Part 20
April 28
Breakfast, like dinner the night before, was a drab, quiet affair; the still noticeable scent of smoke putting a damper on everyone’s mood. At least this meant Arya and Sansa weren’t sniping at each other, both spending more time lethargically dragging food around their plates than doing or saying anything else. Conversation in general at the table, desultory as it was, tended towards the mundane. A button needed sewing. Accounts were going to be reviewed with the Steward. Pass the salt. Sean found his thoughts wandering back and forth and way, way back.
Robb had upon returning to the Maidenvault relayed to him the ‘cold’ facts of the Hound’s gruesome demise, his youngest daughter standing oddly quiet and thoughtful by her brother’s side the whole time. Sean had then immediately gone to inform Sansa, Olyvar promptly withdrew to give the father and daughter privacy; the men shared a knowing look in passing. To her, once they were alone, he’d simply said, “Sandor died.” The beautiful, damaged face crumpled and she threw herself into Sean as a crying wreck. He held her gently, getting her to drink most of a glass of wine before Cat and young Jeyne arrived to share in the grieving; and take her off his inexperienced male hand.
That night he’d knocked back most of a bottle. Drinking to the end of the Hound’s long GRRM induced torment, to the guilt he felt in not securing a royal pardon for his daughter’s savior, and to the memory of that other Sandor – his lost mate Rory. Cat, sensing his mood, hadn’t played the MILF of the North in bed, snuggling instead. With her first trimester almost over, the beginning of a bulge was just noticeable as he rested an arm over her belly. He accepted the offered comfort, though it made him feel less a proper Yorkshireman. As he drifted off to sleep he caught himself humming a few bars of “On Ilkla Moor Baht‘at,” not a good sign. And his dreams had rewarded his turn to the melancholy with dark and twisted imagery.
In the morning he woke to find a concerned Cat staring down at him. “You spoke those names again.” Debra. Peter. Melanie. Kit. Abigail. Nick. Georgina. Alfie. Lorna. Aiden. Con. Molly. Julian. Evie. Isaac. Lena. Rich. Sophie. Mark. Maisie. Jack. George, George, George, fucking, fucking, fucking George. “The Old Gods,” he’d muttered and purposefully rolled away to the other side of the bed to escape further questions.
He ate quickly and left. Leaving was easy. The mess left behind could stay undisturbed in its box. People he found were resilient. Instead of looking back, he would spend the morning looking forward. There was time to get a bit of planning in before the expected noble ‘guests’ arrived to jam up his schedule with petty, but necessary, politicking.
----------------------------------------------------
He stuck the next red pin into the map: the Ryswells ironstone quarry in the western Rills. Pins already marked the Reeds’ for bog iron, the ore the Harclays and the Knotts took out of the foothills at the north edge of the Wolfswood, the grey iron the Tallharts extracted from quartz crystal formations near Torrhen’s Square, and Winterfell’s own mine in the Ochre Bluffs overlooking the White Knife. He wondered how much bog iron the cranogmen really could harvest. He didn’t have any in his army to ask, though sources from House Manderly and House Dustin swore to its abundance.
Most of the rest of the large houses, and many of the minor ones or clans, of the North had a local iron supply; just ones insufficient for export, unless the greedy, selfish bastards were lying to his face. A consideration even ‘magical, far seeing’ Ned had to take into account when dealing with these medieval barbarians.
At least two hundred, probably closer to two hundred fifty, miles from Torrhen’s Square or the Knott’s mine to Winterfell, and that as the raven flew. How could he bring economies of scale to play when everything was so bloody far away from each other and no fucking infrastructure in place. And he still hadn’t accounted for how to get sufficient coal. He looked at the two black flags on the map: Barrowlands and the hills above Ramsgate.
Maybe it would be better to turn Ramsgate and Barrowton into his Newcastle upon Tyne and Sheffield? Coal took up more volume than the iron ore, so transport the smaller amount farther. Only then it would fall out of his control. While Ramsgate was held by Manderly bannermen, the Dustins, based on the modest size of their contingent in his army, might not be the Stark’s biggest fans. This sucked. His next note to Maester Luwin would demand more bloody surveying for coal fields on Winterfell lands.
Now the Manderly’s had silver mines. He vaguely remembered that lead was often found alongside silver ore. He scribbled a barely legible note to ask Wyllis Manderly what if anything they were doing with that lead. What use was lead aside from making bullets or water pipes that would just kill the smallfolk off less violently through poison?
His head ached. For the umpteenth time he wished he’d been able to save Tyrion Lannister that day, instead of killing him. There had been a clever mind that could have helped him arrange an industrial revolution. He chuckled, suddenly wondering what Tyrion would have done if he’d woken up on the set of Game of Thrones to discover everyone calling him Peter.
He made another note, this one about adding a few score more protesters for outside the Pyromancer’s guild house. The stubborn unwillingness of the arsonist to bend to his will was taking on Stannis-like proportions; and it was royally pissing him off. Unlike with the king, he could make accidents of a permanent nature happen if he had to.
He peered over the map, upgrading the King’s Road and making the White Knife navigable all the way up to Castle Cerwyn on the western branch had made the top of his infrastructure list long ago. So too had permanent, toll-free offshoots to Barrowton, Torrhen’s Square, and Last Hearth. Now that he’d gotten confirmation there were a few spots where a bridge over the eastern branch of the White Knife was possible, Hornwood was going on to the list. The Dreadfort could go wank itself. Bolton might be able to make the Weeping Water navigable, have at it and spend all the Late Lord Frey’s dowry silver, and more besides, working that.
Now canals. He sighed. Were they worth it in a land where “Winter” could last years, rendering them unnavigable and causing who knows how much structural damage from all that ice and buckling from the freezing and thawing of earth? He’d made a few subtle inquiries about placing one across the top of the Neck, running it through Moat Caillin, but only gotten scoffing stares back. Mad, mad, mad. Maybe the sub-branch from Winterfell over to Castel Cerwyn could be widened or replaced by a canal. That was about ten miles he guessed. How many man hours would that take, he started writing down figures.
He opened a leather binder and took out the samples. It looked promising. He had gotten a clever looking scribe (honestly the youngest, most near-sighted, and nerdish appearing one) and the Maester with the fewest links in all of King’s Landing together. He’d stuck them in the basement of one of Baelish’s establishments with a shit load of wood pulp, hemp, torn linen, a wine press, a few tools, and a supply of water. After two weeks these were the samples they’d come up. Not good. But not bad either. He scribbled another note, telling his guards to let them out for a day, but not out of sight; then back to work. He’d give them a few coins to so they could visit the whores undoubtedly selling their wares day and night on the floors above their underground workshop. Sean thought that would be better for their morale than any David Brent pep talk.
