Chapter 18 1 страница

There were times that Jamie Lannister truly regretted his decision to join the Kingsgaurd. Or, more correctly, stay in the Kingsguard because he truly had no choice when the Mad King had decided that he would join the famous order of knights. And standing guard outside the King's chamber listening to him romp loudly with not one but two whores was one of those times. Honestly, the fat fool went through whores faster than his brother Tyrion did. It was nothing short of a miracle that the man's heart hadn't already given out. Mores the pity on that one. If he had the choice, he would rather be guarding his sister the Queen, his twin, his other half, than standing in the hall with his thumb up his ass listening to the activities going on through the closed door behind him.

Beside him, Ser Arys Oakheart shifted about in his armor, no doubt trying very hard to not pay attention to how their illustrious King was entertaining himself. Even though the newest member of Robert's Kingsguard had been amongst their ranks for almost six years, he was still clearly uneasy with standing guard while the King had 'company'. Ignoring the younger knight for now, Jamie did what he always did when he was left in these situations. He allowed his mind to wander. Specifically, he allowed his mind to wander back to the night prior when he and his sister were able to steal a moment for themselves. He could still feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. Hear her gasps of pleasure in his ears. And feel her tight warmth clenching around his –

" Halt! " Ser Arys called out sharply, drawing Jamie unfortunately out of his remembering of the rather pleasant night he'd shared with his sister.

Looking down the hall in the direction Arys was facing, Jamie found none other than the Hand's own errand boy – or rather squire – Hugh of… Honestly, he didn't know which House the little bootlicker came from and he didn't really care to know either. The squirmy young man stopped well short of the King's chamber and drew himself up to his full height in some ridiculous attempt to make himself look important. " I come with a message from Lord Arryn, Hand of the King, for his grace King Robert Baratheon. "

" Well, you best get to it then, " Jamie smirked, pointing his thumb over his shoulder and towards the door behind him. " The king is just in there. I'm sure he wouldn't mind the interruption. "

As if to accent his point, the king gave off a loud laugh while a whore gave off what he was sure was a gold induced over embellished moan of pleasure. For there was no way a woman, any woman, could truly find the king's company pleasing without his gold or title. Hugh, looking more than slightly uncomfortable, tugged at the collar of his doublet and swallowed hard before stepping up and rasping his knuckles against the King's chamber doors.

" Who the fuck is it? " bellowed the King from inside his room.

" Lord Arryn's squire, Hugh, your grace, " the idiot responded awkwardly while inside the whores continued to laugh and moan over him. " I – uh – I've come with a request from the Lord Hand Jon Arryn, he – uh – he requests your presence, your grace. There has been a raven from – from the North that requires your immediate attention. "

Upon hearing that, the laughter and moans from within the room ceased and Jamie calmly and quietly took a slight step to the side away from the door. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to get the fat ass moving, it was any word from the North. And, sure enough, within moments the door to the royal chambers burst open, nearly hitting the idiot boy right in the face as he just barely managed to stumble back and fall onto his ass just in time. Glancing at the King, Jamie just barely managed to hide his disgust. During the Rebellion the man had been heralded as the 'Demon of the Trident' and was considered by many to be a perfect representation of the Warrior. Even during the Greyjoy Rebellion, the fool still could hold onto that, though it was pushing it. But now, now Robert was the furthest thing he could be from the aspect of the warrior without becoming a woman. His hair was a tangled mess along with his beard and the most notable thing about him was his protruding gut. Which was on clear display as the robe he was in the process of putting on did not necessarily completely cover him. At least the fat fool managed to put his small clothes on before barging out of his room. The last thing Jamie ever wanted to see was the 'royal cock' swaying in the wind.

Robert took one look around the hall before finally noticing just where Hugh had ended up. " Pay the whores, boy. Kingslayer, Oakheart with me. "

Not bothering to give the simpleton a second glance, Jamie took off on the heels of the king with Oakheart falling into step right next to him as the trio marched through the corridors of the Red Keep towards the meeting chambers of the Small Council. 'For a man of his size, the fat fool can actually move fairly fast when he wants to, ' Jamie thought as he had to shift into a slight jog, his armor plates clinking against one another as he hurried to keep up with Robert.

