[x] Blame the Maester There's no plot, and you were never dead. The only one at fault here is the incompetent Maester who declared you dead when you were just unconscious. What an idiot.
97+Diplomacy 16=113; Critical Success!
You hate to throw the Grand Maester to the wolves when you really were dead, but the only way to distract your father from a scapegoat is to find another scapegoat. You put on an amused smile.
"Did you really all think I was dead?" you ask your audience. "To think you were preparing to take vengeance for me, father – I feel so loved." You know he did it out of fear that any assassin prepared to strike at you would also try to kill him, but your tone is so warm and sincere that no-one present could believe the truth. You step forward and place yourself in between him and Tywin. You hear more songs when you stand there, but you ignore them to focus on your performance. "The truth is, I was just unconscious. The Maester misidentified my condition – somehow," you let just the right amount of contempt drip into that last word, "– and I woke up in the sept with Lord Connington trying to stand vigil over me." You hear Jaime chuckle.
"There was no 'assassination plot' or anything of the sort. It was just a routine jousting accident, fanned into a crisis by a very unfortunate miscalculation on the part of Maester Pycelle." You shrug casually. "He does complain about his eyesight as of late. Perhaps it was simply old age?"
Your father's face has been growing darker with rage as you speak, and you have barely finished when he spins to face the Kingsguard. "Get me Pycelle!" he barks. "I would speak with that incompetent worm!"
While the king paces and rages near the dungeon entrance, you take the opportunity to ingratiate yourself with the two men in the cells. First, you sidle closer to Jaime. He leans against the bars and gives you a wry smile. "Sorry about not killing you." He pauses. "Wait, that sounded better in my head. I'm glad I didn't kill you?"
You smile reassuringly. "I'm glad too. You were actually very impressive out there. I admit…I probably underestimated you. I suppose I should have listened when Ser Arthur praised your skills." It's flattery, but it's mostly true. The young Lannister is a prodigy with the blade and the lance.
His eyes widen. Good gods, he looks so innocent. "The Sword of the Morning talks about me?"
"He knighted you, didn't he? He wouldn't do that if he didn't think you had skill. Keep practicing, and you might be great someday," you add. You don't want the kid to get too confident. That would just lead to his death, on one blade or another.
With Jaime suitably encouraged, you walk next to the cell of his father. Lord Tywin is standing perfectly straight on the rushes, face impassive as usual, eyes fixed on Aerys as if he could kill the man through determined thought. He acknowledges you with a nod.
"My lord," you murmur, careful that you're not speaking loudly enough to be overheard by the king, "allow me to apologize for any indignities you have suffered as a result of my father's…zealous concern."
His eyes finally move from Aerys onto you. He studies you a moment before speaking: "I would prefer an apology from the king himself, considering how we got into this situation."
"You and I both know that's a hard thing to get." You feel that Tywin would appreciate some honesty here, instead of excuses. "His pride prevents him from admitting when he's wrong. You may have to be satisfied with mine." He stares at you, as if he wants to claim that he totally could get Aerys to apologize. "Is anyone else in the dungeon beside you and your son?"
He nods. "Eight of us in total. Every Lannister that was at the tourney…except Gerion." His teeth clench in frustration. "My youngest brother has not been seen since the day before yesterday. No, don't be concerned," he says, noticing your expression. "He does this periodically. He will return, after spending a large sum of money, and spin vulgar and exaggerated tales for the children. It is preferable to him embarrassing me in places frequented by nobility."
Maester Pycelle has arrived, dragged in by Ser Hightower and a couple of guards. Unkempt and still in his nightshirt, he keeps glancing around like a frightened rabbit. The king pounces.
"PYCELLE!" he roars. "What sort of education did they give you at the Citadel?"
"Well, your grace, I would like to stress that, first of all, there is no need for such—"
The king cuts him off. "Did you or did you not study medicine?"
