘my lord’ and sh*t.”

The knight straightened. “Lord Davos Seaworth will be your title the next time you return to this city; if you accept this job and succeed.”

This time Davos said it through gritted teeth as he leaned forward. “What do you need?”

Two hours later he finally arrived home, and with the speed he had learned apprenticing on old Roro Uhoris on his Tyrosh smuggling ship Cobblecat, gathered up both bags of gold, the egg, and every piece of clothing he could find.

He paced quickly down the streets of the city, determined to reach his destination. He ducked past the inn where Salladhor Saan stayed, and with luck didn't see a single Green Cloak as he approached the docks.

Half a mile down the shore, his black smuggler ship was berthed on a jagged rock, unreachable for most sailors, and certainly so for the oafs in the Redwyne fleet. I suppose I'll have to captain her alone on this one, he thought as he untied the knotted ropes and prepared to set sail.

He glanced up at the sky: the hour of the wolf. Salladhor would be waiting for him. When he didn't appear, it would only be a matter of weeks before his bounty was known to every smuggler sailing the Narrow Sea. Pushing those thoughts from his mind, Davos Seaworth gripped the steering wheel and set sail into the pitch black waters of Blackwater Bay.