The Three-Headed Dragon: A Viserys Targaryen Quest Continuation [abandoned]

Finally, a Re-Cap of Exiled Dragons
Previously, on Game of Thrones
Exiled Dragons

Fate turns fickle and changes to canon begin early when we first join Viserys Targaryen. Beginning in a sad dream of youth, he remembers the last time he saw his mother, when Rhaella swore him to protect the newborn Daenerys, and he became a dutiful protector instead of his canon self. The next six years of his life pass in the blink of an eye, as the declining Ser Willem Darry does what he can to instill some knowledge and skill to the young prince. But all too soon, Ser Willem dies, and the carrion bird servants of his household plan to take everything worth a coin ... including the little royals. As time's path diverges further, Viserys overhears their plans, and Ser Willem dies in the night with just the children around, instead of the early morning with his servants present, in what might almost be called "lucky breaks". With just enough time to grab a handful of valuables and trinkets (Rhaella's crown and rings, a book of Valyrian myths and fairy tales, a pouch of food to sustain them, and Ser Willem's little black book of names) Viserys and Dany escape into the night.

On the streets of Braavos, they are hunted by a knight of the Vale. Barely evading capture, Viserys discovers within Ser Willem's book a priceless lifeline -- the dying knight had compiled not a list of names with debts to be paid, but Loyalist allies to be called upon, and had arranged passage out of the city with an old contact of his, a thief named Garret of Saltpans. While unusually honourable for a thief, Garret is nonetheless true to his nature, and has a small heist to pull off, and his extraction of the Targaryens is conditional upon their aid. Successfully bluffing their way inside House Forios, Viserys and Daenerys not only net a desperately needed meal, but manage to con the master of the house out of several thousand gold after alleging the master's brother owed them a debt and outsmarting the brother when he reacted badly to their claims. Once out, Garret is good to his word and escorts the children across Essos to (relative) safety.

Meanwhile, in Westeros, the flutters of butterfly wings begin to build the hurricane. Lady Catelyn reconciles more easily with Ned Stark, and, no longer seeing a bastard threat or a taunt of her spousal inadequacy but a little motherless boy, turns kinder to Jon Snow. Jaime Lannister, crushed by self-loathing and unbearable circumstance, resigns his white cloak and departs on the next ship for Essos, hoping for adventure and redemption ... or to die in the attempt. While successful in early blows that hobble the Westerlands and humiliate Tywin Lannister, Balon Greyjoy's attempted rebellion reaps the whirlwind as the Kraken's Folly enrages King Robert to the point of slaughtering all but Balon and his youngest two children, depopulating and razing Pyke almost to the ground, and breaking the back of the Iron Fleet in a display of temper and brutality that forever destroys Ned Stark's love for Robert.

In Andalos, a lonely sept and trading stop becomes a temporary home for Viserys and Daenerys as they labour to learn and grow under the watchful eyes of Garret, a loyalist hedge knight named Warrek, and a septon that once was a bard companion of Prince Rhaegar. A few years of comparative safety pass, but all too soon, sellsword agents of the Usurper discover them. While Viserys' quick thinking and cleverly-worded answers trick the sellswords into killing each other, the Lonely Dragons must once again flee their refuge for parts unknown. Accompanied now by the hedge knight Warrek as well as Garret, the Targaryens are able to hide in plain sight in the Free City of Lys after stumbling across a derelict caravan and appropriating a letter of introduction to the Lysene Conclave of Merchants.

Now conducting himself as Valarr Vaeltigar, an inexperienced yet inexplicably lucky businessman, Viserys effectively turns the Spider's entire network in Lys dark, and spreads a web of his own that places his finger on the pulse of everything and everyone in the city. Things are going well, until they aren't. By chance, Viserys ends up snatched up by a pirate of ill repute, and finds himself in chains, in the cargo hold ... with Ser Jaime Lannister, in similar condition. Brought on deck to negotiate terms, Viserys spots a nearby island and takes a fateful chance, grabbing Jaime and throwing the both of them into the Smoking Sea.

On the shore, Viserys and Jaime agree to work together to survive the Doom, and travel together for weeks until encountering a massive ship bearing Lannister livery. Lord Gerion Lannister, on his mission to recover Brightroar, enlists the castaways and proceeds to explore the Doom with their help. After weeks of searching (and fruitful looting) Brightroar is found, and not a moment too soon -- Euron Greyjoy arrives, with an eye full of business and a soul devoid of reason. Hoping to trigger catastrophe and take Viserys, Euron is instead relieved of an arm and most of his crew by a Brightroar-wielding Jaime, and Euron slips away to fight another day. Departing Valyria, Gerion returns to Casterly Rock and Jaime joins Viserys' company, and Viserys is greeted upon his return with an invaluable opportunity by Garret -- three dragon eggs -- which are quickly snatched by the two men.

In Westeros, the two remaining heirs of House Greyjoy travel north and south as Balon becomes little more than a ghost in the remains of his ruined keep -- Theon thrives under a more sympathetic and welcoming Winterfell, while Asha becomes a ward of Dorne. Ned Stark becomes a reluctant but formidable player in the Game of Thrones, turning the North into an economic and martial force to be reckoned with, and recruits the widower Jorah Mormont to help in seeking Viserys Targaryen. Gerion Lannister sees his daughter legitimized, but has a vicious falling-out with Tywin over the Old Lion's resistance to Gerion marrying Briony...and the truth of Tywin's actions against Tyrion and Tysha. Fleeing before his brother has a chance to seek retribution, Gerion takes his accounts, his gains from Valyria, Briony and their child, and a hastily located and rescued Tysha Lannister, and goes North to become a cadet branch serving House Stark.

Lord Tywin claws his way back up after the Westerlands were hobbled by the Kraken's Folly, but finds the Tyrells have been filling the gaps in Robert's court and finances, bit by bit edging out the Old Lion. Lord Stannis discovers he is being more and more openly sidelined by his older brother in favour of his younger brother, before being disinherited and exiled. Lord Varys finds himself beset by an unknown master of intrigues in Essos, a lucky queen seizing power over most figures and titled men in King's Landing, and a grasping Valeman that sees an opportunity and takes it, leaving the Spider to be found dead in a whorehouse. Lord Baelish, the new Master of Whispers, wins his seat with the information that Viserys Targaryen lives in Lys, though not how or as whom. Between the wiles of the Mockingbird, the ambition of the Queen and the ruthlessness of the Usurper King, a reign of terror and centralising of power begins to take hold in Westeros.

In Essos, the Vaeltigar manse hosts two unlikely travelling companions, Tyrion Lannister and Oberyn Martell. A tense but earnest conversation between Sers Oberyn and Jaime produces a tentative friendship and more solid alliance to see justice delivered for Princess Elia and her children. After attending a party held by the Rogares (and finding them badly wanting) Valarr Vaeltigar and company make for the Free City of Pentos, to exact some petty vengeance on the man who first captured Jaime and put him in chains -- Magister Illyrio Mopatis. After a dinner with Illyrio confirms the existence of an Aegon under the care of Jon Connington, Viserys and his party leave the city ... with Jaime's stolen autobiography recovered, and a master list of Illyrio's covert accounts, totaling in the millions of gold. Making haste to Braavos before their masterstroke is discovered, they meet with the Iron Bank and with minimal fuss completely take over Illyrio's assets.

Meanwhile, the exiled Stannis Baratheon is in Braavos as well, assembling a veritable crusade funded by an Essosi hoping to end the Dothraki threat upon the Freehold. Recognising Viserys for who he truly is, Stannis issues an ultimatum: serve in the crusade and earn his respect, or deny him and risk being transported back to Westeros. Viserys chooses to join. For three months, the army campaigns along the banks of the Rhoyne under Stannis' direction, and he develops a mutual respect with Viserys. Upon arriving at Volantis to face the bulk of the Dothraki horde, the Triarch of the city succumbs to arrogance and greed and attempts to betray the crusaders and turn Valarr Vaeltigar over to a madman seeking an apocalypse.

Euron Greyjoy survived his injuries and the Doom, and has come to Volantis with a crew of Stonemen, an eldritch arm from the depths of the sea, and a plan to use the blood of the Dragon to unleash the legendary Typhon, Mother of all Dragons. Racing through the city as chaos rages, Viserys is able to find Connington's Aegon, abducted from the crusader camps, and discovers it is no Blackfyre pretender or orphan dragonseed, but truly his long-thought-lost nephew, Aegon Targaryen. Unleashing a power not seen in 150 years, Daenerys uses her knowledge of myth and ritual to hatch the three eggs, in what becomes known as the Night of the Dragons. Viserys and Aegon fight together against Euron, and defeat and kill the One-Eyed Crow for good. The crusade crushes the Dothraki, with Jaime single-handedly slaying the infamous Khal Drogo and his next nine lieutenants. While the crusade moves eastward to burn Vaes Dothrak to the ground, Stannis and his Westerosi forces remain in the Free Cities.

In Westeros, the realm reacts wildly to the revelation that not only is Viserys Targaryen alive and not a penniless beggar, he is a wealthy and seasoned warrior, living on an island in the Narrow Sea, with three dragons. The North, knowing that war is coming sooner than winter, begins to mobilise and modernise, with roads being laid, fleets being raised, levies trained and lords assembled as Ned Stark institutes a kind of Small Council to prepare his people for what comes next. The Riverlands are split, given memories of the Mad King and the Trident, and the Vale lords are likewise split, though they remain more in line due to Jon Arryn's unwavering loyalty to Robert. Dorne almost openly celebrates the news, and readies for the war to restore the Targaryens they are sure is coming. The Reach and the Stormlands sit firmly in Robert's pocket, while the Westerlands tremble at the quiet fury of Tywin Lannister at his son's allegiances. The remaining lords of the Iron Islands are united in support for the Targaryens, and discreetly begin to rebuild and reassemble their Iron Fleet, with covert aid from the North at Ned Stark's direction. But the Crownlands suffer directly from the rage and wrath of the Usurper after he hears the news: egged on by his Master of Whispers, Robert orders the disinheritance, imprisonment and/or murder of every dragonseed or Valyrian-presenting person in the Crownlands. The Velaryons and other Targaryen-allied houses barely escape as countless innocents, guilty of no crime beyond passable resemblance to Rhaegar and Viserys Targaryen, are put to the sword in what becomes called the Dragons' Screams.

When news of this reaches Essos, Viserys and Stannis know what must be done: Stannis is permanently estranged from his brothers and swears to serve his true king, as Viserys reluctantly bids farewell to his merchant days to lay claim to the Iron Throne. At the celebration for the crusaders in Volantis, Viserys meets with the Velaryon exiles, led by their bastard uncle Aurane Waters, informing him that the dragonseed exiles have scattered across the Free Cities but will rise at his word to reclaim their homes. After meeting with them, Viserys gets surprised by a clever young lady who snuck into the party -- none other than Arianne Martell. With dancing and drinking and talking together, they fall fast and hard and within weeks they are blissfully married. Not long after, with raising the exiles from Robert's Rebellion and the Screams, hiring the Golden Company, and assembling his court, Viserys III declares war.

Immediately, the North, the Riverlands, the Iron Islands and Dorne raise banners in his name, while the Vale, the Reach, the Crownlands and the Stormlands declare for Robert ... and Tywin Lannister declares neutrality. The campaign begins with surprising successes, as the Velaryons and exiled dragonseed reclaim Driftmark and Dragonstone with a vengeance, and provide a forward base of operations for the Restoration. One contingent of the Golden Company is led by Jon Connington across the Stormlands, and another led into the Dornish Marches by Davos Seaworth, with great success -- the Marcher lords wish to fight to the last and the Dornish oblige them, and the Stormland lords are besieged within their castles until Renly dies and Storm's End falls. In the Riverlands, the Freys are routed and crushed by Edmure, the 'Tully Rock of Doom.'

But not all goes well for the Restoration: lesser sellsword companies serve under Ser Warrek in the Crownlands and fall into a trap laid by the Usurper, leaving Warrek captured and mutilated; Ser Jaime is held prisoner by his father, and a meeting is demanded. At the Stony Sept, Young Dragon and Old Lion meet, and after a major power move by Viserys, Tywin agrees to step down for Jaime to succeed him as Lord of Casterly Rock, and the Westerlands join the Restoration effort. In an ironic echo of the past, a Targaryen moves to face Robert Baratheon on the Trident. After an evening of benevolent visitations for Viserys and ominous night terrors for Robert, battle is met. Men fight and bleed and die, and Viserys finds Robert, raving and seeing Rhaegar in Viserys' place. Jaime Lannister joins the fray as Viserys cuts down the Kingsguards Blount and Trant, and as Robert is about to attempt a killing blow against Viserys, Jaime slays his second king.

The Restoration succeeds, but on a grim note for House Lannister: upon entering King's Landing triumphantly, Lord Jaime discovers Queen Cersei poisoned herself and her children, in a final act of defiance and spite. Given leave to take them home for burial, Jaime leaves King's Landing, as the remaining lords of the Restoration form an acting Small Council and King Viserys III Targaryen takes the Iron Throne.



And now, back to our irregularly scheduled programme.
 
Interlude: The Proud Lord
To Jaime, the solar of Casterly Rock felt like a poor fit for him. Like if he had tried to wear his brother's pants, or one of the Usurper's massive tunics – something he didn't remotely belong in, but here he was trying to force the issue all the same. I might just owe the king another punch in the jaw when I see him again, Jaime thought, for how much horseshit I have to deal with in this seat. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel a lot of sympathy for Viserys, given the seven or more large piles of horseshit he undoubtedly had to handle on any given day. And, really, Viserys didn't have much more choice in having the shit-handling thrust upon him than Jaime had.

But Viserys didn't have Tywin Lannister on his shoulder.

"Cedric Payne is looking for someone on whom to offload his cousin Podrick," Tywin noted from a scroll to Jaime's side. "He's been using the boy as a squire but finds him too great a burden for a knight of his lower incomes and stature, and hopes we might aid him." Tywin thought for a moment. "Gawen Westerling has a son approaching the age of knighthood, does he not?"

"You would know better than I, Father," Jaime said.

"You will need to remedy that, Jaime. As their liege lord, you should have at least passing knowledge of your bannermen's families and their pursuits," he lectured.

Jaime suppressed the urge to point out that he was working on it, along with a dozen other more important things. "And so I will." After a moment, "I do seem to remember a Westerling boy, barely a man, helping Lord Gawen at the Trident. I suppose that could be his son."

"If he's about to become a knight, he'll need a proper squire," Tywin said, leadingly.

Jaime chewed his cheek slightly, then made a small note. "I'll write to Lord Westerling, see if his son has filled the position."

"I advise you to be brief in any letter to Lord Gawen."

"Why is that?"

"The Westerlings are going to be a problem," Tywin remarked. "They very much want to offload their daughter onto someone, and since you've taken your rightful place, I suspect they have you in mind, though she's not an appropriate match. Any letters sent to them should be polite but noncommittal on anything. If they persist, you should begin to be more dismissive, until they receive the message. Subtle responses are often more useful than overt actions."

"Says the man who destroyed two noble houses," Jaime observed.

"A situation like that may arise, yes," Tywin sighed, "but it should not be done with the Westerlings unless absolutely necessary; they have been loyal bannermen these past forty years, they merely seem to need some...gentle reminders that they are bannermen, not peers. Don't take the wrong lesson from me, Jaime," Tywin continued, "such displays of force are not something to be made lightly. It is better to be feared than loved if you cannot have both, but if you must use fear, use it in a way that does not engender terror or hatred. Sometimes, all that is needed is a reminder of what you and your house are capable of, to put your bannermen in line. I needed to establish that fact for our bannermen and the Seven Kingdoms. You should not need to."

"I shouldn't?"

"I would hope not," Tywin said with what was approaching a warm smile. "You are my son, and besides that the most accomplished killer in the world." Jaime began to smile, but it quickly became a grimace that Tywin took no notice of as he went on. "Kings, khals, mad krakens all cannot stand against you. What hope would an uppity bannerman have? Even Mace Tyrell wouldn't be so great a fool as to directly challenge you, and thank the Seven none of our banners can hope to exceed him in that regard. Speaking of the Tyrells, has the king kept you informed of his negotiations with them?"

"He hasn't troubled me with it."

"He is extracting significant concessions from them," Tywin said approvingly. "And he seems to intend to put Paxter Redwyne on trial for his actions in the Narrow Sea. All of this will leave House Tyrell quite estranged from the Crown, and in a position with little to no influence on him. I think that is an opportunity we should exploit."

"While I may still be cross with him," Jaime said witheringly, "I don't think it would be possible to expand our influence on him or in his circle."

"I don't mean an opportunity with the king, though there's always room there," Tywin answered. "I meant with the Tyrells. You know our financial state now," and Jaime wisely refrained from mentioning precisely how long he'd known the main vein has gone dry, "you are known to be the king's closest ally ... and you are the most eligible unmarried man in Westeros. It wouldn't surprise me if Mace wrote to you within a fortnight trying to offer you his daughter's hand."

Jaime's face soured. "Margaery Tyrell is still a child."

"Whose father is a grasping and ambitious man, and now in dire straits in terms of royal influence," Tywin pointed out. "There's no telling what kind of dowry he might offer to try and worm his way back in. He could even try to wed the girl to the young prince, or get the princess married into his line, though I doubt even he hopes to succeed with such an offer." Then he added, "Of course, you could make such overtures as well, with more likelihood of success."

"Daenerys is also a child, Father," Jaime said, "one that I have happened to watch grow up."

"And who better could the king entrust her to?" It seemed to Jaime that Tywin had evidently given this considerable thought, which he then set out to prove. "And should any problems arise with the king's heirs, the one useful thing Robert Baratheon did with his life was legitimise male inheritance through the female line. Any children you and Daenerys Targaryen had would be potential heirs to the Iron Throne."

Restraining his urge to call out Tywin's callousness and calculated thinking, Jaime instead shaped lightly, "We're not even betrothed, and you're already planning to see grandchildren on the Iron Throne again?"

"I plan as far ahead as I'm able, Jaime. It's how I've kept this family intact, kept it thriving."

"Speaking of family, we should talk about the coronation," Jaime pivoted as he shuffled some papers.

"There's nothing to talk about," Tywin gave a small frown. "You will attend as a Warden, a Lord Paramount, and close ally of the king, despite your present estrangement," he added with a dismissive tone. "Your brother will accompany you as he is, for the moment, your heir presumptive," and the tone there made clear how long he expected that to remain the case. "And Kevan, if he can manage to extract himself from a wineskin long enough to remember his idiot son died in service to the last king, will go to demonstrate his loyalty to the new one. I will remain here and act as your castellan."

Jaime only just managed to bury his astonishment at hearing Kevan spoken of with more disapproval than Tyrion, and instead replied, "No, I would rather have you come with me. I want Kevan to remain here -- I still need him out of the wineskin, but he doesn't need that kind of pain, and I don't wish to force it on him. If I vouch for him, Viserys will take me at my word."

Tywin gave a wry smile. "It will never cease to amuse me how much trust a king places in a man who killed both his predecessors. Very well, if you can pull Kevan from his cups, he can stay and I will attend. Was that all?"

"Gerion will be there," he added blithely, without looking up, "and we should set aside our differences with him and his household, stand with them during the ceremony."

"He shouldn't be there at all," Tywin managed to force through gritted teeth. "He's a prodigal layabout, and a disgrace to the name he clings to."

"He's a Lannister. He may fly a different banner and keep to a different land, but he's one of us, and we need to act like it. We will need to be civil with Gerion and present a united front," Jaime said plainly, looking up from the papers.

"We are not a united front, and everyone present will know that," Tywin growled back. "Gerion removed himself from the family when he left here and rode North, and to pretend otherwise would make us look like fools."

Jaime didn't budge. "A lion does not concern himself with the opinions of the sheep." He wore a smile that looked more like one of Tyrion's than one of his own. "I seem to remember hearing that a lot when I was growing up, does it suddenly no longer hold true?"

"Don't try to cleverly throw my own words back at me," Tywin scowled, "leave that to Tyrion, it's the rare field in which he exceeds you."

The smile faded, but the spirit of it remained. "He's had rather more time to practice the skill. How else am I to catch up?"

"The Lord of Casterly Rock doesn't deal in clever words or pointless conversations, Jaime, he deals in actions and commands."

