Chapter 217: The Umbers' Choice
July 15
The next morning, Allison, Victoria, Brienne, Osha, Meera, and the Starks—Sansa, Arya, Jon, Bran, Rickon, and Benjen—rode toward Last Hearth.
The castle rose from the snow-covered plains like a grey stone fist, its walls thick and weathered by centuries of northern winters. Towers squatted defensively against the horizon, and smoke rose from countless chimneys, carrying the distant sounds of blacksmiths and soldiers across the snowy fields.
As they approached the gate, a party of Umber guards emerged to meet them. The guards' faces were wary as they took in the giant horses and the three direwolves. But then their eyes landed on Rickon, and something shifted in their expressions—recognition, surprise, and a flicker of relief.
Benjen urged his horse forward, his voice carrying authority. "I'm Benjen Stark, and these are my nephews and nieces. Go tell your lord that we are here to talk to him."
One of the guards nodded and hurried inside. The others remained, their eyes still wary but their weapons lowered. After a few tense minutes, the guard returned and gestured for them to enter.
---
Smalljon Umber was waiting in the great hall.
He was a man in his early forties, with a wild beard and cold, calculating eyes. He sat in the high seat, his hand resting on the pommel of a greatsword, surrounded by a dozen of his most loyal guards. The hall was vast and cold; the stone walls hung with faded banners and weapons.
He did not rise when they entered.
"Starks," he said, his voice flat and unwelcoming. "And strangers." His eyes flicked to Allison and Victoria, assessing them, before returning to Sansa. "I heard you were dead. All of you."
Sansa stepped forward, her voice calm and steady. "As you can see, we're not. And first, I want to thank you for taking care of my brother."
Smalljon snorted, his expression twisting with contempt. "He didn't seem grateful. After all, he ran away with his wildling whore without us knowing and didn't even thank us for taking care of him and protecting him."
Arya's hand moved to her dagger, her eyes flashing. "My sister is thanking you now."
Jon placed a calming hand on Arya's shoulder. "Calm down, Arya."
Arya snorted and didn't say anything else.
Smalljon ignored her completely, his attention fixed on Sansa. "Why are you here?"
Sansa got directly to business. "We've come to invite you and your house to join us."
Smalljon's eyes narrowed. "Join you? Join what?"
Benjen stepped forward. "There is a new rising king in the North, and House Stark is willing to follow him. His name is King Jacob of House Alexandre. He has defeated Stannis Baratheon and his army. He has conquered the Free Folk and brought them south of the Wall. He offers you a place in his kingdom."
Smalljon's face twisted with barely contained rage. "The Free Folk? You brought wildlings south of the Wall?" He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor with a harsh sound. "You expect me to fight alongside savages? To share my lands with wildlings?"
Jon spoke, his voice calm but firm. "They are our people now. King Jacob has made them part of his kingdom. They will follow his laws, just as we will."
Smalljon laughed—a harsh, bitter sound that echoed through the hall. "I will never follow a king who brings wildlings into the North. And I will never bend the knee to some southern stranger." He looked at the Starks with open contempt. "You've all lost your minds. Or your honor. Or both."
Arya's hand moved to her dagger again. "Careful, Smalljon."
Smalljon ignored her completely. He looked at his guards, his voice sharp with command. "Seize them. Lock them in the dungeons. We'll send word to the Boltons—they'll pay handsomely for Starks."
The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.
Benjen took a heavy step forward. "Smalljon! House Umber has stood by House Stark for thousands of years. Your family swore a sacred oath of loyalty to our family. You owe your allegiance to the Starks, and we are telling you that King Jacob is the future of the North. Remember your oath!"
Smalljon's eyes flashed with anger. He spat on the stone floor, the gesture deliberate and insulting. "The Starks are broken, Benjen. I deny your oath, and my house owes your dead house nothing!" He glared fiercely at his guards. "Seize them. Now!"
A dozen Umber guards charged.
Arya moved first. She was a blur of motion. Three guards fell unconscious before they could even draw their swords.
Brienne's sword was already in her hand, her movements precise and deadly. She disarmed two guards with a single swing, then knocked them unconscious with the flat of her blade.
Arya sent four other guards flying, their bodies hitting the walls with sickening thuds before sliding to the ground, unconscious.
She drew her Valyrian steel dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. Her voice was cold. "This was a warning. If anyone attacks us again, I will show no mercy."
The remaining guards backed away, their eyes wide with fear, their weapons shaking in their hands.
Smalljon stared at his unconscious men, then at Arya and Brienne, his face pale. His hand tightened on his greatsword, but he didn't draw it.
Allison stepped forward. She had been silent until now, watching the exchange with cold, patient eyes. When she spoke, her voice was calm and measured.
"Smalljon Umber. You have two choices."
She raised one finger.
"First: you and anyone who refuses to join King Jacob's kingdom will leave Last Hearth. You will take your family, your loyal guards, and whatever you can carry. You will go south. I don't care where you go, as long as you leave the North."
She raised a second finger.
"Second: you stay. You fight. And you die."
Smalljon's face contorted with rage. "You think you can threaten me in my own hall?"
Allison's expression didn't change. "I'm not threatening you. I'm giving you a choice."
Smalljon turned and stormed out of the hall, his boots echoing on the stone floor. His surviving guards followed him.
"He's going to attack us," Arya said.
Allison nodded. "I know."
They stayed in the hall for a few minutes until they heard a commotion outside.
Allison said, "Let's go."
They walked out of the great hall and into the courtyard.
---
Six hundred Umber soldiers surrounded them—armed, armored, and ready to fight. They formed a ring of steel around the Starks and their companions, their faces hard, their weapons drawn.
Smalljon stood at the front, his greatsword drawn, his face twisted with fury. His voice rang out across the courtyard. "Do you think it's so easy to chase me out of my home? I will show you the strength of House Umber. Today, none of you are leaving Last Hearth! I swear it!"
Allison looked at the six hundred soldiers, then back at Smalljon. Her expression didn't change.
She stepped forward and stomped her foot on the snow-covered ground.
The snow around her began to move, expanding, taking shape. Sixty ice golems grew from the frozen ground—each one ten feet tall, their bodies gleaming like frozen glass and their eyes glowing with cold blue light. They stood in perfect formation around Allison and her companions.
The Umber soldiers stumbled back, their faces pale with fear.
Allison's voice cut through the silence like a blade, cold and absolute. "Leave, Smalljon. Take your family and your loyal men. Go south to the Boltons, or go into exile. I don't care which. But if you attack, I will kill every last one of you."
Smalljon stared at the ice golems. His hand trembled on his sword. His men looked at him, their eyes wide with terror, their weapons shaking in their hands.
Just then, two old men pushed through the crowd of soldiers.
Mors Umber was an old man with a grizzled beard and a missing eye. He leaned on a gnarled walking staff, but his gaze was sharp and clear, carrying the wisdom of decades.
Hother Umber was nearly as old, with a bald head and a scarred face. He carried a battleaxe over his shoulder.
"What is going on here?" Mors demanded, his voice rough and rasping.
Smalljon turned to his uncles, his face red with anger. "These traitors brought wildlings south of the Wall! They want us to kneel to some southern king who calls himself King Jacob Alexandre!"
Mors and Hother ignored him completely. Their eyes landed on Benjen.
Mors's good eye widened in recognition. "Benjen Stark? Is that really you?"
Hother's gruff voice was filled with disbelief. "We heard you died beyond the Wall years ago."
Benjen stepped forward, his face softening into a genuine smile. "Mors. Hother. It's good to see you two old men still alive."
Hother laughed heartily. "Who are you calling an old man? I'm going to take a new wife in a few days and have a few strong babies with her."
Benjen laughed, the tension in the courtyard easing slightly. "Then congratulations in advance, Hother."
Mors looked at the ice golems, then at Allison, then back at Benjen. "Benjen, what is going on here?"
Benjen's expression grew serious. "There is a new king in the North, and House Stark has decided to follow him and join his kingdom. He is not from the South or the North—he is not even from Westeros. He has defeated Stannis Baratheon, conquered the Free Folk, and brought them south of the Wall."
Mors and Hother exchanged a glance, their faces unreadable.
Benjen continued, "He has an army of thirty-five thousand men. He has giants. He has mammoths. And he has dragons. He has warriors who can control fire and lightning. He has come to unite the North and all of Westeros under a single banner."
Hother's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And what does he want from us?"
Benjen's voice was steady. "He wants your allegiance. He wants Last Hearth to join his kingdom. He will not take your lands, your titles, or your people. With his strength and his large army and dragons, he can take Last Hearth with ease—but he doesn't want to kill if it's not necessary. That's why he sent us to you and to the northern houses that are loyal to our house. He sent us to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."
Mors looked at Smalljon, his one eye cold. "And what does my nephew say?"
Smalljon spat on the ground, his contempt clear. "I say we should kill them all and send their heads to the Boltons!"
Mors's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You would betray the Starks? The family we've sworn to protect for thousands of years?"
Smalljon's voice rose, his face reddening with rage. "The Starks are dead! They've been dead for years! These are just pretenders and their wildling-loving friends!"
Mors took a step toward him, his voice low and dangerous. "You are a fool, Smalljon. And a traitor."
Hother stepped forward, his voice cold. "You would throw away our honor for the Boltons? The family that murdered Robb Stark at the Red Wedding?"
Smalljon's face twisted. "Honor? Honor is what got the Starks killed! I'll take the Boltons over wildlings any day!"
Mors turned to his brother. "Hother, we've heard enough."
Hother nodded grimly. "Aye."
Mors looked at Smalljon, his voice carrying the finality of judgment. "You are no longer Lord of Last Hearth. You are banished. Take your family and your loyal men—those who share your hatred for the Free Folk—and leave. If you ever set foot in these lands again, you will be executed as a traitor."
Smalljon's face went pale. "You can't do this! I am the Lord of Last Hearth! I am—"
"You are a traitor," Hother cut him off sharply. "And I will not have you dragging our house into ruin because of your pride."
Mors added, "The Umbers have stood with the Starks for thousands of years. We will not break that oath for a boy who would rather bend the knee to Roose Bolton than protect his own people."
Smalljon looked at the two old men, his face pale with shock and rage. Then he looked at the soldiers around him—the same soldiers who had followed him into the courtyard, who had been ready to attack the Starks and their allies.
Now, they looked at him with uncertainty. Some of them looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
Smalljon knew he had lost.
"Fine," he spat, his voice bitter. "I'll leave. But you'll regret this. When the Boltons come, you'll all burn."
He turned to his soldiers, his voice sharp with command. "Anyone who wants to leave with me, gather your families and pack your things. We're going south."
About a hundred soldiers hesitated, then stepped forward. They were the ones who shared Smalljon's hatred for the Free Folk—the ones who would rather fight alongside the Boltons than live under a king who welcomed wildlings into the North.
Smalljon led them out of the courtyard.
Allison dismissed the ice golems, and they crumbled into harmless snow.
Within an hour, Smalljon Umber and his household—his family, his loyal guards, their families, and about a hundred die-hard supporters—had packed their belongings and left Last Hearth.
They rode south toward Winterfell, their heads hung low, their futures uncertain.
---
Inside the great hall, Mors and Hother Umber began to kneel before Sansa, their old bones creaking as they prepared to swear fealty.
Sansa quickly stopped them. "Don't do that. My husband doesn't like people kneeling. And wait until you meet him before you swear your allegiance to him."
Mors straightened, his good eye crinkling with curiosity. "Alright. But when do we meet him?"
Sansa's expression was thoughtful. "We still need to visit all the houses that are loyal to our house first. That will take some time. You will meet him with all the houses that agreed to join his kingdom after our journey ends. We will let you know when the time comes."
Hother looked at Allison, his scarred face curious. "Are you the wife of King Jacob too?"
Allison smiled. "Yes. Besides me and Sansa, he has three other wives. He plans to legalize polygamy in his kingdom—as long as a man can support and care for multiple wives, he'll be permitted to marry them."
Hother laughed heartily, slapping his knee. "I like this king already!"
Allison asked, "How many people do you have here? And how many soldiers?"
Mors's expression grew serious. "There are roughly two thousand people living inside the castle walls and its immediate outer settlement. If you include the entire surrounding Umber territory—farmers, mountain clansmen, and smallholdings—the total population stretches closer to thirty-five thousand people."
Hother added, "If we're talking about soldiers, we don't have many. Most of our soldiers and elite warriors died south fighting for Robb Stark. Right now we have roughly about a thousand men, and if we add the mountain clansmen, we can get another two hundred." He paused, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Do you need men? Is there a war coming?"
Allison nodded. "We're marching to war against the Boltons—to take Winterfell and unite the North. But I was just asking about the population here. We still need to speak with my husband and father to see how many men they will ask from House Umber to join our army."
Mors leaned forward. "Your grace, does His Majesty really have dragons?"
Allison said, "Yes. And you actually might have heard of one of them. The Cannibal."
Hother's eyes widened. "The Cannibal?"
Sansa nodded. "She is from the Dance of the Dragons era, and she is massive. You will see her soon."
Mors's face broke into a wide grin. "Okay. Let's have a feast and tell us more about our new king."
---
The feast was grand—the great hall of Last Hearth filled with the sounds of laughter. Roasted meats, fresh bread, and hearty stews were served in abundance, and the fire crackled warmly in the massive hearth.
Allison, Sansa, and the others told the Umbers about Jacob—some of his powers and the kingdom he wanted to build. They spoke of the battle at Hardhome, the army of the dead, the demon R'hllor, and the Jubokko.
Mors and Hother listened, captivated—their eyes bright with a mixture of fascination, fear, and hope.
By the time the feast ended, the Umbers were fully committed to the new kingdom. They promised to send their best fighters to join the army when the call came.
As the evening drew to a close, Allison, Sansa, Victoria, and Arya teleported back to Serendell, leaving the others to spend the night at Last Hearth.
---
Serendell — Evening
Jacob had spent the day playing video games with Stiles, Malia, and Kitty. They had been at it for hours—shouting, laughing, and trash-talking each other. They didn't stop until Cogman called them for dinner.
They made their way to the dining room, joining Allison, Sansa, Melissa, Lydia, Erica, Chris, Victoria, Shireen, and Arya. The table was laden with food, and the fire crackled warmly in the hearth.
Allison, Sansa, and Arya recounted the events at Last Hearth—the confrontation with Smalljon, the intervention of his uncles, and the banishment.
Jacob nodded approvingly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good. At least the Umbers aren't all fools like Smalljon."
Lydia took a bite of her food before asking, "Where are you going next?"
Sansa's expression grew thoughtful. "We will start our journey tomorrow to House Karstark of Karhold."
Jacob shook his head. "Forget about the Karstarks. They're loyal to the Boltons and hate the Starks because your brother Robb executed their lord, Rickard Karstark."
Sansa sighed. "I know. But I thought maybe we could convince them to join us."
Lydia asked, "Why did Robb execute their lord?"
Jacob said, "Because Rickard Karstark murdered two teenage Lannister prisoners out of revenge for his own sons dying at the hands of Jaime Lannister. Because this act undermined Robb's military command and violated the laws of war, Robb executed Rickard Karstark for treason." He took a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully. "In response to their lord's execution, the Karstark forces abandoned Robb's army. They later defected and pledged their allegiance to House Bolton."
Victoria nodded. "Then, like Jacob said, let's not bother going to them."
Sansa nodded. "Okay. Then we will head south to House Glover of Deepwood Motte."
Jacob shook his head again. "Forget about them too. They hate wildlings, and they're allied with House Bolton."
Sansa said, "But they are pledged to our house and might choose to swear allegiance to you if they know that House Stark is still alive and has sworn allegiance to you."
Jacob's expression was skeptical. "I doubt that. After the Boltons took control of the North, they assisted the Glovers in retaking Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn."
Chris said, "That means the Glovers owe the Boltons and probably will not join us."
Jacob nodded. "Right. So forget about them. If they choose to join the Boltons and fight against us, then they are our enemies."
Sansa said, "I'm still going to visit them. Even if they don't want to join our kingdom right now, at least I'll warn them not to help the Boltons fight against us. If they ignore that warning and still join the Boltons, then they will be treated like them—and we will show them no mercy."
Jacob's expression softened slightly. "Then let's hope they aren't stupid."
Sansa nodded, her voice brightening slightly. "After that, we will head to House Mormont of Bear Island, and then lastly we will visit Meera's house—House Reed of Greywater Watch."
Jacob said, "Then you should teleport to Moat Cailin after you visit House Mormont. If you go on horses, it will take you three to four weeks to arrive there."
Sansa nodded. "I will teleport everyone to Moat Cailin, then use your map to find Greywater Watch."
Jacob's voice was thoughtful. "Alright. And tell the Mormonts to come meet me at the Wall. And bring the Reeds with you to the Wall to meet me—if both houses accept joining my kingdom, of course."
Sansa smiled. "I will."
Lydia said, "Alright, hurry up and eat. We need to go attend Kai's and Mika's wedding in an hour."
They finished their meal quickly, then they changed and made their way to the temporary village Jacob had constructed—a settlement for the samurai, their families, and the villagers who had come with them.
The village was alive with celebration. Lanterns hung from every building, casting warm golden light across the streets. Music filled the air—traditional Japanese instruments playing a joyful melody. The guests were dressed in their finest kimonos and ceremonial robes, their faces bright with happiness.
Kai and Mika stood at the center of it all, their hands clasped, their eyes locked on each other. Mika was radiant in her white kimono, her hair adorned with delicate ornaments. Kai looked handsome in his formal attire, his posture proud and his smile wide.
The ceremony was beautiful. Jacob watched with a warm smile, surrounded by his family.
After the ceremony, the celebration began. There was food and drink, music and dancing, laughter and joy. Jacob spent the evening talking with Ōishi and the other samurai, learning about their traditions and sharing stories of his own adventures.
Hours later, when the celebration began to wind down, Jacob and his family returned to the palace.
Jacob walked with Allison to his room, their hands intertwined, the warmth of the evening still lingering between them.
Chapter 218: News from the North
July 17
Allison, Victoria, Brienne, and the Starks had been traveling for three weeks.
The North was vast, and traveling from one house to another took days. The roads were frozen, the winds were brutal, and the snow never seemed to stop falling.
In those three weeks, they had visited several smaller houses loyal to the Starks. Each visit followed a similar pattern: cautious greetings, tense negotiations, and ultimately, acceptance. One by one, the northern houses pledged their allegiance to King Jacob of House Alexandre. They had seen the Starks alive, had heard of the dragons and the army, and had made their choice.
The last house they visited was House Glover at Deepwood Motte. To everyone's surprise, the Glovers agreed to join Jacob's kingdom. Benjen had spoken to them with the weight of his years and reputation, making it clear that the Boltons were going to be destroyed. The Glovers weren't stupid—they chose the winning side.
Now, Allison and her group were heading to Bear Island, the ancestral home of House Mormont.
---
The Spread of News
While Allison and the Starks traveled, the news of King Jacob and House Alexandre spread across Westeros like wildfire.
It started with the twenty soldiers Jacob had spared after the Battle against Stannis. They had fled south in terror, their minds shattered by what they had witnessed. Some of them were so frightened that they told everyone they met about Jacob, afraid that he might find them if they didn't spread the news.
"There is a monster coming for everyone from the North!" one of them had burst into a tavern at White Harbor, shouting at the top of his lungs. "He calls himself King Jacob Alexandre! He killed a thousand men alone in a moment! He summons lightning and flew through the air! He breathed fire like a dragon!"
"His wives are just as bad!" he continued, grabbing a startled man by the collar and shaking him. "They cut through our army like we were nothing! They have powers—magic, sorcery, something!"
The patrons of the tavern had stared at him in stunned silence. Then the whispers had started, and the stories had begun to spread.
The brothers of the Night's Watch added their own accounts to the growing legend. They had seen Jacob at Castle Black. They had seen him defeat Stannis and his army with ease. They had seen his powers and the powers of his army. They had seen his nightmare horses and his massive army training near Castle Black every day.
They sent ravens south, their words carrying the weight of eyewitness testimony. The stories grew as they spread, each telling adding new details, new exaggerations. By the time they reached the southern kingdoms, King Jacob Alexandre had become a legend—a figure of terror and fascination.
Some said he was a dragon in human form. Others claimed he was a demon. A few whispered that he was the chosen one, destined to unite Westeros and bring peace to the land.
The truth, as always, was somewhere in between.
---
Winterfell — The Boltons
The great hall of Winterfell was cold, despite the roaring fire in the hearth. The ancient stones seemed to absorb the warmth, leaving the air chill and damp. Roose Bolton sat in the high seat, his eyes fixed on the raven scroll in his hand. His face was as unreadable as ever, but there was a tension in his shoulders that betrayed his unease.
Ramsay stood beside him, his posture casual but his eyes sharp.
"This came this morning with a raven from Castle Black," Roose said, handing the scroll to Ramsay. "The rumors we heard a few days ago are true. A new king has risen in the North."
Ramsay read the scroll, his lips curling into a sneer. "This can't be true. I mean, it is acceptable to believe that this new king defeated Stannis. And that he has an army of wildlings. But they say he has a dragon and can defeat a thousand men alone. They say he can fly through the air and breathe fire. These rumors must be an exaggeration—a lie."
Roose nodded slowly. "I agree. Stannis's army was broken, starving. Anyone could have defeated him. And sure, this new king could have the wildlings fight for him. But everything else is probably a lie."
Ramsay's eyes narrowed. "Do you trust the man who sent you this news?"
Roose's expression was flat. "Not really, no."
Ramsay laughed—a harsh, mocking sound that echoed through the hall. "Then it's probably just this new king trying to make a name for himself by spreading fake stories about himself."
Roose's voice was measured, cautious. "Still, we need to prepare for war." He handed another scroll to Ramsay. "Sansa Stark is the wife of this King Jacob. And worse, the scroll says that the other Starks—Arya, Brandon, Rickon, the bastard Jon, and even Benjen—are with him. They went to recruit northern houses to join him."
Ramsay took the scroll and read it, his expression darkening. "That's going to be a problem."
Roose nodded grimly. "Indeed. The Starks are still remembered in the North. They could help him rally the North against us. We need to be ready for the worst."
Ramsay's eyes narrowed dangerously. "The two hundred men we sent to Moat Cailin? They never reported back. When I sent some men to check on them, they reported back that they didn't find anyone in Moat Cailin—only a few discarded weapons. It must be this new king's doing."
"Who knows?" Roose said, his voice flat. "Anyway, the Karstarks are probably the only house that will side with us. As for the other northern houses, most of them will probably turn on us."
Ramsay scoffed. "They wouldn't dare. I'll flay them all if they—"
"What you need to do now is prepare the defenses," Roose interrupted, his voice sharp. "If this king comes, we need to be ready. We have only five thousand men. This king have an army of thirty thousand. And if he truly has a dragon, we have a bigger problem than a few rebellious lords."
Ramsay's face flushed with anger, but he held his tongue. He knew better than to argue with his father when he was in this mood.
Roose continued, his voice cold and calculating. "Send ravens to the Karstarks and the other houses. Ask them to send men to defend Winterfell. Also send ravens to the Freys. We need to know where they stand. And send a raven to King's Landing. They need to know what's going on and send us help."
Ramsay nodded, his jaw tight. He turned and strode out of the hall, his boots echoing on the stone floor.
---
King's Landing — The Red Keep
Lady Olenna Tyrell sat in the garden of the Red Keep, a letter in her hand, her sharp eyes scanning the words. She had come to King's Landing because both of her grandchildren—Margaery and Loras—had been captured as prisoners by the High Sparrow. The situation was dire, and she was running out of options.
Her useless son, Mace Tyrell, sat across from her. He had not been sent to the Iron Bank yet—Cersei had gotten busy with Margaery and the High Sparrow and had forgotten about him after Jacob had taken Meryn Trant. His face was pale with worry, his hands trembling slightly.
"Mother," Mace said, his voice strained. "What does it say?"
Olenna set down the letter, her expression unreadable. "It says a new king has risen in the North. A king with strange powers, an army of wildlings, and—if the rumors are true—a dragon."
Mace's eyes widened in disbelief. "A dragon? There are no dragons in Westeros. Not since the Targaryens."
Olenna's voice was flat. "That doesn't mean a dragon couldn't appear."
Mace shook his head stubbornly. "It's probably just a lie."
Olenna snorted, her eyes flashing with irritation. "The world is full of surprises. And didn't you hear? There are three living dragons in Essos belonging to a Targaryen girl."
Mace coughed awkwardly. "Mother, tell me about this new king."
Olenna leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. "He calls himself Jacob Alexandre. His sigil is a black dragon's head on a crimson field. He defeated Stannis. He brought the Free Folk south of the Wall. And he has an army of thirty thousand." She chuckled dryly. "And apparently, he is a romantic. He has more than one wife."
Mace's voice trembled. "What should we do?"
Olenna's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "For now, nothing. We wait. We watch. We see what this new king does next."
"But what if he marches south?" Mace asked.
Olenna's voice was cold and sharp. "Then we will have to decide whose side we're on. But for now, we do nothing. We let the North deal with its own problems." She sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. "We have bigger problems in our hands. We need to free Margaery and Loras. They are our future."
---
King's Landing — The Red Keep
Cersei Lannister sat in her chambers, a glass of wine in her hand, a satisfied smile on her lips. The High Sparrow had arrested Queen Margaery Tyrell, along with her brother Loras. The Tyrells were in chaos, and Cersei had finally gained the upper hand.
Then Qyburn entered, his face grave.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice low. "I have news from the North."
Cersei's smile faded. "What news?"
Qyburn's expression was troubled. "A new king has risen. A king with strange powers. His name is Jacob Alexandre. He defeated Stannis Baratheon. He brought the Free Folk south of the Wall. And he has an army of thirty thousand men."
Cersei's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Strange powers?"
Qyburn nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. And I think the man we saw in the council chamber—the one who took Ser Meryn—I believe he is Jacob Alexandre."
Cersei's grip tightened on her wine glass, her knuckles white. "The sorcerer?"
"The same," Qyburn said. "He has Sansa Stark with him. Taking over the North is only a matter of time with her and his thirty thousand-man army. He is a threat, Your Grace."
Cersei's voice was cold, her eyes burning with barely contained fury. "What are his powers?"
Qyburn hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I have reports from the soldiers who survived the battle against him. They say he can fly. They say he can kill a hundred men with a wave of his hand. They say he has a dragon."
Cersei scoffed, but there was a hint of unease in her voice. "A dragon? There are no dragons in Westeros."
"They are just rumors, Your Grace," Qyburn said carefully. "But the soldiers who survived from Stannis's army are terrified. They speak of him as if he were a demon."
Cersei's jaw tightened. "Is the little whore Sansa Stark really with him?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Qyburn said. "She is his wife."
Cersei's eyes flashed with anger. "The little bitch. She's been hiding all this time, waiting for her chance." She stood and paced the room, her heels clicking on the stone floor. "Haven't you found Baelish yet?"
Qyburn shook his head. "No. He disappeared after leaving the Vale, Your Grace."
Cersei's voice was venomous. "That bumbling bastard has either betrayed me and joined the sorcerer, or he is dead."
Qyburn said, "I'll keep looking for him, Your Grace."
Cersei stopped pacing, her expression hardening. "We need allies. We need gold. We need to crush this threat before it grows."
Qyburn asked, "What do you suggest?"
Cersei's voice was sharp and commanding. "Send word to the Boltons. Tell them we will offer them gold, supplies, and even men if they can hold the North." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "And send word to the Iron Bank. We need more gold."
"Of course, Your Grace," Qyburn said. "And what of the dragon?"
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe he has a dragon. But even if he does, it must be a small one." She looked at him, her gaze piercing. "Did you find a way to deal with the Targaryen whore's dragons yet?"
Qyburn smiled, a hint of pride in his voice. "Yes, and I'm very close to finishing it. I call it the Scorpion. I promise you are going to be satisfied with it, Your Grace."
Cersei nodded. "And what of Myrcella? Any news?"
Qyburn's expression grew more serious. "I already hired some sellswords, but they haven't captured Tyene Sand yet, Your Grace."
Cersei's voice was cold. "Let me know when they catch her."
---
Meereen — The Great Pyramid
Daenerys Targaryen sat on her throne, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight. Tyrion Lannister stood beside her, his wine glass in his hand. Grey Worm and Missandei stood nearby, their faces calm and attentive.
They had been discussing the fighting pits. Daenerys had agreed to reopen them, though she was uneasy about the decision and didn't like it at all. The compromise had been necessary, but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Then a soldier entered, bowing low. "Your Grace, a red priestess has arrived. She says she has urgent news for you."
Daenerys frowned. "A red priestess? From where?"
"She did not say, Your Grace. She only said she must speak with you."
Daenerys exchanged a glance with Tyrion. Then she nodded. "Let her in."
The soldier left, and a woman entered.
She was beautiful, with dark hair and green eyes. She wore red robes, and a golden choker inset with a glowing ruby around her neck. Her name was Kinvara, and she moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
She bowed, her movements graceful. "Your Grace. I am Kinvara, the first servant of the Lord of Light. The High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis. I have come from Volantis to warn you."
Daenerys's eyes narrowed. "Warn me of what?"
Kinvara's voice was calm, but there was something dark lurking beneath the surface. "A great enemy is waiting for you in Westeros. A man who calls himself King Jacob. He has gathered an army of wildlings and northerners. He has strange, dark powers."
Daenerys looked at Tyrion, who shook his head slightly, indicating he didn't know what Kinvara was talking about.
Kinvara continued, her voice growing more intense. "He is not just a conqueror. He is a sorcerer. A demon. He has aligned himself with forces that would destroy the world. He is an evil that must be stopped."
Tyrion stepped forward, his voice dry and skeptical. "Forgive me, but I just arrived from Westeros and have never heard of this King Jacob."
Kinvara's expression didn't waver. "He just appeared in the North a month ago. He defeated Stannis Baratheon and conquered the Free Folk, bringing them south of the Wall."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "He just appeared from thin air?"
"We don't know where he came from," Kinvara admitted.
Tyrion's voice was sharp. "Then how do you know this 'King Jacob' is evil?"
Kinvara's gaze fixed on him, her eyes burning with conviction. "The Lord of Light revealed his true nature to me in the flames. And what I saw is a man who would drown the world in blood and darkness." Her voice softened, becoming almost seductive. "But there is hope." She turned to Daenerys. "You, Daenerys Stormborn, are the hero who will save this world from him. The flames have shown me your destiny. You will defeat him and claim the Iron Throne."
Tyrion chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, you claim to know the future, but you can't tell us where this King Jacob came from?"
Kinvara's voice remained calm. "I don't claim to know everything. I only know what the Lord lets me see in the flames."
Tyrion pointed to a torch by the wall. "Then go see where that king came from in that flame. We are waiting."
Kinvara's calmness wavered for a fraction of a second. Then she said, "That's not how it works."
Tyrion's voice was sharp. "If I recall correctly, there was one of you counseling Stannis Baratheon, saying he was the chosen one of your Lord. But you just said he died. Was your Lord wrong?"
Kinvara's expression remained serene. "The Lord never makes mistakes. But men and women do."
Tyrion nodded slowly. "I see. Then how do we know you didn't make a mistake too? How do we know this King Jacob isn't an evil demon like you said, but just a man who has enmity with you and your faith? How do we know you aren't trying to use us to get rid of him? Why should we trust you?"
Kinvara's eyes shifted from Tyrion back to Daenerys, completely ignoring him. Her voice was smooth, almost hypnotic. "You do not need to trust me, Lord Tyrion. You only need to trust the destiny that has been written for your Queen."
Tyrion took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Daenerys leaned forward on her throne, her expression unreadable. "Tell me more about this King Jacob."
Kinvara's voice was calm, measured. "He is younger than you. He has strange powers. He can defeat a thousand men by himself, and his wives and family are no less powerful than him. And he has horses that breathe flames."
Daenerys raised a brow. "Wives?"
Kinvara nodded. "He has more than one. And he probably aims for you too, as he calls himself the Father of Dragons."
Tyrion chuckled, looking at Daenerys. "My Queen, it seems tales of your beauty have spread to Westeros. Even this King Jacob is smitten and gave himself a false title just to match yours."
Daenerys smiled slightly, but Kinvara cut in, her voice sharp. "It's not a false title. He is unburnt like your Queen, and he has a dragon."
Daenerys stopped smiling, her expression hardening. "That's impossible."
Kinvara's voice remained calm. "Everything is possible, Your Grace. Everyone thought dragons were extinct until you hatched not one but three of them."
Daenerys's voice was sharp. "How big is his dragon?"
Kinvara's expression was thoughtful. "I've heard it's very large. But I think people have never seen dragons before, so they exaggerated its size. It should be a young dragon, only three or four years old. If it were really big, people might have seen it years ago."
Daenerys asked, "Is this man Jacob a Targaryen?"
Kinvara shook her head. "No, Your Grace. He has dark hair, and he calls himself Jacob Alexandre."
Daenerys looked at Tyrion. "Have you ever heard of House Alexandre?"
Tyrion shook his head. "No."
Daenerys looked back at Kinvara, her expression unreadable. She had dealt with warlocks before. She was not about to be tricked or believe another one.
"And what is it that you want from me, Kinvara?" Daenerys asked directly, her tone cool and commanding. "You didn't travel from Volantis to Meereen just to deliver warnings out of the goodness of your heart. What do you seek?"
Kinvara bowed her head slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "The one who calls himself King Jacob is a threat to the world, and the Lord of Light wants me to help you defeat him. As a servant of the Lord, I wish to see His will fulfilled. I am here to offer you my help. I will send hundreds of my priestesses and priests to Westeros. They will spread your name to the smallfolk. They will tell the world that Daenerys Stormborn is the protector sent to save them from the darkness. They will rally the common people to your cause, helping you defeat this Jacob and sit upon the Iron Throne. And I will personally guide you, protect you, and help you fulfill your destiny."
Daenerys stayed silent for a long moment, weighing the offer. An army of red priests spreading her name could be useful, but fanaticism was a dangerous fire to play with—even for a dragon.
"You offer a powerful gift," Daenerys said, her voice polite but distant. "But I must discuss this with my council before making any alliances with your temple. I will think on what you have said. You may leave us now."
Kinvara's smile did not fade. She bowed low, her red robes sweeping the stone floor. "The flames do not lie, Your Grace. We await your word."
With a final, lingering look at Tyrion, she turned and walked out of the throne room, her confidence entirely unshaken.
Once the heavy doors closed behind the priestess, Daenerys exhaled a long breath and turned her gaze to her Hand.
"What do you think, Tyrion?" Daenerys asked.
Tyrion walked closer to the throne, swirling the remaining wine in his cup. His face was deeply troubled. "I think she's either sincere or a very good liar. But I don't trust her."
Daenerys's brow furrowed. "Why not?"
Tyrion's voice was sharp. "Because anyone who claims to know the future is either deluded or dangerous. And the red priests have their own agenda. They want power—the same as everyone else."
Daenerys's expression was thoughtful. "But what if what she said is true? What if there is a new king in Westeros?"
Tyrion nodded slowly. "I think this 'King Jacob' must be real. The Red Temple has spies and informants in every port. If they say a man has defeated Stannis Baratheon and marched an army of wildlings south of the Wall, it is because it actually happened. We cannot ignore him."
He paused, shaking his head firmly. "But I do not believe for a single second that he is a demon. To people like her, anyone who doesn't bow to their Lord of Light is branded a demon. I know what Stannis Baratheon's red priestess did on Dragonstone. She didn't use holy magic—she used terror. She burned loyal lords and innocent people alive on the beaches simply because they refused to convert to the Lord of Light. I do not trust Kinvara, and I do not trust her intentions. She wants to use your dragons to fight her holy war."
Daenerys's voice was thoughtful. "And what about what she said about him having a dragon? And what about his strange powers?"
Tyrion shook his head. "That's highly unlikely. Dragons haven't been seen in Westeros for over a century. And a man who can kill thousands with his bare hands? That's the stuff of legends."
Daenerys's expression was troubled. "But what if he really does have a dragon? What if he is a threat?"
Tyrion shrugged, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Then he is a threat we will deal with when we reach Westeros." He paused, his smile widening. "And if everything she said was true and we can't defeat him, you can always marry him."
Daenerys glared at him. "What?"
Tyrion's voice was calm, reasonable. "It's better than losing the war and dying. At least if you marry him, you will still be queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
Daenerys's voice was sharp. "You mean one of the multiple queens of the Seven Kingdoms."
Tyrion nodded. "It's still better than dying or trusting the Red Temple. But I only said if we can't win against him. We will try to win first. We will only talk about marriage if we have no hope of winning."
He took a sip of his drink and continued, "But for now, we have more immediate problems. The Sons of the Harpy are still a threat. We need to stabilize Meereen before we can even think about the Iron Throne."
Daenerys nodded slowly. "You're right. We focus on Meereen. We crush the Sons of the Harpy. And then, when the time is right, we go to Westeros."
Tyrion raised his wine glass. "To the future."
Daenerys glared at him. "I told you to stop drinking."
Tyrion took another sip, his expression innocent. "I did. This is just watered wine."
Chapter 219: A Day of Chaos – Part 1
July 19
The morning sun streamed through the windows of Serendell's palace, casting warm golden light across the bed. Jacob stirred slowly, his senses gradually awakening to the soft weight of Lydia curled against his chest.
He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, careful not to wake her. She murmured something unintelligible and burrowed deeper into his warmth.
Jacob smiled and slipped out of bed with practiced silence. He pulled the blanket up to cover her bare shoulders, then walked quietly to the bathroom.
After taking a shower, he made his way to the dining room, expecting to find his wives gathered for breakfast. Instead, he found only Cogman, who was polishing a silver platter.
"Good morning, sir," Cogman said without looking up. "Lady Malia and Lady Melissa are still asleep. Lady Sansa and Lady Allison are in Westeros."
Jacob nodded and filled his plate with eggs, sausages, and toast.
After breakfast, he walked out of the palace to the garden, feeling bored.
The past four weeks had been busy—visiting the Free Folk, helping Melissa treat the sick, training the army with Chris, taking his wives on dates in both Westeros and Beacon Hills. There had been no shortage of things to do.
But today, there was nothing.
He lay down on the grass, staring up at the sky, and let his mind wander. He thought about the upcoming battle for Winterfell. He thought about the demon in Beacon Hills, still hiding, still waiting.
And then he remembered the wildfire.
The green, volatile substance hidden beneath King's Landing. The same wildfire Cersei Lannister would eventually use to blow up the Sept of Baelor. Thousands of gallons of liquid death, just sitting there underground, waiting.
Jacob sat up, a grin spreading across his face.
"I'm going to take it," he said to himself. "Leave just enough for Cersei to blow up those fanatics. But take the rest."
Just as he stood up, Stiles walked out of the palace, rubbing his eyes and yawning. His hair stuck up in all directions, and he was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with one hand while clutching a bottle of orange juice in the other.
"Where are you going?" Stiles asked around a mouthful of sandwich.
Jacob said, "King's Landing. I'm going to take the wildfire."
Stiles's eyes lit up with excitement. "I'm coming with you."
Jacob shrugged. "Sure."
Stiles's expression grew mischievous. "Can we wear disguises?"
Jacob frowned. "Disguises? Why?"
Stiles smirked. "Because it's more fun that way."
Jacob considered this, then smiled. "Alright. I'm going as the Joker."
Stiles's face fell. "Damn it. I wanted to go as the Joker." He thought for a moment, then brightened. "Okay, I'm going as Ace Ventura. Wait here—I'm going to change my clothes."
Stiles teleported to his room. A few minutes later, he reappeared wearing an open Hawaiian shirt over a white tank top, striped pants, and boots. His face and hair had been transformed by the nano-mask into the features of Jim Carrey from Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.
"How do I look?" Stiles asked, striking a ridiculous pose.
Jacob studied him. "Like an idiot." He nodded approvingly. "Perfect."
Jacob had already used his own nano-mask to transform his face and hair into Heath Ledger's Joker from The Dark Knight. He was wearing a purple suit, a green vest, and leather shoes he'd pulled from his pocket dimension.
Stiles stared at him. "You look cool, man."
Jacob smiled—a wide, manic grin that was genuinely unsettling. "I know."
---
They teleported to the Game of Thrones world, then Jacob teleported them directly into the underground chambers beneath King's Landing.
The tunnels were dark and damp, lit only by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Jacob led the way through the labyrinth of passageways until they reached a massive chamber filled with barrels under the Sept of Baelor.
Hundreds of barrels filled the space. Thousands of gallons of green, glowing liquid.
Stiles's eyes went wide. "This is a lot of wildfire."
Jacob nodded. "This is what the Mad King was going to use to burn the city."
Stiles walked over to a small jar of the green liquid and picked it up, holding it to the torchlight. The liquid swirled inside, casting strange reflections on the walls. "So this thing is liquid fire, huh?" He tossed the jar casually in his hand.
Jacob snatched it out of his hands with lightning speed.
"Are you crazy?" Jacob hissed. "If you drop that, I'll survive. I'll save you. But the explosion from these barrels—" he gestured to the hundreds around them, "—will kill thousands of people above us."
Stiles's eyes went wide. He backed away from the barrels slowly, his hands raised in surrender. "Right. Okay. No playing with the exploding green stuff."
Jacob stored the wildfire in his pocket dimension. He left only a few barrels scattered around—just enough for Cersei to use when the time came.
"Alright," he said, dusting off his hands. "Let's go."
---
They emerged from the Red Keep and walked into the streets of King's Landing.
The city was bustling with activity—merchants hawking their wares, children running through the streets, nobles in fine clothes being carried in litters. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, sewage, and the faint stench of rotting garbage.
Jacob and Stiles drew a lot of attention with their strange clothes and Jacob's clown face. People stared, pointed, whispered behind their hands. Children laughed. One old woman muttered a prayer. But the two of them didn't care.
Stiles stretched his arms wide and took a deep breath—then immediately regretted it. "Ugh! This is King's Landing, the capital of Westeros. It's disgusting. It smells like sewage." He looked at Jacob with genuine horror. "You're not going to make this place the capital of your kingdom, are you?"
Jacob shook his head. "No. We'll build a new city."
Stiles asked, "What about this place?"
Jacob's expression was thoughtful. "Well, King's Landing is literally drowning in its own shit. We have to modernize it. First, we install indoor plumbing and actual bathrooms. Second, we lay down a massive underground sewer network to route the waste out of the city. Finally, instead of dumping it straight into the river, we pipe it into a treatment plant to clean the water before it hits the ocean. We should also deal with the trash. That way, we fix the stench, stop filth-borne diseases, and make this place livable."
Stiles shook his head. "That's a lot of work."
Jacob nodded. "Yeah, work that we have to do if we want to build a kingdom."
They kept strolling through the city, chatting idly, taking in the sights and sounds.
They reached the Flea Bottom district, where the stench intensified to almost unbearable levels. Jacob was about to suggest they leave when they heard a woman screaming.
---
The shadows in the back alleys of Flea Bottom remained dark and dangerous despite the morning sun shining brightly overhead.
Four Gold Cloaks had cornered a young woman against a rotting stone wall. She was sobbing, clutching her torn dress, screaming for mercy. The guards only laughed, their hands gripping her shoulders, completely ignoring her cries.
Suddenly, a loud, obnoxious whistling echoed down the alleyway.
"Excuse me! You lowly human scum!"
The Gold Cloaks turned and saw a weirdo wearing strange clothes standing behind them.
Stiles gave them an evil smile and launched himself into a flying kick. His boot connected with the nearest guard's chest, sending him flying into a pile of fish barrels. The barrels exploded, sending fish and seawater everywhere.
Jacob stepped calmly into the alley, a razor-sharp switchblade flicking open in his hand. He looked at the crying woman, then at the stunned guards, and giggled. "Now, now, boys. Is this how King Tommen teaches his soldiers to behave? Where are your manners?"
Before the guards could draw their swords, Stiles appeared next to one of them and delivered a series of rapid slaps to the poor guard's helmet, making a sound like a ringing bell. The guard collapsed, completely disoriented.
The woman, terrified by the arrival of a greasepainted clown in a purple suit and a lunatic in a Hawaiian shirt, screamed even louder. She scrambled past them and fled down the street.
Stiles watched her sprint away, shaking his head. "Well! You're welcome, lady!" He turned to Jacob and said, "She must have been terrified by you, Chuckles."
"People in this world are uncultured. How can she be scared of a handsome clown like me?" Jacob said, walking over to the two remaining standing Gold Cloaks, who were backed against the wall, stunned.
Jacob smiled, his scarred face twisting into something genuinely horrific. "You know... you look nervous. Is it the scars? Do you want to know how I got them?"
The guards drew their swords and stared at him warily, their weapons shaking in their hands.
Jacob used his telekinesis, and the two guards were frozen in place, unable to move.
"You see, my father was... a drunkard," Jacob whispered, leaning in so close his nose almost touched the guard's helmet. "One night, he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit. So—me watching—he stabbed her with the knife, laughing while he does it! Turns to me, and he says, 'Why so serious, boy?' He comes at me with the knife, 'Let's put a smile on that face!'" Jacob put his knife inside the guard's mouth and suddenly burst into a manic laugh. "Why so serious?"
With two lightning-fast slashes, Jacob left deep, bloody, smiling gashes across the guard's cheeks. He let him drop to the ground, screaming, then kicked him hard in the face, knocking him unconscious.
He turned to the second guard. "Let's put a smile on your face too, since you like to laugh while forcing yourself on women."
He caught the guard's head. The man was frozen with telekinesis, but his body was trembling in fear. Jacob smirked. "Don't be scared. It will end soon, and you will have a smile on your face for the rest of your life."
He slashed the guard's cheeks and released him from his telekinesis. The guard fell to the ground, howling in agony. Jacob knocked him unconscious as well.
"Now, Ace, watch my next magic trick!" Jacob announced, turning to the guard Stiles had knocked into the fish barrels.
As the man scrambled to escape, Jacob grabbed him by the head.
He pulled a small dagger from his sleeve. "I'm gonna make this pencil—pardon me, this dagger—disappear."
With a sudden, brutal jerk, Jacob slammed the guard's head down onto the upturned blade, embedding it deep into his skull. The guard slumped forward, instantly dead. Jacob clapped his hands, bowing. "Ta-da! It's... gone!"
Stiles crossed his arms. "That's an old trick."
Jacob's eyes narrowed playfully. "Not impressed, huh? Alright, do you want to see a human firework?"
Jacob turned to the last remaining, terrified Gold Cloak, who was frantically trying to crawl away. Reaching inside his purple coat, Jacob pulled out a grenade. He pulled the pin with his teeth, spat it out, and forcefully shoved the live grenade straight down the back of the guard's iron breastplate.
He gave the guard a heavy kick to the rear. "Run along now, little bastard! Run! Run!"
The Gold Cloak, having absolutely no concept of what a grenade or a pin was, assumed these two demons had spared him. Terrified out of his mind, he scrambled to his feet and ran down the alley as fast as his legs could carry him.
Three seconds later... BOOM!
A shower of iron armor, body parts, blood, and dirt rained down on the alley. Stiles stared at the smoking crater where the guard used to be, then looked at Jacob.
"You're sick," Stiles said.
Jacob shrugged, wiping a speck of blood off his purple coat, giggling. "Come on! That was a good magic trick! He really went out with a bang!"
Stiles smiled. "By the way, next time, I'll be the Joker."
Jacob said, "Sure. And I'll be Batman."
Just then, the heavy, rhythmic stomping of iron boots echoed from the main avenue. The explosion had alerted every guard in the sector. Dozens of Gold Cloaks were flooding into the alleyway.
"Uh-oh! The local authorities have arrived to critique the performance!" Jacob laughed. "Time to run!"
Stiles didn't move right away. Instead, he dropped into a deep squat, turned his back entirely to the incoming horde of Gold Cloaks, and manually grabbed his own butt cheeks, moving them like lips.
"See you later, loooo-sers!" Stiles said as if he was talking from his ass, then sprinted after Jacob.
The Gold Cloaks came to a halt, their momentum dying as confusion rippled through their ranks.
"Did that little shit just—" one started.
"Use his arse to talk? Aye," another finished, his face pale with disgust. "I think he did."
Their captain shoved past them, his face red with fury. "What are you all standing around for? They killed four of our men, and on top of that, they're mocking us! After them, you idiots! Kill them both!"
The guards snapped out of their stupor and charged forward.
The chase that followed completely paralyzed King's Landing.
Jacob and Stiles tore through the city like a two-man tornado. Stiles ran sideways along the market stalls, tripping Gold Cloaks with loose ropes, dumping crates of live chickens onto their heads, and executing perfect gymnastic flips over charging spears. Jacob moved like a ghost, casually stabbing guards in the gaps of their armor, tripping them into pig troughs, and laughing hysterically as the entire city guard fell into utter, disorganized chaos trying to catch them.
They ran to the massive marble steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, completely outpacing the winded guards. Inside the quiet sanctuary, a few Faith Militant fanatics tried to block their path with heavy wooden clubs.
Stiles asked, "Are these guys good or bad?"
Jacob shrugged. "I have no idea, but they're ruthless fanatics. Deal with them however you like."
Stiles took a giant ceremonial candle, used it like a baseball bat, and cracked two of them across the jaw. "Ouch! That's got to hurt!"
Jacob waved his hand, sending the rest of the Faith Militant crashing into walls and losing consciousness with his telekinesis.
In the center of the Sept, the High Sparrow was deep in a quiet, tense conversation with Lady Olenna Tyrell.
"Your grandson and granddaughter will face the judgment of the Seven, Lady Olenna," the High Sparrow said softly.
"Oh, shut up, you old hypocrite," a voice interrupted.
Olenna's eyes widened as she looked at the two strange men who had appeared behind the High Sparrow.
The High Sparrow turned, only to be grabbed violently by his dirty robes. Jacob pulled the old man close, his painted white face inches away. "Although I like what you did to Cersei and your fight against corruption and prostitution, I really hate hypocrite guys like you."
The High Sparrow tried to act calm, his voice trembling slightly. "My child..."
Jacob said, "I'm not your child. And I really hate your smug self-righteousness."
He began delivering sharp, stinging slaps across the High Sparrow's face. Smack! Smack! Smack!
"And you stink," Jacob yelled, slapping him again. "You need to take a bath, you old bastard."
After a few more slaps, the High Sparrow, completely stripped of his calmness and dignity, shook with absolute terror, whimpering as Jacob slapped him and shook him like a rag doll.
Stiles looked at Olenna and asked, "Chuckles, what about the old lady?"
Jacob dropped the High Sparrow to the ground and looked at Olenna. "Leave her be. She's not an enemy, and she might be an ally later."
Olenna frowned. "Where did you two weirdos come from?"
Stiles immediately smoothed down his hair, puffed out his chest, and walked over to her. He took her wrinkled hand, kissing it with grand, ridiculous theatricality.
"Excuse our rudeness, old lady!" Stiles said, winking aggressively. "I'm Ace." He pointed at Jacob. "And he is the Joker."
Olenna, utterly stunned but amused by the sheer audacity of this brightly colored lunatic, raised an eyebrow. "You still didn't tell me who you really are and where you come from."
Jacob said, "Maybe we will talk another time." He turned back to the High Sparrow and kicked him, "I have no reason to kill you. I just slapped you a few times because I hate people like you. So play dead and don't do anything stupid until we leave, and you might survive today."
He turned back to Olenna. "Excuse us, Lady Tyrell. We have some business to attend to." He started walking toward the back corridors where the dungeons were. "Let's go, Ace."
Chapter 220: A Day of Chaos – Part 2
July 19
Jacob and Stiles walked through the dungeon corridors, passing several cells. Jacob saw Margaery Tyrell inside one of them, looking pale and weary, but he didn't help her.
They reached Cersei's cell and let themselves in.
Inside, the stern Septa Unella was standing over Cersei, holding a wooden ladle, slapping Cersei's face with it every time she tried to speak.
Jacob stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, clapping loudly. "Oh, brilliant! Good job! Excellent technique!"
Septa Unella just noticed them and turned, frightened.
Cersei looked up, her hair matted, her eyes burning with rage. "Help me! I am the Queen!"
Jacob shook his head. "The Queen? Look at you! You look like a drowned rat in a wet sack. You look so miserable compared to the last time we met. I bet Sansa would love seeing you like this."
Cersei's eyes widened in realization. "It's you. Jacob Alexandre."
Jacob smirked. "Oh, you heard about my name."
Cersei spat, "Everyone has heard about your name. Are you here to kill me?"
Jacob shook his head. "No. I was bored at home and came to King's Landing to have some fun. That's all. And when I heard that you were imprisoned, I thought I would give you a visit to gloat, of course."
Cersei glared at him with undisguised hatred and said nothing.
Stiles looked at Cersei curiously. "Is that Cersei, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the one who is bumping uglies with her brother?"
Jacob laughed. "The one and only."
Jacob thought for a moment, then sent a telepathic message to Sansa: [Hey, Sansa, where are you now?]
Sansa immediately replied: [We are near Moat Cailin, searching for Greywater Watch to invite House Reed to join us.]
Jacob said: [Go back with Arya to Serendell. I have a surprise for you.]
Sansa replied: [Okay.]
Jacob didn't bother hiding his powers. He vanished from the cell, returned to Serendell, and came back moments later with Sansa, Arya, and Allison.
Septa Unella watched with wide eyes in shock, her mouth hanging open.
Cersei, on the other hand, was terrified as she recognized both Stark girls.
Sansa didn't see Cersei yet. She looked at Jacob and asked, "Where is this place, and what's the surprise?"
Arya was the one to answer. "Sansa, turn around and look who is behind you."
Sansa turned and saw Cersei looking at her with a mix of hatred and terror.
Sansa's eyes went wide with surprise, then she smiled. "Well, this is really a surprise indeed. What happened to this bitch? How did she end up like this?"
Jacob smirked. "Well, she's in this situation because of a plan of her own making, actually. She gave a bunch of fanatics power so she could deal with the Tyrells, and the fanatics stripped away her power instead."
Arya was barely holding herself back from killing Cersei. She said, "Jacob, I want to beat her."
Jacob said, "You can beat her, but you can't kill her yet. It's not the time."
Arya nodded. "Okay."
She moved closer to Cersei with an evil smirk.
Cersei panicked and curled tighter into the corner. "Don't you dare touch me, you little whore."
Arya smirked. "That's not how you get someone not to beat you. You should beg for mercy. But I wouldn't listen to your begging anyway."
Arya slapped her hard across the face, splitting her lip. Cersei glared at Arya with blood dripping from her mouth.
Arya smirked and slapped her again. And again. Then she dragged her to the floor and drew her sword Needle, using the flat side of the thin blade to hit her. She hit her hard, making Cersei scream in agony as her body was bruised all over and bleeding.
Arya kept hitting her for a few minutes until Cersei started crying. Then she stopped.
"I want to take something from you," Arya said.
She sheathed her sword and drew the Valyrian steel dagger, slapping Cersei gently with it on the face. "I should cut off one of your hands to match your brother Jaime."
Cersei trembled in fear, but she didn't beg for mercy. She just looked at Arya with fear and hatred.
Arya smirked. "Well, I'll be merciful and just take a finger this time."
She grabbed Cersei's left hand.
Cersei screamed, "Noooooo! Let go of me, you bitch!"
Arya's smile widened. "I think I'll take two because you called me a bitch."
Before Cersei could say anything, Arya cut off both her pinky and ring finger, making her scream in pain and start crying again.
Arya stood up and said, "That's it for today." She looked at Jacob. "Heal her, please. I don't want her to get infected and die."
Jacob waved his hand, and a white light shot from it, enveloping Cersei's body and healing her wounds. But her missing fingers didn't grow back; the wounds just closed and healed.
Cersei looked at them with fear.
Sansa stepped forward and looked down at Cersei. There was no anger in her eyes. No sympathy. No warmth. Just cold and dangerous stillness.
She said, "We are not going to kill you. Death is far too merciful for what you and your family did to our family. We will take everything from you. Your titles, your pride, your gold, your armies, your allies, your home. We will take it all, piece by piece, slowly, until you have absolutely nothing left but your breath. And then, only when you are begging for it... we will let you die."
Cersei just glared at her and wisely chose to shut her mouth.
Sansa turned to Jacob with a smile. "Thank you for the gift. Seeing this bitch like this really made me feel good. But I have to leave now, or I won't be able to hold myself back from killing her."
Jacob kissed her and said, "Alright." Then he looked at Allison. "Are you here just to watch the fun, or do you want something?"
Allison said, "Both."
Jacob asked, "What do you want?"
Allison smiled. "The flying carpet. We can't ride horses in the swamps." She winked. "So, can I have it please, Puddin?"
Jacob smirked. "Oh, am I going to get a reward tonight?"
Allison said, "Sure. I'll be Harley Quinn for you tonight, and you can be the Joker—but with your real face. This one is ugly."
Jacob said, "Of course. You know how jealous I am. I would never sleep with one of you while wearing another man's face." He kissed her. "I'm looking forward to tonight." He gave her the flying carpet from his pocket dimension.
Allison put it in her ring and looked at Stiles, who was still disguised as Ace Ventura. Then she looked back at Jacob. "What are you guys doing here anyway?"
Jacob shrugged. "Nothing. We were bored at home and came here to have some fun."
Allison said, "Well, continue having your fun then. I'll see you tonight." She looked at Sansa. "Take us back to Mom and the others."
Sansa grabbed Arya, who was still glaring at Cersei, and Allison's hand. She said to Jacob, "See you at home," then teleported the three of them back to Moat Cailin.
Jacob looked at Cersei in the corner. "Well, we've seen enough. Let's go."
As he and Stiles turned to leave, Jacob casually stepped up behind Septa Unella, who was still shocked by people appearing from thin air and disappearing, and Jacob healing Cersei. He gave her a resounding, loud spank on the ass and smiled broadly at her shocked, outraged face.
"Keep up the good work, darling!" Jacob whispered, tapping her nose. "Make sure to torture Cersei every single day. And don't worry, I will personally come back and save you once she gets released. Because when she gets out? Oh, she is definitely going to torture you in a horrible, agonizing way before she kills you. So do your worst to her while you still can."
With a cackle, Jacob and Stiles walked back out to the main hall of the Sept, passing the High Sparrow again, who was sitting on the floor with swollen cheeks. When he saw them, he lay back and played dead.
Stiles stopped, patted the High Sparrow's head, and said, "Good boy."
Suddenly, the doors of the Sept burst open. Dozens of Faith Militant rushed in, wielding heavy wooden bats and spiked clubs.
The High Sparrow got his courage back and stood up. "Seize these two sinners! And go check the dungeons!"
Jacob turned to him. "I told you to play dead, you stinky old fool."
He grabbed the High Sparrow, slapped him a few times, and threw him to the Faith Militant down the stairs.
The Faith Militant caught the High Sparrow and, after making sure he was okay, prepared to attack Stiles and Jacob.
Jacob said, "Don't do anything stupid. How about I tell you a joke instead?"
The Faith Militant didn't listen. They charged.
Jacob sighed. "No joke then. Stiles, let's take care of them."
Stiles said, "Come on, man, I'm in character. Call me Ace."
Jacob ignored him and attacked the charging Militant. He grabbed a spiked club from one of them, punched him in the face, and sent him falling down the stairs. Then he started hitting the others with the club, beating them hard. Some had fractured bones. Some got hit on the face and lost teeth. Some had their bones broken.
Stiles joined the fight, taking a bat from one of them and beating them like Jacob.
When they were done, forty Faith Militant were on the ground, groaning or howling in pain. The High Sparrow stood alone, looking at Stiles and Jacob in horror.
Jacob said, "I bet you wish you had listened to my joke now." He took out a small, purple-colored canister with a smiling face on it. "But worry not. I will still make you laugh."
He pulled the pin and threw it directly into the center of the wailing crowd.
It was a laughing grenade he had gotten as a reward from the system. A thick, purple mist exploded outward. The moment the Faith Militant breathed it in, they stopped howling in pain and groaning, clutched their stomachs, and began laughing uncontrollably. They rolled on the floor in absolute, forced hysteria, which made their wounds even worse. Although they were laughing, their faces were filled with pain, and tears streamed down their faces.
The High Sparrow was laughing hysterically on the floor as well.
Stiles looked at the men laughing hysterically while in pain and crying, then turned to Jacob. "Man, you are pure evil."
Jacob chuckled and watched the men on the floor, nodding in satisfaction. "Let's go."
Stiles turned to Olenna, who was still there, and blew a kiss at her. "Have a wonderful day, gorgeous!"
With that, the two of them left, walking casually out of the Sept.
As they walked through the streets, Jacob and Stiles chatted casually.
Jacob said, "I didn't know you were into old women."
Stiles said, "I was just being polite."
Jacob smiled. "She has a beautiful granddaughter. Do you want me to arrange a marriage between you two?"
Stiles looked horrified. "Are you trying to get me killed?"
Jacob laughed. "Having a harem is fun. Try talking to Erica—she might agree."
Stiles shook his head firmly. "No. One girl is enough for me. You can marry her granddaughter if you want, or marry her to Scott."
Jacob said, "Nah, Scott can't handle her. And I don't want her—she's too manipulative and power-hungry. She's not worth the trouble. She'd just cause chaos between me and my wives."
Stiles said, "By the way, can I have one of the laughing bombs you just used? Please?"
Jacob said, "Sure." He took a laughing grenade and gave it to Stiles. "Here."
Stiles took it. "Thanks."
They walked through the city for another hour, chatting happily as if they were taking a stroll through a park. The Gold Cloaks found them again, and chaos erupted in King's Landing once more. Jacob and Stiles ran circles around the city blocks, knocking over carts, sliding under horses, and knocking guards unconscious, laughing the entire time.
As they rounded a corner near the lower markets, Jacob spotted a lavish, heavily guarded wheelhouse carriage bearing the golden rose insignia of House Tyrell. It was Olenna's carriage.
Just then, a system window appeared in front of Jacob's eyes:
[Quest Available: You can sign in after saving Olenna Tyrell's grandchildren, Loras and Margaery.]
Jacob's eyes lit up. 'Great.'
He looked at the Gold Cloaks following them and said, "Fun's over." He used his Conqueror's Haki and knocked them all out.
Then Jacob caught Stiles's shoulder, and they both disappeared, leaving the Gold Cloaks lying unconscious in the street.
Olenna gasped, her hand flying to her chest in genuine fright, as Jacob and Stiles appeared suddenly in her carriage, sitting across from her on the silk cushions.
Jacob leaned forward, his scarred face softening into a calm, business-like grin.
"Fear not, old lady," Jacob said. "We mean you absolutely no harm. In fact... I have a very good deal for you."