Reaching the Small Council chambers, Robert didn't slow in the slightest as he threw the doors open before either guard stationed outside the chamber could get to them and marched into the room. " Sit your asses down the lot of ya, no need for that shit. " Robert growled as the members of the Small Council, almost all of whom where half out of their seats, sat back down while the king went to his customary seat at the head of the table. " Well Jon, I'm here. What news of the North? "

Taking his spot behind the King, Jamie cast a cursory glance at the members of the Small Council. The old fool Jon Arryn sat opposite the King in the place that honestly should've rightfully belonged to his father. But Jamie could honestly admit that the old fool at least knew what he was doing to a certain point. Not enough to turn Robert into even a halfway decent King, but at least enough. Then there was the King's brother Renly, the not-so-secret sword swallower. Honestly, how the entirety of the realm didn't know that the boy preferred the company of men in his bed instead of women remained a mystery to Jamie. Sitting next to him was his father's creature, Grand Maester Pycelle. And next to the Grand Maester was the cockless wonder himself, Varys. Then across from the Maester was the flesh peddler who thought himself a Great Lord, Baelish. And sitting next to the whoremonger was perhaps the most out of place individual in the former smuggler turned Lord turned Small Council member, Ser Davos Seaworth. But despite being so clearly out of place, the former smuggler and Stannis's personal ass kisser was perhaps the most effective member of what passed for the Small Council.

He took his duties as seriously as Stannis did, perhaps even more so if that was even possible. His sister had already tried to feel him out as it were, to see if he could be turned to their cause, but the fool was steadfast in his duty and loyalty to the dullest of the Baratheon brothers. Which was just…confusing. The man had saved the life of Stannis, Renly, and most of what remained of the denizens of Storm's End during the Rebellion when he managed to smuggle food past the Tyrells. And how did Stannis reward the man? By gifting him Lordship of a backwater keep on a small plot of land and chopping off several of his fingers. If the man had performed such actions for House Lannister, his father would've probably given the man Lordship of a significant keep with a harbor to put his skills to use. Just as he'd done for the Cleganes. That was how one inspired loyalty from their subjects.

" We received a raven from the North early this morning, written in Ned's hand, " Jon Arryn started as Jamie started to drift off. Honestly, standing guard during the few meetings of the Small Council Robert attended was almost worse than having to stand outside his chamber as he fucked whore after whore for hours on end.

" Yeah, that little shit what's-his-face told me that, " Robert growled. " What did Ned have to say? "

" Yes, I am quite interested to know as well, Lord Hand, as are we all, " Baelish said in his sickly-sweet voice as he looked over the seemingly never-ending book of numbers laid out before him. " The Lord Hand was quite adamant that we do not begin until you were present. "

" Because this is not something I wanted to go over twice, " Jon growled, actually growled, which drew a look from Jamie. If the usually calm Lord Arryn was this visibly upset to growl, then something very interesting must have happened. " Over a sennight ago during the wedding feast of Lord and Lady Nox, a contingent of Northern Lords and assassins attempted a coup and tried to assassinate Lord Stark, his family, as well as Lord and Lady Nox. "

One could've heard a mouse fart as the entire room went dead silent as every member of the Small Council turned as one and looked at the Hand of the King. As for Robert, the man had gone completely white. " Ned? "

" He lives, as does the sorcerer, " Jon said quickly, making Robert sag in relief. " However, there were casualties. Lord Karstark. Lord Cerwyn. Lord Yohn Royce's eldest son Andor. Winterfell's steward Vayon Poole. Ned's youngest son Rickon Stark and…and Lady Catelyn Stark all fell victim to the assassin's blades. "

The sound of a quill breaking was the only noise in the chamber. " Cat…" Baelish breathed, a broken quill in his hand.

" I'm afraid so, Petyr, " Jon nodded solemnly, " I know you were close with her and Lysa when you were all children. And I was hoping that you might be able to comfort Lysa when she learns of her—"

" FUCKING HELLS! " Robert bellowed as he slammed his fists down upon the table with enough force to crack the table's surface before getting up and throwing his chair clear across the room. " WHO THE FUCK DID TH—?! "

" ROBERT! SIT DOWN AND CONDUCT YOURSELF ACCORDINGLY! " Jon Arryn shouted, rising to his feet and motioning off the two guards who'd barged into the Small Council Chambers with their swords partially drawn. " Back to your posts. Both of you! And get the King a new chair. Robert, you will take a breath and calm yourself. "

Calming down did not necessarily appear to be within the King's ability at the moment as the fat, now visibly furious, fool began pacing back and forth as his chair was shattered in a dozen pieces in the far corner of the room. " Who the fuck was responsible, Jon? "

Retaking his seat, the Hand of the King looked disapprovingly at the King before speaking in a calm voice. " According to Ned's letter, the Houses responsible are Bolton, Dustin, Ryswell, Whitehill, Stout and – and Corbray. Specifically, Lyn Corbray. "

The first Houses didn't surprise Jamie, not that he really cared all that much in the first place. But the last House, Corbray, was a surprise. Mostly because it was odd that a House of the Vale would bother to include themselves in a plot to overthrow the 'honorable Ned Stark'. But even despite the oddity of House Corbray joining in on the plot, Jamie found little to interest him outside of almost finding the situation humorous. The honorable Ned Stark, so honorable that his own bannermen decided to launch a coup against him. Granted it failed, not that he really expected a lot from the barbarians from the North. And he was sure that the fool Stark just gave the insulting Houses a slap on the wrist and sent them off to bed without dinner.

" I want them dead, Jon! " Robert growled as the guards brought in a new chair before making a hasty retreat from the room and sealing the doors. " I want their fucking heads laid out before me so that I can piss in their fuckin—! "

" It's too late for that, Robert, " Jon replied, cutting the King off of whatever fate he wanted for those who dared attack his beloved wolf brother. " Lord Bolton, Lord Whitehill, Lord Ryswell, Lord Stout, and Lady Dustin were all executed by Ned as Northern traitors. Ryswell's eldest son died in a trial by combat against Lord Stark and the other two were gelded and sent to the Wall. Lord Bolton's son and heir was exiled to Essos on pain of death. The last remaining son of Lord Whitehill was sent to the Wall and his daughter is now betrothed to another Northern House to end the line of House Whitehill. And Corbray, he was executed by the Sorcerer himself. "

'Huh, ' was Jaime's idle thought, feeling surprised. 'Stark executed the Lords and a Lady then ended all their lines in the North. Didn't think he actually had it in him. '

" The sorcerer executed Lyn Corbray? " Renly questioned, scratching at the pathetic excuse for fuzz growing along his jaw. " I thought in the North the one who passes the sentence swings the sword. Why didn't Lord Stark execute him? "

He could see Arryn's jaw tightened like he'd eaten something unsavory. " Lord Stark passed his sentencing on to the sorcerer. Apparently, Lyn Corbray tried to assassinate the newly made Lady Nox. She survived the attempt. But the child she was carrying, the sorcerer's child, did not. "

At this, Jamie couldn't help the lifting of his brow that occurred as he tried to fathom just why anyone who attempt such an idiotic stunt. Not the killing of a mother or a babe, that happened all the time in this shitty world. But rather why one would attempt to kill the wife and child of the fucking sorcerer of all people. Well, perhaps if Corbray thought the man was dead when he made the attempt, he could understand his logic then. But outside of that? Hells, it'd been years since the Pyke, and the stories of just what the sorcerer did to the squids had to have made it up to the mountains of the Vale by now. Only a fool would be willing to attempt something against the sorcerer's family while the man was still alive.

" Your grace, " Pycelle coughed and stuttered. " Should – Should we not consider the possibility that this is all just a – a ruse by the sorcerer to cover his tracks? Surely, a – a man like him would not care for a child if it – it covered his attempt to usurp the North. After all, who knows what goes on in the mind of – of a man like him. And the attack came - came just after the sorcerer returned from Essos. Surely, such coincidences must be – be accounted for, your grace. "

It was a twisted logic, but as loathe as he was to admit it, there was something to Pycelle's words that even had Robert stopping in his tracks for a moment.

" That's fuckin horse shite. Eh, parden the language, yer grace, " Ser Davos grunted, glaring at Pycelle.

Robert's attention turned from Pycelle to Davos. " Speak. "

Swallowing, Davos nodded. " Yer grace, milords, any man who's a father can tell ye that they would never willingly put their child in harm's way and call themselves a man. The sorcerer, I met him and spoke with him at length on Dragonstone. He be a man amongst men. I saw the way he spoke and acted around the little lady Shireen. He might be many things yer grace, but he is not one who would harm a child. Let alone his own child. "

Dropping heavily into his seat, the king rubbed vigorously at his forehead. " Does Ned believe the sorcerer had anything to do with the attack? "

" No, " the Hand answered immediately. " Ned was very explicit in stating that all the rebellious Lords and Ladies that were behind the attack have been dealt with. And he asks that we trust him to deal out justice as it is required. He's also called upon the maesters of the North to help settle inheritance of the now vacant keeps and says that he will be in conference with the lot of them for some time as they try and settle who will claim which keep. "

It may have been just a trick of the eye, but Jamie could've sworn that he saw Pycelle sag ever so slightly in his seat as if in relief.

" Spider, " Robert growled, the King eyeing the eunuch out of the corner of his eye. " You're the Master of-fucking-Whispers. Why the fuck didn't you know about this shit? Between your failure to find the dragonspawn in Essos and now this, I'm seriously starting to question your loyalty, Spider. "

The Spider didn't even flinch, nor did he appear worried in the slightest. " I fear my little birds are not overtly fond of the cold, nor has the suspicious nature of the Northmen made it easy for them to find a nest. And unless my birds hear a song to sing, I cannot hear plots that remain unspoken. "

'A long-winded way of saying you had no idea what was happening, ' Jamie just barely managed to keep himself from scoffing. Had he been anyone else, Jamie knew that this failure would've meant his death. Hells, his father would've made him into an example that was song worthy. But the Spider, he was an expert at making it so that it was next to impossible to simply get rid of him.

" Don't fail me again, " Robert growled, rising to his feet again. " Keep an eye on the Bolton boy. If he so much as even looks at a boat heading back towards Westeros, I want him dead. And find me the fucking dragonspawn before I decide that your loyalty to the dragons didn't end with that mad fuck or his rapist son. "

And with that, Robert stormed out of the Small Council chambers, leaving Jamie and Oakheart almost running to keep up with him. 'Well, at least it wasn't boring. '

Letting his fingers trace across the surface of his father's desk, Domeric Bolton, the last son of House Bolton in the North, wondered just how things had come to this point. Well, the direction from the actions at least were not in question. His father had tried to overthrow House Stark and failed. As it was, Domeric was lucky enough to escape with his life without having to resign himself to a life at the Wall. And that was only because his father purposefully left him out of the planning of this debacle. No doubt as insurance in case they failed. After all, his father was never one to put all his coins into a single hand. It was perhaps the only merciful act his father had ever truly shown him.

Life with his father had never been what one would call pleasant. To be sure, he never raised his voice or his hand to Domeric, but there were expectations. Expectations of the son and heir to House Bolton. He could still remember with vivid detail the first time he watched his father flay a man alive in punishment for murder. It was a sight that would be forever engrained into his mind. And while flaying had been outlawed by the Starks centuries ago, that didn't mean that House Bolton stopped that which they made their name upon. They were just more secretive about it. And the people of their land knew better than to speak out about what might be happening, lest they learn firsthand just how truly sharp the knives of House Bolton were. It also went to explain why there wasn't an outcry from the small folk regarding his father's execution and his banishment. If anything, the small folk around the Dreadfort were more relieved than anything. Which went to show just how truly 'beloved' the Bolton name was in the North.

Leaving what was once his father's desk, he made his way over towards a bookshelf along the wall opposite the only window in the room. Knowing exactly what to do, he reached out and grabbed a dust covered dagger that was set upon a display and pulled it forward. An audible click sounded from behind the shelf as the locking mechanism came undone, and Domeric was able to easily swing the shelf open, revealing a corridor behind.

Picking up a lit candle, he used it to ignite the torch that was hanging off the wall before setting the candle aside in favor of the torch and making his way down the short corridor. The first thing that hit him as he stepped foot into the room at the end was the smell. The stench of dried blood and the remnants of voided bowels assaulted his nose enough that he had to breathe through his mouth just to avoid gagging. 'The true legacy of House Bolton, ' Domeric thought was he used the torch to illuminate the room his father had taken him to more than once to 'teach' him the ways of their house.

He hated this room. Hated what it represented. The past. A past which his father, and his father, and their fathers all the way back to the days of the Red Kings couldn't let go of. He could close his eyes and still name everything in the room. The squat table with dozens of sharpened knives and cutting tools. The 'x' shaped cross with straps for the arms and legs to hold its victim in place. A chair with short metal spikes on the seat, back, arms and legs. A device to rip and individuals' fingernails off before breaking their finger bones one at a time. A cold brazier that could be heated and used to scald the flesh or heat iron prongs. Dozens of other implements that served no other purpose than to bring agony to an individual. And lest he forget, the prize of House Bolton proudly displayed on one of the walls. A tanned leather robe that'd been made from the flesh of the Starks of old. Gods. He hated this room.

" Milord? Are – Are you in there? "

" Aye. You may enter. " Domeric called out, still standing in the middle of House Bolton's prized room.

The guard who walked was one of the older guards, one who knew not only about this room, but knew that it was forbidden to be entered or spoken of by anyone other than the head of House Bolton. Though that didn't really matter all that much anymore considering he was the last of the trueborn Boltons. And he would soon be leaving the North forever.

" What news do you have of my brother? " Domeric asked as he turned away from the guard and went back to examining the history of his House.

He'd only recently learned of his half-brother during his time in the Vale. A brother born from his father's taking of a miller's wife he believed. And while he hated the fact that his brother was potentially brought into this world through the product of such a vile act, he focused more on the fact that he had a brother. Something he'd always wanted to have. And after hearing of the strong relationship between Robb Stark and his bastard brother Jon Snow, he sought the same type of relationship with his own bastard brother. But judging by the defeated posture the guard wore, that was not meant to be.

" We went to the mill where your brother and his mother lived milord, " the guard said, his words steady and measured. " But the mill was burned, and the animals slaughtered. There were a lot of corpses, some we couldn't name because of how badly they were burned. But the ones we could were recognized as some of the men your father sent to watch over your brother. "

" I see, " Domeric said simply, saddened not by the death of his brother, but rather at losing the prospect of at least keeping a single member of his family alive. " Have the culprits been found? And what did my brother do to apparently warrant such treatment? "

A bit of unease crept into the guard's stoic posture. " It's not my place to say, milord. "

Turning, Domeric leveled his gaze at the guard. He might not care for his House's infamy. But he was still a son of House Bolton and knew how to use every instrument in this room. " Say it anyway. "

Frowning the guard nodded. " It's been said milord that your bastard brother he…well…he enjoyed hunting. Particularly young girls. No one ever said anything for fear of your father. But he would return to the Dreadfort with…trophies. "

" I see, " Domeric said simply as he turned his back on the guard once more. " So, my brother was a true son of House Bolton, through and through. "

The two men remained in silence for a long stretch of time, the only sound the light clinking of metal plates against one another as the guard shifted his weight. " Milord…you need not leave. The stores are well stocked, and the men are willing to stand with you-"

" To what end? " Domeric asked, turning back around and facing the guard, whose name he didn't know but whose loyalty he was beginning to appreciate. " The entirety of the Northern nobility stood behind Stark's decision to execute my father and to banish myself. And the smallfolk, well, if what you say is true then my bastard brother and father have done nothing to ensure their loyalty beyond fear of reprisal. Fear that is no longer valid as House Bolton no longer holds any power here in the North. And if we were to hold up in the Dreadfort, Stark would round up the entirety of the North to grind us into dust. And that is if the Sorcerer didn't crack the Dreadfort like a rip nut first and do it for it. No. I appreciate the thought, but I will not throw the lives of good northern men and women away just in a feeble attempt to hold onto that which I've already lost. "

