In the Lord of Winterfell’s bedchambers…
Ned Stark, Cat and Maester Luwin
The festivities had ended; every attendee had a full stomach and was escorted to their rooms to sleep for the night.
In one chamber, Eddard Stark still lay awake—contemplating King Robert’s offer to make him the next Hand of the King.
A blast of cold night air blew into the chamber.
Catelyn pulled the furs up to her chin.
Eddard breathed deeply, taking the cold into his lungs, staring into the distance before turning to face his wife.
“I’m a Northman,” he said quietly.
“I belong here with you, not down south in that rat’s nest they call a capital…”
Catelyn looked up at her husband, her face softening as she saw her husband’s feeling of emotional conflict.
“I won’t let him take you,” she proclaimed.
“The King takes what he wants.
That’s why he’s King.”
Catelyn smiled as she playfully poked Eddard’s cheek.
“I’ll say, ‘Listen, fat man, you are not taking my husband anywhere.
He belongs to me now.'”
Eddard chuckled at Catelyn’s sense of humor as she started to cuddle him.
“How did he get so fat?” he asked quietly in surprise, still having a hard time believing that his childhood friend Robert had gained so much weight.
“He only stops eating when it’s time for a drink,” Catelyn joked again, causing the two to start laughing once more.
Such a comforting moment was ruined when a sentry knocked at the door.
“It’s Maester Luwin, m’lord,” they called out.
“Send him in,” Eddard called out.
Eddard slowly got out of bed as he slipped on a heavy robe.
The door opened and Maester Luwin entered, waiting until the door was shut behind him before speaking.
“Pardon, m’lord, m’lady,” Luwin apologized for disturbing their rest.
“A rider in the night from your sister.”
Luwin drew a tightly rolled paper waxed in a blue moon-and-falcon seal from his loose sleeves and handed it to Catelyn.
She removed the seal and began to read, recognizing the symbol of the falcon.
“This was sent from the Eyrie,” Catelyn realized in astonishment.
“What’s she doing at the Eyrie?
She hasn’t been back there since her wedding.”
As she continued reading the content of the letter, Catelyn began to show a worried look on her face and looked up in alarm before throwing the message into the fire to burn it.
“What news?” Eddard asked.
“She’s fled the capital,” Catelyn warned him.
“She says Jon Arryn was murdered.
By the Lannisters.
She says the king is in danger.”
The accusation shocked Eddard.
“She’s freshly widowed, Cat,” Eddard tried to rationalize it away.
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
Catelyn shook her head.
“Lysa’s head would be on a spike right now if the wrong people found that letter.
Do you think she would risk her life, her son’s life, if she wasn’t certain her husband was murdered?”
Eddard looked at Maester Luwin, imploring the old man for his opinion.
“If this news is true, and the Lannisters conspire against the throne, who but you can protect the King?” he said.
“They murdered the last Hand,” Catelyn exclaimed.
“Now you want Ned to take the job?”
Luwin looked at her in sympathy but pointed out the facts.
“The King rode for a month to ask Lord Stark’s help.
He’s the only one he trusts,” he said before returning his attention to Eddard.
“You swore the King an oath, m’lord.”
Catelyn continued to remain adamant about the decision.
“He spent half his life fighting Robert’s wars.
He owes him nothing,” she argued.
“Ned, your father and brother rode south once on a King’s demand.
And they never came home again!”
“A different time,” Luwin countered.
“A different King.”
But Ned’s thoughts were belied by the resignation in his face.
She was right and he knew it.
He sat heavily in a chair beside the hearth.
“Does the Crown Prince know anything about this?” he asked.
Luwin appeared rather uncertain.
“It’s difficult to say, m’lord.
I believe if the Prince was made aware of the plot against his father, he would have acted on it sooner before the King’s decision to ride this far north.
It’s possible that the Prince knows nothing about the conspiracy surrounding the Lannisters’ involvement in Lord Arryn’s death.”
“Then that means Daveth’s also in danger…” Catelyn theorized, not liking this disturbing news.
Eddard said nothing, watching the flames devour the wood.
Outside a mansion in the Free City of Pentos…
Magister Illyrio Mopatis and his guests Daenerys and her brother Viserys stood outside in the gardens.
It was obvious that they were waiting for someone’s arrival.
Today was a big day, and Viserys was rather impatient.
“Where is he?” he asked Illyrio.
“The Dothraki are not known for their punctuality,” he answered.
On cue, a host of Dothraki bloodriders came riding up to the front entrance of the mansion.
In the front stood their chieftain, Khal Drogo, a large muscular man and legendary warrior who had never lost a battle in his life and expanded his mighty tribe into the largest khalasar Essos had ever seen.
Illyrio welcomed Drogo and his khalasar in their native language; he soon redirected his attention to Viserys and Daenerys.
“May I present my honored guests?
Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name.
The rightful King of the Andals and the First Men.
