Chapitre 1204: 26 - ||
"Well, Arya and little Shireen had given me hope that not every woman of this land was weak and broke in the slightest breeze. But I suppose they are the exception instead of the rule."
"Weak? I'm not weak!" the young woman hissed. "I'm... I'm... I'm just—"
"Damaged," Lady Valerica said, cutting off Margaery's sputtering. "Injured. In pain. But not broken. So, you must ask yourself, is this your end?"
"What do you mean?"
"Will you give up and accept the insult dealt to you?" the older woman pushed. "First blood has been shed. Now it is time for revenge. So... will you give tears, or will you seek blood in return for your own?"
'Is this what it really means to be in the Great Game?' Margaery wondered. "...I—"
BAM!
Margaery jumped as the door to the infirmary was thrown open, slamming against the wall.
"Margaery!" her mother cried, rushing forward and pulling her into a hug before Margaery even realized what was happening. But as soon as she recognized the familiar floral scent of her mother's perfume, the young woman instantly relaxed.
"Mama, I missed you," she whispered, nuzzling into her mother's arms. Over the top of her shoulder, Margaery saw the rest of her family hovering at the doorway, looking on in a heart wrenching combination of pain, sadness, and relief.
"Be careful of her face," Valerica warned. Spotting one of the timid infirmary aids, she called the young woman over. "You, come with me! I want to show you how to make healing tonic."
The woman squeaked, half in fright and half in excitement. "Yes, milady! Right away, milady! I'll do my best, milady!"
"Alright, stop with the sniveling."
Without another word, the two left the room so Margaery could be alone with her family. It was a small thing, but she sent the older woman a mental thanks for all she'd done.
"Oh Margaery," Mother cried, taking the young woman's face in her hands. "My sweet flower. Why did this have to happen to you?"
"I'm still alive," Margaery mumbled, recalling Lady Volkihar's words. "That is better than some."
"And we'll be forever thankful for that," Grandmother said, coming forward until she could take Margaery's face in her wrinkled old hands. She squinted for a long moment before giving a pleased nod. "Better. Much better already."
That made Margaery smile. 'If Grandmother says so, then it must be true.'
"This will not go unpunished!" Father huff, his face red with anger. "That Lannister woman will pay! I swear to you, Margaery! I will see justice is done for what has happened to you!"
"You and our people," Mother said softly, still stroking Margaery's hair gently. "We must not forget that this attack was not just on us personally, but upon our House and the Reach as a whole."
"Cersei Lannister went after everyone. All houses, big and small. The fact that the Tarlys managed to escape is a miracle," Grandmother corrected. "She wanted to control everyone, and didn't care how much blood needed to be spilled for her goal."
"The bitch," Loras hissed under his breath, eyes fixed on the comatose Renly.
Then he blinked, seeming to only now remember that he wasn't alone. He looked at Margaery, staring at with so much intensity that the young lady was certain he was trying to burn the image of her scared face into his mind.
"Hi, Marg," he whispered.
"Hello, brother," she whispered back, reaching out to take her sibling's hand. 'Garlan... Willas... I wish you were here too. You've always protected and indulged me. Now I need your help taking my vengeance.'
Margaery pulled out of her mother's embrace, just enough so she could more easily look at her family. "I'm alive," she repeated. "I'm alive, and now must survive with what has been done to me. As you said, Father, what happened cannot be forgiven. We must remind the Lions that Roses are brutal as they are beautiful."
She took a deep breath. "So, what is our plan?"
With a familiar grin, Grandmother tapped Margaery under her chin. "There is my most precious rose. You've grown so strong, stronger than perhaps even I realized."
"Of course she did," Father said. "Was there ever any doubt that our girl could survive a bit of trampling?"
Grandmother gave Father a soft, strangely sentimental smile. "We will have our revenge, my dear, there is no doubt about that. But first—"
The old woman pulled something from one of her small, ever-present purses, passing it over. "Here, Margaery. See how it fits."
'An eyepatch,' Margaery realized after a moment, stretching the slip of decorated cloth across her hands.
It was made of black silk and soft, supple leather, with the patch decorated with overlapping layers of red fabric so it vaguely resembled a rose.
"There wasn't much time to make it," Grandmother said quickly. "We'll get something more fitting made as soon as possible, perhaps even a nice glass eye. It'll do for now though."
