28-Plots and Schemes

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognizable characters, plots, and settings are exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki and Ashestodust. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

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If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for early access chapters(a week before discord) for all my works.

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Samwell Tarly

The last few days it had rained without any kind of reprieve. The downpour had only stopped a few hours ago. The journey from Oldtown to Horn Hill that they could have made for three or four days on horseback took more than a sennight instead. He felt foolish, standing here, soaked to the bone, at the closed gates of Horn Hill, together with Alleras. Now, after experiencing so much he could appreciate the fortifications of his family's keep. They were not nearly as formidable as the walls of Oldtown, but they were solid in their own right. Horn Hill stood proud atop the eponymous hill. The wall was forty feet tall, fifteen feet thick, made of dark limestone and surrounded by a rather wide moat.

"What does a Night's Watchman and a Summer Islander want in Horn Hill?" A guard showed up over the battlements and yelled across the moat.

"I am Samwell Tarly, eldest son of the late Lord Randyll Tarly with my companion Alleras, an acolyte of the Citadel. I request to see my Lady Mother, Melessa Tarly," he managed to croak out loudly with his raspy voice. Speaking loudly made him wince, as his sore throat had become a pain.

"Hold a moment, I'll fetch for someone who can confirm if you truly are who you're claiming to be," the guardsman shouted.

"We're willing to partake in Guest Right!" Alleras yelled.

"Guest Right means little after the Red Wedding, and only the Lady of the Keep can offer it!" the guardsman returned gruffly. "You can enter if you surrender your arms though, Lady Regent's orders!"

For a moment he wondered why there would be a regent here, but then he remembered. Both his father and his brother died tragically in the fires of King's Landing. Talla was the next in line for the Lordship, and at five and ten she wouldn't have reached the age of majority just yet. He just hoped that this 'Lady Regent' was his mother.

"We'll surrender our arms, good ser, "Sam rasped out loudly again and his companion shot him an annoyed look. Right, that goldenheart bow was Alleras' prized possession so he would loathe to part with it, especially in the hands of a stranger. In hindsight, it was not surprising especially since such bows were second only to the ones made of dragonbone, and just as rare outside of the Summer Isles.

"At least they don't think you are dead," his companion said with a twitch of his lips, making him scowl.

"It would be quite the feat for me to be dead and father a bastard son at the same time," he croaked out before coughing. Thankfully he'd probably be able to get some spiced honeywine to soothe his sore throat soon. Sleeping in a warm and dry bed would help too.

Soon, the drawbridge was lowered with a groan, the portcullis slowly rose, and the thick oak gate opened.

They entered the gatehouse and surrendered their arms. Sam gave his dagger and his recurve bow easily enough, but Alleras was quite reluctant to hand over his goldenheart bow. Three more daggers that Sam had not seen before appeared from underneath his companion's travelling cloak. Inside the paved yard, they were met with half a dozen men-at-arms with the master-of-arms Ser Halys Hunt.

"Lord Sam, it is good to see you here," the knight instantly recognized him, but his face looked as if had eaten something sour at the sight of his companion. "Who is your friend?"

"This is Alleras, an acolyte from the Citadel and hails from the Summer Isles," he said lamely and received a stiff nod from the knight. Sam had forgotten that the master-at-arms had a distaste for all things foreign, and his friend definitely did not look like he was from around here.

"I thought that acolytes stayed in the Citadel or travelled with their maesters?" Ser Halys asked suspiciously.

"I decided to accompany Sam on his way to Castle Black. I can always return to Oldtown later," Alleras retorted sharply.

Two figures dressed in gowns rushed out from the main keep.

"Sam! Thank the Gods you're alive!" his mother exclaimed happily and pulled him in a warm hug, uncaring about his damp black robes. His eldest sister, Talla was there too, smiling softly at him. Gods, she had grown up quite a lot in the years he had been gone. Talla looked like a woman grown instead of a lanky girl and was now just as tall as he was. She would definitely make a splendid Lady of Horn Hill and rule far better than he would. "Let's get you changed into something dry and warm!"

While he and Alleras were dragged into the keep by his joyful mother, something clicked in his mind.

