Chapter 32

-Kornerbrandon

"Just for once, I would like one thing to not go wrong." Steffon quietly fumed. He was in his tent with Jon, who had just admitted to killing Raymund Connington. "Do you know what you have done, Jon?" He asked.

"He was violating your order not to rape." Jon replied simply, sitting in a simple chair with his head hanging. "When I told him to stop and turn himself in, he attacked me. What else could I have done?" There was nothing to gain by denying he'd killed the man, he would only be found out and judged more harshly. He knew there was no honor in lying to a king.

"You have put me in a very awkward position Jon." Steffon said. He saw Ghost slowly padding into the room. His hackles weren't raised, and he was eyeing him warily. "Connington is threatening to rejoin Renly unless you're punished; Buckler is demanding your head for killing one of his household guardsmen, and Ser Aemon is telling anyone who will listen that I've turned you into my personal hatchet man against anyone who used to support Renly. I cannot risk a coaltion of that sort becoming hostile to me; not when my uncle outnumbers us this badly."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Jon said, almost challengingly. Steffon raised an eyebrow as Jon apologised "Forgive me, Your Grace."

Steffon sighed, before stepping forward and putting a hand on Jon's shoulder. "There's nothing to forgive Jon." He hadn't been sleeping well lately, and he knew it showed. "You were in the right, but until I figure out what to do… I need to put you in the stockade." He said before opening the flap of the tent to come face-to-face with Waldron. "Escort Jon to the stockade."

"And what of his beast?" Waldron asked, gesturing towards the pale dire wolf.

"Ghost will assist the guards. Any of the three may send a man with a knife to try and kill Jon, and I cannot resolve this situation properly when one of the people involved is dead, can I?" He said testily.

Waldron glanced over at Wolf, who glared back at him with his red eyes, baring his teeth and growling. "N-no, Your Grace." Waldron replied. Jon's sword belt had already been removed. He obviously hadn't wanted to cause anymore trouble for Steffon, so he went with Waldron peacefully. Just as he was returning to the inside of his tent however, he saw Arya storming up to him.

"What's going on? Why is Jon being led away by Waldron?" She asked.

Seven hells… Steffon thought. Here it comes. "Jon killed a nobleman." He explained. "Raymund Connington. Now Ronnet Connington is threatening to defect and rejoin Renly. Lord Buckler is demanding his head, and Ser Aemon is spreading all sort of rumours." Instead of exploding on him, however, Arya simply nodded. He was thankful that she had grasped why it was so important to keep those houses on their side.

"Why did Jon kill him?" She asked. He could see she was trying to stay calm, but he had gotten good at reading when her anger was about to explode. Such times included now.

"Raymund and his men were allegedly attempting to rape a girl." Steffon muttered.

"Allegedly?!" Arya shouted. She made to slap him across the face, but Steffon, anticipating her move, ducked his head back as her hand flew past his face. "Jon would not kill someone for no reason!"

"They won't see it that way, Arya."

"Steffon, you have got to be the most bull-headed person I know!" She shouted. "Jon wouldn't kill a person for no reason. Our father raised us to respect others, unlike yours who was a fat, drunken whore-monger!" She raged.

Steffon frowned as his eyes narrowed. "Keep my father out of this." He warned.

"Just shut up, Steffon. Just shut up." She said before storming out of the tent.

Steffon let out a heavy sigh, sinking back into his chair. He glanced over to the side of the table and saw that same wine bottle he drank from earlier; looking even more inviting now. Without a second thought, Steffon grabbed the bottle by the neck and uncorked it, not even bothering to grab a mug as he brought it to his lips.

She was well-taken care of, that much was certain. Her cell in the stockade was cleaned daily, and she was getting enough food and water to keep her strength up. Brienne could tell though that some of the soldiers were getting more and more agitated at having to care for the prisoners. They all seemed to listen to their King's orders however, and there was no doubt they held him in some esteem. He won the Battle of the Kingswood, you dolt. She reminded herself.

The defeat at the Kingswood did not seem as devastating as the rumors claimed, at least at first. A tactical setback, yes, but one that could seemingly be recovered from. That was until light cavalry kept harassing them after the battle and for days afterwards. Exacerbated by inexperience, what should've been an organised withdrawal to regroup and reform turned into a rout, They were raided night and day, and more Stormlanders struck their banners and defected to King Steffon everyday. In the process, the remaining commanders had become overly cautious, despite Randyll Tarly saying that Steffon could not stand up to a quick, overwhelming assault. Tarly had been resolutely ignored by the others, despite his skill and experience.

Brienne was broken from her thoughts by the sound of her cell opening. It was her father, Lord Selwyn. His armour was removed, save for the gambeson, and only his dagger was fixed at his belt. "You are being treated well?" He asked.