"You're not the Lord of Casterly Rock anymore, Father. I am." Jaime's smile disappeared, and his voice hardened. "You will attend the coronation with me, you will smile at your brother and you will put your arm around him where people can see it, because every day there is an open rift in the family is another day that our house loses respect and the rift widens."

A shadow fell over Tywin's looks. "So you think the family as a whole is more important than the individuals within."

Jaime nodded. "Mother is dead," he said, and watched Tywin react ever-so-slightly to the unexpected twisting of the knife in his old and poorly-healed wounds, before sympathetically twisting a knife in his own matching wounds. "My sister and her children are dead. Before long, you'll be dead, and Uncle Gerion, and me and Tyrion and everyone who comes after us, all dead and rotting in the ground. The family name is what lives on. It's all that lives on. Not gold, not honour or glory, not our personal vendettas, not the estrangement between you and Gerion – the family."

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire slowly consuming its feast of wood. It took what felt like an age for words to break the silence. "You've made your decision, then. Thought out your orders, planned your actions, and you won't be stopped or sidetracked," Tywin said, more as an observation than a question. Jaime still nodded to answer. Then, Tywin gave Jaime a small nod in return. "Good. You're starting to think like the head of House Lannister. Keep doing that, and they'll all follow your lead. As will I."

A noticeable weight lifted from Jaime's back. "There will be no further argument on this," he spoke, trying to match the 'observation, not a question' tone his father had used, with some apparent success.

"None," Tywin answered. "I've spent a long time seeing that the Lord of Casterly Rock's word is final and any who think otherwise get crushed beneath our feet. Far too long to go back on it now, just because I'm not that lord anymore."

Relieved to have that out of the way, Jaime looked down at his desk, and barely restrained a sigh. "Thank you."

Tywin asked, "Is there anything else you want me here for?"

"I do want to ask..." Jaime gathered his thoughts. "Leaving aside Daenerys for the moment, you really believe that marrying the Tyrell girl would be a good idea?"

"I think it would maintain our position and clout, and improve our financial futures," Tywin replied. "Whether or not letting Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother into our lives is a good idea is another matter, a secondary consideration. My first preference, if you cared to hear it, would be the princess -- closeness to the Targaryens and a dragonrider in Casterly Rock would mean that we were welded to the Iron Throne for generations, second only to the Royal Family." He poured both of them small glasses of wine, which Jaime took slowly as his father continued. "Fools think power is a ladder -- either you're climbing or falling, up or down, with no nuance or in-betweens. Power isn't a ladder: it's a wheel. Powerful families orbit around the Iron Throne like spokes on that wheel, sometimes up, sometimes down, but that doesn't matter. What matters is how close you are to that centre. Get close enough and win or lose, up or down, you hardly notice the difference." Tywin finished his small glass and set it aside. "You've gotten very close, my son. Stay as close as you can. If the girl isn't to your liking or she is intended for another, you'll still be close enough to the centre, that you may wed as well as you wish."

Jaime finished his own glass, but poured another as he noted, "When power is a wheel, we can only stay on top for so long. Close to power or not, that wheel never stops turning, Father."

"That only matters to people on the outside," Tywin said with a humourless grin. "And right now, the Tyrells are on the outside, and desperate to get back in before the wheel crushes them. You and the king would do well to discover just what price they're willing to pay to escape that fate."

Jaime sipped at his fresh glass, nodded. "I am glad to have your insights as I'm figuring this business out," and he was slightly surprised to find he meant it. "Perhaps this should become a tradition, so that lords aren't forced to sink or swim when they inherit."

"Perhaps," Tywin agreed, adding to Jaime's surprise. "I won't deny that I am ... glad, I suppose ... to be able to give you guidance and advice, rather than just hope you would do well in my absence. You might suggest this idea to the king, seeing as it has turned out to be rather more clever than I first thought."

"I may just."

Tywin nodded. "Then, if there's nothing else I can do for you tonight?" Jaime shook his head, to which Tywin said, "good night, my lord," and made his exit.

"Good night, Father," Jaime managed to get out before Tywin had left the room completely, leaving him alone with his silent qualms and unending scrolls of paper. Yep, I am definitely punching Viserys again.

-------------

AN: Just a little peek into Lord Jaime's life in the Westerlands right now, while I leave the vote open for a few more days to see if there's any other discussion or votetakers.
 
The Great Work Begins, Part III
Day by day, camps appear outside the city walls, and highborn lords come to expect either some rooms in the Red Keep or to be put up at the Crown's expense in the better inns of the city. The more you meet with them, the more exhausting you find it. One meeting isn't nearly as exhausting as the others, and comes with good news for you.

"I cannot tell you how happy I am to see your face, Garret," you confess in the privacy of your solar. "Lords and ladies tend to start blending together after a while."

"I'm just happy to be back, Your Grace," Garret answers you, "but I won't say I missed the city." His nose crinkles. "Armies and dragons can do a lot, but they can't clear that fucking smell away." You shrug, thinking to yourself that there's probably something that could be done, but you don't know what, and there's more pressing concerns. Like the familiar little book in Garret's hands.

"Am I happy in your news?"

"Probably happier than you were to see my scruffy mug," he says with a grin.

He offers you the book, but you demur. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'll have time to go through it anytime soon. Would you mind giving me the highlights?"

He nods, and starts leafing towards the back of the book. "Ravens from Braavos and Lys came into Dragonstone, and the maester there is now in here," he wiggles the book in his hand for a moment. "20 gold a month is really a small price to pay for his discretion and his loyalties, considering who else is out there. Anyhow, balances and expenses are all detailed here, and while I can't say that the Restoration came cheap, it did come cheaper than we had hoped."


[Your Domain has been updated! Personal Finances have been added!]


In the company of an old friend, you don't mind letting a low whistle escape you. "That … could make quite a difference for things to come. Certainly gives me more breathing room with the Iron Bank and the other creditors banging on the castle doors."

Garret tilts his head back and forth noncommittally. "I wouldn't imagine to advise Your Grace on matters of finance without your say-so."

You don't bother looking up from your food, grabbing a fast lunch between meetings. "Of course you wouldn't. I also wouldn't imagine you'd have any such hesitations with your employer, Master Vaeltigar."

"Thank fuck," Garret relaxes in his chair a bit more. "Never know how a new position or title might change a person, 'til you do."

"You never used to display such caution with me, Garret."

He sets the book down a moment, and ticks off fingers. "You never had an army, gold cloaks, castle guards, and Kingsguards between me and you. Used to be just Warrek and Jaime I had to get past if I wanted your time."

"Point taken," you say before taking a bite, and wait until you've finished to speak again. It might be an old friend with you, and that friend might be Garret, but you still had some standards of propriety. "So what's your thinking?"

"Those other creditors are banging on the door 'cause they don't know how much gold you really got, so they think if they aren't first in line they'll have to wait to get paid." Garret fiddles with the book again. "They find out, they're gonna climb over the doors, look for faster payment, and then try to get you to borrow more. Right now, they're invested in propping you up 'cause if you're gone the next person might not repay any debts at all. You pay them all off too quick, they're not invested in keeping you in place anymore. Make it clear how much is really there, they might just try and take it."

"Your advice?"

"See about renegotiating those debts the Crown has, and use a portion of what we've got here as a bartering chip. Buys us time to start getting busy elsewhere," Garret answers. "Mind if I have some wine?" At your gesture, he takes a glass, and drinks a bit. "Thank you. Of course, if you want to go public with all this, that's your choice, and I'd understand the politics of it. My instinct, though, is keep it private, and quiet, and start getting into the shadows."

"The shadows?" You arch an eyebrow over your wine. "Are you suggesting the King of Westeros start a criminal enterprise?"

"Someone who works for the King of Westeros starts a criminal enterprise," he points with the glass-holding hand. "Think about it, Your Grace; it's a lot harder for someone to smuggle people or things in or out if you're the one running the lawkeepers and the lawbreakers. If someone becomes a problem, they can start seeing consequences that don't get traced back to you, the way new taxes or other legal-type punishments will."

Hmm. "I won't say the idea lacks merit, but that isn't something one accomplishes overnight, and it could get very messy if it ever got out."

"Maybe so, Your Grace," Garret acknowledges. "But there's very few people that gold won't buy, and the few who won't, there's other metals for that." At your look, he hastily adds, "I meant an official seal of some kind saying "this is fine, stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong", like letters of marque, not 'murder everyone who gets in the way' – I'm not like that!" After a second, he adds, "Although that kind of metal does buy silence and passage, too."

"Let's leave that aside for now," you try to steer the conversation away from murder and bribery. "What sort of thing were you thinking? Smuggling?"

"For trade, sure, but that's hardly the only crime that makes money," he finishes his glass. He doesn't go for another. "As long as there's been unmarried men there's been brothels. Long as there's been things worth having, there's been people having those things that shouldn't."

"Smuggling, thieving, whoring," you tick off with an amused smile. "I think the High Septon would have a heart attack if he overheard this conversation."

Garret shrugs. "It's an open secret that he's into at least two of the three, and more besides, so a genuine heart attack seems unlikely. Be a funny performance of a heart attack, though, he does so like his theatrics."

You take a long drink, partly to finish the glass and partly to give yourself a moment to think. Eventually, you give Garret your instructions.


What will you do with your trading company from your days as Valarr Vaeltigar?
[ ] You'll go public, make it part and parcel of the Crown and the government
[ ] You'll go into the shadows, start trying to gain control of the underside of Westeros
[ ] Write-in


He nods. "By your command." He pockets the little black book for the moment, before a final thought occurs to him. "Oh, there is the one other thing, Your Grace: d'you want to put a name or face to it?"


Who will run the business?
[ ] Garret of Saltpans. Who better than the man that helped you get started with it all?
[ ] Davos Seaworth. Who better than a man familiar with both sides of the law and both sides of trading?
[ ] You'll do it yourself. It'll be a real burden of extra workload, but you have a thing about control.
[ ] Write-in

What's it called?
[ ] Write-in


-------------


The Grand Maester is younger than you expected. He's not a young man by any means, the hints of white around his face and head belie that, but you expected another old man in the mold of Pycelle. He's a strong-jawed man, with crow's-feet wrinkles framing eyes of midnight blue, and smile lines that take some of the hard edge off of his otherwise stern-looking features. His maester's chain features silver, yellow gold, irons, copper, and one lonely-looking bronze link, but it is the Valyrian steel that catches your eye the most. His Valyrian steel links are all on a separate chain from the others, and it is not a small chain either -- you find yourself eager to get to picking his brain soon.

"It is a pleasure and a privilege to meet you, Your Grace," the Grand Maester says. It's the same kind of flowery language you remember Pycelle using, so common to men who spend too much time in the Reach, but his delivery feels far more genuine than anything Pycelle ever said.

"The privilege is mine, Grand Maester Jacaerys," you answer easily. He's much more personable than you were expecting, and it's a pleasant surprise. "I confess, the most I expected from enquiring about a master with Valyrian steel was to get someone with two or three links at most."

"It is our hope to now better serve the king and the realm than we were able before," and you don't have to be as clever as you are to catch the profound dislike in his voice as he references Pycelle. "So, when our king asks for someone versed in the higher mysteries, the archmaesters want to be obliging. And they did ask for volunteers for consideration among our number, so I took the opportunity."

"Opportunity?"

Jacaerys' face crinkles into a disarming smile, one that's surprisingly infectious. "Well, I haven't been home, so to speak, in many years. I hoped to spend any free time I might be gifted to reacquaint myself with the Crownlands, reconnect with places I've not seen since, oh," he puzzles on it for a moment, "before you were born, Your Grace."

The smile he infected you with becomes a bit less cheerful. "I'm afraid spare time may be in short supply for the next several months, Grand Maester. The Usurper," and you almost miss a tiny flash of something in his eyes as you say that name, "has left us a bit of a mess to clean up. When we can, though, we'll see about some travel for you."

"Of course, Your Grace," he gives an understanding nod. "I should be most pleased to help however you need."

You nod back. "I'd truly enjoy setting you on some task in your field of expertise," you gesture to his shining chain, "but unfortunately for the moment we need help in the Black Cells and the catacombs."

He gives you an odd look. "What might await me there?"

"Victims," you sigh. Rage has long since burned through the fields of your heart where it came to Robert, so now you are just left feeling tired, and regretful that you could not have come any sooner. "You heard stories about the Dragons' Screams?" He nods, and you notice him unconsciously fiddle with his aquamarine scarf, which seems a bit warm for summer in King's Landing, but you have bigger things to mind. "Some survivors were locked away down here. Many have clung to life, but far more met the Stranger in the dark. We've been trying to account for who's still there, who died there, who is still missing, hoping to track down as many as we can."

"Track down?"

You gesture for him to walk with you, and after an ever-so-slight hesitation, he does. "My kin deserve to know what's become of their families. Lord Protector Waters and Alyn Velaryon know what happened to Lord Monford, but imagine if they did not – how many hours would it consume them, day and night, to think that maybe he was locked in a Black Cell or hiding somewhere beyond the Crownlands? It would drive them to distraction, maybe cause them to be foolish, hiring sellswords to try and find him or burning through what gold they have left to track him down." As you pass a window, you take a moment to look out to the harbor below. "I don't know much about healing myself," you idly gesture to his silver links, "but I do know that wounds cannot heal so long as they remain open, and this wound has been open and festering for far too long."

When he speaks, there is no hesitation at all. "How can I help?"

"However you see best," you answer honestly. "Some of them we haven't dared to move for their conditions, some cannot bear any light harsher than the weakest candle, many are ill, and most of them are missed by someone. If you'd be best used helping the sick or the stricken, or tracking down family members, I trust your choices. All I ask is that you help."

He nods. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'll begin immediately," and true to his word, you watch as Jacaerys strides off in the general direction of the Black Cells.

You wonder, for a moment, at that scarf. The way it contrasts with the particular blue-ness of his eyes. His close-cropped hair. And you consider that, perhaps, the stress lines you perceived radiating from the scarf could come from him passing himself off as merely an old man instead of, say, a dragonseed … and a guilty conscience that he didn't or couldn't help others pass off as he did. Without that scarf, it might have been much easier to guess if he was one or not.

But such thoughts will have to wait for later, you decide when you look out the window again. A Dornish ship approaches the harbor.


-------------


You're able to get down to the docks fairly quick, all things considered – benefits of being the king, you suppose. You don't have everyone yet, but you have enough of a 'household' to greet the incoming ship, with your nephew having returned only three days prior, and a few others about, including Ser Warrek. He'd tried to argue that his rank didn't merit accompanying you, but you wouldn't hear of it from someone who'd been there for you and Dany almost from the beginning. He deserved to see her return as much as anyone.

It doesn't take long for the ship to be brought in, and a gangplank brought over to allow the occupants of the ship into your city. You hear an inhuman screech and odd trilling sound, and then watch as a body of green and copper lifts its head above the ship's deck to observe its new home. Apparently satisfied, you and Aegon watch the chittering dragon Ñāqes launch up from the ship and join the other two dragons in the sky as the ship is moored to the dock. Your eyes quickly return to the ship, though.

The party from Dorne is, simply put, massive. Prince Oberyn alone is surrounded by eight children and a paramour, the mother of four of them. The young princes, Quentyn and Trystane, have their own small entourage, but are quickly subsumed into the Viper's massive party. Oberyn, irreverent as ever, gives you a cheery wave and a yell as his group makes their way up the docks to you. The Sand Snakes, as you know their common name to be, have standing with them (and in similar attire) your sister Dany, looking windswept and tanned by the Dornish sun and as lively as you've ever seen her. Seven Hells, but for her hair and eyes, she could almost pass for another Sand Snake as she stands among them. She spots you and waves with a grin as wide as Oberyn's.

It should probably cause you some concern about how much time she's spent around the rogue Prince of Dorne, but you're distracted by the other companions among the Snakes. Also walking intermingled with them is Beshka, who looks ... it's odd, you'd describe the look as "happy", except you've never really seen what the emotion looks like on her. And finally, walking closely next to Beshka, is a woman about your age who looks nothing like Oberyn or the young princes (who you presume resemble their father, Doran) so there's really only one other candidate you know of -- Asha Greyjoy. She has the eyes and facial structure of the Greyjoys you've met, but her dress leans more Dornish than Ironborn, same as her weapon at her side, her skin is even more tanned than Dany and Beshka, and there is an edge to her expression that you can't quite place. You would puzzle more on that, but then you see the last of the group, helped down by a large bearded Norvosi man (with, you note, an impressive longaxe on his back). Arianne Martell, now Queen-Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, is as beautiful as you remember. You do not remember her looking like she'd swallowed the moon.

Wisely, you only voice one of those thoughts. "My Queen, you are as beautiful and refreshing as the Water Gardens themselves."

"Flatterer King," she smiles back, though it tightens a little as she gets down the plank. "I look like an unsheared sheep. But your lies are appreciated. Urgh," she grunts, "and I move like a boulder."

Luckily, you thought ahead and had a palanquin brought, so she needn't walk or be rattled about by a carriage on the city's … well, abysmal roads. You want to try and do something with that someday; considering how much better the roads were in Essos, you know it can be done. But not today.

You bring forward the traditional bread and salt, which you first offer to Asha Greyjoy. You want to be especially clear with her, given what her family's gone through these past years, and she seems to recognise that as she participates. Beshka's next, though she gives you a funny look, clearly unfamiliar with the practice. You work your way through the Sand Snakes, smiling as one of the smaller ones (Dorea, you think?) tries to get more salt and bread -- apparently a fan of the taste, a rare oddity in Westeros. As you approach the adults, though, things change. The Norvosi man, who gives his name as "Areo Hotah" takes the offering fine, but Arianne turns a bit green and looks woozy as she smells the stuff. Then she doubles over, or tries to given the size of her belly, and clutches her stomach with an alarming groan.

Immediately Oberyn is at her side, and after a quick exchange in what you vaguely recognise as Rhoynish, Oberyn announces "the baby is coming!" and begins to hurry Arianne as best he can towards the palanquin. You're struck dumb for a moment, but a short one, and you take her other side to help her forward, calling the servants to bring the litter closer.

"I'm sorry about the bread and salt," you tell her. "Are you okay?"

She grits through her teeth, "I trust you not to kill me under your roof, if that's what you're asking."

You look to Oberyn. "I thought she was safe to travel, not due for weeks yet."

"She was," he answers, though his focus is entirely on his niece. "Three weeks yet, we thought."

Arianne grabs onto your shoulder, and for a moment you think she might break it. "It's not waiting three weeks," she gasps.

"Get her up to the Red Keep, quick as you dare to move," you order the servants. "You'll stay with her?" Oberyn nods. Satisfied, you look back to your assembled groups. "Ser Warrek, Beshka, you can take care of Dany and the others." Your nephew hears, "To horse. We're clearing the way," nods, and starts ordering goldcloaks about. You note, absently, he seems to take well to the role, when he isn't given a moment to think or doubt himself.

Then you're riding ahead of your wife and her uncle, with the City Watch as calls of 'make way', 'clear out', and 'fucking move' are made ahead of you.


-------------


Your perception of the next several hours is skewed, swinging between speed and sloth, going long into the night and past the point when it theoretically crosses into morning hours. You know that the pace you set and managed was much faster than you'd ordinarily be able to make from the docks to the gates of the Red Keep, but it felt far too slow. Getting Arianne inside and to a room had been quick and comparatively easy, but it seems to take hours for the Grand Maester to be recalled from his work. But he does arrive, and after a quick apology to Arianne for how quickly familiar they're about to become, he gets to his work, Oberyn aiding him capably when he isn't worrying over Arianne.



[Arianne Pregnancy Roll: 1d1000 = 900]



It takes a long time, and there's a lot of screaming and swearing in Common and a few words of Rhoynish you don't recognize ... but the context of the Common words in their company gives you a pretty good idea. Prince Oberyn's face shifting between concentration on the task, and impressed surprise when he hears some of those words and phrases also helps. The fact that Arianne nearly breaks your hand as the Grand Maester tells her to push one final time would seem to confirm your suspicions.

But then you don't have time for those thoughts. Because Arianne is gasping for air, flailing her arm slightly as she slips her hand from yours. And because her state is mirrored by the tiny, screaming creature that Jacaerys gives to you.