He took a sip of wine. “What next,” he muttered, flipping through sheaths more of notes.
----------------------------------------------------
Lancel, Dacey, and two dozen of the freed Red Cloaks stood closest to the main gate.
In the second rank, close, but not too close, stood the king and his favorite councilors, official and otherwise (less the still absent Blackfish): not Ned, Robb with Grey Wind, Edmure, Davos, the Fat One, old Ardrian Celtigar, pretty Monford Velaryon, cagey Stevron Frey, solid Jason Mallister, and Fuckhead … of course.
The third and last so called line was an unruly hodgepodge of lords, lordlings, knights, chieftains, and war leaders of the Riverlands and the North. Shuffle and jockey for position amongst each other though they did, none, however, dared cross the obvious and ominous boundary that Stannis had set for them: the ashy remains from the Trial by Fire. Not a one stood near the spot where the Hound expired, but that was more by luck of where the event happened in relation to the position of the main gate than by any conscious choice made by the gathered.
Trumpeters started blowing as soon as the cavalcade reached the square atop Aegon’s Hill fronting the Red Keep. Forty Riverland riders led the way in. “That’s Ser Jon Roote, in the lead,” Edmure commented with an odd combination of cheer and pride. “Brother of Lord Denys Roote of Harroway.”
To Sean, the man looked tough, no doubt, like boiled leather; and also well into his fifth decade. ‘Five Westeros decades,’ the fifty one, or was it now fifty two, year old actor amended. ‘Do the months and days match Earth?’ Still, all the riders on mounts this side of nags had grey in their beards. The Riverlands were clearly scrapping the bottom of the man power barrel for knights. He hoped the near a thousand foot soldiers that made up the meat of the reinforcements come from Darry, who should already be in the process of getting sorted out to Riverland quarters throughout the city, were not as weathered a lot as these.
A man-at-arms holding a Tully banner in front of the Small Council signaled with it and the knights and mounted men-at-arms turned their horses that way after rendering a proper salute, which both Stannis and Edmure acknowledged.
The next forty through the gate while neither armored nor armed had been granted finer seats. And why shouldn’t of they? These mounts were likely either their own or their fellow Westerlanders, captured out from under them at the Green Fork. These bastards had fought like demons under Tywin Lannister and come within spitting distance, sans Sean willingness to sacrifice his honor, of winning. They approached Lancel, wearing his finest Lannister Lion garb, somewhat warily.
“Welcome my lords and sers of the Westerlands,” the vain prig called out. “I hope you have been honorably treated in your captivity?”
An unenthusiastic nattering about the conditions at Castle Darry was all the answer they gave Lancel.
“If you give me your word of honor that you will not leave King’s Landing without my consent, then I will grant you your parole.”
“Your noble uncle and your own father died fighting at the Green Fork against those perfidious North men I see there. Who or what are you, son of Ser Kevan Lannister, to be able to grant us anything?” Ser Addam Marbrand scornfully accused.
“Well struck,” old Celtigar cackled softly.
Sean wanted to snicker, but kept his Ned face on. He wished he were closer, for he could only imagine how Lannister crimson the boy’s face must be turning.
“By … by blood right, by the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and by the Seven, I am the acknowledged head of House Lannister, Master of Casterly Rock, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. My cousins Cersei and Jaime brought the vilest shame upon my House and by their sins tricked Lord Tywin into waging an unrighteous war. My allegiance to the Iron Throne is the first coin I, Lancel Lannister, have repaid to House Baratheon for the debt owed them.”
Lancel’s voice hardly broke or quavered in his little speech. The actor had sent Dacey a few lines to prepare her wet betrothed with when word came of the column’s approach. The recitation wasn’t verbatim, but clearly the lad had done some practicing.
“And what of our ransoms?” growled the badger of House Lydden, both a lord and a more practical man than Ser Addam.
“Swear to the terms of the parole. Swear to me your fealty and service; and the vaults of Casterly Rock will share the burden fallen upon you for honorably following your previous liege lord, my dear Uncle Tywin.”
“Do we get our swords back?” the huge Strongboar challenged.
“You do,” the she-bear standing beside Lancel declared in a smooth contralto voice.
“Think of the size of the children she’d breed if she married that Crakehall,” japed Edmure quietly.
Frowns and a few outright scowls from the Westerlands’ nobility met her having opened her mouth.
“This is my betrothed, the Lady Dacey Mormont ... “
‘More like jail keeper.’
“… We will marry in Casterly Rock once the Lord Renly and the rebel Reachers are defeated, making it safe for my lady love to travel the Gold Road,” the tamed lion cub said, providing the bare bones conditions of his forced arrangement with Stannis within his explanation of the marital plan.
Dacey smiled more charmingly than Sean thought he’d ever seen her. “The king is throwing a feast tonight to welcome those puissant lords and knights with the wisdom to see that their war with the Iron Throne is over. I pray you join me there tonight.” She turned to directly address Lancel. “My lord, with your permission, may I withdrawal so that I might begin preparing myself as befits the betrothed
“You may, Lady Dacey,” Lancel replied with hardly a pained expression passing over his pretty boy face.
She curtseyed, bringing her eyes down to the same level as his, and gracefully departed; the bold she-bear and the kept lion cub indeed.
“Lord Lancel,” Stannis now boomed.
“Your Grace?”
“You may use the throne room to hear their oaths in privacy.”
‘Except for the score of Ser Bywater’s best gold cloaks standing guard.’
“Thank you, your Grace.”
“High Septon,” the king now called, not lowering his voice at all, for though the Fat One was standing almost next to Stannis, he was not the target of what was to be said next.
“Your Grace,” the High Septon purred, jowls wobbling.
“Be so kind as to help Lord Lancel administer the oaths so that it is done in the light of the Seven.”
‘Just so long as it’s not done in the light of R’hllor.’ Sean was happy that Selyse had chosen not to join the party and throw the monkey wrench of her crazy pieties into the situation.
“Of course, your Grace. The faith is important in every aspect of our lives,” the Fat One bloviated. “From the Mother watching over us at birth to the Stranger accepting us back at death. The Crone and the Warrior shall surely watch over and guide this awesome under …”
“To your duties, holy ser,” Stannis interjected menacingly. The High Septon shut up. The King gestured for Lancel to continue.