Handing the torch off to the guard, Domeric went over to a small jug that was kept as far away from the brazier as possible. Uncorking it, he took a quick smell to verify what was within the jug before making his way around the room and sprinkling every surface he could with the oil in the jug. Once he'd made sure that every accused piece of House Bolton's history had a dousing of oil, Domeric took the torch back from the guard and calmly tossed it onto the table, igniting the oil and setting the entire room ablaze. Turning his back on the fire, Domeric walked out of the hidden room of his ancestors without a single glance back or a moment of regret. " Make sure that the fire doesn't spread throughout the rest of the keep. " Domeric ordered the guard as he left what was once the Head of House Bolton's solar and made his way out onto the battlements of the Dreadfort.

'Here ends the reign of House Bolton in the North, ' Domeric thought with only a touch of sadness. 'But perhaps this truly is a good thing. This is a chance to start anew, away from the stigma of House Bolton. Just as the Sorcerer said. '

The first, and only time, he'd talked to the sorcerer had been just before he'd left the gates of Winterfell to begin his last trek to his ancestral home before heading to the east to begin his exile. The moment the sorcerer crossed his path to prevent his leaving, Domeric was sure that his life was about to end. But instead of killing him, the man handed him a chest the size of a man's head and a purse full of gold. 'To help start you on your new life, ' the sorcerer had told him, shaking the heavy purse before tossing it to him. 'And as payment for your delivery of this chest to an asset of mine in Essos. Find your way to Pentos and stay at any of the higher end taverns near the dock, and my asset will find you. They will take what they need, and the rest is yours to do with as you wish. '

He'd taken the offer of course, but not before asking the sorcerer just why he was entrusting him with this. To which the man merely smiled cryptically. 'I'm many things, Domeric. But not wasteful. Especially with someone that I see promise in. Do this one favor for me and I will ensure that you get the chance to start a new life on your own. But, should you choose to stay and aid my assets in Essos, then I will ensure that you find a way to shed the sins of your family's past and forge a new future for both yourself and your future line. '

" Well, sorcerer, " Domeric spoke his thoughts aloud, tilting his head back and relishing the feel of the cold northern air on his face. " We will see just how good your word is soon enough. "

Sitting alone in the middle of what had once been her mother's sitting room, Sansa Stark idly pulled a needle and thread through the garment she was working on while her wonderful wolf Lady laid on her feet, keeping them warm with her thick fur. Truthfully, she wasn't even sure just what it was that she was working on. But at the same time, it didn't matter. There was a comfort, a familiarity in sewing. It was…relaxing. Which was so strange. She'd always had fun with sewing before, but she never took it for something that could be relaxing. But it was. And she needed this time now more than ever before.

When her father had first declared that she would be the Stark in Winterfell, to sit in his seat while he and her brothers went south to deal with the treacherous Maesters, she'd been overjoyed and honored. Her father trusted her enough to lead the North in his absence! Granted, Lady Nox was the new Stewardess of Winterfell and would be making most of the decisions that couldn't be put off until father returned. But still, it was, by the gods old and new it was hard to put into words just how she'd truly felt when her father had looked at her in the eyes and told her that he believed in her.

And that excitement and honor had lasted right up to the point where she'd taken her father's seat for the first time and looked over the faces of those that'd gathered and realized with a start that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing! Sure, Septa Mordane, may the gods rest her soul, had taught her some and her mother and Lady Nox even more, but as soon as she sat down and truly felt the weight of her father's seat everything she'd been taught went right out of her mind. She could only thank the gods for Lady Nox's presence. The older woman must have seen just how nervous Sansa was as soon as she'd entered the great hall for the first time and had immediately taken charge and started the day's proceedings. Which, mercifully, had been few.

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