The Icefyre Conquest 33

Silence. That was the only thing left on the deck of the royal ship as Robert turned around and stormed off to his cabin, yelling for his sq

Silence.

That was the only thing left on the deck of the royal ship as Robert turned around and stormed off to his cabin, yelling for his squire to bring him wine as he threw his hammer toward Barristan Selmy.

“Well, Lord Hand, if you change any of the plans, do communicate them through the pages,” Tywin spoke up after a few moments, giving him an imperceptible look, the Lannister Lord’s eyes staring at the Hand’s pin in his hands emotionlessly before nodding at him and turning on his heels, making way towards the imposing Lannister warship.

In a few moments, everyone around them moved away or to their own cabins, save for a stupefied Ned, and his foster father. Jon Arryn was still rooted in his spot, staring at the place where Robert had stood like he had seen a ghost, and to be honest, he couldn’t fault the man for that. Of all the things Robert could and would have done, this seemed like the furthest thing from his wildest thoughts.

He knew his friend was impulsive and prone to bouts of ‘the Fury’ as it was called…but still. Deposing his own foster father, the hand that had guided him since his early days into the great warrior king he had become, all because Jon told him to be financially responsible with the realm and its money. “Jon,” he muttered, looking down at the Pin Robert had literally and metaphorically thrust upon him, before raising his eyes towards the still silent Arryn, “We—I will talk to him. You know how he is, always shouting and getting angry—It is the wine and exhaustion talki-”

“Enough.”

His mouth shut instantly, and suddenly, Ned was back in the Vale of Arryn, under the frigid and towering spires of the Eyrie as a ward to Jon Arryn, getting scolded for being in a whorehouse with Robert—even though he had not partaken. In front of him stood the tall and imposing Jon Arryn, the Lord of Vale still carrying himself with a warrior’s grace, his lithe build not hiding the power in his gait as he scolded them for impropriety.

He blinked once, and the powerful Lord of Vale was replaced by the old man before him, the muscles and width of his shoulders long gone and replaced by old age. Yet, the pride, the sternness, and the power of those days seemed to have returned to the man, the drooped shoulders and lowered eyes he had seen throughout the North replaced by nothing but silent anger. “I have had enough,” he repeated, his eyes sweeping past Ned towards the silent Kingsguards, “Decades. I gave Robert decades of my life, and loved him as my own son. Rebelled against Aerys Targaryen, sacrificed my bannermen for him, and left my home to support his reign. I swallowed my pride, my own desires to see his rule prosper and stabilize as I tried to curtail the worst of his decisions…for this day?”

“Jo-”

“No,” he raised a hand, stopping his half-formed words before they could even leave his throat as he took a deep breath, clenching his eyes shut, “The king has spoken, and as I have done for the last seventeen years, I shall carry out his will dutifully. You are the Hand now Ned…once the campaign is over, I shall meet with you to handover the office properly, and tell you about the recent ongoings in the Capital and the Realm. After that, I shall take Lysa and Robert and return to Vale. Good day to you.”

“This is madness, Robert!” Those were his first words as he entered Robert’s cabin, finding his frie-nay, the king drinking his weight in Arbor, his eyes turning towards the whores that had moved away from the bed at his entry, “Leave us.”

“N-No! They st-stayy~” Robert slurred, waving a trembling hand through the air as his swollen, red eyes glared at him, “I didn’t make ye the Hand for doing the same thing as Jo-”

“I said leave us,” Ned repeated, not moving his eyes from the fuming king before him as he shifted to the side, making way for the women to move out of the cabin, “Now, you are going to take this pin back, and make Jon the Hand again.”

“What did you just say?” Robert stilled, his drunk eyes gaining a moment of clarity as he stumbled to his feet, swaying with the ship’s gentle rocking as Ned watched his former friend, once possibly the greatest warrior in Westeros, now reduced to this shameful state.

“I am not taking his office, Robert,” he shook his head, taking a step forward and holding out the pin of the Hand, a severe frown on his face as he sighed heavily. “That man rebuilt you a kingdom, stabilized your reign, governed your lands. You may say all you want that this crown was thrust upon your head, but it was not Jon’s fault either. Whatever you may say to him, but never doubt his affection and dedication towards you. He is your Hand, and it is his job to handle the affairs of your realm, which means telling you your mistakes and stopping you from ruining yourself anymore than you already have.”

“I am the bloody KING!” spittle flew from Robert’s roar as he walked towards him, jabbing a thick finger in his chest as his stormy blue eyes glared at him, and Ned almost took a step back from the odor of wine and meat that stank on his breath. “If I want to spend some coin, then I will bloody well spend it on whatever I want!”

