THAT LES MIS WESTEROS BUNNY

I had this plot bunny about a decade ago, when I was still part of the Westeros fandom and Les Misérables seemed like just another prompt for a fusion AU with the characters from Westeros/Game of Thrones. I felt, not long ago, that this story had to be told... moreover, with the songs from the musical adapted to the Westeros universe...

Cosette would be Sansa Stark

Fantine... Catelyn Stark-Tully

The Thénardiers... the Boltons
Éponine... Arya Stark (the Boltons keep her)
Marius... Lancel Lannister
Enjolras... Renly Baratheon

Combeferre... Loras Tyrell
Valjean... Jaime Lannister
Javert... Sandor Clegane
Monsignor... Qyburn

Grantaire.... Brienne of Tarth
and
Random Barmaid in KL... Sandra Dermark

ACT I Riverrun... Jaime on the run
ACT II Winterfell... Self-made Jaime, Cat Laid Off
ACT III Harrenhal/The Dreadfort... FUBAR Extraordinaire
INTERLUDE: The Eyrie... Years of Sanctuary
ACT IV KL... Get ready for the REVOLUTION
ACT V Highgarden... Wedding bells and bidding belles
ACT VI Back to the Eyrie... TOMORROW COMES!

I don't know if this is going to be a filk opera or a longer fic with filk snippets - but it will combine elements of both Westeros canon and Les Mis canon... Like, Brienne will also survive and end up with Jaime. But Sansa will also get Lancel. 

EL PODER DE UNA CANCIÓN

 EL PODER DE UNA CANCIÓN

un song Jaimienne para el proyecto #CuantoPudoHaberSido

A través de las ventanas escarchadas del hostal, veo caer la nieve en la hierba muerta. Copos prístinos y suaves descienden uno tras otro describiendo espirales. En Tarth, mi isla natal, nunca hay inviernos blancos. Pero sí hay tormentas eléctricas, como la que describe la canción del hilo musical al ritmo de la cual caen los copos uno tras otros: 

I remember
how the darkness doubled
I recall
Lightning struck itself

I was listening
listening to the rain
I was hearing
hearing something else

Estaba escuchando la lluvia y oyendo algo completamente diferente cuando la oscuridad cayó sobre mí. La lluvia contra las ventanas y la frase "me han dado un positivo." Renly Baratheon tenía los días contados, e iba a apurar lo que le quedaba de vida a sorbos y a tragos. Tras hablar de su positivo, abrazó a Loras Tyrell con todas sus fuerzas, los dos entrelazados mientras les observaba. No podía forzar a quien amaba a corresponderme; de su lado era simple amistad y si prefería los besos y los piropos de otro chico, yo no iba a impedírselo porque este es un mundo libre. Sería una transfusión lo que hizo que el hilo de su vida empezara a deshilacharse a los veintitantos. Es una suerte que no esté sonando nada de Queen - el grupo por el que Renly cambió a Village People y a Mónica Naranjo cuando empezó su dificultad para respirar. En particular escuchaba mucho "Show Must Go On," mientras fuera llovía sobre los parterres de Altojardín y Loras le prometía que no traicionaría su memoria, también para que no pudiera contagiar a otros. Si yo fuera un Étienne en vez de una Brienne, nunca desafiaría aquel juramento. Los ojos de Renly, como los míos, del color azul del curaçao. Es una suerte que no tengamos ni música de Queen ni ese licor azul a mano. Pensar en ellos, en el dolor de perder a un ser tan querido, me hace llevarme la absenta a los labios. Frida decía que ahogar las penas no vale, porque les crecen alas y aprenden a volar. El licor de los poetas muertos, tan verde verde verde como tus ojos... Tu voz con ese acento y ese tono de tenor heroico (no lírico como los de Renly y Loras). Las luces del cuarto tan verdes como la absenta que apuramos y como tus iris... La absenta me duerme la boca y la garganta y crea un calor dentro del pecho a la altura del corazón...

Soy el invierno contra tu primavera. Tú más joven e inocente y con menos experiencia. Y yo un exoficial apuesto y atractivo bajo la capa de mugre y la barba de tres días que me dan cara de guerrillero, con el brazo derecho inerte como el de un muñeco de trapo. Aún estoy pálido tras la amputación a la altura del codo que me ha vuelto zurdo a la fuerza, a mí que era zurdo de nacimiento hasta que mi señor padre y mis maestros me ataron ese brazo a la espalda porque "un señorito de tal rango no ha de inclinarse a la izquierda". Envidiaba a mi gemela, mi otra mitad, porque Cersei misma era diestra y no necesitaba esa tortura. Y ahora fijo que mi augusta familia me ha dado a mí, el heredero varón, por muerto tras desaparecer en combate. 

The kiss of death, the embrace of life
Ooh, there I stand 'neath the Marquee Moon
Hesitating

Con mi mano diestra han desaparecido mi pasado, mi patria y mi bandera; ya no tengo señor padre ni señora hermana ni apellido; he dejado de ser un Lannister, mi viejo ser ha muerto con la amputación. Este guerrillero manco y zurdo es Jaime a secas. Cuando la fiebre con su sed y su taquicardia se apoderaron de mí, al dolerme la diestra fantasma inexistente (de hecho, a veces siento una puñalada aún), al mirarme en el espejo y pienso en que he roto con el pasado completamente, fue el beso de la muerte. Cuando descubro constelaciones en las pecas de tus mejillas, luminarias en tus ojos azules como la nieve ahora en la tarde, un tono solemne en tu voz de contralto, es el abrazo de la vida. Observo cómo el azucarillo se deshace en agua y absenta, llenando de galaxias un licor tan verde como mis ojos (intento no pensar en los iris de mis seres queridos) antes de que pase desde el vaso al pecho.

El beso de la muerte fue antes de perder a Renly, cuando le oí hablar de su positivo entre el repiqueteo de la lluvia contra los cristales. El abrazo de la vida viene ahora, el color de tus ojos es el de la absenta que sorbo y el de las luces del techo, tu brazo derecho en la manga vacía colgando como el de un muñeco de trapo y viendo que, a pesar de que bebes estando convaleciente, sigues fuera de peligro. No te importa nada empinar el codo porque has sufrido mucho más que una servidora.

Todo mi mundo se está volviendo verde verde verde, el licor de absenta que estoy apurando y las luces en el techo de este local y tus ojos que brillan como el trago de anís y ajenjo que ahora te llevas a los labios bajo unos reflectores que hacen aparecer reflejos de peridoto en el oro de tus cabellos y en las estrellas de coronel del cuello y las charreteras de tu uniforme. Je ne sais quoi tiene esta escena y me parece que es la suma de todos estos factores, más el poder de la letra de la canción que suena de fondo:

I was listening
listening to the rain
I was hearing
hearing something else

Ya he echado mi suerte al respecto sobre lo que sucedería esa noche, lo que haría una servidora por ti. Y eso que no tengo planes más allá de esta cena; es un misterio que la oscuridad guarda en su seno envuelto como un regalo sorpresa en negro y azul Prusia tachonado de estrellas y de galaxias, pero con un reflejo verde absenta inconfundible. Dejas el chupito vacío sobre la mesa, después de que te haya visto moverse la tráquea a la par que lo apurabas de un trago largo. "La absenta se sube a la cabeza," pienso mientras tus ojos se llenan de destellos verdes, de lágrimas que intentas reprimir.

Los hombres no lloran, ni ebrios ni sobrios, ni despiertos ni en sueños. Aún así mi patosa siniestra coge la servilleta y me seca a duras penas las lágrimas que la intensidad del trago ha despertado. Puede que haya perdido mi pasado y mi identidad, y tenga que reinventarme, pero mi dignidad es intocable. Lo único que me queda de mis viejas raíces son unos treinta euros que recibí el día de la despedida, por caridad, y no van a durar mucho. Treinta piezas de dinero siempre han sido el precio de la traición, y el sino sí que me ha apuñalado por la espalda úlitmamente - no puedo mantener ahorrando esa suma todo el rato, ya que podrían robármela. Puestos a perder la cabeza con las revoluciones de la vida, como si mi herida siguiera infectada y yo en shock séptico, como si fuera mi último día en la Tierra, nuestro último día de vida (ya estés viva o muerta). ¿Camarero? Otra absenta, la paga ella, la rubia alta y pecosa desgarbada con el vestido rosa de volantes que parece una peonía, pero también un botellín de Moët Chandon, a la señorita la invita monsieur, y escancie usted la mitad en su copa y la mitad en la mía. Champán del más valioso sobre la absenta, y nuestras cabezas se irán volando como globos de colores (uno verde y otro celeste) por el oscuro cielo nocturno y tal vez hasta al espacio sideral.

Apenas ha llegado el camarero trajeado cual pingüino con el botellín de champán, y apenas me he recuperado de tu comentario inter pócula sobre mi vestido, tu mano izquierda arrebata el valioso Moët a la par que le entregas un billete azul y otro rojo al camarero y le susurras algo sobre el frasco de absenta. De repente, noto algo entre mis callosos dedos y, al mirarlo, veo que se trata de un botellín verde oscuro, a una nueva luz bajo reflectores verdes, con la parte de arriba recubierta de pan de oro con destellos verdosos - ¡igual que tu pelo! Y escucho al oído, sobre las notas del hilo musical, una voz de tenor familiar que me pregunta: ¿Harías los honores de descorchar y de escanciar?

