And here it is! My introductory story to the Stormbreakers AU!
Character/Pairing: Oscar Tully & Kermit Tully
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 3K words
Summary: At the coronation feast of Aegon III, Oscar holds to his wish to carve a different path for himself. Two strangers—one with the key to make Oscar’s ambitions real—make themselves known while the Tully knight makes merry with his brother.
A/n: The Oscar Tully in this story is based on the character mentioned in Fire & Blood, and not the character in House of the Dragon. A brief timeline of events for Oscar Tully can be read here.
Kermit entered his pavilion just before dusk, as he had sworn to do.
“Have the others gone on, brother?” Oscar asked.
“The feast called to each and every one of them,” Kermit said, smiling. “We are all that remains.”
“Then let us delay no longer,” Oscar said, grinning.
Behind him, his squire, Jasper Blackwood, carefully unfolded his cloak—a heavy velvet of dark blue and rich red. The boy struggled with its weight. Still, he managed as best as he could, stepping onto a stool he had dragged in from a forgotten corner. Oscar kept still while the lad perched on the tips of his toes and reached up to fasten it at his shoulders with silver trout pins. Once satisfied, his squire leapt down and dusted his hands.
“Would you care for a cup of wine, Ser?” Jasper asked in a thin, reedy voice.
“None, Jasper,” Oscar said, “for the feast will demand wit as sharp as a blade, not addled by drink. Keep out of mischief until my return. Can you do this?”
Jasper flushed and shuffled his feet. “I will try, Ser.”
“Do more than try.” Oscar crossed to his sleeping furs and picked up his gloves. “Or else it will be my name others speak ill of, not yours.” He pulled them on, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Use your eyes and your ears when we are away—lords forget themselves and loosen their tongues when they are deep in their cups; we must needs know if vipers still hide in our midst.”
Jasper bowed. “As you will, Ser.”
The squire slipped outside and disappeared into the growing shadows. Listening in whilst unseen and unheard was a gift Jasper possessed, and Oscar had drawn on it more than once to his advantage. Now, he made use of it to keep Jasper away from childish capers while he was away. Oscar perceived no harm in it; if Jasper did indeed see or hear of any subterfuge, Oscar’s scheme would have borne fruit in more ways than one.
As soon as they were alone, Oscar turned to face his brother and studied him with a critical eye. Despite his youth, Kermit looked very much like the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands tonight. His doublet was fine blue wool slashed with cloth-of-crimson, and the jagged scar that ran from brow to cheek gave him the air of a seasoned man who had spilt blood and dealt out violence without ever flinching. The maidens at court would devise every justifiable cause to flutter to his side—and the lords would no longer sneer at him and call him “Green Boy” as they once did before the Dance.
Oscar felt a sharp pang of grief. In another turn of the moon, perhaps two, Kermit would return to Riverrun, and he, Oscar, would lead a company of men to Pentos and beyond in search of gold and glory and the means to make a lasting name for himself. He looked away—schooled his expression to one of calmness when tears threatened to gather—and looked at his brother again. His effort was in vain. Kermit had already seen his struggle.
“You have not altered your resolve,” Kermit observed quietly. “You still mean to sail to Essos.”
“Aye,” Oscar returned. “Once I have enough men, to be sure.”
“Men you will have aplenty. Word is spreading—many are already whispering of marching under your banner. You will not lack for sworn swords once you have secured a ship.”
Kermit drew closer, his own sorrow now plain to see.
“I wish you would remain,” he continued, his blue eyes glittering wetly in the lamplight, “but I see such is not the path laid down for you. Come. The feast awaits us.”
Neither brother spoke to the other after they quit Oscar’s tent and strode side by side toward the palace proper under an inky sky speckled with stars.
The coronation feast was well attended—the sea of waxed silk and linen rising in the outer and middle wards was proof of it. The pavilions they passed were all silent now, but the heraldry hanging by the flaps of each of them spoke of names both great and small. Oscar regarded them all and considered who would pledge themselves to him: second and third-born sons with no further prospects to rise, warriors of repute seeking adventure in strange lands, and hedge knights craving more than what their realm could offer them. Many who had fought beside him had offered their names and steel by now—he would have to wait and see who else would follow.
Oscar breathed in deeply when they walked into the gardens. The portcullis had been drawn up hours before, allowing guests entry beneath copses of trees that were all in bloom. Their branches were thick with new leaves and heavy with apple and pear blossoms, and medlar too. The air smelt infinitely sweeter here; it was a welcome relief from the stench wafting over the walls rising above the city. Yet it did not completely drive the odours away. It never truly did. Oscar awaited the hour he could finally turn his back to it.
But not his brother. Once Oscar took to his ship, he would not see Kermit for many a year. In truth, there had been moments when he asked himself if he would ever see his brother again.
“Someday,” he said wistfully, “I expect to hear you being safely wedded and bedded, with sons who bear your name with honour and daughters who will bring the spring light into the winter of your life.”
Kermit beamed. “Just as I intend to hear that you are wealthy beyond all measure, with a thousand glorious victories to your name.” He tousled Oscar’s hair. “I shall miss you, little brother.”
