I'd like to thank and dedicate this to my dear friend and local lurker ucouldbx, who endured my rants about this long before it was clear that it would, indeed, be seeing daylight. Also my mother, because I wrangled something of a promise out of her to brush up on her English and read this.
The Dragon of Casterly Rock
The wealth of the Westerlands was matched, in ancient times, with the hunger of the Freehold of Valyria for precious metals, yet there seems no evidence that the dragonlords ever made contact with the lords of the Rock, Casterly or Lannister. Septon Barth speculated on the matter, referring to a Valyrian text that has since been lost, suggesting that the Freehold's sorcerers foretold that the gold of Casterly Rock would destroy them.
—The Westerlands lore, The World of Ice and Fire
THE KING
263 AC
Word was, the brat had left the womb as quiet as a whisper. Slipped out like a burglar in the night. The nurses had nigh misdeclared him stillborn. Yet the creature had drawn dry breath, doggedly, thief of good news from the very beginning. Now it was growing fatter and bigger by the day in a septa's cell, somewhere within the moldy old maze of Baelor's Sept. Its whore mother had been spared a place there as well, at the King's behest, lest someone thought to question his rectitude. She had survived the birthing and recovered within days, not like Rhaella, who had been pallid and feverish after Rhaegar for weeks. Peasant cows had more strength to them than the ladies of the court, for they bread that much more, like swine in a pigsty. For that they wore down more quickly, and only had a few enjoyable years in them.
Aerys had been impartial to the news, all of it. Why not start waking your King every time you take a shit, he'd lashed out at the messenger daft enough to crowd in on him in the middle of the night. Then he'd rolled over and plunged back into a nettled sleep. Bloody imbeciles. As if the nipper's coming into existence had not been a silly enough reason to be roused from bed, he had to hear tales of the whore, too. He had not bothered enlisting an assassin to dispose of the wench, however he'd done little to conceal his hopes that the birthing would kill her. He had not aspired to stand a king who provided harlots with keeps and titles, yet he now faced the circumstance. It would be an unseemly thing, after all, to have some peasant bitch spew the King's blood from between her thighs.
At first he'd had no desire to visit. The deed was done and there was little that could be done to unmake it. Moreover, Aerys did not espy a great significance to it. His blood, diluted. Arbor Gold and hot piss, poured into a single cup. Not good enough for court, yet some folk would never think to know the difference.
The King saw no sound reason to bother tipping the cup over, either. Rhaegar was but an infant and knew not what a half-brother was, and Rhaella hid her shamed looks well. Well enough for court, at least. Aerys had a tight-lipped creature for a wife, and to that day he did not know if it was a good thing or a dangerous one.
Hence his surprise when that same wife of his climbed up to him one day in his rooms, dismissed the chambermaids at work on his silken robes, and inquired,
"Will you not visit him?"
Aerys ceased his work on fitting Dornish velvet to his shifts. He had no wish to face his wife nor acknowledge her presence any more than the necessary, so he spoke dismissively and gruffly to the city laid out before him as he resumed his fiddling.
"What does that have to do with you, woman? Not your whelp, not your worry. This whole matter is hardly a concern of yours. I'll well have you keep out of it, as is proper for a wife."
An ugly sort of silence gaped between them, but he could sense he had not heard the last from her. She could be tenacious, Rhaella, in a quiet, frustrating sort of way. He could not think of a single reason why she would suddenly grow an interest in his bastard bairn, yet he did not care enough to question her, nor did he lack the pride to continue to ignore her. So he matched her silence with his own, stubbornly, the way one ignored an insect circling a lantern just past their field of vision.
"The discommode I understand," the Queen breathed eventually, all softness wrapped 'round spun steel. "But truly, Aerys? Not once?"
"Watch it, woman," the King murmured into his intricate cloth. "It is not your place to question me, nor mine to indulge you." She'd do well not to embarrass him by letting her tongue run loose beyond these walls. She had confronted him about a mistress, once, and he reckoned the lesson still stuck with her, on the side of her jaw and on her thighs, her belly. "You of all people ought to know what happens when you're being clever with me. I will hear no more of this. Run along now, before I grow weary of you in earnest."