Nunca antes he descorchado una botella de champán y menos de un viñedo tan caro, siendo de clase media, pero para todo hay una primera vez. Qualsevol nit pot sortir el sol, y es probable que sea esta la última velada de mis días de vino y rosas antes de que lleguen la resaca y las espinas. Tú ya te has echado al coleto la experiencia que yo estoy absorbiendo entre licores y canciones vintage. Arranco con toda la suavidad que puedo el papel dorado y giro el alambre que mantiene el corcho en su lugar: se deja desprender muy fácilmente. Ahora viene lo complicado, disparar el cañón de corcho. Con la mano izquierda en torno al cuello del botellín y la derecha sacando el corcho; ya veo que él ya no posee esta capacidad y por eso me ha confiado una tarea tan honrosa y aún así tan complicada. De repente... ¡¡POP!! El tapón te golpea en la frente y el géiser de líquido espumoso te entra en la boca abierta de sorpresa. Si ya la absenta se sube a la cabeza, acabo de coronar tu embriaguez con este Moët, aunque por accidente. Mirando que aún queda la mitad del champán, escancio en mi propia copa justo cuando el camarero vuelve con el frasco de absenta. De fondo, te oigo tragar a la par que el champán se vierte en mi copa y suena de fondo:

And I ask him how he don't go mad

He said, "look here, junior, don't you be so happy,
and for heaven's sake, don't you be so sad"

El champán ingerido por accidente me cosquillea el interior de la boca, la garganta, por detrás del corazón. Ya falta poco para que yo pierda el norte por completo. Tenía pensado brindar contigo por esta velada y por nuestro encuentro, pero el brindis nos ha salido magníficamente rana. Levantas tu copa en solitario, esperando que yo brinde con la copa vacía, y las entrechocamos, brindando por nuestro último día con tu voz de contralto, aunque yo no dé más que un sorbo de aire. La espuma del champán multiplica las constelaciones de pecas de tu rostro, y los destellos de tus ojos azules como lagos en pleno verano: me pregunto si la cara de una persona puede contener todo el universo. 

Y me echo a reír. La risa brota de mi interior sin filtros, espoleada hacia afuera por las burbujas del trago apurado. Siento cómo toda esa espuma asciende desde mis entrañas de vuelta, hasta la misma coronilla. Tal vez me esté saliendo un halo. Siento el brazo izquierdo tan inexistente como el derecho. De repente, no puedo contenerme, es como si una fuerza mayor estuviera moviendo mis hilos a la par que mi única mano busca debajo de los volantes rosados y esponjosos de tu falda.

Está rojo como una langosta, y claramente privado de todas sus inhibiciones. Si no tuviera esos ojos verde absenta como extraterrestres de ciencia ficción mirándome tan fijamente, y si no estuviéramos en un local público, le atizaría la mano. Pero se lo dejo hacer, a la par que un cosquilleo inesperado recorre mi espina dorsal y siento un calor dentro del pecho que no se debe al champán que estoy sorbiendo meticulosamente ni a la absenta a la que el espumante se une dentro de mí. Es una sensación que ni siquiera Renly Baratheon pudo haberme despertado.

Jaime Lannister... ¿me traicionarías por el precio de esta velada?

Nunca. Lo digo con la mano siniestra, a falta de la diestra, sobre el corazón, que siento que le crecen alas. Aún no se me ha nublado la vista, pero ya empiezo a entrar en calor y nunca me he sentido tan feliz, ni siquiera con Cersei chupándome la piruleta. Y tú, Brienne de Tarth... ¿antes de cantar los gallos, me negarías tres veces?

Yo tampoco. Mi gesto de la mano en el corazón refleja el suyo como un espejo, izquierda frente a derecha. Miro en torno a mí: están los Bolton, marido y mujer, el chavo ese de la perilla... cuento y veo que somos trece en torno a la misma mesa.

¡Pues anda que somos trece! Lo cual significa que pronto uno de nosotros morirá por los pecados de todos los demás. 

And I ask him how he don't go mad

He said, "look here, junior, don't you be so happy,
and for heaven's sake, don't you be so sad"

Al fin entiendo que no hay que alegrarse ni entristecerse en exceso...

... e intento entrar en razón antes de que la embriaguez me la arrebate por completo.

The kiss of death, the embrace of life

Es por tu voz de contralto y tus ojos de lago, por tu rostro cargado de constelaciones y por el champán que me has disparado y que me ha hecho perder la cabeza aún sin querer, y por la melodía de esta canción... que esta noche de lunes y 12 a martes y 13, moriría encantado por tus pecados. Róbame el beso de la muerte.

Es por tu voz de tenor y tus ojos de peridoto, por la absenta que hemos ingerido que es del mismo color que esos iris e igual de embriagadora, por tus rizos de oro viejo y por la letra de esta canción... que esta noche de lunes y 12 a martes y 13, sería un honor morir por tus ofensas. Envuélveme en el abrazo de la vida.

THAT FATEFUL FORTNIGHT AT ZUM SCHWEDENKÖNIG

I was, while writing this segment, getting all worked up about Beauty and the Beast (2017) and the Satomi Hakkenden, and later on about Kirakira Pretty Cure à la Mode, reminded me that I had barely posted any Baratheon Saga --including those missing snippets I promised. This one is some serious Jaimienne: this takes place during WW1 during the journey to Potsdam. Emotional turmoil, gender confusion, and final Jaimienne and gender reveal. Also some Savitri imagery... There will also ultimately be, later on between assignment and assignment on this struggle with Terminology, some Renloras shenanigans in the same AU. Mostly involving Rainer's promotion to lieutenant, and their reaction to the outbreak of war. But for now it's Jaimienne, white lies, and realizations.
(This is a quote from 2017 ;) sorry for the delay 'cause a lot got in the way)...


THAT FATEFUL FORTNIGHT AT ZUM SCHWEDENKÖNIG

The inn is called Zum Schwedenkönig. A portrait of a clean-shaven, messy-haired Charles XII in blue uniform is hanging from the wooden sign against the darkening evening twilight. She would have preferred Gustavus Adolphus; anyway, Charles XII was the original loser, the Don Quixote of the North. As Brünnhilde has learned by heart even since her early childhood:

"His fate was consigned to a barren strand,
a petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
he left a name, at which the world grew pale,
to point a moral, or adorn a tale."

"Sein Schicksal endete an fremdem Strand
vor schwacher Feste und durch niedre Hand.
Einst machte jedes Herz sein Name höher schlagen,
jetzt ist er nur ein Stoff, an Lehren reich und Sagen."

