The Seed is Strong

Character Ages:

Joss: 65

Karyl Vance: 37

Raymun Darry: 36

Marq & Beric Dondarrion: 31

######

At the Great Hall of the Red Keep…

Daveth sat high upon the immense ancient Iron Throne forged by Aegon the Conqueror, an ironwork monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and grotesquely twisted metal. It was, as Robert had warned him, a hellishly uncomfortable chair. The metal beneath him had grown harder by the hour, and the fanged steel behind made it impossible to lean back. Sitting next to him was Lord Petyr Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle and the re-instated Hand of the King Lord Eddard Stark.

Grand Maester Pycelle stirred uneasily beside him, while Littlefinger toyed with a pen. Eddard Stark stood beside the Crown Prince, acting as Daveth's principal advisor. King Robert heard that a white hart had been sighted in the Kingswood, so he invited Renly and Ser Barristan to join the king to hunt it. So Daveth sat the Iron Throne and was tasked with managing the court in his father's stead while the King was away hunting.

The petitioners clustered near the tall doors, the knights and high lords and ladies beneath the tapestries, the smallfolk in the gallery, the mailed guards in their cloaks, gold or grey: all stood. The villagers were kneeling: men, women, and children, alike tattered and bloody, their faces drawn by their fear. Daveth had never seen so many people assembled before him in misery in nine years.

"All rise," Daveth commanded, his voice echoed throughout the Great Hall.

In ones and twos, each villager rose to their feet. One eldery needed to be helped, a young girl in bloody rags stared blankly at Ser Lucius Blackmyre, who stood by the foot of the Iron Throne in full Kingsguard armor, ready to protect and defend Daveth or the King's Hand Lord Stark if needed.

Eddard spoke up and introduced the petitioners. "This hearing concerns the accused of raiding numerous villages in the Riverlands. Joss will speak on behalf of the people wronged by this heinous act."

Daveth nodded. "You may speak."

Joss slowly approached, trembling as the old farmer held his hat close to his chest.

"They burned most everything in the Riverlands, our fields, our granaries, our homes. They took our women and they took 'em again," he said as the court gasped in shock. "When they was done, they butchered them as if they was animals. They covered our children in pitch and lit them on fire."

"I keep… I used to… I used to own an alehouse, m'lord, in Sherrer, by the stone bridge," another petitioner spoke up. "The finest ale south of the Neck, everyone said so, begging your pardons, my Prince. It's gone now like all the rest. They come and drank their fill and spilled the rest before they fired my roof, and they would have spilled my blood too, if they'd caught me. My Prince."

"They rode down my 'prentice boy," said a squat man with a smith's muscles and a bandage around his head. He had put on his finest clothes to come to court, but his breeches were patched, his cloak travel-stained and dusty. "Chased him back and forth across the fields on their horses, poking at him with their lances like it was a game, them laughing and the boy stumbling and screaming till the big one pierced him clean through."

The girl craned her head up at Daveth, high above her on the throne.

"They killed my mother too, Your Grace. And they… they…" Her voice trailed off, as if she had forgotten what she was about to say. She began to sob.

"At Wendish Town," spoke Ser Raymun Darry, "the people sought shelter in their holdfast, but the walls were timbered. The raiders piled straw against the wood and burnt them all alive. When the Wendish folk opened their gates to flee the fire, they shot them down with arrows as they came running out, even women with suckling babes."

Judging by the look of Ser Raymun's armor, Daveth concluded he was a knight from the Riverlands in service of House Tully.

"Dreadful," murmured Eddard. "How cruel can these men be?"

"You believe it was the work of brigands?" Daveth implored.

"I'd believe so, my Prince," Pycelle replied.

Joss shook his head. "They weren't thieves, they didn't steal nothing. They even left something behind, Your Grace."

"It's the Crown Prince you're addressing, not the King," Pycelle corrected. "The King is hunting."