He watched his Queen's crowned head dip down to her shapeless collar in mechanical courtesy. All her hair slumped forward, down her high shoulders, in little hands and tongues of silver. He oftentimes had to remind himself she had his blood, and the thought would give him some concern, for he knew the lengths a Targaryen would go to for the sake of what they imagined important. Then again, Rhaella was but a woman. One of his kin, true, yet she posed only a pale reflection of himself. The gods had not meant for him to fear her. It was for her to fear him, aye, or else they would have fitted him into the gowns and planted the bulge between her thighs.
"As my husband wishes," the Queen spoke through pressed lips. And then, more quietly, "The court wonders, Aerys. If the Great Sept truly houses the King's own son, why would the King not see him? You have fathered a child. Children need their fathers to grow into sound men. I obviously have no control over your actions. But I would not mind it if you visited."
With that, his wife slid back, in a drag of ivory silk, between the creases of the half-open doors. The King spied her lose herself to shadows, pulling the doors and the implications of her words along with her.
After a time, Aerys recalled the maids and resumed dressing, but his wife's words stuck with him, oddly, like a small thorn that could almost not be there at all. What had gotten into her to make her question him so boldly?
The court wonders, Aerys.
That was folly. He had Rhaegar, who was healthy and strong, and he would soon press Rhaella for others. She should be grateful for his lack of interest in this lesser spawn, his wife, for otherwise her shame could be far greater.
Yet if she had come to warn him, the court must truly be restless. He would not appear weak-willed in front of their lot. Did they suspect he feared this child? No, that was beyond preposterous. He simply did not deem it of enough consequence to make the journey down to that peasant-infested, rotten sept.
The King did not well understand the abrupt agitation of his subjects. He was hardly the first monarch to mount a baseborn bitch, nor would he pledge this half-son to be his last.
I could go see him, if just to shut their mouths on the matter once and for all. Yet was he not the King? Should he go to such lengths to secure the respect he was rightfully owed?
Just as Aerys was growing frustrated with the dubiety of the matter, the doors caved in with a yawn. In wandered the one creature whose unanticipated presence yet gave the King joy.
"His Highness the Prince, Your Grace," a guard announced uselessly. As if the King needed aid in recognizing his own offspring.
Prince Rhaegar was a moon's turn from his fourth year, yet he stood as tall as some seven-year-olds, if leaner. He had inherited the King's gold-silver hair, and his mother's deep blue pupils, one slightly purpler than the other. A sign of noble birth, the maesters claimed. He was a first son, the gods had wanted to give him all there was to give. Tales of his stormy birth, combined with the Prince's apparent comeliness, had inspired some half a dozen bards to sing songs of 'the spun-silver Prince' already, at court and on the streets, and the lyrics were proving quite infectious. The King would even catch the handmaids humming the gentle tune on occasion, in the Godswood or along the Maidenvault, or even as they worked.
From coolest of iron and fiery kites
A dragon of gems and King's blood
Make merry tonight and all nights
For all that is silver is good
Too sweetened a refrain, the King mused sometimes. A dragon should forge his reputation around greatness, strength, not the soft mewling of court bards and wandering minstrels.
"Father," the Prince had greeted politely just now. Just his voice betrayed the delicacy of his age, and the quick growth was pleasing to Aerys. He'll have sons of his own not as far as a decade from now. My line shall be full and complete at last. The vultures will rue the day.
Today his boy wore a white kirtle with silver threads, belted with gold-plated rope. The sides of his hair were braided into a loose pale wreath. The three-headed dragon rested dormant at his chest, all but at odds with the softness spread out around it.
The boy's mother had been involved in his grooming a touch too long, Aerys decided. Made note to appoint him new tailors, and exile his wife from the dressing chambers.
"Should you not be at your lessons, small one? What brings you?"
"I want to see him, Father," his son spoke calmly.
The King frowned, but asked, "See him? Whom do you wish to see?"
"My brother. Half-brother."