What a stark contrast to Gustavus Adolphus reeling on horseback and falling upon the battlefield of Lützen, indeed! In fact, the demise of Charles XII in a muddy trench and his utter lack of facial hair are also too reminiscent of the present, of the Great War, of the War to End All Wars. Still, it would be better off there than in the freezing outdoors for a change. So she tucks the handkerchief she wears in between the legs of her worn though elegant trousers --those of a lieutenant's mess uniform-- to make it a little bit puffier and for none of these strangers to suspect. They will see a young man, tall, blond, and freckled, with short messy hair and dreamy azure eyes. Surely an aide-de-camp or a royal guard, given that most striplings of his rank and youth are currently on either the Eastern or Western Front and "he's" stayed behind at court or at High Command, only to be recently sent to the war front as a messenger. The little girls will skip right before the dashing officer, and the little lads with wooden swords will gasp at the sight of a real lieutenant and ask about the frontline, to receive a cold and indifferent, short reply. The maidens will swoon at the sight, like they've done in every village or roadside tavern "he" has entered before, and the older ladies --their mothers, guardians, chaperones-- will caution them about not getting too close to a man in uniform during wartime. Some curious, indiscrete childlike voice will ask "what is the name of the Herr Leutnant?" And he will reply "Siegmund von Tarth." Right before Rainer fell, she had already lost her father to what appeared to be a stroke or a heart condition, and thus, Brünnhilde's male persona, who, about a fortnight ago, fled the front in a lieutenant's mess uniform --Rainer's mess uniform-- took the name of her single parent to honour his memory and as an anchor to her childhood. As a child, staying in Stralsund during the cold seasons, she often climbed up the ramparts of Fort Charles XII, remembering when her provincial outpost of a native hometown was besieged on three fronts -by Danes, Prussians, and Saxons- and that mockery of a Schwedenkönig held the last stand for the empire he had mostly lost at Poltava. Like always for King Charles, it proved a failure, and thus he sailed up north, while the blood-red Dannebrog flew from the ramparts of the fort and from the church towers. Then he would find a death not unlike her countless friends', in a muddy trench, thanks to a sudden headshot in the middle of the night.
The reaction of the female innkeeper, a hefty peasant woman who introduces herself as Mascha and appears to the "lieutenant" as enough amiable not to be a Madame Thénardier at all, and that of the other guests, is exactly as she expected. "Well, Herr Leutnant, since you have come all the way from Potsdam... I hope you will be so kind by giving the latest news to the Herr Oberst, right?" Mascha and then "Siegmund" turn their gaze towards a lonely table by the southern window, where an ostensibly thirtyish officer in an even more worn, yet even higher-ranking mess uniform (colonel or at least lieutenant colonel, she can tell from the insignia on his shoulder pads) is sitting alone before a one-liter tankard. It's an unkempt, surely half-drunken, stubbled, long-haired, filthy shadow of his former self. Looks a bit like a fallen-on-hard-times Charles XII when he stayed in Stralsund, then a provincial outpost under Swedish reign, and later on when he was killed in that Scandinavian trench. Coming closer to the Herr Oberst to sit by his side, wincing at his strong musk laced with blood, liquor, and perspiration, she asks... "May a middling lieutenant have the honour to sit by your side?" He merely nods listlessly in reply; she notices the sorrowful and irate look, of despair, in his absinthe-green eyes, the dark patina laid upon his shoulder-length hair and stubbled face, the scabbard hanging on his right side (since left-handers have always been an unusual sight, yet she holds no prejudice against them)... and the fact that his right arm is hanging as an empty sleeve, like a ragdoll's. A good wash and a clean shave are all this beast, this soldier in a bear-skin, needs to become a man again, for the gold to surface from underneath the grime.
Mascha returns; the Herr Oberst asks for some good strong Weinbrand ("Heavens know I am dying of thirst!"), while the younger Leutnant asks for the same kind of beer that the other officer had drunk. The expected question for news from Potsdam. Time to make up some white lies. "How fares Count Theibald von Lännister?" She's barely heard that name, saying he's all right and tending deftly to the affairs of war. "And how fares his daughter?" It's that question that turns "Siegmund von Tarth" off-kilter. He tucks his left forearm into his cleavage, struggles with opening the locket he has produced with awkward sinistral fingers, asks if the Herr Leutnant would be so kind to open it. The tokens of a beautiful lady come to view: on one half, a lock of shining golden hair that might be taken for thread of gold; on the other, a daguerreotype coloured with crayons of a noblewoman from right before the war, in corset and crinoline. Her eyes are coloured absinthe-green, just like the colonel's, and her hair is coloured golden blond. And he sighs as she shuts the locket and he tucks it back under his shirt.
"I have barely seen her, Herr Oberst. The duties of attending to the generals at High Command occupy most of my time nowadays..."
"So, the Herr Leutnant thus is not conveying any message of importance for a disgraced officer from Count Theibald or Countess Elisabeth von Lännister?"
As she innocently shakes her head, the older officer drains his cup of Weinbrand and falls reeling forwards on the table. Still breathing, yet feverishly, and his face is ablaze.
"We should bring the Herr Oberst to bed, and fetch the surgeon, or at least the wise crone!" At this point, that voice of command sounds like a real officer's. Everyone stares at the lieutenant and wonders why he would bring the drunken colonel to bed... "He's not only dead drunk... he's ill, with a bad fever indeed!" Seeing that not even the innkeeper herself seems willing to aid, Brünnhilde herself decides to spring into action, grabbing the unconscious man by the waist and trying to lift him up, feeling his arms lash against her sides. And then she realises that his right arm is missing from the elbow downwards. The pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place: the Herr Oberst, or so Hilde thinks, was betrothed to his beloved Elisabeth von Lännister, lost his right hand on the war front in one way or another, and, after convalescence, had to leave both the war and the engagement; now he's hoping for his bride or prospective father-in-law to reinstate his name and bring this tale of star-crossed lovers to a happy ever after, while he drowns his sorrows in a tavern in the middle of nowhere, as condemned as Charles XII. It's nice to see there is romanticism out there in this now heartless and disenchanted world. This would make a wonderful ballad, a feuilleton, or even an opera...
A deserter and a cripple, both of them wearing officers' uniforms as worn and bleached as their hearts, both worshipped by the locals and regarded by the military as outsiders. Wouldn't that make an even better opera? Finally, the innkeeper and some of the good countryfolk paid heed to the uniformed drunkard's real state. Now he lay tossing and writhing in a bed the Gasthaus had to offer, flared up, thirsty, drenched in perspiration, stark naked under the covers, his right stump having come to view. It was even suppurating, oozing pus or serum: the combination of filth and strong drink was allowing poison to enter his blood. This could be a deathbed scene as inglorious as that of Charles XII redivivus in her many frontline comrades; the heartrending climax of the feuilleton, the opera, or the ballad.
"Sissi!" he whispers, then he roars, every now and then. Commanding, giving orders for Sissi or for drink, or for both of them, every now and then. Eyes sometimes shut, sometimes wide open and blazing. So he loved the Countess von Lännister... The locket pendles on the cross-dresser's chest, right above her ambiguous bosom. They've sent for Kai Brunner, the local surgeon...  and thus, Hilde wonders whether the life of the febrile colonel will be saved. She pours a draught of berry lemonade (not beer, or brandy) down his parched throat, as he eagerly drinks it in, a deep draught. She touches his neck at the side of the throat that has risen and fallen with the welcome drink, feeling a throbbing, intense heartbeat like a roll of drums or a cavalry charge. This is a wavering heart, whose erratic pounding may suddenly be still when it's expected the least.
"Sissi...!!" he calls her. A loud gasp, glazed peridot eyes startled wide open before they wearily close again.
In his fever dream, he is standing in the middle of the vast throne room, staring at his own lovely reflection, left-handedly fingering and piecing together the answer to the riddle.
The throne room is made of gold, with emerald window-panes and scarlet tapestries dyed with the blood of the weak whom the strong have oppressed. A baroque golden throne stands empty behind the Oberst; the Queen has left her court and realm to inspire the souls of the generals and the high officers who are moving pieces of flesh and blood on their ominous chessboards.
"If you succeed in finding out the answer to the puzzle, I will give you the whole wide world finally at peace and a brand new right hand of solid gold."
Yet, no matter how much he combines the golden puzzle pieces in all different and most peculiar ways on the emerald floor, the answer has hitherto always eluded his grasp. Maybe because this puzzle was meant to be solved right-handed, which means that the Heartless Queen has always had a soft spot for paradox.
There are no affairs of state to tend to at this court, neither any childish amusement such as a tea party for the clockwork figurines or a little maypole dance in the garden of emerald hedges. All there is is splendour, vastness, and serious fun, her searing kisses having scarred his throat, his lungs, his heart to the point that he is barely capable of feeling anything but thirst for the air she breathes and arousal when they enter one another, right here on her now empty throne.
The air is also suffocatingly hot, but the hard-hearted officer, scarred within and without, can barely feel this sensation. The throne room contains an ovoid island made out of a single polished emerald, on which he sits, dressed in a mess uniform of scarlet brocade, his face clean shaven with whiskers and his long hair tied backwards into a queue, like royals and high officers look in storybooks, with the empty baroque seat and the golden puzzle pieces, a scarlet gold-lined cloak concealing his half right arm. This emerald island is surrounded by an ovoid lake whose crimson currents swirl around dizzily and seethe like oil in a frying pan; only the Queen may cross it --she brought the colonel on piggyback to her throne--, and she calls it the Phlegethon, the best, the loveliest out of all currents.
Never has he seen anyone so lovely; she reminds him of his late mother, of his estranged sister, clever and piercing emerald orbs framed in cascades of golden light, ripe peach-bosoms and curving hips framed even more in her ballgown of absinthe-green brocade.
But what was this sudden deep draught of cool, fruity liquid that suddenly trickled down his throat? A test from the Queen... or something completely different? It floods his pores, his throat, his vitals,  coursing through his veins and knocking at his heart to quench the painful fire... and, at one sole deep draught, he is finally laid to rest.
Pleasure past and anguish past.
Is this death or is it life?
Life out of death.
A fiftyish gentleman, with a friendly grey-whiskered face and a doctor's bag, entered the sickroom where the one-handed man lay, tossing feverishly under the covers, by the watch of a young lieutenant and in the light of a kerosene lamp. Kai greeted the younger officer with a friendly smile and eyes full of kindness -he certainly meant no evil- before auscultating the wounded one's erratic heartbeat and breathing, and examining his purulent stump. The heart and arteries barely reply; the wounded officer does not even blink an eye in reaction. The mercury column he places through the parted lips of the one-handed colonel rises up to slightly over forty degrees Celsius.
"These field surgeons know little to nothing... how much haste they make during the wars; this amputation was not performed properly... in fact, the same would have happened if it had been severed one or two decades ago. The prospect looks certainly grim..."
All the while Hilde sat back, anxiously awaiting the outcome of this struggle between life and death now that the cavalry of science had arrived. Was there no hope left, even with the healing arts of the newborn century? She had seen some wounded men die and others survive... and the Herr Oberst was still young and strong...
Please, young man, bring me a ewer and a large tub, and clean cloth... So did Hilde, hoping that Kai should be able to save the one-handed officer's life. "And pass me the needle," he continued after daubing the patient's throbbing brow with cold water and washing his purulent stump, giving him to drink from a little glass vial (which was always drained at a deep draught) every now and then, which gradually made the tossing Oberst relax and fall peacefully asleep, though his breathing was still shallow and strained.
Plunging the hypodermic needle into another, shut little vial, the surgeon injected that crystalline liquid into a blue vein that surfaced on the inner side of the colonel's left elbow, as Hilde watched closely and was astonished by his incredible sang-froid. How concentrated Kai was throughout the night, how he cut through right arm flesh as rosy as raw chicken (due to blood loss) to expose and stitch the severed artery, how he sliced up and cleaned, poured icy water upon and stitched the stump, paying special attention to stanch the blood flow (the one-handed officer shuddered a little, and his lips quivered, in response to the cold water poured on his stump), and how he fixed a steel hook to the end of the patient's right humerus, caring thoroughly for the fact that the system would not treat the hook as a foreign object.
By the time the sun was rising, the surgeon was ready to leave. Yet he felt the young lieutenant tug at his coattails, wondering how such a skilful healer, far more efficient than any frontline surgeon, had wound up in the middle of nowhere.
"But first I would like to know about why you care so much for... is he your commanding officer?"
Of course "Siegmund" denied it. Just saying that "he" was good-natured and that kindness to a stranger was all that he was obliged.
And thus Kai replied that he had found a kindred spirit, equally good-natured and earnest; definitely some glad company for the next days, when he would frequent the King of Sweden Inn to check the convalescent's recovery, as his skin was washed fair and clean, the stubble shaved away --whiskers and all--, and the golden head-hair finally shimmering like Jason's Fleece, bereft of all the dark grime.
