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empressofmankind · 5 years

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The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Character/s: Kevan Lannister, Petyr Baelish, Lysa Arryn, Gnaeus Farwynd Location/s: King’s Landing Premises: Little Kevan gets up to no good in the early hours before he becomes a squire Mood: Cute kid gets into serious trouble fast Warnings: N/A NOTE: Part I is set shortly before King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister and their family set out for Winterfell. It therefore takes place a little bit before the start of the first book, ‘A Game of Thrones’.

O O O

It was the midsts of winter when a kinslaying broke her heart. The Maiden-Made-of-Light turned her back on them, and the world slid into the Long Night. Kevan put the pastel down and looked at his creation with a critical eye. He’d drawn a slender woman in a dress as red as blood. Her golden hair fell in braided tresses, and her fair brow was crowned with rays of light. She smiled at him from across her pale shoulder with soft, emerald eyes. She walked into the paper, from which emerged the tall, dark-clad shape of a man. She was betrayed, and the Lion of Night came forth in all his wroth to punish the wickedness of Man. Kevan picked up an ochre pastel and added flecks to her cheeks and his eyes. Better.

“Are they Mama and Papa?”

Kevan flinched. The pastel slipped from his grasp and broke on the red sandstone. Helaina stood beside him, her velveret horse under her arm. A gift from Father. Lady Whinny, she called it.

“No.” That was stupid. He hadn’t drawn Mother and Father, he wasn’t a baby. Kevan put his pastels in their tin. It was a small but well-loved set, crumbling and priceless, imported from far away Essos.

The morning had come hot and humid, the moist of the night’s rain still in the air. The adults said winter was coming, but in King’s Landing, it felt far off. Kevan had woken early. The hearth in their shared bedroom had gone out, the servants still abed. He had come out onto the small balcony to watch the sun rise and finish his drawing. He had made it on the last of the palimpsests Father had given him before leaving.

“Who are they?” his little sister asked as she sat down on the ground, beside him.

“No one. Ancient rulers, maybe.” Kevan shrugged. Definitely not Pa and Ma. “Their legend is from far away and long ago. They are very old.”

“Older than uncle Lann?” Helaina pulled her knees up under her chin, Lady Whinny squeezed against her. The toy horse had been loved to death, its patterned velveret threadbare.

Kevan frowned. Tyrion hadn’t told him when the Long Night had occurred. Was it before Lann the Lion had come West? The mythical founder of their House had lived long ago, too. He would ask their older brother when he saw him. “I think so? Bad people made her sad.”

Helaina’s gaze flicked down to the drawing. “That’s not nice.”

“No,” Kevan agreed. “But the Lion of Night made them pay their debt.”

“Papa would do that for Mama too.” Helaina’s nose wrinkled as she pointed a small finger at the masculine figure. Black, lion-like shapes had been coloured onto the grey fabric of his gambeson. “Papa’s lion is golden, not sable.”

“It’s not Pa.”

Helaina looked at her brother, the wrinkle in her nose creasing deeper. After a moment, she turned her attention back to the drawing. “She’s very pretty, like the Lion Queen.”

‘Lion Queen’ was the name Helaina had given to a life-size painting of a seated Lady, that hung in the solar at home, because it was surrounded by limestone lions. Helaina liked to pretend she was the Lion Queen’s lady-in-waiting. Kevan looked at the woman he’d drawn. She did look a bit like her. Lots of women have blond hair, Kevan thought. Aunt Genna and auntie Tailynn. Princess Myrcella and my sisters, too, and cousin Joy. Kevan didn’t like the painting of the Lion Queen because it made Pa sad. Tyrion had told him she was his Ma. She had died. All of a sudden tears pricked Kevan’s eyes. He wanted to hug his mother, but he didn’t get up. He wasn’t a baby.

Helaina leaned her head against his shoulder, yearning in her sea-green eyes as she looked at the drawing. “Why is Papa angry?”

“It’s not Father!” Kevan rolled his shoulder, forcing her to sit up. He blinked his tears away, confused and angry. Lions do not show weakness.

Helaina stared at him, her eyes large and sad and rapidly becoming moist. Her bottom lip trembled. Kevan’s shoulders slumped. This was the longest and farthest they’d been away from Father, ever.

“You can see the Golden Tooth from here.” Kevan pointed at a jagged peak among the distant western mountains. “We can watch the sun paint it gold and Father will be on the other side watching too.”

A hopeful smile appeared on her small face.

Kevan reached his arms out to her. Helaina climbed onto his lap and snuggled against him, Lady Whinny between them. They gazed through the thick sandstone balusters together and watched the dawn creep across the Crownlands. It snuck towards the distant peaks, like a mountain lion stalking unsuspecting prey. When the warm morning light caught up to the jagged peak, it painted it in bright yellows amid its white peers: a gold tooth in the Westerlands’ pearly smile. Kevan leaned his head against the red sandstone and wondered if their Father was watching, too. He always rose early, long before dawn.

“I miss Papa.” A little sob followed Helaina’s words.

Kevan hugged his sister’s small shoulders against him and stroke her forehead, like Father would. She was only five, a baby. It was the ninth year of summer and the tenth of Kevan's life. He'd been born on the tail of winter. His father said it was what made him strong. His mother would respond with a sad smile that Kevan didn’t understand. “Pa will be here soon,” he promised. “I will become a squire today, and he’ll be here for that, you’ll see.”

Kevan had been Ser Kevan’s page for two years now. Today, he would become a squire: his first real step on the road to knighthood. Maybe I will become Ser Barristan’s squire, he thought. He was everything a knight should be - strong, smart, kind. Kevan knew it was more likely that he would become his uncle’s squire as it was unusual for a page to squire to a different knight. This made him a little jealous of his cousin Tyrek, who was squire to King Robert. He wondered why his big brother Ser Jaime didn’t have a squire.

Helaina made a little noise. She had fallen asleep, her thumb in her mouth behind Lady Whinny’s tattered snout. With effort, Kevan lifted her up and brought her back to her bed. She curled up in the warm bedding without waking, mushing the threadbare horse against her face.

Kevan returned to the balcony to pick up his drawing and pastel box. His gaze lingered on the Golden Tooth. He wanted to explore even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Yet Father was not here, and it made him bolder.

He went back inside, dumped the items on the desk and tugged on pants. He forsook boots because he was quieter on his bare tiptoes. Opening their bedroom door on a crack, he spied down the twilit hallway — no one in sight, not even Ser Gnaeus. A mischievous glint made the ochre flecks in his pale green eyes sparkle.

It was quiet yet in Maegor's Holdfast, the massive square fortress at the heart of the Red Keep. Kevan roamed the corridors to his heart’s content and found a passage he didn't think he'd been before. It was a tight affair with rough, unplastered walls. A servant’s passage, surely. They had them at home too, tucked between bedchambers and solars to allow staff to go swift and unseen where needed. Kevan was positively thrilled to have found a new one, so much so that he temporarily forgot about today’s impending event.

The passage was dark, and he felt his way up the rickety wooden stairs. It opened up behind a bust in a modest, old cabinet blanketed in silence and filtered morning light. It was little-used, judging by the dust that covered the Targaryen King’s broad, scowling countenance. As Kevan entered, his attention was drawn to an antique display case near the rear window where the first, weak rays of dawn fell onto something glistening within.

He crossed the cabinet, his toes sinking into the plush rug. The glass of the display case was grimy, caked with dirt and dust. He rubbed the sleeve of his nightshirt past it to better see what laid within. It cleaned the glass but little and dirtied his sleeve a great deal. On a cushion as threadbare as his sister’s velveret horse, lay a beautiful dagger. Despite its neglected, dust-blanketed state, the light danced along its keen edge towards its smooth dragonbone hilt.

Kevan regarded it, face all but pressed against the glass as he studied the dagger with the fascination of a boy keen to carry his own. It must be ancient, he thought, mesmerised by the steel’s ripples winking in the morning light. It was Valyrian steel, he was sure of it. Why would anyone leave it here, forgotten? A frown wrinkled his nose. I will tell Mother. He had overheard his parents talking about Brightroar, their forefather’s Valyrian blade. Father had been looking for a replacement.

“This way, quickly.”

Kevan’s gaze shot to the door. Its handle moved down. The hinges creaked. He dashed behind a venerable chiffonier as it swung open. Panic and guilt vied for control of his thoughts. Pa will ground me for life.

A man with a small, pointed beard and dressed in fine silks entered. He was lean of frame but small of stature. Two heads shorter than Pa, at least, Kevan thought. He didn’t know the man. A portly woman followed close behind, her many-layered brocade dress rustling in her wake. She had thick, auburn hair that fell to her waist. He knew Lady Lysa, she was the wife of the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn. His parents had introduced him to them when they first arrived at King’s Landing, prior to Prince Joffrey’s name day. Lady Lysa would undoubtedly inform his Ma, and so he made himself as small and quiet as could be.

“I can’t take it any more, Petyr.” Lysa clasped her hands together. She sounded fearful. Surely Lord Jon will keep Lady Lysa safe? Pa would never let anything happen to Ma, Kevan was confident.

“Just a little longer, now.” Petyr’s tone was soft, reassuring, encouraging, maybe. He had an accent, subtle but particular in the way he rolled his r’s. Kevan wondered which House he belonged to and peeked around the lacquered wood to see. Lady Lysa stood with her back towards him, her large behind dominating the view. Her ample silhouette hid the man from Kevan's sight, no matter which way he leaned to try and better see.

Petyr put his hand on her upper arm and tried to catch her gaze. Lysa flinched at his touch but then leaned into it. He smiled when her eyes crossed his. “Your boy will be safe soon.”

Lysa wrung her hands. “Everyone is trying to take him from me.”

“I know,” Petyr said as he rubbed her arm, his smile never faltering. “He belongs with his mother.”

“Even the Rock has started to meddle, Petyr,” Lysa continued, an edge of worry creeping into her tone. “They want to foster my little Rob! Can you imagine? My sweet, gentle robin, amid that nest of vipers.”

“Indeed? I did see their boy play with him, yester morn.”

“A wicked child. I’ve seen him skulking about, spying for them, no doubt.” Lysa moved abruptly, taking in her surroundings.

Kevan dodged back behind the chiffonier, his heart hammering in his throat. Are they talking about me? He had played with Robert Arryn yesterday. They all had? He didn’t understand. Robert had wanted to play!

Kevan heard her move about the room, the click of her shoes disappearing as she stepped unto the carpet near the chiffonier.

“Vain and harebrained, like his mother,” Lysa added.