“Then you should have a Hand that will not oppose it anymore than Jon Arryn would,” he answered back, steeling himself as he grabbed Robert’s hand and dropped the pin in his palm. “We owe that man all that we were able to become in our lives, and if you can’t see that all he wants is for you and your reign to prosper, then even I can’t bear this responsibility any better than he would by being another mummer in that council.”

“I am the Ki-”

“And I am your friend, a friend that you call your brother,” he interrupted, carefully selecting his words as he kept his tone as solid as it could be without blowing Robert off, “And I am telling you Robert, the day Jon Arryn stops being your Hand…that will be the day everything in that capital would go to shit, more than it already has. Do you not see how the court and offices are full of Lannisters? You empty that one office which Tywin has always desired, what do you think will happen next?”

That seemed to get to Robert more than anything, his eyes losing some of that rage as he took a step back, looking down at the pin in his hand. Ned knew that Robert wasn’t stupid or completely bullheaded, but it took some time for the rage and pride inside the man to dull enough for words to truly reach his brain. Thankfully, over the months Ned had learned, that if there was one thing Robert loved more than fucking whores and drinking wine, it was slighting his wife.

His conversation with Jon and later Stannis had certainly proved it, and Robert’s comments about Cercei gave nothing but credence to their words.

Nodding at Robert as the man waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, Ned turned around and exited the cabin, giving a glance at the Lannister—Lancel, if he remembered correctly, the boy nervously holding yet another pitcher of wine at the ready. The boy met his eyes timidly, and Ned frowned slightly as he realized just why Robert had been made to take on a weak lad as his squire, Stannis’ words echoing in his ears.

A spy for Cercei or Tywin.

Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts that were as foreign to him as unwanted, he turned on his heel and made his way towards the Mallister flagship. As he crossed the plank, his gaze flickered towards the distant Iron Islands, and the smattering of ships that still lay between them, dotting the waves like grains on dirt. As the plank was pulled onboard and the sails were unfurled in full once again, Ned couldn’t help but feel that he had forgotten something as his fingers curled around Ice’s hilt.

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“You, girl!” Cercei snapped, her eyes finding a pudgy little rat in the corner of the throne room. ”Tell the kitchens I will have venison tonight! And make sure the prince gets his honeyed lamb perfectly cut! If even a single piece is wrong, I will have your tongue removed, understood?”

Watching the servant hurriedly nod with her eyes towards the floor, she snorted as the girl tripped over her own feet in the rush to get out. “Ser Trant!” she called out, turning her eyes languidly towards the Kingsguard standing at post in front of her, watching him straighten up slightly. Her lips twisting into a smile, Cersei rose from her throne and moved forwards, feeling the courtiers, sparse though they were gazed at her with reverence and envy, of her power and beauty both. “I shall be heading to the council meeting now. Ser Payne, shove these pickpockets into the black cells for a week, and behead the ones who tried to rob the granaries.”

The mute knight just grunted from the side, his greatsword bared in front of him as soldiers clad in red and gold moved toward the commoners. Giving one last glance at the kneeling thieves, she sniffed and made her way out of the throne room, hearing Ser Moore snap into a march behind her. Despite herself, Cersei felt the hair on the back of her neck rise as she half-glanced behind herself at the ever-silent Kingsguard. A knight from Vale, Mandon Moore was the one Kingsguard who she didn’t know in the slightest. 

He had been shown up one day at the Red Keep years ago, when Joffrey had just been born. Recommended by the old Arryn and known to Robert as well from the Rebellion and his days in the Vale, he had been quickly appointed as the last and seventh Kingsguard. She had seen him wield that longsword of his, and while he certainly wasn’t even close to Jaime’s boots, Cersei had seen him down three knights at once in the yard, his silent, dead stare seeming like a weapon of its own.

“Ser Moore,” she began softly after a few moments of silence, slowing down a little and turning her eyes towards him, her nature all demure and her form comely as she saw him turn his helmed head to meet her eyes. “What were your deeds, that saw you rise to the ranks of the Kingsguards?”

“I protected the king from Lewyn Martell, and wounded him My Queen,” the knight answered, his voice emotionless and his eyes unblinking—and despite herself, Cersei could feel what the others said about the knight, something about his stony eyes and flat voice remaining her more of the dead than anything. Shaking off the thoughts, the Queen focused back on Moore as the knight paused for a moment, before continuing, “In the same battle, I dueled Jonothor Darry to death, although he was already wounded. Three years later, I was summoned by Lord Arryn to join the Kingsgaurds.”

