71 A Lion's Plot

Meals were a communal affair in the Citadel for the various maesters and those in training. Samwell Tarly, the designated representative of the Emperor and Empress of the Targaryen Empire, was exempt from this requirement. While Gilly - seeking refuge from the insulting prejudice of her being a wildling - took advantage of this, Sam did not. He enjoyed eating with the other maesters, mining them for knowledge of this and that. Today, however, neither curiosity nor hunger had brought him to the mess hall.

Elation over his friend's victory at Highgarden had morphed into a tense worry over the kidnapping of the Empress. He had been the one to examine Dany to tell her she was pregnant, and now both she and Sansa were in the clutches of the Chimera himself. Even with Gilly and Little Sam to comfort him, he threw himself into his work, cataloguing everything he could on the White Walkers and the Long Night. At this point, the most important factor would be defeating Joffrey, recapturing Dragonstone, and resuming massive dragonglass mining for the war effort. But something had caught his eye. One that had before, but with the sheer volume of texts at his disposal, the curiosity only heightened.

Gingerly squeezing in between the narrow spaces between the various tables and benches, ignoring the mocking stares of many of the younger - and even older - Maesters, Sam finally reached the head table of Archmaester Ebrose. Three rather thick volumes balanced in one hand, he saw that Ebrose was currently halfway through a large trencher of pork stew. As the guardians of knowledge, the Maesters all ate well. "Archmaester, may I have a moment of your time?"

Ebrose, a rather nondescript old man without any of the pompous arrogance of many in the Conclave, smiled up at Sam before returning to his meal. "Not at all, Samwell." At several scoffs or sniggers from the other men, he silenced them with a look. "Ignore these other old crones," a chuckle at the self deprecating joke. "Tell me your piece."

Clearing his throat, Sam placed a volume in front of Ebrose, pushing his trencher to the side. "This is the epic poem of Timon of Braavos - the Ballad of the First Men. It's one of the only extant texts describing the White Walkers and the Long Night."

"Fairy tales, Tarly?" Archmaester Sargon looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, smile stretching out over his fleshy face. He was quite obese, fatter than Sam was even before the Night's Watch.

A wave of Ebrose's hand caused him to shake his head and go back to eating. "Go on, Samwell."

"There's a passage in here, one that I've heard in passing in other ancient texts." Sam ran along the scrawl with his finger. "'And the Demon of Ice brought forth the heavens upon the earth. This great fall shrouded the world in an everlasting darkness, a deluge of ice and snow as if from the coldest of all the hells.' While I've read bits of the Great Fall, this is the only source that hints at some kind of astronomical cause."

Ebrose pursed his lips. "Very astute Tarly. If you would like, you can access our observatory. Maester Gorgas has made quite the strides in optical design…"

"It isn't just that." Sam had made this point before, and was dead set on hounding the stodgy old men until they gave in. "The Long Night is closer to returning as ever before. Emperor Jon needs the assistance of the College of Maesters - and their clout with the population - to properly mobilize the realm into combatting the threat."

Turning his torso towards Sam, the Archmaester rubbed his beard. "Young Samwell, as the representative of one of the claimants to the throne of Westeros, you have every right to be here and have access to our facilities. However, the Citadel has not stood the test of time since centuries before the Conquest by taking sides in succession disputes."

"But Archmaester, with the threat facing us…"

"... We survived the Conquest, we survived the Blackfyre Rebellion, and we survived Robert's Rebellion simply for this fact. If the Emperor Jon and Empress Daenerys defeat King Joffrey and take the Iron Throne, then consider ourselves at their service. But until then, our previous policy stands." Sighing in defeat, Sam grabbed the three books, tucked them under his arm, and made for the exit to the mess.

At the clunk of the door shutting behind Sam, one maester - droplets of stew dropping from his wooden spoon - looked up. "Is that the Tarly boy?"

"Aye," said Ebrose, not without some pride. "Smart lad. Has his head in the clouds a bit, plus immense loyalty to the Emperor Jon, but a zest for knowledge. Reminds me of myself at his age."