Aerys' blood boiled. He had meant to keep the boy away from the matter, at least while he was considering what exactly to make of it. "Who spoke to you of that? Your mother?"
If the bitch has been filling his head with some idiocy, the Seven help me, I shall have that flapping tongue of hers torn out for good.
But the Prince shook his silvery head. "Everyone speaks of him, Father. It is like the whole court has met him save us. It is the duty of family to provide for each other. I would not hate a brother, even if he's not a Prince."
Aerys pursed his lips. He supposed it may not be such a bad thing that the boy knew, after all. It was not as though he would not sire the odd bastard himself, when he grew older. Yet if the boy plotted to have each one brought to court so, then the King felt bound by duty to teach him a lesson.
"Such a thing won't be. You think that what you offer is noble, but it is folly. A bastard is no family. You should not listen to the court so much. That flock will honk anything into significance. You're yet small, you don't have a way to understand."
The Prince lowered his eyes quietly. "Yes, Father. But at least you ought to go meet him. He is your son, after all. Maybe he will change your mind once you see him. I… I just don't want the court to be angry with us anymore."
The King's frown deepened.
"Quiet, you. Now out," he ordered, and his son knew enough sense to obey him, after a quick, stiff bow. "All of you useless hens out," Aerys snarled, waving off the handmaidens as well.
The King squinted darkly. Rubbed circles on his stubbled chin. Kicked into a restless pacing even as the fetching creatures excused themselves out of the room facing toward him, heads bowed and hands clasped meekly at their fronts. The King had no mind for them. His thoughts were racing to a murky standstill. A boy of three is telling me about my court. What transgressions have I committed to deserve this?
He considered calling in a hearing in the throne room. See tongues loosened on the matter. Get to the bottom of this ongoing madness. Hear why he, of all kings, had been cursed with a castle that lost its bearings at the thought of a silver-haired bastard.
A thought suddenly occurred to the King. I do not know what that boy looks like.
Just like that, some of the mystery clicked into place. Could it be? Would the whore dare? His wife's words rang through his head, strange and obvious and igniting a frowning concern within him.
The court wonders, Aerys.
The Targaryen blood was strong, stronger still in him of all dragons. He barely had recollection of what the whore had been like, past that foreign accent and the wild bush of sunset curls which had framed more than her face. Yet no one spoke of silver hairs to him as they delivered news of the child's birthing.
Aerys swept his gilded goblet off of the table. It hit the floor with a loud, ringing clang, taking the flask with it.
He was overtaken by the sudden, poignant belief that this whelp, whatever it was, was not of his making. Was that what Rhaella had come to warn him of, after all? Cryptic as ever, that woman.
He had to see it. There was no going around it now. He had to see for himself. And then he'd know. He'd be able to smell it. A Targaryen would always smell right to his own kind. It is as good an excuse as any, the King supposed, to show my court I will not be made a fool of, that I do not tremble at the shadow of some newborn brat.
The King finished dressing on his own, opting for a night-black velvet robe with an ermine collar and shiny gold fastenings, decorated with a crafted leather dragonwing on each shoulder. He headed to that afternoon's Small Council meeting guardless, for he had already disinvited all save the one man he trusted.
"You dismissed your council, Your Grace," said Tywin Lannister, not a question, yet the raised eyebrow connoted plenty of questioning in itself.
His friend had suddenly started standing taller than him a few years back, and Aerys never quite forgave him for it. Today he wore deep crimson leather that underscored the strength knighthood had put in his shoulders. A cloth-of-gold cape flanked the twin lions roaring mutely on each of his shoulder pads, held by the Hand's pin which reconciled the two ends at the center of his broad chest. Tywin had recently grown a proper beard as well, a property Aerys fought to conceal his envy of.
Aerys cleared his throat, still adjusting to this Tywin who could well be Lord of Casterly Rock this very moment and not a hair on him would need stand elsewise. "Drop the titles, Tywin, and the damn attitude with them. I have matters to discuss with you."
"Are you certain the rest of your council might not have any insight to contribute?" his friend pressed, pushing the King to grab for his wine.