Kevan flattened himself against the floor, peering under the antique furniture. Lady Lysa’s dainty, green silk shoes halted near the display. They turned as Petyr’s lacquered boots approached.

“I doubt she caught the old lion’s attention idly.” Petyr’s tone was thoughtful. “It takes a particular flower to flourish on that rock.”

Lysa made a derisive noise. “She is half his age, and he’s been anxious for another son ever since mad Aerys schemed him out of his heir.”

They were very close now. Kevan waited, staring at their footwear. When Petyr’s boots turned their heels towards him too, he ran. Low. Fast. Bare feet whispering across the carpet and then tiles. He ducked behind the bust and through the crack he had come.

“They were quick to produce one,” Petyr said, amusement lilting his voice.

In the shaded safety of the servants' corridor, Kevan’s fear bled away. He crept back to the door and peered out through the crack. They were standing at the chiffonier, the man with his back towards him. He held Lady Lysa’s hand, enclosing her fingers within his.

“You rebuffed them?”

“Yes. I would sooner die than let them weaponise my sweet robin.”

“Their interest has no doubt been noticed by others. That might work to our advantage.” Petyr turned, and Kevan could see him now. His gaze hunted around the man’s garments for a pattern or emblem, but when he found it, he did not recognise the black mockingbird on a field of ochre. A small lord, then? Kevan had thoroughly studied the charter of lords that Ser Kevan had given him. He was sure he had not seen it's like among them.

Lysa nodded, her fingertips brushing against Petyr’s hand before he let go and reached for something from the finely embroidered coin satchel at his hip. He produced a trinket that caught the morning light, drawing Kevan’s attention. It was a small droplet of glass, no larger than a thumb-tip, suspended from a silver chain. The clear liquid trapped inside moved hypnotically within. What a pretty necklace, Kevan thought, and it reminded him of the gifts Pa would bring for Ma when he came home.

“Your boy will be safe, soon,” Petyr promised once more.

Lysa stared at it with apprehension. Petyr moved his hand as if to give it to her, urging her to take it. She straightened and accepted it with a determined nod. Lysa held the pendant gingerly, mesmerised by the liquid; then swiftly tucked it into her ample bosom. Petyr smiled and leaned towards her. Kevan’s gaze jumped away to the rough stone wall when they kissed. It was only then that he realised what trouble he was truly in because that man was not Lord Jon.

Kevan turned and fled. In his hurry, he missed one of the steps and tumbled down. His shoulder struck the uneven floor hard, and he bit back a cry of pain. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to regulate his breathing, the way Ser Kevan had taught him, to calm down and control the pain. Lions do not show weakness.

After a moment, he pushed himself up. All he had to do was return to his bed chambers and crawl back into bed. Ma and Pa need never know. A mewl wormed past his lips at the sharp pain that shot through his shoulder as he rose.

In the distance, a royal guard trumpeted the day’s start. He had to hurry, or the servants would find him missing when they came to light the hearth. He peered out. The corridor beyond was as quiet as it had been when he had come this way. He raced down the passages, back to the wing reserved for royal guests. Leaning around the final corner, he scouted the hallway. The door to his parents’ sleeping quarters was still closed. The door to his own bed chambers stood slightly ajar. Almost there.

“You are up early, younger Lord Kevan.”

Kevan froze when he heard Ser Gnaeus’ stern voice right behind him. The knight was of an age with his brother Tyrion but not remotely as fun. Kevan turned and opened his mouth, an excuse on his lips, but yelped when the knight grabbed him by the ear.

“Spare me,” Ser Gnaeus said.

“Ouch! Let go! I am almost ten!”

“For all I care, you were the crown prince himself and of an age with him too.” Ser Gnaeus deflected the boy’s milling arms as he dragged the lordling with.

“Your Lady Mother forbade you and you will listen to her.”

O O O

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empressofmankind · 4 years

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The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 05. Jon

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire

Major Character/s: Jon Arryn, Stannis Baratheon, Robert Baratheon

Minor Somebodies: Renly Baratheon, Loren Lannister, Pycelle, Barristan Selmy, Petyr Baelish

Location/s: King's Landing, the Red Keep

Premises: But what if we had a PoV chapter for Jon Arryn?

Mood: If you're glad you're not Jon and don't have to deal with all this utter bullshit, raise your hand raises hand

Warnings: Robert being rude (PG-13)

Word Count: 13.681

NOTE: Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister and their family set out for Winterfell. It therefore takes place a little bit before the start of the first book, ‘A Game of Thrones’.

The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I // 03. Jaime I // 04. Tywin I //

O O O

Lord Jon Arryn descended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, light spearing into the dark stairwell through narrow lancet windows every other turn. The steps were scuffed and tapered, their height made uneven by the feet of uncounted Hands, travelling up and down, day after day, council after council. Even the engraved handholds hammered into the ashlar had long since been reduced to formless knobs with the dark, fatty sheen of metal polished by incessant handling. Today was one of those days on which the steps seemed endless. Jon had once been a large man, wide of chest and thick of waist, but time had worn him thin as surely as it had the tower steps. He was robust for his considerable age, but the seven hells take those stairs. A few short years and I am twice-forty, Jon thought as he reached the bottom, his breath laboured and sweat beading on his forehead. Preposterous.

Jon crossed the inner bailey, towards Maegor’s Holdfast. To his surprise, he saw Lady Loren standing by the lone, stone archway into the godswood, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers entwined. Jon wondered if she’d come from the enclosed acre of alder and black cottonwood. He didn’t think any other women of the court frequented it.

Lady Loren wore an elegant, sable cotehardie, edged with bands of red velvet and goldwork. Belted high and reaching past her knees, it gave the impression of skirts. However, when she shifted her posture, Jon saw she wore dark chausses underneath and long riding boots to match. Her braids were held in scrolls on either side of her head, like ramshorns, evoking the steadfast determination of that creature. Gone were the voluminous sleeves and lengthy skirts of red damask, the sumptuous ermine mantelet, the jewelled crespinette and elegantly veiled circlet. In the days since Tywin had left, she had changed her appearance, gradually, one garment at a time, until the subtle resemblance became unmistakable. In essence, she had adopted her Lord Husband’s severe style. Few at court would look at her now and forget with whose authority she spoke. Jon smiled. She was an incisive woman. No doubt, a quality Tywin appreciated in his Lady Wife.

Lady Loren spoke to a man who stood with his back towards Jon. He was tall, bald and sinewy. Dressed in storm grey damask that shrouded his broad shoulders and fell down to the heels of his well-made boots, Jon thought for an instant that Tywin had returned. But no, on glimpsing the man’s stern profile he recognised Ser Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s equally surly brother.

“Shireen is a sweet girl,” Lady Loren said as Jon passed them. Her green eyes moved to him.

Jon inclined his head but didn’t slow his pace. “Good morning, my Lady.”

“Lord Jon.” Her gaze flicked down in acknowledgement before returning to Stannis. “How old is she now, seven, eight?”

“Nine.” Stannis’ tone was curt, his lips pursed. Those unfamiliar with him would be forgiven to think it a reprimand, a rebuke to an error the Lady of Casterly Rock had made. It wasn’t. He always spoke this way.

Lady Loren smiled, Jon glimpsed it as he moved away from them. It softened her sharp features and dimpled her freckled cheeks. “A little lady already.”

Jon had hoped to speak to Stannis in private, regarding the matter they were investigating, but it would seem that would have to wait till after the small council. He dreaded telling Robert, even though he knew they must. A man, even a King, might father a dozen bastards and few would care. A woman? Unbidden, he thought of Eddard and his Lady Catelyn, and all their little ones with their red, red hair and soft, summer faces. And the bastard girl that resembled Eddard like a younger sibling. They had to be sure. Queen Cersei deserved that much.

“Kevan will stay here, in King’s Landing.” Lady Loren’s voice floated to him on a warm breeze. “Have you thought on where Shireen might ward?”

Jon snapped out of his pensive thoughts. Shireen? Warding? The day before, he had seen her speak to Lord Yohn Royce. Shireen and Ysilla, he thought. Daughters your son’s age. And he realised why the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had come to court after all these years.

They had shown off their young children at Joffrey’s name day tourney as surely as Tywin had his twins all those years ago at Lannisport. Though that event had taken an unfortunate turn. The memory of Tywin stalking from the royal pavilion with his crying daughter in his arms hadn’t seen fit to leave Jon yet. Fortunately, Joffrey’s tourney had been a joyous event. Young Kevan had near won the children’s tilting at the quintain. Helaina had sewn a beautiful favour as she sat on her Lord Father’s lap, watching her brother ride. Even Tion, an unbreeched boy barely able to sit his sister’s pony, had participated. However, his heart laid elsewhere, Jon could tell. In hindsight, Tywin’s interest in the performance of other children - youths and maidens alike - had been telling. He had mingled, and much more so than you might expect of a Lord Paramount as unpersonable as Tywin Lannister.

“Do visit to the Westerlands, someday. The tourney season is ahead of us, and I dare say Helaina would be thrilled to have a friend to visit the fairs with.” There was a smile in Lady Loren’s tone. A smile and a fishhook.

Jon thought of the little girl with her blonde curls, tiny goldwork slippers and lion-embroidered petticoats. She had carried her older sister and Queen’s train as if the smallest of ladies-in-waiting. His son Robert she’d greeted with courtly grace and a gentle curtsy. They had played a while. Though, she’d given her small favour to Prince Tommen.

By then, Jon had reached the serpentine steps up to the inner bailey and Maegor’s Holdfast. Seven hells take all these stairs, he thought, and with a resigned sigh, he climbed them. The sun beat down on him despite the early hour and by the time he reached the penultimate landing, sweat beaded on his forehead once more.

Jon paused and glanced across his shoulder, down into the courtyard below. Lady Loren and Stannis still stood by the godswood. Jon had recalled something, as he’d been making his way up the thrice-damned stairs: Eddard had a daughter around Kevan’s age. Was it Sansa or Arya? Jon wasn’t sure. It had been years since Eddard had come south. Perhaps, it was time that he did. There was no way to avoid Tywin feeling slighted by the whole sorry affair when they revealed their evidence regarding the matter they had been investigating. However, they must, somehow, forestall him raising his banners in reprisal. It wouldn’t be the first time a son and maiden had mellowed fraying loyalties. You must come to court, Eddard, Jon thought. Robert will need you before the end.

Jon sighed, climbed the last flight of stairs and made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal chambers. Tywin’s eldest son stood guard by the door to Robert’s solar, his white cloak crisp and clean even at the bottom trim. Jon wondered if the young man resented his duty. The lions were proud.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon greeted as he approached.