And his sister, Daenerys of the House Targaryen.”
Daenerys looked at the menacing Dothraki.
She was wearing the lilac gown Viserys gave her; her make-up had been artfully applied, but somehow she looked even younger than before.
She stood before him, seeming terribly nervous.
Viserys grinned as he leaned forward and whispered into Daenerys’s ear, never taking his eyes off Drogo.
“Do you see how long his hair is?
When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braid so the whole world can see their shame.
Khal Drogo has never been defeated.
He’s a savage, of course, but he’s one of the finest killers alive.
And you will be his queen.”
Daenerys swore she felt her heart stop in sheer terror as she now became fully aware of her brother’s intentions: Viserys planned to marry her off to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army he desired to retake the Seven Kingdoms.
“Come forward, my dear,” Illyrio beseeched as he held his hand out to her.
Daenerys quickly averted her eyes as soon as the fearsome Dothraki warriors began to stare at her.
She reluctantly did as she was told and slowly made her way down the steps, approaching Khal Drogo himself as Daenerys began to lift her head up to look into the Khal’s eyes – although there was fear on her face.
His eyes dark as onyx, Drogo examined Daenerys up and down, gazing at her with his face as cold and brutal as he continued to not say a word.
Drogo, immediately afterwards, led his horsemen on a charge away.
“Where’s he going?” Viserys protested, running down the steps as Drogo’s khalasar rode away.
Illyrio looked at the exiled Targaryen king.
“The ceremony is over.”
“But he didn’t say anything!
Did he like her?” he asked the Pentoshi magister.
“Trust me, Your Grace.
If he didn’t like her, we’d know.”
The scene soon shifted to all three of them on a garden balcony overlooking the Narrow Sea.
“It won’t be long now,” Illyrio said to Viserys.
“Soon you will cross the Narrow Sea and take back your father’s throne.
The people drink secret toasts to your health.
They cry out for their true King.”
Viserys, still impatient, rudely cut him off.
“When will they be married?” he asked in a rather demanding tone of voice, implying the arranged marriage between his sister and Khal Drogo.
“Soon,” Illyrio reassured him.
“The Dothraki never stay still for long.”
As they walked along the garden balcony, Viserys began to ask questions about the Dothraki people.
“Is it true they live with their horse?”
“I wouldn’t ask Khal Drogo.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” Viserys angrily snapped.
“I take you for a king.
Kings lack the caution of common men.
My apologies if I’ve given offense.”
“I know how to play a man like Drogo.
I give him a Queen and he gives me an army.”
Daenerys, on the other hand, stopped in her tracks.
“I don’t want to be his queen,” she pleaded.
This abruptly stopped Illyrio and Viserys, who turned to look at her.
“Please, please, I want to go home.”
Viserys maintained a mask of politeness and kept his voice low, but there was fury behind his eyes.
“So do I.
I want us both to go home.
But they took it from us.
So tell me, sweet sister, how do we go home?” he asked as he grabbed her arm, his fingernail digging deep into her.
“I… I don’t know,” Daenerys answered as tears began to form in her eyes.
“We go home with an army,” Viserys replied.
“With Khal Drogo’s army.
I would let his whole tribe fuck you.
All 40,000 men and their horses, too, if that’s what it took.”
Daenerys sniffled and wiped away the unfallen tears.
Viserys gave his sister a brotherly kiss on the forehead and walked away with Magister Illyrio.
Daenerys simply followed behind them.
At a Dothraki encampment…
Khal Drogo and Daenerys
Outside the city walls of Pentos, hordes of Dothraki warriors ― along with their women, children, and slaves ― had gathered to celebrate their Khal’s wedding day.
It was a wild celebration, consisting of fighting and fornication.
An earthen ramp had been raised in the middle of a vast grass field.
Daenerys sat beside Khal Drogo.
Beautiful as she was in her wedding silks, she looked as scared at everything around her as a trapped animal.
Drogo did not seem to notice her.
He shouted commands and jested in his own tongue to his bloodriders, who sat below him on the second-highest level of the ramp.
Also seated on that level were Magister Illyrio and Viserys, who looked splendid in a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon insignia on his chest.
They were in the midst of an urgent conversation, keeping their voices as low as possible.
“When do I meet with the Khal?” Viserys asked.
“We need to begin planning the invasion.”
“If Khal Drogo has promised you a crown, you shall have it,” Illyrio whispered.
“When?”
“When their omens favor war.”
Viserys scoffed.
“I piss on Dothraki omens.
I’ve waited seventeen years to get my throne back.”
Daenerys turned to see what he was watching: Dothraki drummers pounded on their horseskin drums as a dozen young Dothraki women began dancing for their Khal.
The Dothraki were not a repressed people.
The dance was overtly sexual, so overt that a warrior soon stepped into the circle, grabbed a dancer by the arm, pushed her to the ground and took her right there in front of the cheering crowd.