Eddard Stark wondered how a man could live his whole life a few days ride from the Red Keep and still have no notion what his King could be doing at this very moment; contemplating on whether or not it was fair to place his responsibilities onto his heir. Stark was clad in a brown leather doublet with the Hand of the King's badge on the breast; his black wool cloak was fastened at the collar by his hand of office.

Daveth leaned closely, feeling cold steel against his fingers as he leaned forward. Between each finger was a blade, the points of twisted swords fanning out like talons from arms of the throne. Even after three centuries, some were still sharp enough to cut. The Iron Throne was full of traps for the unwary. The songs said it had taken a thousand blades to make it, heated white-hot in the furnace breath of Balerion the Black Dread. The hammering had taken 59 days. The end of it was this hunched black beast made of razor edges and barbs and ribbons of sharp metal; a chair that could kill a man, and had, if the stories could be believed.

What the Crown Prince was doing sitting there Eddard Stark couldn't comprehend, yet there he watched the youth as he sat, noticing these people looked to him for justice.

"What did these men leave behind, kind ser?" he asked.

A second man walks forward and empties a sack of fish out onto the floor, with an odorous stench filling the room as most held their noses.

"Fish. The sigil of House Tully," determined Petyr as he leaned to whisper to Eddard. "Isn't that your wife's House – Tully – my Lord Hand?"

"It is," Eddard confirmed in a whisper.

Daveth chimed in, whispering. "If these men are not brigands, then who do you think did this?"

"Well, let's find out," Eddard whispered before turning his attention to Joss. "These men, were they flying a sigil?" he asked.

The old farmer looked confused. Daveth pointed to the cloth next to the Iron Throne.

"A banner," he elaborated. "Now tell Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King, what it is you saw that day. Were these men flying a banner or not?"

Joss shook his head as he turned to Eddard.

"None, your… Hand," he corrected himself. "The one who was leading them… Taller by a foot than any man I've ever met, saw him cut the blacksmith, saw him take the head off a horse with a single swing of his sword."

'Ser Gregor Clegane!' Daveth realized. He remembered unseating Gregor in the jousting competition during the Hand's Tournament; after losing the match, Gregor angrily stormed off without saying a word.

"That sounds like someone we know. The Mountain," Petyr whispered as if he knew exactly what was on Daveth's mind.

Daveth and Eddard nodded.

"You're describing Ser Gregor Clegane," Eddard said.

"Can any man doubt it?" Ser Raymun spoke loudly. "This was the Mountain's work!"

Eddard heard muttering from beneath the windows and the far end of the hall. Even in the galley, nervous whispers were exchanged. High lords and smallfolk alike knew what it could mean if Ser Raymun was proved right. Ser Gregor Clegane is one of Lord Tywin Lannister's bannermen.

He studied the frightened faces of the villagers. Small wonder they had been so fearful; they had thought they were being dragged here to name Lord Tywin a red-handed butcher before a King who was his son by marriage. He wondered if the knights had given them a choice.

Grand Maester Pycelle shifted in his seat, his chain of office clinking.

"Why should Ser Gregor turn brigand? The man is an anointed knight."

"Perhaps he's still feeling sore about losing the joust to the Oathkeeper," Petyr suggested.

"So he lost a joust, yet decides to take it out on these people?" Daveth suggested.

"I've often heard him called 'Tywin Lannister's mad dog.' Can you think of any reason the Mountain might be angry with you?"

"If he was attack villages under the King's protection, it would be—" Pycelle said before being interrupted.

"It would almost be as brazen as attacking the Hand of the King in the streets of the capital," Petyr concluded.

Daveth stiffened before whispering to Eddard. "My Lord Hand. If these allegations were true, then it would no doubt cause more trouble with Grandfather. I had to pull a lot of strings just to get the Riverlands and Westerlands to cease hostilities the last time. If the Mountain is indeed the culprit, House Tully would accuse House Lannister of violating the agreement."

"I haven't forgotten what you did, Daveth," Eddard said. "Though I believe that the act only served to stall for time."