Ser Jaime inclined his head but didn’t speak.

“Your Grace?” Jon called.

“Ah, Jon! Come in, come in!” Robert boomed from beyond the doors.

Jon entered, but he didn’t see the King. The morning sun came in through the latticed courtside windows, and fresh thresh with herbs woven in saturated the air with the scents of summer. A bird tweeted clear notes, just outside one of the windows. A lark, Jon thought, when he heard the trill that followed the melodious tones. In front of ornate chamber screens carved with tourney scenes, stood a low solar table, its mahogany tabletop resting on the shoulders of a carved stag. Two comfortable, upholstered chairs with a faded forest-motif on their ochre damask stood beside it. Jon frowned at the half-full goblet that stood upon the table. It wasn’t even noon.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Robert bellowed from beyond the mahogany partitions. It was abruptly followed by cussing. “Seven-be-pissed-upon, mind the goods, lad.”

“Apologies, Your Grace.” One of the Lannister boys. Lancel, judging by his timid voice. Tyrek was an assured youth with a tongue to match. Jon suspected that Robert liked him better than his cousin, for most of the same reasons as he did young Kevan.

“No rush, son,” Jon said. He had anticipated the usual argument to convince the King to attend his small council. However, it would seem Robert was already changing into his court finery. Pleasantly surprised, Jon clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

When Robert appeared from behind the chamber screens, Lancel at his heels, Jon’s expression fell for Robert was wearing his most polished hunting attire.

“Find your cousin Tyrek and have him ready the horses and hawks.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The nervous youth made a bow his King ignored. “Lord Jon.”

“Lancel.” Jon inclined his head then turned to Robert. “The small council, Your Grace—.”

Robert interrupted him with a wave of his large hand. “I’m going hawking with Loren and, after that, her lad’s fete.”

“I am certain young Kevan will enjoy it,” Jon said tactfully. In quintessential Robert Baratheon fashion, the King had insisted they throw the ten-year-old a celebratory fete when he had heard of his squiring. Unfortunately, that had been scant three days ago. That they had managed to organise it at all was a small miracle. And how precisely they were going to pay for the last minute festivities was a point on Jon’s agenda still to be resolved.

“Oh, I bet he’s a right little party lion, if he takes after his feisty mother or that witty uncle of his,” Robert guffawed. He snapped his fingers. “Golly, what’s his name. Garon? Gerold? No. Gerion, that’s right. He knew how to have fun.”

“Your Grace, I must insist. Your small council has need of you.” Robert and Loren were peers in age, and he knew they had been friends in their youth. The two of them, together with Eddard and his sister Lyanna, had oft gone hunting or hawking in those heady, heedless days before Harrenhal. For a while, it had been apparent that Loren and Eddard would wed.

Robert strode around to the table, picked up the goblet and drained the last of the wine with a deep gulp. “The rabbits have changed their fur: thick and soft as sin for winter. Those mottled pelts will look handsome about her freckled shoulders.” He squinted, imagining it, and added: “those delightful spots run down across her teats, you reckon?”

Jon closed his eyes and pretended he hadn’t heard that. His King and former ward had never been shy with his opinions, especially not when it concerned ladies. However, Jon wished he’d exercise restraint when speaking of other men’s wives.

“I’d bed her on them if she’d let me, I tell you,” Robert chuckled. It occurred to Jon he may have drunk more than the one goblet, found he hoped so because then his egregious comment might be overlooked if not forgotten.

“Your Grace, may I request you refrain from such observations, they are ill-advised.”

“That’d be a right fright if Tywin can hear all the way from that cliff of his,” Robert scoffed.

Maybe not, but his son certainly can, Jon thought, glancing at the door from the corner of his eyes.

Robert shook his head, his jowls quivering under his bushy beard. “Mad Aerys spend half a decade taking potshots at the old lion, and he got away with it.”

Jon pursed his lips. “He got away with nothing, Your Grace, in the end.”

Robert’s expression fell, no doubt remembering precisely why the sack of King’s Landing was a thing that happened. As well as who ran a sword through the Mad King’s back. With a measure of grim satisfaction, Jon saw Robert’s gaze jump to the door. He let the uncomfortable silence sit for a moment before he spoke again.

“Lady Loren will be here for a few more days,” Jon said, his tone not unkind. He raised his hands in an open gesture. “Why not go on the morrow? Invite the Lords and Ladies of the court, make a day of it.”

Robert shook his head. “I made a promise, Jon, and I mean to keep it.”

“Your small council has need of you, Your Grace,” Jon repeated. As he had feared, Robert laughed at that.

“I loath counting coppers. If I had known then how boring it would be, I would have never taken that crown.”

It was no news to Jon that Robert detested his lot in life. Well, the ‘tedious nonsense’ of it, as he put it. It reminded Jon of the time, now seeming so long ago, when Robert had been but a young lad and joined his father Steffon to court. He had met the boy then and had overheard him and his brother Stannis speak breathlessly about the King holding court and how noble and wise he’d been. Jon smiled. That day, King Aerys had not sat the Iron Throne, it had been his Hand, Tywin Lannister.

Robert smiled ruefully. “I should have let Tywin have it, the old lion would enjoy this tedious nonsense.”

Jon didn’t believe Tywin would have accepted the crown. He was fond of the Westerlands, was unable to give them to Jaime and unwilling to give them to Tyrion. No, Tywin was a career courtier, he wouldn’t have taken it. They might have had a King Eddard and though, outwardly, he may have done it to the best of his abilities, he would have been as miserable as his friend. In hindsight, all they’d had were poor choices.

“Loren would have been a proper Queen,” Robert asserted. “Always pleasant and supportive.”

Tywin would have sooner returned as Hand, the position Jon knew he craved more than any crown. A duty that had been his for over twenty years. Twenty stable years. Despite a King’s ever more rapid slide into madness. Early into their victory, Tywin had made a casual pass at being willing to return as Hand. Robert had responded without an inch of decorum he’d rather have Eddard. That, of course, hadn’t gone down well. And so, Tywin had left. As had Eddard, for that matter.

Jon had stepped up to council his erstwhile foster son. In the end, it had been for the best that Tywin had returned to the Westerlands for he hadn’t been particularly popular with the gentry and commonfolk of King’s Landing alike at the time. Jon had arranged the marriage between Robert and Cersei in the hopes of mollifying the rankled Lord Paramount and smoothing the slight of the preceding reign with the promise of change. They couldn’t afford to alienate one of the most powerful Lords of Westeros. Still couldn’t. Tywin was a poor enemy to have, and their impending accusation would surely make him one. Unless they could sustain his support.

“She never so much as raises a peep against him.” The wistful tone of Robert’s words struck an uncomfortable chord with Jon, jerking his wandering thoughts back to the unfortunate present.

Perhaps not in public, Jon thought. He’d never enjoyed the company of the man Tywin had become but had known the child he had been: a serious, long-limbed boy that had been a dutiful page to King Aegon, and a calculating youth who had outperformed his elders during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Even as a child, Tywin had not suffered fools, and so Jon highly doubted he’d wed a woman who had nought but rose water and fairytales between her ears. No matter how obedient and pleasant she may seem.

“Perhaps, it is because he doesn’t give her cause to,” Jon said mildly. Queen Cersei was no kitten, but one could avoid many scratches by not wilfully yanking the tail.

“She stacks the court with incompetent sycophants. She wanted her uncle to be master-at-arms!” A hint of youthful petulance crept into Robert’s baritone, and it reminded Jon how young they all still were. What is thrice-ten, really? He had decades ahead of him yet.

“If you came to the small council together with your Queen, we might all speak on the appointing of certain offices.”

Robert crossed his arms with gruff finality. He looked away from Jon. “Loren doesn’t drown Tywin in cronies.”

Jon smiled, but it was a sad smile. * That’s because she trusts him to have her back, son,* he thought, but said: “I am certain Queen Cersei would appreciate it if you requested her to support you at council.” It would be good to have them both where he could see them. Queen Cersei desired a ruling crown with the same intensity her Lord Father did the Hand’s seat. Jon might as well try and make her wiles work for him, for surely her presence would prod Robert to engage too.

“My Queen doesn’t care to support me in anything.” Robert shrugged, though then changed the topic and added: “Jon. There is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

“Your Grace?”

“It’s about your boy, my namesake.” Robert sat down, and the chair groaned ominously as he settled in it. He motioned at Jon to do the same.

Jon did as he was bid, dread coiling in his gut. A year ago, perhaps more already, certainly before Stannis had approached him, he’d spoken to the King regarding a promise of betrothal between his son Robert and Princess Myrcella. Nothing had come of that, and he’d forgotten about it. Until now.

“Have you decided where he will foster?”

Jon swallowed his relief. “No, not yet, Your Grace.”

“I see.” Robert frowned and reached for the goblet, but he had already emptied it earlier and sat it back down after casting a reproachful look at its wine-stained bottom.

“May I ask why, Your Grace?” Jon didn’t like the brooding mood that had settled over Robert.

“Young Robert is a sensitive lad. Gentle. Delicate, I’d say if he were a maid.” Robert’s careful choice of words brought Jon’s apprehension right back. “But his Lady Mother...” Robert gave Jon a near apologetic look. “Lady Lysa is soft with him, careful. I fear she may smother his manliness, and so hamper him as a youth.”

The thought had crossed Jon’s mind, but he didn’t begrudge his young wife her doting care for the boy. It had been trying for her. Robert was their only child, and his needs were different than most. He trusted her to know what was best for their son.

“Do you have someone in mind where he might foster?” Jon said, meeting the King half-way on the question he was beating around the bush about.

The dour clouds of Robert’s expression broke with a beaming smile. “Yes. And before you protest, I assure you that I have given it some thought.”

Jon forced a calm, and hopefully encouraging, smile.

“I believe, strongly believe,” Robert continued. “That it will be best for the boy if he wards at Casterly Rock.”

It may have been good for his son, once. Jon didn’t disagree with that. There would be young peers for him to spend time with - Kevan, Helaina, their friends among their Lord Father’s banners’ children. The bracing climate and sea air might have done his health good. However, there was the matter he’d been investigating.

“Your Grace—.”

Robert raised his hand. “I know, I know. The lion doth not deign to ward.”

Does she suspect us? Jon thought. Are the betrothals a convenient ruse for an investigation of her own? If she knew or suspected, she would undoubtedly share her suspicions with Tywin. Could she have found out? They had been careful. She was a shrewd one, her meticulous image politics during the tourney had shown that. She may have.

“Not to worry,” Robert continued quite unperturbed. “I have it on good authority that his dear Lady Wife can hector him into it.”

