SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!

Mid 283 Spring

I sat atop my field stool, on a hill overlooking the plains we battled on. The sight of our site of glory filling my vision, but the broken bodies and wailful morns failed to uplift my spirit. Victory of such grand scale and achievement few could even envision, my enemies driven before me, but it is the lamentations of their women dragging my mood down. Instead of exultation, I felt grief. Shameful really. 

While our army rested and recovered after giving the maximum effort to the slaughter, and our back lines processed prisoners, Ned Stark rallied an advance force to enter the city against the advice of his foster father, Jon Arryn. 

"Lord Mormont?" he addressed me when I failed to stand up after he rose from his stool, a sign of division in the ranks of the Northern host, or just a tired man needing a minute.

"I'm coming." I sighed, knowing what we would find. 

I descended the hill with a handful of the other Northern high lords, and mounted up my horse calling up my men to enter a proper city this time… and not sack it. It felt like heresy at this point, and I could see the disappointment on the faces around me. The High Sparrow may have done a fine job humanizing the suffering of these people with his testament of the atrocities of the sack, and all I can say is that my forces could have done it way better. We have a lot of experience with these kinds of events by this point. The description of Westerland conduct reeks of amateurism. 

I had to leave Ser Fluffles the Bold behind as he sent a message counter to Ned's goals for this diplomatic envoy. That of: we're the good guys. We rode off the fields to the Gate of the Gods, something I found quite ironic as the stone carved faces of the Seven watched an armed force of Old God worshiping savages force themselves through the flow of fleeing small folk in some attempt to save them from the Seven fearing Men of the West. We live in a topsy turvy upside down world sometimes. 

"Clear a path you pathetic lot!" Greatjon shouted at the head of our formation, "Get out of our way! It's like you people don't even want to be saved!" 

Ned grew frustrated at our glacial pace through the city and I took a deep breath, then joked, "It might be faster if we had him shout that we are here to kill all the men and rape all the women." 

"That was ill said." Ned shot back with surprising verbal quickness. 

Usually he needs a moment or two to process, but his distress seems to have shortened the pathway between his brain and his mouth. 

"Not exactly untrue." loud-whispered Roose Boolton, somehow getting his voice heard over the deluge of screams pouring in on us, "If the small folk believe we are here to protect them, then they will swarm us and halt our progress to the Red Keep." 

The Leech Lord possessed more style than our esteemed Quiet Wolf, donning a set of dark grey plate over a quilted tunic of blood red leather with rondels shaped like screaming human heads, and streamers of red silk cascading down his helmet. I respect the drip, though more muted than my personal taste which had spread among my associated lords via gifts and simple imitation. We men of the north west coast are a colorful people, and we just needed disposable income and energy security to bring it out of us. 

Ned grit his teeth at the truth of his ancient rival's statement. If the influx of small folk continued without us getting aggressive, they will push us out of the city. He ran headlong into the dilemma his foster father advised him to avoid. 

"Draw steel!" he commanded and the small folk around us scrambled to get back, "Make space, if they draw to close, beat them back." 

In a real life showing of the phrase, 'If they are giving things away: take them, if they are beating people: run' the people of King's Landing fled when those who drew too close received the flat of the blade for their trouble. It's hard to feel like the good guys when you start slapping the people in need of saving with a long piece of steel, but Ned understood that if we started fighting the Red Cloaks street by street we invited disaster, and as such needed to convince the army commander to restore order. 

Cruel to be kind. 

With the fear of us in the hearts of anyone seeking to slow our path, the road to the Red Keep opened, and we rode the straight path through the heart of the city, paying witness to the brutality of our 'civilized' neighbors. They looked feral as wildlings, and I felt a great need to purge rising up within me. Nostalgic for the days when my year started off with a rip roaring raid beyond the Wall. Between the changing of the seasons and the war I'd not had the chance to visit my local surplus store in over five years.

At this rate, the Wildlings will have forgotten me. 

Every now and then I'd hear something like 'They ain't even doing it right!' or 'Let me in there! I'll show 'em what a real man feels like!' from my men behind us, obviously distressed by this showing of utter unprofessionalism in the rape and pillage going on around us. It's obvious that the Men of the West lacked confidence, organization, clarity, and knowledge, and they hoped to make up for this insufficiency with pure bad intentions. 