It's a boy. A boy with lungs that make you suspect he inherited your shatterpoint abilities and is testing them on your skull, a boy with reddened skin and the tiniest hint of silver fuzz upon his head. A boy whose flailing arm catches your hand as you numbly take him, and whose tiny hand grips your finger like a vise. It's a boy.

It's your son.

As desperately as you might wish to keep the moment all to yourself, you just as badly want to share him with his mother. You lean down a bit as her uncle wipes some hair from her sweat-soaked face, and her exhaustion seems to melt away as you just manage to whisper, "Ari, look. It's our boy." Arianne's face lights up all over again, and she gingerly reaches up to hold his hand with you.

"He's perfect, raqiarzy," she breathes out, a warm smile on her face.

You smile back, "Seven forbid: he'll look nothing at all like me and entirely like you." She laughs slightly, releases your son's hand to pat your cheek.

Well, you think that's what she intended to do. It comes out a little more like a slap and your face being mushed. "Flattery's a good…good decision for you right now."

Then the Grand Maester speaks. "Your Graces, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid I must," and your stomach drops. You feared this, every moment you weren't thinking about the realm or the war or anything else, you feared exactly this. You'd never seen the deliveries of your unborn siblings firsthand, but you remembered your mother afterwards, how each time you were less and less sure she'd survive. And you remembered how she looked the last time, when she didn't. You feared this and feared this and prayed for her health and her life and prayed and prayed and now here you were –

"My Queen," he looks to Arianne, completely ignoring you, "I'm going to need you to push again very soon. The other child is waiting."

The what.

You're quite certain that your son has managed to shatter your skull and your brain is leaking out your ears, because you can't have heard him right, but apparently you did because Oberyn is quickly taking Arianne's hand again, and distantly you hear him tell you to do the same. Eventually, you come to, and you think that this took less time than the first did, but you can't really be sure given your mental state (your hand also hurts slightly less in Arianne's grip this time. slightly). But none of that matters, because Oberyn takes a second mewling, messy little thing from the Grand Maester and is holding it next to Arianne.

"My king, meet your daughter," Oberyn smiles broader than you've ever seen. Best you can tell with the size of her smushed little face, she looks exactly like Arianne, even the same skin and the same ebony hair. Then she opens her eyes, and they are the exact same lilac colour as yours. Your heart melts in an effort to join your brain in liquid state. Her eyes meet yours, then, and rather than scream like her brother, she coos rather like a dove. You can't find your voice, but you think she might be the perfect one of the two. Two. Twins.

Gods be good, twins.


What do you name your firstborn, your first son?
[ ] Aegon
[ ] Aemon
[ ] Daeron
[ ] Jaehaerys
[ ] Rhaegar
[ ] Viserys
[ ] Jaime
[ ] Write-in


What do you name your secondborn, your first daughter?
[ ] Adara
[ ] Calla
[ ] Daenys
[ ] Jaenara
[ ] Rhaella
[ ] Visenya
[ ] Elia
[ ] Write-in


-------------

AN: I had originally hoped to get the Kingsguard vote into this update, but this one got a little carried away, and the babies decided they wanted to come now rather than wait another update. So, yeah: babies. If you're interested, I'll place the mechanics I used below.

I was doing some looking at birth statistics, and came across a stat that triplets are a 1 in 1,000 occurrence. That struck me as such a rare and nice even number that it was perfect for the equivalent of a nat20 or nat100 (talk about your three-headed dragon, damn). So, I started looking into other stats: fraternal twins are approximately 3 in 100 births, identical twins 1 in 250, and I adapted a table to work for rolling that. I gave not-inconsiderable odds that either the mother or the child could be lost, but I will openly admit I cheated on the odds of losing both; regardless of how plausible/likely it may be in the setting, I straight-up didn't want to write that if I didn't have to, so I assigned that to the nat1. It seemed thematically appropriate and balanced, if not scientifically accurate. Sue me.

d1000Resultd1000Result
1Bad End504-599One Child
2-50Maternal Death600Identical Twins
51-199Infant Death601-603Fraternal Twins
200Identical Twins604-699One Child
201-203Fraternal Twins700-703Fraternal Twins
204-299One Child704-799One Child
300-303Fraternal Twins800Identical Twins
304-399One Child801-803Fraternal Twins
400Identical Twins804-899One Child
401-403Fraternal Twins900-903Fraternal Twins
404-499One Child904-999One Child
500-503Fraternal Twins1000Fraternal Triplets

Identical Triplets are well into the 'one in a million', so no dice there. Coin flip determined gender of birth, and the parties involved are healthy enough and distantly related enough that I didn't feel a need to roll on a 'complications' table.
Any of the provided options for names are of course available, but I'm very interested to see if anyone wants to write something in. As usual, write-ins are subject to QM approval (no, you OOC cannot and IC would not name your son Aerys. troll-worthy as it may be.)
 
Last edited:
Omake: The Old, The True, The Brave (currently non-canon)
The Old, the True, the Brave:

(Aurane POV)

A Greedy Bastard.

A Greedy Bastard would have run with a fleet to the Stepstones, and not do this… Hells that paperwork was. From this responsibility, and leave it to better men.

To say that you disliked paperwork was a dreadful understatement.

To be free of the chains of responsibility again, to venture out as the Sea Snake did on his great voyages, to bring fame, fortune, and prestige back to the noble house that had for decades, been disrespected by other lords and men.

But it was that same wish that led you to stay.

You had responsibilities to your family.

To think that such a thing could happen... You had already lived through an adventure once before... Fleeing from the only home you had ever known.

Had father not died, had Robert not been a mad bastard whose hatred of Valyrians robbed him of his senses like he saw Rhaegar come again… and had your adventures not led you to Viserys…

Any number of things could have occurred.

You were a greedy bastard after all.

You would like to think of yourself as a pirate king… going to the Stepstones as so many daring swashbucklers, basterds, and madmen had tried to make their fortunes. Well, not make their fortunes, but to steal them from another well off men who really had no business having that much coin on them.

But even greed could not supplement something from your heart.

Monford needed someone there for him, to protect him from those who would abuse his… nature.

He was a child, a kind one, one that was more focused on seeing things return to a state of normalcy… even though normalcy was just being able to wake up without screaming every night for his mother and father. He needed to learn to be strong again. To try and focus on things that he could control, not things that were far in the past.

And Alyn… He was every bit of his namesake. Loyal, Brave, True to his word. A boy trying to become a knight, like the great men of old. He always acted as a good counselor and confidant that every man needed in his life. Either as a friend or a voice that will always shine through, in a difficult decision.

If it didn't fill your heart with such sorrow, watching him act like a man when he was still a boy… you would have been lying to yourself.

He was being strong for you… and for Monford. He didn't need to…

That was what you were doing.

"Aurane." Monford opened the door to your room, a quiet bidding from his shoes followed as he shut it behind him. "Are you awake?"

Sitting by the window, pipe in hand, you almost thought it was a dream. That father would follow behind him, and all would be well. That the nightmare would be over, and your family could be back together again.

But you gave a nod, narrowing your eyes to get a better look at your brother. "I am, my lord." you replied, still feeling a bit uneasy… not wanting any ears to catch a hint of disrespect in these walls. Not after so long away from home.

He walked over and stood before you. Then he climbed onto your lap, something you did not expect him to do and was unsure how to handle the situation with tact.

"Lord Monford." You protested as your nephew gave you a hug.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" He stated.

You raised an eyebrow. "My Lord, you-"

"Please Aurane." He whined, his eyes looking into your own.

You could not forgive yourself… no, there was time for courtesies and now was not one. "Of course." you whispered.

A greedy bastard. A Man with only a sliver of honor, protecting his family so he may be rewarded for his services, to rise above where the world would have seen him as.

That was what you were to the world. And you accepted that title with such grace and gusto, that you almost believed it.

But tonight, you forgot that title.

Tonight, you were an uncle, to someone who needed you in his life.

You let him fall asleep in your arms.

And soon after, you would too.

AN: @Marlowe310811 Here, have some hastily written Valyreon Fluff.

Seven knows that they need it after all they've been through.
 
The Great Work Begins, Part IV
The day before the coronation, you are having what is probably the most uncomfortable conversation in your life. This is one that ... well, you suppose you could have held it in a private chamber, in your solar or the Small Council chambers with other lords or somewhere else, but for this talk, with this person, you want every advantage you can get.

Jon Arryn slowly, begrudgingly bends the knee before the Iron Throne, and gives his oaths. The man has to take his time, being almost 80 and not what one would describe as 'spry', and you might have let him get away with just a bow ... if he hadn't led armies against you, and done nothing to stop Robert during the Screams. You feel the least he's earned is some petty torments.

Waiting just a second longer than you strictly needed to, you call, "Arise, Lord Arryn." Nobody moves to help him, but for his age the man does alright getting up on his own. "I am given to understand you have new concerns about the terms of our agreement," you fold your hands in your lap and lean forward, "and had hoped to renegotiate with the Acting Hand." Arryn simmers with defiance, but says nothing. "It occurs to me that, as you're in the city to attend tomorrow's coronation, we could just talk about it now."

"Your Grace is too kind, to trouble yourself with such matters," he manages to get out.

"Think nothing of it," you barely restrain a smug grin. He really didn't want to talk with you. A person didn't need your talents to see that Arryn had clearly hoped to prevail upon Ned Stark's sentiments, and try to weasel out of his part of the accords. A person with your talents, though, they'd be able to tell exactly what the problem was, and know just how to pry the information free. "After all, we can speak with each other as men, father to father." Arryn isn't so skilled as to completely hide his reaction, and while your abilities clued you in on this being his true intention, it is nice to have independent confirmation. You aren't going to be especially generous about it, though, and you present a face of dawning comprehension. "Ohh, I see. That wasn't what you hoped to talk about."

To his credit, he tries. "Well, no, Your Grace. In fact, I had hoped to discuss the matter of the financial--"

You cut him off. "Yes, you hoped to discuss the financial arrangement. You hoped to convince me that your house and indeed the Eyrie at large, having difficulty of late with coin – outside of the mysteriously wealthy and mysteriously vanished Lord Baelish – would face real difficulties and hardships if forced to pay the price agreed upon. You hoped to labour under this to such a degree as to illicit sympathy, if not from me then from the acting Hand." In the corner of your vision, you think you see Lord Stark scuff his foot on the floor slightly as he intently studies the ground instead of meeting anyone's eye. "You hoped to then suggest that perhaps your great house and bannermen could shoulder more of the work in rebuilding the realm, lend swords to the City Watch, send men and material to the Wall, house displaced smallfolk from the war zones. You hoped to imply this would be a great sacrifice to be made on your part, and indeed it would be." Leaning back slightly, you offer a soft smile.

"And you hoped that you might then suggest it would be an easier sacrifice to bear, if only we could be so kind as to relent on your other concession." Your smile drops. "Do you recognise the nature of your error?"

Arryn mirrors Ned, in studying his feet and the floor. His response is bitter, forlorn. "I hoped."

Well, yes, but I can't actually say that aloud. "No. You hoped to deceive and trick me. And you hoped to deny me what we agreed upon." You lean forward, now, and let your hands grip at the Iron Throne instead of balling into fists. "I am not by nature a vindictive man, given to cruelty or torment. I am not a man that blames people for making mistakes." You fix Arryn with a glare. "But I am a man that will see you pay for them."

You almost soften, for a moment, when he looks up at you and you see not an adversary or a hostile lord, but a tired old man with little left in his life. Almost. "And must my son die for this? That I must pay?"

The iron feels warm beneath your hands, like spilled blood. "I don't take children from their families to throw them in the Black Cells or murder them. You must be thinking of the other king. You know, the one you did nothing to stop." Arryn withers at that, and you feel a nasty bit of satisfaction. But you do look over, just a bit, to see Ned Stark. His face is stern, but his eyes ache with sympathy, and it gives you a thought. "Your son will not face the fates you allowed others to," you add one last barb, before continuing. "He will be in the care of Lord Stark, when not attending me as my page, and raised as Lord Stark sees fit." Ned glances to you, a hint of confusion to his look, but he nods and plays his part. "And, as a page and fosterling," your tone softens a touch, "he will not be a hostage – he'll be free to visit and be visited as his guardian allows."

Arryn meets your eyes, then, a hopeful glint to them that might give a lesser man pause. You are not a lesser man. "This all is contingent on you having told me the truth, that you had no role in the Dragons' Screams – though you did nothing to stop it, you did not encourage or condone it, either. If there is anything you must change or tell me now, do so and face no further wrath. If you leave and I discover your words be false, his head's assurance is but frail." Arryn pales, but nods. "The other lords of the Usurper's Small Council will stand trial for the parts they played, but if you truly played no part then you need fear no consequence."

You want to take him, to put him on trial for standing by and doing nothing as innocents screamed and died, but there's no law against idleness. You'll settle for taking his son, which no matter what words you offer will keep him up for many nights to come, and stripping him of his knighthood. Idleness in the face of injustice may not be a crime against the law, but it is against his oaths as a knight, and you know that he took pride in that title, one that he earned rather than gained by birth. It doesn't right the wrongs or return the unjustly killed, though. It's a petty, unfulfilling victory, you think. You probably ought to get used to those.


-------------


That afternoon, you wander some of the halls of Maegor's Holdfast with a small group of close allies. And Barristan Selmy. The Lord Commander is healing, recovering … but he's not a young man anymore, you think sympathetically as he clutches at his side when he thinks you don't notice, and such wounds don't heal quickly at his age. Still, considering your own skill and that of the two other men with you, you aren't worried (to say nothing of the two women). Beside you are your nephew, and his other uncle, behind them two of his daughters, and in front of you…

"You don't have to push me around," Arianne says from her rolling chair, amusement mixing with affection in her voice. "I'm feeling fine, and I do in fact know how to walk." And she does seem fine; she has been looking much better in the past several days, and (much as she might hate to admit it) being able to pass the twins off to a wetnurse is a godsend for her recovery.

"Of course you have the knowledge," you gently tease, still pushing. "What you lack is the capacity. And so, too, you lack the permission of the Grand Maester. So long as he thinks you should remain off your feet, so shall you be." She doesn't pout, exactly, but you think you might be in the same kingdom as pouting is, and that keep isn't as far off as you might like. You add, "And think of it as information gathering."

"Come again?" Arianne turns back to look at you.

"It's not certain, but possible, that your lord father may desire to visit in the future, yes?" She nods. "And he is confined to a rolling chair, rather more permanently than you." Another nod, more solemn. "Consider this as practice, so when he is here, you know all the halls and courtyards you can and cannot go through in such a chair, and you won't get stuck or inconvenience him. You'll seem like a dutiful and thoughtful and clever daughter." She seems to see the wisdom in that, and gives you a smile. You wish you could help yourself, you really do, but you continue undaunted, "Instead of having learned from trial, error, and embarrassment."

She schools her face into a practiced expression. "Queens of the Seven Kingdoms do not and cannot embarrass themselves, Viserys. Everyone here knows this," and she looks around as if daring the other men to challenge her and take your side. You follow her gaze, to meet with disappointment: Aegon keeps quiet, and Ser Barristan has rather suddenly and mysteriously developed a tickle in his throat he cannot clear.

Not daring to hope, you look to Prince Oberyn, who nods sagely. "This is quite true, Your Grace; the Queens I have met never embarrassed themselves in any way." As you begin to make your way towards one of the courtyards closer to the sea, for fresher air, Arianne nods, pleased. You wonder at that: shouldn't she know her uncle better than you? Oberyn gives you a lopsided smirk. "Princesses of Dorne, on the other hand, it seems to be the only way they learn."

Arianne's look of betrayal is one memory you intend to cherish. She does eventually join the rest of you in your smiles, and asks, "Not just me, then?" He nods. "Well, I suppose that's a relief."

"Would you like me to distract you with stories I have?" Oberyn asks.

"Please."

Prince Oberyn wastes no time in telling stories of his mother, and while they are new to your ears, the look of contentment Arianne takes on tells you they are familiar words to her, distracting in a more comforting way. Even when he begins to wander away from stories of the Princess of Dorne and onto stories of Arianne wandering off with Tyene and sometimes Nymeria, she still smiles, every so often sharing a look with one of the Sand Snakes. More than once, Oberyn sets the entire party to laughter with his words, even making Ser Barristan openly chuckle.

After one such time, you look to your new Master of Whispers, about to ask a question of him when Aegon asks an entirely different one ahead of you. "Do you have any such stories about my mother?"

It's impressive, in a way, how effectively that kills the mood. Ser Barristan looks like he ages twenty years in a single moment. Arianne and the Snakes withdraw into themselves, all looking to Oberyn. The Red Viper himself looks ashen, a strange appearance for him as his mouth looks to be running through possible answers without yet voicing any. Eventually, he settles on saying "I am not recalling anything at the moment."

You're quite ready to give him the out, but Aegon continues, and you wish he were standing closer, so that you might roll Arianne's chair over his foot. "You can talk about her around me, uncle." He offers a kind look to Oberyn. "I'm not made of glass; I won't shatter so easily as that."

No. But he might, you think as you glance at Oberyn. Your minds eye presents the Prince of Dorne's shatterpoint to you, even if you didn't need the enhanced vision to see it. But Oberyn's is less a singular point than it is a divot brutally chiseled and carved out of him, leaving a weakness with so many little fracture lines spreading out from it (a well-defined one burns between him and Aegon) that your breath catches. You honestly suspect physically poking him there might actually cause a human being to shatter like glass.

It takes a moment, but he collects himself, and Oberyn answers, "Someday. Someday we can talk about her, about that. It can wait, though." Aegon nods, and looks like he might speak again, but mercifully you can see the courtyard ahead, around a corner in the passageway, and you are desperate for something different to occur to you. You begin to round the corner, and freeze, reaching for your blade, and take a breath to call Aegon and Barristan forward. Asha Greyjoy has Beshka trapped, pinned against a wall with her hands held over her head and Arianne is quickly blocking your hand, why would --

Oh.

Oh.

...huh.

You let Arianne move your hand away from Stormbreaker's hilt and into hers and quietly as possible you try to go back the way you came. It does not appear that you were noticed as you make your way back, in a different direction. Behind you, Oberyn is poorly stifling laughter at whatever look might be on your face, and whispers something to Nymeria that makes her bite a fist in response, shoulders shaking. Tyene is making a very good show of blushing furiously and Arianne has what you can only describe as 'a knowing face'. If you didn't know any better, you'd think Ser Barristan had seen nothing at all but an empty courtyard from the professional face he wears like armor now, and Aegon looks as puzzled as you are.

You hadn't realised that Beshka was into ... that sort of thing. Or that sort of person. But if that rather reckless display was any indication, apparently she was into Asha Greyjoy. Well, more like Asha's intoNOPE. You are absolutely not pursuing that line of thought.

You're not sure how long it takes you, but it's definitely a little bit before you look to Arianne and manage to produce, "So, erm…how long…?" and gesture vaguely behind you.

"A few months now, maybe six," she answers with confidence. She must have felt more than seen your look, because she added, "I think it started out as sparring and testing each other on unusual and unfamiliar weapons. They're both very good, if that matters. I think they started frustrating each other that they weren't so easily beaten as others they've trained with, so things started escalating. I thought I might have to speak with Beshka, or get Dany to do it, and instead, well," she mirrors your vague gesture. "I think I'll speak to one of them about more discretion."

"Please do." It's not the last thing you need to be discovered within these walls, but any list of the top ten would unquestionably have this on it.


-------------


That evening, you have dinner in the Small Council chamber with Ned Stark, your acting Hand and (as soon as Ser Jaime arrives) your next Master of Laws. He had wanted to discuss some things with you, and you likewise have things you want to talk about with him – specifically, about Dany.

His cup pauses partway to his mouth as he takes in what you've said. Eventually, he gets out, "I confess, Your Grace, that is perhaps the last thing I expected to discuss tonight." He takes his drink, then, pulling deeper than you suspect he initially planned before the subject came up. "Not least because a king usually doesn't ask his Small Council to train their replacements."

"Have I once struck you as a king wont to do things the usual way?" You ask with a light hint of sarcasm.

"Point taken."

"So," you take a cup for yourself, "how think you of it?"

"As Your Grace says, you aren't wont to do things the usual way," he answers.

"That's just my words come again, my lord. I'd have you use your own," you gently chastise.

He seems to take it in stride. "As you wish. In honesty, I am uncomfortable with the idea."

