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When Desmond woke up to find himself reborn a street rat in a city so full of filth the fumes of it could swim before his eyes, his first thought was, Oh, not again.
The second was the realization that he didn’t have the Animus interface, and that Wow, it's been a while since I’ve been bruised to shit like this. Wounds didn't last in the animus, and the last time he’d been beaten black and blue had been at the Farm.
He picked himself up from the corner of the street, and found he was half again his old height- a very strange sensation- and clumsily climbed his way up the building next to him.
If anything, the fumes off the shit in the streets was worse up here.
But when Desmond activated his Eagle Vision, an awareness came to him, a faint etching of a faded map in his mind's eye of a district called Flea Bottom, of King’s Landing.
“Well. Shit then.” His voice was high, childish. “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
And he grew up there, although granted he did end up choosing to live outside of Flea Bottom, where the stench of the city was the worst of all the city's crowded streets. He wandered from Raeny’s Hill, where he enjoyed exploring the depths of the Dragon Pit, down past the River Row and its Mud Gate. There were quite a few passages in the caves beneath that led up into the great Red Keep on its castle cliff (and also a stench of rotting fish, if one wanted to smell something other than just shit).
Desmond has looted so much shit from the castle with such an easy backdoor.
But… he always ended up circling back to Flea Bottom.
For a time Desmond was one of Varys’ “little birds”, as the foreign eunuch did not show red to him. But as time passed, his fellow “little birds” began to show flickers of red, along with more and more people that he was tasked to keep an eye on… he left.
That kind of life… it just wasn’t worth it.
And as he ages, killing those who glow red and stealing their gold and steel and sometimes their boots, he ends up accidentally making something of a Thieves’ Guild. Well, he calls it that, but really its just more of a loosely termed brotherhood. An agreement among the forgotten bastards that chose to occasionally lend another a helping hand, be it a warning that the Gold Cloaks were on the move or a certain street corner rendered unsafe.
Sometimes, that meant that when someone got a haul too large to protect alone, they would split it among themselves, and then guard it as a group. There was no Iron Bank for the likes of them, after all.
But has he aged, he grew, and grew, and grew. And eventually, it became quite obvious just whose bastard he was, especially given his unusual strength.
As much as Desmond rather hates being the bastard son of a man like Gregor Clegane, at least his strength comes from this world; and not a remnant of the Apple, like its imprint that remains a birth scar on the palm of his right hand.
At least he had the luck to be born with his old face, gold eyes and all.
Desmond idly wonders if all his reincarnations will carry Eagle Vision, then shrugs and moves on.
Then, when he’s sixteen, or six-and-ten, as it’s said in Westeros, news spreads through the city that the Hand of the King is dead, and that the King rides North.
All this means to Desmond, since he is determinedly not involved, is that the Red Keep will be even easier to steal from, with the King, Queen and their royal prat of a Crown Prince and all their entourage now gone from its halls.
He’s been given a commission by a few of the ladies from the Street of Silk to make off with some dresses fit for a noble lady- and he knows exactly where to take them from.
Desmond’s explorations have led him to a few areas in the Red Keep that are used as storage- and a fair few of those rooms are full to the brim with discarded clothing.
As much as he would enjoy stealing directly from some stuck up noble, the type that likes to spit on people in the streets instead of tossing them a coin… he has no wish to entice them to turn their hand on those under their employ. He has no wish to turn those from gainful employment to a hard life on the streets should their family be unable to take them back.
The commissions get bolder, the longer the Royal Family is absent, and some he has to shut down, hard.
No, he is not going to steal the Queen’s garments! Pick another Lannister to lust over, that one is as crazy as a fox in a hen-house and backed by the entirety of the Lord of the Westerlands and known to take twice as much as valued to any slight she’s perceived!
They might not care that the Queen will certainly assume anything stolen would be by her servants, but Desmond certainly does. Call him soft hearted if you will- but he won’t steal such things at the cost of innocent lives. And when those men try to enforce that he steals for them… well.
They may think that a sword would intimidate him, but his daggers more than suffice to take leave of their fingers. Sometimes he even beats them with their own swords, only to force them to stand upright in the stone by their heads in an intimidating (easy) show of strength.