"Sissi!" he had gasped, opening his startled peridot eyes for an instant, before sinking peacefully back into the pillows, the first time he came to his senses.
During those days of convalescence, of cool spoonfuls of foxglove syrup, and later of cordial, put to parched lips and drained at deep draughts --the rising and falling throat being the only visible sign of life--; of old gauze unwrapped and new gauze wrapped around the stump; of feeling for breath and pulse, each day slightly steadier, in a pocket-watch while applying fingertips to the carotid... during that eventful fortnight at Zum Schwedenkönig, these three wayward strangers got to know each other and a friendship blossomed, a friendship that gradually, upon reaching the stage of full blossom, would burst into even more intense feelings and realizations of the truth.
For how long had he rested? Weeks, days, a whole season? The wounded officer's sense of time had sped away with his state of health, his head not ceasing to swim. It was then that those unquiet fever dreams, his constantly parched mouth, and the pain in a right wrist blown away time and again in searing pain, made him look backwards at what had brought him to this sickbed. All the way long before he and Sissi were born. There was a reason for all that had occurred.
In his youth, just like Napoleon Bonaparte, Theibald von Lännister had once been a cadet, a lieutenant, an army captain... and a socially awkward stripling who preferred perusing military history books to engaging in the "serious" pleasures of strong drink and playing cards. Charles Bonaparte had been an outlaw in Corsica and breathed his last in a cliffside cave; Titus Flavius and his wife Regina von Lännister had died, for being liberals and Bonapartists, in a dungeon in Küstrin Fortress: the man of a heart condition and the woman in bringing her fifth and youngest child Gerhard to the world. The five orphans were taken in by different local officers' families; and so it came to be that a lieutenant and his wife in their late twenties took in Gerda and Gerhard, an older captain adopted Konrad and Heinrich, and the colonel of the regiment, the commander of the local garrison, took the eldest of the disowned lordlings for himself and his childless wife, Frau von Tharbeck, seeing in the defiant look in his eyes that this boy was worth far more than a middling life as the child of a subaltern officer. Theibald von Lännister (or rather, Theibald von Tharbeck) had been a thoughtful child, reluctant to make friends, ambitious, stubborn, and drinking in every last sip of knowledge within his reach. As a stripling, he was sent to military academy in Magdeburg --for Lichterfelde had not been founded yet--, that self-same Magdeburg on the Elbe which the Catholic League had once overrun; yet found no friends among the cadets, furthermore he heard whispers behind his back about a lad born in jail, a traitor's bastard, who aimed to give and take orders for Crown and Country, and Heavens knew if that was his true purpose. These rumours, and the perceived hostility of even his roommates, barely affected the young Theibald (in spite of his surname change)... except for hardening his heart and his backbone. It was then that his fear of weakness began to manifest. And that he began to look up to the Corsican Monster, whom the teachers and history books he adored portrayed as the wicked enemy, as a role model. The life of Napoleon Bonaparte had begun to mirror his own... Not to mention the one of Gérard de Villefort, né Noirtier, another descendant of liberal revolutionaries forced by the absolute monarchy to distance himself utterly from the shadows of his parentage, by becoming as harsh and stern and ruthless and conservative as possible. In fact, Gérard de Villefort, né Noirtier, held up a far better mirror to a young Theibald (or so he would always see himself identified, a parallel that would gradually unfurl more and more with each and every lustrum). Theibald had even gone as far as to change his surname by force, just like his fictional role model. He had for once had the surname of the commandant of Küstrin, his guardian, as Theibald von Tharbeck, before they told him of his true parentage and his eyes were forced wide open. 
And de Villefort had married a young marquise, whom he loved not too well but wisely, to find his niche... while his Prussian counterpart did exactly the same.
He first met Johanna, from the leading right-wing branch of House von Lännister, during her summer holiday in his first provincial assignment. She was a Potsdam debutante, not as much his senior as Josephine had been to the Corsican; Johanna was merely five years older than Theibald and still unmarried, her lady mother concerned that she should die an old maid, and her suitor loved her, not passionately, but reasonably (all of which were, by chance, exactly the same circumstances of Gérard and Renée de Villefort!). The friendless, awkward lieutenant, flustered whenever she was near, was sure that she, a soon-to-be court lady, would be betrothed to a man of her own standing and completely out of his reach... It came as a surprise like right out of a dream --and Theibald von Lännister was wide awake and despised intoxicants-- that her parents accepted his suit, seeing that, though ill-reputed, reserved, and cold, he was of von Lännister blood at the end of the day. And, seeing the situation through his eyes, she was, for once and for all, the Madame Renée de Villefort in this real-life retelling of the saga. While the von Tharbecks had fallen on hard times, and lived retired in what was called Schloss Tharbeck, but was essentially a glorified fruit farm.
It was Johanna who, before and after their wedding, had encouraged him to make the right friends and gain a foothold in high society; to rise up through the ranks of the Prussian military and get assigned to the royal guard itself, to relocate to Potsdam; she had furthermore given him two lovely children, as bright as twin stars... Theibald would never speak of the kobold or of the profuse bleeding, when she brought it to light, that ended his lady's life... He simply gave the kobold away to a servant to sell to a freakshow, announced in public that it had been a stillbirth, and then mourned his beloved Johanna. Tears he shed few, rather few, but his heart bled as if they had stabbed him in the left side, yet he still concealed it behind a façade as hard and cold as a display of strength in a statesman can muster.
He would never remarry and find a stepmother for the twins, knowing --after much meticulous pondering-- that the second Madame de Villefort, that poison snake called Heloïse, had been Gérard's downfall and that of the whole clan. It would have been far better if he had clung to the memory of Renée, never to have met his match. No. Maybe Gérard de Villefort, né Noirtier, had made that mistake; but Theibald von Lännister, formerly von Tharbeck, would never fall into that same pitfall. Or any other pitfall (or so he thought himself). The von Lännisters had to stick together, never to share the tragic fate of their fictional French counterparts the de Villeforts (which sounds ironic if we look forwards, considering that these tactics shoved them --not the de Villeforts, but the von Lännisters-- towards the opposite extreme, into equally drastic dysfunction and tragedy).
Jakob's father had been a detached parent, proud of his rank and gold, more concerned with affairs of state and the military than anything else. Yet the Count was quite harsh and stern on both the twins' shortcomings. For Sissi, it was maybe her tendency to pilfer liquor from the cupboard in the drawing room. For her brother, it was his left hand.
As a child, Jakob von Lännister was taught, or rather forced, to write with his left arm tied to his back.
He was far from the only sinistral to have been set right by their elders, but still one of those who took their new handedness most seriously.
"Really?" Brünnhilde asked, her eyes widening.
"They would smack me with a ruler quite frequently as well... I have always hated to read and write, preferring more physically active pursuits, because the letters danced before my eyes. I would have found it easier if I had been left-handed all life long... But of course my wrist was tied so tight that it hurt, and I had no other choice than to get it right, no matter how hard the task. Even though I, though born into privilege, have always been unlearned and only enjoyed literature if it was read out loud."
"It must have been hard for you to become an officer," the maiden and the surgeon sympathised. What had been quite easy for them had been a path of thorns for the wounded man due to his plight.
The Colonel sighed and sank once more into the pillows, as if his head were plunging into a cream cake, his bright green eyes firmly shut. He had always been ashamed of his left-handedness and, after he had been set right, of his strange way with the written word, of being unlearned in spite of the rank he held within society. But the warmth in those eyes and in those smiles above his feverish face was reassuring.
It was as if chance had chosen to sever his right hand for a good reason.
"I think I must have made friends among the officers of the regiment I led, if not such a lasting impression that they were ready to conspire to save my life; they were even wiping off their tears upon their sleeves. I will never know whether Count Theibald was unaware of it...  At the crack of dawn, as I was told to kneel and the black cloth was tied tightly before my eyes, my aide-de-camp tucked a sprig of larkspur into my buttonhole, and whispered in my ear to fall upon the ground forwards, face first, and hold my breath as soon as I heard the gunshot. I had also been told before to wear a watch in my breast pocket to stop the bullet. Left for dead before the firing squad, I would be quickly carried by Petite Curie to a fort, where I would remain as a friendly 'prisoner' under an assumed name until the close of the war. As an officer, of course I was unafraid to shed my blood upon the field of battle... but it is a very different thing to kneel, with bandaged eyes, and have a comrade aim at one's heart for disobedience of orders. I believe that my head began to swim, and then I was unconscious, for I remember nothing of falling, or being carried away, my first knowledge being that I was on my way to the fort... then this searing flame in my right wrist... When I came to, I was bedridden, my right hand gone, the stump well bandaged to stanch the blood flow, and the soldiers around me were strangers speaking Russian. The enemy had taken the fort, and, furthermore, my sword hand as well."
The closure of the wounded man's tale told without sugarcoating, of how he fled in spite of the Russian surgeon's recommendations, and his worries that his dear Sissi may have heard of his death either upon the battlefield or --far more inglorious-- by firing squad, brought tears to the eyes of the listeners.
"You were and are a brave warrior," Hilde sighed, playing with his now damp, newly washed locks. "To confront your old man, a more fearsome enemy than the French or the Russians, even if it meant to die an ignoble death, and to leave your post in such haste for a good cause... that takes real courage. You must have loved her dearly, as much as to have her to wife..."
Tears sprung up to his eyes. "I am doing all of this because of the weariness and the sheer absurdity of this bloody war. Think, poisoning our own men as well as the enemy, and maybe even innocents... As for my love life, I will never take up a wife..."
"Married to Prussia, right?" she asked, winking a blue right eye. He nodded listlessly, and she saw herself mirrored in his reply. She knew what it was like to admire someone beyond her reach with all her heart and soul. She would not even have taken Rainer to husband, only as her commanding officer. Married to Prussia as well.
The next day, his fever having cooled down, yet still pale and breathing shallowly, drenched in perspiration, the one-handed officer thought about the meaning of what had just happened, of the secret and cathartic events that he had told two people who were far less friends than strangers... yet somehow he had the gut feeling that they would keep the secret. The friendly surgeon and the stripling of a freckled lieutenant were trustworthy, they had been kind, they were nursing him back to health, to life, to hope. Hope that wavered like a flame in the storm, but still a strong flame at the end of the day.
Right after confronting his father and commander, and staging his own inglorious traitor's death, he had lost his right hand, the self-same right hand which he had been forced to use against his will, then accustomed to mechanically regard as the good one. He was now far more Jakob and far less von Lännister. He still kept the sinister hand, the sinister arm, those he had left were the good ones from the start, but the right --as with all the other things he had hitherto thought were right-- were dead and gone. Upon thinking of this twist of fate, the frog-woman's cards, before he left for the front, came to his mind's eye.
Death for change, the Hanged One for the world turned upside down and for self-sacrifice, the Five of Coins for destitution, the Four and the Nine of Swords for rest and despair respectively, most ominously the Tower for the fact that everything cherished would crumble... yet, at the end of the day, the Star for hope and the Queen of Swords for a broken, yet intelligent and freethinking woman. And now he had experienced change, spiritually died once if not twice, struggled to stay alive as he trudged through friendly and enemy country, and was right now confronting his demons and resting from the wounds of both his body and his spirit... the Tower of the Kaiserreich maybe struck down by lightning already, maybe reeling and falling apart as the German hosts wavered before the Allied counterattack... Who was the Queen of Swords? Not Sissi, that was for sure. Though completely unaware of his twin sister's fondness for Wenzel von Lännister and her cold utter disregard of her twin's alleged death on the field of battle, the Colonel could feel that she was worlds away. But did he know that the freckled stripling who assisted Doctor Kai was actually a maiden? So far, he had taken "Siegmund" being male for granted. Yet, as his recovery unfurled, he would soon discover the truth about her as well.
Yet the ice broke quite slowly and quite gradually. It was not until the bedridden officer could leave his sickbed that he discovered what lay between her legs, as he went down to quench his thirst from the village pond while she had a rudimentary wash.
She covered her muscle-like bosom with her right hand and her wispy blond bush with the left, like Botticelli's Venus; a mannish and awkward, flustered Venus, while he watched from among the brown bulrushes. And Hilde splashed him in the face, as if by reflex. That evening, she turned her blushing face away from both men.
"You know, I never had time for a wife," von Lännister said to himself with a sigh.
"I never had time for a wife either," Kai replied as he popped the customary mercury column through the convalescent's parted lips. "I never felt in love, never felt attracted... sexually. To men or women. I'm sure asexuality is a thing, Herr Oberst. This is, after all, a free country, even though I have been expelled from university after university. Humboldt, Leipzig, Jena, the Ruperto Carola, even Ingolstadt. Lovely fortress town, isn't it? They say the Baron von Frankenstein made his monster and brought him to life there... Ingolstadt, grave of Count Tilly and cradle of the Illuminati. Ironically, not even there could a degree be attained."