You're a bit surprised, what with his closeness to the Mormonts and his knowing of your own closeness with Dorne and some of their ideals. Still, he's been nothing but forthright and loyal, so he's earned the right to be heard. "Enlighten me. What brings you discomfort?"

"It is one matter to select your advisors and leaders from those you know, those who stood with you," he goes for a cup of water this time, "and on some level it encourages those who did not stand with you to become someone you know, that they could take such places later. But to draw your circle ever closer might one day invite mistrust, even from those that stood with you." He drinks, and you ponder his words for a moment before he continues. "Already, you have brought your wife's family into pride of position in the Red Keep, choosing her uncle as your Master of Whispers and, unspoken or not, made his daughters part of your household guard. It has not gone unremarked that the Queen is never without at least two of her cousins at all times," he adds, "and that being before your nephew became Lord Commander of the City Watch."

"Have there been problems with the goldcloaks?"

"None by Prince Aegon's doing," Stark is quick to make clear, "and none among the men – by all accounts, he's quickly earned their respect." He refills his cup, and you notice it is wine going in this time, before he continues. "But he has broken a number of traditions by being appointed. Among them being that he is the first Lord Commander in almost two hundred years to not come from within their ranks, having previously been captain of a city gate, and older than five-and-twenty." He takes a drink then, and adds, "My king, I would remind you that those traditions began after a young Targaryen prince was made the Lord Commander."

You shut your eyes for a moment, breathing deeply before letting out a sigh. In retrospect, you probably should have anticipated the comparisons to Prince Daemon. You could protest that Aegon was nothing like that, but you also know the first Viserys thought and said much the same about Daemon in the beginning. And a dragonrider near but not next in line as the Lord Commander, too, you berate yourself a little. Maesters will surely one day debate if such obvious parallels were intended. Dammit. "And you fear that elevating Daenerys so publicly will cause further problems?"

"I think many if not most of the Lords of Westeros are set in their ways," he dodges, "and unaccustomed to women having any power at all, never mind having that power in the open."

You roll your eyes a bit before eating a little more. "You don't believe that having a dragon will make them think twice about defying her? Even Tywin Lannister could be cowed with a dragon; what lord is so set in his ways more than the Old Lion?"

"I believe it will make them think of other times a woman and a dragonrider held such power," he answers.

That puzzles you a bit. "Rhaenys was a great and gentle queen, respected and important in forming the laws of the realm," you point out. "I would hope that is the name they think of when they see and hear her."

Ned seems unconvinced. "The name Rhaenyra comes to mind as well." As he finishes his own food, you resist the urge to shut your eyes and sigh again. It seems the ghosts of the Dance are determined to haunt you, along with your brother and parents. Delightful. "Now, I do not see Rhaenyra nor Daemon in Daenerys and Aegon, Your Grace, but I am not the only lord in Westeros. And if your circle of advisors and friends tightens too closely, old names might be whispered again, and unrest could be sparked."

"I see your points, my lord, but much as I cannot ignore or discount the lords of Westeros, I will not do so to Dany either," you respond. "In this realm, assigning her power is the only way to ensure she is treated as she desires, and I would not simply anoint her with power without seeing her trained and taught for it. She has a gift with words and an interest in the maintaining of the Seven Kingdoms, and I would encourage that." You finish your wine. "And I would entrust you to teach her, to train her, to tell me if she is not up to the task or if you really feel she is not capable of succeeding you when you're ready to return home." Setting your cup down, you lean in a bit. "I'm not imagining that as something that happens in three months or even three years. I don't intend to name her to the Small Council soon, not for several years yet if ever. But even if she is never capable of taking on the role, I still want her to learn what she can from you."

Ned finishes his own cup before asking, "So you would trust my judgment, my guidance when it comes to the princess?"

"They haven't failed me before, I don't anticipate it happening now." You want this for her, know that she wants to be trusted with responsibilities, like Aegon, but also wants to be worthy of that trust. Also like Aegon, you think. "Think of it as having an unusual squire, someone you hope to train to do what you do. If they take the training and still cannot do it, that is for you to say, and I will accept that. I just want you to give her the training."

"Be her Ser Duncan?" Ned offers you a rare smile.

"I suppose that fits, yes," you agree. After a moment, a thought occurs to you. "Please don't get her to shave her head, though."

"As you wish, Your Grace," he nods. "I'll do what I can for her, and for you." Another smile crosses his face, "I hope my daughters take to her. It would make having her around certainly much easier if they could all get along."

"I'd be happy to see if Dany would take on your daughters as ladies-in-waiting, if that would be to their liking," you offer.

The corner of his mouth quirks. "Sansa would, almost certainly. I suspect Arya would prefer the company of Asha Greyjoy and the Sand Snakes."

You ponder what exactly he might mean by that, more than you might have yesterday, but keep your expression neutral. "I'm sure that could be arranged as well," you think is probably your safest answer. "Will any more of your household be coming to join you here?"

"Some," Ned answers as his face tightens. You wonder at that; shouldn't he be more relaxed, now the thorny issue of Dany and her forebears is passed? "My wife and sons remain at Winterfell, but the Pooles are coming to join us, and bringing Theon Greyjoy with them."

You're pleased at that. "I imagine he's eager to see his sister again after so long. And I should like to meet the future Lord of the Iron Islands, see what you've made of him." Ned takes the praise gracefully, but still looks uneasy. You can't imagine why he mi—wait. "And your natural son?"

There it is. Ned Stark is a hard man to read, one of the hardest you've ever met … but something about talking with you about the bastard makes him very uncomfortable. Does he think you're going to hold it against him? Why now, of all times? You puzzle on that a bit more, but Ned seems to work something through his own mind, and finally answers the question. "He's coming with Theon and the Pooles."

…okay. That was it? You might as well cut through this now, there's no way you can work together with this lingering as an issue. "Were you concerned that I would be displeased with this, my lord?" Ned makes a face you can't quite read, and you continue. "You know how close I've been working with Aurane Waters these past months; did you imagine I would be uncomfortable with a bastard around?" You study Stark closely. No, that's not it. "That I would hold his existence against you?" Stark remains uncomfortable, but that's not the answer, either. "…that I'm only accepting of bastards in my company when they're a relative, however distant?" You'd made the comment as a jape; despite your similar looks and referring to each other as cousins often, the blood you shared with House Velaryon was so distantly removed as to almost be strangers (Seven Hells, Arianne was a closer cousin than any of them).

Yet that was what made Ned Stark turn as white as the snows of the North. …what? A tiny voice in your head manages to express. "Is … is your boy," the words are so insane they rebel at the notion of being spoken aloud, "is he related to me somehow?" He gives no answer but looks at you, somehow, with both the eyes of a man twice his age and the eyes of a scared youth not even twenty. It's all the answer you need.

And yet it's not, not by a longshot. Your mind immediately starts running down dozens of possibilities, each seeming madder than the last. Besides Dany, you've no sisters that lived … could it have been your mother? Seven Hells, old enough to be his mother too, and – no, no, it can't have been Mother; she was carrying Dany, Ned Stark was never here, and besides which Father would have killed her. You try to think. Your grandmother wasn't even alive when Stark was born, so it had to be someone from her line, or her siblings' lines … maybe Duncan and Jenny had a babe before Summerhall? But no, we'd have known if they'd had a child, Father would have thought them a threat to him and raved about it. Daeron had no children. There's no women in House Baratheon, no bastards you'd heard of save for Robert's (you firmly shove that aside, that you can talk with Stannis about another time, it's not nearly so important as this). Eurgh, you don't want to think about it, but Father almost certainly had … natural children, himself, could a bastard of his, a half-sister of yours be the boy's mother? No, he would never have been so close to the capital, not in time for such a boy's birth and not so soon after his family's deaths. Your mind spins and spins, and it takes a moment for you to realise that Ned Stark has gently clapped a hand on your shoulder.

"Your Grace, can we speak elsewhere? There's … there's things you must know," Ned gets out with a sigh, "and I don't trust the walls in here." He looks around, and you snap out of your questioning conspiracy-laden thoughts long enough to agree with him. You don't know the extent of the tunnels and passages hidden in the Keep, but you know enough to trust few places as truly safe.

Exiting the tower, Ser Barristan steps up to follow you, but you wave him off. "I am in perfect safety with Lord Stark," you tell him with your mind still half in a haze of confusion and potential unknown female relations. "Allow us some privacy?" Selmy frowns, but nods, and falls back about thirty or forty feet – close enough to run if you called, but not so close he'd overhear or see anything you didn't want him to. Without much haste, but enough to get to a destination quickly, Lord Stark leads you to the godswood in the garden. He doesn't trust a tower's walls, but does trust the shadows and bushes here?

Tree worshippers,
you sigh internally with a small external eye roll.

"My household men have cleared the godswood and kept watch all day," Ned comments, almost as if he could read your thoughts or sense your anxieties, "we will be unheard here." Still, you take a moment to pull the dagger from your boot and slip it up your sleeve without missing a step. You haven't lived this long by trusting to safety.

"Lord Stark?" A voice asks from within the trees, and you almost feel vindicated in your paranoia before your mind catches up with you and reminds you that this voice is familiar. Sure enough, the man to match Stannis Baratheon's voice steps from the trees, clearly uncomfortable with being there.

"He, and the king," Stark answers, and you look between them, not feeling unsafe but very off-guard.

It isn't a sensation you're fond of. "What is this?" You ask of your Masters of Laws and War.

"Before tomorrow, before my family's party arrives and before we hold the coronation, the both of us have things you should know, that you deserve to know," Stark tells you.

"What does this—"

"If you would trust me just a moment farther, Your Grace," he cuts you off, "that and many other things may become clear." You give him a nod and an expectant look. However, he looks to the Lord of Storm's End. "The first part of this isn't my tale to tell."

Stannis sits on a bench, before beginning. "By now I've no doubt you have heard the stories of the tourney at Harrenhal, when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark instead of his wife," and you nod. Rhaegar never struck you as a stupid man in your youth, but as an adult you cannot fathom the madness or idiocy such a move would take, let alone what came after. Stannis continues, "What you don't know, what no one knew until a few years ago, is that Rhaegar did not abduct or harm Lyanna. She ran away with him, had, erm," Stannis audibly grinds his jaw, "youthful indiscretions together, and she wrote to Lord Eddard asking to be quietly brought home."

Well. That's unexpected. "How do you know this?"

"Because Lord Eddard never received the letter," Stannis carefully does not look at Ned while he tells you this. "She sent it to Storm's End. I can only surmise she believed he would have been with Robert at that time. Robert didn't know any of this, either; I found the letter unopened and clearly forgotten when I was gathering my things in preparation for being exiled."

That rocks you back on your heels a bit. "So the Rebellion, all of this pain and madness, is all because Robert didn't read a letter?" Because he couldn't be bothered to read something? you think is best kept to yourself.

"I don't know why he never read it," Stannis answers, "nor why he said what he said or thought what he thought about Lyanna and Rhaegar. How he came to believe those things, neither of us knows. I only know that he sent word of his mistaken beliefs to Lord Brandon, Lord Brandon reacted predictably, and history played out."

You process this. You certainly have to re-evaluate at least some of your impressions about Rhaegar's apparent foolishness, knowing now that this was all a tragic misunderstanding and not a prelude to a future king's madness and cruelty. But you don't see what this has to do with anything in particular coming tomorrow, and say so.

"That's where my half of the tale comes in," Ned tells you. "Lyanna wasn't held captive by the Prince, as I later came to discover."

"That doesn't make any sense, though," you frown. "If he wasn't holding her, then why didn't she travel home another way, after her letter produced no results? Why didn't he take her back?"

"They couldn't," Ned answers, head hung low. "By the time she realised no one had received or read her letter, the war had begun. Rhaegar had to ride out to face Robert, and travel wasn't safe for many reasons."

You don't know many details of the end of the war, but you know a little, and you feel like there's another surprise waiting around the corner, something you can't name or guess at. "The war is one reason. What other reasons are there that Lyanna was in the Tower of Joy instead of home?"

"She didn't feel that she could come home, at first," Ned sounds as pained as you've ever heard him, "and by the time she wanted to try anyway, she couldn't leave." He breathes deeply, slowly. "You must understand that no one knows this. Only a few men in the whole world – my companion Lord Reed, my brother Benjen, and I – and Lord Stannis only worked it out when he and I spoke yesterday."

"What happened there, Ned?"

He takes a moment, collects himself. "After we got past the Kingsguard stationed there, we climbed the tower only to find we were too late. Lyanna was dying." What. "She was too small, too young, maybe never meant for that fate. Before," he slows, breathes deeply and unevenly, and when he speaks again his voice is ragged in a way you've heard only once before, when your mother charged you with Dany's life on her deathbed. "Before she died, I gave her my word to keep her secret. I promised her," he swallows, and for the first time he meets your eyes, his own red and wet as he says, "I promised her I'd protect her son."

The godswood is grown on solid earth. It had to be, in order to support the large trees within it. So you aren't really sure how the ground is falling out from under you, but the feeling is there all the same. As if unaware of the event, unfeeling of the sensation, Ned Stark tells you, "Lyanna swore me to protect her son Jaehaerys from Robert. And I did. I raised him as my blood, let everyone believe he was my bastard son Jon Snow. And he's coming here tomorrow."

…oh.


-------------

The Kingsguard

Currently there are three Kingsguard: Ser Jaime Lannister (perhaps not officially, but he'll be taking his place again soon) Ser Arys Oakheart, and an injured but recovering Lord Commander Barristan Selmy. That leaves at least four places to fill, and you can reward valiant soldiers and allied kingdoms with positions here. You can appoint more than seven, but such an act will irk some traditionalists.

[ ] Harras Harlaw is one of those true rarities: an Ironborn knight, albeit one who keeps to the Drowned God. His appointment would forge closer ties with the Islands while only being somewhat controversial.
[ ] Beshka the Basilisk would be … a choice. A woman, of foreign birth, with no knighthood or ties to the Faith, and one of the youngest ever recruited. She's willing to take on just about any challenge you pitch at her, though. And the Faith can only get so mad at their new king, right?
[ ] Brynden Tully is an able commander, a sharp wit, and a valourous knight. He is also in his fifties, and his brother the Lord Paramount still hopes to see him married off. However, Hoster Tully is not like Tywin Lannister, and would accept the honour of having a relative on the Kingsguard without much fuss.
[ ] Jon Connington was stripped of his lands and titles during the Rebellion, and has spent the last several years helping to raise your nephew. He wouldn't mind being restored to his lands and title (as his cousin Ronnet is, in his words, "a snivelling little shit") but he would also be pleased and proud to remain in King's Landing and serve your family once more.
[ ] Jorah Mormont has served as your acting Master of Whispers the past few weeks, and did so on Ned Stark's informal small council in the North for years, but he's also no slouch with a sword and would be honoured to serve (you also get the powerful impression he wouldn't mind doing what his father did to him, and making Maege Mormont someone else's problem).
[ ] 'Jon Snow' is about the last name you expected to have presented to you: Ned Stark's infamous bastard, whose true identity is now known to you. Younger than every other name put forward at 14, Lord Eddard nonetheless praises the boy's martial talents, and would not mind seeing the boy well taken care of here. In addition to his youth, he's not a knight or a man of the Faith, but not many Northmen are.
[ ] Asher Forrester showed promise when he marched south with his father and brother, and you have noticed in the past few days he has struck up an odd rapport with Beshka. House Forrester is not among the greater families of the North, but the gesture would be noticed. When pressed, Lord Forrester mentioned there might be an impolitic lover waiting for him back in the North, and placing Asher here would do him (and Lord Stark) a favour.
[ ] Imry Florent is a young goodbrother of Lord Stannis, a proud knight and respectable warrior, and possessed of the least prominent ears on a Florent you've ever seen. His appointment would be seen as a gesture of goodfaith to the Reacher lords that stood with you, and to Lord Stannis, who does not speak ill of Ser Imry.
[ ] Loras Tyrell is quite young, and depending on when he arrived to take his oaths would beat out Ser Jaime's record as the youngest recruited. He is known as being gifted with swords (this is occasionally said with knowing smirks, which you don't get) and has had a haunted look ever since he surrendered to your forces at Storm's End. It might help Lord Mace warm up to you, but if tensions rise again you aren't sure you want to have a Tyrell blade so close…
[ ] Robar Royce is the second son of Bronze Yohn Royce, a good tourney warrior and a skilled swordsman who did not have a chance to fight in the Restoration. Quiet but kind, his demeanour is a stark difference from his rough-hewn appearance and familial reputation. His appointment would be seen as a conciliatory gesture to the Vale.
[ ] Brienne of Tarth is a staggeringly tall young woman, and looks like she could beat up Ser Jaime at just seventeen. Her father once hoped that you might consider marrying her, and now seems to hope you might consider trusting her with your life. The former was, frankly, out of the question. The latter, though … you've seen her move with a sword, and it suggests real skill. Still, she's a woman, and unknighted, and the Faith (and some traditionalists) may get grouchy. The question is, how much you actually care.
[ ] Write-in

-------------

AN: so, yeah, that's a lot, and a tonal whiplash to boot. 12-hour moratorium on voting for discussion of who/what you want to do with the Kingsguard -- if you want to increase their numbers, who's a better idea than others, etc. Go forth, be merry and be mad!
 
Last edited:
Canon Omake: The Falcons' Goodbye
The Falcons Goodbye

(Robert Arryn POV)

You took a deep breath, and allowed your mind to wander just for a moment, before opening your eyes to face your father.

You always thought you were a strange child… just a little too clever, a little too smart… a little too curious.

Perhaps that was why you noticed the change in your father…

Age for the first time in your short life seemed to have finally caught up to him. You didn't think such a thing was possible. He was your father, a man who just could never die. Not from Malays the Monster, and the Band of Nine, not the Mad King… not even your namesake's madness could kill the man.

He soldiered on, and did his duty… And clung to that statement as he always had, to ignore the consequences of his own guilt.

And you hated him for it.

He was old, wrinkles from stress, bags upon dark bags of sleepless eyes hovered below the man's face, and covered his eyes in an almost nighttime visage. Even the bright blue of his eyes lost its luster, the energy that he always seemed to have, especially around you.

As he sat before you, all you could think of was just how broken Viserys Targaryen made your father.

"Father." It was a quiet tone you spoke to him. There was nothing you could say that could describe the anger you felt for him. "Am I going to die?"

Your father shook his head, horror in his eyes. "No, no." Whether he was trying to reassure you, or himself, you did not know. At least not fully.

"Then what is it?" You asked. You tried to sound older than you were, like the lord's who spoke to your father when they wanted an answer that was needed.

Your father was quite as well, looking away from your face as if he could bear not to look at you anymore.

"You will remain in King's Landing, as the Squire for King Viserys." He stated firmly as if he could only get the words you wanted to hear in anger… or hopelessness.

You nodded. "Is this for my benefit Or for your mistakes?" You asked, the questions striking your father deeper than any blade, or illness that had come before.

He looked not like the Lord of the Eyrie, and the Warden of the East.

He looked like an old man, who only had his mistakes to weigh him down.

He turned away from you. "I will do as the king commands Robert, and as I command in turn." He wanted to walk away from you, to no longer look at your face, as if he did not want to see it anymore. That it brought him to much pain.

"Then tell me the truth, father, so that someone will know, and it will not be lost to time. Were you telling the truth when you spoke to King Viserys? Did you truly know nothing about the Screams?" Your question was so damaging, you thought your father was going to die right then and there.

There was guilt in his eyes. Shame… and so much more.

"No."

You didn't believe him. After all, he was the one who told you that he and Robert were going to slay the Dragons of the east and come home victorious. A True Knight of the Seven would slay the dragon.

You didn't really believe it then…

And you still don't believe him now.

"Go home, father." You started softly. "Go home to your lies that you have built for yourself. Just don't ever decide to come back, until you are ready to face the truth…"

Your father looked both angered and filled with pity in his eyes. He could not decide to scream at you, or just leave you in silence.

"Or you are at least willing to tell me the truth."

All the Truth.

That was all you wanted.

You wanted a father who was honest with you. A man who trusted you to not treat you as a child, that he clearly knew you were not.

You wanted him to realize you were not a burden to him, nor someone that needed to be coddled and lied to.

You wanted to be his son.