If Ser Gregor had secretly been sent to burn and pillage—and Eddard did not doubt that he had—he'd taken care to see that he rode under cover of night, without banners, in the guise of a common brigand. Should Riverrun strike back, Cersei and her father would insist that it had been the Tullys who broke the king's peace, not the Lannisters. The gods only knew what Robert would believe.

Daveth shook his head. "I'll see what I can do to lessen the damage," he sighed in resignation.

Eddard turned to the Riverlands smallfolk. "We cannot give you back your homes or restore your dead to life. But perhaps we can give you justice in the name of our King, Robert. Lord Beric Dondarrion!"

A slight young lord of Blackhaven with red-gold hair and wearing a black satin cloak decorated with stars, Beric Dondarrion hails from the Stormlands and enjoys the life of a knight; his noble House, the Dondarrions, is one of House Baratheon's bannermen. He steps towards the Iron Throne from the back of the room.

"You shall have the command. Ser Karyl, Ser Raymun, Ser Marq, Thoros of Myr… you will help assemble 100 men and ride to Ser Gregor's keep," Eddard ordered.

Beric bowed. "As you command."

Grand Maester Pycelle was on his feet again.

"My lord Hand, if these good folk believe that Ser Gregor has forsaken his holy vows for plunder and rape, let them go to his liege lord and make their complaint. These crimes are no concern of the throne. Let them seek Lord Tywin's justice."

"It is all the king's justice," Eddard told him. "North, south, east, or west, all we do we do in Robert's name."

"The king's justice," Daveth said. "So it is, and so we should defer this matter until Father—"

"Your father is hunting in the woods and may not return for days," Eddard said. "Robert bid us to sit here in his place, to listen with his ears, and to speak with his voice. Though I agree that he must be told. Can you send word?"

"I will," the Crown Prince nodded.

Daveth and Eddard soon stood up.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," Eddard announced. "I charge you to bring the king's justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane and all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him and attain him."

Daveth, Petyr and Pycelle raised their eyebrows as Eddard continues to pass down the sentence.

"I strip him of all ranks and titles, of all lands and holdings, and sentence him to death."

The Riverland petitioners seemed pleased with the sentence, confident that at long last they'd finally get the justice they've wanted. The four men stepped down from the throne and follow Eddard.

######

At the Tower of the Hand…

Eddard arrives at his quarters, tired from arguing back and forth with Daveth on how to handle the matter with Ser Gregor Clegane. Daveth recommended a cautious approach, yet Eddard was determined to see justice was done.

ooOoo

"Have you not heeded my words more carefully, Lord Stark? The responsibility of everything that's befallen to the people of the Riverlands lies solely on the Mountain, but if you continue to push your luck you'd eventually find yourself crossing swords with the lions of Casterly Rock," Eddard remembered Daveth telling him. "Overextend yourself and you risk not only exposure but you'd ultimately drag the Seven Kingdoms into war!"

ooOoo

Sansa and Arya had been less cheery as of late. Jory dead, their father was attacked… A lot has happened. Sansa knew Daveth had no part in murdering Jory and those poor other men; that had been his uncle, the Kingslayer. She knew her father was still angry about that, but was relieved when he told her he didn't blame Daveth for intervening. That would be like blaming her for something that Arya had done.

The Tower of the Hand seemed so empty after they left that Sansa was even pleased to see Arya when she went down to break her fast.

"Where is everyone?" Arya asked as she ripped the skin from a blood orange.

Sansa sighed. "They rode with Lord Beric, to behead Ser Gregor Clegane." She turned to Septa Mordane, who was eating porridge with a wooden spoon. "Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor's head on his own gate or bring it back here for the king?"

She and Jeyne Poole had been arguing over that last night. The septa was horror-struck.

"A lady does not discuss such things over her porridge. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you've been near as bad as your sister."

"What did Gregor do?" Arya asked.

"He burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children too."

Arya screwed up her face in a scowl. "Jaime Lannister murdered Jory and Heward and Wyl, and the Hound murdered Mycah. Somebody should have beheaded them."