Khal Drogo grinned and nodded.
Evidently this was appropriate wedding behavior.
Daenerys watched with horror.
Soon a second warrior had grabbed a dancer, and then a third.
The trouble began when two warriors tried to lay claim to the same woman.
Both men drew their scimitars and began swinging at each other.
The combat was fast, brutal and efficient, the steel blades blurring in the sunlight.
Finally one man missed a parry.
An instant later his entrails spilled onto the dust and he fell.
The victor seized a girl, not even the original girl they were fighting over, and the crowd roared in approval.
Daenerys struggled to keep from vomiting.
The platter of blood sausages in front of her did not help.
Illyrio noticed Viserys, who looked confused as to what was going on.
“A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair,” he explained to Viserys, who grinned with excitement.
As gifts continued to be placed down at Khal Drogo’s feet, a knight in Westerosi garb appeared.
Drogo greeted him in his native tongue, who in turn returned the greeting.
He came bearing books and gave them to Daenerys.
“A small gift for the new Khaleesi.
Songs and histories from the Seven Kingdoms,” he said.
Daenerys kindly accepted the books.
“Thank you, ser,” she smiled and spoke for the first time at her own wedding.
She took a moment to look at the man, studying his features.
“Are you… from my country?” she asked curiously.
The man nodded yes.
“Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island,” he introduced himself.
Looking roughly past the age of 40 and slightly balding, he remained strong and fit.
“I served your father for many years.
Gods be good, I hope to always serve the rightful King.”
Viserys looked at Jorah and gave a slight nod, pleased by the obeisance.
Illyrio snapped his fingers.
Four slaves hurried forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze.
Illyrio bowed low and gestured for Daenerys to open the chest.
As Daenerys opened the chest, inside rested a pile of fine velvets and damasks, as well as three large eggs: one green, one cream, and one black.
She took one into her hands.
The egg shimmered like polished metal, the surface of the shell covered with tiny scales.
“Dragons’ eggs,” Illyrio explained.
“From the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai.
The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful.”
“Thank you, Magister,” Daenerys nodded.
Viserys, standing with Illyrio, rolled his eyes.
Khal Drogo stood and raised one hand, and immediately the Dothraki horde went silent.
The only noise was the bleating of a lost sheep.
Drogo looked at Daenerys.
There was no sign of mercy in his face.
She realized that everyone at the wedding was watching her.
Finally she stood and walked down the ramp into the center of the field towards a white mare with Khal Drogo alongside her.
Daenerys stood behind her new husband, encircled by her new tribe, looking very small and pale in comparison to Drogo.
Daenerys tried to hide her anxiety.
The Dothraki looked back at her.
To her, they were an exotic people, but to them she was a foreigner.
They had never seen a girl with silver hair and violet eyes before.
Everyone waited to see how Daenerys would react.
Hesitantly, Daenerys reached out to stroke the horse’s neck, running her fingers through its mane.
“She’s beautiful,” she murmured before turning to Jorah.
“Ser Jorah, I don’t know how to say ‘thank you’ in Dothraki.”
Jorah shook his head slightly.
“There is no word for ‘thank you’ in Dothraki.”
Drogo said nothing as he stepped forward, putting his hands on Daenerys’s waist and lifting her as easily as if she were a small child and placed her on her horse.
The Dothraki stared at their new Khaleesi.
Viserys approached Daenerys.
He looked very pleased as he gripped his sister’s leg, digging his fingers into her thigh as Daenerys flinched.
“Make him happy,” he smirked triumphantly.
Khal Drogo trotted off on his stallion and Dany followed behind, looking back at Viserys and Illyrio and Ser Jorah.
The exhilaration that brightened her face a minute before was gone.
The fear was back.
Dusk had now fallen upon the meadow.
Near a stream, Drogo stopped at a grassy spot beside a gently-flowing stream.
He swung off his horse and lifted Daenerys off hers.
She stood there, helpless and trembling in her wedding silks, while Drogo secured the horses to a nearby tree.
When he returned, Daenerys started to cry.
Drogo stared at her, towering over Daenerys, his face strangely empty of expression.
He rubbed away her tears with a calloused thumb.
“No,” Khal Drogo told her, not speaking his native language for the first time.
Daenerys looked at her new husband.
“Do you know the Common Tongue?” she asked.
“No,” he simply answered.
“Is ‘no’ the only word that you know?” Daenerys didn’t understand but somehow saw there was warmth in his tone, a tenderness she did not expect.
“No,” he said again before taking off Daenerys’s gown.
She winced slightly, trying to cover her breasts.
Daenerys averted her eyes, but her arms were pulled apart by Khal Drogo—gently, but firmly.
“No,” he said as he shook his head.
Exposed, Daenerys shivered in the evening wind as Drogo bent her down.
He ran his hand gently down her leg.
He stroked her face, tracing the curves of her ears, running a finger over her lips.