Sometimes, he finds a sword he longs to keep with how well balanced it is for his hand. But unless he changes to fashion himself as a sell-sword instead… well. Maybe in a few years.
But a boy of six-and-ten that still doesn’t have a full beard yet only leaves himself open to ridicule and a closer eye from the Gold Cloaks, taller than them or not. They’ll only see a boy with cock-sure bravado.
Desmond can wait a few years for his beard to come in, for all that he plans to keep it close shaven.
Until then, he’ll just keep beating them with their own swords.
The Royal Family returns two and half months from when they left, and they return with their new Hand of the King.
Desmond straightens from where he stands, half hidden on a balcony.
For the first time in this new life… he sees people that glow gold.
He lets out an explosive sigh, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw and leans against the balcony.
“For fuck’s sake… and I’d managed to avoid being involved with nobles so far.”
A crow lands next to him, having a strange gray halo to it.
It grackles at him, sounding like a laugh.
Desmond turns away from the gold, ugh, figures in the distance, flying the white direwolf banners to glare at the bird.
“Yeah, fuck you too, Peeping Tom.”
Desmond has no idea who the fucker looking through the eyes of the crow is, but for some reason, he likes to watch Desmond.
And after Desmond got tired of being spied on by him, he started taking up targeting whatever bird or crow that happened to have that distinctive halo. Sometimes rocks, sometimes food.
Either way, whoever it is realized that Desmond could always tell he was there, so instead of watching from a distance, he brings the birds to land and observe him directly.
Peeping Tom is a little shit, though.
Whoever he is, he must be watching through the eyes of the birds and eating metaphorical popcorn, with all the times he catches the birds mimicking laughter.
Desmond can’t really blame him though.
The way the lordlings speak and take themselves so seriously for the dumbest of reasons and continuously make fools of themselves…
A few times they’ve even run some pranks together, Peeping Tom flying into a face a just the right moment so they trip over their cape and roll in the filth of the streets and have a march of shame back to the Red Keep; Desmond slipping past and pulling their cape over their heads and making off with their purse while they bullied some poor stall worker…
Just, small things. But Desmond gets the feeling that Peeping Tom hasn’t been able to engage in such casual mischief in quite some time.
Ah, well. Nevermind that.
Desmond gets the feeling that these Starks of Winterfell are going to completely upend his way of life.
Desmond doesn’t actually see the Starks again until the tourney in honor of the Hand of the King- although the Hand doesn’t seem too happy to be there.
The elder Stark girl seems to be making moon eyes at Prince Joffrey, much to the younger’s disgust, as is the way of siblings everywhere.
Desmond is in the crowds across the Royal Stands- not directly, but a bit to the side, so he’s not in direct sight of the Hound. He knows that there’s no love lost between the Clegane’s, but he looks enough like Gregor, especially with his height, that he’d still not rather be in his Uncle’s direct line of sight.
That means he sees the coveting looks Littlefinger gives the elder, very much underage Stark daughter, the concealed hatred towards the Lord Stark…
Yikes.
Stark has barely been in the city a week and the stress has drawn his long face even longer. No wonder- the poor, honorable man has found himself in a pit of vipers and only the sixty some people of his household are loyal to him. He’s floundering, a winter wolf in a desert storm, nose blind and lost.
When the next joust comes, Desmond finds himself abruptly glad that their helmets are so hard to see in. He was not ready to see the Mountain that Rides, his blood father, take to the field.
Perhaps he should have- he is known for his love of blood sport.
Desmond has never really watched any of the tournaments aside from a few brief moments. Mostly he was taking the coin from those who could afford to lose it while they were distracted, and thus he was never in one area for long. Bit self-explanatory, that.
He crosses his arms, and sits back to watch both the joust and the Royal Box.
This whole situation leaves a bad taste in his mouth- and this time, its not the beer.
When the man next to his sperm donor was announced as Ser Hugh of the Vale, Desmond studied him, surprised. He’d heard that little Hugh that he’d scuffled with a few times while disguised as a servant cook in the Red Keep as a “little bird” of Varys had been knighted after the old Hand had died, but to see him here? Now?