"I have no complaints." Brienne admitted.

"His Grace looks after his prisoners." He replied, kneeling down to her. "Why did you do it, Brienne? Steffon is the rightful king. Even putting that aside, I am your father. Why?" He asked again. His eyes bored into her. "Did you see Renly as the better king? Or was it something else?" Came the question. Brienne was silent, staring back at her father before averting her gaze. "I see." Selwyn sighed. "You rebelled against your king, against your father… against your home. Tarth men died at the Kingswood, Brienne… killed by Renly's soldiers. You have lost your honour." He said sternly. Brienne nodded, not bothering to speak. "But I have a way for you to get it back."

Brienne's head snapped up. "How?"

"You must prove to me that you are worthy of inheriting Tarth and that you can regain your honour." He said. "You are to assist the Stark soldiers in escorting Lady Stark back to her son. From there, you will protect her with your life, no questions asked. Do this, and at the war's end, I will swear that the King will pardon you."

"You want me to be Lady Stark's Sworn Shield?" Brienne asked, puzzled. Would the woman even accept her? Quite apart from the fact she had taken up arms for Renly, Brienne was also a warrior. Women were not supposed to be warriors in Westeros. A stupid law, but one that had existed for centuries and was unlikely to be broken.

"Yes. King Steffon actually admires you. Part of that is because his own betrothed is an aspiring warrior. In fact, she was one of the two who fought you off at the Kingswood." Her father said.

Ah, so that was Lady Arya Stark, Brienne thought.

"All that His Grace requires is an oath that you will not take up arms against anyone in his service. Can I trust you to hold your oath?" He asked.

Brienne weighed her options. Escorting Lady Stark to her son's camp would go a long way to restoring her honor and would undoubtedly boost her standing in the eyes of the Northerners, who admired honour above all else. Or she could sit in this stockade until the war was over. For a woman like Brienne, that was no choice at all.

"I'll swear the oath."

"Since when do you light your own candles?" Tyrion asked. He and Cersei were currently in her chambers in the Red Keep, once again discussing the prospect of needing to defend the capital. Every bit of news that reached them was troubling. Steffon's blockade of the city, coupled with both him and the Tyrells cutting the roads, had resulted in almost no food supplies coming into the city. The riot the other day had proved that starvation was beginning to make itself known, making the city a more dangerous territory than it already was.

"Since I decided that I can't bear to look at my handmaidens for another instant." Cersei replied. "How many times must you read one simple scroll?"

"More and more Stormlanders are deserting Renly's army and joining Steffon's." Tyrion warned. "The fact that he's taken so few losses means that he has over 30,000 swords at his command now."

"What of it? It is still nothing in comparison to father's."

"Yes, but our taking the upper hand requires on cutting their communication." He explained. "That has proven more difficult than we expected. Suppose they devised a grand strategy to keep father off-balance. If Robb Stark were to attack Casterly Rock and Steffon were to attack us, who does father reinforce? If he heads west, he loses King's Landing. If he reinforces us, he loses our home and with it, any semblance of respect."

"I have faith in father." Cersei boasted. "He has always had a mind for strategy." She rose from her seat and went to pour herself a glass of wine.

"Call it tactics, not strategy…" Tyrion grumbled, helping himself to the wine once Cersei had served herself. "But yes, he does have a mind for it. The best, some would say. But let's not forget that he also taught Steffon everything he knew, and your son has proven frighteningly adept at crushing hosts that outnumber him several times over. And father is not here. It's just you, me, and Joffrey, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

"I'm sure you'll make a point eventually." Cersei replied brusquely.

Tyrion sighed. "It's high time that Joffrey starts acting like a king. This war that you both started will soon reach our doorstep, either by Steffon's hand or Renly's, it matters not who it is; and if the entire city wants Joffrey dead-"

"I'm not the one giving the boy whores to abuse." Cersei snapped.

"I thought the girls might help him." Tyrion insisted.

"And did they?" Cersei inquired.

"I was wrong." He admitted. "If we can't control him…" He trailed off and let the sentence hang in the air.

"Do you think I haven't tried? He refuses to listen to me." She said, sitting down again. For the first time, Tyrion got the impression that his sister was being genuinely vulnerable. It was not something that happened around him all that often. "I tried to teach him to be kind to his siblings, and all he would do is give me empty promises and false reassurances."

"It is hard to put a leash on a dog when you've put a crown on its head." Tyrion said gently.

"I'd always hoped he and Steffon would put their differences aside one day." She lamented. "I used to dream about the two of them ruling Westeros together. Joffrey would sit on the throne, while Steffon would command the armies. The two of them would have the world at their feet."

