Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

9th Day of the 8th Moon

Jaime Lannister

"One more," his words were met with Joffrey's annoyed half-glare, half-groan. "Or we can do drills instead?"

The crown prince, clad in padded training armour, threw him a petulant glare, "Why must I do this, uncle?"

It wasn't a new question; his son had asked him this many a time. But when had he ever been a father to the boy?

Did he even want to be one?

"A man must know how to fight, let alone a prince."

The answer had always been the same; Joffrey had tried and tried to get away from the training, but the king would hear none of it. That, however, did not stop Cersei from trying to talk his ear off for being too hard on her eldest son.

"I already know how to fight!"

Jaime's amused gaze slowly inspected his squire's ragged appearance from head to toe to make a point, and Joffrey scowled. His long hair was no longer wavy and pristine but splattered with grime and sweat, and the boy was breathing heavily from the earlier exertion.

"Then, you'd have no problem going again and winning the next spar too."

The goading worked, judging by the clenching of Joffrey's jaw and the fire in his green eyes. With his chin turned up proudly, his squire turned around to enter the clearing and challenge a spar with Olyn Gaunt, a pudgy squire one year older.

It didn't help that many of the squires were afraid to actually fight the boy, who had a vengeful streak and remembered each strike as a slight.

The crown prince was not terrible with a sword, but not for the lack of talent. Aron Santagar, the master-at-arms of the Red Keep, had been a decent knight and teacher, but swordwork simply did not seem to hold Joffrey's interest much, as if the training was beneath him. Cersei's influence, no doubt.

But Jaime had no reason to care about any of that, not truly. What could he do? Cersei did say he had sired all three of her children, but some days, he didn't truly trust her words. He did not feel fatherly, not one bit, distance or not. All under her advice, lest anyone suspected something.

Yet things changed.

Ever since they passed the Neck, Joffrey had become his squire. It was an odd thing, as he had been sure the crown prince would never squire for anyone.

It made sense in a way, according to the vague lordly lessons his father had given him a lifetime ago - the king's heir was in a delicate position where they couldn't be influenced by just anyone. Squiring could forge a bond of a lifetime, and such influences upon the crown prince were dangerous. Joffrey squiring for his uncle in the kingsguard was an easy compromise… one that couldn't be reached. Nobody was good enough to train Cersei's precious son before, and Robert couldn't find himself to care much - but his approval was impossible to get.

Or at least until Eddard Stark, of all people, had decided to push the idea forward… and the fat king had agreed.

Just like that.

The honourable Lord of Winterfell still had that steely, judging gaze that found you wanting, but it seemed that he had grown more dangerous since the Greyjoy Rebellion. His flinty grey eyes had a newfound hardness in them, but none of the disapproval and distaste was pointed at him, not anymore. It was as if… he was beneath Eddard Stark's notice, not worth his time. As if… he had never done anything of notice.

It was insulting, and Jaime would prefer the cold judgement instead.

Still, his gaze roamed around the yard, where two dozen squires and knights were practising - such livelihood was a rare sight, as not many bothered training regularly. It was spurred by the additional Northmen, who had occupied one of the smaller training yards inside the Red Keep and were forced into relentless drills by the young Jory Cassel. The household guard was meant to be the elite of the elite, but even his father hadn't pushed the red cloaks as hard as Eddard Stark drove his men-at-arms.

According to some errant rumour, the Lord of Winterfell also visited the training yard, but it was in private and at dawn when most were still half-asleep.

Oh, how Jaime longed to test his mettle against the northern lord, but the chance would never present itself. Arthur Dayne had been the greatest sword Jaime had ever seen, yet the man was dead, and Eddard Stark still lived and felt more dangerous than ever.

With a shake of his head, Jaime's gaze focused again on the yard. Joffrey was faring quite decently against the Gaunt squire under Santagar's steady gaze. Selmy, as he always did in his scarce free time, polished his forms and footwork. Yet, the other white cloaks were absent - Moore and Oakheart were guarding the king and queen, with Myrcella already wed and Tommen under the Hand, the rest of them were free. The last three kingsguard were not as good with a blade - their absence from the yard spoke volumes, all three indulging in their vices, no doubt.

