Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by Malcolm Tent, Priapus, Marethyu, Mike God of Lore, Beans
The Unbound
Chapter 13: Nine
– Prince Orys Baratheon –
There are undoubtedly complications with me simply pulling Brightroar out of my backside, given that it was lost in Valyria. Lady Nocturnal was so efficient that she actually caught me off guard because I thought it would take longer, and I'd have more time to prepare for this.
"You've done well for yourself, my Prince," a familiar voice says, making me jump and, somewhat embarrassingly, try to wield Brightroar. It's a very large blade, similar to Lord Stark's Ice, and it doesn't want to cooperate with me.
Standing at the window, Ithelia gives me an amused smile, with the unmistakable glowing blue marks on her body. It feels like it's been an age since we spoke last, with so much that's happened.
"Thanks to you," I reply softly.
"No. I set you on this path, but you're the one who has walked it. I told you before, your fate is your own," Ithelia replies with a small smile.
"I don't suppose you'll tell me more this time? I've made the pacts, like you suggested, but I still barely know what I'm doing," I point out, watching her nod. "I've sensed other Princes active in Westeros, working without me inviting them in."
"I know. I'm sorry I didn't explain more, but I truly was struggling to stay in the mortal plane as long as I did. With every changed fate, my powers return just a little more. You've sent waves across the entirety of your world, even beyond Westeros, and with it, my powers have slowly returned," Ithelia explains. "As for the others? You're right. Think of this world as a fortress, and you alone can lower the gate and allow those you deem worthy inside. Many of my… siblings are not what you would call patient, despite their immortality. You slighted those you didn't choose, and while some are working in the shadows either to gain a pact or to just scale the wall when you aren't looking, others have simply decided to besiege the fortress to try and knock down the walls keeping them out."
"I didn't accept their offers, so now they're trying to work around me," I say, getting a nod. "Then how can I stop them? I can sense the… ripples from their actions, but these are gods."
"You already are, Orys. Hircine, Mephala, Nocturnal. They aren't just guests. They've joined the defence of the fortress, and are helping to push the others out. It's hard to describe what battle 'looks' like on the divine plane, but know that there's more going on than you can sense. Hircine has been waging war against Molag Bal in the North, Mephala striking at Dagon's chosen before he could become a threat," Ithelia reassures me.
"So, I just need to keep doing what I'm doing and forming pacts with the less… malicious ones?" I ask.
"Yes. You were never going to be able to appease every Prince. Believe me, if we could get along, I wouldn't have lost my powers to begin with. The more divine allies you have, the harder it will be for outsiders to influence your world," Ithelia explains with a wry smile. "Which is why I'm here. This is more or less entirely my fault, after all. If I'd not escaped to your world after my sealing, the others wouldn't have followed me."
"And then I'd be dead. Perhaps it's selfish to put myself before the potential fate of my entire world, but I can't help but be thankful all the same," I retort. Ithelia chuckles at that, reaching forward as I feel her connect with my power.
"I'm still weak, but I can give you a nudge in the right direction. The Princes aren't the only deities you have access to, after all," Ithelia continues as I feel my power reach out once more. It's going in the same 'direction' as when it reaches out to the Daedric Princes, the same world of origin, but this time I feel it connect with Nine beings, each blazing with power. "The Nine Divines. I… sent out a call to them, because I don't intend to let Molag Bal and Mehrunes have their way with this world. I lack the power to be of any use to you in this, but I have my ways."
I let my power continue to reach out to each, brushing against the deities and getting a sense of what their domains and powers are. They feel less pushy than the Daedric Princes, but their power is undeniable.
"Damn it, I was sure I could stay for longer this time," Ithelia says, panting slightly as she steps back. The runes on her body glow and hum as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her body fades, becoming translucent in places as she seems to be forcing herself to remain. "Orys, watch beyond the Wall. That's where the true threat lies. Don't let yourself be distracted by the east."