He turned her around, kissing her from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.
He pulled her down into his lap.
Daenerys was flushed and breathless.
He cupped her face in his huge hands and she looked into his eyes.
“No?” Drogo asked.
Daenerys hesitated but simply shook her head.
“Yes,” she said as she took his hand and moved it between her thighs.
At the Winterfell courtyard…
Tyrion Lannister woke up outside, seated next to Sandor Clegane.
It was obvious that the dwarf had a serious bad hangover and his head was throbbing, moving his body very, very slowly.
“Rough night, Imp?” The Hound implored.
“If I get through this without squirting from one end or the other, it will be a miracle,” Tyrion groaned as he held his head to keep it still.
Sandor looked at him.
“I didn’t pick you for a hunter.”
“The greatest in the land,” Tyrion joked.
“My spear never misses.”
“It’s not hunting if you pay for it,” Sandor retorted.
A few yards deeper into the courtyard, Eddard mounted his horse as his ward Theon handed him a pair of leather gloves.
Strapped in a leather-and-steel vambrace to his forearm, Eddard seemed preoccupied and careworn as King Robert stepped up towards him and gave him a friendly greeting.
“You as good with a spear as you used to be?” Robert asked.
Eddard smiled.
“No.
But I’m still better than you.”
Robert laughed.
“I know what I’m putting you through.
Thank you for saying yes,” he said before softening his tone, almost feeling sorry he was putting a huge burden on his friend without considering his feelings.
“I only ask you because I need you,” he reassured Eddard.
“You’re a loyal friend.
You hear me?
A loyal friend.
The last one I’ve got.”
“I hope I’ll serve you well.”
“You will.
And I’ll make sure you don’t look so fucking grim all the time!” The King laughed again and snapped his fingers.
“Come on, boys, let’s go kill some boar!”
As the King’s party rode off to go hunting, Eddard noticed Bran standing at the other end of the courtyard and nodded goodbye.
As his wolf pup Summer began sniffing at his feet, Bran wanted to go hunting with his father very badly but was reminded that he was too young.
About fifty yards to his right, he saw Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel—a stout man with thick white sideburns tied under his chin—observing a training exercise between Robb Stark and Prince Daveth Baratheon.
The young men, armed with sparring swords, were matching each other blow for blow with neither of them landing a decisive hit on the other.
A dozen spectators called out encouragements, the loudest among them being Arya Stark and Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen Baratheon, who clapped and cheered for their respective brothers.
Theon watched with wry contempt; Joffrey, on the other hand, merely stood at one side of the corner folding his arms, glaring at his older brother—envious of Daveth’s prowess.
As the swords clashed, Robb and Daveth held their ground.
Without warning, Daveth fluidly kicked Robb’s leg out from under him and circled around him, avoiding Robb’s thrust before swiftly disarming him.
The spectators grew silent as Ser Rodrik ended it.
Daveth helped Robb to his feet.
“Well fought, my friend,” Daveth complimented.
“One more round?”
Robb grinned with confidence, not ready to concede defeat yet.
“Gladly.”
Bran sighed as his brother and the Crown Prince began their second bout, his mood sinking.
But he heard Summer growling at his feet.
He looked down at his wolf pup, jerking his head back and forth, with Bran’s pant leg clamped between his jaws.
Finally, Bran smiled.
“Come on, you,” he motioned to Summer.
As he ran off, his wolf bounded after him.
At one of Winterfell’s abandoned towers…
With his wolf at his heels, Bran ran toward the Broken Tower, the oldest part of the castle.
He reached the squat round tower and looked up.
The tower had been deserted for years; its crown had begun to crumble, and moss grew between the stones.
High above, it was festooned with gargoyles leaning blindly over empty space.
Bran turned to the pup.
“Lie down.
Now stay.”
The wolf pup did as he was told.
Bran scratched him behind the ears, then found a handhold in the keep’s wall and began to climb, moving from stone to stone quickly and instinctively.
When Bran was about ten feet up, his wolf rose to his feet and began to howl.
Bran looked down.
His wolf fell silent.
There was something eerily imploring in the way the animal looked up at him through slitted yellow eyes.
He didn’t want Bran to keep climbing.
Bran started climbing again.
His wolf pup started howling again.
“Quiet!
Sit!
Stay!” Bran shouted down sternly.
Summer continued to howl, until Bran was far, far above him.
Then he dropped back down onto his stomach and whined.
Bran scrambled up the rough-cut stones of the ancient tower, climbing with no fear and without hesitation.
When he got high enough he began swinging from gargoyle to gargoyle.
He knew where to find every handhold and foothold.
He was near the very top when a couple moaned from inside the tower, startling him and nearly causing him to lose his grip.
Clinging to a gargoyle, Bran looked down past his dangling feet.
He reached for the next gargoyle over, looking inside to investigate.
From his vantage, Bran looked inside and was shocked at what he saw.