"Why would you think I am dead, mother?" he rasped out cautiously. Gilly's arrival and his letter should have confirmed his well-being more than enough, even after his father had spread rumours of his death.

"Do you not know?" Melessa asked gravely and he shook his head. "Euron Greyjoy and his reavers invaded Oldtown about a sennight ago," Sam frowned, and next to him Alleras gasped loudly at the news. They thankfully missed the fighting by about two days. "It was a complete bloodbath. Most of the Ironborn were slaughtered but not before breaching the Hightower itself. Lord Leyton Hightower, his son Garth Greysteel, and his eldest daughter, Malora died. Baelor, the new Lord, is out for blood now and is gathering every sailor to man the captured Ironborn fleet. He intends to bathe the Iron Isles in blood and has vowed not to stop until he has killed every single reaver sailing on the Sunset Sea. I sent letters to the Citadel inquiring about your well-being, but they said you were no longer there. I feared for the worst!"

Sam found himself pulled into a tight hug once again. He wanted to tell her how he was a worthy man of the Night's Watch now. To tell her how they even called him Sam the Slayer and make her proud of him. But the empty boasts froze in his throat. He did not want to lie to his mother like this.

"How are Gilly and little Sam?" he croaked out instead.

"The girl works in the kitchen now," his mother said with contempt. He sighed inwardly. Gilly was a wildling and it was probably too much to expect anything better in the south. But working in the kitchens of a Lord was a way better life than she could have anywhere else. "And my first grandson is a spitfire. He has my eyes! Little Sam already started walking and drives his minders mad! Do you want to see him now?"

He wanted to tell her the truth about the babe, but he couldn't find his voice again. The joy on his mother's face was so genuine and it acted like a balm on his weary heart. He couldn't bring himself to take it away and become a disappointment once again. He couldn't tell his mother that he had fooled her and the whole Tarly Household. Mayhaps the babe and Gilly were better off here. Aemon Steelsong would become Sam Flowers instead, and be raised here, in the south, in luxury and warmth. The bastardy might earn him a snide remark or two down the line, but he would want for nothing in Horn Hill.

"Maybe later. I want to rest now," he rasped out weakly. Was he going to stay a coward forever?

"I'll have the servants draw you both a hot bath in the guest chambers and call the maester to check on you," Melessa said with concern.

"There is no need for the maester, mother. I have already forged a silver link myself," he said proudly for the first time and his mother beamed at him. He achieved this purely on his own, because of his hard work! "But I would not decline some spiced honeywine."

"Anything for my dear son," Melessa called for another servant. "What are you going to do now, Sam?"

"After some rest, I will travel back north. I am a man of the Night's Watch now, and the Lord Commander has called for me!"

***

Cersei Lannister

She basked under the warmth of the sun in peace, sipping on a goblet of arbour gold. The blue sky was clear without a single cloud in sight, and the view from the balcony was as grand as always. The news of the death of Euron Greyjoy and the Ironborn's defeat at Oldtown had been music to her ears. It increased the chances of Damion arriving in Braavos substantially. And it hopefully ended that blasted pirate problem for good. The Hightowers lost three family members, and the new Lord was out for blood.

Once those Targaryen pretenders were dead, nobody could challenge her son for the throne of the Seven Kingdoms and those pesky wars would end soon enough.

Cersei heard a set of hurried footsteps and from the doorway, Maester Creylen appeared. He was blocked by the hulking armoured figure of Ser Robert Strong, but with her nod, he was allowed to approach. The thin man had beads of sweat on his face and looked like an oversized rat in his grey robe.

"Your Grace, two letters arrived for you from Winterfell," he dutifully said and handed her over a scroll.

"Thank you, Maester Creylen," she dismissed him with a nod.

What would that deserting bastard in the North have to say to her? She grabbed both of them in her hands and felt that the unopened direwolf wax seals were looking at her mockingly. With a scowl, she broke one, unfurled it, and started reading.

'To Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent of Tommen Baratheon, the First of His Name

I have no feud with you or yours. I care little for anything south of the Neck. House Stark's ire ended with the deaths of Joffrey and Tywin Lannister, House Frey, and House Bolton. There is no need to continue this pointless feud. Yet I see you placing a bounty on mine and my sister's heads.