With her words spoken, she fades and leaves me with nothing but my own thoughts. Well, that's worrying. Surely she doesn't mean the Wildlings? Even another King Beyond the Wall is no true threat to the Seven Kingdoms…
Shaking my head, I focus back on the problem at hand. Brightroar.
As I consider my options, something occurs to me. For all the divine presences I've felt, I've never felt anything from the Seven-Faced God. As heretical as it is to even think, I can only assume that this means that there is no Seven.
But what if there was? I hear Mephala cackling as she sees my plan, the start of something that the Septs would gut me for even considering if they ever knew, but as I reach out to one of the Nine, I feel him reach back.
Zenithar, God of Work and Commerce, listens as I explain what I want, what I am planning. As he agrees, I reach out and he reaches back, our pact sealed. In this moment, The Smith is reborn. One of the Seven, taking on a new face and gaining a name.
Now, all I need is a forge. Zenithar sends me the plans for what I desire, and I think it's time to put my new position to the test. My father spent a fortune on feasts and tourneys. I can get away with commissioning a royal forge for myself.
Valyrian Steel is priceless because it is a lost art, but with Brightroar in hand and the blessing of a Smith God, nothing is truly lost forever. Already, Zenithar is analysing the blade in my hands, and I can almost feel his amusement as he unravels the secrets of Valyria. I can almost hear him saying that he's seen better.
– Eddard Stark –
In truth, Baelish's death had shown him just how laughably out of his depth he was in the South. The one person he'd decided to trust beside Robert had turned out to be the very killer he was looking for in the first place.
Prince Orys had laid out a mountain of evidence, showing how Jon had been looking into the many discrepancies around the royal treasury. There wasn't any hard proof, but Baelish was on close terms with Jon's wife, and they believed that he'd used this to poison Jon in his own home. At the end of the day, Baelish had decided to take his secrets to his grave, but the fact that he hadn't even had the spine to speak after the evidence was laid out spoke louder than words.
This was the price of greed. Too many people wanted far more than what they had. Baelish had been a Lord, a small one, admittedly, but a Lord of Westeros all the same. Jon had gotten him a very respectable position, but Baelish's endless greed had pushed him to steal more and more until his crimes were noticed.
The sheer depths of Baelish's greed and corruption had been shocking, and explained his question of how the Crown had ended up in such deep debt. Robert was a wasteful man, but even he hadn't managed to spend so much in such a small amount of time.
Then there was the Mountain and Lorch. He'd told Robert to put those two down when they'd presented a set of mutilated corpses to Robert as if they were grand trophies. Robert had refused, and the ensuing argument had had him riding North within the day. Justice had been delivered, and while Tywin had gotten away with his part in things, that was to be expected.
In truth, Ned was left with no real idea of what to do now. He'd come South to seek justice for Jon, and to investigate the Lannisters because of Lysa's accusations. Justice had been delivered with no help from him; all he'd managed to add was his admittance of the message from Lysa Arryn.
Now he was left in the South while his people were under attack, his investigation ending without his involvement, and there was no easy way to just leave. A part of him wanted to repeat what he had done years ago and just hop on a horse and ride North, but things were rarely that simple. He was the Hand of the King, he had duties he could not simply abandon.
"Orys!" Arya shouted, getting his attention as the Crown Prince walked into the small garden he was doing his thinking in. It was hardly the Godswood back in Winterfell, but it was less stuffy than the rest of the Red Keep. Ned rose immediately, his courtly manners rusty but still functioning.
"Hello, Arya. Lord Stark, I hope you don't mind my intrusion," Orys said easily, giving Arya a nod. "Sansa told me that I could find you here."
"Of course not, Your Highness. This is your home, and your gardens," Ned replied. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping to speak with you in private, after all that has happened and taking into account my upcoming coronation. We've not had the chance to truly talk, after all," Orys explained. Ned nodded, turning to Arya. She went to complain about being sent away before she caught herself with a pout, surprising him as she curtsied to Orys clumsily and wandered off with Nymeria.