“And how would you say your experience has been in the White Cloaks, Ser Moore?” she asked, continuing towards the Council rooms, her eyes flicking towards the dipping sun on the horizon, watching the red and gold hues color the sky—and if that wasn’t a sign from the Gods of her reign on the city and the Kingdom, then Cersei was going to burn the Sept to the ground.

“Interesting, Your Grace.”

“How so?” she asked again, her eyes alighting on the Small Council chamber’s doors, and the twin Valyrian sphinxes that were imprinted upon the doors, the motifs serving as a permanent reminder of just who created this kingdom and this keep, “Whom do you respect the most amongst your sworn brothers, Ser Moore?”

“Ser Meryn Trant, Your Grace.”

Her eyes widened with interest as she kept walking forwards, humming a little as she considered Moore’s words. She had expected him to say the Bold’s name, or if not his, then Jaime’s. Of Aerys’ Kingsguards, only those two were alive still, Barristan Selmy as legendary and distinguished as a knight could be—sometimes Cersei still wondered how the old knight was still moving with a grace that would put all but Jaime to shame, the Selmy knight having served in the White Cloaks since the reign of Jaehaerys the Second.

And if not him, then Jaime himself was no less of a legendary figure, having been raised to Kingsguard at the age of fifteen—and despite her machinations, Cersei knew that eventually, Jaime would have joined her at the Capital the same way, being her protector like when they were little. He had won dozens of tourneys over his life, and had been righteously knighted by the Sword of Morning himself, and no warrior was better than him in the Seven Kingdoms.

But Meryn Trant? The Knight was nothing but a jumped-up thug, and Jaime bemoaned his presence in the Order every second day, calling him a cowering dog whose only talent lay in trampling on those weaker than himself. A Stormlander by birth, Trant had been known to Robert since before the Rebellion, but Cersei was unaware of any special deed he had performed to get his white cloak—quite unlike the other members of the Order.

“Why Trant?” she asked of the knight behind her, pausing in front of the door as the guards opened it for her, announcing her to the Council members inside.

“He…gained the White Cloak with little effort, My Queen,” Moore answered after a brief moment of silence, and she hummed quietly at that, hearing the little bit of hesitation for the first time in his voice. Understandable, she supposed, as the words could be counted as treason, for what were they but a question of the King’s choice? “I admire him for his shrewdness and the way he finds profit in situations where the rest of the Kingsguard don’t think with such mentality.”

“Hm, dismissed.”

“By your leave, Your grace.”

Smiling softly as she entered the small council chambers, Cersei heard the door shut behind her, Moore taking up his post besides the royal seat of the King of the Realm. Peter Baelish, the weasel-like Master of Coin, was already seated in his spot, the Grandmaester sitting beside him. Rolling her eyes as Pycelle met her eyes and instantly broke out into a coughing fit, Cersei turned her gaze towards Varys, the Essosi Spymaster who had been serving Aerys before Robert, his ‘little birds’ and information having always been more reliable than Pycelle’s remedies.

Renly, her youngest goodbrother sat last, his bright blue eyes and tall frame reminding her so much of a younger Robert that Cersei felt a part of her long for his death every time she saw him. And of course, that was without seeing him stare at Jaime.

All of them rose to their feet as she finally came to the head of the table, running a finger over the stag carved into the wood, her eyes moving to the fireplace, where Robert had burnt the previous chair after smashing it to bits. “Greetings, Your Grace,” Varys spoke first, his hands entwined together inside his sleeves as always, the bald man wearing a chrome-colored robe, the overpowering smell of his perfume and powders reaching her despite the distance between them. Intelligence glittered in the black eyes that regarded her, and despite her position, Cersei knew that Varys was the one man in this keep of whom she had to be wary, his intentions and goals all unknown to her, unlike the other men around her—and the fact that she couldn’t simply charm him with a honeyed smile and a shifting dress.

Nodding at his words with a smile they both knew to be fake, Cersei took her seat at the table, taking a deep breath as she felt a shiver of pleasure travel up her spine.

“Grandmaester Pycelle,” she began as the council took its seat, “What news do you have of the king and his armies?”

“Lord Stannis and the royal fleet have joined the king on the Western coast, along with the Redwyne, Oldtown and Dornish ships—upon whom, some thousand Dornish spears have also arrived, led by Prince Oberyn Martell,” the old man returned, straightening slightly as he continued after a pause—mercifully sparing them from hearing any more of his grating coughs. “By this time, they should be well on their way to the Iron Isles, joined by Lord Stark and the Riverlanders. Both have stationed heavy forces along their rivers and coasts. The Reach has sent a force of three thousand, with another force stationed along their coast and rivers. Stormlands have sent a thousand and five hundred, and the King personally leads them along with the Crownlanders.”