You would be wrought to believe but your daughter, Myrcella, is a guest here in Winterfell.'

Cersei scoffed. The foolish northern bastard dared to parade the name of her sweet daughter in front of her?! The daughter that had died in the fires of King's Landing?! Anger surged within her and she wanted to throw the letter into the sea below. But something held her hand. The Martells only said that Myrcella was left in King's Landing, and her death was not truly confirmed, was it? It wouldn't hurt to see what else this… bastard had to say.

'…She had taken a ship to White Harbour just before King's Landing burst into a blaze of wildfire and is very much alive and well under my roof. I have attached a letter from her and a golden lock, voluntarily given, from her hair as proof.

As for your accusation of desertion and oathbreaking, my kingly brother, Robb Stark, The First of His Name, had named me his heir in the final decree and released me from my oaths to the Night's Watch.

And lastly, my sister is innocent of any crime you pin on her. She had no friends in Kings' Landing. How would a young girl under constant watch procure and slip poison in the king's cup?

But I digress. Here in the North, we still hold Guest Rights sacred. Your daughter is safe here and will be treated way better than my sister, princess Sansa Stark ever was in King's Landing. But if a single hair falls off the head of my sister because of the foolish bounty on her head I will not be as generous as I have been with Myrcella.

Rescind the bounties on the heads of me and mine and formally recognise the North as a sovereign kingdom under House Stark. We can establish a peaceful relationship between our realms, and your daughter will be returned to you in good health after spring comes.

Jon Stark, the Third of His Name, Lord of Winterfell, King of Winter, and Defender of the North'

She saw red. The baseborn dog, this cur wanted to steal half of her son's lands and was lying to her by using the name of her missing daughter! Just as she was about to rip the letter into pieces something stayed her hand again.

What if her daughter was alive and truly there? She paused for a moment and her hand hovered over the other letter before breaking the seal. She would see this mummer's farce to the end if nothing else.

A single lock of golden hair was intertwined at the end of the scroll. Cersei looked at it critically. It was the same shade of blond that she had, that her daughter had. That meant little though, others had this colour of hair, despite its rarity. She carefully unfurled the letter.

'Dear Lady Mother,

I don't know if rumours of my demise have reached you, but I am alive and well. The Dornish retinue abandoned me when fighting began in King's Landing. They boarded their ship and sailed away without waiting for me. I managed to run back to the docks and flee on another ship that ended in White Harbour. Lord Wyman Manderly kept me there as a guest for two moons. After Jon Stark crushed House Bolton and their traitorous supporters and took back Winterfell, I was sent to the seat of House Stark and have been a guest there ever since. I was given bread and salt in view of all the northern Lords and Ladies, and am treated well.

I hope you and Tommen are well.

With love,

Your daughter, Myrcella Baratheon'

Cersei stared at the words on the parchment with a furrowed brow. The handwriting in her letter seemed familiar, but she could not recall the specifics of her daughter's handwriting. All of Myrcella's letters had been left back at King's Landing so she had nothing to compare this with. She wanted to dismiss this as a mummer's farce badly, but the possibility of her daughter living ate away at her anger quickly.

She rang a bell, and a servant quickly came.

"Go fetch for Ser Vylarr," Cersei paused for a moment.

Vylarr knew what her daughter looked like and had been part of the royal procession to Winterfell, but the Captain of the Guard did not have a high enough rank to negotiate with a... king. This required a trusty Lannister, but Daven was already Tommen's Hand and couldn't leave now and Damion was on his way to Braavos. She wished she could send Jaime, but the barbaric Northmen might simply lop his head off, and he was busy in Golden Tooth, trying to rally the remains of their army. That only left Lucion, Damion's son, but he was quite young. And Cerenna and Myrielle, Daven's vapid sisters. But maybe they could be of use.

"And bring Ser Lucion and Lady Cerenna here too," she ordered and took a generous gulp of wine from her goblet. Cerenna was the smarter and more dutiful of the two sisters.