We ascended Aegon's Hill to arrive at the Red Keep, an impressive fortification of red stone with seven high towers and iron ramparts. Thick walls with bronze gates and portcullises, designed with serpentine steps up to the keep upon which invaders would die for every inch. All of it completely fucking useless when its guarded by gilded police men who throw down their arms when the going gets tough, if not outright betray their master when the right wind blows. 

These aren't the men raised up by Daemon Targaryen, and those vicious cunts would spit on these pissants. 

Our entrance uncontested by the Gold Cloaks, and the Red Cloaks too busy glutting themselves with wine, women, and trinkets, the Lords of the North pushed into the throne room in time to see Tywin Lannister pimp slap his son. Jaime's X Rated Prince Charming thing didn't go over so well with daddy. With a smirk, he tried to do what he thought Tywin would do in the situation, something that always works out so well for those three demented siblings. Imitating daddy dearest always leads them to pain, and one step closer to their destruction. 

Greatjon once again led the charge into the room, kicking over the bloody body of King Aerys II at the base of his throne to look upon his face.

"Hey, Jorah!" he called over his shoulder, "It's your pal the king. Looks like something didn't agree with his tummy and he done keeled over." 

"Sword tends to do the bowels ill." I shrugged as I walked up next to him, "I'd say it ran right through him." 

The big man laughed, and he did so alone for the rest of the men in the room were above potty humor at the best of times, let alone at the site of an assassination. Tywin and Ned engaged in a silent stare off, the latter sticking to his infamous petty power play, and the former in his natural element. The man gave off an uncanny familiarity due to how well Charles Dance embodied the character, and despite being in his late thirties, the Golden Lion possessed about as much hair on his head as the actor in his sixties. The man deserved a description like calling him larger than life, or a breakdown of his commanding aura and dominating presence, but honestly… he just looked like a guy. Much like the iron shit show of a chair didn't fill the room with dread, but incredulity. A lot of effort went into making such a piss poor place to sit. 

Those kinds of prose might draw a reader in, but I've never actually felt that way about anyone or anything. As such I didn't feel like some trance was broken when Ned commanded the man.

"Lord Lannister," he said with as much derision as the even keeled young man has ever managed within my ear shot, "Command your men to cease and desist their crimes against the people of this city." 

Tywin remained silent a tad longer, staring down the young rebel as if to nonverbally say 'You're not my boss'. Despite that he eventually nodded his head, "Yes, I believe it is time for the rough treatment to come to an end." 

Ned nodded and turned to the boy-knight, "Kingslayer." he spat, sealing Jaime's silence for the second time this day. 

The kid is getting it from every direction, though forgetting about the wildfire catches because of angst and humiliation kinda makes it well earned. There isn't a great solution to the problem of the wildfire. The substance is magical, and thus a force of change in the world, playing hell on prescience. While one can see into the past with Wildfire in play, one must avoid spiritually coming into contact with it in the Dream, and peering directly into Wildfire during a session can leave the Greenseer fire blind, disrupting the sight for days after. 

As such I prefer the substance out of sight and out of mind, and if my forecasting gets fuzzy around the time of a planned trip to King's Landing, I'll be conveniently delayed by pirates in the Step Stones. Keep that shit away from me, the K/D ratio on moving the stuff is way too wonky for me to get involved, or perhaps it gets more wonky when I'm involved in some kind of magical spite. 

Either way, both Northmen and Westermen settled in for the uncomfortable wait on the new king. With order slowly restored and Ned lining the street in with our men, Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, and Brynden Tully had a much easier time reaching the Red Keep. The man of the hour came in like a Rock Star, pointing out to everyone while nodding his head in approval despite the stab wound Rhaegar inflicted. 

Never one to miss the chance for an ostentatious display of his villainy, Tywin brought the bodies of Elia and her children into the throne room behind the rebel party, covered in the Red Cloaks of his House's personal soldiers. Upon the unveiling, Robert's genial face twisted with rage, not at the ethics of the display, but its victims. 

"Dragonspawn!" he spat quite literally on the marble floor. 

I finally found that moving sight Tywin and the Iron Throne failed to deliver at the sight of Elia. I'd as good as killed her myself by not intervening. For fucks sake, I could have had my eagles tear Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch off the tower during their climb into Megor's Holdfast, but the woman would not give up. For such a sickly thing she had not an ounce of quit in her. Easier to avenge than to manage. 

There were so many roads to go down, so many angles of manipulation. Mace Wendu would call this moment a shatter point. For me; though, for my heart, I felt it was time to put down the schemes and cons and just be me. 