"I don't need lickspittles and backstabbers for this," Aerys grumbled, sipping his Arbor Gold and muffling his words into the rim of his bronzed chalice.
It had not even been a full year since he'd appointed most of his current court, and already he could barely stand to be in their presence. Throwing the first few months of his reign into such rash delegations may have been a mistake. A slip of youth, so to speak. He'd been right to seek purgation from all that century-old, white-beard fug, but he swore to the gods some of the fresh blood was no better.
"Your liegemen require stability," Tywin was lecturing him, rational enough to madden a rock. "You already dismissed many of their fathers and uncles as early as last spring. As king, you know you cannot act on your personal sentiments."
Aerys grunted. Pondered whether he should make it a lawful thing for the King to clout his Hand daily. "Seven Hells. What are you, their wet nurse? Leave it be. If I'd known all it took to have you spewing wisdom like a sagged shrew was one real battle and a golden badge, I would have kept you clear of the Stepstones. Now, stop trying to reason me out of my damned mind, and come give me some real counsel."
Tywin Lannister did not flinch. "This is a Small Council meeting. I am the King's Hand. I am giving you some real counsel at this very moment. In case you choose to ignore it, I must ask how else I may serve you."
"Yes, yes…" The King beckoned impatiently for his Hand to approach the wide square granite table, upon which he rolled out an arm-long piece of freshly painted parchment. "Come here and tell me what you see."
"A map of Blackwater Bay," Tywin supplied after a fleeting sideway glance. Ever the map expert, his friend. From their youngest years he could always tell apart even the easternmost piles of rocks in Essos, while Aerys had struggled memorizing the Westerosi regions and their reigning houses. But you could not tell tit from knee after nightfall, if I recall, the King thought in dark amusement.
Merry excitement coated Aerys' lips as he thirsted to explain his plans. "Aye, that and what else?"
Tywin Lannister gave him a gauging look. "I take it you are not looking to have a geographic discussion."
"Here," Aerys pointed impatiently, hooking an arm around his friend's red-collared neck, forcing his attention to where it was needed. "See, the south bank, naked as a maid on her wedding night."
"It is undeveloped, indeed," Tywin agreed. "Yet I would advise against an industrial construction at this stage. Wait for a few years until we have paid off your father and granduncle's debts before riding into new ones."
"I'm not speaking of industrial constructions," the King snickered in mockery. For all his strengths, Tywin could be too practical, too narrow-minded at times, lacking enough vision and grandeur in his strokes. Oh, Aerys could already imagine the look on his friend's face when he heard of his grand plan. "I speak of a city, Tywin, a city of white marble and great open yards, with tower tops to drill through the very clouds, and shadows long enough to cast this stinking shithole we call capitol into darkness."
There was a considerable silence Aerys had not been looking forward to. His Hand gave no indication whatsoever of what he may be thinking, but under the King's loose grip, the red-clothed shoulders tensed into ridges, so that Aerys' palm rested along the grooves of clenched muscles. "And how would this great city come into existence?"
"Because, we're going to build it," Aerys exclaimed, patting his friend on the back in a fit of heated enthusiasm. "I have given the matter a great deal of thought. This new city of splendor is what I shall be remembered for, the king who saved his people from bathing in pigwash and swimming in shit. Now of course there remain some practicalities to account for, but what good is the Hand if he can't make good on the King's vision, am I right? Now, what do you say?"
Tywin had grown too quiet for the King's liking. His face still betrayed close to naught, but if his lips were pressed any tighter they'd need to be sewn together as one.
"In the present situation of unresolved debt, disgruntled lords and declining trade, I do not consider it an imperative need for the Crown to relocate a symbolic city which has stood for some three hundred years, serves as a main port and trade route with Essos, harbors half the realm's nobility, and contains a population equal to the entire North. Aside from these issues, the amount of resources and manpower required for such a large-scale venture would mean your current city is likely to run into bankruptcy no farther than one third into the construction of your new one. It is not wise, Aerys."