She waited impatiently for ten minutes until the captain of the guard and her cousins arrived.

"Cousin Lucion, you and Lady Cerenna will go as envoys to Winterfell. Jon Snow claims to have my daughter, Myrcella, as his guest in his home. You will investigate the validity of these… claims."

"But, cousin, the last time we have seen Myrcella was many years ago when she was a small girl. I'm not sure if we can... recognize her anymore," Lucion replied delicately. So he was not a complete fool after all.

"This is why Ser Valarr will accompany you with a dozen redcloaks. He has been to Winterfell and knows what my daughter looks like."

"It will be an honour, Your Grace," the captain of the guard bowed solemnly.

"What is to be done if Princess Myrcella is indeed in Winterfell?" Lucien asked cautiously.

"If you think you can spirit her away safely and bring her back to me, do so. And if not, wait there and send me a letter with the situation in the North."

And then, and only then would she contemplate removing the bounties on Eddard Stark's wolfspawn.

"With all due respect, Your Grace, I was there when your brother," the mention of the accursed kinslaying dwarf brought made her face contort in fury and Valarr gulped, but he bravely continued, "tried to free Ser Jaime with mummery from Riverrun, but it failed. I doubt we can succeed with a similar trick again, and even if we do, Winterfell is too deep into the North, and we would be hunted down before we get too far."

"Just send me a message then. If my daughter is there, you will await further instructions, and if not, you will try to inspect as much as possible of the state of the northern court and return to Casterly Rock quickly. You will sail north on the morrow," she ordered sharply. All of them bowed and turned to leave. "Cerenna, stay."

Cersei critically looked at Stafford's daughter. Her golden hair was long and wavy, and her eyes were the same shade as a dull emerald. She was tall and buxom, looking appealing even to Cersei. Her younger cousin couldn't compare to her in her prime, but she was indeed a beauty, despite the small mole on her left cheek.

"Are you betrothed to anyone?" she asked bluntly.

"My first betrothed died in the War of the Five Kings, and the second died in the Stranger's Feast in the Crossing, Your Grace," Cerenna answered timidly.

Cersei couldn't suppress her smile.

"When you go to the North, watch carefully if the northern lords are truly united behind this self-styled king of theirs. If they are indeed loyal to him, and my daughter is truly there, you're to try and seduce him. If you can get him to wed you even better. Bastards are creatures of lust and he should not be able to resist your beauty."

Cerenna blushed and sputtered incoherently in front of her at the suggestion. Oh, so she was still a maiden, or maybe simply a prude? Mayhaps the foolish girl was saving herself for marriage? It did not matter, some men liked bedding maidens and inexperienced women.

"What if he's already wedded? Or if the Princess is not in Winterfell?" she asked timidly.

"So what if he's married? You would be his mistress, even if my daughter is not there," Cersei ruthlessly continued, despite the horrified expression on her cousin's face. "Mistress to a king is better than being married to a Frey or some poor knight. Don't worry, Jon Snow is said to look all rugged and comely, and is a warrior and a commander of great renown," she lied shamelessly.

Yes, Eddard Stark's baseborn son was an able administrator as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but that did not mean he could truly lead men or fight. Commanding the scum of a penal colony meant little. And she vaguely knew that he looked like Eddard Stark, yet the former Lord of Winterfell was not a very comely man. But her cousin did not need to know that, did she?

Cersei might not be good at war and fighting, but she knew history well. The North was near impossible to take from the outside by force or without treachery. And House Stark had endured plenty of both so they would be wary of such tactics. If she could not bring them back into the fold with a sword, she would do so with the greatest weapon ever- the one between a woman's legs. Robb Stark was easily laid low by a Spicer, and Jon Snow would easily fall in the clutches of a lioness. And if her daughter was there, she would retrieve her too. Myrcella's place was with her, here in Casterly Rock.

Even if the king was already married, having a Lannister as a mistress would undoubtedly sow discord and break any unity in the northern court, which she could take advantage of.

"Go prepare now and bring your best dresses and gowns with you. I will even let you pick two from my collection." A wide smile returned on her cousin's face before she left.