"Isn't he the one who's father died at the Battle of Highgarden?" Word traveled fast, largely on the quick thinking of the maester of Highgarden. The hope among the Citadel was to interview enough first person accounts to patch together a definitive history of the titanic clash. "Taking on a giant no less."

"Killing a giant, no less. By his lonesome." An older archmaester chuckled. "Samwell can't be too distraught from it. He's now a Lord in the favor of the Emperor, all with that pretty girl of his. Has everything he could ever want."

Archmaester Ebrose frowned, sighing. "I haven't the heart to tell him yet. Lord of Horn Hill or not, I couldn't break his spirit like that."

"All Highest." Joffrey looked down from the perch in his private audience room as his cousin Lancel entered. With Qyburn assisting with siege preparations, the number two among the Faith Militant had taken to acting as the King's Major Domo. "Captain Daario Naharis seeks your audience."

A grin spread on the King's face. "Good, send him in." As Lancel left, he flopped down in his gilded lesser throne. It would take several minutes before the Enforcer could make it through the various security stops Baelish had ordered to protect the Red Keep from infiltration. He hummed a little ditty. By his mother the Maiden, everything was coming up in his favor.

"Pride goeth before the fall, my King."

Joffrey's mouth flopped open like a fish - breathing rapidly but struck mute by the haunting blue eyes. A glowing ice blue, the entirety of the north bearing down upon him in a single gaze. The audience hall chilled to almost frostbite. While all past visions had been of his father or included his father, now only Ned Stark stood in front of him, neck barely resting on his shoulders. "You… I killed you. You're dead! You can't be here!"

"Demon brought to this earth, who the chosen will see." Blood poured from his neck, pooling on the floor. "The foretold shall pass, gods' justice will be."

"I am the son of the Maiden!" Joffrey screamed, voice echoing in the cavernous hall. "Hand of the Warrior sent to save this realm!"

'Ned Stark' did not heed his demand. "Son of your former, beware his call. The Stormborn sees thy eyes, thy reign will fall."

'The mark? Stormborn…?' It clicked in his head. "Daenerys Stormborn! She must never see me!"

"On female flesh, his sigil doth enjoyed." The demon still poured blood, blue glow almost blinding. Joffrey's eyes snapped shut, hands clasped over his ears. It didn't help. "One king it crowns. One king destroyed."

"NO!" His eyes flew open, only for the room to be empty. No blood, no chill. No sign that Ned Stark's demon had ever been there. All that could be heard was the flicker of torchlight, and the sound of his heavy breaths and thumping heart. Only for him to hear, and the lone servant resting in a dark alcove, unseen as if she were draped with the same blindness in her eyes.

Arya heard the door to the audience hall open, booted feet clicking on the stone floor as someone approached the true demon's throne. "All Highest." Her teeth gritted. 'Naharis.' He had climbed to second on her list, just after Joffrey. "The capture of Sansa Stark and the Dragon Queen was successful beyond all wildest dreams." Arya's eyes widened. The fucker had actually done it! Dany and Sansa were in the Red Keep!

"How did you accomplish it?"

"Everyone was drinking and carousing. After such a defeat, no one expected someone to be so bold." He reached into his haversack, pulling out Saracen. "Queen Daenerys' blade. Presented to your Highest as a token of your greatness." He set it on the stone before him. "I shall see to it that they are brought before you as soon as possible."

"You will not!" Joffrey screamed. "Get out, Naharis! I may see Sansa at a later date, but never the Dragon Bitch! She stays locked up, do you hear me!"

The rest of the words, and Naharis scurrying out, didn't register to Arya. All her desires focused on getting to her sisters, but all her instincts said the opposite. She fought the human reactions. They would be fine on their own, Jon and Robb to worry about them.

She had her own agenda to accomplish.

Bastard of Winterfell,

We have your whore and whore sister. They are safe, for now. Bend the knee to me, the divine Chimera, born of the womb of the Mother, or they will die by my enjoyment.

His Highest, Joffrey. First of his name.

"You can tell it's him," Tyrion sighed, dropping the letter that he had read to the Imperial War Council. "Can barely write worth a damn."

"Even Ramsay could scrawl legibly," said Robb, scowl on his face. "Now, what do we do?"