"The city reeks, Tywin," the King hollered, face filling with redness. Why were none of his ideas ever good enough for his friend? Why did he always need probe them like a maester looking for a bloody maidenhead? Perhaps some bit of him wanted Aerys' reign to fail, yes, out of jealousy or some self-destructive sort of madness. "I'm doing everyone a favor here."
"Nearly three centuries ago, your ancestor landed his dragon on this very spot—"
"So what if Aegon the Conqueror stuck a few pikes in the mud and called it a city? I spit on tradition! We need renovation, Tywin, not history lessons. I can build a better city than Aegon I. You don't think I can? You fool, just watch me! This pile of shit has long outlived its days. It is beyond repair, and every next breath I draw within it is an insult."
The King's shoulders shook with rightful rage. He had expected his Hand to somehow shrink under the battering force of his wrath, yet he seemed to stand as tall as ever. Aerys did not recall the last time that had irked him as much. "If it please Your Grace, we can arrange to have it cleansed."
Aerys' nostrils flared. He itched to slap the blasted calmness off his friend's face, grab him by the collar and hang him from the highest window of the Red Keep, see how well the great Tywin Lannister fared then. And why not? Was Aerys not the King, to do as he pleased?
"Not a good time to be clever, Tywin," Aerys hissed; made sure this time his friend understood the message behind the words. "Your king demands detailed expense plans within the week."
Tywin's jaw clenched, yet he still spoke coolly, "The Master of Coin is commonly accountable for any occurring expense reports."
Qarlton Chelsted was the current Master of Coin. Had served as such for over a year, in fact, and yet Aerys had no opinion whatsoever on the man. "Fine. Give Chelsted the task, if you so wish it. Just be sure that you're willing to cast in your head with his work, for such will be the price of an error."
For a heartbeat, icy blue clashed with scalding purple, and then Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock and Hand of the King, inclined his golden head.
"Anything else, Your Grace?"
"Yes," the King jeered, pleased with his victory, even though the restraint on his Hand's face almost made it not feel like a victory at all. "One more matter."
If Aerys II Targaryen would not have himself played for a fool by his Hand, he sure would not have himself played for a fool by some tavern bitch either.
"Prepare a royal procession. I desire to pray in the Great Sept tomorrow."
And if the whore has been lying to me, the royal butcher shall be taking a prayer with me.
The journey to the sept turned more political than the King had anticipated. Although his reign had met its first full year recently, Aerys had been too preoccupied renovating the castle, his court, and so this outing would be one of the first opportunities for him to present himself directly to his small folk.
The King stood lean and prideful in dragonscale green leather and a blood-red velvet cape atop the Red Keep's entrance steps, as his heralds cried his descent onto the city. The dragon-emblazoned crown of Aegon IV rimmed his head, red gold, huge and heavy, each of its points a dragon head with gemstone eyes. Sir Gwayne Daunt and Sir Gerold Hightower of the Kingsguard stood poised like twin watchtowers at his sides, white cloaks scudding in the wind. Tywin had insisted for more guards, yet Owen Merryweather spoke to the King of the people's love, how well he'd earned it, and so Aerys had dismissed his Hand's apprehensiveness. Instead of Lord Lannister, the King had asked for Owen Merryweather and Sir Jon Darry of the Kingsguard to accompany him in the royal carriage. They were supportive of his plans to rebuild the city across Blackwater Bay, and made for more pleasant conversation than his Hand in recent times. The King considered placing them on the Small Council instead of a few stubborn oafs that only seemed to breathe the air at his table.
The King took in the streets as the procession cracked into motion. They swept past the gathered bystanders, which were few and straggling. As the royal tail made its way down Aegon's Hill, Aerys observed the people that flanked his path. There were not many at first, not as many as Lord Merryweather had spoken of, but that was perhaps due to the behindhand notice. Once more Aerys was struck by the filth, the brownness that ate away at the city, the same stench coming from mutts and men alike, a malodor which had not lessened since the last time he had toured the capitol.
Some children ran apace with the riders and threw fresh cabbage at the horses' hoofs. The King gasped in indignation and made to shout a fitting punishment, but was halted by Lord Merryweather's hand at his shoulder.