"You could say that they had something in common with Robert then." Tyrion replied. "He never had the warmest relationship with his brothers, either."

Cersei shook her head. "Robert was a drunken fool, but he didn't enjoy cruelty. People often ask me why Steffon doesn't take after his father more. I say that it's because he's a better man than Robert was."

"It is hard to deny that." Tyrion admitted. "Steffon is young and idealistic. A reformer."

"And that's what puts him in danger." Cersei finished. "Is it any wonder the people adore him when he promises so much?" She asked rhetorically. "The day will come when he can't keep his promise. And that will be the day everything will come crashing down on his head." Cersei finished her wine as tears began to form. "Sometimes I wonder if this is the price we pay for our sins."

"Sins?" He asked before catching on. "The Targaryens-"

"-Wed brother and sister for centuries to preserve their bloodlines, I know. It's what Jaime and I would say in our moments of doubt. It's what I told Ned Stark when he was stupid enough to confront me." She sighed. "Half the Targaryens went mad, didn't they? What's the saying? 'Every time a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin.'"

"You've beaten the odds." Tyrion said quietly. "Tommen and Myrcella are both good, decent children." He added. He could see that his sister was beginning to cry. Whether it was the unknown status of Myrcella, her failure to bring Joffrey under control or her failure to genuinely connect with Steffon, he did not know. He moved closer, trying to comfort her, but as ever, there was no warmth there. She had never been this vulnerable around him before, and he had no idea what to do.

The camp was quiet as Alton Lannister gave his report. Robb had sent him to give King Joffrey his demands. They'd been simple; for Joffrey to abdicate the Iron Throne in favour of Steffon and to submit themselves to trial. Robb had known they wouldn't be accepted though; it would be tantamount to surrender.

"And what did she say?" Robb asked.

"She… admired your spirit, My Lord." Alton said, trying to be as tactful as possible.

"And then what?" He asked again. The boy was falling over his words, trying not to offend Robb. "Ser Alton, if every man were held accountable for the actions of every distant relative, then we'd all hang."

"Um… yes, My Lord… she… she tore the paper in half."

Robb nearly let out a wry chuckle at that. "You've acted with honour." He turned to Rickard Karstark. "See that Ser Alton's pen is cleaned and that he's given a hot supper."

"His pen's occupied, My Lord." Karstark replied gruffly. "Prisoners from the Yellow Fork."

"Too many of them." Bolton added quietly.

"Is there room for him or not?" Robb asked.

"Does he need to lie down?" Karstark asked sarcastically.

"Have the men build him a new one, then. Put him in with the Kingslayer for now." Robb ordered. "And have your son watch over them."

"Torrhen, you know what to do." Karstark said. His son nodded, taking Alton by the shoulder and escorting him out of the command tent.

"That will be all." Robb said, and the lords began filing out to see to their remaining duties for the day when a girl, Jeyne, entered the tent. Robb remembered her from aftermath of the Battle of Oxcross. The young woman had volunteered to treating the wounded. What surprised him the most, however, was her origin from House Westerling. It was a queer sight, seeing a proper lady sully her hands with blood and viscera. Despite it all, her chestnut curls and deep brown eyes made her beautiful, even with her blood-spattered medical apron.

"My Lord, a minute of your time?" She asked. Robb nodded, not failing to notice that Roose Bolton was side-eyeing her as he left. "I've been treating your wounded men-"

"And my enemy's, as my bannermen are fond of reminding me."

"They're not my enemy. I am from the Westerlands, My Lord."

"That's what I tell them." Robb replied.

The girl rolled her eyes. "I need supplies." She said simply. "I didn't have a lot to begin with and I've already run through what I brought with me. Some are easily replaced. Egg yolks, oil of roses, turpentine; I don't have a problem getting a hold of those." She explained. Robb was listening carefully. He had no hatred for the Westerlanders who made up the Lannister armies, just the Lannisters themselves.

"What is it you do need?" He asked.

"Silk for stitching. I need fennel root and willow bark to treat those with fever, but mostly I need milk of the poppy. Amputation's an ugly enough business even with it, and you saw what it was like to have one done without it."

Robb gazed at her face. "If you need help finding–"

"I know where to find them." She snapped. Robb arched an eyebrow. "Apologies. That was rude of me." She apologised. Robb waved his hand, nonplussed.

"No problem, My Lady. Continue."

"I heard you're riding to the Crag to negotiate their surrender. The Crag is my home. I know that Maester Carwell has the supplies and I know he'll open his stores. If i write you a list–"

"Or you could join me." Robb suggested. "The Crag's your home and the Maester's more likely to listen to you than to an uncouth Northern savage." He said. The two of them both got a laugh out of that. She eyed him curiously.

"Alright then, Lord Stark, I'll go to the Crag with you."