"What do you wish to know?" Ned asked simply.
"Firstly, I was hoping you could inform me of how things are going in the North. I know the Redwyne fleet is patrolling the North's western coast to limit the Greyjoys' actions, but with all that's happened, I'm not entirely up to date with the Northern situation," Orys said, gesturing for him to sit back down as Orys took a seat himself.
"Things are… tense, your Highness. Maester Luwin claims that the raids on the coast have lessened significantly with the presence of the Redwyne fleet but some slip through the patrols. There's been reports of Greyjoy raiders much further inland than expected, raiding farmlands and burning supplies that were being built up for winter," Ned admitted, watching as Orys frowned thoughtfully.
"That is unlike the Greyjoys from my studies. Traditionally, they rarely go far from the water, because they tend to lose badly if they can't retreat back to their ships and escape," Orys pointed out. Ned nodded in agreement, a stern frown on his face.
"In addition, Castle Black has reported a large increase in wildling activity close to the Wall," Ned reported. Orys went silent, a strange look on his face as Ned waited. He truly didn't know what to think about Orys. He was fond of Robert's eldest son, but it was hard to predict what he was going to do. The entire Small Council had been caught off guard by his sudden request to have a new forge built within the Red Keep, but Queen Cersei had made it clear that her son's request was to be fulfilled.
"Do you think the wildlings are seeing weakness in the North from the Greyjoy raids?" Orys asked. Ned paused for a moment, considering the question.
"Perhaps. I don't know how they would have heard so quickly, but if they believe the North is weakened, then it is possible they want to try their luck while we are distracted," Ned admitted.
There'd been a lot of weird rumours coming from the North that he truly didn't know what to think about. Luwin himself had claimed that men he trusted claimed that they had seen Dacey Morment turn into a bear and tear apart the Ironborn raiders. He wasn't going to say that outloud, not when the Faith had such power in the South. He didn't know what to think about this Cult of Hircine but most agreed that it was simply a facet of the Old Gods, and he wasn't going to give the Faith any reason to look north.
"May I be blunt for a moment, Lord Stark?" Orys asked. Ned just gave him a small smile.
"I'd rather you be. I'm ill-suited for the honeyed words of the South," Ned admitted.
"Do you want to remain as the Hand?" Orys asked simply. "When I am crowned, likely within the week, given the rush, I intend to make several changes, but it would be a slap to the face of the North to bring you down on my father's request only to remove you from your seat before even a single year has passed."
Ned went quiet, thinking for himself over how to answer the pointed question.
"I came south on the request of your Father, but I didn't want this position to begin with. That said, with Sansa's engagement to Joffrey, it wouldn't make sense to take her back north and I don't want to leave her alone," Ned admitted. "Perhaps if my wife came south?"
It would do good to get Cat away from the chaos, because some of the raids had come close to Winterfell. Robb was too young to properly lead a defence and the Greyjoys weren't just raiding fishing villages anymore.
"She'd be welcomed in the Red Keep as a guest of honour, of course. She's to be my brother's goodmother," Orys assured him. "I imagine my father would be honoured to take her to Storm's End when he takes Joffrey there, eventually."
"Then yes, I would like to return to the North," Ned admitted. In some ways, it felt like running away, but his home was under attack, and he was stuck in the south playing a game he was ill-suited for.
"After my coronation, I'll make the announcement that the North needs its Warden back. I imagine some of the North will be insulted at your dismissal, I am not unaware that the North is oft ignored by us southerners," Orys admitted.
"Some of my fellow Northern Lords have expressed their distaste at that," Ned agreed after a moment. "But my place is with my people and my family, especially in times of trouble."