But who was he to judge if Blount was pigging around at the kitchens, the lickspittle Trant chasing after some boys and girls in a brothel, or Greenfield was again bedding the draper's wife?

There were worse knights around, and their skills were lacking - Blount, Trant, and Greenfield should not have been allowed to don the white cloak.

Yet, not everyone could be the Bold - shining paragon of virtue and honour. Even Selmy judged him silently with his blue eyes, and Jaime could still see the unspoken accusation with every gaze.

Kingslayer.

Jaime oft wondered if Barristan had been there that day in the throne room, would he have let the pyromancers go? Would he have let the city burn?

Or would Selmy have stood vigil silently, just like they all did when the Queen was savaged by her own brother, the Mad King?

A scoff escaped his chest; things like this did not matter.

So what if Selmy was the greatest knight of their brotherhood? The man was growing old, and Jaime could still best him in a duel, winning more than losing, albeit at a small margin.

Swordwork was one of the few things that still brought him joy, but few came close to his skill anymore.

With a sigh, Jaime glanced at Joffrey, who was sparring albeit not too hard and headed to challenge Selmy to a spar - he was the only one who would prove any challenge here.

As he approached his fellow white cloak, he passed by a pair of Baratheon men-at-arms that were resting.

"Did ye hear? They say the Lord Hand is some sort of dark sorcerer."

If anyone claimed Jaime indignantly spluttered in surprise and almost tripped like some bumbling lackwit, he'd deny it till his dying breath.

***

"He's trying to steal my children!"

Cersei's spiteful cry only made Jaime roll his eyes. He had heard those words a few times too many in the last moons. Thankfully, he was the only one guarding her chambers right now, and all the handmaids and servants had been dismissed, so she had finally allowed the frustrations that had boiled for moons out.

"I mislike Eddard Stark as much as you, but the man is an honourable bore and not one to harm children," Jaime shrugged dismissively.

Oh, how the memory of Rhaenys's little body mutilated almost beyond recognition made his insides twist still. Stark's cold fury at the vile deed was a sight to behold, but he had been the only one. The rest either nodded or closed their eyes and forgot. How Jaime wished to close his eyes and forget, but the gory sight had not stopped haunting his dreams.

Another vow given, another promise broken.

"The northern dullard is smarter than he looks," his sister hissed like an enraged lioness. "The wolves already took my sweet little Myrcella. Robert sent Tommen to be corrupted with his barbaric ways, and he tried to sway away Joffrey!"

Jaime couldn't help but snort, "You can't fault Stark for answering simple questions from your son."

"And fill his head with this tree god drivel?" If she was a dragon, Jaime would bet she would spit fire right now, judging by the venomous glare. "Joffrey came to me this morn, asking why there is no heart tree in our godswood! My poor, poor boy, corrupted by this heathen." He barely managed to push down the amusement from showing on his face as she paced around the marble flooring in agitation. "And he's your son, too!"

Was he? Cersei told him the words, but she told them to Robert, too, and he was never sure which was true or which was false.

"And when did you ever let me be a father?"

His sister's green eyes softened as she approached and gently cupped his face and kissed his jaw. Ah, she was so gorgeous in her black gown with the red rubies sewn into the bodice, showing off her ample cleavage. Cersei smirked as she spied the direction of his gaze.

"You know it's-"

"Too dangerous," he shrugged and buried his head into her smooth, pale neck. "I've heard this a thousand times."

Robert was not a father, never a father, and now, Joffrey had only a mother. And a knight to squire under.

"Regardless, Stark cannot be allowed near my sons," Cersei pulled away, making a tinge of disappointment rise within his chest. "He's already taken Tommen, and I cannot allow him to corrupt my precious Joffrey!"

"And what do you want me to do?" His gloved hand idly found the gilded hilt of his blade. "Run him through with my sword?"

Cersei stilled for a moment, and her face twisted into an ugly snarl.