"If I had to rule a shit hole like King's Landing for twenty fucking years I'd make sure I didn't miss the chance to sack the place. Hells, I might even raze it." I drawled loudly enough to overpower the whispers and get heads turning "For about a minute those small folk saw the Red Cloaks entering the city and thought, 'Finally, someone's come to restore order in this madhouse.' Jokes on them, though. Not as big as the joke played on the Martells." If anyone doubted where I was going with this, they knew now that it's going down, and I ignored the cries of 'Lord Mormont!' and continued speaking louder and louder to drown out any naysayers, "Finally got the last laugh on them. All the gold and influence and good service couldn't get you that Silver Prince. And they got him handed to them. Didn't even need to ask. Must have fucking felt like Aerys took the cheese grater to your ballsack." I emphasized the burn with by pantomiming it, "Must have felt real fucking nice murdering those kids. Cathartic." 

I stood at the base of the Iron Throne now, that hideous amalgam of swords and looked out over my audience. Greatjon looked like he'd never seen shit this good before. 

"What a glorious day for House Lannister. Ran down a bunch of Dornishmen already throwing down their arms in surrender, sacked a city you didn't even need to fight to get inside of, stabbed a king in the back, and murdered a sickly woman and her small children. Glory, glory, glory! Ah, shit, I think I'm getting my Southron speak backwards… I do that sometimes. SHAME!" the sudden shift from musing to roaring startled some of the fine genteel men assembled before me, "Shame on your heads! Shame on your house! Shame on your fucking dogs and cats! Shameful deeds committed by shameless men. You dare to sit out this war and show up in the final hour to attack the exhausted and the helpless like these people were your enemies. Cowards have no enemies! Only victims, like the woman and children murdered and paraded, like we brave men are supposed to be grateful for their undoing! Like we were afraid of them! Thank all your gods that it iss not I who will plant his ass in that eyesore of an ass-sore inflicting chair. I would have you flogged until we whipped the cowardice out of you, and then; by the gods, I would have you flogged again. Shame on you, you wretched fucking animals! Shame." 

I released a rumbling breathe of anger as my hands twitched. Under my cloak, my axe felt ready to spring into action. Eager for the reckoning. I'd chosen the most bull headed route possible, and I felt free. Unfettered and bursting with manic energy. I wasn't trying to do something awesome or exhilarating, something to gain reputation or resources, or just fight the fucking boredom. I acted on nothing but what was in my heart. It felt good. It felt fucking great to finally tell these fucking savages what I really feel about them. 

My sons looked at me, wondering if this is the most they've ever heard me speak in one go outside of a lecture, and knowing that even when I threatening to strangle them to death, I'd never lost my Northern cool like this before. Tywin, that disappointment, glared at me as if his very vitriol and hate could set me alight. Jaime looked like he'd been kicked by a horse and was surprised to still be alive, not an uncommon sight from the simpleton. Ned, Robert, and Jon exchanged looks and then Robert huffed and shook his shoulders like a belligerent child. 

"Aye, Lannister!" he barked out as he strode passed me up to the steps to the Iron Throne and continued after he parked his ass on it, "This was shamefully done. The men who did this are murderers and are to be brought to me in chains to face the King's justice. Try to shield them, Lannister." the new King glowered while fondling his hammer, "I dare you." 

Tywin remarkably non-reacted to this turnabout, barely even a clenching of his jaw as his overreach resulted in burnt fingers rather than a tasty treat, "As your grace commands." he agreed and signaled for someone in the assembly of Westerlands Lords to see it done. 

That's right there, was the real power of the ancient magic of friendship. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We didn't get to the Elia scene. I can't seem to write it in a way that doesn't seem like bashing her for leaving the MC. She basically did the correct action, and everything after it went to shit. I'll keep trying, but I'm not going to bang my head on the wall about it. 

In other news, Jorah has finally finished his arc from based to based AF. He finally dropped all the airs and schemes and plans and spoke his mind. He finally started cussing, something I've mostly phased out of my writing over the years as its both unprofessional and a literary crutch I was using. It seemed like the right time to pull that tool off the shelf. 

Once again, big thanks to 4REEESEARCH for his support of me and my family. It is hard as a motherfucker to drag myself to the keyboard when life feels like its sucking out my energy. Having that support makes me muscle through and create my art. Your like the Pope to my Michelangelo, dawg. 

You too can be the Pope by supporting me at

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