“If only you could join me.”
“The gods have decreed otherwise.” Kermit let out a soft gust of breath. “No matter. I shall pray for your safe return every day, and hope the Warrior heeds my plea.”
“That is what I wish for also,” Oscar said, his eyes burning anew with tears.
He looked up and swiftly composed himself when the doorway to the throne room loomed before them, and the muffled sounds of music and laughter drifted out. The doors had been thrown wide open, and Targaryen men standing sentry on either side snapped to attention when they neared. Kermit halted for a moment and gave each of their names to a herald waiting by the side. The man cleared his throat, turned around, and sang out to the others in a loud, booming voice.
“Kermit of House Tully! Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands! And his brother, Ser Oscar of House Tully!”
As soon as his words ceased to reverberate, a page dressed in black and red livery stepped forth and led them into a vast chamber ablaze with light. Torches burnt brightly in their sconces and lamps no bigger than a man’s fist adorned the tables. In the upper gallery, minstrels sat by the railings, singing and strumming their harps and lutes and viols, while servants bustled across the throne room floor with delicate goblets of Arbor gold for any noble with a thirst. As for the nobles themselves…
No expense had been spared upon their persons, even after war and lean times. A profusion of silk and jewels shone brilliantly, and delicate perfumes mingled with scents of smoke and incense. Oscar let Kermit show the way to their table. It was just beneath the raised dais, a place of high honour. After his brother’s vassal lords made their submissions to them both, he took his seat and let his gaze wander.
It came to rest on the Iron Throne.
The throne of the Conqueror and those who came after him towered over them all. Oscar had heard the tales, and seen the paintings of the maesters, but none of them could compare to what he saw with his own eyes. It was a monstrous edifice, formed from blades shaped and twisted by the flames of the Black Dread himself. Banners clung to its sharp sides. Its steps were jagged and uneven. Yet there was a majestic beauty about it; of that, Oscar had no doubt. He shivered and returned his attention to his brother and the serving woman offering him wine. He waved it away—the king was about to make his entrance.
Suddenly, a blare of trumpets sounded, and the music died.
“All rise for His Grace, Aegon of House Targaryen, the third of his name!” the herald cried. “King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”
Benches groaned and creaked in protest as they were pushed back and nobles surged upright. Oscar got to his feet with the rest, fixing his eyes on the entryway as trumpets sounded again.
He did not have to wait for long.
Aegon came in first, bracketed by the Kingsguard who had been armed and armoured in chilling white. The boy-king was a joyless soul blighted by too much loss. He was tall even at one and ten, yet his shoulders drooped as if they bore a terrible weight. For the feast, he was arrayed in simple raiment of black velvet, and a slender golden circlet rested against his brow. He did not smile, not even once, and when he looked upon the throne, his eyes darkened. Nevertheless, he accepted the hand of the knight closest to him and climbed up the dais.
Nothing was to be seen of his little queen. Jaehaera had been kept away, and if it had been for the best, Oscar could not say. Rumours abounded about her, and none of them boded well. Oscar exchanged a knowing look with his brother. They would speak of this later.
“His Eminence, the High Septon!” the herald called. “Father and Shepherd of the Faithful, and Voice of the Seven on Earth!”
The High Septon was of middling height and broad of frame, and his pox-scarred face bore a warm smile. Yet he carried himself with solemn dignity, his every step measured as he walked ahead of the Hand of the King and the king’s council of regents. Guests sought his blessings. Whenever one of them dropped to their knees and beseeched him, he stopped to offer one, his crown of crystal and spun gold sparkling like trapped fire whichever way he turned. If the regents did not care for the delay, they did not show it. They looked on indulgently instead, and when the High Septon drew closer to the dais, they moved with him.
The king remained solemn throughout it all. When he looked ahead, it was not to gaze upon the crowd, but some unknown middle distance instead. Oscar believed Aegon painted a most grim picture: a son who had witnessed horrors few children had ever seen and who now had to stand as father and shield of the realm while still a child. He finally stirred when the others took their places. But before they could all sit, the High Septon raised his hands in prayer.
“We stand before the sight of the Seven, to thank them for having brought us here this night. Let us rejoice in the beginning of a new age, and remember those who are no longer among us. To his grace—may the gods send you a prosperous life and long, and may all the days of your reign be blessed.”
Aegon graciously dipped his head. When he sat down, the rest followed, and the feast began in earnest.
At the strike of a gong, servants hurried in with the first dish: a broth of venison cooked in wine and spices. After the first spoonful, Oscar knew he was lost. He drained every drop, then tore into one of the crusty rolls of bread set down by the side. Steam rose from it, warm and fragrant. It made his mouth water for more.
Kermit leaned in. “A Tarbeck approaches,” he warned under his breath.