"The Hound is Joffrey's sworn shield and Ser Jaime is Daveth's uncle," Sansa said. "It's not the same."

"It is technically the same," Arya said. Her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice oozed between her fingers.

"Go ahead, call me all the names you want," Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Daveth. You'll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace."

She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap.

"You have juice on your face, Your Grace," Arya said mockingly.

It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress and almost ruining the victor's crown, she shrieked again.

"You're horrible!" Sansa screamed at her sister.

"Enough!" Eddard shouted sharply as he entered the room.

Sansa noticed her father approach and quickly cleaned herself up, wanting to be as presentable as possible. Arya, said nothing, but looked down in shame.

"Septa Mordane, I would like to talk to my daughters alone, please," Eddard said. The septa bowed and left.

"Arya started it," Sansa said quickly.

"Enough, Sansa." Eddard's voice was sharp with impatience.

Arya raised her eyes. "I'm sorry, Father."

Eddard sighed with exhaustion. "I didn't come here to scold you. I'm afraid the city's not getting much safer."

"What?!" Sansa gasped.

"Listen—"

"What about Daveth?"

Arya chimed in. "Are you sending us away?"

Sansa shook her head. "Please, Father. Please don't."

"You can't! I've got my lessons with Syrio. I'm finally getting good!"

"This isn't a punishment," Eddard's mouth twitched. "I'm not sending you away for fighting, though the gods know I'm sick of you two squabbling. Daveth's already agreed to increase security in the capital, but still… three of men were cut down like dogs not a league from where we sit, and what does Robert do? He goes hunting."

Arya was chewing her lip in that disgusting way she had. "Can I still take my lessons with Sryio?"

"Who cares about your stupid dancing master?" Sansa flared. "Father, I'm supposed to marry Prince Daveth. He named me his Queen of Love and Beauty," she said pointing to the blue winter roses on her head. "I love him and I'm meant to be his queen and have his babies."

"Still on about the 'proud, honorable Oathkeeper'…?" Arya rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"He'll be the greatest king that ever was, a black lion, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion; and I'll give him sons with beautiful black hair."

Arya made a face. "The stag is the sigil of House Baratheon, idiot. The lion's a Lannister."

"At least my betrothed's nice to me! He's so much better than his blonde-haired brother Joffrey."

Eddard looked at his daughters strangely. "Blonde hair…?" he said quietly.

"Daveth's a stag and a warrior, like his father. A bit of a mystery, but still―" Arya said before being interrupted.

"No! My sweet Prince is nothing like that old drunk king!" Sansa protested.

"Girls," Eddard interrupted. "Go to your rooms. Now."

"What?" Sansa asks surprised.

Arya grabs her sister's arm. "Come on!"

"Wait! Father!"

The two exits the room and Eddard closes the door behind them. Slowly making his way over to his desk, Eddard opens the book that Daveth and Grand Maester Pycelle had given him earlier. The book covers the lineages of all the great Houses of Westeros. Eddard turns the pages and reviews House Baratheon's lineage.

"'Lord Orys Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Axel Baratheon, black of hair'…" he reads out loud. Eddard turns to a more recent page regarding the Baratheon lineage and resumed his reading. "'Lyonel Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Steffon Baratheon, black of hair…' 'Robert Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Daveth Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Joffrey Baratheon… golden-haired.'"

Eddard's eyes went wide with the stunning revelation and closed the book. All members of House Baratheon had black hair, even Robert's black-haired bastard son Gendry who earlier claimed that his mother was blonde. Daveth has black hair, yet Queen Cersei is blonde. Even the infant Barra had black hair, yet the prostitute Mhaegen is blonde.

'The seed is strong! So THAT'S why Jon Arryn died!' Eddard thought, looking out the window. 'Daveth is Robert's only trueborn son! The boys Joffrey and Tommen and the girl Myrcella have no legal claim to the throne. Someone murdered Jon Arryn so the truth wouldn't get out! I've got to tell Robert. I've got to tell Daveth…'