A few more words were exchanged, implied threats and carrots mostly, and then all forty of the Westerlanders dismounted with varying degrees of alacrity. The party marched off across the Outer Yard towards the Throne Room, the High Septon waddling his gross bulk to keep up.
With the scene at an end, not Ned intended to take advantage of having so many of his lords waiting around the Red Keep for the feast to start and hobnob with them, get a feel from them of their current thoughts and concerns, check their morale.
Davos cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”
“Yes, Lord Davos?”
“It has come to my attention that there is a minor conspiracy brewing within the city.”
“Lannisters?” Stannis prompted suspiciously.
“No, your Grace. For Lord Renly. These are mostly merchants and traders.”
“Baelish’s creatures?” harrumphed old Celtigar, the Master of Coin.
“Antler Men,” not Ned announced.
“Yes,” Davos smiled. “That is what they call themselves. And more Baelish’s stooges than henchmen. They’ve been trapped in rather unfavorable contracts with the crown.”
“Oh, them,” the old lord cackled. “I get delegations every other day asking to renegotiate. Fools. What do they think I can do? Tear up the contracts when the Iron Throne is groaning under a mountain of debt? Bahhhh.”
“How far has their treason gone?” Stannis rumbled.
“Nothing overt, yet, your Grace. They have begun recruiting the scum Ser Bywater has thrown out of the Gold Cloaks. As guards mind you. Surprisingly well armed and armored guards.”
“Arrest them, confiscate their property,” whispered Bolton. “That will help the treasury.”
“Aye, agreed; and make them dance for the headman,” Jason Mallister added.
“Joffrey Waters would have nailed antlers to their head and launched them out of catapults,” not Ned pointed out more accurately than any of his listeners knew.
Stannis and others chuckled darkly at that.
“But we already have a dearth of trade in the city. Innocent merchants will talk and wonder the truth of it. Some will close up shop. Others will move. Your Grace, King’s Landing cannot afford such a blow. We want coin passing from hand to hand, a prosperous spending smallfolk are a happy, helpful smallfolk. With Renly coming there are more than enough storm clouds overhanging the city. Why needlessly add to them?”
The king took in a deep breath. “What do you suggest, Lord … Eddard,” he exhaled.
“Let Lord Ardrian invite the lot of them to the Red Keep under the pretense of a renegotiation of terms. When they are here, have Lord Davos reveal his knowledge of the conspiracy and have Ser Bywater threaten them with nailed antlers and catapults if there is any more suggestion of disloyalty.”
“Soft,” Stevron Frey complained.
“Make them pay in blood for their grasping merchant folly,” Lord Monford demanded.
“My inclinations are frequently different than Lord Stark’s,” Roose Bolton pointed out in his perpetually quiet way that somehow forced even high born men to lower their voices so they might hear him. “However, he seldom missteps.”
Stannis chewed his lower lip briefly. “We shall be magnanimous; though I doubt they will ever come to love me for it.”
----------------------------------------------------
The feast in honor of the forty paroled prisoners, and hopefully soon to be active allies, was pleasant enough. The Small Hall fit two hundred, so most of the major players in Stannis army could attend without receiving what might be considered an undue snub in the Game of Thrones. The food was more plentiful and richer than a typical days fare in the current environs of King’s Landing and the Red Keep. When Moon Boy or Patches wasn’t cavorting around in their motley, Symon Silver Tongue was taking advantage of the chance given him by not Ned to sing both classic songs and those ‘new’ ones from the North. Even the king saw the need for providing a good show for his now honored guests. At the high table he was making an actual effort to affably engage the two highest ranking Westerlands’ lords: Lewys Lydden of Deep Den and Sebaston Farman of Faircastle.
“Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear!”
The new made lord that day, Steffon Stackspear – his father Selmond having exsanguinated at the Green Fork, sat at the western table between Lancel and Dacey. The mid-major Westerlands’ lords Loren Garner and Jason Hammell then making bookends either side of the betrothed couple. Lord Tommen Turnberry and the knighted heirs to three other houses – Tobias Serrett, Gerold Foote, and Petry Westford willingly enough shared the southern table with Edmure and the Riverlands’ contingent. None of them had fought at the Green Fork and where thus not automatically besmirched of all honor.
“He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!”
Of the big names left in the part of forty, that left Addam Marbrand and the aptly monikered Strongboar to sit in mostly silence at the northern table in the Small Hall. Not Ned had specifically requested the steward sit the pair with him, for those were the only two names Sean remembered from the books; and thus thought them more significant in GRRM’s scheme of things. While they did their best to ignore him, they did at least join in conversation with the untainted Robb and Cat. At least with the Queen feeling ill and not in the hall, Sansa had been able to join him and not stay stationed near the high table. He occasionally gave his daughter a reassuring look.
“Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!”
Ser Addam, being a childhood boon companion of the Jaime Lannister’s, was asking the particulars of his friend’s last fight in the Throne Room. Both Ser Addam and Ser Lyle predictably smiled when the story reached ‘that’ point in the tale. Sean’s ghost hand throbbed at reliving its loss. At least the actor was awake and near a plentiful supply of wine as the memory flowed through him this time. Soon enough more wine flowed through him too. Then it was on to Grey Wind v. Kingslayer: battle of Titans, a battle fit for the Age of Heroes. All three men drank to the direwolf. Grey Wind from his spot on the floor beside Robb just tilted his head up to peer at the trio, looking bored.
“Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!
My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!
And off they went, from here to there,
The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair”
A smattering of cheers and applause greeted the end of the song. Symon the frog bellied and his accompanying toads took a bow from their toadstool planted in the middle of the hall, smack dab between all four long tables. “Now I’d like to sing a little ditty that’s become quite popular in parts of King’s Landing these last few weeks. Please pay attention my lords and ladies and knights, for its short and fast, I wouldn’t want you to miss any of it.”
The intro wasn’t nearly heavy enough, why should it? Face it, simple Symon didn’t have an electric guitar and amplifier. At least he’d taken to the suggestion of adding what passed for a bass in Westeros, as well as a drummer. The drummer was desperately needed, without a power riff only a driving beat could make the song come properly alive. The lords of the North quickly caught on to the opening riff; and with great approval their feet quickly began stomping in rhythm. Sean hoped the new arrived lords and great knights of the Westerlands would understand the message he was sending them care of Led Zeppelin.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah
Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah
We come from the land of the ice and snow.
From the midnight cold where the hot springs flow.
The hammer of the gods did drive our swords to river lands,
To fight the horde, sing and cry: Lannister, We are coming!”