"And why?" both young people wonder.
"Because this thirst for knowledge, like Odin's, cannot be quenched. I sought the secret of life itself, the primeval reason why our lives unfurl as long as our systems function the right way, and why they fail beyond repair at the bitter end. Science has come a long way, and soon we will reach the adulthood of humankind, when everyone at least in Europe will be freethinkers. But there have always been powers that have barred this threshold. The Church, state authorities, right-wing in general. Some members of the intelligentsia spend too long looking at cells under their magnifying tubes for the establishment not to notice. Anyway, Wallenstein was a university dropout and still grew into a remarkable scholar by simply garnering real-life experience... Likewise, these wartime years as a regimental surgeon may give me the experience needed to carry out my research."
As a man of action rather than an intellectual, the Count of Lännister is at first unable to understand this revelation. It is the cross-dressing maiden who chimes in and breaks the heavy silence:
"We are outsiders, all three. Each in their own special way. A mannish girl under the flags, a high officer missing his sword hand, and a researcher whose quest led to the fact that a degree is still beyond his reach."
"Siegmund is right," the one-handed count replies as the surgeon takes the thermometer out of his mouth. "Siegmund... or rather..."
"Brünnhilde," she finally replies in a sincere contralto, neither looking away nor blushing, feeling completely unabashed.
"Like the leader of the valkyries." Looking down on his right stump, the Count feels a strange surge of emotions swirling through him: hope and shock and elation and impatience throbbing all at once.
"Thirty-eight degrees, Herr Oberst. Your system, though still recovering, is on the right path..."
Taking his right stump, all wrapped in freshly-changed gauze, she has slightly bent forwards and kissed it.
As both their healing hearts skip a beat. Though his non-existant wrist hurt again, the convalescent did not even wince, putting on a brave face as he counted the freckles in his new friend's face. She was, in turn, so flustered that it had made her thirsty, and asked for a glass of lemonade. "Make it two," the bedridden one replied. They clinked their cups, both held in the left hand, before draining them at one fell swoop.
Now there's no longer any need for cross-dressing at least for now, Hilde thinks. I am what I am, and it was not in vain that I crossed the paths of both of these men. I may not be a proper lady, but I am someone at the end of the day. Heart upon my sleeve. No longer reserved and shy.
It's hard to be left-handed if you have been set right from childhood, the Oberst, the Count... no, Jakob von Lännister the man has thought to himself. To learn to write anew, to wield a sword or a tennis racket (though this was neither the time nor the place for rackets) anew... with Brünnhilde tutoring him, like a young child worlds away from striplinghood would be by the best of governesses. But soon all of those weeks of training gave fruit; his pen danced deftly upon a snow-white sheet to write "Liebste Elisabeth!", and the letters no longer scrambled before his eyes.
He could read without any complications.
No longer would literature --whether prose, poetry, drama, or essay-- feel like a strange land to his eyes, no longer would he be feel unlearned.
She reassuringly held his stump and gave it now a kiss, now a warm caress, as a sign of warts-and-all acceptance. He lost himself not in those large azure eyes like summer lakes, but in the freckles that so often had been concealed by make-up during society events: he could see the North Star, the Seven Sisters, Cassiopeia... Those freckles never danced before his eyes either. And the severed wrist hurt no longer. The pain, the thirst, the fever dreams... all of that had faded away as well.
During all this time, he had forgotten that he had been a royal guard, a count, a colonel, and even right-handed.
While Hilde had reconciled herself with her awkward femininity and found constellations within those freckles which the world had hated, yet her father had called sunspots in an affectionate tone. Rainer Baratheon had not even breathed a word about that, in such cool and wistful tones that he was known for, and she had wondered why. Let him love another, let the storm of war claim him, for the right one is mine at last. We are ourselves, two lost souls who have found one another and who have found hope along the way we share.
In late August, the shire hosts a harvest ball. It is then that Hilde receives the folk-dress.
No breeches or cravat. Not sky blue to fit her bright eyes and fair skin... but rather the colours she hates the most.
Warm colours, shades that go from peach to scarlet through various shades of pink: the puffy-sleeved blouse is a very faint shade of peach, the waistcoat or corset bright scarlet, the apron a light shade of pink over a skirt just like a peony in shape and colour, underneath pale pink petticoats. A sharp, stark contrast to those sharp features and those rippling limbs that had enticed her to wear trousers since she reached puberty.
Still the local tailor, invited by Kai, had taken the unusual measurements and sewn it by hand especially for Brünnhilde von Tarth. Even if it's not the way she expected it.
Corsets and petticoats!
Now she stands in front of the bathroom mirror, completing the ensemble with a peony-pink shawl over her muscular shoulders and a matching flower-embroidered headdress in the same shade.
The constraints of the headdress, the corset, the petticoats make her long for the freedom of the uniform, of having a free waist and both legs free range.
Her face is freckleless in the mirror, as peony-pink as if it had been meant to suit the ensemble. She's so tall that the dress does not reach her ankles; in fact, it scarcely covers her knees. The pressure against the sides of her ribcage is stifling.
"Good afternoon, my valkyrie," the colonel says with sparkles in his peridot eyes, a wistfulness in his voice that sounds far more mature than Rainer Baratheon's. This is not a boy, not a stripling, but a grown man making a sharp remark.
She laughs heartily. Even at being called a "valkyrie" while wearing this awkward pink posy. Of course she had been called that, especially as a child, but Rainer had always seen her as a male friend and never said "valkyrie" to her in that manner.
While he will wear not his grimy bloodstained uniform, but the matching male ensemble, which mixes elements of the military --the brightly-coloured military of yore-- and those of peasants' holiday best: clad in lederhosen and a cream double-breasted doublet under a snow-white shirt, a fine silken scarlet cravat perfectly tied, his golden locks crowned with a fox-tailed top hat (decorated with the real tail of a red fox), and wearing shiny low shoes with shiny buckles instead of his worn Wellingtons.
If she were wearing that uniform as well... what would they say?
Deftly and courteously entwining her right arm in his left, both head to the shade of the village linden, where all the young people clad in similar attire have been waiting for the strangers, for the dance to begin.
His left arm in her right.
Both of them flustered with excitement and with awkwardness at the same time.
They will never forget that polka.
A band in the same regional attire playing a lively polka, and every man taking a maiden up to dance.
Even though they felt a tad strange, what with a missing right arm and an oversized, muscled frame in frills (in a skirt and petticoats that scarcely reach her knees), they had to dance as well.
"I have always had two left feet," she sighs, as his left arm wraps around her suffocating, corsetted waist. The light in those green eyes is warm, reassuring, as he smiles painfully to her alone.
"Thirsty?" he asks. She nods. "Lemonade... or something stronger?"
Lemonade is just fine. She has no need for liquid courage. And yet he's poured some brandy into her cup as well, without her knowing it. It tastes a bit odd and sears her throat. The better; though putting up a front, her face is still as pink as that frilly dress, erasing every single freckle.
Like a peony in full bloom.
And soon she's all flustered as the first movement, of the three every polka consists of, begins. Every man seizes his girl by the hands and vice versa, Hilde feeling the stump awkwardly resting on her left palm as he leads her, eyes wide shut, lightly tripping and skipping. Slightly bowing as the dance partner's leg advances forth towards one's own. Hopping on one leg and then on another. Left right left, briskly and brightly, but not to a military tread. She thought she was too heavy, and feeling all eyes upon her was something that definitely had never put her in the best of moods. That was the reason why she admired the unabashed Rainer Baratheon.
It was ages ago he swept her off her feet at that waltz at the engagement ball, a waltz far gentler and less lively than this folk polka. The rhythm is cheerful and carries anyone away, drunk or sober, no matter if it's a one-handed veteran or a mannish girl who looks ridiculous in pink. "Hopsasa! Watch out when you're about to swing! Hopsasa! Watch out when you're about to swing!"
The first and second movements pass thus swiftly by.
Now the last movement has come at last: all young men form a circle, clapping hands, while the maidens twirl around. "Rija faderija faderija faderallala, trallala!" When this movement is over, all men will turn around and each one will pick a girl for the next polka as dancing partner.
It hurts Jakob von Lännister and the boy on his right, a stripling spared the draft because of his slightly hunched back, that the stump gets in the way of their clapping. But it's how things are, he whispers to himself with a smirk and a smile of content. Hoping that she -the tallest girl, with the dress down to her knees and short messy wheaten hair, the valkyrie- will be the one closest to his back.
In the meantime, Brünnhilde von Tarth towers above all the other girls. She decides to stop behind the Colonel -after all, most of the other men, or rather blighters, are drunk and look really fierce. Best to take a safe choice of partner, one who cares for her, who can defend her. Though all eyes are upon her, she finally has found her center, the confident mood that she admired so much in her commanding officer.
"Rija faderija faderija faderallala, trallala! Uh, hopsasa!" At this "hopsasa!", when all the gentlemen turn around and all the maidens stop in their dance, standing right behind Jakob, he is as positively surprised upon seeing Hilde as she is at her choice of partner. Somehow, they have been able to read one another's minds.
They dance another polka, then a third, then it's the Count who gets thirsty and his valkyrie who goes forth for a tankard of Radler, ie lemonade-laced beer, to put into his left hand; hoping he will drink a deep draught and she is to reply smiling as honestly as she can.
It is then that the bear tamer of the fête troupe and his pet join the fun. The bear tamer is a foreigner, or a Romany, with a sharp Balkan accent and a sharp moustache and goatee. The female Ursus arctos, who answers to the name of Kaiserin, is two meters tall and of a respectable age, her fur the colour of chocolate. She had been taught to dance the polka by the fortunately discontinuated and cruel method of chaining her with hot steel beneath her feet (we are so lucky that few plantigrades are given this torture nowadays!) as the goateed man, Vladislav, played polka tunes on his accordion.
The sight of the one-handed man and the "valkyrie" caught his eye as well, and he resolved to put on a show... Smirking as he produced a flask of rakija, he strode towards the officer --for, though he was dressed in civilian attire, the thirtyish fellow wiping the perspiration from his forehead left-handed had the dignified air of an officer--, waving his flask and addressing the blond in German laced with a strong Slavic accent.
His throat parched with thirst, yet his eyes fixed on those sinister piercing black eyes, von Lännister stands transfixed in doubt. It is then that the valkyrie appears with a tankard of lemonade-laced lager. The performer asks her if she is thirsty as well, as she looks shyly away. As the Count puts the tankard to his lips to refresh himself, the Slav, pretending to trip, pours a generous dose of rakija in. "Excuse me," he then says with a low bow, as Hilde leaves the stand to bring more lemonade lager, looking over her shoulder upon leaving her partner on his own.
Raillery from that goateed fellow about his missing arm and about his choice of sweetheart, encouraging a toast to the end of the war, his own throat feeling dry and irritated... in the end, the officer drinks a deep draught and feels the foreign liquor searing, burning the inside of his chest as it goes down. Never had von Lännister drunk rakija before, and the strong draught storms into his bloodstream to take over completely from within.
"Whatever...?" he steels himself, his head beginning to swim, his consciousness struggling not to drown in rakija. The dark-haired fellow has, in the meantime, swept down to clasp his valkyrie in pink and frills.
Though she struggles herself to break free from Vladislav's cufflike wrists, she is caught in a vice grip and forced to dance with this violent stranger against her will. Left right left, but now it's more of a military pace, kicking his shins in rage while he has not even winced. Seeing her real partner stagger into the dancefloor --weary as a sleepy child--, Hilde gulps hard and steels herself as well: at the third movement of the polka, she will be able to break free and find Jakob von Lännister once more. No matter if he has been drugged: the effect will wear off sooner or later.
When finally the men close the circle and the maidens twirl around it once more, but the Colonel is feeling far too drowsy to join the dance... it is then that the bear enters the scene.
Kaiserin, set free by the troupe to enjoy the polka in the meantime, stands on her hind legs and dances among the maidens as awkwardly as a circus bear can  -and believe me, dear readers, it is really awkward-.
The paths of the valkyrie and the plantigrade have crossed quite unexpectedly.
....
(the count suddenly sobers up in seeing this scene; the "bear and the maiden fair" scene ensues)
....
"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong, balm and oil for weary hearts..." The verses pour like honey, deep and dark contralto honey, from her throat into his ears.
 "all cut and bruised with wrong..." he replies, choking back the tears. Though the author is British, this pair of lines is lovely. Somehow, those verses mirror their own feelings, earnest and open-hearted at last.
At last the day has broken, and the shadows and the creatures of the night are too light-shy to dare come out, even though the cruel storm of war still rages.
This is their rightful place. Their haven, their Eden, where both young lovers have found hope, rest, and respite.

