Emerald Gleam

"The bloodhound's proved itself quite the adversary, Your Grace. I've never seen the small council so well behaved. And to even defeat the Kingslayer. . ."

In Queen Cersei's chambers, Lord Baelish sat with an air of prosperity. His chin and toes were pointed up ever slightly, and it seemed like nothing could be missed by his pompous gaze.

The Queen brooded, a dark angst making her wiggle her jaw as she inspected her goblet filled to the brim with wine. "I hardly recognize him anymore. He's changed."

Cersei had already been forced to act brave when faced with the black beast that was Vera. But she never gave Lord Stark the satisfaction of showing any fear. It was okay for her to be scared. . , but Jaime?"

"The humility is a marked improvement if you don't mind my saying," Lord Baelish allowed himself to ease into his seat and enjoy the subtle breeze that interrupted the thick of the city, "What will you do now, Your Grace? Lord Stark has made his intentions known. You said so yourself."

"Nothing," replied The Queen, with the bite of a Lioness, "Not with Robert alive and Stark's bitch sniffing about."

Lord Baelish smiled like a tax collector, "Speaking of bitches, it appears your favourite brother is in the Vale, alongside your. . . favourite bastard."

Queen Cersei lit like an emerald disco, the candle flame flickering in her green eyes, "If Joe knows about Lysa and Jon, then—"

"Best assume he already does, Your Grace," Lord Baelish said, "Or that he always did. They say in the north that he's gifted with dream sight."

Cersei wanted to scream. Joe Snow riding south at any moment and ending her whole conspiracy to kill King Robert had been keeping her up at night.

"I don't get his game. . ." She remarked ponderously, "war, no war, violence, no violence. It all just feels like—"

"Chaos?" Lord Baelish interjected.

Queen Cersei raised her goblet, about to drown her worries in red. But before she took a sip, she swirled the wine in her cup, and for a moment, it distracted her, "Indeed."

"…"

The silence became the third member of their little meeting. Lord Baelish and Queen Cersei remained intent on their wine cups as if immune to the awkwardness that would kill the mortal man.

Queen Cersei was about to speak, but Lord Baelish beat her to it.

"Assassins, then?"

He asked like he didn't already know the answer.

"Yes," said the Queen, "see it done."

Lord Baelish nodded, pleased with himself.

Telling her about the dragon egg must have slipped his mind~

***

It was your typical day in Winterfell. The northern sun tried its best to pierce through the shroud of clouds, and the air danced with a pincering cold.

"Wooohooooo!!"

Bran yelled joyously, riding through the Wolfswood, "Come on, Dancer!"

Sat on a log and watching the scene were Theon and Robb.

"Not too fast!" Robb called. It would be more accurate to call him Lord Stark now. He embodied the title in both action and stature. Maester Luwin had been beyond impressed.

Robb smiled as he watched his reckless brother ride so freely through the woods. A stream was whistling nearby, but the birds weren't so noisy today.

Theon Greyjoy regarded the acting lord with serious business, "When are you gonna tell him?"

"Not now," replied Robb.

"Blood for blood," Theon said.

Bran galloped past again, "Come on!"

Theon continued once he was gone past earshot, "You need to make the Lannisters pay for killing some of us in the street."

Robb kept watching Bran as if looking at Theon would be like facing the problem, "You're talking about war."

"I'm talking about justice."

"Only the Lord of Winterfell can call in the bannermen and raise an army."

Theon's eyes widened, and his voice raised after hearing that, but he still kept a respectful tone, "A Lannister killed some of your father's men. He probably would have killed Jory too if it wasn't for Vera. Now the Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock where no one can touch him."

"You want me to march on Casterly Rock?" said Robb.

"You're not a *boy* anymore. They attacked your father. They've already started the war. It's your duty to represent your house when your father can't."

Robb's brow darkened, "My father is in fine health. He said so himself," he said, raising to his feet, "And it's not your duty, because it's not your house."