Oscar had not savoured such a meal since before the Dance began and he pondered how often he would dine like this after he took to the open sea. A sellsword’s life was oft harsh and unforgiving, and he was yet to find a wealthy benefactor who would help ease his way. Still, hope burnt bright within him. Men were already speaking of his daring ambitions. Once their speech spilt over the borders of the Tully tents and reached the margins of others, a patron might yet take note and reveal themselves. Oscar took in the many faces among the throng. Most he could not recollect, while others hailed from other shores. Perhaps the one he sought was already seated with the rest of the lords, listening to the selfsame talk.
The Tarbeck Kermit spoke of was the largest man Oscar had ever seen. He had arms the size of thick branches and broad shoulders, and hands that looked big enough to crush a grown man’s skull. Yet his grey-green eyes held no malice. When he stopped by the table, he bowed.
“Pray what is your name, Ser?” Oscar asked.
“Olyvar, Ser,” the giant said in a rich, clear voice.
“Speak your business, Olyvar.”
“My squire heard talk among the cookfires,” Olyvar began. “You mean to form your own company and sail to the Free Cities. I would be your man, if you would have me.”
Oscar reached for another roll and furrowed his brow. “Why should I show you favour, Ser?” He gestured at Olyvar’s surcoat. A seven-pointed star had been embroidered upon the breast with silver and azure thread. “You could betray me as easily as your kin did the wishes of old Viserys.”
Olyvar had the grace to blush. “The second son of a second son cannot hope to defy his blood, Ser,” he replied evenly, his cheeks tinged a pale pink. “Particularly when they exercise the privilege of riches upon less fortunate kinsmen.” He paused and, after a moment, added, “I will serve you well, Ser, and give you no cause to repine taking me on.”
Olyvar sounded sincere. Even so, Oscar harboured doubts. He looked at his brother—a silent observer to the exchange—seeking counsel. Kermit nodded once.
“I will hold you to that, Ser Oylvar,” Oscar swore, looking the Tarbeck man in the eye. “If you act against me I will hound you to the corners of the world.”
Olyvar grinned. “One should hope for no less from a Tully, Ser.”
Oscar could not help but grin back. “Call on me on the morrow,” he said. “You can pledge yourself to me then.”
“I shall, Ser.” Olyvar inclined his head and turned sharply on his heel.
As he watched Olyvar return to his own table, Kermit teased, “A Westerman with a Riverman. What songs will the minstrels make of that?”
Before Oscar could reply, servants brought platters of ribs roasted in honey and herbs. He cut a portion for himself with ease. Grease trickled down his fingers upon the first bite. “Terribly droll ones, I am sure,” he said between sticky mouthfuls. His lips curled up at the corners. “I will wager you will play a hand in their making as well.” He deemed it best to get a measure of Olyvar in the sparring yard. If the man was skilled with sword and lance, he would make a most formidable sworn sword.
While Oscar ate, his attention strayed until another man caught his eye. This man was seated among the envoys, his gaze fixed firmly on the knight. He could have only been from Tyrosh—his hair was dyed a striking shade of plum, and his vivid cobalt silks awoke the indigo in his beard. Oscar’s curiosity was roused. When that man drained his cup and uncoiled from his chair, Oscar braced himself and gently elbowed his brother in the ribs. The envoy was walking toward them, flanked by a vanguard of Bravos, their hands resting on the hilts of their fabled swords.
“Hail and well met, Ser Oscar of House Tully.” The foreigner did not bow—instead, he placed his beringed right hand palm down over his heart. “I am Nakar Adarys, Magister of the Free City of Tyrosh.”
“Magister.” Oscar cleaned his hands on a square of linen and stood. He mirrored the gesture, much to the Magister’s visible pleasure. “How may I be of service to you?”
“My men have been regaling me with the strangest songs,” Nakar said. “One of them wove a most bewitching air of a silver trout seeking golden spoils in distant waters. Is this so? Have I been told true?”
Oscar abruptly stilled. He had not expected such words from a Tyroshi lord. “You have been told true, Magister.”
“Just so,” Nakar said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I merely wish to say the trout may be closer to its spoils than it thinks. But the time is not yet ripe to speak of such things. I will send word when the appointed hour is near. Until then… farewell.”
“Farewell, Magister,” Oscar said.
He collapsed into his seat even as the Magister turned around and left, his guards trailing his every step. Oscar looked at Kermit. He found his brother just as wide-eyed as he was.
“The gods are smiling on you, brother,” Kermit said. He chuckled and clapped Oscar on the shoulder. “Your ambitions are all the closer to being real.”
“They are indeed,” Oscar said, and grew grave. “Our parting is fast approaching.”
Kermit gave his brother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I have prepared for it,” he admitted. “Speak with the Magister. Do not let his offer pass you by.”
“I will not,” Oscar said, his heart racing with eager anticipation.
Kermit beckoned for wine. “Shall we drink to our futures and give thanks to the gods for their many blessings?” He poured a cup each for the both of them.
“I shall not say nay to that.” Oscar accepted the measure—a pale rose vintage from the Arbor—pressed into his hand. The time for sharpened wit had gone, and the time to savour what moments he had left with his brother had come.
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Credits for coins and sword image: Unsplash 1 | Unsplash 2