"It's perfect," Margaery said, stroking one of the 'petals,' before pulling the eyepatch on. As Mother helped tie it behind her head, she drew herself up and tried to pretend that she wasn't afraid. "What is our first move?"
Jon XXIV
"So have you all decided to forgive me yet?" Jon asked, tossing another chunk of fresh, bloody beef at Ghost.
The direwolf let it hit the ground between his front paws, giving Jon an incredulous look. Clearly his companion still wasn't over being forced back on a ship, having to shepherd around three mischievous baby dragons, and then 'ignored' in favor of caring for said dragons. More than just a few paltry pieces of meat were required for Jon to earn Ghost's exalted forgiveness.
Phantasm, however, had no such pride, and leapt on the meat, tearing into it with great gusto. Spector, Enzo's shadowcat, was right behind her, letting out a mournful shriek when he realized that he was too late to grab his own snack.
"Oh, alright! Here!" Serana laughed, tossing Spector another chunk of meat. After gulping it down, the shadowcat leaped up into the vampiress' lap to curl up and lick her fingers. A moment later, Phantasm quickly joined her brother.
"Yeesh, they both cuddle up with you while Ghost won't even look at me," Jon said. At the sound of his name, Ghost looked up in his direction before deliberately turning his back to Jon and plopping down on the floor.
Serana cocked an eyebrow, "Wow, that's harsh."
Jon rolled his eyes. "He'll get over it once we get out into the wild again. We'll do some hunting, burn off some of that stored up energy and aggression."
"He should have gone out exploring with Enzo," Serana said.
"It might be better that he didn't," Jon replied. "Nymeria is somewhat accepted because she sticks by Arya's side. Where, as it stands, people still look like they're expecting me to suddenly start burning people alive for no reason, or impale them on stakes."
"They're looking at all of us like that. You, me, Mother, and Enzo."
Jon fought a wince, regretting that he once again drew his friends into a mess that was not their own. "Exactly why we shouldn't add to that suspicion, especially after..."
He nodded towards the three baby dragons, all curled up in the truck that had been made into a makeshift 'nest' for them with a thick, old blanket, and some mid-sized rocks. As Jon craned his neck to check on them again, he was relieved to see that the terrible trio was still asleep.
'I swear they spend an equal amount of time sleeping as they do causing trouble,' he thought with a grin. 'I suppose that, dragons or not, babies are babies, and still need a good deal of rest to grow.'
Grow...
They'd deal with that later.
"Part of me wishes that I'd gone exploring with Enzo."
"Oh?" Serana asked, leaning back on Jon's bed as she continued to stroke Phantasm behind the ears. "Why is that?"
"Dragonstone is my history," he said. "Or, at least, my father's history. Dragonstone is where the Targaryen family first landed when they came to Westeros from Valeryia. Then, when they came into power, the heir to the throne would carry the title of the 'Prince of Dragonstone.'"
"So it would have been yours?"
Jon shook his head. "No, likely not. Rhaeger Targaryen had another son, one who would have been older than me. Had Robert's Rebellion... gone differently, I'd have been the second son, making me the 'Prince of Summerhall'."
"That all sounds so complicated, makes me glad I'm an only child," Serana said. "Oh, and speaking of family, have you checked on yours yet?"
This time Jon actually did wince. "No, not yet. Even now that everything's out in the open, it feels awkward being alone with Uncle Ned and Sansa."
"Then go check on Arya." Serana smacked him on the back, "Tell her about how you want to bring her back to Skyrim with us."
"As much as she'd love that, I'm not getting her hopes up over something I can't promise." Jon sighed, getting to his feet. "But you're right, I need to go talk to them."
"What would you do without me?" Serana teased.
Jon just gave her a cheeky wink. "Would you mind looking after them?" he asked, nodding towards his dragons."
"Of course. One thing first though..."
Before Jon could ask what she meant, Serana grabbed him by the tunic and pulled him down into a heated kiss.
----
'Beautiful,' Jon couldn't help but think to himself as he made his way across through a courtyard back from the apartments his family had been given. Ghost trotted along his side, just far enough that Jon couldn't touch him but close enough that there was no doubt he was with Jon.
As much as Serana had been right that Jon needed to talk to his family, he took his time getting back. The conversation hadn't yielded much new information. Arya was out training, Sansa was still crying, and Uncle Ned was finalizing plans to be discussed tonight. With nothing else to do, Jon took his time to admire the castle around him. Dragonstone was truly glorious. Unnerving, perhaps, but glorious and Jon had truly never seen anything like it before. And if he never got the chance to visit the island again, he might as well take in the sights for as long as he could.