"We need to besiege King's Landing now!" General Caryn demanded, pointing at the capitol on the map table. "They have no army, and we can likely double our own active forces with the Lannister banners bending the knee to the Emperor. Without Highgarden's food stores they'll riot within a week."

Yezzan zo Qaggaz rolled his eyes. "We just fought a massive battle. Barely ten thousand of our army are ready to march anywhere, let alone besiege a city of over a million souls."

"Ironic." Tyrion laughed. "Our army weak from victory. And through this, we was supposed to bring about Joffrey's doom."

"Joffrey caused his own doom." In strode the Red Woman, lips set in a determined smile, Meera wheeling in Bran behind her. "His desperation belies the hole the unholy demon has excavated for himself."

Margaery looked confused, huge belly confining her to a chair. "I'm confused. How has he destroyed himself?" Despite his anger, Robb hadn't strayed far from her side.

"Burned his own sister alive," droled Bronn, scrunching his nose in disgust. "Everyone I talked to fucking wanted to roast him alive for that. Lost all support not obtained by fear… or respect for his grandfather."

"That is not it." All attention was directed to Bran. The young Stark barely spoke, often found in the corner of any room or by a window - just… observing. When he did, people paid attention. "The ritual failed because Joffrey is the child of Queen Cersei and her brother, Ser Jaime."

One could hear a pin drop. "Come again?" said Edmure Tully. Tyrion was silent.

He had firsthand knowledge, but Bran didn't disclose it for reasons only known to him. "I see everything, and I have recently seen proof. It explains why my father was killed - he and Stannis found that Jon Arryn had discovered Joffrey had to be a Lannister. 'The seed is strong.' All Baratheons are black of hair…"

"As he told me when he visited me at the smith all those years ago," Gendry mused aloud. He turned angrily to Tyrion. "Did you know about this?!"

The Imp held his face in his hands. "I had my suspicions, but I had no idea Joffrey wasn't Robert's!"

"Bullshit! At best you were willfully blind," Robb yelled.

Melisandre smirked. "The ritual needed King's blood - Targaryen blood. Robert's grandfather was a Targaryen, so any child of his would have worked. Mrycella wasn't his, so the ritual upset the Lord of Light enough to grant his Majesty a victory." She took a seat next to Bran. "It is… rather poetic in a way."

"Wonderful." Robb laughed sarcastically. "Just wonderful. My father died, the Seven Kingdoms plunged into war, and that little shit on the Iron Throne instead of my brother - all for fucking nothing." Muttered profanities indicated the table agreed with him.

Davos weighed different ideas in his head. "We can spread this news. Get the Citadel to confirm and have ravens everywhere by tomorrow. Destroy Joffrey's legitimacy and spark a revolt…"

"There is no time." The room shut up as Jon spoke. "General Caryn, what is the fastest heavy unit in our army… one that could fight properly in King's Landing?"

Blinking, Caryn quickly composed himself. "Um, I would suggest Gendry Baratheon's forces, and your hoplites. The fastest would likely be the Golden Company - minus mammoth - but their loyalty to their new sovereign is questionable at best…"

"My men are loyal to more than just gold!" Strickland, included for the purpose of this meeting at the request of the Emperor - he had met with each of the captured enemy commanders to gauge their allegiance to him - was quick to defend his honor. "We bent the knee to his Majesty freely."

Tyene scoffed. "Since when do you fight for anything but gold?"

"Since an army of dead men will run roughshod over the entire continent without those under the Imperial banner…"

Jon had enough. "Shut it! Start preparations. Gendry, Podrick, and Strickland will march for King's Landing at all haste but camp out of sight of the walls." His order was nonnegotiable.

"Forgive me," Tyrion spoke, attempting to negotiate all the same. "But what is this about, your Majesty? It would take more than a few thousand men to take a fully fortified city."

"Perhaps we should do what Joffrey wants." The words of the, quiet until now, Emperor struck the council like Robert Baratheon's famed warhammer. Men and women alike were stunned, no idea of what Jon was suggesting.