Jon doubted anyone could hector Tywin into much of anything. People had said the very same thing when he had wed Lady Joanna. He thought it more likely that it had to do with peoples’ wish to lessen Tywin’s looming presence, rather than the reality of his relationship to either his current or late Lady Wife. Once again, the immediacy of guaranteeing Tywin’s continued support clamoured in his mind. If they knew, this could mean they were moving into a position where they could keep his only son and heir hostage. But did they know?

“I will take it under advisement if you consider it wise, Your Grace,” Jon said tactfully. He couldn’t precisely tell Robert why he was less than thrilled about this prospect.

“Excellent.” Robert slapped his knees and rose. “If that is all? I have a hunt to attend, and I will not have it said I made a Lady wait.”

Jon sighed and nodded, he’d be remiss to say he wasn’t glad the conversation was over. “May I suggest that, in the future, you could plan these events around the meetings of your small council, Your Grace?”

“I will try,” Robert said with good humour. “This one couldn’t be helped. The lady requested it, not I.”

Jon frowned. It had been plain as a plucked cockerel that neither Tywin nor Lady Loren herself had appreciated their King’s overfamiliarity during Joffrey’s name day feast. She and he had been friends, once, but that was a long time ago. And things had changed. Why would she ask him to hawk? It was no secret that hunting was the second-best thing their King liked to do, and the best-thing assuredly wasn’t on the list of acts she was willing to commit to.

“Your Grace.” Ser Jaime saluted as Robert left his chambers.

“Run along, Kingslayer.” Robert made a dismissive gesture. “Go report to your winsome sister that I am going hawking with your good-mother and save her flunkies the effort.”

Jon wished Robert wouldn’t antagonise the knight at every opportunity, lest they find out if he’d care to be a kingslayer twice over.

“As you will it, Your Grace,” Ser Jaime said, his expression impassive as the Wall. With some sorrow, Jon supposed he was used to it. He hoped against his better judgement that Ser Jaime wasn’t keeping a tally.

Jon watched Robert go, his hunting leathers creaking about him in discontent as he walked. The weather was good, at least. The hawks could soar. Sudden realisation snatched him like a falcon: Myrcella was eight. And young Kevan’s… cousin? Niece? He rubbed his forehead. The Lannisters certainly made everything complicated. Wait. He snapped up. If that is the reason—.

“Your Grace, a final word?”

Robert turned to Jon. He smiled amiably as if he’d expected the words. “Quickly, then.”

“Has Lady Loren perchance spoken to you regarding betrothals for her son?”

Robert grinned, seemingly pleased. “Not with so many words, no, but she was rather curious about my plans regarding Myrcella’s future.”

She doesn’t know. Jon blinked. Does Tywin know? No, clearly not. He may be proud, but he was absolutely not stupid. He wouldn’t stake his pre-eminence on a false claim. And he definitely wouldn’t tolerate his son be wed to… to… Jon’s thoughts baulked at thinking the foul words. None of this was the little princess her fault, but it would cost her most, all the same. Jon pushed himself to smile. “That is all, Your Grace. Enjoy your hunt.”

“I shall,” Robert said with a fat wink.

Jon watched him stride away, a swagger to his gait. He shook his head. It really would be better if their King wasn’t so transparent about his appreciation of other men’s wives.

Robert halted abruptly, some ways down the hall. “Oh, and I shall tell her about young Robert!” he bellowed as he gave Jon the thumbs up. “Loren will be pleased, I tell you!” He swore heartily then. “Seven-take-her, even my precious Queen, will be pleased!”

Jon started terribly.

“Can you believe it? I am convinced those two haven’t agreed on a thing ever.” Robert snorted derisively. “She’s twice as quarrelsome with her good-mother as with me, even.”

Cersei desired his son be fostered at Casterly Rock? That, surely, was a move to hold him hostage. Did she know of—.

“Lucky she got her practice in with Tywin, eh?” Robert chortled and waved a hand in their direction. “King slayer, tell your sister it is a done deal, while you’re at it!”

Jon marshalled his reeling nerves. He could not let on any of this alarmed him, particularly not with Ser Jaime right beside him. If they didn’t suspect him yet then seeing his reaction would assuredly make it so.

“It seems you have been relieved of your duty for the day,” Jon said to Ser Jaime as they watched the King truly leave now. His light tone sounded forced, even to his own ears.

Ser Jaime pursed his lips sideways, and it reminded Jon of Lady Joanna, who’d do it just so when irritated. How long since she’d passed, now? Twice-ten years? More? Ser Jaime resembled his Lady Mother with his delicate, alabaster features, mild cat-green eyes and hair like beaten gold.

“I will see to my young brother, then.”

“Ah yes, a squire soon. A great leap for every growing boy,” Jon said with a gentle nod. “Give him my compliment.”

Jaime smiled, and it made him look more like the late Lady Lannister still. “I will.”

Jon made his way back out of Maegor’s Holdfast, down the serpentine steps and to the small council’s chambers. By the time he passed the Valyrian sphinxes guarding the entrance to the modest hall, sweat beaded on his forehead once more. Perhaps he ought to move the small council to his solar.

The Baratheon brothers, Ser Stannis and Renly, sat on either side of the King’s seat at the head of the massive, polished trestle table. Ser Stannis, serious and prim, sat with his back straighter than the chair he sat on. Renly, his brown hair in a fashionably unkempt ponytail, reclined sideways with an elbow on the table, already bored. Grand maester Pycelle hunched, shuffling his papers. Correspondence from the ravens, no doubt. Only Ser Barristan Selmy rose when Jon entered.

“Lord Hand.” Ser Barristan inclined his head.

“Lord Commander,” Jon returned as he walked around the table to the King’s vacant seat. Two more places were empty. Lord Petyr Baelish, the master of coin, was missing. As was Master Varys. However, Jon suspected the clever eunuch only attended when he needed to verify information from his ‘little birds’. Or when he had seeds of his own to plant.

“A good afternoon, my Lord,” Pycelle was quick to say on the knight’s heels, his voice feeble.

“Grand Maester,” Jon acknowledged. For the briefest of moments, he entertained relieving Lord Baelish from his duties the minute he arrived. Not that his lateness was such a grievous offence or a regular occurrence, but it was a reason. Jon didn’t like the man and never had, and yet he could not point to any one thing. Lysa spoke highly of him, but then he was her childhood friend. He wasn’t inadequate at his responsibility, either. Still, Jon rather saw the back of him.

Jon seated himself at the head of the table. They had several pressing matters to discuss: the state of the fleet, repairs on the seaward defences, the laying of stores for the coming winter and, not least among his worries, how they were to settle the bill for Robert’s latest fete. Even though nominally, it was not in his own but young Kevan’s honour. Best they start light with the ships.

“Lord Stannis, if you will,” Jon said.

Stannis pursed his lips as everyone turned to regard him. “The construction of three carracks is well underway. It may be possible to add a fourth graving dock if we dam the eastern wharf.”

“And thin trade even more?” his brother scoffed. “It’s already impossible to get Penthosian wine.”

Though a decade hence, the royal fleet was only now recovering from the Greyjoy rebellion. It had taken years to rebuild King’s Landing after the Sack, and that had eaten into their reserves. In those early days, Tywin had refused loans, citing the need to fortify Lannisport and the whole of the Westerlands in anticipation of Ironborn activity in the regnal power vacuum. He had not been wrong. Yet a man could be right and serve his agenda - a fortune of confluence. Not for the first time in all these long years, Jon wondered if there had been more to the refusal than wounded pride.

“If trouble stirs in the east and we are caught with our braies untucked, there will never be fine wines again, brother.” Stannis’ tone was terse. He put his hands on the table, palms pressed against the dark wood.

The Greyjoy rebellion had come and gone, leaving the royal fleet limping on the quayside as surely as it had the Lannister ships. And they’d been burned at anchor. Yet the Lannisters had the means to rebuild their fleet despite Lannisport laying in ashes and had done so swift as their coastal winds while the crown tottered on its last coppers. Tywin had agreed to extend loans then and on his terms as they had been in no position to make demands.

Renly had sat up now, his attention on Stannis. “And what good will fine ships do us when the loyal subjects of our dear brother rise up against us?”

“Over wine?” Stannis crooked an eyebrow.

Now, the lion’s share - Jon smiled, amused at his word choice despite himself - of their debt was to the Lion of the Westerlands. And the Iron Bank of Braavos, which wasn’t much better. What if it was by design?

“They’ve revolted over less.” Renly turned to the Grand Maester. “Isn’t that so?”

Jon didn’t doubt Tywin would use the debt when it served him. His thoughts strayed to Robert’s words regarding Myrcella. They could definitely force that betrothal if they wished to. Didn’t they know what Cersei and her twin brother had done? Or was it all feints? Meant to give the illusion of legitimacy where there was none?

Pycelle flinched as if he’d been dozing, but Jon caught the keen look in his green eyes. “The sumptuary law of 278 AC was ill-received.” Jon leaned forward, straining to understand the Grand Maester’s stuttering account. “It restricted the wearing of Lysian silk to the landed nobility. Before, it had been available to any who could afford it. Which were not many, to be sure! But it is the idea, you see. Many a merchant or trader may see it as their future, robbed prematurely. Some of our powerful but, say, not quite pedigreed, Lords, took great offence and harnessed this ambitious smallfolk to their side to—.”

“The point, Grand Maester,” Jon said, not unkindly.

Pycelle huffed, stacking his papers. “The point—.”

“The point is: a bunch of up-shot merchants blockaded the city over whether or not their fine ladies might wear silken smallclothes between the sheets,” Renly interjected. “Hardly a life essential, though I am sure our King would disagree.”

“It has been too long the fleet has been below strength.” A vessel started to pulse at Stannis’ neck as he spoke.

“And whose fault is that?” Renly crooked a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “You’re the Master of Ships. Is it not your duty to find a way?”

“I found a way,” Stannis said through gritted teeth.

Renly waved his hand. “A poor way. Lord Brokken Lannister of Lannisport ought to take your seat. The Lannister fleet has been bobbing at the port at strength for several years now. And it was burnt to the last plank a crispy black, I believe.”

Pycelle bobbed his venerable head. “Yes, precisely so. All fifty-and-three vessels—.”

“No.” Stannis glared at his sibling. “There is enough lions at court as it is.”

Renly shrugged. “At least they know their ships.”

As Stannis looked about ready to explode, Jon quickly raised his hands in a placating manner. “We can find a middle ground,” he said. “And Lord Stannis is not wrong. The Lannisters are not well-loved in our capital. If these tensions around imported luxury goods are as you say, then their further involvement may only fuel the fire.”