Cersei and Jaime Lannister
A fur cloak had been laid on the stone floor of the unlit chamber, laid a naked Queen Cersei Lannister having sex with her twin brother Jaime.
Gripping Cersei’s hips, Jaime continued to pound away, thrusting deep into her – causing her to moan loudly as skin slapped against skin.
Cersei’s voice was low and she pushed back; the harder Jaime thrust, the more she moaned.
Startled, Bran had no idea what to make of all this and his arm accidentally brushed against the stone edge – making a brief noise.
Cersei’s loss in pure ecstasy was broken when she heard it.
As she turned and looked up, Cersei saw Bran staring at the couple.
“Stop!
STOP!” Cersei screamed.
Everything happened at once.
Jaime now saw Bran as well, and Cersei pushed herself away – still shouting and pointing at the boy as she covered herself up.
Panicking, Bran tried to get away by reaching for a gargoyle’s head.
His hands scraped uselessly against the smooth stone and his legs slipped, quickly grabbing the edge of the window ledge.
“He saw us!” Cersei continued to scream in terror.
Jaime ran and grabbed Bran at the window.
“Are you completely mad?” he glared at the boy.
Cersei still pointed at Bran.
“He saw us!”
“It’s all right.
It’s all right,” Jaime said to his sister.
“He saw us!” Cersei shouted.
Annoyed, Jaime turned to Cersei.
“I heard you the first time,” he said before returning his attention towards Bran.
“Quite the little climber, aren’t you?
How old are you, boy?”
“Ten,” Bran said, terrified.
“Ten,” Jaime repeated his answer.
Bran trembled.
“I promise I won’t tell anyone, my lord!
I swear it by the Old Gods and the new!
I won’t tell anyone!” he desperately pleaded, hoping the infamous Kingslayer would find it in his heart to show mercy and spare his life.
Jaime looked at Cersei, who in turn gazed back at her brother imploring him to do something.
“The things I do for love,” Jaime sighed in resignation.
Without hesitation, Jaime immediately shoved Bran out the window.
The boy fell backward out the window, screaming on the way down.
*THUD!*
The courtyard rushed up to meet him.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
Crows circled the broken tower.
The events that took place at the tower would only serve as a spark that would re-open old wounds, rivalry and tensions to flare up, and possibly spiral the country into chaos.
One month later…
The denizens of Winterfell have been solemnly quiet.
When news reached the Stark household’s ears of Bran’s accident, Catelyn immediately called for Maester Luwin’s assistance; Robb ordered a raven be sent to his father informing him of what had happened.
Bran remains comatose, his mother sitting by his side.
Servants were running around as the direwolves Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer and Shaggydog howled mournfully.
Strolling through the courtyard, Daveth Baratheon was making his way towards the main hall to check on the boy himself.
Now standing outside the door, the Crown Prince knocked on the door.
Luwin opens the door.
“My Prince,” he bows.
“Maester Luwin,” Daveth simply acknowledges.
“M’lady,” he says quietly to Catelyn.
Catelyn took a brief glance at Daveth before returning her gaze to the unconscious Bran, weaving a prayer web detailing the religious Faith of the Seven symbol.
Daveth slowly approaches the bed, looking over Bran as the boy’s chest slowly rises and falls.
‘Such a terrible fate to befall a child his age…’ he thought.
“How fares the boy?” he asks Luwin, looking over his shoulder at the old maester.
“The fall appears to have badly damaged Lord Brandon’s spine,” Luwin begins.
“I fear that he might never walk again.”
Catelyn sniffles, wiping away a tear.
Daveth remains rather stoic about the situation.
“But the boy will live?”
“I believe so, m’lord,” Luwin nods, “although it’s hard to say exactly when he will wake.”
Daveth nods, redirecting his eyes towards Catelyn.
“I heard what happened to your son, m’lady.
Know that if there is anything you or your family needs from me, just say the word and I’ll be at your service.”
He gently places his hand on Catelyn’s shoulder, giving a small squeeze.
“Have faith, Cat,” he said reassuringly.
“Your son is a strong lad.
He’ll pull through.
I know it.”
Catelyn finally looks up at Daveth, tapping his hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you.
I’m grateful,” she replies.
Daveth nods and stands.
“I won’t take up more of your time, m’lady.
I’ll leave you to your son,” he says and gives a courteous bow as he exits the room.
As he begins to make his way down the stairs, Daveth felt a chill crawl up and down his spine.
Normally he’d shake it off and blame it on the Northern cold, but something in his gut just wouldn’t leave him alone.
‘This feeling hasn’t ceased for quite a while now,’ Daveth ponders.
‘Whatever this is, I don’t like it…’
Daveth shook his head; he’ll have time to worry about that once he’s had some food in his stomach.
No doubt that most of his family is already waiting for him in the great hall getting ready for breakfast before their departure for the ride south.