Mouth agape, Tyrion stared at the young Emperor. "Surely you can't possibly…" Jon had surprised him greatly, and yet there was still so much of Ned Stark. So honorable, a man that would sacrifice himself for the ones he loved… yet Ned Stark had surprised him. "Is this some kind of ambush tactic?"

"Queen Daenerys can not burn," Grey Worm stated. "Lure Joffrey to Dragonpit to meet Emperor alone, then unleash the dragons. Emperor and Empress cannot burn…"

"But my sister can, you cockless fuck." Robb hissed. "We are not burning the Hand in the North…"

"We cannot bring the dragons," Jon set flatly. "The defenses in the capitol would rip them to shreds, I promise you that, at least not yet." Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the table, face tightened in concealed rage. His lips quivered, a tempest within between the dragonfire threatening to be released and the ice struggling to cool it. "Father," he began, speaking slowly. "Ned Stark taught me to never champion one's laurels. That a man lets his deeds speak for him… I hope my deeds speak for me.

Robb stood up, striding to him. "They do, brother."

Jon raised his hand, stopping him. "Please, brother." Taking deep breaths, he did his best to control the dragon blood within him. "I was the youngest Lord Commander of the Night's Watch in generations. I brought the Wildings south of the wall, for the first time in history. I united the North, united all of Westeros behind my banners on the field of battle. I have fought enemies from Yunkai to Hardhome - braved the greatest trials and struggles any man has borne since the Lightbringer himself…" Eyes scrunched shut, they opened in an instant, stormy grey burning with the Targaryen fire. "I will be damned if I let a fucking bastard weakling usurper produced of incest to touch a hair on my family's head!"

Relief at the fire in the Emperor's tone morphed back to worried anticipation - Jon hadn't told anyone his plan after all. "While I'm always in the mood for killing some fuckin' pricks," Tormund broke the silence. "But how're we gonna fuckin' do it, Emperor Crow?"

"Joffrey will not leave King's Landing." Bronn was the last one to be there. He'd know. "He has no need. All snug in the Red Keep, he can wait us out."

Nodding, Jon walked to the window. He could see his dragons, resting in the fields. "Dany risked her life… and the life of our children… to save mine. More than once. I would not be worthy of my father's legacy if I wouldn't do the same for her." Jon turned, and the council was greeted by the ghost of a smirk. One backed up with pure savagery. "Joffrey wants me to go to King's Landing." He raised his hands till they were parallel to the ground. "Let's give him exactly what he wants."

The Emperor had to be enjoying the awkward silences he was delivering his council.

"Frankly, I expected far worse." Rubbing her stomach soothingly, Daenerys willed the bland but plentiful food to remain inside. She rested upon a threadbare couch in the dimly lit room, a chamberpot filled with the heaved contents of her breakfast. It was dingy compared to the luxury of places such as Riverrun, Highgarden, or Meereen, but aside from the lack of sufficient light, it passed muster for comfort.

Wetting a rag in a washbasin, Sansa brought it forth to place on her sister's forehead. "Joffrey needs us. We're obviously his hostages. He may humiliate and hurt us…" An image of Ser Meryn beating her with the flat of his sword while ripping her dress at the King's instigation flashed in her mind. Sansa clenched her fists. "But killing us eliminates all his leverage."

Feeling the gurgle in her stomach, Dany groaned herself. 'Please little one, calm down.' Gods, she wished Jon was here. She wished she had her sword and her dragons so she could burn the entire capitol city to the ground - but Jon would keep them away from the massive air defenses, as he should. "Then why hasn't he even given us an audience?" A wry smile formed on her face. "Too frightened by those that vanquished his army?"

A chuckle left Sansa's lips. "While that would be satisfying, I can't possibly be sure." She ran a hand down her face. "Before, he was quite superficial. His gluttony and bloodlust ruled him. Now… The madness grips him. He is unpredictable."

"Just like my father."

Sansa turned to look at her sister. "You are not him, Daenerys. If Joffrey is what madness is, then the word holds no meaning to you." Nevertheless, Dany turned away - a conqueror, a dragonrider, vanquished by morning sickness. No doubt Arya would have teased her incessantly over it. 'All one little pack - the pack sticks together. The pack survives.' "I have a confession to make. When you arrived at Winterfell - even saving our army, I did not trust you. I thought you were a threat."

