Chapter Fifty: For Granted

"There it is," Ser Mark Ryswell thought aloud.

Willas Tyrell stepped closer to the bough of the Iceberg and gazed at the city. He could not deny King's Landing made for a beautiful sight. He reminded himself, this is just the back of it from the sea. I wonder what the front from land looks like.

"Never thought I would see this place again," Ethan Glover mumbled, "Nor did I wish to, after what happened last time."

Who could blame him?

Before the Rebellion, Ethan had been Brandon Stark's squire and one of the men who had accompanied the Wild Wolf to King's Landing. Their goal had been to rescue Lyanna Stark and take Rhaegar Targaryen's head. That did not quite go according to plan.

Brandon's recklessness had resulted in all their deaths, as well as their fathers'. Yet for whatever reason, the Mad King had spared Ethan. Perhaps his father was already dead, and Aerys was unwilling to kill one without the other. Even the insane have their own bizarre kind of logic. Instead of death, Ethan had been confined to the Black Cells of the Red Keep. He remained there until the Westerlords seized King's Landing and freed him. I can only imagine what a harrowing experience that must have been.

"I know the feeling, Ethan," stated Rhaenys Targaryen, who was standing next to Willas with her arms folded, "I have very few memories of this place. Only one of them is of my grandfather, and it is not even remotely pleasant. Then again… neither are any of the others."

Willas was not surprised. She, her brother, and her mother were every bit as much a prisoner as Ethan. The only difference was that their cell was in the Maidenvault.

Rafford the Sweetling was leaning on his spear behind them. He stepped forward and said jokily "None of them, Your Grace?"

Rhaenys chuckled and cheekily muttered "Alright, maybe a couple of them, Raff."

"I assume I'm there?" Rafford asked rhetorically.

"Yes, you and Lord Gregor," Rhaenys disclosed, "Strangely, you don't seem as big as you were then."

Likely because you were only three at the time. Rafford laughed in amusement.

"What about my father?" Rickard Clegane queried curiously. He was standing on the other side of Willas. "Does he look as massive now as he did back then?"

"As it happens, Lord Gregor looks even larger these days," Princess Rhaenys claimed. One may have thought she meant that as a jape, but by her tone, she was being serious.

"I can relate," Willas commented slyly, "I first met Lord Gregor when I was three and ten. Although I've grown over a foot since then, I still feel as though I have to look up even higher than before just to make eye contact with him."

"That's my lord father," Rickard murmured, snickering, "The human optical illusion."

That was a rather quaint observation, but it applied rather well. The Mountain is also an illusion in that there is always more to him than he lets on.

The Iceberg swiftly pulled into the harbor of King's Landing. The area was bustling with all manner of activity. Ships from all over the realm and outside of it were there. Each vessel bore its own banner. The stag of the Baratheons and the lion of the Lannisters could be seen in abundance. Despite belonging to the Legion without Banners, the Iceberg had a banner of its own. This one depicted the lone mountain of the northern branch of House Clegane.

Three prams that displayed both the stag and the lion met the Iceberg in the center of the waterfront. The prams ushered the Legionnaire vessel to the highborn port. Before long, the Iceberg was close enough that its passengers could discern the faces of the people on the docks.

"There's Jasper!" Rickard declared, pointing inland.

Willas and the others followed his finger, and indeed, they saw the black-haired Crown Prince standing at a vacant mooring.

Prince Jasper Baratheon was not alone. At least three dozen others were with him. Two of them must have been Kingsguard, judging by their white armor. Most of the others were Lannister men and Baratheon men.

Interestingly, there were some Stark men there, too. Willas was somewhat bewildered by their presence. Perhaps they are here to greet Rickard. Then he noticed a young girl among Jasper's company. A large, moving bundle of fur was at her side. Oh, it is not they who are here to greet him. They are simply here to guard the one who is.

"It appears Lady Arya is part of our welcoming committee, as well," Willas observed.

"Quite so," Rickard conceded, breaking into a wide grin. That smile reminded Willas of the expression he himself usually donned when he was with Rhaenys.

Lord Eddard Stark's daughters had set sail from White Harbor at around the same time the Iceberg departed Moat Cailin. Although the moat was geographically closer to King's Landing, it was not as accessible as the Manderlys' ancestral home.

Once the Starks' vessel was clear of the Bite, it could freely navigate all the way to Blackwater Rush through the Narrow Sea. The Iceberg followed mostly the same route, but before itcould even reach the Bite, it had to sail down the Cut. Having to traverse a narrow riverway which extended across miles of overgrown marshlands was a difficult endeavor. Especially since we had to wait on a fleet of Ironborn ships before we could leave.

In any case, the Stark girls could not have arrived much sooner than the Legionnaires. They likely only reached King's Landing a few days earlier. I wonder how they are doing so far. Lady Sansa would fit in well with the highborn ladies of the south. Lady Arya, on the other hand, was not one to adhere to southron customs. Unless they're Dornish customs, that is.

As the Iceberg pulled up to the empty mooring, Rickard waved at his friends on the marina. Jasper merrily waved back. Arya waved with less enthusiasm, but she seemed no less pleased to see Rickard.

When the Iceberg was within spitting distance of the docks, theydropped anchor, and the gangplank was extended to the wharf. Ropes were tossed by the crew to the dockhands, and the vessel was tied securely to the mooring.

Rickard was the first to exit the Iceberg. Willas and Rhaenys climbed down after him; Lady Ashara Dayne stepped off after them. Willas did not take note of who followed Lady Ashara. He was too preoccupied with the sensation of walking on stable ground. After weeks at sea, it is nice to feel solid land beneath my feet again. In all technicality, he was not really on land. But soon enough, he would be.

Rickard Clegane speedily approached Jasper Baratheon. When he was close enough, the heir to Moat Cailin extended his arms, and the heir to the Iron Throne did the same. The two boys embraced each other warmly, as though they were brothers. Willas felt that was an indicative sign of their friendship. The Crown Prince would not hug just anyone in public.

After that, Rickard exchanged pleasantries with Arya. He did not try to embrace her. That was prudent of him; Lady Arya Stark was not known for her affection. She rarely hugged her own family members, unless it was her cousin Jon. She did, however, firmly shake Rickard's hand and clap him on the back.

Still, even Nymeria was more receptive than her mistress. The direwolf allowed Rickard to scratch her behind the ears and rub the underside of her chin.

"We hadn't expected to see you here, Your Grace," Lady Ashara remarked.

"I would not be a very good king if I did not receive a group of very important envoys," Prince Jasper debated, "Especially when a future Lord Paramount and my best friend are among that group."

Willas was oddly flattered by that. He smiled at the Crown Prince appreciatively.

"Rickard is your best friend?" Rhaenys noted in perplexity.

"Of course, he is," Jasper affirmed.

"Just as Jasper is mine," Rickard added in.

As I suspected. In the North, Jasper and Rickard had been part of a group of six friends. While they were very close-knit, Willas had observed that each of the six tended to be closer to one of his five friends than he was to the other four.

Jon and Samwell, Robb and Theon… that would leave Rickard and Jasper. That's quite beneficial, considering Rickard's reason for being here.

"Never mind," Rhaenys hastily mumbled.

"Very well," Jasper muttered. He gazed around at the passengers of the Iceberg and announced "I'll escort you back to the Red Keep. Horses have already been prepared for the lot of you."

"Excellent," Shitmouth stated brusquely, "After three fuckin' weeks on that fuckin' bugger of a ship, it'll be fuckin' nice to travel on something else for a change."

"My thoughts exactly," Willas conceded. Only I would not be quite so crude.

Willas did not know what Shitmouth's real name was. But it would not surprise him if that was his real name. The man spoke vulgarities with such nonchalance, as though they were a part of normal, civilized conversation.

As much as I respect Lord Gregor, I cannot help but question his decision to send the most foulmouthed of his soldiers to watch over his young – and still somewhat impressionable – son. Then again, at least Shitmouth was not violent or a drunk. He was actually one of the more agreeable of Gregor Clegane's men-at-arms, despite his unrefined language.

At any rate, Jasper soon led everyone over to the stables adjoining the harbor. As he said, dozens of horses had been readied in advance. Willas mounted a salt-and-pepper courser. Rhaenys climbed onto a rose red palfrey, and Rickard took a pitch black destrier. Jasper, Arya, Lady Ashara, and most of the others went on garrons of various colors.

The horses shied away from Nymeria as she approached them. Arya's nearly threatened to throw her off, but the Northern girl managed to keep her mount calm. The other horses gradually eased down, as well. After that, they swiftly began the ride to Aegon's High Hill.

As the group made their way through the River Gate, Nymeria padded alongside Arya's horse. The Northern girl kept a careful eye on the beast. That was likely one of the conditions of bringing the direwolves to King's Landing; their owners had to take full responsibility of them.

When they reached River Row, Rhaenys' horse was beside Willas'. He noticed she was watching the interaction between Arya and the direwolf. There was an odd look of longing in her eye. Willas knew what it was. She misses having a pet.

Rhaenys Targaryen used to have a cat named Balerion. He had been with her since the last time she was in King's Landing, and she had taken him with her to Greywater Watch. Willas had gotten acquainted with Balerion during his first official meeting with the princess. While he preferred hounds, he found he liked the cat.