At one of the kennels, Tyrion Lannister wakes up in a stall – groggily noticing a pack of dogs surrounding him.
How drunk was he last night?
He rubs his eyes, noticing his nephew Prince Joffrey Baratheon and Sandor Clegane standing over him.
“Better-looking bitches than you’re used to, uncle,” Joffrey quips.
“My mother’s been looking for you.
We ride for King’s Landing today.”
Tyrion slowly staggers up.
“Before you go, you will call on Lord and Lady Stark and offer your sympathies.”
“What good will my sympathies do them?” the golden-haired Prince frowns.
“None,” Tyrion answers.
“But it is expected of you, just as it was expected of your brother.
He’s already noticed your absence.”
“The boy means nothing to me.
Sometimes I don’t know why my ‘proud brother’ even wastes his time with northerners.
And I can’t stand the wailing of women―”
*SLAP!*
Joffrey felt a sharp sting on his cheek, immediately bringing his palm up.
Tyrion had just slapped him hard!
“One word and I’ll hit you again,” Tyrion warns his nephew.
“I’m telling mother!”
*SLAP!*
Not heeding his uncle’s words, Joffrey was slapped again – whimpering as he holds his other cheek.
“Go!
Tell her,” Tyrion says.
“But first you will go to Lord and Lady Stark, and you will fall on your knees in front of them and tell them how very sorry you are, that you are at their service, and that all your prayers are with them.
Do you understand?”
“You can’t―”
*SLAP!*
“Do you understand?” Tyrion repeats.
Joffrey angrily storms off, not saying another word.
Sandor had watched the event take place, looking down at the dwarf.
“The Prince will remember that, little lord,” he warns.
“I hope so.
I know Daveth would’ve probably done the same,” Tyrion shrugs.
“And if he forgets, be a good dog and remind him,” he stretches and makes his way to the main hall.
“Ah!” he yawns loudly.
“Time for breakfast.”
At the Interior Great Hall of Winterfell…
Servants are seen pacing back and forth, prepping food for the royal family.
Tyrion already makes his way in as most look down at him.
“Bread.
And two of those little fish,” he requests.
“And a mug of dark beer to wash it down.
And bacon, burnt black.”
Tyrion approaches the table, where Cersei, Jaime, Daveth, Myrcella and Tommen are already eating.
Daveth was sitting between Jaime and Tommen.
Upon arriving, Tyrion sits between Daveth and Jaime, moments after Daveth moves over to make room for his uncle.
“Little brother,” Jaime warmly greets.
“Beloved siblings,” Tyrion greets before looking at Daveth, Tommen and Myrcella.
“And how are my favorite nephews and niece this morning?” he smiles warmly at them.
“Good morning, Uncle Tyrion!” both Myrcella and Tommen greet happily.
“Uncle Tyrion,” Daveth acknowledges.
Daveth looks down at Tyrion and nods his head, though Tyrion could tell immediately that his oldest nephew was pleased to see him as well.
He was always good at reading people, and is one of the few people to figure Daveth out no matter the facial expression or posture.
“Is Bran going to die?” Myrcella spoke up sweetly.
Daveth looked at his younger sister, pleased at her mannerisms and his youngest brother Tommen’s as well, as both possessed certain behaviors that Joffrey lacked.
But at the same time, the same chill he felt earlier returned as Daveth and Tyrion looked at each other.
Tyrion shook his head.
“Apparently not,” he replied.
Both Tommen and Myrcella smiled, delighted at hearing the news.
Queen Cersei, on the other hand, looked slightly concerned.
“What do you mean?” Cersei implores.
“I spoke with the maester earlier this morning, mother,” Daveth explains.
“He says the boy may live, though it’s hard to say exactly when he’ll wake up.”
Both Cersei and Jaime exchanged an odd, brief look.
But it didn’t take long for Daveth to spot it before turning away his gaze to avoid giving himself away.
“Will he…?” Tommen asks.
“I’m afraid he will never walk again, Tommen,” Daveth interrupts.
Tommen looks down from his eldest brother after hearing the news, continuing to eat his food quietly.
“It’s no mercy, letting a child linger in such pain,” Cersei implored.
Daveth put his fork down and looked up at Cersei.
“Was I any different from when I was struck with the fever, mother?” he implores.
Cersei’s heart froze, and her cold face softened into a rather hurt expression – a rare moment Cersei experienced with her firstborn.
She remembered all too well the Greywater Fever epidemic of 285 AC that almost claimed Daveth’s life during his childhood…
ooOoo
Flashback – Red Keep, King’s Landing (13 years ago)
“Mama…” four-year-old Daveth moaned weakly, his breathing labored.
The boy’s face was pale as a ghost and was sweating rather profusely.
As he lay in bed, the Crown Prince’s eyes were closed and he struggled to breathe.
Beside him stood his mother Queen Cersei Lannister, gently holding her son’s hand in hers.