“On we sweep with thrashing blade, our only goal will be the western dead.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah
Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah”
“We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight cold where the hot springs blow.
How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war. We are your ally lords.”
At least without the feedback, the lyrics were more understandable than when Robert Plant sang them.
“On we sweep with thrashing blade, Our only goal will be the western dead.”
“So now you’d better stop and rebuild all you ruined,
For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your treason.”
“Oooooooh, oh
Oooooooh, oh”
Was that Stannis tapping his foot?
“Oooooooh, oh
Oooooooh, oh”
‘Immigrant Song my arse. It’s the ‘We Fucking Crushed You So Don’t Ever Godsdamn Mess With Us Again Song’,’ Sean thought cockily. Zeppelin may have made more than a few Middle Earth references in their work, but it was clear to the actor that many of their songs were truly meant for Westeros. They just needed a few lyrically tweaks by a sly lad from Sheffield.
The hooting and hollering and stomping at the song’s conclusion lingered a good while. The Greatjon exuberantly pounded the table to express his pleasure. Mugs were emptied. Mugs were smashed. Serving wenches pinched, but not so tightly as the faces of the Westerlanders.
From the high table the king called out, “Singer, I have been told you are working on a new song, one yet unplayed. I would hear it.” Stannis Baratheon voice brooked no opposition.
Symon Silver Tongue licked his lips. “If I may be so bold, your Grace, it is a duet. May I ask the Lady Sansa to accompany me?”
The king looked over at not Ned’s table; apparently having already known where Sansa was sitting with the queen indisposed, - ‘Gods, I wonder if she’s pregnant?’ Sean suddenly thought.
“If my lord father, will allow me, your Grace,” his daughter replied sweetly.
A brief chant of “Sansa! Sansa! Sansa!” broke out among the well soused northerners and more than a few Freys, Brackens, Vances, and other Riverlanders. A few of the Westerlanders, Addam Marbrand in particular, attention drawn to his daughter and her Lannister ruined beauty, had the decency to look not just uncomfortable, but ashamed.
Stannis shifted his gaze to stare at not Ned, if without challenge, still with little sense of personal warmth. ‘Can’t even unwind enough to play along with this little mummer’s farce? Whatever will make you happy?' the actor wondered. “Of course,” he answered with a wide smile. ‘I wouldn’t stop this for the world. Move over Rains of Castamere, you’re about to get company.’
As Sansa stood up and walked around the end of the northern long table to go join the little band, a harp was uncovered and a stool produced for her use by the drummer and bass player; they would not be joining the strictly duet piece to come. Symon swapped his lyre for a mandolin, and plucked a few notes to check it was still in tune. When Sansa sat down, she too did the same for her instrument. The pair looked at each other and nodded. The mandolin began playing at a moderately rapid pace. Sansa occasionally struck a complimentary background chord on the twelve string harp.
Silver Tongue opened his froggy cheeks: “The Queen of Lies broke her vow, And then she turned to gold, The Bastard King embraced his blood, And stained the Iron Throne.”
Sansa cut in: “Oh, fight in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.”
Then before her line ended Symon started to overlay it: “The Kingslayer strikes with force tonight, And time will tell us all.”
Sansa took the lead back again: “Oh, throw down your plow and hoe, Rest not to lock your homes.”
And again Symon: “Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all.”
Together they now keened in an appropriate Plantesque manner: “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
The mandolin and harp stayed together in that almost eerie, hypnotically repetitive harmony.
The dual voices continued: “I hear the galleys' thunder down in the Blackwater below, I'm waiting for the warriors of Dragonstone, waiting for the eastern glow.”
Symon: “The apples of the Crownlands hold, The seeds of happiness, The ground is rich from tender care, Repay, do not forget, oh, no.”
Sansa: “Fight in the dark of night, sing to the morning light.”
Again that silvertongue: “The apples turn to brown and black, The tyrant's face is red. Ohhh.” The voices switched on “oh.” “Ohhh war is the common cry, Pick up your swords and fight.” And Symon cut back in over Sansa: “The sky is filled with good and bad that Seven only know.” And together, stretching, stretching the wail. “Ohhhhhhhh. Now. Ohhhhhhh. Ahhhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhh.”
More of the mandolin and harp duet so that the pair might catch a breath before singing in unison: “Oh, well, the night is long the beads of time pass slow, Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow.”
Symon: “The pain of peace cannot exceed the aftermath of war, The drums will shake the castle wall, the west lands ride in blood,” Then together “Ride onnnn!” And Sansa took the lead again: “Sing as you raise your bow, <ride on Symon interjected> shoot straighter than before.” Only to pass it back to the talented frog: “No comfort has the fire at night that lights the lion so dark.”
Sansa: “Oh fight in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.”
Symon: “The Warrior’s sword strikes the foe to bring the balance back. Bring it back.”
The mandolin and harp continued weaving the enchantment.
Their voices combined: “At last the sun is shining, The clouds of blue roll by, Horns glisten from the Stag of Dragonstone, the sunlight blinds their eyeeeeeeeeeeeeees - Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhoohhhhhhhhh. ... Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”
And at the finale, Sansa and Symon Silvertongue began alternating who sang each verse: “Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh.”
“Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh. Bring him. Bring him. Bring him. Bring him. Bring him. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”
The harp and mandolin started the slow fade to end. Elation filled Sean. They’d fucking hit it spot on. Robert and Jimmy would be proud. The actor looked over at the high table to see Stannis’ reaction to his brilliant piece of blatant Stag arse kissing. The stubborn mule smiled without begrudgement or worry he was letting go of something precious.
An impromptu chant of “Stag! Stag! Stag!” broke out.
Satisfaction softened that perpetually tight face further. The cries feeding his starved soul seemed to fill the hollowness in his cheeks. More voices joined the hollering. Men started rising off the benches.
‘Take a bow, you stupid bugger. Don’t you know an ovation when you see it?’ the actor whispered to himself.
As if hearing the cue, two powerful hands landed on the high table and pushed Stannis’ broad shouldered, muscular frame out of his chair. The shouts grew even louder. “The Stag is back!” he roared, drawing the sword at his side and stabbing it into the sky. “Ours is the Fury!”