"Maybe you should. If Robert and his barbaric friend were out of my way, nothing would stop us!"

For a short moment, he contemplated the idea - he could do it. Or, well, try to - Stark was too well-guarded and went nowhere without that beast of his. The man always seemed vigilant and had a deadly retinue with him. Then there was the complete unknown of his skills in the blade; the boorish man had never participated in a melee, and even on the Trident, he led the cavalry. The only feat to his skills with a blade had no witnesses…

"It's too dangerous," he said, returning her own words and making Cersei fall in thought. "Besides, Stark is probably trying to do whatever honourable thing is stuck in his mind anyway. You know, doing his duty as a Hand more than anything else."

Cersei swirled around and inspected him as he stood by the door in his golden armour and white cloak.

Though, it wouldn't be bad if Robert were to die. Oh, he suspected Cersei had tried to discreetly dispose of her husband once or twice but with poor success. Worse, she did not confide her intentions with him, as if Jaime was not to be trusted.

Yet, for all his faults, Robert was no worse than Aerys. Not much better, either, but at least he didn't burn people alive.

"I don't care," she straightened up proudly. "There are… disturbing rumours about Stark spreading around the Red Keep."

"Since when do you care about rumours?"

"Since the barbarian has my son," Cersei looked pitifully at him and bit on her lip. "One of my handmaids overheard - people are saying Eddard Stark is a dark sorcerer," the Kingslayer stood there stunned for a short moment, blinking in disbelief as his sister continued, "-turning into a direwolf at night and hunting innocent maidens-"

He couldn't hold it anymore - Jaime heaved over and guffawed. He laughed for a good minute or two until he finally managed to stop chuckling in amusement. Cersei, however, was scowling at his outburst, and he couldn't help but imagine Eddard Stark garbed in some shadowy robe wearing a dark bone staff with a queer gemstone mounted atop, sacrificing nubile maidens to some obscure, shadowy deity.

He closed his eyes and roared with laughter again. It took him quite some time to calm down, only to meet his sister's icy gaze as all of her emotions had bled from her face.

"And, pray tell, what is so amusing, dear brother mine?"

"Well, the thought that anyone could look at Eddard Stark, the biggest bore with a frozen heart and most honourable man in the kingdoms, and ever think that the man is dabbling with sorcery," he had to fight to suppress the chuckle threatening to escape him, "The biggest stickler for the rules being a sorcerer? For anyone that has seen Stark and his frozen face, this would be an amusing jest at most."

"Even men with honour are not infallible," his sister waved dismissively, not looking even remotely amused. "He does have a bastard - Jon Snow, was it?"

"Yes, the vaunted White Huntsman, saviour of maidens and slayer of bears," Jaime snorted. "I thought you might be more cautious of Stark sniffing around Jon Arryn's death more than some pointless rumour-mongering."

Yet, that did not seem to assuage Cersei at all.

"Tommen might be in danger with Stark!"

"In danger of what? Not being coddled? Learning things as a page ought to? Getting some much-needed training at arms?" A sardonic smile spread across his face. "How very perilous!"

Jaime misliked Stark; he truly did. But there was an undeniable sense of respect for the man - he would do his duty. If he took Tommen as a page, the boy would be care for properly, regardless of what his sister insinuated.

"Why are you mocking me, Jaime?" A breathy, sad sigh tore out of Cersei's red lips. "I just want what's best for my boys - away from Stark. And you shouldn't go so hard on Joffrey during training! He's all bruised-"

"Every knight goes through rigorous training," he explained, trying to tear his gaze away from his sister. "Joffrey has plenty of talent to be a great swordsman, but it takes time and effort to unearth it."

"And why would he need it?" Cersei slowly yet seductively walked towards him once more, swaying her hips and kissing his neck, then his jaw, placing her lips by his ear, "As the future king, all the swords of the Seven Kingdoms shall answer to him."

For a short moment, fury and lust battled inside Jaime. His skills with a sword were the only thing he could pass down to Joffrey, yet Cersei wanted to deny him that as well…

A deep breath later and a few heartbeats, he finally let it go and shrugged helplessly.

