A Lord Amongst the People

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.

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[Year - 293 AC]

A loud thud echoed through the room as Harry slammed his tankard on the table – having quickly downed the ale as fast as possible.

His face scrunched up as he tried to keep the taste as far away from his consciousness as possible. He couldn't get drunk anyways, and no one drank ale for its taste.

The men erupted in a boisterous cheer, their applause filling the tavern – while Harry clenched his chest, attempting to stifle the rising surge in his stomach. It would all be in vain if he were to throw up now.

At least he was able to outdrink his competitor. That was the only silver lining to this whole affair.

Ser Wendel's hand landed with a heavy slap on Harry's back. "Impressive, my lord!" he exclaimed. "Give it a few more years, and you may as well surpass me in the art of drinking!"

Harry gave him a fierce glare, trying to keep his inability to speak away from his expression. His stomach churned uncomfortably, feeling more bloated than ever before. One extra word, and it seemed as though everything within him would come flying out.

Looking at his adversary, however, did bring a sense of satisfaction to Harry. The lad appeared utterly miserable and ready to pass out for days on end.

Trying to keep down the contents of his stomach, Harry approached him. "Seems like our tavern wench cover story, Declan, isn't fooling anyone. Especially when you can't even out-drink me," he said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Declan opened his mouth to respond, and Harry could see the bile rising in his throat. Clutching his mouth, he hastily made his way out of the tavern, desperate to escape the impending eruption. Harry chuckled at having escaped the fate of being on Declan's end.

He spent some more time with the men, engaging in light-hearted banter and getting to know them better, and only daring to drink some wine when his stomach had settled.

Although alcohol did little to him, he could still enjoy the sweet aroma of wine on occasion.

Soon the night was upon them but the party showed no signs of stopping. Harry could see the men starting to get frisky, leading to sights he did not want to see.

Deciding that it was time, he casually excused himself, so that they could enjoy themselves to the fullest. Ser Wendel glanced at him, subtly enquiring if he needed an escort. Harry shook his head, motioning the older man to join the men.

Leaving the tavern, he could see Declan making his way back to the establishment. It must have been quite an eventful barf if it had taken him so long to gather himself. Deciding to treat the lad, Harry palmed a golden dragon and tossed it at him. Catching the coin, Declan looked at Harry in confusion and just a little bit of excitement. After all, a golden dragon was a lot of money, even for a man-at-arms.

"Go find yourself a nice one today, I saw you eyeing that girl – the wench's daughter."

Declan blushed, a very nice colour adorning his cheeks. It was nice seeing the dichotomy in Declan's personality. While docile at most times, he was also one of the soldiers to have killed a bandit that day. "It wo– would be my f– first, m– milord," he stammered out.

Harry raised an eye, his expression one of incredulity. Declan was by no means the most handsome of men, his broken nose doing him no favours. But he was not unsightly either. Although his meek nature could have been the aspect holding him back.

"Not a nice one then," Harry said with an amused smile, trying to put him at ease. If the lad was to become a man tonight, then the least he could do with was a little bit of confidence. "Follow the others to whichever whorehouse they end up in. And save the dragon for a later occasion – mayhaps a special maid."

Nodding shyly, Declan walked back into the tavern, trying to escape his predicament. He tried to keep his saunter relaxed, but the pace betrayed his embarrassment. Getting advice on this particular matter from his ten-year-old lord was a touch too much, even when compared to their usual banter. Following Declan to the tavern, Harry beckoned Con, tasking him with taking care of the young man. Con was only too enthusiastic for the task at hand.

With everything taken care of, Harry left for his lodgings. Halfway through, he decided to take the scenic route along the river's shoreline.

It had been two months since he'd reached Oldtown, and in just four more he'd celebrate his eleventh nameday.

His lectures at the citadel had seamlessly blended into his everyday life, over the past month, and his plans for the foreseeable future were set in place. He only had one more wheel in motion at the moment and it might resolve itself any day now.

As Harry made his way towards their lodgings, his ears caught the sound of approaching soldiers on the road he'd taken. Quickly shuffling to the nearest alleyway, he concealed himself from their line of sight. Although staying out this late would raise questions, the soldiers would let him pass if he revealed his sigil. But there was no need to needlessly make his presence known when there was no need for it. You can never be too careful when even the walls could be listening in.

Waiting until the soldiers had passed by – once he was sure of his solidarity – Harry resumed his walk.

Not loitering around anymore, he quickly arrived at his manse and proceeded to his room. As he opened the door, his eyes fell upon the three-eyed raven perched on his desk.

"I see that you have returned," Harry remarked as he settled into his seat in the study.

The raven gracefully hopped from the desk onto Harry's shoulders. "I've been tracking them until about an hour ago," Brynden informed him. "They have made camp for the night and are expected to reach the city by tomorrow."

"That's impressive," Harry commented as he nodded, "he's made good time. It seems he lives up to his reputation as one of the best commanders in Westeros."

"He was efficient, yes," came the reply.

"I'll give him a day before seeking him out. He wouldn't leave Oldtown for a few days at the very least, I'd wager," Harry mused.

The raven nodded in agreement.

"If that is all, I shall retire for the day," Harry declared, rising from his seat. Perceiving no further insights from the raven, he added, "Keep watch upon their company from the very moment they set foot in the city. I might need to keep an eye out for any outliers."

The raven muttered acceptance and took flight, his wings beating against the air as he departed from the study.

Harry walked up to his bed and inspected the flickering candles. Ensuring that they'll stay lit for the night, he settled down with a book he'd bought at the harbour. The next two days would dictate his life after Oldtown.