Cersei raised her goblet and gulped the rest of the contents in one go. She should probably inform Tommen's council of this development too.

***

Jon Stark

"Your Grace, some lords have suggested that we go south and claim the Crossing. The holdfast is in a very strategic place," Lord Manderly said with a frown, apparently disliking the idea.

Jon considered it for a moment.

"Bah, the damned weasels broke guest right there, and now the Crossing is going to be just as cursed as the Nightfort," Galbart Glover scowled.

Jon hadn't had the pleasure to visit the famous seat of the thirteenth Lord Commander, but the stories about that place were quite blood-chilling.

Whether the Nightfort or the Crossing were truly cursed Jon could only say if he visited them personally. But if he ever did so with the latter, he would instead pull the castle down stone by stone and salt the surrounding land, then have someone hold it in his name. The North had plenty of empty lands, it did not need any more. If he truly wanted more land, he could take back the Gift. It was only slightly less than half of the Riverlands and was almost as fertile, and way closer and far more defensible.

"It might be a strategic keep, but it is not nearly as defensible as the Moat and it gets us too involved in the south. Which would also mean that we would be the aggressors. I already said that I have no aspirations for anything south of the Neck and I stand by my words. Not to mention that the Crossing is more than a thousand miles away from Winterfell," he simply replied.

"I've heard some concerns that Lady Shireen might be infertile due to her affliction with greyscale," his spymaster mumbled.

"Could you repeat this?" he asked frostily and Torrhen, who was filling his cup with ale, started sweating.

"Your Grace, certain... people have expressed their fear that the future Queen might have... problems bearing children because of the greyscale. After all, her mother, Selyse Florent had great difficulty conceiving," Edwyle Locke said slowly and the other members of the council looked a bit uncomfortable.

When he had checked Shireen with his magic, there was nothing wrong with her. Nor should have there been anything, considering the modified Gaelic cleansing ritual would have most probably gotten rid of it.

"But she no longer has the greyscale, does she? What does Maester Wolkan have to say about this?" Jon ran a hand through his face and tried to keep his expression even.

"The Maester has said that the difficulty of conceiving and giving birth might not necessarily pass onto the children. Lady Shireen has rather wide hips after all. He also could not find anything wrong when previously examining her and she is as healthy as an ox" the spymaster replied.

They dared to discuss his wife to be like some common cattle to be bought and sold?! A searing hot fury rose within him but was squashed quickly. His council was only doing as he bid – bringing important issues to his attention, no matter how distasteful.

Jon could feel a headache forming. It seemed that some of the northern lords were unhappy with his choice of bride. As they couldn't contest his decision to marry Shireen, they chose to strike a low blow. Though this was a somewhat legitimate concern, he was not particularly worried right now. Maybe it was time to increase Shireen's protection even further. A female sworn shield would do the job as Brienne did for Sansa. He only had to find one that was competent, willing, and loyal.

"Wolkan has only a single silver link less than the Archmaester of medicine. If he cannot find anything wrong with her, then there should be no problem. Enough of this, for now, if it becomes a problem we can revisit the topic later," he ordered sharply. Just as he was about to dismiss the council for the day, he remembered something that he had perhaps put off long enough. "Lord Hand, I plan to amend a part of the Widow's Law."

"What would that amendment be, Your Grace?" Manderly asked cautiously while fiddling with his golden trident pin.

"Because of Alysanne's law Barbrey Dustin managed to usurp the title of Lady of Barrowtown after her husband's death despite not having any direct blood claim on it, nor any living heir from her loins," he explained after taking a large gulp of ale. "And House Hornwood was nearly paralysed during the last war when the Lord and Heir died."

"Why don't we remove the law altogether?" Galbart proposed while sipping on a cup of wine.

"I don't intend to beggar widows, Lord Glover. But they will not be able to hold the lordship of their late husbands unless the marriage bore living heirs," Jon paused for a few moments to think. "In such a scenario, the next person in succession will become the new Lord immediately and will decide whether to keep her as a part of his household, or, provide her with a suitable income that could afford her at least a small manse, a pair of servants, and a sworn shield. The property would of course revert to the Lord in question upon her death."