BRIENNE: THE REAL THING

Вестерос! (BACCANO! OPENING AU)

Right, I happened to have noticed the opening for an anime called Baccano! with an ensemble cast and a badass opening theme (each character is introduced in an instant establishing character moment and name-tagged for our convenience) that reminded me instantly of Westeros - also, both franchises are set in constructed magical realistic worlds, though one of them is late medieval/early modern and the other is 1920s/Prohibition-era.

To cut a long story short, I was smitten with Baccano! and decided to do a Westerosized version of the iconic opening ("Guns and Roses", nothing to do with the homonymous group!). Opening which is, in turn, a homage to the opening credits of 2000 heist film Snatch, making the intertextuality in this AU three layers deep!
So this is a Westeros filk of sorts, since the song filked is instrumental. Instead of lyrics, dear readers, brace yourselves for new visuals inspired by those of the theme tune of the anime series.

PS. I made the characters correspond more or less to their Baccano! counterparts ever since I first saw the Gandors in the opening and their respective personalities just screamed out "Baratheon!" (not to mention "Karamazov!") in my mind's ear. From on then, it was finding more parallels. The trickiest bit was maybe who would be Isaac and Miriam at the opening scene, but then I thought of that Braavosi coin, and Jaqen and Arya were more than happy to fill the spot (in a Braavosi plague doctor mask and as a black catgirl!).
If you wonder why the name cards are written in Cyrillic, well, the original had Latin-lettered name cards in a Japanese show. Few Japanese people can understand Latin spelling (and envy us Europeans for having so many fewer writing characters to learn!), and I wanted to preserve that choice of spelling's idea of exotism and stepping into an alternate reality.
Think of a steampunk AU Westeros, with animesque characters, as you visualise and read.
And it works best if you listen to the tune and/or watch the original opening: Google "baccano guns and roses" on YouTube.

Dramatis Personae
Isaac Dian: Jaqen H'ghar
Miriam Harvent: Arya Stark
Firo Prochainezo: Loras Tyrell
Maiza Avaro: Olenna Tyrell (hehe)
Keith Gandor: Stannis Baratheon
Berga Gandor: Robert Baratheon
Luck Gandor: Renly Baratheon
Szilard Quates: Tywin Lannister
Ennis: Cersei Lannister (hehe)
The Conductor: Tyrion Lannister (No name card in either version)
Lua Klein: Sansa Stark
Ladd Russo: Joffrey "Baratheon"
Chane Laforêt: Margaery Tyrell
Nice Holystone: Brienne of Tarth
Jacuzzi Splot: Jaime Lannister
Eve Genoard: Oberyn Martell
Dallas Genoard: Elia Martell
Czeslaw Meyer: Varys + Petyr Baelish

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SCENE I - Coin Toss
(Cue jaunty jazz music!)

On a street in a good-sized Riverlands market village, a strange foreign coin soars high over the rooftops. It's made of dark iron, more angular and significantly thicker than Westerosi coins. As the coin flips through the cloudless day sky, we see that on one side it has a monogram of the letters VMD and the inscription "valar morghulis, valar dohaeris;" and, on the other, a hooded cape without any face within. The coin lands in the open palm of a good-looking, thirtyish fellow whose angular face is stubbled and whose long crimson hair has silver streaks, like a candy cane. A petite adolescent girl looks over the slender foreigner's shoulder, her steel-grey gaze livening up after a quick glance at the coin. She skips only for once, trying as hard as she can to stifle her squeal of glee: Hoods, I win! The foreigner merely frowns and tsk-s in response, but in an ironic tone that betrays he isn't that serious.
The foreigner pulls out of his knapsack an ornate, gilt mask with a prominent beak, as well as a black hooded cloak, just like the one on the coin, with kitty ears at the crown of the head, as well as a long dark tail at pelvis height. Within an instant, the two-tone-haired man has put on the mask and a larger black cloak, while the girl's dark nutbrown mop of hair is hidden beneath the kitty ears of her hood.
Thus accoutred, both of them head for a lonely stall on the outskirts of Fairmarket. The streets they cross are empty, everyone resting in the heat of the summer day. The fellow in the plague-doctor's mask heads towards the stall in advance, eyes concealed behind the narrow slits, but a crazy sneer that no one can tell if it should be sinister or cheerful.