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Randyll Tarly strode purposefully alongside his men, overseeing the gathering of essential supplies for their passage to Arbor.

He'd already arranged for a ship and instructed the captain of their swift departure. If everything went well, they'd be on their way across Whispering Sound on the morrow.

With a piercing glare, Randyll Tarly locked eyes with the hapless merchant while his men relayed the requirements of their party. The merchant, visibly intimidated, hurriedly scribbled down notes and cast nervous glances in Randyll's direction, his throat tightening with each gulp.

Shaking his head he turned away from the terrified merchant, instead opting to gaze at the people milling about the streets. The merchant reminded him too much of his son.

Samwell was at Hightower, opting to stay engrossed in his poems and stories. Randyll could only hope that the arrangements at Arbor would proceed smoothly. He felt at a loss regarding what to do with the boy – he'd tried everything he could and was now all out of wits.

"Lord Tarly, I see that you have finally decided to spare the poor man of his torment," a youthful voice called out from his side. He saw the merchant yelp from the corner of his eyes.

Randyll turned to the voice, only to see a boy looking up at him with a wide smile – a little amused too if he was reading it right. There was a large man shadowing the boy, his armour sporting the sigil of House Manderly. Shocked, he pulled his gaze back to the boy. There was no sigil on his clothes but his sword's pommel had the head of a direwolf. Puzzling together the boy's identity wasn't too difficult.

With renewed interest, he took in the boy in greater detail. He was definitely tall for his age – in fact, if he had not heard it from Lord Hightower, he wouldn't have believed that the boy was of ten namedays. A round shapely face that carried some Stark features, but he could have just as easily passed for a dornish boy.

Word of his presence at Oldtown had already reached Randyll, of course. He doubted there was any lord worth his salt who remained unaware of the heir to the North attending lectures at the Citadel.

He knew what some of these lords were thinking in their little heads. That the Lord Reagent to the North was making a power grab by sending out the boy to study – an exile in all but name. But Randyll knew the man, he'd fought him after all. Eddard Stark had nothing if not for his honour.

To be honest, Randyll had been disappointed upon hearing the news. He hadn't had a lot to do with Northerners, but the few encounters he'd had with them were marked by their hot-bloodedness and bravery. Learning that the next Lord of the North would spend years at the Citadel had led him to believe that the boy must be useless, much like his own son.

Now, however, as he saw the boy standing before him, Randyll was starting to doubt his earlier inferences.

The presence and composure the young lad exuded were far from what he had expected. He was calm, composed and unwavering even in front of him, so very unlike his son. He could also see blisters on the boy's hands; hands that looked stronger than any other boy his age. The sword he carried was a man's sword, and Randyll doubted that the boy standing in front of him was stupid enough to carry a sword he couldn't wield.

"Lord Stark," he greeted with a small bow.

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Lord Tarly," Harry said cheerfully, extending his hand in greeting. "I've heard quite a lot of your heroics from the days of the Targaryen War. I've been wanting to meet you."

"All exaggerated I'm sure," Randyll replied, trying to gauge the young man in front of him as he shook his hand.

The boy had clearly sought him out. Meeting at the marketplace in such a situation could hardly be a coincidence.

The boy met his gaze, unflinching, and his smile widened.

"As you may have already deduced, our meeting here was not guided by the wisdom of the Crone, but rather a deliberate choice on my part," Harry revealed.

"I see," Randyll nodded, never once averting his eyes from the boy. Although he was a little surprised by the mention of the seven gods, especially from a Stark. "Then what is it that you require of me that warrants seeking me out, Lord Stark?" He kept his tone firm, trying to intimidate and show his expectation in getting a clear answer.

"However trivial the matter may be, I believe it would be best to discuss it in a more suitable setting, Lord Tarly," Harry responded calmly, gesturing towards their surroundings – unbothered by his tone.

Randyll narrowed his eyes, his curiosity peaked. Just what could it be?

He genuinely couldn't think of a reason for the boy wanting to converse with him and his intrigue only grew by the moment. "Very well. I suppose your accommodation would be better suited for our discussion?" Randyll acquiesced.

"I think that would indeed be best," Harry replied. He gestured towards the large man behind him. "This is Ser Wendel Manderly. He is serving as part of my personal guard during my stay here."

Randyll nodded and quickly exchanged introductions with Ser Wendel Manderly. The man appeared loud and jovial, making Randyll question whether he was truly the best choice for safeguarding a lord's life. Nonetheless, he reserved judgement for now.

Excusing himself for a moment from the Stark boy, Randyll quickly gave instructions to his men to continue their tasks diligently in his absence. He selected a few soldiers to accompany him and returned to where the Northerners were waiting.

Following them to their lodgings he couldn't help but notice how comfortable the boy was amongst commoners. He was even dressed like one – albeit the materials were much more expensive, the style was undeniably simple. Just like what the smallfolk wore. It was clear that this boy had not been sheltered within the walls of his castle; he had ventured into the alleys and mingled with the people.

Randyll couldn't help but contemplate his unexpected situation. He had never anticipated being sought out by this young Stark. In fact, he had planned to visit the boy before departing on his trip. The heir to the North was far too high-profile to be ignored. However, now he found himself dragged along, unsure of what awaited him in this unfamiliar place, and what the purpose of their meeting might be.

It had been a while since he had felt such curiosity and anticipation.

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Author's Note: The upcoming chapter will conclude the prologue. Chapter 14 will serve as an interlude, and then Chapter 15 will pick up the story five years later.

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