But now, you didn't even know what that even meant anymore.

AN:

Yes, I know Sweet Robin is only supposed to be… I think 5 or 6 here, but in my head, and according to Exiled Dragon's canon, he's certainly bright.

Dangerously bright even, if you ask the right people.

But this is more about him wanting the truth. Because everyone has lied to him for his entire life… about everything.


Hey @Marlowe310811 Here is that thing I promised.
 
Last edited:
Interlude: Cats of Different Coats
Just once, Jaime would have liked to ride into King's Landing without a festering sense of dread. While the smell and the sights along the road were no treat, the city itself should have inspired something in him, made him feel a sense of purpose, something. But it seemed only fitting that melancholy struck him whenever he came to this city, because every time he'd come, something more was taken from him. First he'd lost his sense of honour and prestige, learning what his duties to Aerys required him to permit, and that the Mad King viewed him not as a knight of skill but a hostage to hold against his father. Then he'd lost his sister to the Usurper, lost his dignity and his hope that things might improve without a Targaryen on the Iron Throne. The last time, he had marched into the city to find he'd lost his sister for a final time, and that she'd taken their children with her.

Now, he entered the city knowing full well that the place would take more from him.

He and his father, and their attendants and hangers-on, had begun to see the city the previous evening, just as the sun set. Tywin suggested, and Jaime agreed, that they should make camp outside the city walls with the other groups, rather than try to press onwards and into the city after long and wearying days of travel. Not to mention, making camp in the outskirts would allow them more space than whatever limited facilities the King could offer at that moment. It would also allow them to make a dramatic entrance in the morning sun, as they were doing now, and Jaime didn't have to wonder very hard at all if that was part of his father's plan as well.

Through the Lion's Gate, because of course we would, Jaime sighed, he and his father made for the Great Sept with a small cadre of men. It didn't take long to ascend Visenya's Hill, and there they entered the Sept of Baelor, finding inside practically every highborn family of Westeros being represented. Indeed, it was easier to notice who he didn't see; Jaime's Aunt Genna and her husband Emmon were the only Freys in the entire city; a few Crownsland houses had sent only a marriageable daughter and a sworn knight to defend her, rather than show up themselves and face genuflecting to the King; Garlan Tyrell was the only one of his family to attend; and the lonely figure of unfortunately-named Dickon Tarly brought to mind his brother and father, sworn to services far from home. More graceful in their defeat and reconciliation were the houses of the Vale, chief among them House Royce with their runes and bronzed decorative armor. Idly, Jaime noticed the absence of House Arryn, but they were the only Vale house he knew of that wasn't in attendance.

Mingling a bit, Jaime separated from his father, finding his own path through people who weeks or months ago he might have run through with a sword instead of gliding past with a smile and nod. Who would want to be polite to people you'd just been planning to kill, wear these silly clothes that would get in the way when you wanted to fight, drink these shitty wines and listen to such boring people as though they were worthy of the tiniest bit of interest? Any man who willingly chooses this life must have been kicked in the head, he thought. He wandered into a group of Northmen, all looking quite out of place among southron silks and perfumes, and a very small part of him despaired at the fact that he felt much safer and at home here than he did standing near his father. What have the last few years made of you, a voice that painfully sounded like Cersei asked in his head.

Distracted, he barely paid any mind to who he went past in the Northern contingent, moving past men he distantly recognised as Manderlys, Forresters, and Karstarks with their outlandish beards, until an especially odd group made him crawl out of his thoughts. Namely, by stopping those thoughts dead with the sheer unreality of it all. A less-mad Euron Greyjoy, a less-boring Ned Stark, a less-bored Roose Bolton and a less-balding Mormont stood before him, and their true names took him more than a moment to find. The Mormont girl, without the beard or baldness that marked her uncle, was the first to step forward. "My Lord Lannister," she curtsied properly, "it's a privilege to meet you in person at last."

Now he heard his father's voice in his head, exasperated and tired, Dacey Mormont, you fool. "My Lady Mormont," he bowed in turn, "the pleasure is mine." Dacey Mormont was rather tall, not quite his own height but much closer than most women got, and she was much lovelier than her more rough-and-tumble reputation suggested. She smiled and laughed, as polite a laugh at him as he'd heard recently (laughs with him were certainly more polite, though they had been less authentic of late).

"I told you he'd be nice, Dom," she gave the young Bolton a gentle swat on the chest, "when will you learn I can tell instantly about people?" The less-mad Euron let out an undignified snort at that, and now it was not his father or sister but his very drunk brother Tyrion once mentioning the name Theon Greyjoy in his mind.

"When your successes are more than one in three," the man teased back, and Jaime recalled the name Domeric Bolton without the help of a mental family member this time, younger and livelier than his father (in every sense of the word, Jaime wisely kept to himself) as the young lord introduced himself moments later. He recalled seeing this young Bolton at the Trident, but hadn't interacted directly with him. "My wife is the equal of many men on a horse or holding a sword, but recognising good men remains a terrible flaw. How else could one explain our travelling companions?" He smiled warmly to numb any burn of rebuke to the two other young men, and Jaime struggled to imagine how a barely-living icicle like Lord Roose could be related to this man.

The young Greyjoy introduced himself next, exuding a personality that seemed a bit too lively for one of Ned Stark's wards, but not nearly murderous enough for one of Balon's brood. A strange young man, Jaime thought before turning slightly, and this must be the infamous bastard of Ned Stark, and sized up the man that Theon introduced as though he were a brother, Jon Snow. On closer inspection, though, the boy puzzled Jaime; he looked nothing like Ned Stark. The same eyes and hair and I want to be anywhere other than here presence of Stark in the city, certainly, but his face was … almost familiar to Jaime, in a strange way, and not at all like Lord Stark's. This continued to niggle at him for some time, and a tiny part of him was grateful to his father for the renewed lessons in enduring the small talk highborn enjoyed, which instinctively took over and went through the motions while Jaime continued to wonder at it. It wasn't long before he parted ways with the strange Northerners, but this new distraction lingered, so much so that he very nearly bowled over a blond, greying man in Northern clothes, and didn't recognise the man for longer than he'd care to admit.

Gerion Lannister wore a grey cloak with a red lining and subtle bronze lions-head clasps over fine yet practical clothes, and were it not for his colours and the cloak fasteners he could have easily passed for a Manderly instead of a Lannister. He looked healthier and happier than Jaime ever remembered seeing him. Gerion's ever-present smile broadened at seeing Jaime, and he quickly found himself pulled into a firm hug from the Northern lord.

"It's good to have you back in the city, lad," Gerion gave Jaime a not-especially gentle thump on the back, and as his spine ached slightly, Jaime wondered if he'd been spending time with the Umbers in addition to House Stark. His uncle briefly turning to a bear of a man with the red giant of House Umber on his breast and giving him a similar embrace seemed to confirm the impression. Coming back to Jaime, Gerion asked, "Does the Lord of Casterly Rock think he might take any time to travel North, see his favourite uncle and his little cousins?"

"Unfortunately, being Lord of Casterly Rock is proving to be a role that consumes every spare second," Jaime said. "Sending ravens, going over reports, holding meetings, reading messages from other ravens...it's almost enough to make me miss standing around doing nothing outside the Usurper's door."

"Myself, I've found it all far less taxing without my brother breathing down my neck," Gerion admitted, "but I suppose you'd dislike the work even if he was as far away from you as he is from me -- lordship always seemed a cloak that would fit you ill, my boy." Jaime tilted his head a little in not-quite-agreement. "Speaking of brothers, though, yours always struck me as well-suited to a lot of the work, so you could always pass off some of it to him. Your father did so with Kevan, even me once in a while." His uncle added with a light tone, "You could also send him to see his favourite uncle and cousins. I'm sure he'd find plenty to like, even marvel at, in the North."

"Oh?" Jaime smirked. "Are the whores and wine that good beyond the Neck?" He thought he saw Gerion's face twitch a little, but decided not to remark on it. "And isn't your keep yet unfinished?"

Gerion waved a hand. "Minor details," he said warmly. "And with the war over, we'll have River's Roar finished in no time. It's going to be quite a sight when it's done."

"It's quite a site already," said a voice behind Jaime, and while Gerion's smile remained fixed on his face, a frost as cold as any winter's night had passed over his eyes. "Although I'm given to understand it is still only a site, with no structures deserving of the name," Tywin finished as he came around Jaime's side.

"You once advised me to be more skeptical of what one is at first presented with." Gerion's smile didn't move, but even Jaime could sense the slide into biting mockery behind it. "Do you suppose that I never listened to you or took lessons from you, brother?"

"I haven't dared to hope otherwise for thirty years," Tywin answered, tone as dry as the Red Wastes.

"Maybe you don't know your family as well as you think," Gerion said to Tywin as he gave Jaime a quick, pointed look. "For a man so sure of himself, you do seem to be surprised by us rather a lot."

"Indeed," Tywin replied. "Whenever I find myself believing one of you has finally reached the final depths of your own foolishness, you never fail to bring forth mining tools and a defiant attitude." Such a comment might have stung Jaime once upon a time, before he spent as much time as he had around Viserys, and Gerion had bore them before he'd even been born. So it struck him as odd that Gerion's face twitched again, and apparently Tywin had noticed, too. "...ah. You've been mining more than stone in those mountains, hmm?"

"You saw the Northern forces on your way into the city," Gerion remarked icily. In fact, Tywin had idly remarked upon the unexpected quality of what he'd seen in their gatherings as he and Jaime had made camp the previous night. "Their arms and armor had to be made and paid for, after all, and the king didn't provide all the silver and steel for it." Jaime had held his suspicions to himself, but Gerion had just confirmed them.

"And now the silver of your new banner," Tywin said without even trying to hide his contempt for the cadet branch's arms, "is illuminated. And here I thought it just one more attempt to spit in my face."

"Father, you promised me that we would be civil and present a united front," Jaime warned.

"Why, to any man who looks at the three of us, this looks perfectly civil and united," Tywin answered.

"I honestly don't know what more you expected, Lord Jaime," Gerion sighed. "This is more civility from Tywin than I expected to receive. And no, brother," he turned his head to slightly glare at Jaime's father, "the silver was not meant as a taunt. Not everything I do is to spite you."

"I suppose that, because you could have gone with a red lion, I should be contented that you merely chose silver and a red hill instead?"

"The red hill is about remembering how Joy began, and how we ended up where we did," Gerion said in a voice that most people would take to be diplomatic, while those who knew the family would recognise the tone as a subtle taunt itself. "If that story or the manner of its depiction happens to gall you, Tywin, well ... life does occasionally have its little bonuses," Gerion smiled, now genuine and mean and Jaime wished his uncle could for once in his life restrain the impulse to pull the Old Lion's tail.

"Does your wife consider her handmaiden one of life's little bonuses?" Tywin asked. "Or do you?"

Jaime had no idea what that meant, but it seemed that Gerion did, because his face paled. Tywin's face took on a genuine and mean smile of its own. "I care little either way, Gerion, so long as the whore stays in the North."

All mirth had vanished from Gerion's face, and Jaime thought he'd never looked more like Tywin's brother than he did in that moment as the dangerous man he'd met in the Doom returned to life. "Do not call her that."

Tywin was unimpressed. "Handmaid or chambermaid or whatever you call her, I care not, so long as that is all she is called. She is nothing else and will be nothing else."

"The Faith disagrees." Jaime's eyes bounced back and forth, feeling more lost than usual in a familial battle of wits, and this one felt far more tense than any he'd experienced before. He found himself hoping that, Seven willing, things would become clearer soon.

Gerion continued. "It turns out that when you can't bribe or bully a septon into telling you what you want to hear, the Seven quite clearly hold that only the married parties in question can seek divorce. It can't be undone by another man's coin or his threats. So until and unless one of them asks for it, she remains and has always been Lady Lannister. That is all she will be called in my presence."

Jaime's eyes fixed onto his father, questions answered. Really, he needed to learn how to be careful what he wished for -- the gods were vicious cunts, as Tyrion liked to remind him, and when they bothered to answer prayers they had a habit of doing so with a backhand more often than a boon. The crofter's girl, Tysha? That's what this is all about?

Tywin's lip curled into a sneer. "The Seven aren't here to say otherwise. I am. And I think you'll find the High Septon to be a malleable man to the right pressures -- as the worldly voice of the Seven, he'll say as I tell him. Now I am telling you, Lord Gerion," and dimly, Jaime thought he'd scarcely in his life heard more derision packed into the word 'lord', "nothing is going to change." To an outside eye, the grip that Tywin placed on Gerion's shoulder might have looked friendly, conciliatory, even the nasty smile his father wore could be mistaken as genuine. Not for the first time, Jaime was reminded that Tywin Lannister held power whether he held a seat or not. "You will remain in the North and so will she. If she stays with you or goes wherever whores go, it matters not. But should she set one foot beyond the Neck, should I hear a word breathed of Tyrion planning to visit your keep or you dreaming of visiting the Westerlands with your household, I will make an end to it."

Jaime had a nasty feeling about what he meant by that, and likely so did Gerion, but nonetheless his uncle pressed. "You aren't the Lord Paramount, Warden of the West or Lord of Casterly Rock anymore. You only have as much power and coin as that man allows you to have. All you have of your own are words."

"I didn't need anything more to deal with Roger Reyne. I don't need anything more to deal with you." Tywin's smile vanished. "You can have a silver banner under a lion and build a keep over your mines, near a river, if you really want to invite such comparisons. I already know how to handle such a place and such a man, so for once you would spare me some trouble. Now," he turned, "things will begin soon, and Lord Jaime wants us to present a united front." And with that, he stepped to Jaime's other side, and began to engage with Aunt Genna.

Jaime, for his part, refused to look at his father, instead taking notice of Gerion. His uncle was as pale as snow, and it took him a long time to snap out of his fugue state. When he did, Jaime leaned in to whisper, "You found the girl?" A nod. "And took her with you?" Another nod. "Why?"

Gerion's mouth worked in the air for a moment before he found his voice. "I wish I could just say to protect her, or to make amends to Tyrion for not protecting him more. And they would be the truth, just not all of it. I also took her to make sure I couldn't lose my nerve and try to turn back, get Tywin's forgiveness." Gerion shook his head. "And it worked. From the moment I brought her into our wagon I never looked back or reconsidered what I was doing. But maybe I should have."

Jaime frowned. "Why would you ever think that?"

"Because the girl's life wouldn't be in danger," Gerion hissed. "Because my brother probably wouldn't have threatened to drown my entire household and family just to hold onto an old grudge."

"Does Tyrion know?"

"No, and apparently never will," Gerion said bitterly.

Jaime hesitated, hardly daring to ask. "Does ... does the girl still care for him?"

His uncle didn't answer directly. "The first few months were rough. The last year and a half, though, she's been better. Asking me, sometimes, for stories of Tyrion as a boy. Always trying to hide a smile while she listened. Even asked for stories about you, occasionally." Jaime felt something in his neck pop from how quickly he turned his head to Gerion. "She only remembers you as the knight all in white. Didn't believe anyone who said 'Kingslayer' in her presence, not even when I confirmed it. Believed every word I told her of the Doom, though, even when no one else did." Gerion fell quiet, then, and Jaime quickly noticed why -- the Royal Family was beginning to make their way into the Sept.

As the coronation went on, all pomp and circumstance and dreadfully boring for Jaime at the best of times, he found himself back inside his own head. He had been instrumental in what happened to that girl. If he hadn't gone along with his father's commands, hadn't been cowed and bent to Tywin's will ... maybe nothing would be different. Maybe still she would have been brutalised and thrown into the cold, Tyrion would be forever changed and the Westerlands would gain two more broken souls. But that sounded much more hollow than it used to. Less so than any time since that ... calling it a 'dream' feels cheap, a 'visitation' feels silly, a 'vision' feels dishonest, but something in that family must fit, he thought, perhaps a 'glimpse'..., ugh, fuck, Rhaegar was the poet. And me the sword that failed him. Whatever it was, however he'd found himself on those ruined shores walking with Rhaegar's ghost, Jaime knew that had changed him. He just hadn't considered that it would be like a stone in a pond, sending ripples out into the future but also into his past. It had been years, but he could still conjure her face, the sad eyes and brown hair of Tysha. Another person he'd failed, someone lost to his father's wrath in no small part because of his own mistakes. His own weaknesses.

In the blink of an eye, somehow the ceremonies had concluded and people were mingling again. His reveries were broken when a black-gloved hand gently took his arm, and he started, before a likewise gentle voice asked, "Are you yet well, my lord?"

Jaime turned, and took in the young man. Prince Aegon wore much more formal attire than normal for a goldcloak, minimally armored and wearing black silks instead of leathers, and (mercifully, in Jaime's opinion) absent the ridiculous helms the City Watch wore. However, anyone who'd spent even a day of serious time in sparring would recognise the young prince as sharply attentive of the crowd and wholly prepared to draw his steel if needed. He gave Aegon a nod. "I'm well, Your Grace. You've only pulled me from my thoughts, and I didn't expect it. No harm done."

Aegon offered an awkward smile. "You'll forgive me, Ser Jai – sorry, Lord Jaime –"

"It's alright."

"Force of habit, you know?"

"I do," Jaime gave the prince a lopsided grin, hoping to put him at ease.

The awkwardness remained in the prince's smile, though. "Well. Okay. You'll forgive that. Would you also forgive if I wasn't asking about startling you?"

Jaime tilted his head slightly. "I think I would. If I knew what it was you were asking about."

"I was, erm," Aegon shuffled a bit, and sighed. "Shit. This is so much more nerve-wracking than it used to be." The prince met his eye, then. "I was asking about where you'd gone in your head. Your body was still here, but your mind looked to have wandered afield, and you looked … I don't know. You looked … troubled? I guess?"

Jaime offered some mercy. "You can relax, Lord Commander. We're still the same people, just under different titles." Aegon did as he was told, tension almost melting off of him. "I was thinking about the past. Thinking about mistakes, poor decisions. Weak moments."

"Really? You?" Aegon looked surprised, and Jaime said as much. "It's just, well, you don't come off as someone who thinks about their decisions for too long, especially not after making them. Not that I don't think you think," he said hastily, and Jaime tried very hard not to laugh at Aegon's slightly panicked expression. "It's that, you know, you, erm. You're a man of the moment. Not someone who broods over the past or the future."

"I used to be," Jaime admitted. "I still give into the impulse every once in a while. But being a lord requires different things than being a knight or a soldier. I'm sure you're coming to find that, too," he gave a pointed look, to which Aegon nodded. "I probably should have been that person long before being a lord, too. Could have seen some things go very differently."

"Would you still have killed my grandfather?" Aegon asked suddenly, and Jaime stiffened. "If you were someone who thought about things more, worried about mistakes before acting?" Unlike almost every other person in King's Landing, the prince had no insinuating tone, no backhanded insult or something else clearly going on behind his eyes. All Jaime saw in meeting Aegon's gaze was a young man who asked honestly, and so he answered honestly in turn.

"Yes."

Aegon nodded. "Good." Jaime blinked once. Then twice. "I don't need to remember anything about him to know he was a deranged and dangerous shit, and I don't need anything else to know you did the right thing."

"I didn't, though," Jaime sighed. "I didn't save your mother, or your sister. But I could have. I should have."

"And you might have, if you weren't that person then?"

Jaime nodded, warm tendrils of shame licking at the back of his mind like flames. Not the burning malediction they once were, but he knew he'd carry that forever.

"But you aren't that person now?" Aegon asked, and Jaime shook his head. "Good. Then you'll save the next one, won't you." This time it wasn't a question, and the prince worked to find Jaime's eye again. "I don't blame you for what happened to them. But you won't make that mistake again. I know that."

"I might make all different mistakes by not making that one," Jaime grimaced. "The problem with these things, the problem with being a lord who thinks about the past and the future, is seeing what other things might happen because of what I do or don't do."

"I'm beginning to find that out as I get older, as well," Aegon said, and Jaime barely held back the urge to swat the prince who was half his age talking about 'getting older'. Viserys likes me more than him, I can definitely get away with it, he thought.

There's a lot of lords and ladies who'd be unhappy with it
, a voice not nearly strong enough in his head offered. The queen and the princess among them.

Everyone would live through it, Jaime argued with himself, unlike other things I've done.

You know it wouldn't really be worth the trouble, for you or your king, the voice answered, and he hated that the voice was probably right, unconvincing as it was.