Just another notch on his long belt of disappointments.

At that moment, a servant cautiously knocked on the door, and his sister immediately stepped away from him and smoothened her already pristine black gown.

"Your Grace, your ah, brother, has arrived at the docks."

Jaime couldn't help but smile at the news; he hadn't seen Tyrion for a long while and missed his witty tongue.

"A pity - I had hoped my impish little brother would have done the right thing and taken the black," genuine regret oozed from Cersei's words, making him sigh.

Gods, why did his siblings have to hate each other so?

"A terrible loss for the Night's Watch, I'm certain," he jibed, trying to lighten the mood.

***

10th Day of the 8th Moon

Robert Baratheon

"Your Grace, you must be more… prudent with your choice of… companions," as usual, Pycelle's coughing was annoying as the man's shrivelled hands applied some Essosi cream over the rash. "This is the third time you've caught pox, but thankfully, it's rather mild like before."

He groaned, trying to resist the urge to scratch his bloody back; half of his body itched. At least the old grandmaester knew his stuff and could easily treat him from such inconveniences.

Bah, who cares if he caught pox while fucking whores and maids? It was his duty as a king to satisfy the wanting maidens!

"Just give me that herbal concoction of yours again," he grunted.

Wordlessly, Pycelle shuffled around his cabinets and drawers and, a few minutes later, provided a steaming silver cup with some mushed herbal substance. It was bitter and heavy as usual, but he forced himself to drink it in one go; it did make him feel better after he finished.

Maybe he could combine it with wine? Robert scratched his beard thoughtfully; herbal wine did have a good ring to it.

"All done, Your Grace!" The old man announced as he finished binding the rashed area with specially soaked bandages. "You have a strong body, and by the end of the week, it should go away. Tomorrow, I'll have to replace the binding, however."

"Good," the king nodded, pleased. "Let's go to that meeting the Lord Hand has summoned us for."

After a few minutes, he donned his green doublet, and they headed towards the council chambers, shadowed by Selmy.

It irked the king that his friend had been here for barely three days and had already managed to drag him back to those boring sessions.

But then again, the arrival of the grim Lord Commander of the Night's Watch in person was a foreboding thing - it was unheard of for the leader of the order to come so far south. Yet, Robert still remembered the dutiful Lord of Bear Isle from the Rebellion - Jeor Mormont was a hardy yet true man and wouldn't be so far away from his post unless he had to be.

Moore and the Kingslayer were guarding the entrance of the chambers, and he waved them inside to follow as he entered, as there were still men-at-arms in the hallway.

Everyone else was already inside, with three new additions all garbed in black at the lower end of the table - Jeor Mormont's head was now mostly bald and spotted, with his whitened beard reaching his chest. The old bear looked smaller, and there was a hint of feebleness beneath his steely demeanour like thirty years had passed instead of nearly twenty. The other two were undeniably from the Watch, as well, judging by their black cloaks and attire.

There were none of the usual jests and jibes here, and everyone was looking uncharacteristically grim, giving the chambers an ominous air. Ned's direwolf was curled by the empty hearth, seemingly asleep. Gods, his friend was inseparable from his pet.

With a tired sigh, Robert made his way and sat on the royal seat at the head of the table, Ned to his right side and Selmy to his left.

Gods, all of them looked like they were preparing for a funeral instead of a meeting!

"Alright, let's get started," the king coughed and looked at Ned impatiently. "What is all of this about?"

It took a few moments for his friend to gather his thoughts, and Robert's eyes wandered. As usual, the Lord of Winterfell was garbed impeccably - a doublet of dark velvet embroidered with silver direwolves that barely hid the muscled figure underneath. Even after all that time, Ned still insisted on looking his best - his beard was carefully trimmed and his hair clean and combed It was little wonder that a few of the maids were eyeing him lustily.

Robert couldn't help but wonder why his friend still bothered training so hard - the days of fighting in the van were long over. Alas, the Quiet Wolf was a stubborn man who somehow managed to forget how to have fun.