Theon's mouth opened as if the words had punched him in the gut. He watched Robb's back as he walked away, and for a moment, Theon felt so alone.

But then he felt the string at his neck, and he arose with a shout.

"It's not my house?!"

Robb halted; the words from Theon had spat with defiance. But when he turned, he saw Theon holding his weirwood medallion, the symbol of House Nix. The winking black Shadowcat on one side of the coin, the scene of tentacle porn on the other.

Robb looked at Theon, who was dramatically panting. Then he looked down at Theon's medallion, and Robb's hands naturally reached for his own.

"…"

Suddenly, everything felt like it was too quiet.

"Where's Bran?" Robb said, seemingly snapping back to reality.

Theon scoffed as he marched off in a random direction,

"Don't know. It's not my house."

***

The sun was setting in the Vale, breathing her orange rays through the valley mist.

They had settled Joe into the smallest apartment at the Eyrie.

It was enough to placate whatever station Joe believed himself to be, but Lysa snickered and imagined she had slighted the bastard boy for his insolence.

Bronn was pouring himself a wine when Joe came in.

"Well, fook me," Bronn said, amused, "and here I thought I'd never see you again."

Joe sighed in relief, "It was nothing. Lady Catelyn and Lysa just took turns berating me for a while."

Then with a groan, as if the day's labours had made him old, Joe sat with Bronn at that table by the fire.

"But you know," Joe said, sniffing the wine and pouring eagerly, "One quick gas light later, and here I am, with only so much as a slap on the wrist."

"Gaslight?" Bronn asked, rolling his eyes at what he assumed to be fancy nonsense that green lordlings spout on about.

"You've never heard of that before?" said Joe, before face palming, "right, I forget where I am sometimes. Gas lighting is this trick you can play. It's all smoke and mirrors, you see."

Joe then leaned back and glared at Bronn with disgust.

Bronn took a sip, his eyes flickering back and forth at Joe, "Hmm?"

"Don't 'hmm?' me, cunt. How fucking dare you?!"

Bronn put down his drink and readied himself, "I don't know what you're on about."

"You know exactly what I'm fucking on about," Joe shook his head, "You're seriously going to sit there and act like you have no idea what the fuck you just did? Wow. Just. . . Wow."

Bronn raised a bewildered brow; his hand placed on his dagger, "I'm sorry?" he asked.

Joe stopped him right there with a snap of his fingers, "Bingo."

Bronn still had no idea what the heck was going on, "What?"

"See what I did there?" Joe began to explain, "I just completely mind fucked you into thinking you had to apologize for whatever reason. You just got gaslit, mother fucker."

Bronn scoffed, "I still don't follow you."

"That's the point. You'd be surprised how many relationships are like this. And politics? Well. . ."

"Would be careful if I were you," Bronn said, refilling his empty cup, "Offending someone like me with that is how fancy little lordlings lose their tongue."

"Please," Joe said, "I never offend anyone I can't kill."

It was then, with Joe and Bronn sitting across each other, the fire crackled a warmth on their faces, but their glares were cold as ice.

"…"

"…"

The silence was foreboding.

"…"

Until Joe broke the ice.

"Pfft!" Joe laughed, "Just kidding! I could never kill you, Bronn! Bahahaha!"

Bronn allowed himself to breathe, but his hand lingered on his dagger still, "Chh, crazy fooker, you know that?"

Joe dismissed the notion, "Speaking of crazy individuals—"

"Tyrion?"

"That's the one," said Joe, "I had to concede to Lady Arryn and let her lock Tyrion in the sky cells. Part of the gas lighting, you see. But I think it's been enough time."

Joe stood and walked to the table where he and Bronn had put all the alcohol they managed to muster, grabbing a decanter of wine, "Shall we?"

To be honest, Bronn was quite comfortable here, by the fire and with wine to boot.

He didn't exactly feel like jumping at the chance to visit Tyrion in a cold and dreary sky cell, but something inside told Bronn he just had to go with it. He relented, rolling his eyes~

"After you."