There was something else he liked about this castle too, though Jon couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.
'I like it,' he thought to himself, smiling up at a carved gargoyle that almost seemed to return the expression. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes to breath in the salty air tinged with smoke and brimstone before—
'Someone is here.'
Jon's eyes snapped open, his muscles growing tense as every hair on his body stood up. Through their connection, he could feel Ghost come to a similar realization. He turned slowly, hand going to his dagger. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Ghost mirror his movements, the direwolf's fur coming to stand on end and his teeth bared in a silent snarl.
"My god shows me your face."
They say beauty could be a terrifying thing, more so than anything obviously horrifying.
That was the first thought that popped into Jon's head as he stared at the woman before him. Tall and slender, yet with a terribly perfect figure that matched her heart-shaped face, the red haired woman gazed at him from across the courtyard with an intense kind of fascination shiny in her ruby eyes.
"Your god?" he asked, still not taking his hand away from his dagger. 'And where did you come from?'
Unless the woman had been hiding behind a tree or stone column, it was if she'd materialized from the shadows.
"R'hllor," the woman answered, her voice rich and deep. "Though he is known by many names: Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow. I find that, here in Westeros, people prefer to simply call him the Red God. I suppose that works well enough."
"The Lord of Light..." Jon did his best to recall the vague mentions of such a figure. The North was a place for the Old Gods and, reluctantly, the Seven. No one had much care for the gods that existed outside of their borders. "I know he is worshipped in Essos but nothing else, I'm sorry."
"Well he knows you." The woman came forward, moving with an unnatural amount of fluidity and grace; she seemed to glide more than walk. It reminded Jon of the way he'd seen ghosts move about their old homes. "He sends me visions of your face when I look into my fires. Why is that?"
Jon bit his tongue, resisting the urge to recoil when the woman came close enough that he could smell her perfume. More than just the primal fear that was screaming in the back of his brain, he had no desire to bare more of his past to some strange woman he just met. Especially not one who managed to so explicitly put his teeth on edge. It'd been a long time since he felt something like this, probably not since Nocturnal appeared in front of him; dark and detached and painfully beautiful to look upon. Was it not enough that he revealed his parentage?
'Besides, there is no reason to believe it has anything to do with being the Last Dragonborn,' he reminded himself.
Was Jon foolish enough to actually believe that? No, but he could pretend for now. It allowed him to focus more on the issue ahead of him.
He studied the woman, trying to pull any details from her that he could. The first thing Jon noticed after tearing his gaze away from the woman's hypnotic red eyes was the gold choker necklace she wore. More specifically, the large ruby that was embedded in the center of it, right at the hollow of her throat. As he stared into its center, Jon realized what it was about the woman who unnerved him.
Magic.
A thick aura of magic radiated out from the woman, so thick Jon could almost taste it. Though it wasn't any type of magic he could immediately recognize, the energy was undeniable. And it was most concentrated around that necklace.
'Who is this?'
"You seem lost in thought," the woman said. "Do you wish to ask me anything?"
"...Aren't you cold, my Lady?"
Perhaps it sounded foolish, but the woman was only wearing a set of layered red silk robes, loose enough to be considered modest, yet tight enough to be noticeable.
The woman smiled. "Never. My Lord's fire lives within me. Feel."
She reached out and stroked the side of Jon's face before cupping his cheek, rubbing the soft pad of her thumb against one of his scars.
Jon swallowed hard. "This seems rather forward, my Lady. Especially since I don't even know your name."
"Nor have you told me yours."
"Very well, I am Jon Whitewolf." He dipped his head in a brief bow of respect, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my Lady."
"It is... and it isn't, yet it is," the woman said, still not removing her hand from Jon's cheek. It was only when he finally broke and stepped backward out of her reach did the woman sigh and continue. "Very well. You may call me Melisandre, a red priestess of R'hllor. And it is my pleasure to meet you."
For a moment, it looked like the wo—Lady Melisandre wanted to say something more, to call Jon something else, but she caught herself. Instead, she turned her attention to where Ghost was tucked up against Jon's side, now closer than ever. The direwolf's fur was still on end and his fangs were still barred.