Unfortunately, Willas did not get to know Balerion very well. Cats did not live as long as humans, and Balerion was already an elderly tom when Willas met him. He had died shortly after the last meeting at Moat Cailin. Before the Iceberg left, his mistress had buried him in a small patch of land outside of Moat Cailin. Although that was weeks ago, she still missed him.

Willas did his best to comfort Rhaenys. That was one thing he was superb at doing: brightening people's spirits. So far, his attempts had been successful. Rhaenys was certainly much more cheerful now than when they left the moat. She still yearned to have a pet of her own again, but Willas knew she would get over that eventually. After all, once her brothers returned, the three of them would each take charge of a certain creature that was believed to be extinct. Let's just hope they'll find a way to hatch the eggs. Lord Gregor never said how they're supposed to do that.

Rickard brought his horse up next to Arya's. When they were side-by-side, he asked her "Where's Sansa?"

"Lunching with the Queen," she informed him, "I ate earlier, but they were still eating when I left the Red Keep. They're probably done by now."

At the Street of Steel, Jasper was in front of the two Northerners. He looked over his shoulder and stated "I think they are, but Sansa is quite possibly still with my mother. Since she got here, Sansa has been spending much of her time with the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting."

"Is that why she didn't come to the docks?" Rickard presumed.

"Well, that, and she hates riding," Arya drily uttered, "What's worse; she keeps trying to drag me along to her activities with the Queen. I always refuse, of course."

Of course. Although Sansa and Arya Stark were the daughters of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, they had little else in common. Sansa constantly focused on becoming the ideal highborn lady, whereas Arya preferred the activities that were traditional of men. Even their appearances were different. Sansa took after their mother; Arya took after their father.

"Maybe you should indulge her," Willas proposed.

Arya glared at him in surprise. "Why?"

"She's your sister," Willas replied, "You shouldn't have such distance between you. You should try to establish some form of compromise with her."

"'Compromise?'" Arya repeated.

"Agree to attend some of Sansa's appointments with Queen Cersei," the Reachman suggested, "In exchange… you could teach her how to fight with a sword or shoot a bow."

"That's a good idea," Jasper conceded, "Against the threat of the Others, our numbers are too thin. Thus, everyone should be learning to fight, regardless of sex."

"While I agree with the sentiment, that's not the point I'm trying to make," Willas contended, "My point is that family is the most valuable and irreplaceable thing in the world."

"I know that," Arya claimed, "The words of my mother's house are Family, Duty, Honor. I know it is not without reason that family is listed first."

"Just so," Willas agreed, "Now, you and your sister have your differences. There is no harm in that. It is perfectly natural for siblings to disagree. It is also natural for them to quarrel. Even so, they should not resent or detest each other."

"Did I give you the impression that I hate my sister, my lord?" Arya crossly assumed.

"Certainly not," Willas asserted, "But you might come to, and so might she. Unless you both find some common ground. Hence, the compromise."

Arya thought on that. Then she shrugged and murmured "Alright. I'll see if I can 'compromise' with Sansa. But I won't promise anything. If I know her, she would spit at the thought of holding a weapon."

"It would still be in your best interests to try," Rhaenys advised the younger girl, "Time with your sister is something that should be treasured."

"I mean no disrespect, but how would you know, Princess?" Arya enquired, "You don't have any sisters."

"No, but I have two brothers," Rhaenys pointed out. One of whom is Arya's cousin. "Growing up, I hardly knew them or my mother. Nonetheless, I thought of them every single day of my life until I was finally reunited with them. If you were apart from your family, you would quickly realize just how much they really mean to you. Enough time away from Sansa, and I guarantee you would give almost anything to see her again. If ever that happens, it would be better if you and she were on good terms."

For once, Arya Stark was speechless. Evidently, she had never once considered the possibility that she would be separated from her family. There were hundreds of miles between her and Winterfell, but she was still there with her sister, her father's men, and two direwolves. Rhaenys had just incited her to imagine what it would be like if she had come to King's Landing alone; no guards, no wolves, and no sister. Must be a terrifying thought.

"I'll reach a compromise with Sansa," Arya proclaimed, "If you really think it'll work."

"Trust me, it will," the heir to Highgarden asserted, "I would know. The Legion without Banners deals in compromise all the time. That is why it is so successful."

"But most of those instances are between rivals or allies," Lady Ashara remarked, "How many family disputes have you resolved through compromise?"

"Oh, a fair share," Willas revealed, "Including a few with my own siblings. I convinced Garlan to be the Reach's liaison to Dorne in exchange for his betrothal to Arianne Martell, I convinced Loras to wait to enlist in the Legion until he was knighted, and I convinced Margaery to give life in the North a chance. Though the last one was not too difficult."

"I can see why; she got plenty out of that arrangement," Arya uttered slyly.

"Indeed," Rickard concurred, "Robb did, too. Take it from me; I saw him the morning after."

"Let's not go there," Willas bluntly mumbled. Robb Stark was a decent man, and Willas Tyrell was fond of him, but he did not wish to imagine what the Young Wolf and his little sister had done together on the night of their wedding.

Up until now, the party had ridden through the city with little obstruction. However, when they got to the end of the Street of Steel, they came out onto Fishmonger's Square. There they encountered a fair amount of traffic.

A pair of Lannister guards rode ahead a little and yelled "Make way for the Crown Prince! Make way for Jasper Baratheon!"

Jasper groaned. He is well within his rights to be displeased. Some people did not enjoy being the center of attention. Jasper usually was, regardless of whether he wished to be.

Although the guards succeeded in clearing a path, they also managed to draw a fair amount of attention to themselves and their companions. A number of the smallfolk stopped what they were doing and turned towards the entourage. Most eyes fell on the dark-haired boy in the center. That was unsurprising. The public jumps at a chance to spot a member of the royal family.

While the people on the ground stayed out of the mounted group's way, they started to crowd the sides of the road. Many of them began to call out to Jasper and his associates. Most of the things they shouted sounded genial in nature. Every now and then, something not so pleasant was heard, but that was to be expected. No man was ever loved by all. Even the best of us have critics.

Willas looked around at the gathering masses. He noticed the people seemed to be in good health and good spirits. Clearly, King Robert was taking very good care of them. He's done much more for them than his predecessor ever did.

"I wonder if any of these people know who I am," Rhaenys murmured softly.

"I'm certain some of them do," Jasper stated, "It's been three weeks since my father issued that decree. There may be a few people in the realm who still have yet to receive the news, but by now, everyone in the city knows of it. As such, they must be aware that you were coming here, Rhaenys."

"But most of them haven't seen her before," Ashara pointed out, "The few who have would only remember a little girl."

"Yes, and those people may recall that even back then, I favored my mother in appearance," Rhaenys disputed, "That hasn't changed in the time since."

"If you're worried about how the people will react, you can ride between me and Willas," Rickard offered, "That should keep you hidden from anyone on the ground."

"Or she could pull her hood up," Arya recommended.

"Good idea," Rhaenys commented. She took the hood to her cloak and drew it up over her head. Her hair and the back of her head were covered, but her face remained exposed.

"Tell me, Your Grace," Ashara requested, "How was the decree received?"

"Fairly well, I suppose," Jasper professed, "Lord Varys claims a lot of the smallfolk are questioning my father's reasons and motives for 'saving' the Targaryens. Some are beginning to wonder if it really was his idea to begin with. So far, no one has suspected it was Lord Gregor's, though. Overall, reception has been quite positive."

"Would you say everyone is content with the news?" Willas stated inquisitively.

"More or less," Prince Jasper supposed, "Many are actually indifferent to it. It's little more than a new source of gossip to them. However, most of the rest are commending my father for giving asylum to the children of the man he killed. Furthermore, almost no one seems displeased by the knowledge that there are more Targaryens in Westeros. In fact, I don't think there is any need for you to travel in disguise, Rhaenys."

"Thank you for your assurance, Your Grace," the Targaryen princess said gratefully, "But for the moment, I'd feel more comfortable if I kept my face concealed."

"Your choice," Jasper contended candidly.

The group made their way through Fishmonger's Square. That was when they got to the Hook. There were less people there, but there was also less space. The Lannister guards at the front of the party needed a minute to clear another path.

Once they were underway again, Willas looked to Jasper and enquired "What manner of reception can we expect at the Red Keep?"

"Well, as soon as we get there, my father will summon all of you to the throne room," the Crown Prince disclosed, "Most or all of the small council will be there, too. All of you have already sworn your fealty to the crown, so you won't be required to bend the knee. Be that as it may, it would not hurt to dip your head when you enter."

"Noted," Willas stated. Several of the others muttered their agreement.

"Who all is on the small council, again?" Rickard Clegane enquired. "Refresh our memories."

"Other than my parents and your father, there are seven others," Jasper Baratheon announced, "Lord Jon Arryn is Hand of the King, Lord Stannis Baratheon is Master of Laws, Ser Kevan Lannister is Master of Coin, Rodrik Greyjoy is Master of Ships, Ser Barristan Selmy is Lord Commander of Kingsguard, Marwyn the Mage is Grand Maester, and Lord Varys is Master of Whisperers."

"Anyone we should watch out for?" Rhaenys queried.