Oblivious to his struggles, Aegon continued. "You want to know something that's helped me, the last month or two?"

Jaime nodded, trying to make his palm stop itching, hoping the boy might actually earn a reprieve.

"I try to find what answer, what option will let me sleep through the night," Aegon said. "Anything that happens past that, I can work with it or try to fix it later, but I need that before anything else."

Jaime's hand stopped itching.

"If it makes life harder, makes things messier, I still know I did the right thing in the moment." He shrugged. "I can't ask anything more from my men, how could I ask more than that from myself."

"I see your point," Jaime acknowledged.

"Was that helpful, my lord?"

"It was some help," Jaime sighed, "and that'll probably have to do for me." He looked out over the mass of people, seeing that many lords were departing for celebrations elsewhere, but the king and a few others were still remaining, apparently hoping to talk with fewer eyes and ears around. A good thirty goldcloaks were littered about the sept, some in twos and threes, and he knew that a dozen or two more stood outside the sept. His gaze returned to the young prince. "If I planned on making a choice like that, if there was something that needed to be done, would the City Watch be in a position to help see it through?"

Aegon's jaw set, his eyes firm. "The sixty men here today are the ones I trust the most. Some are veteran goldcloaks, but most of them came from the Company." His eyes went to a smaller set of doors to one side of the sept, and Jaime followed his gaze to see a few septas walking around the aisles there. Lesser men would miss it, and Jaime would be very shocked indeed if more than ten men in the entire gathering hadn't done so, but the septas were wearing boots instead of simple sandals. And their robes hung just oddly enough to make him think that weapons were hidden underneath. Aegon added in a whisper, "My cousins also came, in the event there could be trouble."

"There could be." Jaime felt Aegon's eyes settle on him, but he was busy looking to see where his own men had gone to. They'd also been carefully selected, but this was no time to be too trusting. Coming back to meet Aegon's gaze, he continued, a casual tone to his voice. "A cautious man might ensure that a house's sworn swords couldn't interfere. A clever man might have his closest allies standing with him if something were to happen."

Aegon nodded slowly. "A careful man would wait for a signal. If he knew what it was."

"Trust me, you won't miss it," Jaime said, grim and certain. "There's time yet, but I don't mean to be wasting it. You probably want to start talking to some people that aren't me."

"Understood," Aegon looked to the ersatz septas, and ostentatiously twisted his head around to crack his neck. "Lord Lannister," he gave a nod as the septas began to move towards them.

"Lord Commander," Jaime returned it, and left the prince to his devices. It didn't take much looking for him to find King Viserys, standing with Princess Daenerys and Lord Stark. Jaime began to make his way through the thinning crowds to try and ensure that they were likewise informed that events were going to take a turn. It was hardly the place or the time, Jaime knew, but after the things he'd heard today he was resolved to not wait any longer or take any more chances. He'd alert the other royals, perhaps even get Lord Stark's aid in addition to Aegon's, and then speak to--

"Jaime," his father took his arm and broke his focus. "We have business to attend to before we move on to the celebrations tonight." His mind still working away at his other, more pressing task, it took Jaime a moment to catch on that Tywin held a wooden box not much larger than a war helmet. His father misread Jaime's expression, and sighed before he elaborated. "Come with me; we must meet with Prince Oberyn."

He only just managed to restrain a humourless laugh at the irony. Yes, he did need to meet with the Dornishman, but not about this. Disguising it as a light cough clearing his throat, Jaime nodded. "I agree. I last remember he was talking with Lord Strickland, over by the chancel."

Tywin looked that direction, and nodded. "You're right. The balding head is rather difficult to miss," and began to stride that way without another word. If Tyrion were there, he might have shared a private look with his brother about the casual hypocrisy on display, but instead he turned to follow.

Just one more uncomfortable conversation, Jaime told himself. Then we'll make an end to it.

-------------

AN: Every time I wanted to put finishing touches on this, more conversations ended up happening -- originally, there was no meeting with the Northerners, and no conversation with Gerion either, but they insisted and it kept growing in length. 1.5K words became 3K, became 4.5K. As I was writing, I thought I was finally reaching the end point that I'd originally intended, when all of a sudden Tywin decided that he wanted a chat with Oberyn. And I can hardly deny that it's in fact necessary for the narrative arc, so this is actually (irritatingly) part one. The unintended but apparently needed part two will follow in a few days, once the Old Lion and the Viper square off a bit, and I rework the narrative's perspective and tense. And I pray to who-or-whomever necessary that there aren't any more people who interrupt the process to poke their heads in and say "oh, we want a moment in the spotlight!" ... although I certainly wouldn't bet the house.
 
The Great Work Begins, Part V
Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, you heard the words with solemnity and dedication, before the High Septon added to your titles, for the first time in nearly three hundred years, King of All Westeros and Shield of His People. Thinking of it, the old man's voice still clear in your mind, you smile again. Is it a necessary restoration? Not really; king, lord and protector all cover the same ground legally and traditionally. But it's important to you, because of the subtle differences. When people hear that, they won't think of separate kingdoms or separate peoples, they'll think of All Westeros – like thinking of the unity of the Seven-Who-Are-One, rather than the individual facets. The realm to you is sort of an ideal, a generality, a reference to the polity and the land itself, but being the Shield of Your People, you and those who come after you will remember to think of the people, and not just yourselves.

You hadn't been looking for much in the way of grandeur and opulence, and your instructions had been followed, more or less; while this would be a day long remembered, you weren't bankrupting the Realm, and you weren't making it all about you instead of the lands and people you meant to serve. Still, some expenditure had been made – chief among them had been the speedily built, only slightly objected to stage outside, beyond the confines of the Sept, where you would soon repeat the formal coronation before the eyes of the smallfolk. Most of the highborn you've spoken with don't seem to really understand it, and when they think no one can hear them they call it a vanity project. It matters to you, though; you are King of All Westeros now, not just king of the highborn, and you know without doubt that your father thought nothing of the smallfolk. You feel a need to draw a contrast, explicit or not. And so, the High Septon will repeat the procedure, slightly abridged, in an hour's time.

For now, though, you have lords and ladies to gladhand. As you go through the motions, you find yourself yet again relieved that you kept Arianne and Dany with you. Their natural talents keep things going smoothly, allow you to not focus too closely on this for the most part, and you know you need that. Keeping yourself somewhat detached allows you to not focus, allows you to not see the shatterpoints of these people presented in your mind's eye. It isn't that you can't keep yourself from exploiting them, it's more that you'd rather not have that distracting you when there's other things to be minding.

Like the coming confrontation you see across the sept, where Jaime and his father are approaching Prince Oberyn and the freshly-appointed Master of Coin, Lord Harry Strickland. You glance to Arianne, and with your eyes guide hers to what you see. She nods, your unspoken wish received clearly, and she politely disengages with an excuse about the children you barely hear before she manages to disappear into the crowd. The family you'd been covertly ignoring, the Appletons you think, make their pleasantries and depart as well, and Ned Stark steps forward to your side. "Is something wrong, Your Grace?"

"I don't know yet," you sigh, "but I have the unfortunate sense that the Master of Whispers is going to soon be unbearable company for the rest of the day."

Ned follows your gaze, and sighs a bit himself. "I really don't know why we still let him into the city."

"I confess to wondering that sometimes myself."

"Any other man in Westeros, having been deposed by the king himself, wouldn't dream of showing his face in the city, never mind continuing to walk around like he owns it," Ned scowls.

"His presence is important for maintaining the peace and restoring the realm," you say less in answer to him and more in a reminder to yourself.

"So you've said," your Master of Laws gives you an evaluating glance, "cagey as you've been about what that exactly means."

"Not committing to anything now leaves room for interpretation later," you reply, your tone airy and casual. You watch as Lord Stark looks from you, to Prince Oberyn being hastily abandoned by Lord Strickland, to the Lannisters approaching him, and then to your nephew, speaking to some septas. Lastly, he looks around the building, and sees a number of goldcloaks stationed around the place, before returning his eyes to you.

"Surely you don't intend to move against him here."

"In a house of the Seven, and in plain view of the highborn?" You shake your head. "That would be far too reckless, leave too many variables to chance. Better to wait for a more private opportunity."

"You're certain that Lord Jaime would not try to stop you?" Stark presses.

"In truth, my lord," you say as you watch the Lannisters finally reach Oberyn, "I'd be surprised if Jaime does anything besides stand there and very pointedly do nothing at all." You make a small gesture, one that would not cause eyes besides Ned's to look towards the meeting again. "I know that Oberyn and Jaime have some kind of understanding about things, and that is all I need to know."

Stark's look becomes evaluating. "You haven't yet struck me, Your Grace, as a man who leaves things to variables he doesn't know."

"Plausible deniability has its own value in some cases. I'm sure you'd agree," you add as you glance in the direction of the Northern contingent, Lord Domeric catching your eye along with his companions. "My lord, is that…" Your voice trails off as you look at the young man standing with Bolton and young Greyjoy.

"It is." Ned's voice is clipped and tight.

Your breath leaves you. It's quite something, even to take him in at this distance – you immediately can see how no one doubted Stark's story, and … maybe it's your imagination, a bit of you seeing what you want to see, but you swear you can see some of Rhaegar in him as he broods in the background. "Would you introduce us?"

Stark carefully doesn't look that way as he says, "Not just now. With Prince Oberyn bringing his children and paramour, no one particularly notices the boy or objects to him, but it would cause a stir for me to introduce my bastard son to the newly-coronated king so publicly. I can't risk bringing attention to him like that."

"I understand," and you do, but it doesn't make your interest dull for a moment. "Though you probably could pass him off as your heir and no one here besides the Northern lords would even suspect a thing."

"Besides myself and Lord Jorah," Ned asks with a light hint of sarcasm, "have you met a single lord of the North who could keep a straight face through such a deception, for even a moment?"

"Point taken."

"Do you intend to tell him, or anyone else of his heritage?" Ned looks at you now.

You hesitate. You can see arguments both for and against, easily make either case yourself. "It could be said he has a right to know, likewise that Aegon deserves the knowledge he has a brother," you offer placidly.

"It could also be said that bastards of royal blood have a history of causing trouble for the Crown and their legitimate brethren," Ned cautions. "That resentments and paranoia too easily break out in their presence, and the realm pays the price."

Are these words spoken by my Master of Laws, or spoken by his wife? You wonder. "All of that may have happened before," you say aloud, "but it doesn't have to happen again. Look to our path to this day, to how many men could have been threats, many indeed were threats, that instead I enlarged them and made a friend of them." You nod towards your trueborn nephew. "Young Aegon and Lord Connington could have been a danger to me, to my loved ones – now they stand in pride of place, and I trust Egg with our lives. Lord Stannis could have slain me where I stood or taken us all in chains to receive his brother's blessings – he became my highest commander. Even you, Lord Stark," you say as he frowns, "you might have done the same, to win back Robert's graces or to protect the boy from me, yet here you stand."

"You know I could never do that, Your Grace," Ned argues.

"I do," you agree, unable to hide a smile. "So why should I expect anything less from a man of your blood, raised in your home and in your mold?" Normally, you prefer to win an argument on your own, but when your rhetorical opponent accidentally makes your case for you, you're not one to miss the opportunity.

Lord Stark lets out a small sound, a chagrined look on his face that tells you he knows he stepped rather neatly into that one. "I concede your point, but I caution this: you trust me, and by extension you trust the boys raised by me … but can you be so sure that your sons could trust his sons? Will their grandsons trust each other, and their sons after them? It is never solely about us, my king. It is also about the many generations we hope to come after us."

He has a point, you have to admit. But still, "Trust has to start somewhere."

"The decision is yours, Your Grace," Stark says as an answer, his expression unreadable.


[ ] Decide to share this secret. It's a leap of faith, but you don't want to spend your whole life mired in nothing but secrets and half-truths. You'll tell…
-[ ] Jon Snow
-[ ] Aegon Targaryen
-[ ] Write-in
[ ] Decide to stay silent.
This is King's Landing, after all; even pitchers have ears, and there's no harm that can come from waiting on it...right?


"Well, let that rest," you say for now. "I think perhaps we had best speak to Prince Oberyn." You see Jaime and Tywin leave his company, and Oberyn doing a marvellous job of impersonating a volcano on the cusp of eruption.

Stark turns to catch Dany's eye. "Your Grace," he says once he has her attention, "I think this would be a fine opportunity to aid the king in a matter of nuance and diplomacy with the Master of Whispers."

For her part, Daenerys' eyes go wide as those of a spooked horse. "Now, my lord?" She steals a glance at Oberyn. "This seems an ill time to intrude on the Prince of Dorne's thoughts."

"Not at all," Ned answers. "You're a relative, a close confidante of his king, and in a public place where a man's more impolitic instincts must be tempered. You could not ask for a better time to speak with him." He turns to you. "With your leave, Your Grace, I would send the Princess in my stead while I attend to another matter."

You hesitate only a moment before you give him a nod, and you watch him rather quickly strike up a conversation with Lord Harlaw. In a less charitable mood, you might have thought it cowardly, but he makes valid points about Dany's suitability for the task. And you can certainly respect the instinct to not move closer to Oberyn for any reason right now. Sighing, you work to overpower your own instinct, offer Dany your arm, and once she takes it you make your way to the Master of Whispers. It's a special kind of unnerving, you think, when a man possessed of so much inner life and accustomed to expressing it in speech and movement as Oberyn, stands as silent and still as stone. Were it not for his carefully controlled breathing and the flare of his nostrils, you might have thought him petrified. Again, you're struck with the impression that this really isn't a great idea, but Stark is right that he will not be so in-control of himself later, when not in public and in the eyes of the Seven. A controlled explosion isn't ideal, but better than chancing a wild one later.

Oberyn looks up from a large box in his hands at your approach, and puts on what he probably thinks is a convincing smile. "My king," he bows to you, and to Dany, "my lady. It is a glorious day for all Westeros. I am humbled to have been a part of it."

"You honour us, Prince Oberyn," Dany answers diplomatically. "We are ever grateful for you."

"You seem uncomfortable," you say rather less diplomatically. You can see Dany openly glare at you in the corner of your eye, but you ignore it. "Are you in need of anything? Some wine, some time off your feet?" You gesture to nearby seats.

"I am in no discomfort, Your Grace," Oberyn dodges, "but I appreciate your concern."

"And I appreciate not being lied to." He has at least the decency to wilt slightly under your gaze. "Please take a seat, my lord." Without waiting, you start to sit as well, and he and Dany move to take seats quickly, so as to not appear rude. Courtly manners and protocols are as exhausting to you as they are inane, but they do occasionally have their uses. Once he is sitting, you fix your gaze on him again. "Would you care to try again, Prince Oberyn?"

He looks to chew on something for a moment, possibly his thoughts, possibly his own tongue, before he responds. "Do you know much about poisons, my king?"

Well, that's a strange redirect. "Not really," you acknowledge. "In honesty, I've had other people for that sort of thing. I mostly just know a person gets poisoned by taking it into themselves."

"That is, with respect, the most basic of knowledge," Oberyn nods, "and one that the average catspaw would act upon. But it is a much more complicated discipline than that. One must consider how a poison acts, how it is best delivered, if its effect can be delayed or diluted, if it will interact with alcohol or other poisons or work to counter purposes, and the list goes on. I am, with no false modesty, an expert in this discipline."

You dryly remark, "In some circumstances, a Master of Whispers telling his King all about poisons, and his skill with them, could be taken as a form of foreshadowing, or a threat." Dany sits very still beside you, while Oberyn cracks a more genuine smile than what he'd attempted before. You continue, "But I don't imagine that is your intent, so I hope this is leading somewhere interesting."

He takes your point, it seems. "I try to live my life in this way as much as possible – knowing how things will interact and progress, how to counteract problems and threats, determining the best way to accomplish my goals, even if it means taking a slow path or working with those I find distasteful."

You nod. "This is why I chose you for the Small Council. You're demonstrably skilled with this manner of thinking and living."

"So you can imagine that being caught off-guard is a stressful experience for me," he says, "and that distasteful individuals could push me to anger with less effort than I would hope."

Ah. The point emerges. Before you can speak, Dany comes in, a caring look on her face. "And this would accurately summarise your conversation with the Lords Lannister?"

"It would, Your Grace," he sighs, looking down to the box in his hands again.

You ask, "Does this box have something to do with it as well?" He nods. When he is no more forthcoming, you prod. "And that something would be…?"

"This box," he shows it to you, "contains the skull of Ser Gregor Clegane." What. In the corner of your eye, you see Dany turn slightly green. "Lord Tywin saw fit to obey the letter of your agreement, and executed the man rather than deliver him to me. He also," Oberyn produces a scroll, "informed me that Amory Lorch was slain in the Riverlands before the Trident." Dany looks bemused, but you frown at the name. She has never come to know that name in part from your own efforts; it is bad enough she knew of the Mountain and what he did to Elia, but you had long refused to let her discover the particulars of Rhaenys' fate. Lorch was in your estimation just as monstrous as the Mountain, but had long escaped the latter man's level of scrutiny. And now he was dead, too.

As you think on this, Dany speaks up. "Is this not a good thing, Prince Oberyn? The men who destroyed our kin are all dead now."

"The men who committed these crimes are dead, yes, Princess," he answers. "But these men would not dare do these things, without the leave of their lord."

She arches a pale eyebrow. "You mean Lord Tywin?"

"The Old Lion is ultimately responsible," Oberyn says. "Whether he gave the order himself, or hinted that he'd overlook such crimes."

"There are no other options?" Dany presses. You're still a bit distracted by the skull in a box. It's an oddly appealing aesthetic to you. "The Usurper couldn't have been behind it, or leaned on Lord Tywin to force his hand?"

"Do you imagine anyone could force Tywin Lannister to do something he didn't already want to do?"

You look up from the box when you don't hear an answer, and see Dany wordlessly gesture to you while meeting Oberyn's gaze.

"The Usurper did not have a dragon, Your Grace," he replies, "nor the skill to make Lord Tywin's men do his bidding instead of their lord's. These things only happened because Lord Tywin wanted them to happen."

"You would pursue vengeance against him, then?" Dany tilts her head. "A man who has abdicated his seat, supported the king to the hilt, and swung no sword against any member of our family?"

Oberyn actually glares at Dany. "That is not all he is, and not all he has done, and Your Grace is not nearly so foolish as to think either. He must answer for his crimes."

"And then what?" He starts at her clipped tone, and so do you. "Should Lord Jaime be held to blame? Lord Tyrion, Ser Barristan, Sandor Clegane? How far must your vengeance take you, Prince Oberyn?"

"I cannot rest while this man goes unpunished," Oberyn growls.

"I understand that," you interject, "better than most men alive might understand. But to pursue him is to court your own demise, my lord."

The fire behind his eyes seems to flare in that moment. "If that is what it takes."

Dany sighs. "And what about our nephew?" That seems to bring Oberyn up short, and she presses her advantage. "He is alive, and he has few to count as family. Would you allow Lord Tywin to deprive him of one more family member to satisfy your quest?"

Oberyn looks to waver in that moment, as though caught in a storm no one can see. He protests, "What good am I to him if I let his family's murderers go free?"

"What good are you to him as one more corpse in a long line of them?" Daenerys is as cutting as you've ever seen her be, and distantly you think she's become very protective of your nephew. "His family's murderers are dead." She points to the box in Oberyn's lap. "There is the last of them. Chasing after Lord Tywin may see you join him in that box. Can a skull tell young Egg about his Dornish heritage and his mother, teach him words and weapons like his father would have done, counsel him about women or give him comfort when his heart is broken? We cannot do these things for him, Oberyn," she rests a hand on your shoulder, "and you are one of the few left who can." She meets his eye, and you are reminded along with Oberyn that, a sweet young girl or not, Daenerys is the Mother of Dragons, a Targaryen, and your sister – a plainly dangerous and deeply powerful person even with no weapons but words. "The dead are convenient vessels to tie our desires to – they cannot ask for anything else or sway us from our course. The living are far less convenient, as they might want something different from what you want, but they are no less important. And you might consider that Aegon would rather have you alive than one more skull in a box."

The Prince of Dorne hangs his head, and you don't need the vision of your minds eye to know that he's on the edge. "Your Grace … has given me much to contemplate," he manages to get out. "I would ask your leave, to think on this. And," he adds with a glance to his lap, "to do something with this. Perhaps the Hound would like it."