“ ‘The Lannisters are not well-loved’, ” Renly repeated, his tone nasal and overacted. “People keep telling me this, and yet all I saw was crowds cheering loudest every time that little lion rode his pony at the quintain.”

“Smallfolk are fond of the children’s games.” Pycelle had folded his bony hands atop his parchments.

Renly flicked his hand and eyes in perfected unison. “Evidently, even when its the ickle-wickle whelp of the Lord they purportedly hate? Sure.”

Stannis pursed his lips. “Young Lord Kevan is a gallant little fellow and charming as they come at that age.”

Jon frowned. The Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had been on their best behaviour for Prince Joffrey’s name day tourney, even Tywin had been near pleasant. He realised then that it had been an intelligent ploy to garner a favourable image. They had not come to court in years. For many, court peers and smallfolk alike, it would be the first they ever saw of the lions. He glanced at Renly, who had slouched once more. Might there be more who shared his blase attitude towards the Sack and the House that had permitted it?

“The Lannisters host some of the most prestigious fetes on Westeros, and they do not overlook their middling class and smallfolk,” Ser Barristan said. He had not spoken up before though Jon was not surprised he did now. Ser Barristan had been a famous tourney knight in his younger days, and he still enjoyed riding down the lists. “Lady Loren conforms to the common people their expectations of a pre-eminent peeress and the Grand Lady of a Great House. She is well-loved in the Westerlands. And it is that way, precisely, because of how she conducted herself, her Lord Husband and her children, such as she did at the Crown Prince’s tourney.”

Renly snorted. “You mean, unlike our beloved Queen?”

“Don’t let Her Grace hear you, her toes are as long as they are fair.” Lord Petyr Baelish swept into the room with a flutter of his silk capelet, striking down on the empty seat like the bird on his sigil as the fine cloth settled about his narrow shoulders.

“Someone ought to cut them down to size.” Renly shifted to lean on his other elbow, away from Lord Baelish.

“Lord Baelish, I am pleased you were able to join us after all,” Jon said before the topic of Queen Cersei’s vanity could be discussed further.

Lord Baelish smiled that soft, insipid smile. “And how I wish it was with good tidings for you, Lord Jon.”

“Out with it, Baelish,” Stannis demanded. “You’re already late, don’t insult us further.”

“You wound me, Ser Stannis. I would never delay the realm’s vital matters.” Lord Baelish’ grieved expression was as fake as the shimmering black of his short hair.

Jon had a bad feeling about the petty Lord’s good mood. They rarely turned out well for anyone but Petyr Baelish himself. “Lord Baelish, how are our coffers?”

“As empty as his promises, I am sure,” Renly scoffed. The Baratheon brothers shared their first agreeing look in weeks. They are a good team, Jon thought, when they can get over themselves long enough to work for a common goal.

Lord Baelish’ expression was pained as he folded his hands, one palm across the other. “It is the matter of little Lord Kevan’s squiring fete—.”

Apprehension settled in Jon’s stomach like spoilt supper as Lord Baelish caught his gaze. Had Ser Jaime refused? Had Robert changed his mind? Jon glanced at Ser Barristan. Have you stood by the old tradition that none but future Kingsguard may squire with its current members? For one, horrible, moment, Jon feared he had unwittingly supported the induction of a ten-year-old.

“—the King’s feast for the young squire has a tidy bill that will need paying.”

Jon stifled his sigh of relief. Monetary problems they had plenty, to be sure, but it beat having to inform Tywin another son would take up the white, any day.

“How much will it cost us?” Stannis had clenched his jaw. He wanted to fund for the fleet and, Jon suspected, the Stormlands. They had ever sat in the shadow of the Crownlands and had never recovered from the wars with Dorne.

“372 500 dragons and 8 stags, precisely,” Lord Baelish answered with a mathematician’s satisfaction.

“Three-hundred—.” Jon could all but see the calculations fly by behind Stannis’ grey eyes, which widened a fraction in shock. * “How.”*

“There’s the banquet, of course, and the tokens for guests. The honour guard and the minstrels and mummers,” Lord Baelish enumerated as he struck a finger for each item. “The throne room has been decorated, and then there’s the King’s gift—.”

“If only our brother cared to spend as much on us, eh?” Renly remarked as he tossed Stannis a look. He’d slouched again.

“Can we afford it?” Jon may not like Lord Baelish, but he was decent at his job.

Lord Baelish steepled his fingers and pursed his lips, drawing out the moment as he looked at each of them in turn before catching Jon’s gaze once more.

“Sadly, no,” he said as he folded his hands in defeat.

“Then we must call it off,” Stannis said, ever pragmatic and unable to empathise.

“We are not calling off a child’s name day party.” Renly sat up an blew a stray bang out of his face. “And certainly not mere hours before it starts!”

Stannis opened his mouth and closed it again. The muscle in his jaw flexed. “It’s not his name day.”

“Like the difference will matter to the lad,” Renly pointed out. “Besides, will you escort Lord Tywin’s sobbing child to him? Because I plan to be out of town for that one.”

“Have you been successful in your negotiations with the Iron Bank of Braavos, Lord Baelish?” Jon interrupted, steering the conversation back to the fact of the bill rather than its potential consequences.

At his words, Lord Baelish’ insipid smile became positively self-satisfied. “Yes, they have extended our credit and agreed not to charge returns for the coming two years.”

“Good, very good.” Jon chose not to wonder on how, precisely, Lord Baelish had managed to wheedle the infamous institution into wholly meeting their demands.

“However, it would be prudent to save those for, let us say, greater matters that require deeper pockets,” Lord Baelish added.

“Agreed,” Jon said with a nod.

“We have some levies that we can cover the little fete’s expenses with,” Lord Baelish said. “We can raise import taxes for the coming quarter to make up for it.”

“No.” Stannis made a cutting motion with his hand. “Traders will skip our port and make straight for White Harbour and Lannisport instead.”

“So?” Renly drawled. “I bet Lord Tywin taxes the daylight out of anyone making port in his Lady Wife’s humble town. All we need to do is stay a margin under him.”

“If we do that the Starks will have a good year.” Stannis’ lips had become a thin line as his palms pressed against the wood of the table.

“It doesn’t matter.” Renly shook his head, his tousled locks bouncing about his shoulders in such a dramatic fashion that Jon could all but hear the youths and maidens sighing. “The lions and wolves can’t stand each other. Our brother placated Lord Stark, and they may be willing to discuss import agreements to cut Lannisport.”

Robert had been cheerful the other day, when Jon had asked, in passing, after his renewed correspondence with Eddard. Jon had good hopes his foster sons had bridged the chasm that had grown between them. However, Renly wasn’t wholly correct. It was the wolf who couldn’t stand the lion. Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same.

Lord Baelish smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps we should ask the wolves, then, if we might lend their tail? It’s not like they have need of it for wagging.”

“Surely, there are reserves left to us, to pay for the fete?” Ser Barristan said, a frown creasing his lined brow. Everyone looked at Lord Baelish, who pointedly turned to Stannis.

Stannis ground his teeth. “There are fleet reserves.”

“We shall use those,” Lord Baelish said amiably. “And we can entreat the Iron Bank to finance further expansion of the fleet.”

Stannis looked pleasantly surprised, but Jon shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

The fleet reserves had come from Casterly Rock, together with Lannisport shipwrights and Westerland hardwood and steel. In essence, generous ‘gifts’ that Jon was acutely aware of, as well as the stream of gold trickling back to Casterly Rock through the pay and keep of these shipbuilding crews. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though, and Tywin had spared no ink to use it. Not that Jon was naive enough to think another Lord wouldn’t have, given the same opportunity. Charity was for the Silent Sisters, as the proverb went.

“Why not? They will easily suffice.” Lord Baelish smiled still, but the mirth had left his eyes.

Jon looked at him, gauging his intent. “Those reserves come from Lord Tywin and are intended for the fleet. If we change how we spend them, we must inform him.”

“The party is a gift from our King to the boy, Baelish,” Renly said with a look as if he considered the petty Lord both dimwitted and beneath him. “Are you volunteering to tell Lord Tywin he’s footing the bill?”

“Oh, that is very true, how silly of me, that might certainly ruffle his mane,” Lord Baelish said, and while his tone was flippant, there was venom in the look he threw Renly.

Renly snorted. “You think? A choice gift indeed if you have to pay for it yourself.”

“No doubt, Lord Tywin has spent more on the boy than most of us do in a lifetime,” Stannis said. He’d managed to unclench his jaw, for now. Although his palms still pressed on the wood, the tension not having left them just yet.

“As is his duty as Father,” Pycelle’s reedy stutter added with a disapproving frown at the King’s brothers. Pycelle was ever servile, but today his sycophantic comments made Jon frown. He resolved to be mindful around the old Maester, incase he whispered to leonine ears. Maesters were supposed to swear off all bonds of loyalty except to the Lord they served, but old allegiances died hard.

Renly slouched, his expression bored. “I am putting myself up for warding with the lions. I wouldn’t mind a few gifts like that.”

Stannis looked at his brother with open disgust.

Renly grinned. “What’s that, Stannis? Afraid they’ll forge me a dandy antlered crown?”

Stannis jaw worked.

Jon raised his hands in a placating manner. “My Lords.”

The last thing Jon needed was the two brothers trying to entice the Lannisters to either of their sides. The Tyrells were already behind Renly. They were the traditional enemies of the Lannisters. The two Great Houses bickered over their shared border like fishmongers over a cod cut. An alliance was unlikely, but Jon was wholly unwilling to chance it.

Ser Barristan crossed his arms. “If Lord Tywin puts a crown on anyone’s head, it’ll be his Lady Wife, and an exquisite Queen she’d be.”

A Tyrell-Lannister alliance would have a stranglehold on Westeros’ economy. Olenna and Tywin’s mother, the late Lady Jeyne Lannister, had been ladies-in-waiting together at King Jaehaerys Targaryen’s court. And at Joffrey’s name day tourney, Olenna and Tywin had yet been on speaking terms.

“As fine as our beloved Queen.” Pycelle bobbed his ancient head sagely. Jon curbed the urge to tell him to cut it out.

If Renly, or more likely, Olenna herself, was attempting to forge this alliance, he must reinforce Tywin’s support to Robert sooner rather than later. Twice so, in light of the matter they were investigating. However, if Robert and Eddard had reconciled, a further tightening of bonds might prove troublesome on account of the latter’s dislike of the Lannisters in general, and Tywin in particular. Eddard had never forgiven him for allowing his banners to tarnish their justified rebellion with the blood of the Targaryen children.