“And my father?” She asked, “What news do you have of him and the Westerlands?”

“Lord Lannister is leading his men personally, his forces numbering two thousand strong. All infantry and knights. Lannisport has been reinforced with a garrison a thousand strong, and House Banehall’s seat has been fortified with fifteen hundred men from House Crakehall,” he answered, “Lord Lannister has seen fit to take his own retainers rather than call in men from his vassals, instead ordering them to protect their own seats and the lands between.”

“And what of the North? How many men is the esteemed Lord Stark bringing?”

“Enough,” Varys looked at Baelish, his tone almost mocking, “More than enough, in fact. Besides, Northmen are known to be capable warriors, I am sure he shall be fine,”

Barely controlling her snort at the taunt, Cersei turned her eyes towards Varys, “Anything of import your little birds have reported?”

“Danaerys Targaryen and Viserys Targaryen have resurfaced,” he nodded softly, his voice calm and brimming with levity as Varys’ eyes moved to the Valyrian sphinxes that stood on either end of the wall behind her. “Rumors are that she is being wed to Khal Drogo, leader of one of the largest Khalasars currently roaming the Dothraki Sea.”

“My contacts at the Iron Bank and the Lysian Bank have said much the same,” Baelish spoke up, giving Varys a look before turning towards her. “The Targaryens don’t have anything of their own to offer to the Khal other than a Valyrian bride Viserys is selling away his sister for an army, while the Pentoshi trader than is housing and aiding them hopes to profit from their ‘rightful ascension’ to His Majesty’s throne.”

“The Dothraki? Viserys Targaryen is certainly as addled as the Mad King then,” Baelish laughed, shaking his head with mirth as he chortled, nodding his head in the direction of Essos, “The last pureblood daughter of Targaryens, turned into a horselord’s whore and broodmare, imagine the irony.”

“The king must be informed as soon as possible,” Renly hummed, turning toward Pycelle, “Send a raven as soon as possible, Grandmaester.”

“Hold off that raven for now,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes as she turned towards Pycelle, “There is no need to disturb him or father with this news. Send a contract to the assassins in Essos, and the House of Black and White.”

“The treasury doesn’t have the gold for it, My Queen,” Baelish spoke up, smiling tightly as he inclined his head towards her, “The Crown owes a debt to the Iron Bank, and Lord Tywin…wasn’t too keen on loaning us a sum again after the last tourney.”

Cersei paused at that and stared at Baelish, thinking about his words. She knew that it was her gold that had been running Robert’s lavish expenses for the last decade, but still, her father wouldn’t refuse her a little sum now, would he? Besides, she was the Queen now, and it was to secure his own legacy. But yet, she couldn’t do so until the war in the Iron Islands was over, and her father was back in Casterly Rock, or better yet, Kings Landing itself.

“Very well,” she nodded after a moment, “I will talk with father myself once this war is over. Until then, ensure your spies stay around those Targaryens and their every moment is known to me.”

“As you command, Your Majesty,” Varys lowered his head before his eyes met hers, “Is the–”

A knock on the door interrupted him, and Cersei turned in her seat with curses ready on her tongue as the last rays of the Sun began to dip over the horizon, painting the room a rich crimson. However, before she could do anything, Moore's sword was out of its sheath and swinging across the air, coming to a stop right before the eyes of a terrified soldier.

“No one enters the Council room without permission.,” the Kingsuard intoned, his sword not moving an inch, and Cersei felt a smidgen of respect and admiration form inside her for the man as she watched him stare down the Baratheon soldier, his hand rigid and weapon poised for strike at an eyeblink’s notice, “Speak.”

“Shi-Ships, Your Grace, Kraken ships in the bay!” the soldier almost shouted, his wide eyes meeting hers as he raised a hand towards Blackwater, “Krak-”

“What in the-” Renly muttered, jumping to his feet and moving towards the window, peering over the edge of the walls, before he stumbled back and swore loudly, running out of the room, “The blasted man is right! Those are Kraken flags alright! Rally the city watch, gather the soldiers! FUCKING MOVE YOUR ASSES!”

“Some spymaster you are,” Baelish whispered as he too stood up, and Cersei too sneered at Varys, already rising to her feet, “Hope you have a good enough explanation when the dust settles Eunuch.”

“Ser Moore, escort command the guards outside to imprison Varys in the cells right now,” she ordered, turning around and staring up at the silent knight, “And send Trant with the City Watch and the garrison. You shall stay with me and my children..”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”