"I want you to find out how badly these raids have hurt your preparations for the winter. As you Starks love reminding us, Winter is Coming. If you don't have enough for winter, I want to know so we have time to fix things. The North doesn't stand alone," Orys swore, getting a small smile from Ned in response. "But you get to be the one to tell my father he's losing his drinking partner, assuming he doesn't follow you north now that he's no longer chained to the throne."
As the conversation moved onto less serious topics, he let Arya return instead of lurking in the distance. Arya was probably going to want to stay south as well, but it seemed to be good for her.
He'd been subjected to her excitement over the upcoming archery tournament since Orys had suggested she take part. In the end, it was safer than a hunt, and she had been very well behaved on the hunt she'd gone on, so he was willing to permit it. Orys chuckled at her excitement, stroking Nymeria's fur as Arya prattled at him.
As out of his depth as he was in the south, he was fairly sure that Orys was going to be a good king, but after he'd protected Arya from his own brother and then avenged Jon, Ned also knew that he was being biased.
– Prince Orys Baratheon –
Despite the confusion over the unique design I drew out, the forge is coming along nicely. Mother called it a nameday present, which is odd because my nameday was four moons ago. The Red Keep is full of rooms that haven't been touched in generations, and Varys was able to point us to a much older royal forge that fell out of use for renovations, speeding things up. Maybe he wants to be useful so he doesn't end up joining Littlefinger.
The tournament has continued, and I've made sure to attend regularly. The Lannister knights won the team melee, beating the Vale knights and claiming the honour and the prizes. The single melee continues, and Brienne of Tarth has continued to make her way up the ladder, so to speak.
Oddly enough, Arianne has vanished. Well, that's an exaggeration as she is still around, alongside her Sand Snake followers, but she's been suspiciously absent from my company since the Mountain's death. I don't think this is something I need to worry about in a treachery kind of way, but instead, I think she's plotting something new, as her flirting and flashing were ineffective.
"You take a quick trip to the Wall to piss off the edge of the world, and everything goes mad," a voice drawls as I immediately perk up and turn to the speaker. Uncle Tyrion wanders into the library, a rugged-looking man at his back. "Buried in books again, your Highness? If that pile topples, his Grace will have to find someone else to push his duties onto."
"You were the one who told me how important it was for people to read, Uncle," I retort with a smile. "I know enough to know that I don't know enough."
"Then you know more than most, nephew," Tyrion laughs. "Still, I truly have missed all the fun, haven't I? His Grace abdicating his throne, Jaime leaving the Kingsguard, Baelish losing his head? You've been busy."
"I'm only responsible for two of those. The first was all my father," I reply before I pause. "These books are Baelish's ledgers, reports on his vast, incredibly convoluted business empire. I've confiscated all his holdings, but making sure we actually get all his hidden treasure is by no means an easy feat."
"I'd imagine not," Tyrion agrees. "I hear Father has become the new Master of Coin. Would this not be his responsibility?"
"It is, and he's doing his part and more. Grandfather is focusing on rooting out the agents that Baelish slid into some very important positions before they can do any more damage," I explain. "But I'm glad you're here, Uncle. You love whores, right?"
His bodyguard laughs at that, getting a look from Tyrion before he turns back to me.
"That I do. It is to my great regret that I never managed to sneak a few into your room for your nameday. Father was always a little too watchful. Perhaps you wouldn't be so serious if I had managed it," Tyrion jokes, but he clearly knows this is going somewhere. "The laughing donkey is Bronn. The North has become rather dangerous of late, and I met him on my travels. They say words are more dangerous than blades, but I don't think the Ironborn raiders who would happily cut me down and make me a quarter man would quite agree."
"Pleasure, your Highness," Bronn greets, giving me a half-bow. Lowborn, certainly. Still, Uncle has a talent for finding talent, so I trust that he picked his guard well. Oddly enough, there's a strand of fate between them. Since Ithelia's return, I've been able to see them clearer than ever. Uncle Tyrion and Bronn are being drawn together by fate itself. There's another one, connecting him to someone I can't see, that I haven't met yet.