"Perhaps," you allow. "If we do not see you at the celebrations this evening, we will speak more at Council tomorrow." He nods to you, and to Dany, and leaves the sept looking as small as you've ever seen him. You turn to your sister, and offer a smile. "Remind me not to make you angry."

She sighs, and looks much more like the shy sister you're used to now. "I haven't made you angry, then, to speak to him that way?"

"You did a much better job than I would have," you admit. "I would have been hard-pressed to keep my own frustrations in check, never mind his. You did well," you press an affectionate kiss into the top of her head.

"I hope so," she answers, but smiles at your praise. "You think I've moved him from his path, that he'll reconsider pursuing Lord Tywin?"

"I think you've moved him to think about Aegon," you say instead, "and that's a line of thought he's not had to consider for many years. If you've not moved him altogether, you've at least given him pause, and that's all we need for now."

She meets your eye. "Short of killing him, is there anything to be done about the Old Lion?"

You chew your lip a bit, choosing your words carefully. "There are things to be done, ways this can be approached. But above all else, we must remember that whether he is a lord or not, all Westeros knows to respect and fear Tywin Lannister. If anything is to be done, it has to be done with great calculation and care."

Dany nods, and glances over to where the Lords Lannister stand, and her expression drops. "…about that…" she murmurs, and you follow her gaze.

The song of unsheathed Valyrian steel sings in your ear as you see Jaime draw Brightroar, his ancestral sword, and point it at his father as he speaks aloud for all to hear. "Tywin Lannister, you are hereby arrested on the charges of treason and conspiring to murder members of the Royal Family."

"Men of the Watch," Aegon speaks firmly from twenty feet away, drawing his own steel. Goldcloaks level swords and spears, arms at the ready, and the men of House Lannister do not move as you see they are, to a one, pinned down by goldcloak escorts. Behind Tywin, you see two septas step up and place a hand on each shoulder, and as you come to recognise them as your wife's cousins, you have no doubt that their other hands hold daggers in Tywin's back to ensure he moves as instructed. The Old Lion looks taken completely by surprise, before he looks behind to confirm what's there, looks to his son, and then looks to you, comprehension dawning and fury building as he almost certainly thinks you planned this moment. If only that were true. Your control slips, just for a moment, and you sigh with exasperation, muttering only loud enough for Dany to hear you.

"Oh, godsdammit, Jaime."

-------------

This is going to be a fine mess. Before the night is through, you'll need to speak to at least a few people about this, and you will need to dispatch others to handle the rest. To whom will you speak yourself? Choose three.
[ ] Eddard Stark. Your Master of Laws is a bit put out that this escalated so quickly, and wants to start planning what will happen next, and how to handle any fallout. You could also spend some time with his wards while you work with him.
[ ] Garlan Tyrell. The young lord seems uneasy, and it doesn't take much to gather he's worried that his family could be next. The word of the King himself should assuage his fears, if little else could.
[ ] Yohn Royce. 'Bronze Yohn' is a man who lives by rules and decorum, and both have been rather thoroughly breached. With Lord Arryn absent, he speaks for the Lords of the Vale, and could help you put to rest any of their concerns ... if his are, first.
[ ] Arianne Martell. Your wife is wise and insightful, and a deft hand at handling her uncle -- she'll know what to say to him, and could be helpful with the other lords. And she might have some answers about the ersatz septas.
[ ] Oberyn Martell. You hope the Red Viper is going to be gracious enough to not make you eat your words, but you could hardly blame him if he did. He's going to have Opinions about this, for sure.
[ ] Aegon Targaryen. You expect that Egg has some very compelling explanations for this ... or that he'll hurry to create some to give you.
[ ] Jaime Lannister. The Hand of the King has put you in quite a fix. You want answers, and you want to know why this was done in your name.
[ ] Tywin Lannister. Deposed or not, arrested or not, the Old Lion still has claws. You should speak with him, and make sure those claws stay where they belong.
[ ] Write-in. Subject to QM approval.

-------------

AN: Apologies for this taking a while -- without going into too much detail, my family's comparative luck with the pandemic and this hellyear in general ran out, with several pets and family members falling ill or dying. The next update will hopefully take far less time, and then when that's done, we'll get into the next year's arc!
 
Last edited:
The Great Work Begins, Part VI
[X] Jaime Lannister


Your first meeting is, thankfully, alone. It's the most important one for you to take, and while it's going to look like you're sneaking off for scheming you can't bring yourself to care about that right now. Not when it's taking a certain level of focus to not bite your best friend's head off.

It's more than a bit out of your way, but you know no one else is going to be down in the crypts where the Usurper stashed your family's dragon skulls, and things will likely need to be said that need to not be heard by eavesdroppers. Jaime is waiting for you when you arrive, holding a torch in one hand, and the other tucked into a small satchel at his side.

"Ser Jaime, do you know what the role of the King's Hand is?"

Jaime seems caught off-guard by your casual tone, as though he expected a chewing-out or an immediate dismissal. He recovers quickly, though, and answers as nonchalantly as you asked. "The Hand is the King's principal advisor and actor, to offer his king his best counsel and then to fulfill whatever task his king commands." It seems like he really can't help himself but to be flippant, because he adds, "The Hand is meant to be the Crown's most trusted ally and friend in King's Landing, responding to problems as they come, and ensuring the King isn't troubled with things he needn't be."

You do your best to imitate Tywin Lannister's icy gaze and sardonic tone as you respond, "That's a fair if somewhat self-serving assessment. I've always been partial to the smallfolks' saying, that the King shits and the Hand cleans up." You frown slightly. "It's not supposed to be the other way around."

Jaime winces, but doesn't back down yet. "Is that how it's being seen?"

"It varies. Some seem to think I was taken by surprise by my Hand and his actions. Some believe I orchestrated the entire event, and I'm simply trying to cover my own ass. I would hope you understand," you glare, "that neither of these are good or even okay options." You pinch the bridge of your nose fiercely, then sigh. "Is the charge at least accurate? I could be less angry with you if I knew you didn't invent something to arrest your father."

Jaime cocks his head. "That would depend on your definition of 'accurate', I guess."

Your eyes narrow. "If the definition of 'accurate' needs to be in dispute for me to be less angry, this night is not going to go well for you."

That does cause him to look a little abashed, at last. "The charges are accurate. He conspired to murder Prince Aegon."

That is news to you. How had Prince Oberyn missed such a detail, especially as he's been hoping for the slightest pretense to drag Tywin before a court or to just drag him into the Black Cells? Maybe he isn't as well-suited to the job as you had initially thought—

Jaime continues. "…and Princess Rhaenys."

Seven Hells. You squeeze your eyes shut. "You arrested your father, a highborn man and one of the richest and most powerful people in the known world, based on Oberyn's five-and-ten years of conspiracy theories?"

He shakes his head. "I arrested my father based on his confirmation of Oberyn's conspiracy theories."

That, finally, is what brings you up short. "His what."

"He explained to me, in confidence," Jaime elaborates, "that he did order the death of Rhaegar's children, as a way to ingratiate himself and our House with Robert after feeling our House needed to buy in deep with the Usurper or die. For what it's worth," he adds, "he swore to me that Clegane and Lorch were not ordered to do what they did beyond the killing."

"Coming from him, it isn't worth much at all," you sigh. "Alright, so he confessed to this crime, having only succeeded against Rhaenys and by no obvious measurements was attempting to make good on his threats against young Egg today. So why today?"

Jaime looks at the floor, toes at a loose stone. "Something that Prince Aegon said to me. He said I should do what will help me sleep through the night, and worry about the rest later. Between my father's role in your family's deaths, and him openly threatening my uncle and brother today in full view of the Seven, I wasn't going to be able to sleep well knowing he could be free to plan against them and everyone else another day."

"Egg offered this idea to you."

"Not explicitly this," Jaime answers. "More that if I was in conflict, considering what decision would let me sleep through the night could help in making that decision. Everything else could be sorted out later."

"Like telling your king what you're up to?"

He meets your eye, then, and you notice just how rough Jaime really looks. To the casual observer, he would just seem a little tired and stressed, but to you (someone who knows him well, and is gifted with a second sight to boot) he looks like he's only just standing. "It's hard enough to sleep through the night already. I'll take whatever trouble is necessary during my waking hours for a chance at untroubled sleep." A fracture line almost lights up as it arcs out of him, upwards into the Red Keep and at an odd angle, and it doesn't take you much to realise it reflects his mind returning to a particular room, a room that isn't the Great Hall – the only other room he'd have reason to be thinking of in this moment dawns on you, and you also notice him fiddle with something in that satchel. A hint of wiry gold is visible within, and you realise what he has in his hand.

You don't lack for sympathy, but… "It would be nice," you say in a more conciliatory tone, "if that trouble didn't involve me and my nephew as well."

"Well, Your Grace, I'm not going to turn down help when it's offered to me, even when it's your nephew offering advice."

You raise an eyebrow. "Jaime, he's sixteen. Were you a font of wisdom, knowledge and insight at the age of sixteen?"

"I was a young idiot contemplating regicide at sixteen," he retorts. "I also wasn't a Targaryen raised to lead men or to be wise and insightful. Besides, you have been at least peripherally aware that Oberyn and I had designs on something like this. Having direct knowledge would have made you an accessory to it."

"A distinction that I'm sure your father and the lords of the realm will appreciate," you note dryly. Your temper is slowly bleeding off, as you can see he did at least somewhat think this through, and you ask, "Do you have some idea of how this is going to be explained? If we start arresting everyone who ever conspired against my family, we'll end up arresting almost every man of noble blood in the Seven Kingdoms, including you, most of the Small Council, Kingsguard and Lords Paramount. We don't have that many swords to take them or that many cells to hold them."

"If you meant to hold to the strictest possible definition," Jaime shrugs, "maybe. But how many men have conspired to murder a member of your family and seen success?"

"Historically? More than I'm comfortable acknowledging," you answer, but you can admit to yourself he's beginning to persuade you. "In living memory, though…"

-------------
[X] Eddard Stark


"…at the moment Lord Tywin is the only man who fits the bill," you finish.

Lord Stark leans back in his seat, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow and casting shadows over his eyes, his solar in his quarters lit only by candlelight as the sun has just begun to set. The explanation you and Ser Jaime worked out is not ideal, to be sure, but you hope your Master of Laws can help with fleshing out this notion.

"You don't believe that such a definition would include men like me, Your Grace?" He prods. "I raised arms against your family in a successful rebellion. Should I submit to imprisonment and trial, too?"

"If you insisted, and if it would ease your conscience," you say, "I wouldn't stop you. But I'd ask you not to: you didn't conspire to murder my father and brother, so you're innocent of the specific crime. Our court is going to be busy enough without trying an innocent man and declaring him to be so."

Ned looks unconvinced. "The moment Robert, Jon and I drew steel, we all knew it wasn't going to end with us making peace with Aerys. Or with Rhaegar. We planned and waged a war that would result in our deaths or theirs. That would fit the definition you've supplied, I think."

Beside you, Jaime shakes his head. "You planned campaigns and battles, yes. Did you say 'Robert will go here and kill Prince Rhaegar, I will march on the capital and kill the Mad King'?"

"…not in so many words," he answers. "But we planned for events and took actions that would lead to their deaths."

You lean in a bit, an arm on the table between you. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but when you planned for the First Battle of the Trident, you planned to engage your army with another. No one explicitly planned to locate the Crown Prince and kill him, with your knowledge or input."

His face darkens. "I had no doubt that was Robert's intent. I never stopped him, nor tried to plan for capturing the Prince instead of killing him."

"But you didn't plan the act." You tap the table to emphasise each syllable. "Besides, killing someone in combat isn't the same as murdering them."

He is silent for a long moment. "It's an awfully narrow distinction, Your Grace," Ned finally offers as he looks between you and Jaime.

"I don't agree," you say. "You had every reason to expect that Rhaegar would defend himself and be capable of doing it. That isn't murder." Your jaw tightens as you add, "A frail princess and children who could not defend themselves, that's murder." The events of that day had always set your heart alight, but it is different for you now that you're married and have children yourself. The monstrousness of the acts that were committed hits home in a far harsher way for you now. Inwardly, you wonder if you'd feel as strongly about prosecuting this three years ago, without the empathy for the situation you now possess, but dismiss the thought. "Rhaegar had a chance – slim as it may have been, he had as much a chance as I did against the Usurper. What chance did his wife and daughter have?" You sigh. "That's what makes it murder for me."

Ned truly understands now, it seems, for he no longer presses back against your arguments, and instead remarks, "We will need to find a succinct way of putting that argument, that it can be used to put the Great Families at ease."

You feel some surprise, considering the circumstances. "You think that the Lords of Westeros will fear retribution falling upon them, when his guilt is so much plainer and publicly known than any they are known to possess?"

"Garlan Tyrell and his retinue delivered their pleasantries as soon as you departed the celebrations this afternoon, and have almost certainly already made their way beyond the city walls," Ned informs you, "And if Yohn Royce hasn't yet sent a raven to the Eyrie with the news, I am certain that the other lords of the Vale will be. I think that particular knife has been pulled, Your Grace, and now we need to determine how much padding, dressing and stitching is necessary to minimise the damage."

You sigh, your mind already working at it. "If the Tyrells moved that quickly, I doubt young Garlan took the time to send a raven of his own." You look to Jaime. "The Oakhearts remain on good terms with the Tyrells, yes?" At his nod, "A raven will likely outpace them, if perhaps by a few days. We should send word to them via Ser Arys and have them speak to Lord Mace, try to prevent Garlan's words from seeding fear too deep in his father's heart." You think a bit more, before turning back to Ned. "I know things are strained between you and Jon Arryn, but I would have you do what you can to allay any fear of reprisal he might possess."

Stark bows his head. "As my king commands."

You ask, "Is there anything else you recommend?"

Ned offers a sigh of his own, leaning forward and rubbing his forehead in thought. "If you would permit me to give a task to the princess, Your Grace, I would send her to the lords of the Vale, let her words try to sway them to, at least, not flee the city. If they remain long enough to see that you are not your father or your predecessor, that you will not pursue any other men that stood against you, I believe that would take many arrows out of Jon's quiver, should he seek to isolate the Vale or actively resist you."

"Do so, with my blessing," you agree. "Is that what you think Lord Arryn may consider?"

"He will not raise arms against you, if that's what you're asking," Ned answers. "Not unless he had no other choice. No, I suspect he would try to turn the Vale into a new Dorne, part of the Seven Kingdoms in name more than deed, and he cannot achieve that if his lords are not suspicious or fearful of you. Without widespread support for such an isolationist stance, he will toe the line."

A question occurs to you then. "Do you believe this will cause him to change his mind about sending young Robert to us?"

Stark shakes his head. "As long as I remain the boy's named guardian, he won't change his course."

You relax a bit as you sigh out, "Good," choosing to take that as a measure of relief, even if your mind remains somewhat anxious.

Jaime rises, then, and says, "With your leave, Your Grace, I will go the White Tower and speak to Ser Arys." You nod, and he starts to leave, before he turns back. "Shall I meet you there, or in the Tower of the Hand later?"

"We'll meet in the White Tower," you command. "It seems more fitting." He nods back, and leaves your company for his task.

Silence sits around you both for a moment as Ned writes some more. You don't like it when events feel beyond your control, even as much as you're aware most things are. Being blindsided is an unfamiliar experience, and it has left you feeling rattled. Ned has become a close enough advisor, you've relied on him enough, that you feel you can be a bit more open with him than with most others. "Be direct with me, my lord: how badly do you think this is going to go?"

For several moments, Ned is quiet, but you recognise it as him thinking about the question rather than him trying to find ways to soften any potential blow. Eventually, he answers you. "I think we can manage this, my king. So long as we have no new surprises, and," he looks out the window with an unrestrained glower towards the Tower of the Hand, "if Lord Jaime remembers to communicate with us before acting. I won't pretend that this isn't a complication, but so long as things remain in our control and we keep things moving smoothly, it could be a benefit as well." At your look of bemusement, he elaborates, "There's few in the Seven Kingdoms, highborn or low, that don't know what Tywin Lannister did to your family. If a man as powerful as him is made to face the law, it may help see the law better respected than if it was perceived that justice upon the highborn is delivered differently, if at all, as compared to its delivery upon the smallfolk. It is a complex needle to thread, to send that message while also keeping the lords from being too fearful of what you may do to them with or without cause, but I believe we can do it."

You offer him a genuine smile. "Thank you, my lord. I hope to be worthy of such belief."

"That," he responds, "is why I have it."

As the moon begins to rise and night falls, you work with Lord Stark for several more hours, until you are both satisfied with what will be said to whom and how, and the manner in which you intend to proceed with this. The hour grows late, but before you allow him to retire for the evening, you ask him to accompany you to the White Tower. You'd like him to be the witness for the event that you and Jaime did plan with each other for this evening.

-------------
[X] Tywin Lannister


The hour has grown too late for you to approach your lords on anything less than the most grievous of events happening, and while Tywin Lannister likely feels otherwise, you don't think his arrest rises to the level that you can reasonably excuse intruding upon the other lords you might wish to speak to in this time of the night. They will have to wait until tomorrow. It's hours that will give ideas time to settle in their heads, hours that will leave them less malleable than when the iron was still hot, but the rules of decorum leave you trapped in this – if you broke with protocols to speak to any others tonight, it would suggest panic on your part, that you aren't in control and that you're desperate, rather than a king to which they all are meant to answer, a man sure of purpose and unquestionably the one in control. It frustrates you, but it's the world you live in, the paths you chose. But you find yourself still somewhat restless, feeling a need to move and act and do something.

So you decide to pay a visit to the newest guest of the Black Cells. Social decorum doesn't apply to his hours of the night.

When you approach, you find that Tywin is already standing, imperiously, near the bars of his cell. It is as if he knew you were coming. The Old Lion has an air to him that commands attention and respect. You have known this since your youth, but it's really quite something to see that being held in the Black Cells does nothing to dampen this effect. Of course, this is hardly the deepest and darkest of the cells – there are still rules and decorums to be minded, after all. So Tywin Lannister is in a dark and dank, but not lightless and lifeless cell, and he is carefully minded by the particularly odd pairing of Ser Warrek and Sandor Clegane. Wordlessly, you glance at the Westerlander, then back to Warrek and arch an eyebrow at him, leaning on the years of knowing each other to silently communicate, Are you sure about him?

Warrek gives you the tiniest of nods. Yes. He has no love for the Lannisters, and works for me now. I trust his self-interest.

Well, perhaps you're reading between the lines a bit. But you're satisfied nonetheless. You give him a nod in return, and he taps Clegane's pauldron before leading the scarred brute of a man further into the dungeons, allowing you some semblance of privacy.

"Lord Tywin."

"Your Grace." He still stands near the bars, hands clasped behind his back, unmoving.

"Are you unharmed?" Regardless of anything else, you don't really want him injured or tortured, but while you trust the people who took him in with your life, you don't necessarily trust them with his.

"For a given value of the word," his words are clipped and formal. You didn't hear it much, but you are nonetheless familiar with this tone of icy, barely-restrained fury – Tywin took it more and more with your father as their relationship soured, and it often set Aerys off that Tywin was so careful as to not give him an excuse to retaliate. You try very hard to not be your father, but some things slip through the cracks.

Like this tone being a reliable irritant. "If you have received no bodily injury, I would have you spare me your indignation and just answer the question," you hiss.

"Nothing beyond some holes poked in my tunic by your Dornish whores," he returns your tone, to your surprise. This must have set him off more than you'd expected, for his composure to slip even a little. He regains his grip very quickly, though, and asks of you as though he were enquiring after the weather, "Will it matter if I protest my innocence to the charges levied?"

You don't flinch from his gaze. "Not particularly; your son has been very thorough in detailing your guilt, and there isn't a man in the Red Keep who'd take your word over his."

He seems to sense the futility in playing the part of an innocent, and changes tack. "Conspiring against House Targaryen is practically a tradition in Westeros at this point. It's a poor reason to arrest me, and no others."

You nod your head a bit, acknowledging some of his point. "It isn't a tradition that often results in murder, though. And your personal conspiring with Lorch and Clegane rises to the level that few others have accomplished, and none who are living. Your conspiracy led to the murder of members of the Royal Family. I don't know of anyone else who might join you in these cells, unless you'd like the Usurper's remains to keep you company."