"I heard some… disturbing rumours about happenings beyond the Wall," Ned began, words slow and cautious.

"What's there to fear?" Renly asked in confusion. Gods, his brother was garbed in some fancy clothing that would put half the ladies in court to shame again. "Wasn't that deserter king executed by your heir?"

"He was," Ned conceded with a sigh. "But while the wildlings might have been troublesome, they never posed a real threat. No, I'm talking about something else. Lord Commander Mormont, if you will."

"I've heard about troubling rumours, impossible things for some time," Jeor Mormont rubbed his brow tiredly. "And, the First Ranger brought word from Lord Stark with similar qualms, I sent a ranging. Eleven men-"

And Robert Baratheon then listened to the queerest story ever, and he had heard plenty of odd and unbelievable shite from the fools and lickspittles in court.

It wasn't quite grumkins and snarks, but it wasn't too far off, no - Others, ice spiders, and children of the forest? Everyone knew the old wives' tales, yet to hear them spoken with such conviction and fear was unnerving.

Yet, he could easily recognise a liar when he saw one, but neither Jeor Mormont nor his companions sounded like that. No, they were… afraid.

"You can't expect us to believe such foolishness," Pycelle spluttered indignantly as soon as the Lord Commander finished. "Magic has been dead and gone for over a hundred years, let alone those old wives' tales!"

He was far from the only one - none of the other councillors seemed particularly alarmed or amused, aside from Varys, who had gone as still as a statue. Even Robert was feeling… bored; he couldn't decide if this was some mummery or foolish charade. Ned, on the other hand, had gone deathly pale, although there was definitely a hint of pride there.

"It is nigh impossible for a boy of six and ten to show the prowess you mentioned, Valyrian Steel blade or not," Selmy added quietly and turned to Ned. "The strength and speed that would require decades of rigorous training aside, the boy has never participated in any war or battles before, as the North has been peaceful."

The Lord of Winterfell just nodded wordlessly, and his face began to regain colour.

"I have proof," Jeor's words silenced the room. "And the two rangers beside me, Jafer Flowers and Ser Jarman Buckwell, who were both on the ranging and are willing to swear on their words by the Seven."

"Show us this proof, then," Littlefinger urged curiously. "Quite convenient, those White Walkers melt to water after being slain. While myths and legends are quite entertaining, we have a kingdom to run here!"

Jeor Mormont stiffly placed an elongated fur wrap atop the table and began to unfurl it. It crunched ominously, like ice or glass breaking, and Robert felt the chambers became noticeably colder.

A few gasps echoed across the room, and a few heartbeats later, they all stared at the pale, thin, translucent sword revealed underneath, surrounded by small ringlets of broken frost.

"Be careful," Jeor's voice rang, and Varys's curious hand halted a few inches from the icy blade. "It's so cold it burns."

"Allow me, Your Grace," the Grandmaester said while looking at the sword at the table as if it was a coiled viper waiting to strike.

Any previous ease was gone now, and everyone in the chambers watched tensely as Pycelle stood up, hamming and hewing and cautiously approached.

For a few minutes, he circled the thing before curiously outstretching his finger and quickly tapping on the blade. The hiss that escaped his lips proved the Lord Commander's words; the tip of the outstretched digit was reddened angrily.

"Some sort of ice indeed," Pycelle admitted grudgingly, then tugged on his gaudy chain uneasily. "Too cold to melt? Such a phenomenon is not natural, but this proves little. Anything else unusual about this… sword?"

Mormont shuffled uneasily but, after a moment of hesitation, finally spoke, "Benjen Stark and Jon Snow were able to wield it without feeling the bite of the cold."

Everyone turned to look at Ned, who seemed as surprised as they were.

"I don't know," he shrugged helplessly. "The kings of winter did slay plentiful sorcerer kings, taking their daughters for wives afterwards."

"Let us see then," Robert grunted curiously, and at his urging, everyone attempted to touch the blade, but it burned all of them, including him.