"Thank you for keeping my Uncle safe. I'm sure he talked his way into countless dangers along the way," I say, making Bronn snort.
"Aye, but that's why he pays me to get him back out of them. Easy money, most days," Bronn shrugs.
"I take it you're not asking about my adoration for the working girls of the world for fun, nephew?" Tyrion cuts in.
"It occurs to me that you are allegedly rather intelligent, Uncle," I start, getting an amused look from him. "And very acquainted with the brothels of Westeros."
"Is this going where I think it is?" Tyrion asks bluntly as I grin.
"It's a bad look for a Prince, soon to be King, to own and be running a very large network of brothels across the Kingdoms. You, however, are already seen as disreputable at best," I point out. "I want you to take over the running of the brothels for me. You always complain about having nothing to do, after your position as Casterly Rock's Master of Sewers was taken away from you."
"You know, you wouldn't think I'd lose a job for being too good at it. The shit never flowed smoother than when I was in charge of the sewage, but I suppose Father thought my skills were better put to use elsewhere," Tyrion drawls. "So, from handling the bodily fluids of Casterly Rock to the bodily fluids of the lonely men of the Seven Kingdoms?"
"And Essos. Littlefinger's little finger reached far. And you're one of those lonely men, remember? You once claimed that your death would put half the brothels in the Westerlands out of business," I remind him. "Bronn, how much whoring has my Uncle done since you became his babysitter?"
"Oh, he's had a whore in his bed every night," Bronn agrees. Tyrion gives him a dirty look, but it's not just at us joking at his expense. In fact, I'd say Tyrion seems mildly nervous.
"And what do I get out of this thrilling venture?" Tyrion asks.
"A cut of the profits, of course, which these books show is more than some Lords could dream of. I suppose you can give yourself an employee discount as well," I reply, getting a snort from him.
"Does Father know you plan to unload such a vast amount of business onto me?" Tyrion asks, and I shake my head.
"I can handle Grandfather," I reply simply. "The fact is, I doubt Baelish has been running these places with anything but profit in mind. I've already found records that hint at him procuring… unique girls for more discerning tastes, and I suspect not all of them were acquired legally. I'm sure Uncle Stannis would like me to follow his example and just outlaw sex work entirely, but the simple truth is that the sex industry is never going to go away, so instead, it has to be regulated. Make no mistake, this isn't going to be an easy task, Uncle. You're free to refuse."
"And leave you drowning in whores? I could never," Tyrion drawls, moving closer as I show him the records I've been going over and the report on all the brothels Littlefinger had under his control.
Despite owning so many, they rarely interact with each other, even when they're literally on the same street. There are multiple brothels on the Street of Silk here in King's Landing that were owned by Baelish, but very few people knew it. Tyrion listens as I lay out my current plan, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
With Zenithar's guidance and Tyrion's help, I'm going to reform the sex industry. It's not what I thought I'd be doing with my time, but the money in it is undeniable, and I'll need gold for what I have planned. Plus, Mephala is the Prince of Sex, so she's willing to help in her own way. Littlefinger spent years building this economic empire, and it would truly be a waste to let it all rot away with his corpse.
– Days Later –
It turns out, when you're the next King, people work fast for you. I think Zenithar gave the project a nudge of his own, making sure things moved smoothly, so my forge was set up in a matter of days instead of the usual weeks.
"I wasn't aware that you knew how to smith, Orys. Isn't such a thing… beneath you?" Mother asks as she watches me move through the forge, the heat clearly making her uncomfortable. I've requested privacy as I work, much to the confusion of basically everyone except Mother who knows this has to be something to do with my blessings.
"You'll understand soon," I promise, continuing my work. Valyrian Steel is impossible to properly reproduce for one simple reason. The Valyrians used their dragons to fuel the forge, and we simply have no way of recreating the flames of a dragon. The materials aren't that hard to get, but the magic the Valyrians used and the dragonfire are the missing pieces to the puzzle that we couldn't possibly recreate.