“Doesn’t he do so already, on her name day?” The disapproval was obvious in Stannis’ tone.

And yet, though the wolf couldn’t stand the lion, Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same. Again, he thought of Eddard’s daughters. All it would take was one wolf, one young wolf, and that one-sided feud might be gone.

“Indeed,” Ser Barristan said.

“When is the tourney, half a year, thereabouts?” Renly straightened, leaning both elbows on the table.

“Eight months,” Ser Barristan said. “You mean to attend?”

“Loras mentioned it.” Renly’s tone was thoughtful.

Jon hadn’t yet forgotten his earlier comment. Few would think twice of the sons of Great Houses attending such an event, certainly one as eminent as a fete in honour of a Grand Lady of peer Great House. A chance meeting, an exchange of thoughts, a sharing of drinks together that would attract attention in any other setting. Indeed, Jon had once used the very same tactic, many years ago. He frowned. He must secure Tywin’s continued support of Robert. More so than ever, it would seem.

Ser Barristan nodded. “I will ride. The Lady Loren asked that I preside the squire’s tourney.”

“Ah, the first occasion young Lord Kevan will enter the lists as a young man, is it?” Pycelle wheezed as he stroke his beard.

Ser Barristan inclined his head. “Just so.”

“My Lords. I understand the importance of jousts to the realm, but might we continue with the matter at hand?” Lord Baelish suggested smoothly. “Whether Lord Tywin would like a crown is perchance better saved for the solar and a glass of fine Penthosian wine.”

“Good luck finding that,” Renly scoffed as he threw his brother a look. Lord Baelish’ perfect eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask.

“His daughter is Queen,” Stannis said, the scowl contorting his mouth. “What more does he want.”

His son to be Hand, Jon thought but kept that notion to himself.

“The debts owed paid, I imagine,” Ser Barristan frowned also. “Baelish, it is your task to see to these things - and without loan upon loan.”

Lord Baelish raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Unlike Lord Tywin, I cannot sift a bucket of gold from our sewage, Ser.”

“My Lords, the matter at hand,” Jon interjected before it could escalate. What was it today with everyone regarding the Lannisters? This was no use. Jon decided they’d settle the matter of the fete and then adjourn. He wished to speak to Stannis, regarding the matter they were investigating, but now, also, regarding his younger brother’s seemingly casual remarks. They could not afford a Tyrell-Lannister alliance as a result of Tywin choosing Renly’s side. And Stannis jilting him regarding his daughter’s offspring might do just that.

“I have modest private funds,” Lord Baelish said. He laced his fingers, smiling amicably.

“Another loan, but this time from you.” The distaste in Stannis’ tone was impossible to miss.

“Well, the funds must come from somewhere,” Lord Baelish bristled. “I suppose it is easy enough when one’s Hand sits on gold mines, apologies Lord Jon, but alas we do not have such luxury.”

“We could, perhaps, invade the Westerlands?” Varys glided from the shadows, the voluminous sleeves and skirts of his sumptuous houppelande whispering in his wake.

“Are you out of your mind?” Stannis demanded. The palms of his hands tapped against the wood.

Varys smiled softly as he folded his on his ample stomach. “Invasion by marriage, I apologise for my unclear word choice.”

No, you don’t, Jon thought. No one made comments such as that idly, certainly not someone as crafty as the eunuch. A way to gauge the room on Lannister support, he decided. The disquieting feeling of brewing unrest swam somewhere in the vicinity of Jon’s stomach. Had Varys found out? He may have. Did his comment imply he wanted a change of King? Or only Queen?

“Quit speaking riddles.” Stannis scowled.

“A marriage could bring us the funds we seek.” Varys’ puffy, powdered face tempered with a gentle smile. “Myrcella and little Lord Kevan.”

Jon flinched. If he knew, he was intentionally steering for a scandal.

“They are related.”

Jon flinched all over again. This time, it was Ser Barristan who had spoken up in distaste. How had he—.

“Cousins.” Varys unctuous smile never wavering. “As are Lady Loren and Lord Tywin.”

“Technically, the boy is her uncle.” Lord Baelish glanced up from inspecting his nails. “The Queen is his big sister, after all.”

Right. Jon let his breath slip. For a moment he’d thought—.

“Half sister,” Pycelle amended promptly.

“Lord Gerald and Lord Tywin are cousins, and maternal ones at that.” Ser Barristan shook his head. “Lady Loren’s relation to her Lord Husband is more distant.”

Baratheon, Arryn, Starks, Tully and Lannisters had once seen eye to eye. If he could reforge those old alliances, Robert’s reign would be secure. Betrothals, as they’d done then - Kevan to a Stark girl and his little sister, Helaina, to his Robbie. Jon pursed his lips. It could work. And if he committed to tutoring young Kevan, taking him with as he went about his duties as Hand, Tywin might yet stay with them when they brought their evidence before Robert and the whole of the royal court.

“Let us settle the matter of the fete,” Renly said. “I grow tired and have more interesting occasions to attend to.”

Jon gave the youngest Baratheon brother a look, but Renly ignored it. Jon sighed. In truth, he was growing tired too. “Very well.”

“Lord Baelish, you said you had some funds.” Ser Barristan had crossed his arms once more. Despite his age, they were thick with muscle. It reminded Jon how winded he’d been, coming down the stairs. He’d never been a soldier, but he knew perfectly well that he could do more for his health.

“Private funds from a lucrative venture,” the petty Lord said. He’d clasped his hands, and Jon entertained the notion he resisted the longing to rub them together. No, Jon thought. No, we shall not be indebted to you, Petyr.

Ser Barristan’s bushy eyebrows rose. “‘Venture’?”

Lord Baelish smiled, almost apologetically. “Modest funds, certainly, from an establishment I invested in.”

“Establishment?” Stannis scoffed. “You mean that whorehouse on the street of silks.”

“Well. The ladies—.” Lord Baelish stacked his fingers.

“Whores.” Stannis glared.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Varys said smoothly, his tone as slick as the silks pandered on that street.

Jon flinched as what Stannis had threatened ever since he’d put his hands on the table finally happened. The Lord of Dragonstone slammed his open palms on the wood, rising in anger. “We are NOT paying for a * child’s* fete with whore pennies!”

Varys inclined his head demurely.

Certainly not for Tywin’s child’s fete, Jon thought. Tywin had never quite softened to the plight of those women. Not after his Lord Father had squandered their gold on them and taken one to mistress right under the Lady Jeyne’s nose. Jon hadn’t forgotten what had happened to that woman when Lord Tytos had passed.

Lord Baelish pursed his lips, his feathers ruffled. “It’s a trade, like any other.”

Renly let out a snort of laughter, Stannis merely glared. Ser Barristan had straightened in his seat, disapproval on his lined face.

“A dangerous one, too, those poor women.” Varys smiled softly. “They are lucky to have you watch over them, Lord Baelish.”

The master of coin smiled, inclining his head.

Are they? Jon thought. Are they, truly?

“We will use funds from the Eyrie,” Jon said. Everyone looked at him. His House wasn’t quite as prosperous as the Lannisters - he smiled to himself, not in any meaning of that word - but neither were they poor. They could use part of the funds he’d set aside for repairs on the Gates of the Moon. Those were necessary, yes, but had been for a decade. They could wait a while longer still.

“Lord Jon, if I have given offence regarding your capacities as Hand, I dearly apologise,” Lord Baelish said, sweet and servile.

Spare me, Jon thought. That jest of Tywin shitting gold was old when you were born. He wanted the matter done with, he needed to speak with Stannis. “None taken, Lord Baelish. I will send word to my treasurer, Eryn Wyles.”

“It’s most gracious of you to provide private funds, Lord Jon.” Varys hands folded into the unimaginable depths of his voluminous sleeves. “If that is all, my Lords? I must attend to other matters.”

“Your little ‘birds’ have ‘need’ of you?” Renly scoffed. He slouched in his chair, kicking a leg idly. He flashed a wicked grin at Varys.

“I only ever tweet to my flitter-flatters, Lord Renly,” Varys cast his gaze down with a demure nod. “My… late employer left me little choice, as it were.”

Renly laughed heartily at that.

Stannis pursed his lips. “What ‘bird’ might tweet matters of equal import to this council?”

Varys looked up and right at Jon. A soft smile curving his painted lips. “Why, the fairest bird in all the realm.” Before Jon could respond, the eunuch turned and swept away with the rustle of great lengths of exceedingly expensive samite.

“Indeed, this is all,” Jon said and rose. “Let us meet on further matters on the morrow, at noon.” There were agreeing noises from around the room. Only Renly looked displeased. No doubt, he must reschedule some outing or the other. He might complain about it but what mattered is that he did it. Jon sighed. If only Robert would.

“Stannis, a word,” Jon said as the Lords filed out. He caught Renly’s suspicious look and added: “you wanted my thoughts on the fleet composition?”

Stannis halted, frowned. Jon caught his gaze and tried to signal him with his eyes. It felt as if eternity passed before Stannis gave a curt nod. “I did.”

“Let us walk, then.”

Jon meant to return to the tower of the Hand but thought better of it. Instead, he conducted Stannis to the eastern court gardens. There may be ‘birds’ there, too, but the open architecture made him feel it would be harder on them to eavesdrop. Not impossible, no, but harder, at least.

They walked in silence, each to their own thoughts. Jon tried to decide how to start the discussion. There were several things he meant to address. On at least two of the three matters, he anticipated resistance from the younger man.

“Fairest bird in all the realm,” Stannis pursed his lips. “He meant Cersei. She knows, then.”

Perhaps. Varys was tricky. He’d certainly meant the Queen. But, had he intended to let on she - he - knew of their clandestine investigation, or did he merely wish for them to believe so? “I wouldn’t go on the word of a spider alone,” Jon said. “But it is not unthinkable. The lions are not altogether clueless.”

Stannis’ lips twitched, and for a moment Jon thought he might smile. “The little lion is sharp as a dirk.”

“I imagine his Lord Father made sure the best whetstones are applied to his young mind.” Jon clasped his hands behind his back as they ambled through the lavish gardens, pebbles crunching underfoot. Kevan was a good topic to start on. He suspected Stannis was enamoured with the boy. Jon smiled to himself. Four short weeks ago none in King’s Landing knew Casterly Rock’s pint-sized heir. Now, he dared guess those who didn’t were scarce.

“He assisted me with fleet inventory calculations. He had asked to, said he wanted to impress his uncle when he came home.” Stannis pursed his lips but Jon could tell he was pleased.