Ned picked up the sword without any inconvenience and stared at it with confusion.

"Well, it appears that the saying was true after all," Robert slapped his gut and laughed. "You do have ice in your blood!"

"Perhaps we should see if it's truly sharp and unbreakable," Selmy added quietly, looking at the crystalline sword with caution.

The king nodded at his friend, and Ned cautiously stabbed the blade into the floor.

It sank over two inches into the stone with little effort.

"Definitely sharp," he said, "and quite light too. Almost like Valyrian Steel."

Next, Ned held the hilt with two hands while placing a third blade atop the table and beckoned Selmy over.

The Bold slowly unsheathed his sword, placed the edge of his sword between the edge of the table and the hilt Ned held, and raised his sword.

A sharp, keening sound as if a cat was yowling in pain echoed unpleasantly and lingered in the air for a few seconds, making Robert feel dizzy.

The crystalline sword was still pristine - impossibly thin, with no cracks, chinks, or bending. Ned cautiously placed it back over the unwrapped furs.

"Why is there only a single blade?" Pycelle asked, eyes squinted. "You said five were slain, yet none of their supposed armour or arms was left bar this."

"I don't know," Jeor sighed. "Our maester is going over our oldest records, but there isn't much…"

"Say all this talk of the Others is true," Robert waved dismissively, "Ice spiders and everything. The Night's Watch seems to have things well at hand - your rangers did vanquish those frozen men and their pets with the help of a sixteen-year-old boy. What exactly do you request from the crown?"

"Any assistance possible," Jeor said without hesitation.

The king shrugged, not even bothering to suppress the rising feeling of boredom.

"I give Lord Stark free reign in this matter. He can do as he sees fit."

"Our treasury is empty," Littlefinger reminded.

"Nor can we call the banners for foes that were bested by a dozen rangers and a young boy," Renly added thoughtfully. "We don't even know if there's many of those icemen of yours Beyond the Wall. The First Ranger and Jon Snow could have finished them all!"

Surprisingly enough, his younger brother still had some wits left in his head despite spending so much time on his gaudy attire.

"You only saw ice spiders and Others," the grandmaester coughed. "No walking corpses or such - this doesn't seem like a big threat."

"Grandmaester Pycelle," Jeor looked at the old man. "The Watch has less than five hundred men any good in a fight. A good part of them are just farmboys, thieves, poachers, and rapers that would turn tail and run instead of face a foe more daunting than a savage armed with sticks and bone. Our rangers have been going missing lately. I need warriors, not dregs."

"Can't force anyone to take the Black," Robert declared. "Swearing oaths of celibacy is a serious thing."

"This is why we must reform the Night's Watch. Even without the Others, the numbers of the Night's Watch are dangerously low. Yet the order must be able to stand on its feet without assistance." Ned pointed out.

"And how do you propose we do this?" Pycelle asked. "The Night's Watch has survived for nearly eight thousand years."

"Clearly, some adjustments need to be made," Littlefinger pointed out, amused. "The days of glory and honour are over. Being all cold and rigid has its follies - things you don't expect to happen to catch you flat-footed."

The Lord of Winterfell straightened up, "This is not something that could be decided so quickly. I have some ideas, but we can adjourn on this topic for a sennight - seven days would be enough time to contemplate different solutions."

Lord Commander Mormont had nothing more to say, and he and his subordinates were dismissed from the council after wrapping the crystalline blade back in the furs. The chill in the room slowly began to subside.

"Anything else of import?" Robert asked, looking at his weary councillors. "I need to piss."

He didn't really - his bladder was not urging him on to the privy. But the meeting already bored him to tears after the initial surprise.

"Your Grace," Renly looked cautious. Robert groaned inwardly, gods, his brother and his annoying requests. "Adding more games to the tourney might be a risky move-"

"I'm bored of seeing the same shit again and again," he said bluntly, making his brother rear back in surprise. "If this one fails, we can always return to the drudgery the next time." He looked around - all his councillors seemed deep in thought and worried. "Well then, if there's nothing else, council adjourned!"