"All of them," Jasper promptly answered, "That's something you learn quickly in this city. No one is your ally."

"Unless they want something in return," Lady Ashara countered.

"Precisely," Prince Jasper the prince's advice was sound, it was somewhat redundant to Willas. After ten years in the Legion, he was innately wary of everyone. That policy should apply everywhere in the world.

"What I meant was… anyone in particular?" Rhaenys clarified.

Jasper thought a moment. Then he pronounced "You have nothing to fear from Lord Jon or Ser Barristan. They may be closer to my father than anyone else, but they would never condone the slaying of innocent people. Grand Maester Marwyn is no threat, either. He is one of the few holders of the title who actually is loyal to the whole realm, not just part or most of it. Lord Varys may seem a shifty figure, but he tends to keep to himself most of the time."

"What about Lord Stannis?" Rickard conjectured, "Or Ser Kevan?"

"You'll be pleased to know my Great Uncle Kevan is more like my Great Uncle Gerion than my grandfather," Jasper revealed, "In addition to that, he treats his hostages well. He even married one: Lady Dorna of House Swyft. My Uncle Stannis… well, I would be careful around him if I were you. He supports my father's decision to restore the Targaryens to nobility, but only out of duty. Doubtlessly, he does not approve of it. It would also be best not to mention Dragonstone around him."

"We'll keep that in mind," Rhaenys avowed. "What about Rodrik Greyjoy? All I know of him is that my cousin's husband maimed him at Seagard."

The same cousin who shares a name with Arya Stark's direwolf.

"Oh, he's an ass," Jasper replied straightforwardly. Willas snorted at the abruptness of that statement.

"More of an ass than Theon?" Rickard jested.

"Much more," Jasper told his best friend, "You know how we're always joking about how Theon should try to be more like his brother Maron? Well, I would not be jesting when I say it would be a huge improvement if Rodrik was more like Theon."

"Damn," Rickard mumbled, grimacing, "He's that bad, huh?"

"Only when he's in a foul mood," Jasper claimed, "Unfortunately, that's almost half the time. Nevertheless, he has some powerful friends in the city. A lot of them are other Ironborn. However, sometime while I was away, he somehow became affiliated with Janos Slynt, the commander of the City Watch."

"I've heard of Slynt," Rickard thought aloud, "For years, my father has been trying to convince yours to replace him."

"Lord Gregor is right to do so," Jasper claimed, "Slynt is a crook, and everyone knows it. My father just won't admit it. Or won't be bothered with it. In his mind, as long as Slynt keeps the people of this city safe, there is no need to strip him of his office."

"Maybe the problem is that the Legion has never had a strong presence in King's Landing," Willas theorized, "That's due to how the royal family is not subject to its justice."

"Is there anything we could do about that, Willas?" Rickard asked hopefully.

"I believe so, Rickard," Willas Tyrell debated, "I'll keep an eye on Slynt while we're here. If I manage to catch him in the act of doing something dirty, I could use my authority as a Legionnaire officer to get him removed from his position."

"If you believe you can pull that off, my lord, be my guest," Jasper bade him, "But I urge you to be cautious. There is no telling who in the city is in Janos Slynt's pocket."

"Until I ensnare him, I'll simply assume everyone is," Willas proclaimed. Trust no one.

"Excellent," Jasper said approvingly.

"So, all things considered, we can expect a lukewarm greeting?" Rickard asked rhetorically.

"That sounds about right," Jasper confirmed, "No one will be overjoyed to see any of you, but none of them will be offended by your presence, either. Some of them might offer you a hand. If so, take it and shake it."

"Got it," Jasper acknowledged, "Nothing more than handshakes, right?"

Jasper nodded. At the same time, Rhaenys smirked and cheekily commented "You won't have to worry about anyone kissing you, Rickard."

Willas and Lady Ashara Dayne chuckled. Rickard just rolled his eyes and mumbled "Relax, Rhaenys. I don't expect every person in the world to greet me the way your mother did."

"Hold on…" Arya Stark interjected sharply, gazing at the tall boy, "Princess Elia Martell kissed you?"

She had been so quiet these last few minutes, Willas had almost forgotten she was there. Apparently, so had Rickard. I'll bet he wishes she wasn't here right now. The expression on his face implied as much.

"No…" Rickard claimed softly. Arya continued to glare at him. A few seconds later, he sighed and confessed "Yes."

"Where?" she asked, a little demandingly.

"At Moat Cailin," he answered her.

"That's not what I meant," Arya muttered incredulously. Doubtless he knew that.

"Fine," Rickard murmured frankly, "It was on the lips."

"Why are you only telling me this now?" Arya inquired.

"Because you asked," he sardonically retorted, "And I did not see the need to tell you."

"Well, I thought you and I weren't keeping secrets from each other," Arya argued sharply.

"That doesn't mean we have to share everything," Rickard countered, "Anyway, I wasn't the one who… initiated the kiss. I just planned to shake her hand. It was she who wanted to give a more intimate greeting."

"I can vouch for him," Rhaenys pronounced, "If it makes any difference, Arya, my mother greeted Lord and Lady Clegane the same way. In front of myself and many other witnesses, she kissed Rickard and his parents."

"She did it without asking our permission, I might add," Rickard hastily mentioned.

Arya was genuinely confused. "Why?"

"That's just the way Elia Martell greets people," Ashara Dayne claimed, "You can take my word as her best friend."

Willas, Rickard, Rhaenys, and Jasper all laughed at that. Arya did not laugh, but she did grin. At least she is no longer sullen.

"You're not jealous, are you, Arya?" Rhaenys supposed.

Arya's frown immediately reappeared. "Why would I be jealous?"

"If I did not know better, I would say you did not want other women kissing Rickard," Rhaenys observed.

"No, it doesn't matter to me whom he kisses," Arya claimed. She does not sound very convincing.

"Are you certain of that?" Rhaenys disputed.

"Of course," Arya promptly replied. After a pause, she tentatively remarked "Or, I think, at least. Why are we even talking about this?"

"Just wait a couple years," Rhaenys advised her, "By then, you'll understand my meaning."

"Right," was all the Northern girl said in response. This discussion ended there, but Willas could not miss the look Arya threw Rickard's way. That expression was uncharacteristically warm. She may not need a couple years. She may not even need a couple weeks.

A few minutes later, they got to the end of the Hook. That was when they finally reached the Red Keep. Seeing it up close, Willas noticed it was smaller than he originally thought. Even so, it was an impressive structure.

"Alright, this is it," Jasper sternly declared, "Best of luck to all of you. Just stay close to me, and everything will be fine."

I certainly hope so.

After giving their mounts over to the boys of the royal stables, Willas and everyone his party followed Prince Jasper into the Red Keep.

The march to the throne room was both quiet and brief. They only needed five minutes to get there. When they arrived, they found another direwolf at the entrance of the room. That was Lady, the one that belonged to Sansa Stark. Nymeria bounded over to her older sister and nuzzled her playfully. Lady returned the gesture happily.

The two direwolves get along better than their mistresses. Of course, that would probably change soon, assuming Arya was serious about reaching a compromise with Sansa.

The majority of the people in Willas' company were required to remain outside the throne room. In fact, the only ones who were permitted entrance were Lord Willas, Princess Rhaenys, Lord Rickard, Prince Jasper, Lady Arya, Lady Ashara, Ser Oswell Whent, and the two Kingsguard who had accompanied Jasper to the harbor.

Inside the throne room, the king and the small council were already assembled, just as Jasper forecasted. Lady Sansa Stark was there, too. She was standing close to Queen Cersei.

King Robert Baratheon was seated on the Iron Throne. He sat up straight with his hands folded. He looked quite dignified and regal, like a proper and just monarch. But one mustn't go by looks alone.

Willas and his companions gradually yet unceasingly approached the Iron Throne. When they were close enough, they stopped and tilted their heads to the King. They held that stance for a few moments. Then the King beckoned them "Rise."

They all stood up straight once more. Sansa then went to stand by Jasper, who grinned at her genially. She flushed and smiled back.

Nothing much happened after that. Introductions were made between both parties, King Robert officially welcomed his new guests to King's Landing, the terms and conditions of their stay in the capital city were listed out, and that was the end of it. I do not sense any threats thus far. Be that as it may, I am not about to lower my guard.

Within twenty minutes of their arrival, Willas and the others in his group were dismissed. That was when they all parted ways.

After regrouping with their direwolves, Arya asked Sansa if she could speak with her in private. Thankfully, the elder Stark sister agreed to the younger's request. Jasper invited Rickard to spar with him in the training yard, and the heir to Moat Cailin was quick to accept. Lady Ashara went to talk to Ser Barristan Selmy, of all people. I wonder what business she would have with Barristan the Bold?

Willas was left alone with Rhaenys. That was fine with him. In fact, he was hoping for that. This was the first opportunity the two of them had to be alone with each other in three weeks. The last instance was just before they got on board the Iceberg. Not many options for privacy on an overcrowded galley. Then again, in all likelihood, privacy would not be any easier to come by in King's Landing, what with Lord Varys and his little birds. At least here, we have more space.

"Would you care to go for a walk, my lady?" Willas offered his intended.

"Ordinarily, I'd be happy to go on one, my lord," Rhaenys told him, "But I would like some time to get settled first. Would you mind?"