‘Nice touch, Mannis.’ The professional actor in Sean judged the theatrical moment seized perfectly, while the rest of him failed to realize that he too was on his feet and cheering along with the rest of the Small Hall, “Stag! Stag! Stag! Stag! Stag!“
April 28
Breakfast, like dinner the night before, was a drab, quiet affair; the still noticeable scent of smoke putting a damper on everyone’s mood. At least this meant Arya and Sansa weren’t sniping at each other, both spending more time lethargically dragging food around their plates than doing or saying anything else. Conversation in general at the table, desultory as it was, tended towards the mundane. A button needed sewing. Accounts were going to be reviewed with the Steward. Pass the salt. Sean found his thoughts wandering back and forth and way, way back.
Robb had upon returning to the Maidenvault relayed to him the ‘cold’ facts of the Hound’s gruesome demise, his youngest daughter standing oddly quiet and thoughtful by her brother’s side the whole time. Sean had then immediately gone to inform Sansa, Olyvar promptly withdrew to give the father and daughter privacy; the men shared a knowing look in passing. To her, once they were alone, he’d simply said, “Sandor died.” The beautiful, damaged face crumpled and she threw herself into Sean as a crying wreck. He held her gently, getting her to drink most of a glass of wine before Cat and young Jeyne arrived to share in the grieving; and take her off his inexperienced male hand.
That night he’d knocked back most of a bottle. Drinking to the end of the Hound’s long GRRM induced torment, to the guilt he felt in not securing a royal pardon for his daughter’s savior, and to the memory of that other Sandor – his lost mate Rory. Cat, sensing his mood, hadn’t played the MILF of the North in bed, snuggling instead. With her first trimester almost over, the beginning of a bulge was just noticeable as he rested an arm over her belly. He accepted the offered comfort, though it made him feel less a proper Yorkshireman. As he drifted off to sleep he caught himself humming a few bars of “On Ilkla Moor Baht‘at,” not a good sign. And his dreams had rewarded his turn to the melancholy with dark and twisted imagery.
In the morning he woke to find a concerned Cat staring down at him. “You spoke those names again.” Debra. Peter. Melanie. Kit. Abigail. Nick. Georgina. Alfie. Lorna. Aiden. Con. Molly. Julian. Evie. Isaac. Lena. Rich. Sophie. Mark. Maisie. Jack. George, George, George, fucking, fucking, fucking George. “The Old Gods,” he’d muttered and purposefully rolled away to the other side of the bed to escape further questions.
He ate quickly and left. Leaving was easy. The mess left behind could stay undisturbed in its box. People he found were resilient. Instead of looking back, he would spend the morning looking forward. There was time to get a bit of planning in before the expected noble ‘guests’ arrived to jam up his schedule with petty, but necessary, politicking.
----------------------------------------------------
He stuck the next red pin into the map: the Ryswells ironstone quarry in the western Rills. Pins already marked the Reeds’ for bog iron, the ore the Harclays and the Knotts took out of the foothills at the north edge of the Wolfswood, the grey iron the Tallharts extracted from quartz crystal formations near Torrhen’s Square, and Winterfell’s own mine in the Ochre Bluffs overlooking the White Knife. He wondered how much bog iron the cranogmen really could harvest. He didn’t have any in his army to ask, though sources from House Manderly and House Dustin swore to its abundance.
Most of the rest of the large houses, and many of the minor ones or clans, of the North had a local iron supply; just ones insufficient for export, unless the greedy, selfish bastards were lying to his face. A consideration even ‘magical, far seeing’ Ned had to take into account when dealing with these medieval barbarians.
At least two hundred, probably closer to two hundred fifty, miles from Torrhen’s Square or the Knott’s mine to Winterfell, and that as the raven flew. How could he bring economies of scale to play when everything was so bloody far away from each other and no fucking infrastructure in place. And he still hadn’t accounted for how to get sufficient coal. He looked at the two black flags on the map: Barrowlands and the hills above Ramsgate.
Maybe it would be better to turn Ramsgate and Barrowton into his Newcastle upon Tyne and Sheffield? Coal took up more volume than the iron ore, so transport the smaller amount farther. Only then it would fall out of his control. While Ramsgate was held by Manderly bannermen, the Dustins, based on the modest size of their contingent in his army, might not be the Stark’s biggest fans. This sucked. His next note to Maester Luwin would demand more bloody surveying for coal fields on Winterfell lands.
Now the Manderly’s had silver mines. He vaguely remembered that lead was often found alongside silver ore. He scribbled a barely legible note to ask Wyllis Manderly what if anything they were doing with that lead. What use was lead aside from making bullets or water pipes that would just kill the smallfolk off less violently through poison?
His head ached. For the umpteenth time he wished he’d been able to save Tyrion Lannister that day, instead of killing him. There had been a clever mind that could have helped him arrange an industrial revolution. He chuckled, suddenly wondering what Tyrion would have done if he’d woken up on the set of Game of Thrones to discover everyone calling him Peter.
He made another note, this one about adding a few score more protesters for outside the Pyromancer’s guild house. The stubborn unwillingness of the arsonist to bend to his will was taking on Stannis-like proportions; and it was royally pissing him off. Unlike with the king, he could make accidents of a permanent nature happen if he had to.
He peered over the map, upgrading the King’s Road and making the White Knife navigable all the way up to Castle Cerwyn on the western branch had made the top of his infrastructure list long ago. So too had permanent, toll-free offshoots to Barrowton, Torrhen’s Square, and Last Hearth. Now that he’d gotten confirmation there were a few spots where a bridge over the eastern branch of the White Knife was possible, Hornwood was going on to the list. The Dreadfort could go wank itself. Bolton might be able to make the Weeping Water navigable, have at it and spend all the Late Lord Frey’s dowry silver, and more besides, working that.
Now canals. He sighed. Were they worth it in a land where “Winter” could last years, rendering them unnavigable and causing who knows how much structural damage from all that ice and buckling from the freezing and thawing of earth? He’d made a few subtle inquiries about placing one across the top of the Neck, running it through Moat Caillin, but only gotten scoffing stares back. Mad, mad, mad. Maybe the sub-branch from Winterfell over to Castel Cerwyn could be widened or replaced by a canal. That was about ten miles he guessed. How many man hours would that take, he started writing down figures.
He opened a leather binder and took out the samples. It looked promising. He had gotten a clever looking scribe (honestly the youngest, most near-sighted, and nerdish appearing one) and the Maester with the fewest links in all of King’s Landing together. He’d stuck them in the basement of one of Baelish’s establishments with a shit load of wood pulp, hemp, torn linen, a wine press, a few tools, and a supply of water. After two weeks these were the samples they’d come up. Not good. But not bad either. He scribbled another note, telling his guards to let them out for a day, but not out of sight; then back to work. He’d give them a few coins to so they could visit the whores undoubtedly selling their wares day and night on the floors above their underground workshop. Sean thought that would be better for their morale than any David Brent pep talk.