Якен Хгар

Behind him walks the catgirl, who has even painted whiskers on her face with charcoal. She saunters forth as nimble as a real stray kitten, the hilt of her rapier brushing her right thigh, as she follows her guardian full of youthful self-confidence.

Арья Старк

Turns out that they are stealing fruit. The middle-aged female owner of the stall (and of the home  whose front door happens to be right behind it), startled, surrendering, produces a box of ripe green pears with the following inscription on it:

Вестерос!

That will be more than enough for the trip to Braavos, right? She nods at the foreigner's question, something like a purr vibrating in her throat as he messes her short chestnut hair, loading it with static charge, as both walk away into the countryside and he pulls off her hood with those kitty ears.

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SCENE II - Around a Table in a Drawing Room

At sixteen or seventeen, a mere stripling (upper lip barely gilt by unseen peach-fuzz, limbs and shoulders but half-developed), hazel eyes sparkling with confidence framed in golden spring-like curls, is fitted for his new hat, pulling over his brow the brim of an austere affair of a boater merely decked with a mint-green ribbon, upon which a marigold-yellow cockade blooms. Though he's wearing civilian attire, his thoughts are as contradictory, of both hope and anxiety, as those of a young lieutenant on his baptism of fire. The hat is merely an excuse, a way of breaking the ice, aside from a sign of his coming of age.

Лорас Тирелл

Knotty yet gentle fingers on his shoulders reassure the soon-to-be young man, who turns around and is encouraged by the presence of his wise mentor of a grandmother. Though bent and weakened by the decades, her rapier wit has not rusted, but rather honed its edge under those silvery locks and those gold-rimmed spectacles, and the furrows on her once lovely face are as riddled with lore as the bark of a weirwood. With a wise, friendly smile, she encourages the blond youth, showing him the course to take.

Оленна Тирелл

Opposite the table sit those three brothers from an enemy clan, all three tall of frame and broad of shoulders, with shapely limbs, raven hair, and eyes of steel blue (The grandmother whispers in the stripling's ear something about a drunkard, a bigot, and a wanton). The stern middle brother, a gaunt thirty-something, looks around with a piercing stare before getting lost in his own musings. Hard are his features, as if chiselled in granite, and equally hard is the heart within his chest. Lord of Light, what has roped me into this predicament? Rather than playing these frivolous games with them, I would spend the evening studying or doing paperwork all on my own. Clenching his fists as he places the handwritten contracts on the table, grinding his teeth to bite the end of his pipe, a piercing stare turning to one so cold that it sears the world around with despisal. The world has never been fair. Someone needs to set right everything that is wrong. And everyone else is worried with their own selfish desires, leaping before they look.

Станнис Баратеон

In the middle of the table, someone rather different overreacts, guffawing in a slurred baritone: the temperamental eldest brother, the only bearded one, fortyish and overweight leaning on obese. Once more, he raises the stakes, ranting out loud and proud, though slurred, at the killjoy by his side. The stein he just drained at one deep draught was the last one, that killjoy said, and he's still thirsty. There's always this feeling in his throat, in his fevered vitals, that emptiness... that urge, for that scorching fluid... it's a flight forwards, and he'll get even thirstier tomorrow in the morn... "return sober tonight..." GODS, YOU BASTARD, WATER IS FOR FROGS! he bellows, irises glazed and bloodshot, a duller shade of blue. If he were in his right mind, the right hook which he has just given the curmudgeon in the gut would hurt. Luckily, the strong drink has sapped all the strength that was left within.

Роберт Баратеон

Looking away (from both the drunkard and the curmudgeon), the wistful youngest brother smirks in an ironic way. Leave them be, boys will be boys... but I like that hat, is it new? Though the corners of his eyes, unseen to his older brothers, earnestly hone in on the Reacher stripling opposite the trio on the table. Pretty hat, is it a new one? Said stripling cannot help exchanging glances (a wink and a sip) with the dark-haired young man in his twenties, with only a streak of downy shade on his upper lip, those playful sparkles in azure irises, neither icy nor glazed, betraying that he still is a child at heart. The ribbon and the cockade on the hat, the golden ringlets beneath, shimmer in a friendly light. That slight exchange, a public overture to the lovers' closet drama, feels like a tingle down the spine of the dashing Stormlander's lithe frame. Some trust in religion, and others in strong drink, as their intoxicant of choice: he, the youngest, thirsts for a nobler draught and knows of more serious fun.

Ренли Баратеон

In response, the young blond cannot help but thinking of a kiss, his heart racing, squeezing his crossed legs to stop the hardening and the throbbing in between. Affairs of state are one thing and matters of the heart are another... but somehow, though in both youths there is far more of the warrior than of the statesman, the stars seem to align for both their personal interests and those of their respective household. The Reacher draws his grandmother closer and whispers in her ear, the truth but only half the truth. She understands, indeed, the value of the alliance. Soon, he thinks as he adjusts the straw hat slightly knocked off those dark curls, the one I love will be closer than ever. Let others see, for a first impression, a marriage of convenience, best friends, brothers-in-law... he thinks as he puts the stein to his lips to cool himself, merely swallowing three or four drops at that kiss-like sip, but no deeper draught is needed, since he still thirsts for the Reacher stripling.
Elsewhere not far away, another person puts a cup away from her lips, placing the still half-empty crystal goblet on the table as she listlessly tucks a long, golden wisp behind her left ear.

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SCENE III - En Tête-à-Tête In a Dark, Austere Room

She looks up into the face of the stern, shrewd statesman opposite her, eyes of mint-green yet icy and piercing, as if to sound her very core. The de facto ruler of Westeros, who made himself from the ashes and brought a new golden age to the realm, has definitely seen better days, but, in spite of his sharp features being furrowed with decades of thought, and that golden hair having frosted over with silver, he's as sound, both of frame and of mind, as he was in his thirties. A heart hardened by the loss of loved ones and the scorn of the world, a resolve to never give in to any affective impulses that would prove overtures to the enemy, and children reared from afar, detachedly, to perform their duties for the good of the dynasty. They have come of age and brought children themselves, but none of them have ever sat upon his lap. The reins of state need iron hands and a taste of the lash, so that the worst never occurs. And thus has it been for decades of rule, the shame and weakness of his own upstart boyhood light years away. But still the offspring rebels, their own free wills countering that of the State. She needs to remarry, he sternly, coldly tells her, as if there were no other choice. For there is no other choice.

Тайвин Ланнистер

The sexy blonde listens absently, gazing at the crimson draught in her crystal cup and letting it swirl in a little maelström before she can put it to her lips, to erase her golden-haired, peridot-eyed reflection in the blood-like liquid. Uh, when will he ever understand? What does he know? She sighs and sips, then peers into her reflection once more, dwelling upon the signs of fading youth in the corners of her eyes, and the first silver streaks among her gold. She's no longer a child that requires constant parental surveillance... but her weakness and the transience of youth are still the price she has to pay. Finally free from the bruises and fractures wrought by that drunken lout... but who married her off to that drunken lout in the first place? And who wants to marry her off to a mere stripling, right as she's begun her descent into the valley of years? She sighs and takes another sip. You were always daddy's girl, pampered and swaddled in red velvet... but who is the one who knows best, actually? Swaddled and reared and pampered by others, destined to shine in society with a dazzling career of power, as he detachedly looked on and planned to live your life. Her throat is parched. The thirst that cursed her first spouse is all she's inherited from his legacy. No, you were never daddy's girl. You were always daddy's golden egg. Putting the cup to her lips, she quaffs a deep draught, absorbing her own reflection with that kind nepenthe.

Серсея Ланнистер

"Refill," she absent-mindedly commands in a slurred mezzo as the cup is picked by an odd-eyed imp, a fairer shade of blond, who lacks a name card but, nevertheless, needs no introduction. Though both the other pairs of eyes are equally green, one's stare is piercing cold, while the other's is stupidly glazed. The brightest, the most intelligent gleam in the room, is the one in the imp's black right eye, so unlike the left one he's inherited along with the surname. The odd-eyed imp refills the cup of his older sister, such a fool no matter if she's drunk or sober, as a bell rings off in the distance: he waves goodbye at the old blighter and the lady drunk, and leaves with the flacon of liquor in hand. "The bridegroom", he replies. "We shall not let the poor lad die of thirst, shall we?" There's an ironic tone to the imp's words as he shuts the door and saunters into the corridor, flacon and cups at hand.

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SCENE IV - The Fiancés' Chamber

The door to the Rococo-furnished, pastel bedchamber is opened to the cupbearer imp by a redhead who looks visibly tense and insecure, quivering like a leaf on the branch, her lovely heart-shaped face strangely pale, copper-red plaits hanging limp upon a sky blue cleavage to fit the colour of her eyes; her empire waist gown is light, but chaste, with shoulder pads that look like azure wings flanking the cleavage, and a little silvery rope belt. The girl lets the imp in as he places the drinks on the nightstand table and leaves, shutting the door and winking at her. She sighs at the mirror, setting her complicated hairstyle in order, her azure irises downcast below a brow heightened by the crown of braided hair above. She would feel relieved by the fact that her fiancé is now betrothed to another maiden, but a shudder runs down her spine as she thinks of what he might do to the new Reacher bride, and how it will be for her as his wife (no matter how much the latter has confidently reassured the redhead). Now that she has come of age, the lovely bridesmaid has cast aside all childish things. First and foremost, happy ever afters.