That changed, however, when the woman held out her hand, low to the ground and palm up, and said, "It is a pleasure to meet you as well, noble beast. Ghost, come."
It occurred to Jon that he'd never said his oldest companion's name, meaning Lady Melisandre must have heard it from someone else or...
To Jon's amazement, the direwolf leaned forward to give the woman's hand a small sniff before relaxing enough to shove his nose against Lady Melisandre's fingers.
"How odd... Ghost usually isn't so—"
"Warm? Warmth calls to warmth, just as life calls to life. Ghost's fur may be as white as the ice and snow of his homeland, but the heat of life that radiates from him is undeniable." Lady Melisandre's eyes looked like two red stars, shining in the shadows and growing late-afternoon dimness of the courtyard. At her throat, her ruby gleamed seemed to glow and pulsate like a heartbeat. "He's a truly magnificent creature, a more than worthy companion to one such as yourself."
"I could not ask for one more loyal," Jon said. He never could resist bragging about Ghost to those who appreciated the direwolf's majesty. "I found him and his siblings as orphaned pups many years ago and he has not left my side since then."
"The Lord of Light certainly sent him to you, knowing that he would serve you well in the battles to come."
Jon had nothing to say to that, spurring the woman to continue.
"There is great power in this creature," Lady Melisandre said, stroking Ghost's ears for a moment before reaching out to take Jon's hand in hers. She turned it until his wrist was bared, tracing his vein with a fingertip. "It lurks inside you as well. You may deny it to me and others, but my Lord cannot be lied to. Your blood holds great power. With just a few drops of it, I could do so much... for Lady Shireen and many others."
Jon didn't miss the way the last part of the sentence seemed tacked on, and not truly sincere. He pulled his wrist back. "Sorry, I've shed enough blood that I'm not interested in giving up anymore willingly."
Lady Melisandre just gave him a serious look, one that was contradicted by the small, patronizing smile playing on her lips. "Deny me all you wish, Jon Whitewolf. But I foresaw your arrival in my flames. The Lord of Light has plans for you. Fate cannot be escaped, I'm sure you know that better than most."
"What do you—"
"Something far worse than the scabbles of men is coming. The Great Other stirs, and my visions tell me that you have a role in stopping him. The question, Jon Whitewolf, is if you will run from your duty to the world, or will you attempt to resist it?
.
.
.
'Enough of this shit!' Jon snarled, baring his teeth like he was a direwolf —or a dragon— himself. "Lady Melisandre, I am not sure what you presume to know about who I am or what I have done. Yet, no matter what you claim to see in your flames, my future is my own. So, you listen here, I have done my duty to the world many times over and I have never run from a fight that mattered. However, I refuse to be manipulated by any forces, be they mortal or otherwise. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be elsewhere."
He spun on his heel to leave, whistling for Ghost to follow him, when Lady Melisandre spoke up again.
"Ah, yes... the council meeting. It is just about time for that, I suppose."
Against his better judgment, Jon looked over his shoulder back at the woman.
"I will be in attendance as well. I used to advise the late Lord and Lady Baratheon, a duty I took so seriously that I feel the need to stay and continue to give aid to their daughter." Melisandre held out her hand. "This castle can be quite difficult to navigate. I can guide you to the Chamber of the Painted Table if you wish."
As Jon stared out the outstretched hand —pale and uncovered, with long, delicate fingers— and vaguely recalled a warning he'd once heard from a weathered, somewhat mad, sailor about never taking food or favors from beings with magic. He claimed that, once you did, those beings would have a hold on you—potentially forever. Jon hadn't given much consideration to the sailor's drunken, superstitious rambling, aside from the brief thought that the concept sounded like a terrifying, twisted version of Guest Right.
Yet now, with every animalistic survival instinct inside him still screaming at Jon to attack this silk-clad threat in front of him, it was all he could think about.
"...No, I think I'll find my own way," he said eventually.
Lady Melisandre just gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders. "If that is what you wish then so be it, Jon Whitewolf. Everyone finds their way eventually. That or they perish."
As the young Dragonborn finally left the courtyard, a nasty feeling in his gut told him that this would not be the last meeting he had with the unnerving Lady Melisandre. No, he would bet his entire fortune that the presence of the Red Woman would hang over him like a shadow in the times to come.
----
"First thing's first, we need to establish who will be staying on Dragonstone for the time being, and who will be returning to their own lands."