He took a sip of wine. “What next,” he muttered, flipping through sheaths more of notes.
----------------------------------------------------
Lancel, Dacey, and two dozen of the freed Red Cloaks stood closest to the main gate.
In the second rank, close, but not too close, stood the king and his favorite councilors, official and otherwise (less the still absent Blackfish): not Ned, Robb with Grey Wind, Edmure, Davos, the Fat One, old Ardrian Celtigar, pretty Monford Velaryon, cagey Stevron Frey, solid Jason Mallister, and Fuckhead … of course.
The third and last so called line was an unruly hodgepodge of lords, lordlings, knights, chieftains, and war leaders of the Riverlands and the North. Shuffle and jockey for position amongst each other though they did, none, however, dared cross the obvious and ominous boundary that Stannis had set for them: the ashy remains from the Trial by Fire. Not a one stood near the spot where the Hound expired, but that was more by luck of where the event happened in relation to the position of the main gate than by any conscious choice made by the gathered.
Trumpeters started blowing as soon as the cavalcade reached the square atop Aegon’s Hill fronting the Red Keep. Forty Riverland riders led the way in. “That’s Ser Jon Roote, in the lead,” Edmure commented with an odd combination of cheer and pride. “Brother of Lord Denys Roote of Harroway.”
To Sean, the man looked tough, no doubt, like boiled leather; and also well into his fifth decade. ‘Five Westeros decades,’ the fifty one, or was it now fifty two, year old actor amended. ‘Do the months and days match Earth?’ Still, all the riders on mounts this side of nags had grey in their beards. The Riverlands were clearly scrapping the bottom of the man power barrel for knights. He hoped the near a thousand foot soldiers that made up the meat of the reinforcements come from Darry, who should already be in the process of getting sorted out to Riverland quarters throughout the city, were not as weathered a lot as these.
A man-at-arms holding a Tully banner in front of the Small Council signaled with it and the knights and mounted men-at-arms turned their horses that way after rendering a proper salute, which both Stannis and Edmure acknowledged.
The next forty through the gate while neither armored nor armed had been granted finer seats. And why shouldn’t of they? These mounts were likely either their own or their fellow Westerlanders, captured out from under them at the Green Fork. These bastards had fought like demons under Tywin Lannister and come within spitting distance, sans Sean willingness to sacrifice his honor, of winning. They approached Lancel, wearing his finest Lannister Lion garb, somewhat warily.
“Welcome my lords and sers of the Westerlands,” the vain prig called out. “I hope you have been honorably treated in your captivity?”
An unenthusiastic nattering about the conditions at Castle Darry was all the answer they gave Lancel.
“If you give me your word of honor that you will not leave King’s Landing without my consent, then I will grant you your parole.”
“Your noble uncle and your own father died fighting at the Green Fork against those perfidious North men I see there. Who or what are you, son of Ser Kevan Lannister, to be able to grant us anything?” Ser Addam Marbrand scornfully accused.
“Well struck,” old Celtigar cackled softly.
Sean wanted to snicker, but kept his Ned face on. He wished he were closer, for he could only imagine how Lannister crimson the boy’s face must be turning.
“By … by blood right, by the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and by the Seven, I am the acknowledged head of House Lannister, Master of Casterly Rock, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. My cousins Cersei and Jaime brought the vilest shame upon my House and by their sins tricked Lord Tywin into waging an unrighteous war. My allegiance to the Iron Throne is the first coin I, Lancel Lannister, have repaid to House Baratheon for the debt owed them.”
Lancel’s voice hardly broke or quavered in his little speech. The actor had sent Dacey a few lines to prepare her wet betrothed with when word came of the column’s approach. The recitation wasn’t verbatim, but clearly the lad had done some practicing.
“And what of our ransoms?” growled the badger of House Lydden, both a lord and a more practical man than Ser Addam.
“Swear to the terms of the parole. Swear to me your fealty and service; and the vaults of Casterly Rock will share the burden fallen upon you for honorably following your previous liege lord, my dear Uncle Tywin.”
“Do we get our swords back?” the huge Strongboar challenged.
“You do,” the she-bear standing beside Lancel declared in a smooth contralto voice.
“Think of the size of the children she’d breed if she married that Crakehall,” japed Edmure quietly.
Frowns and a few outright scowls from the Westerlands’ nobility met her having opened her mouth.
“This is my betrothed, the Lady Dacey Mormont ... “
‘More like jail keeper.’
“… We will marry in Casterly Rock once the Lord Renly and the rebel Reachers are defeated, making it safe for my lady love to travel the Gold Road,” the tamed lion cub said, providing the bare bones conditions of his forced arrangement with Stannis within his explanation of the marital plan.
Dacey smiled more charmingly than Sean thought he’d ever seen her. “The king is throwing a feast tonight to welcome those puissant lords and knights with the wisdom to see that their war with the Iron Throne is over. I pray you join me there tonight.” She turned to directly address Lancel. “My lord, with your permission, may I withdrawal so that I might begin preparing myself as befits the betrothed
“You may, Lady Dacey,” Lancel replied with hardly a pained expression passing over his pretty boy face.
She curtseyed, bringing her eyes down to the same level as his, and gracefully departed; the bold she-bear and the kept lion cub indeed.
“Lord Lancel,” Stannis now boomed.
“Your Grace?”
“You may use the throne room to hear their oaths in privacy.”
‘Except for the score of Ser Bywater’s best gold cloaks standing guard.’
“Thank you, your Grace.”
“High Septon,” the king now called, not lowering his voice at all, for though the Fat One was standing almost next to Stannis, he was not the target of what was to be said next.
“Your Grace,” the High Septon purred, jowls wobbling.
“Be so kind as to help Lord Lancel administer the oaths so that it is done in the light of the Seven.”
‘Just so long as it’s not done in the light of R’hllor.’ Sean was happy that Selyse had chosen not to join the party and throw the monkey wrench of her crazy pieties into the situation.
“Of course, your Grace. The faith is important in every aspect of our lives,” the Fat One bloviated. “From the Mother watching over us at birth to the Stranger accepting us back at death. The Crone and the Warrior shall surely watch over and guide this awesome under …”
“To your duties, holy ser,” Stannis interjected menacingly. The High Septon shut up. The King gestured for Lancel to continue.