Desmond grimaced, and set aside the rest of his beer.
Somehow, he got the feeling that Ser Hugh’s chance of getting to experience being the knight he’d always wanted to be was about to be very short lived.
And not even two passes of the lance into the joust happened before his premonition came unfortunately true.
Not a pleasant way to go, drowning in his own blood around a wood shard to the throat.
Desmond left his seat and made his way to the edge of the crowd, readying himself to leave, but turned back as he heard that Clegane would joust the next.
He looked back to see another knight, this one in armor far shinier than even Hugh’s and five times as detailed, riding in on a placid white mare.
But with how Clegane’s stallion immediately started chomping at his bit and dancing antsily… he smiled.
Very clever.
He turned to watch.
Watching his rapist father get his ass dumped in the dirt was absolutely a moment he’s committed to memory. The beheading of his horse he could do without. And the Crown Prince’s look of maniac glee at watching the Clegane’s battle each other… that worries him. It’s certainly adding credence to some of the worst rumors he’s heard about the Prince.
That timely kneel of his uncle was definitely pretty badass though.
Desmond knocks on the wood post of the tent, then ducks inside when a somewhat familiar male voice calls to enter.
Luckily, the tent is tall enough he can comfortably stand once inside, and he’s greeted by a slightly wary Ser Barristan Selmy.
Desmond smiles at him, softening the curve of his shoulders and clasping his hands together before him. He knows from lifetimes of practice that such a stance can make any man seem more humble and less imposing- Altaïr certainly made the most use of it, but even Ezio has used such a posture, for all that he didn’t make a habit of it.
“It’s good to see you again, Ser Barry.”
The old knight blinks at him, surprised, then studies his face.
Desmond helps him along a little, “Last you saw me I was a kitchen boy, near yay high.” He unclasps a hand to gesture around his mid-thigh. “And I was constantly getting into scuffles with Hughie,” he nods toward Hugh’s body where it lies being prepped by the Silent Sisters.
Ser Barristan lets out a startled laugh, finally having placed him. “Gods! Des, you certainly got big!” He clasps forearms with Desmond in greeting. “Unfortunate, how we meet again.”
Desmond grimaces. “Yes, it certainly is. I never did get to congratulate Hughie on getting his dream, and now I never will. But I was in the stands when it happened. And, well… I know he’s got no family to stand vigil for him, and as much as we scuffled as boys… we weren’t enemies, and I’d like to think he’d do the same for me, if I were in his place.”
And while all of this is true… Desmond has already seen Lord Stark, and his distinctive golden glow of importance, tracing the old steps of the last Lord Hand.
Seeing as Hugh was the old squire of the last one, Desmond is willing to bet that Lord Stark is going to be wanting to see his body.
But in the meantime, Desmond ‘Des’ Waters and Ser Barristan Selmy speak to the memory of what they could recall of Ser Hugh ‘Hughies’ of the Vale, until they drift off into companionable silence as the sun begins to rise with the dawn of the next day.
And with the dawn, comes the Lord Stark.
Of course, Desmond doesn’t know he’s arrived until after he comes back with a bit of bread and some grapes to have both him and Ser Barristan to break their fast on and catches sight of Lord Stark just as he enters the tent.
“Does Ser Hugh have any family in the capital?”
“Not family, no. I stood vigil myself last night, along with a childhood friend of his that happened to be in the stands.”
“Where is this friend?”
Desmond takes that as his cue and knocks lightly on the tent’s pole.
“Ser Barriston, it’s Des. I’m back with a bite to eat after the long night.”
Lord Stark answers for him.
“You may enter.”
Desmond ducks through the flaps slowly, careful not to spill the bowl of grapes he carries- and also give time for Lord Stark to give him room to enter. He’d been standing a bit close to the entrance.
He takes in how the Lord Stark twitches his hand toward his sword, before he takes in his slightly darker skin, honey gold eyes and stronger nose.
Desmond smiles sadly at the Hand.
“Aye, it’s a cruel bit of irony for the bastard of the Mountain to be friends with one killed by him.” Desmond nods toward Hugh’s body. “We used to scuffle around the Red Keep, back when I was a kitchen boy, m’lord.”