Санса Старк

Right as the bridesmaid shuts the door and returns into the room, her former fiancé reaches for the full cup on the table to his left, as he lounges back (too casually for the sharp suit he's wearing) aiming a dart, right-handed, at the pupil of that bloodshot Cyclopean eye, the dartboard fixed to the inside of the door, poison-green irises already covered in a slight glaze of not only self-confidence, keen incisors bared in a glistening, psychotic smile in between a sneer and a smirk, too serious for this mere stripling, his back leaning against the wall and his limbs spreadeagled, lounging as carefree as any young bridegroom of rank on the eve of the great day. As his right wrist releases the sharp projectile, the left one moves towards the stripling's lovely face, splashing against the nearly invisible peach-down on his upper lip, his lips curling as they eagerly absorb the draught of liquid fire. Gulp. Right as the piercing shaft strikes the left edge of the dart-eye's pupil, the amber liquor is searing his throat and descending into his chest, to warm his heart, if there ever was one in there. The young scion is still thirsty, but actually not for strong drink or for blood, but for true love, which he never received in his short life, a violent stepfather having only kindled his own rage, a broken mother trying to fill her own emptiness by catering to his every whim. Little does he know that he will learn what love means when it's too late, that his first sweetheart is actually cajoling him, that there are tainted thorns beneath the Reach rose, and that a single drop of liquid will be enough to quench all of that burning thirst...

Джоффри «Баратеон»

Approaching from stage left, and having just donned her empire-waist bridal gown with a skirt of clustered white satin roses, just like the puffy sleeves, a lovely nutbrown girl with a heart-shaped face like peaches and cream, determined, tears off the freshly-thrown projectile from the dartboard, her amber eyes piercing and keen with a resolve as she has her back turned to the bridegroom, a friendly smile of courtesy shining with light as she turns 180 degrees towards him. She knows the young scion well, what he's done to his former fiancée, what he's done to others. That cruel, conceited little bastard will never live to break any more hearts, she thinks, his throat rising and falling as he swallows a deeper draught. He needed someone to love and who loved him in exchange, and my own cleverness added to his own egotism conceal the real intentions of flattery perfectly, for I shall never wear my heart upon my sleeve. The bride he kisses, the rim of the cup he kisses, is a trap that shall spring when he least expects it. Grandmother told her to be like the thornrose, the soft petals of her peaches-and-cream complexion and her dark hair beneath veils of lacy gauze concealing the piercing, death-laced thorns of revenge underneath.

Маргери Тирелл

He takes the dart from his fiancée's hand without even casting a glance at her, betraying his own self-absorption. And she smiles in response, with a flick of the wrist, proud and contented upon seeing that his eyes are upon her, that the thorny hook is deep in his throat and all she has to do is to reel him in, before turning towards the red-haired maid of honour for a conversation en tête-à-tête. The projectiles fired by the golden-haired lad for a pastime turn to throwing spears and grenades upon a real battlefield, fired in earnest against targets of flesh and blood.


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SCENE V - Two Lovers On the Run

Explosions all around them. Grenades to the left, grenades to the right, harpoons and throwing spears from both Northern and Southron military hidden behind every ruined wall, every fern or bush... It's a flight forwards, and both of these people, her right hand in his left, have to run for their lives, lest a projectile from their persecutors should strike either of them, right as their relationship is already fire-forged. The younger of the two, an adolescent in a sky blue lieutenant's uniform, appears visibly excited, her azure eyes shining with light as her rippling, shapely limbs tense like springs under pressure. One might take this short-haired, ashy blonde maiden for a young man, given her masculine physique and facial features. Towering head and shoulders above her partner, riddled with youthful freckles and acne scars, she looks over her shoulder to see if there anyone has caught a glimpse of them... Once she lost her chance and her niche, and she's still presumed guilty of that crime she didn't commit, but now all of that means nothing to her. All that is on her mind is the fight-or-flight response, and she values her own life far less than that of the disowned enemy heir, faint with fever and blood loss, for whose life she is responsible, and for whose life she now even cares, dragging the weary cripple forwards, her right hand tightly clasping his left. Another grenade explodes to their right, right as she shoves both of them aside. Not all of her innocence is lost, and she has always been doing her best for the sake of those she loves. One look behind more, and her eyes shine with transitory confidence: they're both safe for now, but how long will it last?

Бриенна Тарт

The touch of strong warrior's fingers reassures him, the thirtyish cripple's left wrist as cold and limp as a dead fish. The forward motion of her iron legs urges him forth, his own lower extremities heavy as if laden with lead. No refreshment cools his throat, but her clear azure springs are enough to quench all his fever-thirst. The voice of command of the freckled lieutenant, that awkward stripling (if she could be called a "stripling"), and her steady breathing as they run forth, encourages the febrile commander, though his throat is parched, and his head is heavy, and he's worlds away from home and twin sister, and would rather surrender and let himself be struck where it hurts the most, and shut those weary eyelids of glazed mint-green orbs, like leaves through glass, never to awaken. The crimson uniform with golden facings is all worn and bereft of glitter, the clean-shaven face is now thorny with stubble (now darker, pale with blood loss as he is), the golden hair buried beneath dark greasy grime, the scorching stump of the right wrist (that arm in a sling) throbs and, though freshly disinfected, sends dark poisoned blood up the veins, setting his whole self on fire... He imagined death so much it feels more like a memory. Far from drawing-rooms and officers' mess halls, as a prisoner of war on the run bereft of his surname, the strings that once restrained him finally cut, he becomes a person of flesh and blood, his nature weighed down by heat, thirst, fatigue, illness, pain... but also encouraged by hope. What he felt for his twin sister is not the true love of his innocent, blue guiding star.

Джейме Ланнистер

Her strong right grip in his limp left wrist, the commander and the lieutenant storm hand in hand across enemy lines, through fire and ice. She leads with all her strength, no matter how much it wavers, and he wearily follows, riding the coattails of her youthful impulse, no matter if that exhaustion should mean the end of his life, a demise which he once saw as far more inglorious than falling upon the field of battle. Ever since he was cut at the right wrist, the world is turned upside down, or rather like a reflection in a mirror, while she finds herself a counterweight to her childlike insecurity. A maiden hopes, a warrior despairs. And their threads of life entwine in parallel.


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SCENE VI - On a Porch in the Friendly Shade

Shutting the locket with the picture of a young woman and her children, as bronze-skinned and raven-haired and lithe as himself, the dashing Dornishman breathes a heavy sigh, until his lungs are utterly empty. The smiles of his dear sister and little niece, the sparkles in their black eyes, and the innocently sleeping infant, bring back painful memories of happier days, of before the tragedy that he had been powerless to stop. That's why he told his paramour that he wanted to be on his own for a while. On his own, well, actually, accompanied by his kin at heart. No matter how much he's detached himself, those thoughts always return, like highwater in the evening. And, like the tide ebbs, they will ebb as well. For lustrums he has always been fleeing forwards, never stopping in the same place for too long, with a paramour in every port, now as a learned scholar, now as an officer of fortune, now as a socialite with a penchant for risqué games, his reputation always preceding him in advance. Ever seeking sensations, temptations, elations; his joys as vivid as his sorrows, and vice versa, drinking the cup of life at deepest draughts, quaffing the bitter hangovers as well as the intoxicating euphoria. Half-opening the locket as his chest heaves once more, he peers into the picture within, then closes it shut once more.

Оберин Мартелл

Shutting his weary black eyes, he flashes back to the grim sight of her headless form lying prostrate in a pool of blood, her daughter's in the same state by her side, the infant crushed against the wall, but the young Dornishwoman who tried in vain to protect her children from strong, bloodthirsty men of war, over her own life, dominates the lurid composition.

Элия Мартелл

It takes only an instant for his eyelids to jerk back open and drink in the bright sun of a new cloudless day. This is harsh reality, and he's gotten used to it for decades, though it's shocking every single time. Sooner or later, before midlife sets in (the good all die before thirty-five), he will return home. Quench that burning thirst for revenge, along with that burning thirst for life and experience. And confront the ones who took his sister and her children, dying himself quickly and violently, but finally in peace. The countdown has just begun.

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SCENE VII - Playing a Board Game in the Drawing Room from Before

Stroking his sharp salt-and-pepper goatee, a slender, shrewd entrepreneur lingers before his side of the cyvasseboard with concentrated grey eyes, calculating all the possible positions that his pieces can move to within the honeycomb of hexagons. The poker face remains as he lingers on each piece for a while, thinking as logically as it has allowed him to rise in status, all the way up to pleasure-parlour baron. Of course he admires his present opponent, that innocuous-looking foreigner (who knows if there is something deep and red like a stab wound between his thighs?), hated by some and dreaded by everyone... They're both strangers in high society, giving a reason for their mutual awe. Finally, still with that fixed expression, the goateed bourgeois in the silver mockingbird tie reaches for one of his white dragons, making a move he has thought of for an hour.

Петир Бейлиш 

Opposite the entrepreneur on the same cyvasse table, the overweight fellow in the silk kimono has a poker face as well, but a more innocent one that, combined with his lack of hair on both head and face, and his plump frame, makes him resemble the storybook egg Humpty Dumpty, but dressed in a kimono of lilac silk brocade with a wisteria pattern. It's true that his feminine appearance and friendly smile make him look far more innocent and less cold than his opponent, but he knows everything there is to know, every single detail and every single person entwined together with everyone else, how the changes of no consequence will pick up the reins from nowhere, in a tangled web of chance not unlike the tightly-woven silk and gold threads that make up his soft yukata.

Варис

The two dark cyvasse crossbowman pieces which the eunuch has moved against the entrepreneur's white dragon are a tall Braavo in a doctor's mask, with that long beak over two-tone hair (crimson with white streaks, like a candy cane), and a nimble dark catgirl with eyes as grey as steel.
Thus, the circle is closed.