Surprisingly, it was Ser Davos Seaworth who spoke up first, breaking the uneasy, uncomfortable silence that filled the room once everyone had gathered. The former smuggler stood at the right hand of Shire—Lady Baratheon's chair, a protective and reassuring presence for his charge and ladyship.
'Then again, perhaps it isn't surprising,' Jon thought. He'd seen how protective Seaworth was of the girl firsthand. 'He clearly loves her dearly. It is easy to imagine that he'd want to do his best to protect her.'
"My family will be returning to High Garden as soon as possible," Mace Tyrell said immediately. "Once my poor Margaery is well enough to travel, we will turn home to prepare our forces."
"Oh, Father, please don't tailor your plans to suit my needs."
Jon had been surprised to see Lady Margaery at the council meeting. Though he'd heard from Valerica that she was planning to start weaning the young woman off of the sleeping drafts so she could awaken on her own time, Jon still hadn't expected to see Lady Margaery on her feet so soon. Clearly, the young lady was hiding a will of steel under her silk dresses and sly smiles. Additionally, Jon would also admit to being surprised that a woman who did not hold power in her own right like Shireen was there. While Jon personally had no problem with it, he knew such a thing was considered odd in Westeros.
Lady Tyrell was there to accompany her husband, which while not strictly speaking needed, was not uncommon, or considered improper. Serana, Valerica, and Adelaisa were exceptions due to being outsiders, for better or for worse. And Lady Olenna was... something else. While Jon couldn't testify as to the exact dynamics of the Tyrell family, it was clear to him and everyone else that she was the one who held all the power in the family.
Then there was Lady Melisandre, who'd yet to say anything. Instead she hung back, seeming to disguise herself by blending into the roaring fireplace she stood beside. Even then, Jon kept one eye on her at all times.
'They must hold their daughter and granddaughter in high regard,' he thought. 'That or they hope to use her injury to either garner sympathy or remind people of what Cersei did.'
As if in answer to Jon's thoughts, Lady Margaery spoke up again.
"This is our battle too, Father. It is true that I wish to return home so I can recover in a familiar place; however, I also believe it is our duty to send aid in the effort against Cersei."
As she spoke, Lady Margaery rose to her feet so the entire room could hear —and see— her clearly. A flurry of mutters broke out across the room, half agreements to the young lady's words and half whispered comments about her appearance.
While Jon had not been there to see the state Margaery Tyrell had been in when she and her family had been brought to the Bell Singer , he'd been told it was a gruesome sight. Even now, after having spent weeks under Valerica and Recilia Magione's expert care, the wound still stood out as a dark, ugly mark on an otherwise fair and delicate face. The rose-themed eyepatch hid the worst of the damage, yet a fresh red scar still cut across her face, reminding Jon of a cracked porcelain mask.
'For a famed beauty, being scared in such a way might be considered a fate worse than death. I hope Lady Margaery is stronger than that.'
Then Loras Tyrell spoke up, a surprise in and of itself.
"What about Renly?" he asked quietly. "What will happen to Lord Renly?"
Valerica cleared her throat. "As I said last night, he is still in a coma with no change to his condition that I have observed. His treatment will continue, but in my opinion, keeping him in one place will be beneficial to his healing."
The young knight flinched at the news, silently folding his arms and sinking down in his chair. Jon's heart ached for Loras. Seeing the ones you loved in pain and not being able to be there, let alone help them, was a special kind of torture.
"With Un—Lord Renly currently incapacitated, that leaves the problem of Storm's End," Lady Shireen said. With Myrcella Baratheon currently... unavailable , the responsibility of ruling the Stormlands falls on me. However, doing so over such a long distance during trouble times will be difficult. My current plans is to get in contact with whomever my uncle left in charge while he was away—"
"Ser Cortnay Penrose, the castellan," Loras interrupted.
Lady Shireen nodded, "I hope to get in contact with Ser Cortnay. Gods' being willing, he will cooperate and not attempt to seize full control for himself."
She turned to address Loras directly. "Can you comment on the man's character, Ser Loras?"
The young knight scratched his chin. "He's a good man and a good soldier, stubborn, and not the friendliest, yet trustworthy and dutiful. He is the kind of man we'll want on our side."
"Do you believe he'll side against Cersei Lannister?" Uncle Ned said, speaking up for the first time.