“Not his grandfather?” Jon asked, surprised. Lord Gerald Lannister was Lord of Lannisport and fleet master, last he’d heard.

“He said uncle,” Stannis scowled.

“I believe you,” Jon said, not wanting to irk the younger Lord already.

“He meant his mother’s older brother, I believe.”

Ser Brokken, then, Jon thought. He wondered why the boy favoured his uncle. “He did well, I take it?”

They had halted at a fountain, water instead of fire spewing from its three marble dragons. The water clattered cheerfully, the morning sun glinting on the splashing water. Its sound would obscure their voices from any but the keenest ears.

Stannis turned to Jon. “He is serviceable with his numbers, but that was not what he excelled on.”

Jon smiled despite himself. “Don’t let Lord Tywin hear, I dare say ‘servicable’ isn’t what he’d like.”

Stannis gave a curt nod. Jon sighed. So much for striving to keep a light mood. “What did he do well at?”

“Plotting coastal patrol routes,” Stannis said. “He took one long look at the map and adjusted the current routes to overlap more efficiently, as well as using fewer ships.”

“No small feat for an adult, nevermind a ten-year-old. He must have spent a good amount of hours being drilled on similar tasks, perhaps optimising guard patrols or area canvassing.” It was an essential skill for a field commander. Again, Jon had the unnerving feeling unrest was brewing. He was positive Tywin would have his young son instructed in these matters even if they were in the middle of the greatest peace of their age. And yet, here was a ten-year-old performing a task an adult commander might be troubled with. Maybe, it was merely a boy with a knack for the same skills as his father. Or, it was another incongruity. Another leaf falling spelling the change in seasons, the end of summer.

Stannis looked him up and down, his frown wrinkling deeper. “What is it you wanted to speak about? Not ships, I think.”

There it was. Jon took a deep breath. “The matter we’ve been investigating.”

Revulsion delineated Stannis’ already resolute features harder still. “It is true, I know it.”

“It very likely is,” Jon said, his tone diplomatic. They had calculated the years, tracked Ser Jaime’s whereabouts, even visited a near dozen of Robert’s bastards. And while it was true a wife’s children might look like her, even three, four; none of the bastards did. None.

“We must tell Robert, and soon.” Stannis’ tone was firm. He was sure, had been from the start. So confident, in fact, that it had given Jon pause at the onset. Robert and his younger brother were scarce a year apart, and with no legitimate son, Stannis was his natural heir.

“There is one more avenue I wish to explore. I have been able to acquire a copy of Grand Maester Maelleon’s work on the lineage of the Great Houses, including Baratheon and Lannister.”

“A maester one-hundred years dead and buried.” Stannis’ temper turned impatient. “What possibly can ancient history tell us on this matter?”

Now it was Jon’s turn to frown. “A great deal if we have the wits to hear and wish our accusation to be wildfireproof.”

“Your wish,” Stannis pointed out.

Jon let it slide. He’d always had a cautious nature, he knew this. He also knew young Kevan wasn’t the only Lannister that didn’t lack for wits. If they couldn’t ascertain Tywin’s continued support and if there was even the smallest of cracks in their claim. He’d turn it into a gaping hole. If he could be won to their side… Lady Loren would surely side with him, Ser Kevan as well. Even the Imp might, on account of his apparent affection for his good-mother if not his father. Besides, there was absolutely no love lost between him and his sister. Even Jon could tell. Jaime would undoubtedly side with Cersei, but he’d never had the sharpest claws of their pride, and he was only one knight - one sworn white cloak: no name, no lands, no funds. And no longer vital to his father’s grand ambitions.

“Lord Jon?” Stannis’ voice cut through his thoughts, then repeated his question: “How do you mean to use this book?”

“It’s a genealogical record, famous for both its accuracy and meticulous recording. It should corroborate our theory - Baratheons’ dark as winter wood, Lannisters fair as the summer sun.” Jon sat down on one of the elegantly carved marble benches near the fountain. His back ached, and sitting afforded some small relief.

“That is all?”

Jon glanced up at Stannis’ dismayed words. “Lady Loren said she thought there may have been a Baratheon maid wed into her side of the family around the time the record was made. I mean to see if that’s true, for it could provide the ironclad proof we need.”

“You told Lady Loren?” Stannis said sharply. That boded ill for one of the other points he meant to discuss. As he had feared.

“No.” Jon shook his head. “We came to speak of lineages after I complimented her boy’s performance at the tourney and remarked on his striking similarity to his father.”

Stannis made a noise that could have been derision. “The lions all resemble each other. Kevan looks just like Lord Tywin. His sister Helaina is the Queen in miniature. Even the little fat one—.”

“Tion,” Jon corrected mildly.

“—Tion, looks like the old lion.”

Like his grandfather Tytos, actually Jon thought but he didn’t say it out loud. Poor boy. His grandfather was not well-loved by his father.

Lady Loren had told Jon her Lady Mother was dark of hair, as was her older brother, who in turn had a raven-haired daughter himself. She had confided, moreover, fear for a dark-haired child of her own. In light of Robert’s appalling behaviour ever since they’d come to court, Jon understood her concern all too well. If such a child were born, there would be talk no matter the truth.

“After you have pursued this avenue…?”

Their investigation indicated she need not fear - all her children with Tywin would be golden as the sun, like their parents. Jon had wanted to reassure her but knew he couldn’t do so without revealing what they had discovered. And so, he’d said nothing. He felt poorly about that. It had been evident that the possibility gave her much concern.

“If it confirms our suspicions we can bring our case before Robert,” Jon agreed. Then he shook his head. “We must mitigate the odds of Lord Tywin calling his banners and bringing war to our doorstep.”

“His daughter committed treason.” Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Indeed, it seems she has.” Jon sighed. “However—.”

“Treason,” Stannis repeated. “And shielding her will be tantamount to the same.”

Stannis certainly wasn’t wrong, but that was not the point Jon wished to make, and so he said: “would you not do the same for Shireen?”

Stannis’ scowl darkened. “Shireen is a child.”

Jon nodded. “That she is, but if she weren’t? If she was a woman grown and someone brought a claim of treason to your threshold?”

Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Wouldn’t it be a father’s duty to protect her?” Jon pressed. He needed Stannis to see the necessity of meeting Tywin halfway - three quarters if need be.

“It would be his duty to get to the bottom of it.” Stannis’ tone was reluctant. It was as much of an agreement as Jon would have dared wish for. After a moment of thought, Stannis added: “I would hold myself to the verdict.”

Jon’s expression turned sad. You would, wouldn’t you? he thought. He hoped no one would ever speak of the disfigured girl with convincing ill-will to her father.

“You aren’t Lord Tywin, however,” Jon said diplomatically.

Stannis gave a curt nod.

“He’s a pragmatic man when it comes down to it, and House Lannister’s honour no longer rests solely on the twins’ shoulders.” And not for the first time that day, Jon thought how fortunate they were in that. If they could ensure the futures Tywin likely coveted for his younger children, he just might be willing to cut his losses.

Stannis rubbed his chin, his brow furrowing. “You think he could be persuaded to stand aside? The Queen won’t like that.”

“He might. And no, she most assuredly won’t.” Without the tangible threat of Tywin’s swift and sharp retribution, Queen Cersei had very little; indeed, Jon thought. And no doubt, she knew it as well.

“If we can ensure certain prospects more worthwhile to retain than a disgraced daughter...” Stannis mused as he pursed his lips.

“Son and daughter,” Jon corrected mildly. It wasn’t merely Cersei who had committed treason. And they ought not to forget it cost Tywin two children, not just the one. His two eldest children, at that, the son and daughter traditionally most valuable to a noble House’s future.

“But not his heir.”

“Therein lies our gain,” Jon said. It will be a scandal, no doubt. A blemish on the Lannisters’ golden history that they will have a tough chore polishing away, to be sure. But it wouldn’t be the end of the House. * Needn’t be,* Jon corrected himself. Not the way it would have been if Tywin hadn’t wed again, hadn’t had additional sons he was willing to leave land and title to.

“You sound as if you have given it thought?” There was an edge of suspicion to Stannis’ tone.

Jon had given it quite a lot of thought, the past fortnight as they assembled their final pieces of evidence, but he said: “Some, yes.”

Stannis regarded him carefully. “And these thoughts entail?”

“I could tutor Kevan, take him with me as I go about my work,” Jon said as he clasped his hands in his lap. “Tywin has served this realm as Hand for over twenty years, and not inadequately, despite the increasing instability of King Aerys. I do not think it a poor guess that he might have similar ambitions for his son.”

The beginning of a scowl crept onto Stannis’ stern face. “It would also give him ears at court and right beside the King, at that.” Jon had considered this too and knew it would make the offer all the sweeter for it. Tywin hadn’t come to court in nearly ten years, and so there was no reason to assume he wanted ears here. However, a shrewd man wouldn’t decline an opportunity freely given. Small ears hear the clearest, as Varys once said regarding his little informants.

“It would, but if he wanted it, he already has it through Ser Jaime standing guard right outside Robert’s door, through Cersei and her ladies, or the nephews squiring for our King.” Not entirely true, for Kevan was a ten-year-old who loved his father as well as any young boy might. And Varys had once told him that: ‘small ears hear the clearest’. Jon didn’t think Stannis would consider this nuance, to him children were children, bless his stubborn heart.

Stannis’ expression soured. “It would be no promise, but the implication the boy be Hand after you is there.”

“It will still be six long years before the boy will be of age, but yes.”

“A son’s future for a daughter’s trial.”

Jon didn’t like to think of it that way, but it was true.

“Robert likes the boy,” Stannis added.

Jon knew it to be correct. Did he fear young Kevan might prove a rival? It was not unheard for kings without legitimate issue to adopt an heir. He couldn’t afford Stannis to be suspicious of the boy. And so he said: “He’s young yet, and we’d have some years to help him grow. You come to the council.” Jon smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Robert does not.”

Stannis seemed to consider this. “You think this will be enough to pull Lord Tywin’s support?”

Jon wished it would be, but he dared not hope. Tywin likely considered it within his own capacities to assure this future for his son. They would need more. Something he could not as quickly achieve himself. It was why he’d come up with his second assurance. “I will speak to Lady Loren and confess an interest in the promise of betrothal between her daughter Helaina and my son Robert.”

The way Stannis stiffened told Jon what he would say even before he burst. Jon sighed. And so came the first of the two anticipated arguments.

“You will hand them the Eyrie?” Stannis struggled to keep his voice low, to not raise it into an angered shout.