He sneers. "And you've tailored this in such a way that keeps you from having to arrest your Hand?"

You were prepared for this, though. "Jaime never conspired with anyone to murder the member of the Royal Family that he did. Unless you wish to allege otherwise?"

Tywin visibly chews his tongue. "You think you're so very clever, don't you. To have conspired against me with my son and my enemies and to think that you'll get away with it."

"You speak as though I had anything to do with this," you protest, "but I was just as surprised as you when you were taken in the Sept." Immediately after speaking, you curse internally. Never volunteer new details, you chastised yourself.

For his flaws, Tywin is not and has never been slow. He catches that small slip easily and processes it quickly enough to remark, "But you knew there would be a move against me at some point, it seems."

You mirror his stance, clasping your hands behind your back. "Any agreements your son made with other lords or houses regarding you are not my concern or my problem."

"Do you expect me to believe that this wasn't your doing, that this wasn't done with your blessing?"

"You'll believe whatever you want, my lord, whether it is the truth or not."

"The truth is that you betrayed an agreement with a Lord Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms, and the other Great Houses will not suffer lightly such an offense to their power."

"Our agreement has been upheld," you say, affronted. "Your son is Lord of Casterly Rock, and you are in King's Landing as a vital part of restoring the realm and upholding the peace. I can't be faulted for your supposition as to what part you would play. And," you add, "I think you'll find the Lords Paramount will be perfectly fine with whatever happens to you. If anything, some may grouse that I let you off too easy."

The hatred in Tywin's eyes could warm the frigid shores beyond the Wall. "You are an ungrateful, greedy, careless boy. I gave you the West, I gave you Clegane, I gave you your precious justice and still this does not sate your thirst."

You pull your stiletto dagger from your boot, and lunge at the bars. To his credit, the Old Lion doesn't retreat, doesn't flinch or even widen an eye. You stop at the bars, blade pointed squarely at his breast perhaps an inch away. "I could put this blade through your heart. Your death would be painful, but quick. Imagine then that your family, if any would still speak for you, sought justice for your murder, and I offered them this blade as recompense. Do you believe that if she lived, Joanna would accept the blade that killed you and not the man that used it?"

Internally, you're a little impressed as Tywin finds hidden reserves to hate you just a bit more at hearing her name. You finish, "You would offer me a blade, and pretend that it acted without your direction. If you think that such a transparent scheme would work on me, then we simply aren't operating on the level of mutual respect I assumed."

If the Old Lion had operated on that level, he does not enlighten you of it now. Instead, he sits on the wooden cot, somehow managing to look as imposing as he did when he sat upon the Iron Throne in your father's stead. "What now, then, Your Grace? Am I to rot away in these cells? Count my days until Prince Oberyn comes to take his revenge?"

"No. You will stand trial, and face judgment." He looks surprised at your answer, which only serves to confirm your suspicions that he's never really understood you. "The manner of this is something we will determine, but you will not disappear into the history books, nor will you be tortured by the avengers you so richly deserve to face. Your crimes will be aired before the gods and before the lords of the realm, and so shall your sentence."

The ice in his eye flashes in the dim light. "And what's to stop me from demanding trial by combat, as is my right?"

"Ser Jaime actually thought of that before I did," you confess. Sometimes, you wish you were a better man. Someone who didn't find pleasure in tearing others apart, take satisfaction in watching the walls close in on your prey, experience real glee in taking hope from them. It reminds you more than a bit of your father, and sometimes that scares you, sometimes you wish you were different.

This isn't one of those times.

"Should you demand a trial by combat, you will be granted one, be it by your own hand or by a champion. And when this trial commences, Ser Jaime will act as champion for the crown." True to form, a vicious part of you truly delights in watching Tywin realise his only means of escape is quite literally over his cherished son's dead body. "I tried to talk him out of it, you must understand, not least because Prince Oberyn would welcome the task. As would my nephew. And, if we're being honest, I suppose I would as well. But he insisted, and I can see his reasoning."

You watch Tywin struggle for a moment, before his mind catches on something to distract itself, move onto a different path to leave the present conflict for another time. "Why are you calling him Ser Jaime? His title is Lord."

"He is also a knight, and it's acceptable for me to call him such. I'm sure he doesn't take offence, and if he does it's far less than he takes to being called 'Kingslayer'. 'Lord Hand' is a possibility, certainly, but it's a bit formal given our closeness and the absence of a formal setting." You're being facetious, and both of you know it, judging by Tywin's increasingly apparent irritation. For a moment, you debate leaving the news to someone else to deliver, maybe one of his sons or his brother, or even Prince Oberyn, but then you dismiss the thought – you are the king, after all, and none of the men in question would deny you your petty pleasures. So you tell him, "There is also the minor detail that Ser Jaime has forsworn his Lordship and rejoined the Kingsguard. Lord Tyrion will be addressed by his inherited title, as he isn't a knight."


[Your Domain has been updated!]


You are unquestionably racking up the score in your 'Bad Person' column, as you don't even try to keep the smile off your face when his world falls away from under him. The totality of his defeat seems to take away something vital within him, and for a long moment you no longer see Tywin Lannister but a tired, isolated and friendless old man. You find your sympathy to be somewhat lacking, though. For all that he is sitting behind bars in your keep, the prison he finds himself in is one entirely of his own making. It is a staggering downfall for one who spent so much of his life either seated on high or clawing his way up there.

So it rocks you back on your heels (mentally; you're far too disciplined to react physically) when he looks up at you, a calculating and icy rage in his eye lending an edge to the inexplicable and predatory smile on his face, such that your instinct begs to flee despite him being the one behind bars.

"You think that you've won, that you've taken my power in taking my freedom. That I cannot speak and have my words be heard, that I cannot reach beyond these walls and enact my will." He rises then, walks to the bars and rests his hands against the cross-braces as casually as he might if he were overlooking a parapet. "You're as stupid as your father," he growls, low and deep, "but at least he had the excuse of being mad. And you will wish that you had that refuge to defend yourself before the end."

"Bold words for a man so completely in my clutches," you retort, but it's a hollow one and he knows it as well as you. You have no further need of this, and you make to leave.

"A lion still has claws," Tywin Lannister reminds you as you walk away, exiting his sight. "And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours," his voice echoes in the Black Cells behind you as you go up the spiralling stairs, up and into the cold night that you choose to believe is responsible for the chill that runs down your spine.

-------------
[X] Decide to share this secret. It's a leap of faith, but you don't want to spend your whole life mired in nothing but secrets and half-truths. You'll tell…
-[X] Jon Snow
-[X] Aegon Targaryen
-[X] Dany
-[X] Arianne



A few weeks go by, and things settle as much as you can reasonably hope for.

The Oakhearts have reported back that Lord Mace understands the actions that were taken to be unique and is publicly saying he supports seeing a killer of children brought to justice. But they also report that he is more ambivalent in private and in casual conversation, that Lady Olenna has spent more time with him than she usually can stand to, and that there's been a great deal of whispering occurring between them. Time will tell on that front, you suppose. Meanwhile, according to Lord Stark, Jon Arryn is openly pleased that Tywin Lannister was arrested and wrote back to Ned that he wished he had remained in the capital to see it happen. Reading between the lines though, you can tell, and Ned concurs, that Lord Arryn doesn't trust that you'll stop with the three highborn lords held in your cells now, and you wonder just how many knights of the Vale you'll have to endure accompanying young Robert when he comes.

Dany's time with the Valemen, however, is an unqualified success. She doesn't sing her own praises, and probably couldn't bring herself to even if you tried to get her to do it, but it does get back to you that she had approached a group of restive and suspicious lords, and left behind her a group of men convinced that justice had triumphed before anyone spent an hour being on trial. When most of the Valemen depart, they do so individually and at their own leisure rather than as a nervous contingent feeling under threat, and several houses leave behind first and second sons who quickly start making plays for Dany's hand. She handles it with grace in public, but behind closed doors and in close company, she often gets very flustered and more than once expresses a frustration with men so eager to gain her attention but incapable of maintaining theirs when she wants to talk with them rather than coo and swoon like a lovestruck girl in a tale.

If you didn't know better, you'd almost think she delights in telling some of the Valemen, while you watch over your small luncheon together, that she cannot sup with them this evening, as the King has called for her presence in a private family dinner with your nephew and your wife. You can read her well enough, though, to recognise her mood as one of relief, one that becomes more palpable when the Valemen depart.

That evening, you enjoy a quiet meal with your family in Maegor's Holdfast, in a room that you are as certain as possible cannot be eavesdropped upon. It's a pleasant break from life as a king, with people you don't have to put on airs for, people you can trust completely, and you talk easily with them, telling them about your week and listening to them talk about theirs. You're fairly good at keeping your nerves and anticipation to yourself, though you find yourself occasionally fiddling with your fingernails and digging into your thumb under the table, trying to burn off a bit of nervous energy. At one point, you go to start doing it again and find yourself unable to, because Arianne has slipped her hand into yours. You glance over to her for a moment, and she offers you a soft smile before she turns back to Aegon and asks him questions about the City Watch as if nothing had happened. The rest of the dinner, she regularly squeezes your hand gently and strokes her thumb against the back of your hand. It still takes you aback sometimes that she's able to read you as well as she can, but these days it doesn't excite you or make you nervous as much as it makes you feel safe and seen. You think that might actually feel better.

It's just what you needed to get through the rest of dinner without nervousness bleeding off of you, and when the last of the servants depart, you nod to Ser Asher, who departs to fulfill the task you assigned him, and closes the door behind him. You smile at your family, an honest and heartfelt one. "This was nice," you say simply. "I'd like to do this at least once or twice a week, a meal that's just us, just our family."

"As my king commands me," Aegon says, with a smile just on the safe side of cheeky. "I've spent so long without a family outside Ser Jon, and now to have this, to have you all and my cousins? I'd take every night of the week for this if you wanted, nuncle."

"I'd like to ask about that, if you don't mind, Egg," you respond, grateful for the opening. "How much did you know about our family, about us, when you were raised by Lord Connington?"

His smile twitches, but he still keeps it. "It's easier now, having all of this. Jon told me a little, about you," he nods to you, "but he didn't know if you were still alive, and he didn't know at all about Dany. And he's…" The smile fades now. "He's never told me much of anything about my father, or my sister." His eyes widen a little, and he speaks quickly. "It's not really his fault, I stopped asking rather early and didn't pry too much. It always … it always seems to hurt too much to talk about them, or think about them. He drank a lot, in the early days, but if my father came up …" he trails off.

"What would happen?" Arianne gently prods.

"… when I was old enough to understand," Egg manages, "I was afraid he might die from how much he drank to try and stop hurting in those times that someone asked or talked about him. So," his voice warbles just a little as he goes for a long and deep drink of his own. After a gulp and long sigh, he closes his eyes, "I never learned much from him about Father, and I never trusted much of what other men would tell me."

"That was very reasonable and very wise of you," Arianne consoles him. "It's hard to find people who are honest about them – people either hated them all and couldn't see anything straight, or didn't really know anything about them. And people who knew them, who loved them, well … when they can bear to talk about it, they rarely can bear to think ill or speak informatively of them."

To your left, Dany nods. "It took a long time to really learn why the Rebellion happened, what Aerys and Rhaegar did. Even then, it took longer for me to believe it."

At that point, you speak up. "And you weren't helped in that almost no one knew the whole truth. I learned everything only very recently." The three of them turn to you at that, and you explain. "Everything about Father, about the Mad King is true – but I just came to learn some things about Rhaegar, about your father," you meet Aegon's eyes. "What have you been told about the Rebellion? Exactly?"

You can feel the eyes of Arianne and Dany on you, but you keep your focus on Aegon. He finishes his wine and says, "I know that something happened with Lyanna Stark, that Brandon Stark and the Usurper blamed my father for whatever it was. That Aerys took Brandon after he came looking for the Prince and summoned the boy's father, and then murdered them both. That Jon Arryn rose up rather than hand over the Usurper and Lord Eddard to die, too. The war happened, we lost, they won, Ser Jaime killed Aerys, and Lord Eddard took a dead Lyanna Stark back to Winterfell."

You nod slowly. "In the broad strokes, that's accurate. Most people believe that your father abducted and raped Lyanna—"

"Usurper lies," Egg spits heatedly, and you're glad this is private because otherwise you'd have to reprimand him for interrupting you, as justified as he is.

"Did Lord Connington tell you that?" Arianne asks softly. You know that she doesn't believe it either, and as the only other person at the table old enough to have known Rhaegar, she's right to think so.

But she does have a point, and Aegon seems to know this, too, because he visibly deflates and carefully studies his plate. "He did."

"I doubt that he knew for certain," you say, "but he was right." Your nephew looks to you sharply, as does your wife and sister. And with their attention firmly affixed onto you, you relate the story that Lords Eddard and Stannis told you – the lost letter containing the truth of Lyanna and Rhaegar, the reason for her death, and the promise Stark made to his dying sister.

The reactions you receive are mostly unsurprising. Dany and Arianne seem taken aback and confused, though Dany is less so than your wife, and that stands to reason you suppose – she never knew any of the people involved and has already experienced her understanding of your family being turned upside down with an unknown nephew, and Arianne has neither of those advantages. Indeed, she seems rocked to her core, and you want to offer some comfort when Aegon's reaction takes over the room. The young prince is elated, and unshed tears of joy make his eyes glitter like precious stones as he laughs aloud and almost leaps out of his chair to pace in the room. When he gains enough self-control, he asks, "Can we meet him? Can we tell him? Is he here?"

Dany reaches out to touch his arm. "Egg, we should talk about this a bit more."

Her counsel falls on deaf ears. "What's there to talk about? I have a brother! I want to meet him, I want to know him, find out what he's like, what he wants—"

You cut in then, "Yes, we should find those out, Egg, but perhaps we should before we completely upend his entire world."

"Or endanger our own," Dany adds.

Aegon looks at her askance. "I don't understand. Why are the rest of you so hesitant, so unsure?"

It is now that Arianne speaks. "Does the name Daemon Blackfyre mean anything to you, Prince Aegon?"

By the way his bright mood dims, you think the answer is 'yes'. "But he's not a Blackfyre." He pauses, then looks to you. "Right? He's not a Blackfyre? Their line is extinct?"

"To my knowledge," you hedge. As best you know, House Blackfyre died with Maelys the Monstrous almost 40 years ago, but you would not be the first Targaryen king to believe them extinguished only to then be surprised that the bastard house endured.

Aegon gives you a sheepish smile. "In my defence, uncle, crazy things have a habit of becoming true in your company," and you begin to open your mouth before Arianne gives you an amused glance, and you're forced to concede his point. "But," he continues, "we should meet him, we should tell him. He deserves to know who he is. He deserves to know he has a family."

"He does have one," Dany says not unkindly. "He's been well-treated by the Starks and raised as Lord Eddard's own."

That seems to shake Aegon a bit, and you wonder at that for a moment before speaking up again. "Nonetheless, I agree with Aegon that he deserves the truth. What he does with it is his decision."

Arianne gives you a long look. "You are certain? House Targaryen has rather a checkered history with its bastards, after all."

You nod. "We're going to be haunted by the ghosts of our family's past no matter what we do – a young prince commands the City Watch, a princess rides dragons and holds prominent position, a Dornish princess gives her husband a boy and a girl," and as you look to each of them you see them recognise the comparisons you're drawing. "We can either run from our history, repeat it, or learn from it. Legitimising or recognising him aren't options on the table yet, if they ever will be. But we can at least meet the boy, be honest with him. Trust has to begin somewhere, and we may yet break the cycle of our family's history. Are we in agreement?" As you look to each of them again, you see acceptance from the women and unbridled eagerness from your nephew.

"When would we do this?" Arianne asks of you, and with timing you couldn't have planned even if you wanted to, there is a knock at the door.

"How's right now strike you?" Before the others can answer, you stand and open the door, finding Ser Asher has delivered Lord Eddard for an alleged meeting as requested. And in their company is a young man trying desperately to not be seen. "Thank you, Ser Asher. If you could now locate Ser Jaime and bring him here as well?" The white cloaked Northerner nods, bows, and departs immediately.

As soon as the Kingsguard has left earshot, Lord Stark looks to you with some alarm. "Ser Jaime is being brought into this?"

You shake your head. "Not yet, at least. That's just a clever ruse to buy us plenty of time alone. I'll bet any amount you want that Ser Asher doesn't know where Jaime is, and won't find him for at least two hours or more." You're especially confident of this, because you do know – Ser Jaime has been standing just beyond the Black Cells every night for the past few weeks, for hours, thinking about going in to see his father as the night grows old before deciding it is too late and to try another night. You don't lack for sympathy for your best friend, but you know that it's one of the last places Asher Forrester will look, and that in itself provides you some small amusement.

Your amusement fades as you finally catch the eye of the boy with Stark. He looks back with fearful grey eyes for but a moment before averting his gaze. "Hello, young man. You're called Jon, yes?"

It takes a moment for him to force out, "Yes, Your Grace," his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

You restrain a sigh, and try to empathise a little. "Jon, can I ask you something?"

"…yes, Your Grace?" He looks up now, but no higher than your waistline.

Okay, maybe you need to jostle him a bit, shake him out of it. "Is Lord Eddard a good man?"

Yep, that's the ticket, you think as the boy's eyes shoot up to yours and he answers, "Yes, Your Grace," as sure in his assessment as though you'd asked him if the air here smelled of shit, or if the North is chilly.

"Do you trust him?" Lord Stark looks somewhat uncomfortable, but you think this is working to reach the boy, and you have the obnoxious habit of being right a lot.

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon answers with as much certainty as before.

You smile at the boy, "Good," and lean in slightly, "me, too. So do you think you can trust him when he's brought you here to meet me?"

The boy looks to be chagrined, and it makes your heart hurt for a moment because Seven Hells, that expression is so familiar -- it makes him look like Rhaegar. "Yes, Your Grace," he answers you once more.

"Good lad," you respond. "There's people inside here who'd like to meet you, things we'd like to speak about with you. So please trust him, and me, and please step in with us."

It takes a long moment, but Jon nods in agreement. You escort him and Lord Stark inside before you check the hall once more, and upon seeing it empty, you close the door behind you.
 
(Semi-Canon Omake) A Small Moment: The Thoughts of an Egg
A Small Moment: The Thoughts of an Egg

(Aegon POV)

Your uncle was someone you didn't quite understand. He always felt different than Lord Connington, Arianne, even Dany, who seemed to share in many of his more noble traits, but none of his more… how to say it.

Eccentricities.

You felt something about him, that no one else did.

He was strong, stronger, and more powerful than the other people in your life, but it was not in his hands or his smile.

It was his eyes. Illic purple that seemed to pierce through everything. He could see everything about an event, about a person, and with a few words, destroy them as he had finally pieced everything together.

And when that person broke, they usually went to him and owed him things beyond most men's wild dream. You had heard about Lys, how it was a place that owed practically everything to his alter ego, Valar Vaeltigar… and now to him.

You believed that something was inside Viserys that made him see things clearer than anything else.

And that frightened you… but gave you comfort at the same time.

Not because of who wielded it… and how he wielded it… but when he wielded it.

Viserys had remarkable restraint, that much you knew from his… dealings and punishments to the men responsible for committing genocide against a people who had lived in Westeros for centuries. But even then, his restraint always seemed to be…

Well, you knew he was a man who had for a large portion of his life, been on the run, dodging assassins, even though they never found him more than once or twice, and he had managed an intelligence apparatus that kept both him and Dany safe.

Was he wanting revenge on those who wronged him?

Who made him suffer alone?

You didn't know. He was always honest with every conversation you had with him. Always open, but you never asked those questions that you believed could have given you… a better picture.

Viserys Targaryen… was an enigma, even with all your wisdom, and ideas… You could not read the man who was your king.

You just hoped that there was more to him… that all his actions had meaning, beyond his need for revenge and justice.

But there was a fine line between…

You weren't going to criticize him though about his actions, or his reactions. After all, most of this hell was your fault. You could do nothing but hope for the best, and prepare for the worse.

AN: Enjoy a ten-minute blurb of Aegon's thoughts on V. Really I couldn't come up with anything better.
 
Back
Top