"These are garlands, Your Grace. They mean respect."
Aerys settled back into his goose down cushion, mulling over the strange custom.
He wondered if that bastard, if it were ever his, would throw pickings at the feet of some foreign king. I ought to send him and his mother someplace remote and gods-forsaken, where I would not have to look at them and the realm would soon forget about their existence. Or perhaps to some kingless land, for the boy to conquer or burn to the ground. A Targaryen would always wear crowns and spark fires, wherever the winds swept him.
But where? The Free Cities, perhaps. Tywin had mentioned a good relationship with the Magisters of Pentos. Will not do, the King thought. The brat is sure to find his way back here, as I lay on my deathbed, to make claims and undermine my succession.
Granted that it was his flesh and blood indeed awaiting him upon Visenya's Hill, of course. If not… well, Sir Darry did not ride with him for his wits.
The procession grew slow and meandering towards the foothills of the upland, as more common folk pooled in and piled up in drab rivers branching out to make way for the cavalcade. Although large in numbers, the crowd proved underwhelming. While they were far from the spitting mob which Aerys had sometimes glimpsed as a child under his granduncle, most of them seemed more taken with the plating of the carriage hoops than with their King, much to Aerys' frustration. A few roaming septons blessed him and a few beggars bargained for coppers, but on the overall, too few bowed their heads in respect when the royal carriage swept by, and too many went about their business before the last bannerman had galloped past them.
At one point, a man grumbled something about alms and the chant caught flame like dry leaves in an autumn heat. Have I not done plenty? Aerys thought in annoyance. Whatever love Lord Merryweather had spoken of, it must have evaporated overnight, for the King was finding none of it today. Is this how they thank me? The King shook his head, deeply annoyed by the entirety of his subjects. I rule over ungrateful worms and two-faced shitheads. He did not plan to be remembered as Aerys the Flogger, yet if this madness was not put a stop to soon he'd be forced to take action.
"This city reeks," Aerys complained, touching a perfumed cloth to his nostrils abstractedly.
"Rest assured, Your Grace, the Lord Hand is taking care of the matter," Lord Merryweather was quick to inform him.
The King perked up his ears like a listening rabbit. "Is he, now?"
"Why yes," Merryweather nodded eagerly. "Lord Lannister has sent word to assemble all cottars, washwomen and scullions, and the finest clerks to assess the cost of a cleansing since yesterday midday, after his talk with Your Grace. He has been hard at work to meet your wishes, as per usual."
Aerys' mouth twisted in anger. Is that how it is, Tywin? Going over my head like I am some child to be pampered? Is that how it's going to be?
"Stop the carriage," the King commanded.
Lord Merryweather blinked dully. "Your Grace?"
"I ordered you to stop it. This instant."
"But, we're not there yet, Your Grace."
The King was sick of doltishness. If he were not mad as a hornet over Tywin Lannister's latest bout of shrewishness, he'd miss his Hand's acuity terribly. "Useless old milksop…" the King gurgled sourly to himself, as he draped himself half out of the carriage and roared at the headmost riders, "Hold the horses! Hold them, I said!"
Servants and peasants alike whispered in bewilderment as the King rose to his feet, above Lord Merryweather, his above watchmen, above them all, cape opening and closing in a windy trail behind him like a true pair of dragon wings, and addressed the crowd with vigor:
"My friends! I hear your troubles! Word of it has not been far from my ears, and witnessing your plight first-hand has only opened my eyes wider to the trials of this good city. Fear not! Your king shall not be a mere observer to your misfortune. I shall build you a new, better city! A city of marble where there shall be opulent food and drink, and stench-free quarters for every man, woman and child. Though it would be wrong of me to seize all credit for this spearheading idea. You see my generous Hand has agreed to serve me, and you, in this venture. With his wits and my goodwill towards you, rest assured that you shall all see new homes within the decade!"
The cheering was somewhat slow at first, but then ardor caught no worse than the complaints from earlier, and soon enough the King became the target of merry applause and profound blessings.