Zenithar guides my hands, as the collective knowledge of the countless smiths who worship him in his homeland flows through my body and mind. He doesn't give me any magical powers, but instead the knowledge to achieve my next goal. Spellforging is not easy when you aren't a mage yourself, but with the aid of a God, anything is possible.
The amount of attention going my way is about to increase dramatically when the public sees the result of my work, but it will all be worth it. Despite the heat and the long wait, Mother never leaves my side as she watches me work.
I'm already famous simply because I'm the crown prince. After today, I'm going to be legendary.
They say Hugor of the Hill was blessed by the Seven, who each gave him a gift as part of his ascension to the first King of the Andals. He's a key figure in the Faith, tying the Seven to the Andals.
Today, 'The Smith' is going to give me a gift in the form of knowledge. I'm playing a dangerous game, one that could easily cause a religious holy war before I even get a crown on my head, but the Faith are either going to be an asset or an antagonist as my pacts grow. Today, I make the first move.
"Is that-" Mother gasps, her eyes wide with shock, disbelief and avarice as she watches me finish my work. I've been at this all day, and yet it feels like I started mere minutes ago to me.
Laid before me is an undeniably Valyrian steel sword, basic and undecorated at the moment as I continue onto that part of the job, but the hard bit is already finished. The blade clearly has the telltale ripples that I've studied so much. Brightroar is hidden away, shrouded by Nocturnal until the time is right. This isn't a reforged blade; it isn't a bunch of Valyrian steel daggers melted down and remade into a sword. This is the first new Valyrian steel sword in the Seven Kingdoms, and as I work on the finishing touches, I can already see the shitstorm this is going to cause.
Zenithar tells me that we've made a 'mediocre' blade.
Gods, the weapons in his homeland must be terrifying.
— Bonus Scene — Euron Greyjoy
His exile wasn't over, but if Balon thought he'd miss this, then his brother was as mad as they claimed Euron himself was. He'd felt a… pull back to the Iron Islands, sailing Silence back North just in time to find out his worthless shit of a nephew had gone and got himself gutted and plunged the North into chaos.
And here Euron had thought that none of Balon's brats would amount to anything.
Watching as his men burned the farm to the ground, he did his work to ensure that nothing would grow on these lands for years to come. The screams of the Northern smallfolk barely even got his attention as he completed his work. Winter was coming, as the wolves loved to bark, and that was his plan. Why fight the castles when he could simply sit back and laugh as they starved in the same winter they crowed on so much about.
Balon was a shit ruler, sitting on the Seastone Chair, scowling and cowering since his rebellion had been crushed. His brother was a coward at heart, and even this tantrum would have ended in short order when Balon's royal masters came to beat him back into submission.
Euron wasn't going to allow that.
The royal fleet was still heading North, having to take the long way around to come to the Northerners' aid, and that was when he would truly strike. Balon planned to try and get as much as he could out of Theon's death but avoid actual war, and with that, he'd proven that he was unworthy of rule. Since when did the Lord Reaper of Pyke negotiate and roll over for some southern cunts?
Euron paused as he heard someone charging at him. The man of the house, armed with a pitchfork, coming to defend his family and lands. Adorable. Unarmoured and without a weapon, Euron spread his arms wide with a wild smile on his face as the farmer skewered the pitchfork into his chest. The farmer froze, shocked that this had gone so well as Euron coughed up some blood, and it leaked from his still smiling mouth.
Grabbing the handle, he pulled the pitchfork in deeper as he grabbed the man's head and, with pathetic ease, twisted and snapped the man's neck, his head swivelling and facing backwards as the body fell back and Euron pulled the pitchfork out.
He grinned as his wound closed, before pausing.
The sun would rise soon.
Shouting out his orders, Euron lazily walked through the desecrated fields with a smile on his face, two fangs glinting in the moonlight.