"Absolutely," Loras nodded. "He is friends of the late King Robert and Lord Renly, and he never liked nor trusted the Queen. I can't imagine he'll take Cersei's actions against them well."
"Good."
Ser Davos spoke up again. "If I may, working with Penrose will only be a temporary solution. While I'm sure we all hope Lord Renly will awaken and be able to resume his lordship, we need to prepare for the possibility that he won't."
"Meaning we need to start thinking of other potential heirs," Jon finished, realizing the man was leading the conversation. When others turned to look at him, he simply shrugged. "I cannot be the only one who has thought about it. We are all aware of King Robert's children, Lord Renly has no heirs, the late Lord Stannis only had—"
"Me—" Shireen cut in. "Unfortunately, the Baratheon branch is not as fruitful as it should have been."
Another silence settled over the room, this one broken by Tyrion Lannister. "Robert had bastards, plenty of them. All over Westeros."
"Plenty of which are dead," Enzo growled. "If you are suggesting that we put one of the few we managed to save in the line of fire..."
"Nothing of the sort," Tyrion said quickly. "Though I would like to point out that at least one of those bastards are plenty old enough to choose for themselves. Potential legitimacy and lordship could seem like a dream come true to some of them."
"Not once they learn what that dream caused their half-siblings," Enzo shot back.
Discomforted mutters started from the crowd, growing louder and more agitated with each moment.
'Never did I think I'd long for the days of Skyrim's Annual Grand Council. At least all of them are far too practical for all of the Cloak 'n' Dagger of King's Landing,' Jon thought. 'Damn, we've got to get this under control. Last thing we need is a fist fight breaking out, and petty grudges dividing us.
'The Great Houses of Westeros have historically never been good at working together, even for a common goal. We can't risk a repeat of alliances failures of the past.'
He stood up, "Enough!"
That quieted everyone, letting him continue. "Lady Baratheon is right, we need to think of who can rule Storm's End in the event Lord Renly never recovers. For now though, we should just focus on getting Penrose on our side. More than anyone else, he knows the ins and out of the castle, and has the trust of its people. And he'll be vital to rallying the other Houses of the Stormlands to our side. Agreed?"
No one sounded happy about it, but eventually, grumbled and cursed agreements were dragged out of everyone present. Privately, Jon had to admit that he understood where Tyrion was coming from. If they could find a bastard son of Robert's who looked like the man, and had a half-decent head on his shoulders, then they had a half-palatable heir they could present to the people and, more importantly, other nobility. Especially if they agreed to act as a figurehead while someone like Penrose did the actual ruling. Still, he could understand Enzo's protective of Robert's bastards, even the ones he'd never met. Jon felt similarly protective of both Gendry and Myrcella, neither of whom were present.
Uncle Ned cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. "Getting back to the earlier topic, I will be sending my daughters back to Winterfell as soon as a ship is available. There are a few more things I need to attend to, but I hope to be joining them as well. As soon as I return home, I will immediately set to work gathering and organizing the Northern forces."
Shireen nodded again. "That is understandable, Lord Stark. Your seat is furthest away out of all of us, I understand you feeling the need to return. It would not be easy to direct armies at such a distance, and your daughters are vulnerable."
With that, the two major houses present were taken care of. The other assorted minor houses all announced their attentions quickly enough, with Jon making the silent decision to send little Barra and Dustun over to Skyrim with their mothers the moment it became possible. It seemed safest that way.
Then it was time to move onto the next order of business.
"We need to discuss who else, aside from those in this room, will ally with us," Uncle Ned. "Discounting the Lannisters, there are four Major Houses we need to consider: the Arryns, the Greyjoys, the Martells, and the Tullys. My family has connections to the Tullys and the Arryns through marriage and fostering, so I feel confident in saying that they will support us. I have already instructed my wife to write to her father and sister so they understand the situation."
"The Greyjoy heir... he is your hostage as well, isn't he?" Lady Olenna asked.
Jon saw his uncle flinch. It was an action he almost mirrored, he didn't like where this was going.
"Theon has been in my care since the Greyjoy Rebellion, yes."
"Well, there you have it," Mace Tyrell said, earning a sharp scowl from Uncle Ned. "We have the leverage we need to force old Balon Greyjoy into providing aid. I wouldn't trust a squid with cleaning out a stable, but ships are always good to have during war time."
"How can we be sure he'll even care? Theon hasn't even seen the Iron Islands since he was a child. And nothing I've heard about Balon tells me he is a caring or sentimental father," Jon pointed out.