Reason your way out of this one, Tywin, Aerys thought gleefully as he flung his cape sharply and marched up the hill, up the Sept's many-thousand steps, certain that whatever he found up there would be worth less than the trip's surprisingly prolific events.
The moment Aerys set foot into that wretched cell, he knew two things: the whelp was his, and he hated it all the more for it.
It was wholly imperfect, a broken reflection insulting his lineage. The short few moons of its existence had seen dirt grey hair with a tinge of rust lichen about its big head, more alike to that of street urchins and old men, with just one stripe of true gold-silver curled near its swelling forehead, as if to make the incongruity even more apparent. Down below, a pink little cock twitched, marking the rest of the babe as a coming threat for Prince Rhaegar's crown, for the King's lawful line. The only part of himself Aerys recognized in the child were the eyes, or one anyway. They were mismatched, one a different hue than his own, an odd pale green, the other purple and lively and drinking in all color that fell into it.
"What name does it go by?" the King wanted to know.
"We have not yet named him, Your Grace. His mother insisted we wait for your visit. She was sure you'd change your mind, come down here to meet the wee one. She would be here as well, yet she thought it best to let you be with the babe on your own."
Not as stupid as some whores, then, Aerys thought briefly. He eyed the child for the longest of times. Blood is blood, and this one has some dragon in him after all.
"Raemon. Raemon, such is what you'll call him."
"An honorable name, Your Grace. Raemon, son of Aerys. Would you like to hold him?"
Then the septa was bringing the bundle into the King's reach, and he stood there; watched it approach, thinking.
Raemon, bastard of Aerys. The King's shame, is what they'd call him, at the most fortunate. At worst they'd scream his name in rally cries, when the bread was too sparse or the peasants sought to relieve themselves of this tax or that. He'd rip out every tongue that dared utter any such folly, of course, and he'd watch it with good grace. Still, he knew he would never forgive the boy for forcing this inconvenience upon him. Having to look twice behind his back, rummage through his court for bad seeds, knowing that the enemies beyond his reach were tempted, tempted to bare their teeth at the dragon, to try and seize what was his and his alone...
I'll never hear the end of it if I keep him.
No, the boy was a nuisance. As if Aerys did not have a bundle of those already, haunting his every step and surrounding him as devious as hanging ropes.
"Keep it off me, crone. Tell the whore she and her bastard are to leave the city within the week."
The grey-robed hag turned as pale as crusted seed. "But I thought Your Grace had promised them safe shelter until the next moon turn!"
"I've reconsidered. Do as I tell you unless you have a burning desire to join them."
"O-of course, my King. If I may, where should I tell her they are being sent to?"
"They'll be informed."
With that, the King spun on his heels, cloak looping behind him, certain that he would never need cast another glance at this misunderstanding of his. He may be mine, but that does not mean I'll have him.
He was the King, after all. The King did as he pleased.
He went past his wife's chambers that night. Instead, he walked down the spiraling steps of Meagor's Holdfast, sped into the Maidenvault, and knocked thrice on an arched maple door. From within showed a golden head, framed by blades of sheeny fair hair. Aerys' gaze followed those yellow torrents spouting immodestly over the Myrish lace of a plain white shift, which started and ended altogether too tardily to conceal some of the lushness beneath. Aerys grinned lewdly, worries ebbing into the day passed, and took hold of Lady Joanna's face, well intending not to let go till the morrow.
"Very clever of your wife," Joanna was saying after he'd finished her a second time. "Pushing you to see the child, knowing you would hate it the instant your gaze fell upon it. Working you to banish it from court so delicately. She knows you well."
"You think she plotted this?" Aerys asked lazily, thoughts surging to fill in the easy silence his release had left in its wake. Women knew women, and he would not put it past his wife's wits, he decided, but he doubted that she'd have the nerve, or the bravery. No, Rhaella would not dare hatch something of the sort.
"I think I'd plan this. And more."
"Remind me not to get you with child, then," Aerys chuckled, thumbing a yet-pert nipple.
"I am reminding you not to consider your lady wife and myself too dissimilar. We women would do anything to protect what is ours."