A few more words were exchanged, implied threats and carrots mostly, and then all forty of the Westerlanders dismounted with varying degrees of alacrity. The party marched off across the Outer Yard towards the Throne Room, the High Septon waddling his gross bulk to keep up.
With the scene at an end, not Ned intended to take advantage of having so many of his lords waiting around the Red Keep for the feast to start and hobnob with them, get a feel from them of their current thoughts and concerns, check their morale.
Davos cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”
“Yes, Lord Davos?”
“It has come to my attention that there is a minor conspiracy brewing within the city.”
“Lannisters?” Stannis prompted suspiciously.
“No, your Grace. For Lord Renly. These are mostly merchants and traders.”
“Baelish’s creatures?” harrumphed old Celtigar, the Master of Coin.
“Antler Men,” not Ned announced.
“Yes,” Davos smiled. “That is what they call themselves. And more Baelish’s stooges than henchmen. They’ve been trapped in rather unfavorable contracts with the crown.”
“Oh, them,” the old lord cackled. “I get delegations every other day asking to renegotiate. Fools. What do they think I can do? Tear up the contracts when the Iron Throne is groaning under a mountain of debt? Bahhhh.”
“How far has their treason gone?” Stannis rumbled.
“Nothing overt, yet, your Grace. They have begun recruiting the scum Ser Bywater has thrown out of the Gold Cloaks. As guards mind you. Surprisingly well armed and armored guards.”
“Arrest them, confiscate their property,” whispered Bolton. “That will help the treasury.”
“Aye, agreed; and make them dance for the headman,” Jason Mallister added.
“Joffrey Waters would have nailed antlers to their head and launched them out of catapults,” not Ned pointed out more accurately than any of his listeners knew.
Stannis and others chuckled darkly at that.
“But we already have a dearth of trade in the city. Innocent merchants will talk and wonder the truth of it. Some will close up shop. Others will move. Your Grace, King’s Landing cannot afford such a blow. We want coin passing from hand to hand, a prosperous spending smallfolk are a happy, helpful smallfolk. With Renly coming there are more than enough storm clouds overhanging the city. Why needlessly add to them?”
The king took in a deep breath. “What do you suggest, Lord … Eddard,” he exhaled.
“Let Lord Ardrian invite the lot of them to the Red Keep under the pretense of a renegotiation of terms. When they are here, have Lord Davos reveal his knowledge of the conspiracy and have Ser Bywater threaten them with nailed antlers and catapults if there is any more suggestion of disloyalty.”
“Soft,” Stevron Frey complained.
“Make them pay in blood for their grasping merchant folly,” Lord Monford demanded.
“My inclinations are frequently different than Lord Stark’s,” Roose Bolton pointed out in his perpetually quiet way that somehow forced even high born men to lower their voices so they might hear him. “However, he seldom missteps.”
Stannis chewed his lower lip briefly. “We shall be magnanimous; though I doubt they will ever come to love me for it.”
----------------------------------------------------
The feast in honor of the forty paroled prisoners, and hopefully soon to be active allies, was pleasant enough. The Small Hall fit two hundred, so most of the major players in Stannis army could attend without receiving what might be considered an undue snub in the Game of Thrones. The food was more plentiful and richer than a typical days fare in the current environs of King’s Landing and the Red Keep. When Moon Boy or Patches wasn’t cavorting around in their motley, Symon Silver Tongue was taking advantage of the chance given him by not Ned to sing both classic songs and those ‘new’ ones from the North. Even the king saw the need for providing a good show for his now honored guests. At the high table he was making an actual effort to affably engage the two highest ranking Westerlands’ lords: Lewys Lydden of Deep Den and Sebaston Farman of Faircastle.
“Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear!”
The new made lord that day, Steffon Stackspear – his father Selmond having exsanguinated at the Green Fork, sat at the western table between Lancel and Dacey. The mid-major Westerlands’ lords Loren Garner and Jason Hammell then making bookends either side of the betrothed couple. Lord Tommen Turnberry and the knighted heirs to three other houses – Tobias Serrett, Gerold Foote, and Petry Westford willingly enough shared the southern table with Edmure and the Riverlands’ contingent. None of them had fought at the Green Fork and where thus not automatically besmirched of all honor.
“He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!”
Of the big names left in the part of forty, that left Addam Marbrand and the aptly monikered Strongboar to sit in mostly silence at the northern table in the Small Hall. Not Ned had specifically requested the steward sit the pair with him, for those were the only two names Sean remembered from the books; and thus thought them more significant in GRRM’s scheme of things. While they did their best to ignore him, they did at least join in conversation with the untainted Robb and Cat. At least with the Queen feeling ill and not in the hall, Sansa had been able to join him and not stay stationed near the high table. He occasionally gave his daughter a reassuring look.
“Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!”
Ser Addam, being a childhood boon companion of the Jaime Lannister’s, was asking the particulars of his friend’s last fight in the Throne Room. Both Ser Addam and Ser Lyle predictably smiled when the story reached ‘that’ point in the tale. Sean’s ghost hand throbbed at reliving its loss. At least the actor was awake and near a plentiful supply of wine as the memory flowed through him this time. Soon enough more wine flowed through him too. Then it was on to Grey Wind v. Kingslayer: battle of Titans, a battle fit for the Age of Heroes. All three men drank to the direwolf. Grey Wind from his spot on the floor beside Robb just tilted his head up to peer at the trio, looking bored.
“Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!
My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!
And off they went, from here to there,
The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair”
A smattering of cheers and applause greeted the end of the song. Symon the frog bellied and his accompanying toads took a bow from their toadstool planted in the middle of the hall, smack dab between all four long tables. “Now I’d like to sing a little ditty that’s become quite popular in parts of King’s Landing these last few weeks. Please pay attention my lords and ladies and knights, for its short and fast, I wouldn’t want you to miss any of it.”
The intro wasn’t nearly heavy enough, why should it? Face it, simple Symon didn’t have an electric guitar and amplifier. At least he’d taken to the suggestion of adding what passed for a bass in Westeros, as well as a drummer. The drummer was desperately needed, without a power riff only a driving beat could make the song come properly alive. The lords of the North quickly caught on to the opening riff; and with great approval their feet quickly began stomping in rhythm. Sean hoped the new arrived lords and great knights of the Westerlands would understand the message he was sending them care of Led Zeppelin.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah
Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah
We come from the land of the ice and snow.
From the midnight cold where the hot springs flow.
The hammer of the gods did drive our swords to river lands,
To fight the horde, sing and cry: Lannister, We are coming!”