"We shouldn't count on the Greyjoys for any aid, maybe not even neutrality," Tyrion said. "Some of you may know that the Ironborn have been suspiciously quiet for these past two years. While that may sound good, there have been some unnerving rumors about what is going on there."
"As have I," Ser Davos agreed. "Some... old associates of mine have told me of whole ships disappearing, red seas, and dark shadows under the waves. Now, sailors are a naturally superstitious lot, but still..."
'Well, that is going to be a problem in the future,' Jon thought, a shiver running down his spine.
"That leaves the Martells," Shireen said, redirecting the conversation.
At the mention of the name, a collective wince went through the crowd. The Martells were well known for their dislike and general disinterest for the rest of Westeros that, in the worst of time, bordered on outright hostility. Though, to be fair, this dislike was shared. The rest of Westeros viewed the Martells and the Dornish as the whole as strange, hedonistic, and generally 'ungodly.' Even Uncle Ned, though he'd never spoken poorly of the Martells, had also never spoken of them well in the whole of Jon's memory.
"They have a grudge against the Lannisters," Uncle Ned said. "Perhaps more so than anyone else."
"They also have a good reason to hate the rest of us too, especially her," someone replied, pointing at Shireen. "Except for maybe the Tyrells here, as they fought for the Dragons too."
Mace Tyrell grew red-faced. "We will not work with those sand-dwelling heathens! Have you forgotten what Oberyn Martell did to my family?"
Lady Olenna's lips pursed and twisted like she was sucking on a lemon, and Loras not so subtly rolled his eyes. But, once again, it was Lady Margaery who spoke up.
"Father, please, we all know what happened was an accident. Willas bears Prince Oberyn no ill-will," she said softly, touching her father's arm.
"It doesn't matter! That man crippled my son, and I refuse to forgive him."
Jon let the man's ranting go on for a moment, making a mental note to ask his uncle about the bad blood between the Martells and the Tyrells. Instead, he took a moment to admire the table in front of him. It was a truly massive thing, more than fifty feet long and roughly twenty-five feet wide at its widest point. Carved from a block of wood and expertly painted as a detailed map of Westeros, even under three-hundreds years worth of wear and vanish, it was truly magnificent!
'This is where Aegon Targaryen and his Sister-Wives planned the Conquest,' Jon thought to himself, imagining his ancestors sitting where he was now. 'And now it is where I help plan to take down Cersei Lannister and her lot. Life is funny sometimes.'
As his eyes traced the valleys, mountains, and paths of the Painted Table, going from the High Garden to Sunspear. Then an idea popped back into this mind, one Jon had been considering for a while.
"I could go treat with the Martells," he said, cutting through Mace Tyrell's blustering. "I've been hoping to meet with them for a long while now. I... My family, the Targaryen side at least, have debts that need to be paid to them. Ones I feel personally responsible for."
After a moment of stunned silence, a choir of argument and surprised exclamation broke out. Chief among them was from his Uncle Ned.
"Jon, have you truly considered what you are offering?" he asked, a look of confusion and concern on his face. It was so earnest that, for a moment, Jon felt guilty that he'd never spoken with Uncle Ned about his desire to speak with his step-mother's family. "The Martells, Prince Oberyn specifically, are not... well-known for their forgiving nature. I was hoping to make reparations through marriage myself, but that never came to pass. Not yet at least. We have no way of knowing how they will react to your presence, especially if you intend to announce…"
"That I am the son of Rhaegar Targayen and Lyanna Stark?" Jon asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Of course I do. Lying would do no one any good in the long run. No, I will go to them and be honest. I have... something I think they will want to see, something that I think might make them forgive my birth, and, maybe, provide aid."
Jon thought of the letters Elia had written to Rhaegar and Lyanna about their plans and hopes for the future. He thought of the woman's armband, and the Mountain's pendant. If nothing else, those moments deserved to be returned home.
"Besides, he wouldn't be alone," Enzo said, shooting Jon a small grin.
"Of course not," Serana agreed, speaking up for the first time.
'What did I do to deserve them?' Jon thought to himself. Hiding his grin, he turned back to his uncle. "This is something I must do. And I truly believe it was the only way we can get the Martells to side with us. If enough of the Great Houses are open in their opposition of Cersei, then her own support will dwindle, and we may end this without much bloodshed."