"Not at all," Willas assured her, "I'm a little fatigued myself. It was a long and tiring voyage."

"Quite so," Rhaenys conceded, stretching her arms and her back, "I'm going to go lie down for a while. Once I'm rested, I'll be open to doing something. So maybe we could go get together sometime later today?"

"Absolutely," Willas affirmed, "How about this: you come to my chamber tonight, and we'll have dinner."

"I'd love that," Rhaenys said favorably. I knew you would.

"It's a date then," Willas declared officially.

He kissed the princess on both cheeks and once on the lips. That was how they preferred to say "hello" and "goodbye" to one another. They parted ways then, but they would see each other again before long. Shortly after Rhaenys left to get settled, Willas went to do the same.

Of all the people who had arrived on board the Iceberg that day, Willas Tyrell was the highest in status. As such, he received the finest accommodations. He was given a spacious suite in Maegor's Holdfast. It came with a large bed, a desk, three wardrobes, two bookcases, a golden tub, a full-length looking glass, a dining table with four chairs, and a balcony which offered a superb view of both the city and the sea. He was loath to admit it, but these quarters were even better than his private apartment in the Captains' Tower at Moat Cailin.

Still, I'd chose the moat over this city any day.

When he got off the Iceberg, Willas had been wide awake. Yet now he felt strangely fatigued. He decided to take a short nap to reinvigorate himself for when he and Rhaenys had dinner.

Willas removed his sword, his cloak, and his doublet, and then he laid down on top of the bedsheets. It did not take long for him to fall asleep.

He woke up about two hours later, feeling revitalized. That was when he began to prepare for his evening.

First, he went to the kitchens and told the chefs to make a three-course meal for two, and he arranged for the servants to bring it to his bedchamber. Then he went down to the wine cellars and found a bottle of Arbor Gold and Dornish Red each. After that, he sought out a pair of minstrels; one who could play the lute, and one who could play the drums.

Willas spared no detail; he wanted everything to be perfect. Rhaenys deserves nothing less.

Once he saw to all that, Willas returned to his quarters. There he took the time to bathe, trim his beard, adorn his most formal ensemble, and set everything else up.

Shortly after he finished, the minstrels arrived. The servants appeared soon after with the food. To save time and get rid of them sooner, Willas ordered them to place all three courses on the dining table at once.

Not five minutes later, Rhaenys appeared, clad in a flowing gown of orange, red, and gold. The colors of her mother's house. Willas already thought Rhaenys was beautiful beyond words. Nonetheless, she looked inexplicably stunning in the colors of House Nymeros Martell.

Ever the chivalrous one, Willas pulled out Rhaenys' chair for her, and pushed it in after she sat down. Then he sat down beside her, and they began to eat.

The minstrels stood off to the side, playing their instruments and singing their songs. They were mostly there for ambience. Neither Willas nor Rhaenys paid much attention to them.

However, shortly after they finished the main course, Willas asked Rhaenys for a dance. She eagerly accepted, and the two of them moved out to the balcony.

Willas then requested a certain song from the minstrels. This one he had learned from Lord Gregor. He felt it perfectly described how he felt towards Rhaenys, and he wanted her to know it.

The minstrels did not sing this one. Instead, Willas did. As he held Rhaenys close to him, he sang to her:

"As the Sun goes down waking up my dreams, and in my mind, you're with me once again. Out of my heart, into your head. And inside my heart, there's a place for you. And in my mind, I'm with you once again. Out of my heart, into your head."

The song had the intended effect; it brought Rhaenys into a state of euphoric bliss. Willas wondered if she adored the lyrics or his voice more. Could be both, I guess.

They soon returned to their chairs for the dessert course. Once their plates were clean, Willas dismissed the minstrels. Now he and Rhaenys were alone once again. This time, I don't want us to be disturbed.

"That was wonderful, Will," she told him appreciatively, leaning on the surface of the table, "I'm so glad we did this."

"As am I, Rhae," he claimed, reclining in his chair, "This went even better than I planned. I honestly don't think this evening could get any better."

"Oh, I think I might know one way it could," Rhaenys wryly contended.

Willas' curiosity was piqued. "How?"

Rhaenys did not reply verbally. Instead, she slowly rose from her chair, stepped up to Willas and pressed her lips against his.

She has me there. Kissing does make everything better.

However, it turned out Rhaenys had more than kissing in mind. While her lips were still against his, she extended her right arm and gently cupped the front of his breeches. Willas felt himself stiffen at her touch. The action was so sudden that he pulled his mouth away from hers.

"What are you doing?" he nervously asked, even though he pretty much knew the answer to that question already.

"Finding out just how much reach a Reachman has," she cockily replied, continuing to rub her hand against his crotch, "If you are any indication, it's quite a lot of 'reach.'"

"I… I suppose," he conceded.

This was so unlike Willas Tyrell. He never became tongue-tied whilst talking to members of the fairer sex. Then again, no woman had ever been this close to him before. He always knew he would have to get that close to the lady who would be his wife. But he assumed that would not be until after the wedding.

Since my bride is half-Dornish, I probably should have seen this coming.

Willas tried his hardest to dissuade Rhaenys. He took ahold of her shoulders, gently pushed her back, and told her softly "Rhae, as much as I would love to take your maidenhead, we should hold off for now."

"Why, Will?" she pouted, "Sooner or later, it's going to happen, anyway. May as well make it sooner."

That is a good argument. "But it wouldn't be right."

"It would certainly feel right," she countered.

"Wouldn't make it right," he insisted.

"Oh, come on," she bade him, pressing her hand against his manhood more firmly, "You said it yourself; you wanted this night to perfect. Let's make it the perfect night."

Willas was really starting to weaken. Still, he had exceptionally strong resolve. Ignoring the throbbing in his lower body, he adamantly shook his head.

Rhaenys saw he was not about to give in. She removed her hand from his clothed erection, and then she proposed "Could you at least do it for me?"

"What do you mean?" Willas asked, bewildered.

"The last time I was here, I almost died," Rhaenys apprised him, "Even with Ser Oswell and all my other guards, I don't feel safe here. You can help me overcome that apprehension. If I were to fall asleep in your arms and wake up in them just once, I would feel safe for as long as I'm here."

That swayed Willas' mind. He could tell Rhaenys was not trying to get him in bed solely for her own benefit. It was no longer just a matter of intimacy. Now it was one of security, as well. For the first time in his life, Willas Tyrell disregarded his restraint.

"Alright," Willas proclaimed, "We can go to bed with you in my arms. I'll just consider everything that comes before that a 'prerequisite.'"

Rhaenys nodded and grinned widely. "I like the way you think."

Willas grinned back at her. He then picked up Rhaenys in his arms and carried her over to the bed. They both proceeded to shed their clothing. As lovely as Rhaenys looked in her red, orange, and gold gown, Willas was more eager to see what was underneath.

As he unlaced his breeches, he asked her deviously "Are you ready for this, my beautiful dragon?"

"Quite ready, my strong rose," she friskily rejoined, slipping out of her bodice.

"Good," he remarked. I'll show her just how long this rose's stem tuly is.

…

"Now turn to the left!" Lord Gregor Clegane called out.

At this time, the lord of Moat Cailin was less than a dozen feet in front of Samwell Tarly. The heir to Horn Hill could hear him perfectly. Even so, he could not see him.

This damn contraption is blocking my view of everything.

After many days of sweat and toil, they had finally finished construction of the printing press. It had already been designed, built, torn apart, rebuilt, and tested. Now it just needed to be relocated to higher ground.

Lord Gregor wanted the printing press on the same floor as the library. Unfortunately, that was three stories above their heads. Samwell was much stronger than when he first came to the moat, but transporting the printing press was no easy feat. Gods, this thing is heavy.

Luckily, he and the Mountain were not undertaking this endeavor on their own. Four other men were aiding them. To Samwell's right, Smalljon Umber and Polliver were holding the underside of the body of the printing press. To his left, Tormund Giantsbane and Gerion Lannister were doing the same. Samwell had a firm grasp on the roller carriage at the tallest part of the body. Gregor Clegane was at the head of the machine, steering it when needed and guiding the others.

They were six men, three of whom were among the strongest people in Westeros. Alas, moving a device as massive and cumbersome as the printing press was still a challenge. Don't buckle. Just keep your hands steady.

In any case, Samwell shifted his weight to the right so that he could rotate the printing press to the left. The other men turned it at nearly the same pace. They crossed into the next hallway and continued on the predetermined path.

At least we don't have to worry about people getting in the way. Lord Gregor had cleared their route ahead of time so that no one would impede their progress.

"We're approaching the stairwell," Gregor Clegane declared.

Samwell suppressed the desire to complain. Polliver and Tormund did not bother with that small courtesy. They both groaned quite vocally. All the same, they did not give up.

"Now comes the fun part," Smalljon Umber sarcastically muttered.

Gregor Clegane paid no mind to that remark. He remained focused on getting to the stairwell. That took less time than Samwell expected it to, which was both good and bad in his mind.

When Lord Gregor's foot was on the first step of the stairwell, he looked around at the other five men and asked them "Everyone got a stable grip?"

Samwell and the others claimed that they did.