“On we sweep with thrashing blade, our only goal will be the western dead.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah
Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah”
“We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight cold where the hot springs blow.
How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war. We are your ally lords.”
At least without the feedback, the lyrics were more understandable than when Robert Plant sang them.
“On we sweep with thrashing blade, Our only goal will be the western dead.”
“So now you’d better stop and rebuild all you ruined,
For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your treason.”
“Oooooooh, oh
Oooooooh, oh”
Was that Stannis tapping his foot?
“Oooooooh, oh
Oooooooh, oh”
‘Immigrant Song my arse. It’s the ‘We Fucking Crushed You So Don’t Ever Godsdamn Mess With Us Again Song’,’ Sean thought cockily. Zeppelin may have made more than a few Middle Earth references in their work, but it was clear to the actor that many of their songs were truly meant for Westeros. They just needed a few lyrically tweaks by a sly lad from Sheffield.
The hooting and hollering and stomping at the song’s conclusion lingered a good while. The Greatjon exuberantly pounded the table to express his pleasure. Mugs were emptied. Mugs were smashed. Serving wenches pinched, but not so tightly as the faces of the Westerlanders.
From the high table the king called out, “Singer, I have been told you are working on a new song, one yet unplayed. I would hear it.” Stannis Baratheon voice brooked no opposition.
Symon Silver Tongue licked his lips. “If I may be so bold, your Grace, it is a duet. May I ask the Lady Sansa to accompany me?”
The king looked over at not Ned’s table; apparently having already known where Sansa was sitting with the queen indisposed, - ‘Gods, I wonder if she’s pregnant?’ Sean suddenly thought.
“If my lord father, will allow me, your Grace,” his daughter replied sweetly.
A brief chant of “Sansa! Sansa! Sansa!” broke out among the well soused northerners and more than a few Freys, Brackens, Vances, and other Riverlanders. A few of the Westerlanders, Addam Marbrand in particular, attention drawn to his daughter and her Lannister ruined beauty, had the decency to look not just uncomfortable, but ashamed.
Stannis shifted his gaze to stare at not Ned, if without challenge, still with little sense of personal warmth. ‘Can’t even unwind enough to play along with this little mummer’s farce? Whatever will make you happy?' the actor wondered. “Of course,” he answered with a wide smile. ‘I wouldn’t stop this for the world. Move over Rains of Castamere, you’re about to get company.’
As Sansa stood up and walked around the end of the northern long table to go join the little band, a harp was uncovered and a stool produced for her use by the drummer and bass player; they would not be joining the strictly duet piece to come. Symon swapped his lyre for a mandolin, and plucked a few notes to check it was still in tune. When Sansa sat down, she too did the same for her instrument. The pair looked at each other and nodded. The mandolin began playing at a moderately rapid pace. Sansa occasionally struck a complimentary background chord on the twelve string harp.
Silver Tongue opened his froggy cheeks: “The Queen of Lies broke her vow, And then she turned to gold, The Bastard King embraced his blood, And stained the Iron Throne.”
Sansa cut in: “Oh, fight in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.”
Then before her line ended Symon started to overlay it: “The Kingslayer strikes with force tonight, And time will tell us all.”
Sansa took the lead back again: “Oh, throw down your plow and hoe, Rest not to lock your homes.”
And again Symon: “Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all.”
Together they now keened in an appropriate Plantesque manner: “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
The mandolin and harp stayed together in that almost eerie, hypnotically repetitive harmony.
The dual voices continued: “I hear the galleys' thunder down in the Blackwater below, I'm waiting for the warriors of Dragonstone, waiting for the eastern glow.”
Symon: “The apples of the Crownlands hold, The seeds of happiness, The ground is rich from tender care, Repay, do not forget, oh, no.”
Sansa: “Fight in the dark of night, sing to the morning light.”
Again that silvertongue: “The apples turn to brown and black, The tyrant's face is red. Ohhh.” The voices switched on “oh.” “Ohhh war is the common cry, Pick up your swords and fight.” And Symon cut back in over Sansa: “The sky is filled with good and bad that Seven only know.” And together, stretching, stretching the wail. “Ohhhhhhhh. Now. Ohhhhhhh. Ahhhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhh.”
More of the mandolin and harp duet so that the pair might catch a breath before singing in unison: “Oh, well, the night is long the beads of time pass slow, Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow.”
Symon: “The pain of peace cannot exceed the aftermath of war, The drums will shake the castle wall, the west lands ride in blood,” Then together “Ride onnnn!” And Sansa took the lead again: “Sing as you raise your bow, <ride on Symon interjected> shoot straighter than before.” Only to pass it back to the talented frog: “No comfort has the fire at night that lights the lion so dark.”
Sansa: “Oh fight in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.”
Symon: “The Warrior’s sword strikes the foe to bring the balance back. Bring it back.”
The mandolin and harp continued weaving the enchantment.
Their voices combined: “At last the sun is shining, The clouds of blue roll by, Horns glisten from the Stag of Dragonstone, the sunlight blinds their eyeeeeeeeeeeeeees - Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhoohhhhhhhhh. ... Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”
And at the finale, Sansa and Symon Silvertongue began alternating who sang each verse: “Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh.”
“Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Bring him back. Bring the Stag. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh. Oh now, oh now, oh now, oh. Bring him. Bring him. Bring him. Bring him. Bring him. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”
The harp and mandolin started the slow fade to end. Elation filled Sean. They’d fucking hit it spot on. Robert and Jimmy would be proud. The actor looked over at the high table to see Stannis’ reaction to his brilliant piece of blatant Stag arse kissing. The stubborn mule smiled without begrudgement or worry he was letting go of something precious.
An impromptu chant of “Stag! Stag! Stag!” broke out.
Satisfaction softened that perpetually tight face further. The cries feeding his starved soul seemed to fill the hollowness in his cheeks. More voices joined the hollering. Men started rising off the benches.
‘Take a bow, you stupid bugger. Don’t you know an ovation when you see it?’ the actor whispered to himself.
As if hearing the cue, two powerful hands landed on the high table and pushed Stannis’ broad shouldered, muscular frame out of his chair. The shouts grew even louder. “The Stag is back!” he roared, drawing the sword at his side and stabbing it into the sky. “Ours is the Fury!”
‘Nice touch, Mannis.’ The professional actor in Sean judged the theatrical moment seized perfectly, while the rest of him failed to realize that he too was on his feet and cheering along with the rest of the Small Hall, “Stag! Stag! Stag! Stag! Stag!“