“What have you taken up since, if you no longer work in the kitchens?”
Desmond shrugged. “I went back to my roots as a bastard of Flea Bottom, finding odd jobs ‘round the city. I'm a fairly popular choice at the docks, given my strength. Once I started growing, it became obvious just whose bastard I was, and I decided distance was a healthier lifestyle choice. I had no desire to become the next Hound, be it by a Clegane hand, or a Lannister one.”
Ser Barristan jolted as he seemed to realize something.
“Is that you then, that's been leaving all those Swords in the Stone?”
“Aye,” he said with a quicksilver grin. “I’m a big target- either they take care of me, or I take care of them. I find sheathing their swords in ways they struggle to unsheath them leads to them being unable to use them; and an easy way to turn the situation into a bit of a joke as they wear themselves out of their blind rage down to more easily pacified bruised egos. Far less bloody than a broken nose. Bite to eat, m’lord?” He tilts the bowl of fruit and its slices of bread toward the Hand.
Lord Stark takes a slice of bread out of what seems near habit, which he seems to realize after looking for salt to dip it in.
Desmond offers the rest of the bowl to Ser Barristan, taking a slice of bread and a bunch of grapes for himself.
Lord Stark takes a moment, before turning to the armor stand in the corner.
“He’d never worn this armor before.”
“Aye. Probably bought it just for the tourney, He’d only been knighted a few moons.” Desmond says between grapes.
“Bad luck for him, going against the Mountain.” Ser Barristan nods.
“Who determines the draw?”
“All the knights draw straws, Lord Stark.”
“Aye. But who holds the straws?” The Hand looks at Ser Barristan, then glances back at Ser Hugh’s body. “You’ve done good work, Sisters.”
The Hand goes to leave the tent, but Desmond raises an arm and bars him.
“Pardon me, m’lord. But a word of caution for you.” Desmond looks him in the eye, dropping his smile.
“When investigating, be sure you conduct business at every place you go. People talk. And you? Are not subtle. King’s Landing is a nest of rats and vipers, and someone is always squeaking.”
Desmond smiles, and steps back with a slight bow.
“There’s a shipment due from White Harbor in two days at the docks on the ship Moonmaiden. I’ve a job there to help unload it. If you have any questions, the captain knows how to reach me discreetly. I’d ask him about his route, and how long he’ll be in the capital- you might find it of interest while you talk over his wares.”
He dips his bow a notch further and uses it to slip out of the tent soundlessly. The third day of the tournament is beginning, and he uses the crowds to disguise his path.
He just offered Stark a rather enticing lead, and instead of ambushing him with all the detail, left only a word of warning and a more secure way to meet again.
Desmond would have been glad to tell him in the tent, but one of the Silent Sisters glowed a warning red. At least the Captain of the Moonmaiden has always been solid blue to him, and as he’s from White Harbor, he’s beholden to Lord Stark as well. No doubt he can create a secure way to meet on his ship, and if Desmond finds that there’s still a hidden ear, it will be easy to have it removed.
“Well, m’lord, you’ve certainly been busy.” Desmond says, carrying a crate by himself down the docks. Several teams of two nearby struggled with their own loads. “Captain Harker Mollin’s still aboard, if you still wish to speak with ‘im.”
Desmond sets his crate down and glances back at the other crews. Hums thoughtfully.
“Deck should be fully clear in about an hour, for both cargo and crew.”
Lord Stark nods and flicks him a grout, which Desmond catches and mimes a tip of the hat in thanks before heading back to for another crate to carry. He does, after all, have a job to finish.
And true enough, just past an hour later, the ship is unloaded and under minimal guard while the rest go to spend their newly earned coin among the taverns and brothels and street merchants.
And Desmond is in the Captain’s Quarters, where good ol’ Captain Harker tries to get him to join his crew after every job. Only this time, his Lord, Eddard Stark, drinks with them.
“If you’re here, m’lord, then you have questions. But… seeing as you are no longer the Hand… I’m curious. Is it for a discreet exit, or are you still curious over the fate of the late Lord Hand?”