He’d been sick for several days and his condition was getting worse.
Cersei feared she would lose her first child before his life even began.
“Such a little thing…” Cersei looked down at her ill-stricken boy.
“Is there nothing you can do for him?” she pleaded with Grand Maester Pycelle.
“I’m doing everything I possibly can, Your Grace,” the old man attempted to reassure Cersei, hunching over Daveth.
“Greywater Fever isn’t generally lethal, b-but if the Prince isn’t given enough fluids then I f-fear that he… will not survive.
This disease is commonly found in the Neck, but…”
“I don’t care where it comes from!” Cersei snaps, no longer having any patience at all.
“Just cure him!” She redirects her attention and changes the wet cloth placed on his forehead.
Cersei checks Daveth’s temperature, placing her palm onto his cheeks.
He was burning up, and the Queen tried everything she could possibly think of to cool her son down.
She reached across the counter to grab another glass of water, and held it to Daveth’s lips.
“Drink, sweetling,” Cersei spoke softly.
“It’ll make you feel better.”
Struggling to open his eyes, Daveth slowly opened his mouth and felt the cool water slide down his throat.
He coughed a bit and clutched his sides in agony, which in his condition was not a good sign.
Disease took many children, rich and poor; it did not discriminate.
If there was anything Cersei Lannister hated in the world, she hated feeling so helpless at not being able to do more for her son.
She prayed every day that the Gods would show her mercy, even if just once.
They didn’t heed her prayers when her mother Joanna Lannister died, so Cersei pleaded with the Gods to spare her child’s life.
“If I may, my Queen,” a mysterious female voice called out to her.
Cersei turned around to see a woman wearing red approach her.
Her accent was not of Westeros.
The woman graciously, yet slowly, extended her hand to make an offer.
“Your healer only knows what he was told,” she states, “but there is another way.”
Cersei’s head immediately shot up.
“Who are you to just barge in here unannounced?!”
The woman smiled.
“My apologies, Your Grace.
But I’ve come offering a solution, one that could possibly save your son’s life.”
Cersei fell silent, looking back at Daveth… his breathing becoming shallower.
“Speak then,” she demands.
“I know a certain magic, one that only exists across the Narrow Sea.
One that is vastly superior to Westeros’ approach to medicine.
If it is successful, your son… will live.”
“And what is it that you want in return?” Cersei narrows her eyes in suspicion.
The woman shakes her head.
“It is not wealth or acknowledgment I seek.
My beliefs do not allow such things.
I only wish to help this boy.
Nothing more.”
Cersei stood up.
“Fine, then.
But keep me informed of my son’s health,” she demands.
The woman nods and approaches the bed, changing Daveth’s wet cloth as she gets to work.
Cersei arranges for her twin brother Jaime to stand guard outside the door, to which he nods in sympathy.
Before Cersei could even step outside, a tiny voice reaches her ears.
“Don’t go, Mama… Please…”
Cersei turns and sees Daveth, his little arms slowly reaching out to her as he goes limp again.
She struggled not to cry as she walked out of the room, not wanting to show weakness.
Many days later, Cersei was overjoyed when she saw Daveth’s condition rapidly improving.
The gods of the Seven seemed to have answered her prayers, and within moments the little Prince was back on his feet.
Cersei lovingly embraced her son, tears finally falling down her cheeks.
She quietly thanked the Mother for returning her son to her.
End of flashback…
ooOoo
“No,” Cersei finally answers.
Daveth looks into his mother’s eyes, and nods in approval.
“All the rest of us can do is pray,” Tyrion interrupts.
“The charms of the North seem entirely lost on you.”
Cersei looks at her brother, irritated by his plans to accompany Benjen Stark and Jon Snow to the Wall.
“I still can’t believe you’re going.
It’s ridiculous, even for you.”
“Where’s your sense of wonder?” Tyrion exclaims.
“The greatest structure ever built, the intrepid men of the Night’s Watch…” he slowly turns towards Tommen, who giggles at his uncle’s joking tone, “the wintry abode of the White Walkers.”
“Tell me you’re not thinking of taking the black,” Jaime asks.
“And go celibate?” he reacts surprised, giving Jaime an ‘are you stupid?’ look on his face.
“The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock.
No, I think I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world!”
Jaime laughs in amusement, Myrcella and Tommen giggle, and Daveth merely rolls his eyes.
Cersei, however, was not pleased by Tyrion’s vulgar words.
“The children don’t need to hear your filth,” she glares.
Tyrion grins at Myrcella, who grins back.
“Come, children,” Cersei calls out as she leaves the table.
Daveth, Myrcella and Tommen finish their breakfast and accompany their mother into the courtyard.
This leaves Jaime alone with Tyrion.
“Even if the boy lives,” Jaime begins, “he’ll be a cripple, a grotesque.
Give me a good clean death any day.”
Tyrion shakes his head in disapproval.