Groaning from the discomfort, Dany turned to look at her sister. "Understandable. I am a Targaryen, after all."

"No… it was wrong. Knowing the truth about Jon's…" It went unsaid. "And what Robb told me about how in love you two were… Still, the North Remembers. And the long-held memories of the Mad King, and the lies of Rhaegar and Lyanna… they stuck longer than they should have. I know you are not your father, Daenerys." She chuckled dryly. "You are far prettier." Sansa watched as Dany's eyebrow rose. "Part of me hoped Jon's mind wasn't clouded, that you weren't using him." She smiled. "I am happy that I was proven wrong. That the pack has a new sister."

As Dany tried to smile, suddenly her face turned green and she grabbed for the chamber pot, causing Sansa to leap up and turn away - giving her privacy.

Gliding along the stone floors, everything felt surreal for Sansa. The nature of the capitol city hadn't changed since she had last left King's Landing. There was still the stench of death, the cacophony of backbreaking labor, and the very aura of malevolence. The former two had only amplified - the malevolence still there. Draped over everything. It had started the day Sansa had learned her father was in chains and she suspected that in the years since she left, it remained to this very moment.

As she gazed out the window, a sense of deja vu - gut-wrenching, painful deja vu - washed over her. Lining the entire outer wall of the Red Keep were severed heads, mounted on pikes for the entire city to see. Looking out upon the city, row upon row of punished slaves filled the various courtyards, tied to poles and garrotted. 'Daario taking care of loose ends upon his return.' If King's Landing were to be put under siege, then upon returning the King's Enforcer needed to cow the populace - not to mention satiating Joffrey's sadism.

Unlike the last time, shrinking away from Ned Stark's head mounted on the pike, Sansa stared straight ahead. She was no mere girl, romantic hopes dashed away by an unholy demon made flesh. She was the Hand to the Targaryen Emperor, a survivor. Sansa glanced over at Daenerys, the sounds of her retching filling the room. Come hells or high water, they would survive this.

"You want passage to... Old Town?"

Expression flat, Jaime nodded. "Along with two large crates to be filled with supplies."

Wet, hacking coughs racked the bowlegged form of Grand Maester Pycelle. "May I ask, why?"

"I have consultations I need to make with the Archmaester, concerning the progress of winter weather upon the city before the siege lines are set up." Jaime would have realized his story was bullshit if someone else tried to peddle it - Pycelle on the other hand… "A raven could be intercepted by the Targaryens."

The maester shuffled around his office in the cellar of the Red Keep. "What makes you think I could obtain such a passage?" Pycelle asked, not even looking at Jaime as he rummaged among the various elixirs and poultices that went into the hypochondriac and aching King. 'If I spent all my time within the walls of this palace covered in a shroud, barely moving, I'd need those fucking potions,' Jaime thought bitterly. It wasn't a very paternal thought. 'The monster killed my child.' Joffrey lost any paternal feeling Jaime had for him the moment he burned Myrcella alive.

Jaime grabbed the shoulders of the boney old man and turned him around. "Because his divine Highest needs the medicines provided by the maesters of the Citadel, in order for him to be well and carry on the work of the Seven." He met the maester's cloudy gaze. "And I know you have a fast caravel that runs through the Targaryen blockades. It leaves in one week."

Based on the look in Pycelle's eyes, he seemed both hesitant and nervous. "I'm… I do not know if this is appropriate."

Having planned for this, Jaime withdrew a purse from his belt and pulled open the drawstring. A clinking filled the room. "House Lannister would greatly appreciate your cooperation, Grand Maester." He dropped the purse into Pycelle's hand.

Licking his lips at the gold coins sliding over each other quite deliciously in front of him, Pycelle's jowls jiggled as he nodded. "Of course… I shall see to your vessel, Ser Jaime. Only the most important among us should consult with the maesters of Oldtown."

"With all due haste, Grand Maester," Jaime mused as they walked down the hallway, hand draped over the disgusting old man's shoulder. "With all due haste."

Little did both know that even these walls - adorned with the bleached skulls of the dragons of Targaryens past - had ears. Many sets.