While he would prefer no bloodshed, such was a naive thought. At the very least, there was no way the men and women in this room would let the Queen live. Not that Jon was interested in pleading for her life.
Uncle Ned closed his eyes, face twisted in pain and unhappiness before he finally nodded. "Alright, I give you my blessing. I just wish you'd spoke with me about this first."
"May I propose a course of actions?" Lady Margaery spoke up, drawing attention back to herself. "My eldest brother, Willas, is a friend of Prince Oberyn, despite the unpleasantness of their original meeting. If given some time to exchange the proper correspondence, we can have Willas draft a letter of introduction for Ser Jon. If nothing else, it will give Prince Oberyn, and hopefully Prince Doran, pause."
"In addition to serving as an olive branch from the Tyrells to the Martells," Lady Olenna added. After a moment of consideration, she continued. "Prince Doran is a patient and practical man. Even in the face of what the Lannisters and Baratheons had done to his sister and her child, he chose to accept peace in the face of overwhelming odds. Yet I suspect his hatred of those who killed his family has never wavered. If we stroke the flames of that rage properly, the Martells could be useful allies indeed. I approve."
Lady Alerie fussed and Lord Tyrell huffed but, in the end, both nodded as well. An action that caused a wave of agreements from everyone else.
"As much as I approve of paying one's debt, I'm afraid I can't join you," Tyrion said. "I am well-aware of the animosity between my family and the Martells. And while that will be something we'll have to deal with in the future, for now I need to find a way to contact my uncle, Kevan Lannister. If I can get to him first, I will hopefully be able to convince him to disown and disavow Cersei. Without the support of the Lannister family fortune and forces, she will have no allies, and nothing she can do. Backed into a corner, Cersei may be convinced to end this war before it even begins."
Jon gave the older man a wary look. "Wait, you said 'if I can get to him first.' What do you mean by that?"
Tyrion gave a heavy sigh. "My sister can be very convincing when she wants to be. And extremely determined to get what she wants."
Another man glared at the man. "I still don't see why we should trust anything that comes out of your mouth, imp!"
"Dwarf," Tyrion corrected. "And, if you can't trust what I'm saying, then trust that I don't want to go to war anymore than anyone else. Can you imagine me on the battlefield? No, I have no desire to die like that, nor do I want it to be the fate of the young men of my family. Or, as I've made clear, the fate that may befall the women and children. I'm sure you can relate, good ser."
The man snarled, but ducked his head and said nothing more.
"With that in mind, we must think of what everyone needs to do when they return home," Valerica said. "I suggest that you all get to work setting up supply lines, linking your lands and allies together."
The smart suggestion drew surprised looks from everyone else in the room who didn't know her, leading the ancient vampiress to shrug. "I've had the... fortune of seeing many wars. I know how the game is played."
"She's right," Jon said in agreement. "We all know the wars are won by supplies and communication, almost more than they are by forces and leadership."
Uncle Ned nodded. "Setting up supply lines is important, but we should also use the opportunity to cut Cersei Lannister off from any supplies and aid she may be receiving from outside King's Landing. Additionally, planning methods of covert and coded communications need to be a priority."
"Especially important if I cannot convince my uncle to side against Cersei," Tyrion added.
It was then Ser Davos' turn to speak. "We also need to consider water transport. King's Landing is connected to the sea, so a blockade will need to be considered."
"We'll block her in," piped up Lady Shireen.
"And starve her out if need be," Lady Olenna finished. "The Reach controls the food, and she will be seeing none of it. If we cut off the King's Road from the Westerlands, she's finished before she ever begins."
"So that is it then?" Lady Shireen said, looking around. "Does anyone have anything else to say?"
No one spoke up, at least to the group at large. "Alright then," she continued. "I suppose we've all made our decisions, and created our plans. Now we just have to carry them out."
Looking around the chamber, the blood-red sunset shining through the windows, Jon felt a growing uneasiness in his stomach, one he'd felt many times before. It never heralded anything good. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Lady Melisandre grin.
'It has begun.'
Notes:
To be totally honest with you, I'm not 100% happy with this chapter but it IS the start of a new arc and beginnings have always been hard for me. Admittedly, I'm a little scared to actually pull the trigger and get started on the actual war.
Still, writing Melisandre was really fun, and I got a chance to do some of my favorite POVs.
Hope you liked it!
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone