#plotting out loud

So, our set-up for the sequel is that Robb is still the King in the North, with all the magical power that crown from the Children of the Forest invested in him. He’s promised/engaged to Shireen, Stannis’s daughter and only heir. You know, the niece of Robert Baratheon, the King of the South/Seven Kingdom (except whoops Robb declared the North independent, so I guess it’s Six Kingdoms now?). Robb is also currently fucking Jamie Lannister. Jamie Lannister who was Robert’s Hand before uh... declaring? taking service? with Robb. (There was magic involved.) Who also probably didn’t actually explicitly break up with Cersei before following Robb out of the throne room on Robb’s orders after the declaration of independence. 

ALSO, Stannis has already said to Robb that he intends to declare Robert an oathbreaker as the Protector of the Realm. Which from a strict reading of the situation, Robert WAS. Which Robb has already lain on Robert with the force of magic behind it. Here, I’ll quote: “I name you false kind and false friend, oathbreaker and coward, and may you end your days in the shame and misery your treachery deserves.” Which, as far as I can tell the only witnesses who aren’t Robb’s people are Robert, Cersei, the children, Margaery Tyrell, and a small handful of goldcloaks/Kingsguards. So, I doubt that bit of information is getting publicized by anyone in that room. Which Stannis was not.

Basically, I see war coming from two fronts. One, Stannis declaring Robert an Oathbreaker, which is politically tricky because either Stannis has taken himself out of Robb’s service and is making a play to be the king himself? OR he’s calling Robert an Oathbreaker as one of Robb’s sworn liege lords. Which, yikes. Plays right into the narrative that Cersei has built up for herself: that Robb wants power and will march on the South with the Wildlings and/or Stannis’s men at arms and/or the Lannister men (answering to Jamie).

I think if Cersei left the North alone after the Long Night and Stannis was very clear he was not one of Robb’s lords, Robb and the North would be happy to sit out a war and just work on recovering from the Long Night. Because, again, yikes, about half the population that survived the initial rise of the dead froze to death. The North is not in any shape to be going to war.

But I don’t think Cersei can put herself in someone else’s (Robb’s) shoes and believe they won’t act like a politically duplicitous cunt after power and only power. So she’s going to want to go to war to strike first and protect her own power. And also to pay back the “betrayal” of her brother/lover (Jamie) abandoning her. Also Stannis’s betrayal of swearing to the King in the North. But I think she’ll care about Jamie’s more.

And I think Robert isn’t strong enough, morally, emotionally, etc. to stop her. 

So... I tend to think that Stannis at least wouldn’t kick off a war until he could secure his supply lines. Supply lines which after the Long Night freezing a significant portion of the country would be in terrible shape. Especially since the largest supply of excess grain is the Tyrell’s and Cersei has that on her side since Margaery Tyrell is married to Joffrey. 

End result is that I think Cersei will kick off the war and Stannis will lay the charge of Oathbreaking as a response. To you know, weaken/divide her forces as much as he can.

What Cersei may not have is a competent General. Robb, Jamie, Stannis, and Tyrion are on the side of the North (whether or not Jamie and Tyrion can stomach fighting their sister and niblings/children, those two at least aren’t on Cersei’s side). Tywin is MIA from Winter’s Crown except as a brief aside in the past tense and may or may not be dead in this iteration of the world. The best General we can reasonably project to be on Cersei’s side is her Uncle Kevan. Who did see the dead with his own eyes, so that might change his thinking on if the charges of Oathbreaking are true and who that means he should fight for.

Meanwhile, Robb/the North has six direwolves, at least 3 giants, Brienne of fucking Tarth, Jon Snow, Jamie Lancaster, Tyrion Lancaster, AND, most importantly, every single hero and every foot soldier of the Long Night who survived who’s willing to be called to arms again (they’d probably all like to just go home and recover, but damn, if their king is calling, these are the people proven to show up when called). A significant portion of that army are Wildlings who are now released from their oaths and will most likely head back home over the Wall. But! There will also likely be a significant number who stay (*cough* Tormaund making eyes at Brienne) and can function well as a scouting force. 

So the North has an army that trained and trauma bonded through the Long Night together. Morale/belief in each other and their leaders is going to be high. The Boltons are all dead due to events in Winter’s Crown and the Freys are possibly all to mostly dead, so Robb is not going to be stabbed in the back by traitorous liege lords this go around (no Red Wedding here!). What the North doesn’t have is food. 

So, what they need is to get the intelligence of Cersei attacking quickly and to haul ass South where they can pillage food.

As a side note, I am assuming that Danerys does NOT show up with dragons at any point to turn this into a three-way fight. She is not mentioned at all in Winter’s Crown, not even the aside Twyin got, so I’m working off the assumption she’s dead or busy on her side of the sea and will not be appearing in a relevant time frame to this completely hypothetical sequel fanfiction of fanfiction.

So, questions I would need to answer, for myself, before writing: 1) What does Varys choose to do? In GoT, he is canonically more loyal to the realm and thus the people living in it than whoever is on the throne. We know he’s still the Master of Whispers in the Winter’s Crown iteration of the world and was able to slip a number of spies/potential assassins into Robb’s camp. Assassins who were routinely thwarted by Brienne and Tyrion, but all it takes is once. And people might be more willing without the magical terror of the oncoming Long Night/Night’s King. Robb still has the magic invested in crown however, so maybe not. Essentially, I think Varys would be a strong asset for Cersei if she utilizes him (she didn’t earlier because he was telling her information that didn’t fit her world view). And therefore what he choses to do would be important. Tyrion at least knows Varys is the spymaster and to work to counter him.

2) Is Joffrey enough of a cruel bastard to still get offed?

3) Does the accurate parentage of the royal children come out?

Well, this is a lot of thinking about the state of the board at the beginning and not much thinking about ‘plot’ isn’t it? Maybe thinking about a theme would help me out here.

The theme(s) in Winter’s Crown is(are) oaths, the costs of them, being a ‘worthy’ person, and when to adhere to an oath. So I would want this hypothetical sequel’s theme(s) to flow naturally from that. Meaning... the consequences of adhering to your oaths when your opponent doesn’t. Good job brain, the theme is the Prisoner’s Dilemma and what shame and misery is the natural consequence of treachery. 

Okay, cool, now I have the overall arc of my plot: a sudden swift victory on Cersei’s side (she seizes the first mover advantage) followed by the slow build to victory of Robb’s side. I picture this slow build to be Robb focusing on the smaller battles and alliances that builds a solid alliance to suddenly at the end sweep Cersei off the board. I’d focus on getting smaller lords on their side and peeling away minor but consequential logistical goods from Cersei’s side (armies march on good boots kind of thing) while Robb keeps his army out of direct confrontation with Cersei’s, nibbling away at their numbers in hit-and-run tactics, or swaying the men to withdraw their oaths to their lords and take up service with Robb, or just picking the terrain a battle happens in very carefully.

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Robb closed his hand around Jamie's, tightening up his too loose grip on the carving chisel. “This is a poor hobby to try in winter.” He plucked the rough wood scrap out of Jamie's other hand. “We cannot afford for you to injure your hands, especially not in this cold.”

Jamie nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and stared at the fire in the hearth of their, Robb’s, room.

Robb turned the wood over and around, looking at the guides Jamie had scratched in. “This is the weirwood, isn’t it?”

Jamie nodded. “From the window by your office.”

Robb deposited the wood on the table at Jamie’s elbow, on top of the sketch he’d drawn before marking the wood. Robb traced the lines, fingers lingering over the tree’s open eyes Jamie had drawn before he tugged Jamie up, out of his chair, and to bed.

After Robb reminded him pleasure still came from his body, despite the cold and the work and the slow gnawing hunger, Robb leaned his head against Jamie's shoulder blade and murmured, “The gods don't care if we carry their sign.”

“It's not for them,” Jamie mumbled, lowering himself off his forearms and into the mattress trying to swallow his words.

Robb made a questioning grunt as he rolled off to curl up against Jamie's side, one hand still splayed across his back.

“I need… to remember. With whom and why I made the bargain. That I just need to hold fast, or… they'll still take the price because I offered and won't have to keep helping.”

Robb pulled the fur-lined covers over them and Grey Wind jumped onto the bed as well; Jamie felt warm for the first time since he'd woken up. Jamie rolled on his sides Robb tucking in against his back, there being no other way for the direwolf to fit otherwise. 

“Let me talk to someone,” Robb murmured in his ear, “before you risk your hands.”

Jamie squeezed Robb’s hand in promise before they both fell asleep.

*~*~*

Jamie carefully deposited the old servant woman in a chair by one of the lower hearths in the Great Hall. Several other retainers and servants were also clustered around the hearth, many buried in blankets with sewing, mending, knife sharpening, or other such necessary but minor tasks as they could do in the cold on their laps. 

“Boy,” one of the men said, “you Robb's new Southern knight?”

Jamie kept the grin off his face at the idea of Twyin Lannister’s eldest son no more recognizable to someone than a new Southern knight. “Yes,” he said, shifting over to the old man. There was a bowl of wood shavings in the man’s lap, perhaps he needed Jamie to empty the bowl. “What can I–”

Jamie nearly choked on air as the old servant held up a rough carved branch of wood. “Is that weirwood?!”

“Aye,” the man said absently, holding the bottom edge up somewhere around Jamie's sternum, “deadfall from the godswood when Ned was barely toddling.” He threw a string around Jamie's neck. “How long ye want it, boy?”

Jamie blinked at him before moving the blank far enough up a sword blow to his heart wouldn't shatter it. 

The man adjusted the string then tied a knot at the correct length and held the length of it against the whole brach. “Aye, I can do something that long.” He patted Jamie on the cheek, like he was a boy barely ready to leave a nursemaid. “Two weeks, no more than three, and I'll have it ready for ye. Good line on that sketch of yours Robb gave me.”

He cackled at the dumbfounded look on Jamie and pulled out a chain and pendant from under his shirt.

“Yer not the only Southern turned Northerner that needs a little reminding.”

The pendant showed a godswood, one of the weirwood trees in front with the suggestions of a forest behind. It was carved so fine Jamie thought he saw individual leaves and branches swaying as the pendant rotated slightly. The chain was wooden, links sliding free from each other and polished to a rich shine. Jamie wasn't sure how he'd made the links but they were obviously from the same initial wood: the grain of the wood flowed up the chain in an unbroken pattern weaving up the links.

“Thanks,” Jamie choked out of his suddenly dry throat.

The old man nodded, patted Jamie’s cheek again and muttered “Good boy.”

*~*~*

Tyrion was examining the pendant Jamie had left atop his clothes with a frown when Jamie returned from the hot pool. Jamie dried off with one of the enormous fluffy towels from the winter storage. Tyrion fingered the wooden chain, examining it as close as a housewife at the market looking for flaws to bargain with. Still frowning, he handed back to Jamie and began to dress himself.

Jamie slipped the weirwood pedant on and quickly pulled on a shirt over everything, a sense of unease stealing in.

Tyrion didn't say anything as they left the baths, the next couple of servants slipping in for their turn. At the end of the hall, he simply looped a hand in Jamie's belt loops and strode towards the backstairs. Several floors up, he pulled Jamie into the small office Robb had set aside for Tyrion.

“You never believed in the Seven,” Tyrion said, a hard statement of fact, no give or question involved.

Jamie sat heavily in the one chair for a guest. “No,” he agreed, “I don't.”

“You wouldn’t start, not them or something else, without reason.” Tyrion looked indignant. Like Jamie had upset some carefully put together plan. “Which means you experienced something.”

Jamie nodded slowly. 

Tyrion poured himself a precious half-cup of wine and drank it all at once. “Right then,” he said, putting the cup down perhaps harder than he meant to. “Tell me everything.”

This time the gods didn’t stop the words.

*~*~*

“Uncle Jamie, Uncle Jamie!” Tommen yelled across the hall, dashing towards him. “Something's wrong with Bran!”

Jamie handed off the wood pile he'd brought in to one of Robb's men and met Tommen in between the wooden trestles. “Where? What happened?”

“Robb’s office,” Tommen said, starting to gasp from the run as he grabbed Jamie's hand and reversed course. “He put some chips on the fire, there was a lot of smoke, he fell over and started shaking!”

“Find—”

“Arya ran for a Septa and Rickon went to find Robb!”

“Good, go find Tyrion!”

Tommen split off, racing down the hallway, and Jamie took the stairs up as quickly as he could. He found the hallway with Robb’s office remarkably clear, only a thin wisp of smoke leaking out the closed door he knew he would find Bran in. The smoke was white, so at least the room wasn't on fire yet.

Outside the door, Jamie pulled the scarf he constantly wore now up over his nose and mouth, briefly wishing there was a bowl or jug of water he could wet it with. The smoke was thicker inside the room and had a sharp, clear scent he had last encountered…

In the godswood. Fuck.

Jamie made it several steps further into the office before stumbling and almost falling over an adult’s body. Grabbing them by the shoulders, he pra– hoped he wasn't trading Bran’s life for the children's maester. Or worse, the maester’s corpse.

Robb met him at the doorway and took the body. After sticking his head out in the hallway for a deep breath, Jamie plunged back into the office. He shuffled as quickly as he could towards the hearth (and heart of the smoke). He found Bran just before it, sprawled on his back as if thrown in the training ring. Jamie scooped him up and at least knew he still lived from the trembling wracking his body from crown to toes.

For a heart-stopping moment, Jamie couldn't locate the door. Then Robb called for him and he plunged back out. A Septa in the hall directed him to follow her as Robb dove into his office himself, a large metal plate in hand. The smoke drifting out behind them thinned and slowed as he carried Bran. He was slowing and feeling thin himself, a light headedness climbing as they went down the stairs.

The Septa directed Bran to be lain down beside the hottest pool in the hot spring. She made Jamie pull off his scarf and start drinking water while she stoked a fire to pour water on and fill the room with steam. Bran was still trembling as she washed his face and hands, then began trickling water into his mouth. Robb came in, carrying a bowl of wood chips and shavings, as the Septa got more water in Bran and his shaking slowed. Robb collapsed onto the bench beside Jamie and he passed over the waterskin. Something loosened in Jamie's chest and he doubled over trying to cough it out. Once he finally spat whatever it was into the chamberpot the Septa brought over, Robb's hand on his back the whole exhausting time off it, she poked through it with a small rod. Jamie was reminded of the aftermath of the thing he'd fought in the Wolfswood, years ago now. This didn't glow even faintly though; the Septa seemed satisfied at whatever she found, or didn't, and went back to dribbling water in Bran’s mouth.

Robb passed over the bowl he'd brought in. Jamie poked a few piece before closing his eyes in despair and letting his head fall back on the wall. It was the shavings of weirwood from carving his pendant.

“I was waiting for a false spring to bury them in the godswood,” Robb said, low and exhausted himself. “But I forgot, Bran…”

“Bran likes to climb.”

“And it didn't matter I kept this up high.”

Jamie breathed out, guilt squeezing his guts. “The maester?”

“Dead.”

“Fuck.”

Robb was about to say something but doubled over coughing. Once Robb finished coughing out some of his lungs and Bran was still laying so still by the pool, the Septa brought them over and bade them hold Bran on his side. The three of them took turns thumping Bran’s back until he too started coughing. The boy didn't wake up once during the long time it took him to finish. The Septa grimaced at the streaks of black and green in his chamberpot. But sent them to Robb's chamber with strict instructions for as much broth and sleep as they could get in both Bran and themselves.

Bran didn't wake until the dark of the night, sitting bolt upright from where'd they'd tucked him between them. Grey Wind looked up from the foot of the bed where he'd curled up over their feet and whined, low and frightened. If Summer, Bran’s direwolf, over by the hearth made any noise, it was too low to hear. Bran turned, just his head, stutter-stop like one of the great gears ringing the bells at the Great Sept, and blinked his filmed-over, luminously milky-white eyes at Jamie. Jamie shot up, trembling and without memory of moving. Robb was groggily sitting up, a sleepy ‘Bran?’ on his tongue when Bran said “Burn them all.”

It had been more than twenty years, but Jamie recognized Aerys’s voice. He shook, the remembered terror of nineteen and trapped in a castle under siege with a mad king rising.

“Burn them all,” Bran repeated before crying in Jamie's voice, “They’ll kill you, the princess, the children, please, Your Grace let me surrender!”

Robb had seized Bran about the shoulders, calling his name. Grey Wind was inching up the bed, whining ceaselessly, and Summer was scrambling into the bed too.

“Burn them all! Fire the wildfire! Burn the whole traitorous city! Burn them all!” A look of wild glee came over Bran as he crooned, “Yes Your Grace. At onc–” and made a short, cut off grunt, the sound of a sword driving the air from a body, hands reaching slowly up to his heart where Jamie had stabbed Rossart, Aerys's pyromancer, so long ago. Robb seized Bran's hands, trying futilely to push them down, his twenty year old strength no match for whatever the gods were inflicting on Bran, and calling for his brother. Grey Wind licked Bran one long swipe from chin to crown, the film over Bran’s eyes gone after Grey Wind lay his head back down. Bran collapsed bodily against Robb, a puppet whose strings were cut.

Jamie gasped for air, tears leaking down his face, unable to look away from Bran. Robb reached over, gentle fingers lifting his chin before stroking a thumb over his cheek.