"You're sure?" the Mountain asked, as though he did not believe they were.

"Yes, my lord," Ser Gerion asserted, somewhat irately. The others mumbled in agreement. Each of them seemed a little irate, as well. At least they can see. I'm walking blind here. Samwell tried not to sound displeased, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.

"Alright," the Mountain announced, "Let's do this."

They swiftly began the ascent. They only had to go up three flights of stairs, but the distance felt much greater than that. It's like climbing the Wall.

Samwell quickly realized that the most frustrating aspect of the printing press was not its size. It was its shape. It was four feet wide and six feet long. The body was only about three tall, but the head was nine feet at its highest point.

The stairwell was wide enough for three grown men to walk up or down it alongside each other. They would even have plenty of breathing room whilst doing this.

Two grown men and a man-sized device presented an entirely different situation. The printing press could not bend, fold, or crease in any way. It could not be disassembled, either. Thus, once it was completed, it could only be moved in its final state. As a result, there was not much space for Samwell and his companions to work with on the stairwell.

As they made their way up the first flight of stairs, Lord Gregor yelled "Here we go… Pivot! Pivot! Pivot! Pivot!"

Samwell and the others followed his orders and rotated the printing press slightly to the right as they ascended. With each step they rose, Lord Gregor bellowed "pivot" again. Samwell noted that every time he said 'pivot,' he pronounced it in a slightly different tone of voice. Some of his annunciations were somewhat amusing. Perhaps he's trying to be humorous. I'd welcome that. Some humor would be a nice distraction from the pain in my arms.

After Lord Gregor called out "pivot" for fifteenth time, Ser Gerion Lannister moaned and muttered heatedly "My lord, please!"

Straightaway, Gregor Clegane stopped shouting "pivot." He turned to the blond knight and murmured "My apologies, Gerion. I've just always wanted to do that."

"Scream 'pivot' while carrying a large, heavy object up a flight of stairs?" Polliver presumed.

"Yes," the Mountain affirmed.

"That's a queer goal to have," Tormund observed.

"Well, I saw another group of people do it once," Lord Gregor explained, "It was quite hilarious, actually. Their situation was much like ours. Only theirs ended with one of them telling the person yelling 'pivot' to 'shut up' thrice. That made it even more comical."

"I was certainly tempted to tell you to shut up, Gregor," Smalljon Umber drily remarked. I'll wager he was not the only one.

"All japes aside, can we focus on getting this fucking thing upstairs?" Tormund proposed exasperatedly.

"Of course," Lord Gregor said in response. The six men promptly resumed climbing up the stairs. A few seconds later, he declared "We just reached the second floor. We're a third of the way there."

We're not even halfway. Again, Samwell did not complain, despite his strong urge to. Keep your head together, Sam. You must not give up now.

Over the next thirty seconds, the six men ascended in total silence, aside from the occasional grunt or groan.

After that, Smalljon sardonically wondered aloud "Whose brilliant idea was it to put the library on the fourth floor, anyway?"

"The architects'," Lord Gregor revealed, "I personally would have put it on a lower level, but for some reason I cannot fathom, they thought the fourth floor was most ideal. I think it's because the largest room in this tower is on that level, and how nearly every wall in that room has shelves carved into it. Then again, that was their doing, as well. Perhaps I signed off on those blueprints a little too hastily."

"Why didn't we just move the library?" Polliver conjectured.

"If you can think of another practical use for all those shelves in the largest room on the fourth floor…" Lord Gregor countered.

"Fair argument," Gerion Lannister admitted, "But suppose we renovated the first and fourth floors?"

"To do that, the Knowledge Tower would have to be closed off for months," the Mountain debated, "Most of the building would be inaccessible, including the rookery. Not to mention all the time it would take to carry the books, tables, chairs, and extra bookcases downstairs."

"That would be rather obstructive," Samwell observed, "Aside from that, I would hate for the library to be closed down for a single day, let alone a few months."

"I would, too," Smalljon contended. Samwell was astonished. I didn't take him for much of a reader. "Even so, is it really necessary for us to take this damn thing all the way up there?"

"Of course," Lord Gregor confirmed, "With the printing press, we'll be making scores of books daily. Each book needs its own place. At the rate we'll be turning them out, we should ideally find a place to put them as soon as they are printed."

That would be easier with the printing press in the very next room to the library.

"Well, remind me again," Tormund requested, "Why didn't you just build this thing on the same floor as the library to begin with?"

"Because all the construction materials are on the ground floor," Gregor Clegane elaborated, "Most of the devices we create do not even stay in the Knowledge Tower upon completion. They're usually moved to other parts of the moat instead. This, however, is one of the few exceptions."

"Suppose that instead of carrying the whole printing press up to the four floor, we only took up the resources required to make it, my lord," Samwell hypothesized, "Once we had everything gathered, we could have built it up there. That would have been considerably less strenuous."

"Maybe," the Mountain argued, "But it would have been no less time-consuming, Sam. Keep in mind how much trial and error we went through to produce a functional printing press. We encountered half a dozen failures before we finally succeeded. Now imagine carrying seven loads of the lumber, nails, and tools we needed to build a printing press up these stairs. Would you prefer that over this?"

"When you put it that way… no, that would not be a better alternative," Samwell drearily pronounced, "Now that I think on this, it would also be very disruptive. All that carpentry would surely have disturbed everyone in the library next door. In my mind, people deserve some peace and quiet when they want to read."

"Well, there are some who can read in a loud environment," Gerion Lannister pointed out, "Be that as it may, I agree with you. Silence is more appealing."

"You should tell my wife that," Polliver jokily remarked.

Samwell and the other four laughed heartily at that jape.

"Does anyone else have any further grievances to share?" Gregor Clegane inquired. When no one gave a response, the lord of Moat Cailin proclaimed "Then while we're on the subject of how pleasant silence can be, let's not talk any more until we reach our destination. We'll only expend more energy and distract one another. Anyway, we just passed the third floor."

I would say that's a relief, but we've still got one flight of stairs to go.

By this point, Samwell's legs were aching badly, and his hands were beginning to cramp. Since he was at the back of the group, he felt as though the full weight of the printing press was being forced upon him.

At the very least, the printing press had not gotten stuck in the stairwell. He hoped it would stay that way. Given the dimensions of the stairwell, it would have been fairly easy for the printing press to get wedged in this enclosed space. Especially with six grown men all around it.

Thankfully, Samwell and the other men managed to avoid getting trapped by the printing press. They also managed to avoid dropping it, banging it against the wall, or smashing each other with it. In fact, the last phase of the ascent was rather simple, and it went by without incident.

Until they finally reached the fourth floor.

Due to his position in the group, Samwell was still moving with zero visibility. He could not even look down to check his footing. That was not an issue when walking down a hallway or climbing up a stairwell. Stepping onto a flight of stairs or getting off it, however…

Samwell could tell when they reached the fourth floor when the angle he held the printing press at started to decrease. That was a clear indication that they were coming onto flat ground again.

The more the press's incline lessened, the more relieved Samwell felt. Soon enough, Lord Gregor, Ser Gerion, Smalljon, Tormund, and Polliver were all on the fourth floor.

Then Samwell Tarly himself got there. Unfortunately, he misjudged the distance between the top step of the stairwell and the one below it. He meant to put his foot down in the center of the top step, but he ended up stepping onto the very ledge of it instead.

"Woah!" Samwell exclaimed as he tripped over the top step. He struggled to remain on his feet, but he lost both his balance and his grip on the printing press. Suddenly, he was falling straight backwards. For a split-second, he feared he would land on his head and crack his skull. Or worse.

Fortunately, no grave injury befell him. Before Samwell could tumble down the stairwell, an arm shot out from around the printing press and seized him by the front of his doublet.

Samwell fumbled with his feet for a moment, and before he could register what had just transpired, he was standing on solid ground again.

Samwell saw that the hand that had grabbed him still had a hold on his doublet. The arm belonged to Smalljon Umber, who was grinning at him. The heir to Last Hearth released the younger man and uttered slyly "Mind your feet, Sam."

"Thank you," the heir to Horn Hill gasped, leaning against the wall to recover from his shock.

"Everyone alright?" Lord Gregor Clegane asked in concern.

"Yeah," Tormund Giantsbane replied, "We're fine over here."

Despite this sudden burst of activity, the other men had managed to prevent the printing press from falling onto the floor. That's impressive, seeing as it lost three of the twelve hands that were holding it up.

This momentary loss of a quarter of the group's manpower was controllable. In fact, the group had prepared for setbacks such as that. When they decided how they would transport the printing press, the six men had arranged themselves in a fashion such that if one or even two of them buckled, the others would still be able to support the press's weight and continue forward without them.

"You're all doing magnificently," Lord Gregor declared, "A few dozen more feet and we're there."

"Right," Smalljon Umber commented, taking ahold of his side of the printing press with both hands once again.

As the same time, Samwell approached the back of the press. Before he could lift that end of it, Gerion Lannister told him "If you're tired, Sam, you don't have to trouble yourself. We can manage from here."

Samwell's arms and legs were aching all over. They were practically screaming to him for a reprieve. Aside from that, Ser Gerion did not sound condescending or presumptuous. He sounded genuinely concerned for Samwell's well-being.

Nevertheless, Samwell Tarly was not about to give up. Not when we're so close to achieving our objective.

"That won't be necessary, Ser Gerion," Samwell professed, "I just tripped on the stairs. I can assure you that won't happen again."

"Are you certain of that?" Polliver inquired, anxiously. He expects me to mess up again. Samwell could discern that much from the other man's tone. That was similar to the tone Samwell's father normally used with him. Only Polliver's tone is not so aggressive or demeaning.

"Yes," Samwell muttered firmly, "I helped design and build this thing. I'll be damned if I do not help bring it to its final resting place."

His five associates appeared surprised by the determination in Samwell's voice and actions. He nearly surprised himself. Normally he was not so assertive. Even I take pride in my work, I suppose.

"I believe he can handle it," Gerion Lannister perceived.

"I know he can," Gregor Clegane affirmed, "Reassume your original position, Sam."

"Aye, my lord," Samwell acknowledged. As before, he moved to the back of the printing press and picked it up on that end. The six men made their way down the adjoining corridor.

"Still, be careful where you step," Smalljon Umber advised, "And I am not speaking only to Sam. If we get careless, any one of us could slip and smash his head against the ground."

"I don't think we're in any danger of that, Jon," Gregor Clegane commented frankly.

"One can never be too sure, Gregor," Smalljon debated, "As you yourself said, some of us are going to die. All the same, there is no need for any of us to die in such a disgraceful and undignified manner."

The Mountain let out a deep sigh and murmured irately "You are looking too much into my words. Anyway, we're not going to die because of this machine."

"Well, it could fall on one of us," Polliver supposed.

"It hasn't so far," Gerion Lannister countered. No, and it's also too heavy to push or drop onto someone.

"If we stay here much longer, it might," Tormund Giantsbane snapped impatiently.

"Tormund has a point," Smalljon perceived.

"Indeed," the Mountain conceded, "So let's move on. We can continue this discussion when we get to the library."

"Right," Samwell said plainly.

Five minutes later, the six men arrived at their destination.

The library encompassed most of the fourth floor of the Knowledge Tower. There were a number of smaller rooms around it. These rooms were essentially large closets that served as storage space.

Earlier that week, one of those storage closets had been emptied of its contents. That was where Samwell and his fellow Legionnaires brought the printing press. Getting the machine through the doorframe was a simple enough task. After that, all they had to do was bring the press to the back of the room and set it down against the wall.

That was when they were finally able to rest their arms and catch their breath.

"All in favor of never doing that again…" Gerion Lannister drily uttered, rubbing the palms of his hands.

"I'm for that," Polliver proclaimed, stretching his back.

"The fuck is this thing made of, anyway?" Tormund spat, glowering at the printing press.

"If you'd really like to know, I have the schematics right here," Samwell proposed, reaching into his doublet and taking out a short pile of assorted papers, "Complete with a list of very explicit directions for assembly and maintenance."

"I think I'll bypass that offer," Tormund mumbled superficially.

"As you say," Samwell calmly stated in acknowledgment. He lowered his hand and gazed around the room. He and the other five men stood around in relative quietness for about a minute. After that, Samwell turned to the tallest person there and stated "So, Lord Gregor, now that the printing press is officially in commission, we should put it to use."

"Quite so, Sam," Lord Gregor concurred, "I plan to do so immediately."

Samwell beamed in excitement. "What will be the first thing you'll have it print?"

"You're holding it right now," the Mountain replied.

Samwell looked down at his hands, somewhat perplexed. "The press's instruction manual?"

Gregor Clegane nodded in confirmation. "The printing press will be the greatest breakthrough Westeros has seen since Valyrian steel was first introduced to it. As such, there should be more than one of it in existence. I propose we send a copy of the manual to each of the Great Houses, as well as anyone else of high birth who expresses interest in having one."

"I rather like that idea, my lord," Gerion Lannister muttered in approval.

"So do I," Smalljon Umber remarked, "Before long, the realm would have more books than it knew what to do with."

Oh, one could never have too many books.

"Let's get started then," Gregor Clegane declared.

Samwell walked over to the Mountain and handed him the printing press schematics. Lord Gregor brought the schematics over to the printing press itself. He placed them in the platen, and he set the till to the appropriate setting. A length of parchment had already been loaded into the roller carriage. Once everything was ready, he pressed down on the bar. In response, the coffin and stone pressed down on the blank parchment, and the movable type went to work.

Within minutes, the first complete copy of the press instruction manual was produced.

Although Samwell had been there when Lord Gregor tested the printing press, this was the first time Polliver, Smalljon, Tormund, and Gerion witnessed a demonstration of its abilities. They all seemed impressed to some degree.

"How long can it do that before it stops?" Tormund inquired.

"So long as there is parchment in the roller carriage," Lord Gregor apprised him, "As of now, it has enough parchment to print over a hundred more copies of the manual before it has to be reloaded."

Tormund was fascinated. He stepped closer to the printing press and commented "I think I'll just stay here and watch it for a while."

"I'd like to observe a little, too," said Ser Gerion Lannister.

"Enjoy yourselves," Smalljon stated cheekily, "I think I might join you. Before then, there is something else I'd like to address."

"What might that be?" Gregor Clegane enquired.

"I would like to pick up where we left off in the hallway," Smalljon Umber pronounced.

Lord Gregor seemed confused. "Elucidate, please."

The heir to Last Hearth did just that. He told the Mountain "At the last secret council meeting, you gave that speech about how some of the people who attended it will not live to see the Long Night."

"So I did," Gregor Clegane confirmed, "If you are wondering, that speech was not merely a means of motivation. I honestly believe a few of the people who were at that meeting will die before the Others march south."

"I would call that cynical," Gerion Lannister contended, "But cynics are usually righter than most."

"And it is a dangerous world out there," Polliver pointed out.

"True, and true," Smalljon Umber uttered, "Tell me, Gregor. Who do you think will be the first to go?"

The Mountain did not seem to understand. "Excuse me?"

"Ever since the meeting, I've been wondering which of its attendees will die first," Smalljon clarified, "Who do you think it'll be?"

Samwell was astounded by that query. Lord Gregor seemed repulsed by it. He barked "What kind of question is that?"

"A purely speculative one," Smalljon insisted, "I mean, if you really are so certain some of us will not survive to the next winter, there must be someone in particular you expect to die. Is that right?"

Lord Gregor grimaced and turned away from his colleague. "I do not wish to have this conversation."

"Maybe you don't," Smalljon countered, "I'd like to, though. And I think we should. It would give us all a better idea of where our chances stand."

"Enough!" Gregor Clegane bellowed furiously, "We're not going to converse this topic, and that is final."

Samwell and the other men were alarmed by that outburst. When Lord Gregor raises his voice, things are definitely serious

"Very well," Smalljon Umber grudgingly stated, "But I'll be ready and willing to talk on it if ever you change your mind."

That's unlikely. But not impossible. With the Mountain That Rides, almost nothing is impossible.

Smalljon Umber then went to stand by the printing press with Ser Gerion and Tormund. Polliver rubbed his hands together and thought aloud "As interesting as the press is, I'd prefer to spend the rest of the day with more intimate company. Such as my wife."

"I understand, Polliver," Gregor Clegane told his captain of the guard, "You have my leave to go."

"Thank you, milord," the tall black-bearded man said appreciatively. He quickly exited the room.

After Polliver left, Gregor Clegane announced "I'm going to come back here in an hour or whenever the parchment in the press runs out. Anyone who wishes to stay and watch it work is free to do so. Everyone else, just go about your business."

Tormund Giantsbane, Gerion Lannister, and Smalljon Umber all chose to remain with the printing press for a while. Samwell Tarly and Gregor Clegane were the only ones who went elsewhere.

They did not go very far; just into the adjoining room. They opted to simply linger in the library until the printing press needed its parchment supply refilled.

The library at Moat Cailin was rarely ever empty. For good reason, of course. It was also one of the largest rooms in the whole of the moat. It could seat over one hundred people, and thrice as many could move about it all at once. At this time, there were about thirty or forty others standing or sitting in various spots around the area.

Shortly after he and Lord Gregor entered, Samwell spotted two small children sitting by themselves at a table in the middle of the library. Actually, "small" was not the right word to describe them. They were certainly small next to any adult, including dwarfs. Even so, they were larger than almost all other children their ages. Just as their brothers before them are, and the one after.

Despite their size, Vallory Clegane and Larys Clegane were not so large that they could not share a single chair. That was how they were seated now. Vallory had an arm around Larys, and she was holding an open book in front of him. Samwell could not tell if she was actually reading to him or just trying to catch his attention. Larys was turning the pages at a rather fast pace.

At any rate, their father decided to join them. Samwell Tarly quickly followed Gregor Clegane as the latter approached his only daughter and his third son. Whatever was in Vallory and Larys' book, it must have been engrossing. They did not look up from it until the Mountain's shadow fell across them.

"Good day, Father," Vallory greeted him. Vallory was her mother reborn in nearly every way, including appearance. She was very pretty, and not just "little girl pretty." She would undoubtedly be a vision of loveliness when she became a woman grown. Less than a month ago, she had seen her seventh nameday. But one might think it had been her ninth or tenth instead. Samwell wondered how long it would be before she began her transition into womanhood. At the rate she's been growing, she could be blossoming by her next nameday.

"Papa!" Larys exclaimed giddily. Larys was perhaps the most active of Lord Gregor Clegane and Lady Dacey Mormont's brood. However, out of all of them, he had weighed the least at birth. He was just over ten pounds when he came into the world. Although he would still be taller than the average man when he grew up, he would likely be the most normal-sized of the Mountain's children. Maybe some of us will be able to look him in the eye. He had seen his fourth nameday less than a fortnight earlier. He had been a little upset that his mother and brothers were absent from the celebration, but his father, sister, and friends managed to keep him entertained and happy.

Lord Gregor Clegane smiled at son and daughter. When he reached them, he knelt down to their level, and he asked in a stern yet fatherly voice "Shouldn't you two be at your lessons?"

"We were," Larys claimed, "But not anymore."

"Why is that?" Lord Gregor inquired.

"Maester Kennick let us out early," Vallory apprised him.

The Mountain raised an eyebrow. "Why did he do that?"

"He was needed elsewhere in the moat," Vallory revealed, "There was an accident in the Recruits Tower."

"'Accident?'" Lord Gregor repeated inquisitively.

"Someone got hurt," Larys explained, "I don't know who."

"Why wasn't I told?" Gregor Clegane asked.

"I think the injured person was one of the Legion's newest members," Vallory recounted, "Their injuries were not very serious, either. I guess the maester did not think the accident was important enough to tell you about."

"I suppose he made the right call," Lord Gregor admitted, "After all, if I was summoned every time one of the inductees damaged himself or someone else, I would be spending about half the day in the Recruits Tower or the training yard."

He also would have spent much more time with me during my first few weeks at the moat.

"The maester could not say how long he would be gone, so he dismissed us," Vallory pronounced.

"That is fair," Lord Gregor contended. He then turned to the book his children had in their hands. "What's that you're reading?"

Vallory and Larys did not answer right away. Ultimately, the former told their father "Well, we're not really reading it. We're more looking at it."

By this point, Samwell had only seen the cover of Clegane children's book. He stepped around them and glimpsed at the page it was open to. As Larys continued to turn the pages, Samwell got a good look saw at what was printed on each of them.

Just as I thought.

Whatever book it was, it had pictures on nearly every page. They're not invested in the words, clearly. Samwell could fault Vallory or Larys. They were still at the age when children were more captivated by pictures than text. Not that there's anything wrong with images.

In Samwell's mind, illustrations made for decent visual aids every now and then, but too many of them could prove very distracting from the written contents of the book. Samwell much preferred books with occasional illustrations or none at all.

"Can I look with you?" Gregor Clegane asked hopefully. His eagerness was obviously feigned, but he succeeded in convincing his children that he shared their interests in the book.

"Yeah!" Larys called out excitedly.

"Of course," Vallory stated, more calmly.

Samwell expected Lord Gregor to sit down beside Vallory and Larys. Instead, he picked up both of his children, sat down in their chair, and set both of them on his lap. Intriguingly, there was more space for them to sit on their father's lap than there was on the chair. Vallory and Larys also seemed to enjoy that arrangement more. Lord Gregor a strong grip but a gentle embrace. He tenderly held his children close to him.

Samwell observed the two children interact with their father, and he could not help but envy them. His own father had never been so affectionate. What I'd give to have a father like theirs. Truthfully, he felt Lord Gregor was more of a father to him than Randyll Tarly had ever been.

"Oh, I just remembered, Father," Vallory thought aloud. She reached into a pocket on her breeches and pulled out a few rolled-up pieces of parchment. She displayed them to Lord Gregor, saying "In case he did not get back until later, Maester Kennick wanted me to give you these."

Lord Gregor took the small scrolls from his daughter and asked her "What are they?"

"Just some letters that came in today," she notified him.

Lord Gregor took a minute to look the letters over. He commented in as somewhat gloomy tone "I may have to answer some of these straightaway. As such, I'm afraid we'll have to cut our bonding time short."

Vallory and Larys seemed dismayed by that. Their father was always a busy man, but lately, he had been so busy that he was barely able to make time for them outside of meals. As such, the three of them had come to treasure every moment they spent together.

"Or not," Samwell hastily countered. He sat in the chair next to the Cleganes and held out his hand. He proposed "I could read and reply to them for you, my lord."

Lord Gregor was taken aback yet flattered. "I would greatly appreciate that, Sam. You wouldn't mind?"

"Think nothing of it," Samwell bade him, "I am your notary, after all."

"That you are," Lord Gregor affirmed. He then extended the hand with the letters and muttered "Very well."

Samwell took the papers and set them on the surface of the table. Then he reached into his doublet and pulled out a small box. It pays to carry a spare quill pen and ink set at all times. After placing down a sheet of parchment, an inkwell, and a feather quill, Samwell declared "Let us begin."

Over the next five and forty minutes, Lord Gregor Clegane "enjoyed" his children's book with them. At the same time, Samwell Tarly read aloud Lord Gregor's letters and – under the Mountain's dictation – drafted an appropriate response to each of them.

Most of them were summary reports of missions done by Legionnaires throughout the realm. Since the start of autumn, civil unrest had risen in parts of Westeros. The Legion without Banners was called upon to resolve any disputes that had arisen because of it. So far, all of these disputes had been dealt with quickly and quietly. None had gone beyond the region of its origin, and all had been put down within a week. The responses to all of these messages were quite brief; they were little more than simple acknowledgments of the missions' successes.

A few particular letters stood out from the others.

There was one from Castle Black. Apparently, Lord Jeor Mormont was planning a great ranging north of the Wall. Before he and his black brothers set out, they were going to take the time to methodically decide on final preparations. The purpose of this letter was to invite Gregor Clegane to partake in those preparations.

Lord Gregor's response was candid. He informed Lord Jeor that while he appreciated the gesture, he would most likely be unable to answer the summons. He argued that he was still far too preoccupied with everything going on in the Seven Kingdoms. As it happened, Lord Gregor had been aware of this great ranging for weeks. His sister and her husband had informed him of it when they got back from their visit to the Wall. He personally was not in favor of it, but at this point, there was little he could do to deter Lord Jeor and his rangers from going through with it.

There was also a letter from King's Landing. This one was written in Rickard's hand. In it, the heir to Moat Cailin informed his father and siblings that he, Willas Tyrell, Rhaenys Targaryen, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and Ashara Dayne had arrived in the capital city safely. So far, their stay had been a pleasant one, and the King had been a very gracious and accommodating host.

Vallory, Larys, and Lord Gregor were delighted to hear from Rickard. From the moment he sailed away on the Iceberg, the three of them had been very worried for him. To hear that he was faring well in the capital city was quite reassuring for them. Samwell shared their relief, as Rickard was one of his closest friends. He was very glad to know that Rickard was doing alright in the south.

There was still no word from Lady Dacey, though. That was unfortunate, but not discouraging. I'm certain we'll hear from her soon enough. Her convoy should arrive in Essos sometime within the next fortnight. Although Vallory and Larys were undeniably happy to be with their father, they still missed their mother.

The last letter in the pile was from Clegane's Keep.

Lately, Lord Gregor had been thoroughly investigating the attempt on Lord Sandor Clegane's life. He was determined to uncover what possible motive the Golden Company might have had to try to murder his brother.

To further his examination, the Mountain had corresponded with his family in the south on a regular basis. He had asked them to tell him of everything that had happened at or around Clegane's Keep in the last year. It was his belief that perhaps something pertaining to a recent event would yield a clue.

So far, that was turning out to be nothing more than wishful thinking. Be that as it may, Lord Gregor Clegane was not about to give up. He firmly believed there was some hidden detail that would unearth the Golden Company's interests in the Cleganes of Clegane's Keep.

"Apparently, there is one piece of information Lord Sandor has withheld up until now," Samwell pronounced, looking over the letter, "He claims he omitted it because he did not think it mattered. But, at your insistence, he has changed his mind and decided to share it."

"I'm listening," Lord Gregor declared.

"There is a certain man who has taken up residence in the keep," Samwell disclosed, "No one can account for who this man is or where he came from. He was one of the hostages Lord Sandor saved from that raid a few months back. However, no one involved in that fiasco could tell Lord Sandor anything about the man. They believe he is Essosi. Beyond that, he is a mystery."

"What is his name?" Gregor queried.

Samwell held the Clegane's Keep letter closer to his face and stared at it intently. "It's a very odd name. I need a moment to try to see if I can pronounce it correctly… Alright... Jackin Hager. No… Jaccen Hogar. No, that's not it. Perhaps it's-"

"Jaqen H'ghar?" Lord Gregor interrupted. He spoke in a very quiet and very unsettled voice.

Samwell lightly nodded his head and gazed up from the parchment. Noting the expression on the Mountain's face, he muttered nervously "Do you know him, my lord?"

"I do," Gregor Clegane replied.

"How?" Samwell inquired curiously.

Lord Gregor placed his daughter and his son on the floor. He told them softly "Vallory, Larys, why don't you go into the next room for a few minutes? Maybe you'd like to take a look at the printing press."

"Sure, Papa!" Larys stated enthusiastically.

Vallory chuckled at her brother's reaction. Then she took his hand in hers, gazed up at their father, and requested "Please tell us when we can come back, Father."

Gregor Clegane firmly nodded. He watched his children as they headed to the closet that held the printing press. Once they were gone, he turned back to his notary.

"Well, my lord?" said Samwell, hoping for some clarity.

"Jaqen H'ghar is a Faceless Man of Braavos," Lord Gregor notified him, "The only reason he'd be in Westeros is if he meant to kill someone."

That could be good or bad. "Who do you suppose his target is?"

"I couldn't say," Lord Gregor confessed, "The Faceless Men do not choose sides in wars or other conflicts. They only kill people they are hired to kill. Or told to kill by those they owe favors to."

"Was he in your visions?" Samwell conjectured.

"Yes, he was in several," Gregor Clegane confirmed, "Under the right circumstances, he could be a useful ally to us. I wonder… is there anything else about him in that letter?"

Samwell looked over the piece of parchment again, and he professed "This may interest you: Jaqen H'ghar seems to have gotten quite close to your niece, Lady Tyta Clegane. Especially since she stopped that Golden Company spy from poisoning and robbing her father. He is as cryptic with her as he is with everyone else, but she seems to have come to understand him better than anyone else at Clegane's Keep."

Lord Gregor Clegane thought on that for a minute. Then he stated "Draft a note to my brother, Sam. Tell him that I want him to send Tyta and Jaqen H'ghar to Moat Cailin at once. If at all possible, I'd like him to accompany them."

Samwell was stunned. "Might I ask why, my lord?"

"Despite what Sandor told me, I believe Tyta did not kill that assassin all on her own," the Mountain expounded, "She may have delivered the killing blow, but it is quite probable that Jaqen H'ghar interceded sometime before that. He must have had a reason for doing so. Perhaps he sees potential in her."

"What sort of potential?" the heir to Horn Hill enquired.

"I couldn't say just yet," Lord Gregor told him, "My niece and Jaqen H'ghar should come her before I rush to any conclusions."

Samwell started to nod his head in agreement. In the midst of his nod, a disturbing thought abruptly occurred to him. "Hold on a moment, my lord. Could it be possible that you are the person Jaqen H'ghar means to kill?"

Lord Gregor seemed astounded. "Huh. I never thought of that. I admit it's a possibility. But not a very likely one. While I cannot claim to know how the Faceless Men think, it would have made no sense for him to infiltrate Clegane's Keep just to get here. Aside from that, Moat Cailin is closer to Essos, and it is relatively open to the public."

"Maybe he's aware that you know of him," Samwell supposed, "If so, he may have anticipated that you'll deduce that he saved Lady Tyta, and he expects to earn your trust as a result."

Lord Gregor shook his head and contended "If he does know me, he would know that no one earns my trust that easily, even if they save a member of my family. Furthermore, I would never place all my trust in assassins. Trust is not even the main issue here."

"Indeed not, my lord," Samwell Tarly conceded, "The main issue is the probability that you are his intended victim."

"I'm not," Gregor Clegane sternly proclaimed, "Of that much, I am certain."

The conviction in Lord Gregor's speech was sufficient to ease Samwell's mind. "If you say so, my lord, I will take your word for it. Even so, please be cautious."

"I am cautious always," the Mountain debated. He leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on the Reachman's shoulder. "You can relax, Sam. I know what I'm doing."

"I never thought you didn't," Samwell proclaimed, looking the tall man in the eye, "I was just thinking about what Smalljon said earlier. As mortifying as his argument was, he did have a point. Any one of us could die at any time. As such, we should not tempt fate any more than absolutely necessary."

"I agree with the sentiment," Gregor Clegane admitted, "I was no more comfortable with Smalljon's talk than you were. But you're right; he did have a point. Some of the people who were present at the secret council's last meeting are going to die. However, think on this: of the five groups were broke up into, ours is in the least amount of danger. Moat Cailin is considerably safer than King's Landing, the Free Cities, Slaver's Bay, and anywhere else in Essos. Every part of it is guarded and manned all day long, and an comprehensive record of all its activities is kept and updated hourly. Therefore, I do not believe the first victim will be anyone who is currently at Moat Cailin."

"I wished I shared your conviction," Samwell glumly commented.

Lord Gregor grinned gently and stated "You mustn't despair, Sam. You and I will get through this. I know that for a fact. Do you know why I know that? Because-"

Samwell never found out why Lord Gregor was so certain both of them would live to see the Long Night. Before the Mountain could tell him that, an earsplitting boom penetrated the quiet atmosphere.

The boom sounded like an explosion. The entire room shook, and Samwell was thrown from his chair, as were many of the other people in the room.

It was loud, too. Immediately after it, Samwell felt a ringing in his ears. At that time, he was deaf to all sound around him.

He managed to pull himself up off the ground and turn towards the Mountain. He saw Lord Gregor's mouth moving, but he could not hear any words come out of it.

After about minute, his hearing returned. Lord Gregor was asking him "Sam, are you alright?"

Samwell Tarly lightly nodded his head and mumbled "Yes… I… I'm alright. W-what just happened, my lord?"

"I don't know," Gregor Clegane responded. He slowly looked over at a corner of the library and added in "But it came from over there."

Samwell turned in that direction, and he felt the color drain from his face. "My lord… that's where the printing press is."

Lord Gregor's jaw dropped and he stared in shock. That was when Samwell remembered. Something more valuable to him than the printing press is in there. The Mountain speedily helped Samwell off the ground and told him "Come on."

The two men rushed over to the storage closet with the printing press.

The room was an absolute mess. All the torches had been snuffed out, and much of the ceiling had caved in. There was rubble, soot, chunks of stone, and fragments of seared parchment everywhere.

Miraculously, the printing press was intact. Even so, every copy of the instruction manual had been obliterated completely. Tormund Giantsbane was propped up against the side of the press. Ser Gerion was kneeling before the wilding, struggling to revive him. Vallory, Larys, and Smalljon were nowhere to be seen.

Lord Gregor started looking frantically around the room. As he did that, Samwell went to assist Ser Gerion with Tormund.

The wildling came around a few seconds later. He rubbed his head and sharply muttered "What the fuck was that?"

"I'd like to know that myself," Samwell remarked.

"I'm not entirely sure," Ser Gerion confessed. He tried to sound collected, but the tension was evident in his voice. "One moment, we were waiting for the printing press to run out of parchment. The next… we heard the door open. I turned around just in time to see a small barrel get thrown inside."

"Who threw it?" Samwell enquired.

"I have no idea," Gerion confessed, "Whoever he was, he just opened the door and tossed the barrel inside."

The remnants of this barrel were near the center of the room. Lord Gregor stopped to examine them. He noticed a type of residue on the ground. For a few seconds, he studied this residue with his eyes. Then he scraped it up with a finger, sniffed it, and pressed it against the tip of his tongue.

"Black powder," he announced grimly.

Samwell knew what that meant. Someone just tried to destroy the printing press. And they were willing to kill every person in this room to do it.

"Were Vallory and Larys in here?" Lord Gregor asked anxiously.

"Yes, they were," Gerion tentatively answered.

"Did you see what happened to them?" Gregor Clegane inquired, almost demandingly.

"Yes, Smalljon grabbed them," Ser Gerion disclosed. He stood up, pointed to a certain part of the room, and pronounced "He ducked into that corner with them in his arms."

Samwell looked to where the Westerlander knight was pointing. There was a tremendous amount of debris in that corner. Enough to completely bury a grown man and two children.

Lord Gregor hurried over to the rubble and began to push it away.

"Help me!" he yelled hysterically, "Please!"

Samwell, Tormund, and Gerion rushed to aid the Mountain. As fast as they could, they cleared away the huge slabs of stone. Please, gods, don't let them be… I beg of you.

Soon enough, the rubble was moved away. Beneath it, they found Smalljon Umber lying on his stomach. He was holding something close to his chest. Something or someone?

Lord Gregor, Ser Gerion, Tormund, and Samwell gently rolled the heir to Last Hearth onto his back. Sure enough, he was holding Vallory and Larys Clegane in his arms. For a moment, they were as still as Smalljon. Then, they opened their eyes and took in some deep breaths.

"Papa…" Larys whimpered.

"Father…" Vallory said quietly.

Gregor Clegane reached forward, picked up both of his children, and hugged them tightly. He looked as though he was going to weep. I think I might weep.

"Smalljon, thank you," the Mountain panted admiringly, "Thank you so much."

"Good move, mate," Tormund praised his friend, punching him on the shoulder.

Samwell expected Smalljon to punch Tormund's shoulder back. That was something of a friendly habit of theirs.

But Smalljon did not punch back. He did not even move. That was when Samwell and the other men became concerned.

"Smalljon?" Gerion said nervously, patting the Northman's face roughly, "Are you alright?"

Tormund started shaking his friend by his side and told him "Come on, this is not amusing."

Samwell was the first to begin to realize the truth. He muttered desperately "Oh, no. No, please, no…"

He leaned forward and placed his ear against Smalljon Umber's chest. He heard nothing. There was no heartbeat whatsoever.

Samwell slowly brought his head back up and stared at the wall in shock. That was when he finally and fully embraced the reality of the situation. We're not safe. None of us. Not at all.