"It will be done, Your Grace," Wyman Manderly replied after half a minute of thoughtful silence.

"Do we have any other issues for today?"

"Your Grace, people have wondered if you're going to open the court for petitioners," Galbart Glover said while rubbing his brow tiredly.

"I will after the wedding," Jon replied after thinking for a few moments. Accepting petitions was probably going to eat another few hours of his time but was one of the duties of a king. He couldn't shirk it. He did not even have to hold the court every day. Shuffling through his memories, he didn't recall Eddard Stark ever opening a northern court. But his uncle did ride off to resolve disputes and mete out high justice personally.

Jon started considering the options for Shireen's sworn shield. He couldn't trust any of the free folk spearwives as they generally considered those who were afflicted by greyscale unclean and killed them off. Not to mention that giving a prestigious position as the Queen's sworn shield to a wildling would be received poorly. While most of the northern ladies were educated in horse riding, and even hunting and hawking, only some of the mountain clansmen and the Mormonts extensively trained their women to fight. Lyra Mormont was the new Lady of Dreadfort and Jorelle was about to inherit Bear Island, so that left only little Lyanna, who was too young and small to be a sworn shield.

From the mountain clansmen, the unmarried trueborn daughters were too young and inexperienced, so he was left to choose from the baseborn daughters. After all, bastards were generally hardier than their trueborn half-siblings. He would have to speak with the clan chieftains later today.

"Torrhen go fetch Lord Wull for me, I will be in my solar," he ordered his squire. "Afterwards attend your lessons with Maester Wolkan and you can rest for the rest of the day.

The Flint heir tried to stifle his groan unsuccessfully, before running towards the Guest House to fetch the old Wull chieftain. Jon snorted in amusement. Make the boy run in heavy plate and smack him around in the training yard for hours and he would not utter a single complaint. But the mention of the Maester seemed to almost terrify him for some reason. Old Wolkan was not scary at all.

Jon arrived in his solar and poured ale into two tankards lined with silver. Soon enough, Hugo Wull entered the solar.

"You called for me, King Stark?" he nodded respectfully.

"Aye, but have a drink first," he pushed one of the filled tankards towards the chieftain and drank from his own. The Wull took it, emptied it in one go, tried to wipe the spill from his beard rather unsuccessfully, and sighed contently

"Good autumn ale," the clansman nodded generously.

"I am in need of a skilled shieldmaiden to guard my future wife, but I find myself stumped. Maege's older daughters are to inherit, and Lyanna is too small. Do you have any recommendations?" Jon inquired.

"How about my lass?" Wull asked.

"Aren't all your daughters long married?" Jon raised his eyebrow in question.

"Not all. My Jyanna's four and twenty and good with the war axe -she killed four men-at-arms in the Battle for Winterfell," the chieftain said proudly and patted his large belly. "She's a Snow though, her ma was a Norrey. The Old Norrey gave me a nice scar on the side when I fought him for her."

He paused in thought for a moment. The mountain chieftain would never lie or boast about something like skill at arms. The clansmen had always been one of the hardiest men and women in the North, and the Wull's daughter was now bloodied in battle. This Jyanna Snow being a bastard was not a problem either. Being the sworn shield of the queen would be a position of honour, and he hadn't rewarded the Wulls nearly enough for their steadfast loyalty.

"That's not a problem. Get her to join us in the yard on the morrow. I will test her skill at arms myself," he said.

"It will be done, King Stark. My daughter won't disappoint you," Hugo Wull promised solemnly.

Jon dismissed the chieftain and left his solar. It was time to visit his new workshop. He had chosen one of the empty rooms on this floor. The higher the rooms in the Great Keep, the more spacious they were. On the topmost floor were only five rooms – the King's chambers, the Queen's chambers, which sat empty but not for too long, the Lord's Solar and two more that had remained empty for as long as he remembered.

As he opened the oaken door, he entered the quite large and completely bare room with a single shutter window that would become his workshop. He unsheathed his spell-forged dagger from his belt. Since he could not do the standard charms and enchantments, it was time to carve runes. The ambient magic in Winterfell was rich enough to easily sustain multiple runic matrices in a single place.