"I did! I have five silver links on my chain! I, I have administered to you, your grace, and to your father –"
"Then HOW," the king grabs your arm – fire, the chaotic roil of burning rock – and pulls you forward, "could you say my son is dead when he CLEARLY is NOT?" The room is silent. Pycelle's endless stream of excuses dried up, he can only stand there, looking at you with his mouth gaping like a dead fish.
"Were you lying to me, Pycelle?" asks the king. "Trying to trick me into executing my most faithful servant? Or are you merely an idiot?"
"Are…are you…" The Maester stammers, too terrified to talk. He knows what happens to those that King Aerys deems traitors. He looks at Lord Tywin, desperately, but the Lion does not react. Then he looks at you. "Are you certain that that is the crown prince?"
"What kind of defense is that?" screams Aerys. "Go now, you imbecile! You will not poison any courts in Westeros with your stupidity again. I banish you! I banish you from the Seven Kingdoms! You have one day to leave my domain before your life is forfeit!"
"But your grace!" implores the Maester. "We are in the middle of the Riverlands!"
"Do not test my patience." The king pushes Pycelle away. "Go!" He stumbles, clutching on to your arm for support. Eventually the guards manage to grab hold of him. They carry him up the stairs while he weeps inconsolably. His tears are so impressive that you wonder if they're fake.
Pycelle is barely up the stairs when Lord Lannister speaks. "May we go now?" he asks, managing to sound completely bored despite the drama that has just occurred. Jaime, you notice, looks pensive.
Aerys turns around as if he had forgotten the Lannisters were there. "Oh, yes. You can go now. It turns out you're not traitors after all Tywin, isn't that great?" He gives his former Hand a sunny smile.
"As I told you, old friend. As I told you all along," Tywin mutters as the Lord Commander unlocks the cell doors. He steps out as casually as if Hightower had been helping him out of a carriage. As your father flitters off and Lannister starts directing the guards to find the rest of his family, Jon leads you out of the dungeons.
The sun is halfway over the horizon and it already looks bright as noon to you – in the parts of the castle with windows, at least. Jon looks tired to death, and you realize that he must have stayed up all night for you. "You should get some rest," you tell him. Before he objects, you place a firm hand on his shoulder – you hear the sky-song again – and smile. "I'm going to bed too. We still have time to get some sleep before the jousting starts." He nods, and you let him go. He goes to his room, and you go to yours, which you're sharing with Elia.
At home, you have separate chambers, but even Harrenhal is struggling to contain the enormous number of guests Lord Whent has invited for the tourney. So you share. It's not so bad. Actually, while we're on the subject of your wife, how do you feel about her?
[ ] You tolerate each other She's fine. There are many worse matches your parents could have made.
[X] You are good friends You share many interests and enjoy spending time together. But the spark of romance has never blossomed between you, and you're not quite sure why.
[ ] You love each other dearly She's so beautiful, and intelligent, and compassionate, and considerate, and she has the loveliest handwriting…
Very good. Oh, and one more question: As a member of the royal family, you tithe to the Faith and attend ceremonies in the Great Sept of Baelor. You swore the oaths of your knighthood in the Seven's name. All this you do as expected. But how do you think of the gods in private?
[ ] You follow the gods of your forefathers The Seven-who-are-One, worshipped across Westeros. The Seven bless your kingdom in myriad ways, and you pray to them for wisdom and strength.
[X] You follow the gods of your older forefathers The Fourteen Flames, once worshipped in Valyria and her colonies. The information on them is fragmentary, but what you have found speaks of the powers your ancestors used to dominate Essos. Furthermore, you adore the high value placed on art and beauty.
[ ] You're skeptical of religion There are a thousand gods worshipped all across the world. Why should you follow one path, just because your ancestors did? How can you be sure that any one way is the right way?
Congratulations, guys. Your very first roll was a critical success, meaning your father completely believed you AND you improved your relationship with Jaime and Tywin.