“It won’t come to that,” Jon said with more confidence than he felt. His son was sickly. He might not even make it to wed and become a man grown, he thought with a heavy heart.

Stannis gave him a sceptical look, and Jon heard the unspoken words as surely as if he’d spoken them.

“Robert spoke with Lady Loren, he wishes my son page with her Lord Husband, at the Rock.” Jon left out the part regarding Cersei desiring this also. It concerned him a great deal, to be sure, but it would only fan Stannis’ unease.

When Stannis spoke, he’d seemingly dropped the topic. “She spoke with Lord Royce,” he said.

Jon frowned, confused. “I imagine she spoke with a great many lords, including you, I presume, this morn?”

“That she did.” Stannis cocked his head. “You do not think it odd she spoke to him?”

Jon frown deepened. “House Royce is an ancient and respected House of the Vale—.”

“Of the Vale, indeed,” Stannis said. “The kings of old, were they not?”

“Yes?” Where was he going with this?

“A while ago, you mentioned you’d declined Lord Yohn’s offer to betroth his daughter Ysilla to your son.”

He had.

Stannis’ eyebrows rose meaningfully. “And now he’s talking to the lioness,” he added.

Could it…? Jon’d assumed Lady Loren had approached Lord Yohn, not the other way around. Lord Yohn had an infant son, too. What was his name? It had sounded similar to his sister Ysilla’s. Elijah? He’d be scarcely more than a babe, two years, three maybe, but Helaina was just five, after all. “Lord Yohn and House Royce are loyal.”

“Are they?” Stannis’ expression was grim.

If Lord Yohn had approached Lady Loren, that was the only time ever he’d noticed the old Lord toe the line. And, even then, it was hardly tantamount to treason if all they’d done was reflect on mayhaps and could-bes. Helaina was only five, his son an unbreeched boy. Jon shook his head. “House Royce has never given cause for doubt.”

Stannis regarded him silently.

“If Robert and Helaina wed, it doesn’t matt—.”

Jon’s voice trailed off as a stifling realisation settled in his chest like a wet towel across the face. If his son passed - and though he dreaded it, he knew his boy’s sickly nature would not see him grow old as he had - Helaina would certainly rewed. And who might then be the right choice, to ensure the support of the Lords of the Vale for the youngest Lady Lannister? Lord Yohn’s son.

“You might as well hand them the Eyrie straight away and save them the trouble,” Stannis said.

Jon shook his head. They were in a sorry situation, but he believed they had little choice. “Robert must set Cersei aside as a result of her actions and rewed. If we can, in any way, avoid Tywin raising his banners in rebellion, we need to try it. The quicker and quieter this whole affair goes, the better.”

“Lord Mace wishes his daughter wed my brother.”

You mean Olenna wants it, Jon thought. “All the more reason to smooth any ruffled manes. The Reach and Westerlands have bickered like hens over worms for generations. We don’t want Robert to become that worm.”

Stannis nodded. “Renly supports it too, though she’s a fair maid and cleverer than him by half.”

Jon knew Renly, Loras and his sister Margaery to be fast friends, much like Robert, Loren, Eddard and his sister Lyanna had been. He speculated the reason Renly supported this match was due to Olenna. No doubt, if he supported it, she would permit him and Loras to have what they had. As far as Jon knew, Olenna took no issue with it. However, he knew her well enough to know she’d use it when it suited her.

“Lord Tywin and the old crone seemed amiable enough, during the tourney.” Stannis pursed his lips.

“I’m sure they did,” Jon said. He’d been around a little longer than Stannis, though. Those two would flay the other alive if push came to shove. Not that it had happened. At least, not yet. “We know the gods are good because they saw fit to make sure those two did not wed each other.”

Predictably, Stannis didn’t smile, let alone laugh.

“Let us hope they only spoke about their children and grandchildren,” Jon said. He hadn’t yet forgotten Renly’s allusions during the small council. A Lannister-Tyrell alliance against them was the very last thing they needed. Renly would be a puppet the minute Tywin and Olenna found common ground in supporting him as the Baratheon of choice. No, if the lions and roses were giving each other sidelong glances, they better exploit the situation and marshal them behind Robert before they forged any cunning plans of their own.

“I believe so, Kevan was with them.” Stannis had crossed his arms, thoughtful too, now.

Jon feared Tywin and Olenna were plenty capable of talking right over the boy’s head in covered language if they so pleased. He didn’t share his concern.

“You support this too, Margaery?” Stannis asked.

Jon frowned. “Yes. Yes, I do think so.”

“The Tyrells are good allies to have, particularly if the Lannisters rebel.”

“We must prevent that at all cost.” Jon shook his head. He wouldn’t let it come to that if he could. They didn’t need another war, they needed stability. There had been stability until they had found out what Cersei and Jaime had done.

Stannis scowled, and Jon realised there was no more postponing. He had to tell him what he planned to do. Stannis’ stiff, recalcitrant demeanour reminded Jon of Tywin and reaffirmed to him the necessity of his plan. For if Stannis baulked, then assuredly Tywin would for he was every inch as contrary. Jon might throw morsels large and little at him, but if the lion was in no mood to eat, it was no use at all.

Jon took a deep breath and put his hands on his knees, steadying himself. His gaze wandered to the godswood. Had Robert and Loren yet returned from their hunt? He squinted into the middle distance, bracing himself and mustering patience: “I believe we must tell Lady Loren and have her break the ill news to Lord Tywin.”

“And give him a headstart to rally for war?” This time, Stannis’ voice rose well above the clatter of the fountain.

Jon made a placating gesture, urging Stannis to lower his voice. “If our accusation leads to him raising his banners, it doesn’t matter when he hears.”

“Of course, it matters!” Stannis objected. “It will give them the time to rally vassals ahead of us. Even mount a counter case to our accusations.”

“If our claim is solid and true, no counter save bribery will prevail and if they go that route, our case will crumble either way,” Jon said. It concerned him because most people could be bought, and few were more persuasive in the buying market than the Lannisters on account of their wealth. And Robert enjoyed the lifestyle he could assuredly not afford on his own. How much gold would it take to convince him to keep Joffrey as his heir? Jon hoped they would never find out. Hoped, he realised, that Tywin would be too proud to accept grandchildren born of incest.

“He could rally an army,” Stannis repeated through clenched teeth.

“We cannot risk open war, and if it comes to it, we are at poor odds even if he hears it only at trial. Last time he pitched his banners, there were 12.000 lances at the toss of a liripipe. And the Tyrells favour your younger brother, if the Lannisters join them, we might well have a coup on our hands.”

“Not last year, there were skirmishes in the northmarch - south of Silverhill, along the greentail.” Stannis’ jaw worked. He’d crossed his arms, and there was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” There were always skirmishes in the northmarch, except during the tourney season. Presumably, Clegane and Crane butting heads on the shores of Red Lake because they were bored. Jon smiled, for the landed knights had reminded him of something not altogether dissimilar. “Years ago - many, years ago, when I was younger - Lady Olenna and Lady Jeyne were ladies-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella.”

“Lady Jeyne, that is Lord Tywin’s late mother, correct?” Stannis’ jaw had stopped working, but his stance remained pinched.

“Correct. Those girls were vicious. Jeyne once put copper powder in Olenna’s bath, staining her grain golden hair a sickly green and necessitating its cutting. Olenna put dead mice in her clothes chest in reprisal, the odour of death never leaving the fine samite garments, and they had to be burnt.”

“How is this relevant.”

Jon raised a hand at Stannis’ impatient tone, bidding him listen. “One day, Lady Lyarra Stark came to court and choose her sides: she favoured Lady Olenna in a solar conversation with the Queen. Then, perhaps to seal the deal, she assured a spoilt egg made it into Lady Jeyne’s breakfast, giving her embarrassing flatulence all through a court ball. Do you know how Lady Olenna responded, to this?”

Stannis’ jaw worked once more. “No.”

“The Lady Lyarra woke up to find one of her braids cut, right below the ear, and a note on parchment bearing gilded roses that she’d better stayed up north.” Jon recalled it well, for Lyarra had been distraught and her father much peeved. Yet he’d seen the lioness and Queen of Thorns share tea in this very same garden that day.

Stannis was processing his story, Jon could tell from his frown. “You believe the Tyrells will support the Lannisters?”

She might, Jon thought. And, like Tywin himself, Olenna was a poor enemy to have. Nevermind those two combined. Jon pursed his lips. “This is no spoilt egg, to be sure, but not as certain an impossibility as one might think.”

“You mean to tell Lady Loren, then,” Stannis said. “You have already decided.”

Jon regarded Stannis for a long moment. Then nodded and said: “Yes. I will examine the genealogy tonight. I suspect it will confirm our theory. On the morrow, I will discretely approach Lady Loren. I will propose tutoring of Kevan and convey interest in a promise between Helaina and my son. If she is forthcoming, I will share our findings with her. And, if the gods are good, I can convince her of the necessity she be the one to bring this news to her Lord Husband. And of the assurance that these futures for her children are set in stone if they allow the twins to stand trial.”

Stannis frowned but no longer objected. “Will she return home, or send a raven?”

“I hope to convince her to go in person, such matters are better not trusted to ravens. And, I do not think such news should be given on paper,” Jon said. Least of all to Tywin, he thought. He needs to hear it from her, lest he think it a falsehood.

“She may bid him return here, rather than travel home herself.”

“If we’re fortunate, she will. It will be better for us to have him here at the capital. That way, we avoid the impression we went behind his back.” The less tinder this wildfire sees, the better.

“We went behind his back,” Stannis asserted.

Jon sighed. He felt old and tired. “You know what I mean.”

Stannis’ reluctance was apparent but he nodded. “Very well.”

They spoke a while longer, of matters of little import but great interest to them personally. The weather was exceptional, the early afternoon sun warm, the late summer skies clear. It was a pleasant while and Jon would never have thought it be his last.

When Jon finally rose to send a raven, which he had been meaning to send all morning, a chill ran down his spine as he stepped out of the sun and into the shadowed cloister surrounding the fair garden. He made his way to the Grand Maester’s tower and by the time he had climbed the steps to the rookery, sweat beaded on his forehead. But this time, the sweat was cold. As he watched the raven fly north, he bid it make haste. War was coming. He could feel it in his bones. And not for the first time, he wondered if he was to be the instigator once again.

O O O

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#jon arryn #gotfic #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #game of thrones fanfiction #a saga of bears & lions #imperial fictions #I have a lot of feelings about Jon Arryn and nobody ever addresses them #so I went for it #this chapter could also probably be titled #six people talk about tywin a whole ass lot #and I am not sorry

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