Lord Stark says nothing, but stares at him patiently.
Fair enough. Don’t bait a man with information then ask him more questions when he arrives.
“So, you’ve seen Gendry by now, I trust? Probably had the Spider whisper in your ear, and perhaps his rival Baelish has spoken to you as well?”
Lord Stark’s eyes narrow. “Aye.”
“'Aight then, from here on I’ll speak frank, and true. You won’t like it.”
Desmond waits for Lord Stark to nod, then he starts.
“Knowing them… well, you don’t know them, you've only just come to King’s Landing. Varys claims that everything he does is for the realm, which is true. His vision is just not the same as yours. He will say what needs said, to get others to agree to things they don't necessarily agree with, if only so the realm doesn’t fall into complete anarchy.
In this case, he will try to keep whoever is on the throne, on the throne, true king or otherwise, until his web is shredded and must be rewoven entirely. Only then, if he can not see a single way to continue from his current position, will he move on.
Any change in regime is not a pretty one. And no matter if your cause is right, you are a fool if you think a Lannister will ever give up any power, perceived or otherwise. It doesn't matter if Cersei is a woman, or a mother.
She is already Queen, and will remain Queen even once Robert is dead, and even all her children, should it come to that. She is entitled, self-absorbed, and believes that she is above reproach. Yes, she fucks her twin. She also fucks whatever pretty blond Lannister is at court that she has power over. Right now its her cousin squiring for the King. She must think herself equal to the Targaryens.”
Desmond stopped a moment to wet his throat. Lord Stark's hands were clasped so tightly his hands were white, the tendons in his jaw stood out from their flesh. His gray eyes had the focused strength of a wolf’s stare.
“Now. Baelish. Here’s the part you’re going to hate. He’s in love with your wife. Has been, ever since he was a little boy. And he loathes the Starks. You can thank your brother Brandon for that one. When he was humiliated as a boy, he took Lysa’s maidenhood as revenge, but she’s in love with him. And then, years later, after he’s worked his way all the way to Master of Coin… Lysa doesn’t have a child until they once again share the same estate?
But now… tell me, have you seen how he looks at your pretty red haired daughter? Have you seen how all his top whores are red of hair?”
Desmond takes another sip of his drink and leans forward.
“Lord Stark, you and your family are not safe here. You might have been, if the King hadn’t been so lost in his cups and despair since he took the throne. If the King dies, you will have no allies in this city but the host you brought with you. And 50 men-at-arms is not enough for you to escape safely from King’s Landing. If you do anything, write a letter, leave it for the King, and be gone before he reads it. Or you will die, like your father did, publicly. And with great spectacle.”
Desmond sat back. This felt like the precipice the Auditore’s had once stood on. But will it be enough?
Desmond stares up at Ned Stark from where he stands, head bowed on the platform.
Just like the Auditore.
If the eldest Stark daughter is Claudia in this, then who is Ezio in this- the younger daughter??
Fuck.
Desmond immediately scanned the crowd of seething red-tinged gray.
There! A golden glow, with a blue one rapidly shoving its way towards it.
With that one in hand, Desmond pulls up his hood and face mask and makes his way to the side of the stage. The elder daughter is likely to be of use as a hostage- especially if this manages to work.
And sure enough-
“Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!”
And the crowd goes wild.
Two armored men come forward and force Lord Stark to his knees, and a third pulls on a black gaolers hood, drawing a prepared greatsword. Desmond recognizes the pommel- Really? Executing the man with his family sword? Yeah he’ll just take that, thank you.
Desmond leaps upon the parapet, grabs the greatsword, and does a spinning swing on his knees.
While definitely looked cool as fuck, seeing as he beheaded Ser Ilyn and the two holding down Lord Stark in the same swing, his skinned knees hidden in his breeches beg to differ.
In the silence that follows, Desmond can hear the cackling laugh of Peeping Tom. And while everyone is still reeling, snags the sheathe from the squire, sheathes the damn sword, hauls the Lord Stark over his shoulder, and then hauls ass out of there, as fast as he can run.