“Speaking for the grotesques, I’d have to disagree.
Death is so final, whereas life… life is full of possibilities.
I hope the boy does wake.
I’d be very interested to hear what he has to say.”
“My dear brother,” Jaime says quietly, “there are times you make me wonder whose side you’re on.”
“My dear brother,” Tyrion feigns hurt, “you wound me.
You know how much I love my family.”
A servant brings Tyrion a mug of beer while he keeps eating with Jaime.
In Bran’s room…
Bran remains in bed, unconscious.
Catelyn remains by her son’s bedside, still working on a prayer wreath.
It is evident that she looks tired and her hair appears to be slightly unkempt.
Queen Cersei suddenly enters.
Catelyn looks up when she hears Cersei enter, and hastily gets up to bow.
“Please,” Cersei dismisses.
“If I knew you were coming, I would have dressed more appropriately, Your Grace,” Catelyn says.
“This is your home.
I’m your guest.”
Cersei shifts her gaze to Bran.
“Handsome one, isn’t he?” she says, remembering how Daveth looked at Bran’s age.
“I almost lost my first boy.
He was a fighter too… fought every day to beat the fever that almost took him.”
After a brief pause, Cersei looks away as old memories come back.
“Forgive me.
It’s the last thing you need to hear right now.”
Catelyn, meanwhile, looks surprised.
Daveth almost died?
“I never knew…”
“It was years ago,” Cersei says.
“Robert was rather somber.
Other times he was crazed, beat his hands bloody on the wall.
All the things men do to show you how much they care…” Tears start to well in Cersei’s eyes.
“Daveth looks just like him.
A Baratheon’s strength, a Lannister’s cunning.
Such a little thing… When I thought Daveth wasn’t going to live, Robert held me.
In my hysterics I screamed and battled, but he held me.
My little boy…” She then allowed herself a small smile.
“Then a miracle happened.
My son was back to his old self.
I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she return your child to you as she did for me.”
“I am grateful…” Catelyn thanks.
“Perhaps she’ll listen again,” Cersei remarks as she makes her way out into the courtyard.
Although a part of her still remains uncertain as to what might happen when Bran wakes up.
How will it affect her plans?
Or her son Daveth?
Not long after Queen Cersei leaves to return with her family to King’s Landing, Jon Snow enters the room.
“I came to say goodbye to Bran,” he says.
“You’ve said it,” Catelyn curtly replies, not bothering to look at Jon.
He lowers his head as he kneels before Bran’s bedside.
“I wish I could be here when you wake up,” Jon says to his unconscious younger half-brother.
“I’m going north with Uncle Benjen.
I’m taking the black.
I know we always talked about seeing the Wall together, but you’ll be able to come visit me at Castle Black when you’re better.
I’ll know my way around by then.
I’ll be a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.
We can go out walking beyond the Wall, if you’re not afraid.”
Jon leans to kiss Bran’s forehead, praying that he will wake soon.
Catelyn stares with intense heat at Jon; she is now crying and looks at him hatefully as Eddard enters the room.
“I want you to leave,” Catelyn tersely orders Jon.
Jon Snow looks between his father and Catelyn with a mournful look on his face, and leaves.
Eddard closes the door behind him and goes over to sit next to Catelyn.
Catelyn’s tears fall, and her voice breaks.
“17 years ago you rode off with Robert Baratheon.
You came back a year later with another woman’s son.
And now you’re leaving again…”
“I have no choice,” Eddard tries to explain, but Catelyn refuses to accept it.
“That’s what men always say when honor calls.
That’s what you tell your families, tell yourselves,” she chastises her husband.
“You do have a choice.
And you’ve made it.”
“Cat…”
“I can’t do it, Ned.
I really can’t.”
“You can.
You must.”
No more words are said as Eddard Stark exits the room, with Catelyn looking after him as she continues crying.
It is now considered official: Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell had accepted King Robert Baratheon’s offer to be the next Hand of the King, and the proposal to marry his daughter Sansa Stark to Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon.
He will take half of the Stark family to King’s Landing while the other half remains in Winterfell.
No matter how many times Catelyn urged her husband not to go, she felt let down as Eddard was now leaving for a third time.
This time she isn’t even sure if Ned will even come back at all.
After bidding farewell to his half-brother, Robb Stark goes to the main gate to see off Daveth as the royal family is scheduled to return to the capital with his father and his household guard in tow.
“So, this is it.”
Daveth nods.
“It would appear so,” he says as he extends his hand.
“Perhaps someday, once things quiet down, we’ll meet again.”
Robb gave a curt nod and shook the young royal’s hand.
“I meant what I said earlier, Daveth.
Be good to my sister, you hear?”
“You have my word.”
With that Daveth mounted his horse and joined the carriage, riding off to rendezvous with the others.
The ride down the Kingsroad was uneventful.
A new journey was now laid before him, and many challenges are on the horizon…