He can hear the so-called King screaming behind him, his voice going so high in rage that it eventually breaks and goes shrill and hoarse.
Desmond has no idea what the insane brat said, he was busy running before the guards could surround him.
Ideally, he’d like to just go over the wall and get out of King’s Landing. But practically?
He heads towards Flea Bottom, then cuts hard and dives down in a tunnel access that will take him back into the Red Keep. Literally no one would think to check the tunnels below the Red Keep. They never check back while they're all out scouring the streets.
But he’s not the only one who explores these tunnels. Varys’ “little birds” make frequent use of them as well, along with some of those in his own Thieves’ Guild. And all of them would turn on him in a heartbeat for the no doubt insanely high offer ‘King Joffrey’ will have offered by now.
But for now… he sets Lord Stark down and buckles on the sword belt, the greatsword hanging on him like a bastard sword would on the average man. That done, he kneels and tries to speak to the man he rescued.
His eyes are dazed, unfocused.
Okay, that’s great. Understandable, but dammit he really needs him to not be in shock right now.
Desmond lays him down, then carefully raises his legs in the air by about two handspans, to circulate blood flow back into the torso and brain.
Luckily, Lord Stark comes out of his shock quickly.
“What are you doing?” he rasps.
“Saving your life.”
“I somehow managed to gather that. But why are you holding my legs?”
“Still saving your life. You went into shock from your near miss- raising your legs like this helps to improve blood flow to the rest of your body and bring you out of shock more quickly.”
He smirks.
“It also helps someone who’s fainted, mi’lord.”
"Just like a maid." He quips back.
They chortle a moment, the brief bit of levity a balm.
“You may as well just call me Ned, at this point.”
“Alright, Ned. But fair warning- you may well be going by ‘Eddie’ for a bit, until I can deliver you to one of your bannerman’s holds, if not Winterfell itself.”
“If you do that, Des,” Ned breathes. “You’ll have a place in my lands and halls for as long as you live. And If you happen to also be able to get my girls out of here and back home, I would be forever in your debt, and I’d grant you a name and a holdfast, should you like it.”
“Let's save that for when we get there, yeah? And aye, you can keep calling me Des, but I figure you ought to know my full name, since we’ll be together for a while.”
He licks his lips nervously.
“It’s Desmond Waters.”
Ned glanced at him, startled.
“Bit Ironic, I know,” Desmond continued, a sardonic tilt to his mouth. “Having a Targaryen style name, what with considering who’s bastard I am. I still don't know if it was because my mother was Braavosi, or to spit on who my father is. But either way, safer to go by Des, especially around the Dornish.”
Ned closes his eyes with a weak nod.
Desmond taps his cheek quickly. “You must stay awake. I know its been a shock to you, but you are not safe, not yet.”
He unhooks his water cask from his belt and holds it before Ned.
“If I give you this, can you remember to sip at it slowly? I doubt you’ve been fed and watered well while in the Black Cells, but its best to start with very small sips over a large period of time after you’ve been starved. Otherwise, you’ll have it all come back up right quick and end up the worse off for it.”
Ned opened his eyes, clearer now that he has a goal to focus on.
“Aye.”
“Good. I’ll be back. Sansa won’t be reachable at the moment, since we’ve rather kicked the beehive, but I can try and track down your younger daughter. I saw her in the crowd, if for only but a moment.”
“Arya, my younger. I was able to get word to a man of the Night's Watch as I passed him in the crowd. He’ll try to sneak her out, likely hidden as a boy off to join the Watch.”
“Oh good, I’ll know exactly where to find them then. I’ll first run a message to the Moonmaiden, she’ll be our best bet to get you to the North. I’ll tell them to meet us off Sharpe Point, and they’ll say that they will be making for Braavos like they sometimes do instead of heading directly back to White Harbor. They’ll say its to avoid Stannis’ Fleet, which won’t be a lie.”
“Not Duskendale?”
“No. They’ll search the ship before it sets, seeing as it goes North. They’ll also be searching north of King’s Landing. They won’t think to look south first. It’ll be a longer ride, but a safer one.”
“Aye. Good thinking.”
“Then I’m off.”
“Gods be with you.” Ned whispers.