Aerys' grin grew cynical. "What is yours, my fiery lioness? I fear I've already lain claim to your cunt."
Joanna's hands moved to caress him, yet her words were no gentle feather drag. "My pride. That is mine and mine alone. Ever jeopardize it, and I shall be forced to take action in defense of it."
The statement creased a frown between the King's eyebrows. "Where is this going, woman? You ought to speak more plainly to your King."
Her hand settled on his cheek. She indexed his chin sideways so he would look upon her face as she spoke, "I must leave you, Aerys. For good."
In the near-darkness, the King stared in perplexity at the shapely hints of his lover, fingers quickly spidering around her wrist, holding it there, securely. "What are you raving about? Speak sense."
"I am riding back west, lover," he heard her intone, wrist sliding free of his grip with an easy, far too easy flick. "Back to the Rock. To my new betrothed. You will not stop me, or I shall have to dare resist you. It could turn untoward, Aerys, for the both of us. Best let go softly, so that we may keep hold of the good memories…" Her hand sank low, lower still. Her mouth was warm at his ear, and held back no teeth whatsoever. "…and welcome them on lonely evenings."
"Whom are you spreading your legs for?" Aerys hissed, hoarsely, even as he shuddered from her touch. He was the King. He did not fancy himself an afterthought to be informed of impending events, nor a fling to be discarded in favor of a sweeter deal. "You ought to have asked my permission."
"Need I have? I'm hardly yours by any given law. I am my own woman, and so I do not ask your permission. Only your blessing. And to answer your question: I am to wed your very own Lord Hand, within the next two moons."
"Tywin?" the King managed. He could scarcely believe his ears. Did not think to make mention of it, the bugger. Black spite ran through the filter of his ribs, spilling into an uneven exhale.
When, Aerys wondered, and maliced, and wondered again. When had this happened under his very nose?
He'd noticed a few lingering looks between them, to be sure, but he had dubbed it a childhood fondness of sorts. Surely Joanna would not dare lust after another while in his fold… Then again, women were a treacherous lot, not to be trusted or depended on too much for anything other than surrendering their cunts at their closest convenience.
"Is he not of your kin?" the King inquired eventually, when his contempt had boiled down enough to let his hands pour him a glass of Dornish Red instead of smashing it into Lady Joanna's lovely skull, or better yet, fist the shards down Tywin's throat somewhere up the Tower of the Hand.
Joana stepped behind him, likely barefoot, for he did not hear her until he felt her chin settle near the neck of his robe. He felt her nakedness tailor itself to his back, and she laughed throatily into his skin, lipping away some of his anger.
"You are hardly one to judge. Tywin and I go a long way back. Besides, what better match for me is there? I shall be the Lady of Casterly Rock. I shall live and raise my children at the place where I grew up, and I never need give up my family name for the sake of marriage. Don't be sour, lover. He is your Hand. I reckon we would still see plenty of each other over court halls and grand feast tables." Her tone shed its playfulness. "Though I am warning you: looks is all I have for you from this day forward. Looks and that alone. He must never know of this, of us. We bury it, as deep as our ancestors. You shall not pursue me any further, if you ever had any affection in your heart for me."
"You know he'll fuck like an oaken log," Aerys warned scathingly, chuckling to himself. He felt her shrug through her arms, which rested twined 'round his midriff.
"A skill like any other. To be trained and adjusted to any particular taste."
The King turned halfway and pulled her the rest of the way between him and the beechen table; trapped her teats in a possessive, bruising grasp. He supposed despoiling something of Tywin's could prove to be an equally sweet flower to drink from.
Her hands found his cock and he grunted gruffly, curling over her with little grace. "I do not fancy him enjoying what is mine," Aerys growled.
Her palm beneath the thin layers of fabric strayed, in tune with the conversation, down his thigh, that much farther from the place where he desired it most. "See you brands to call me your possession?"
"Watch your tongue, woman, lest I show you just how many parts of you I am in possession of."
"Perhaps you will, one day. But something tells me ours is a book you might wish to revisit at a later date. Tonight is not the night you punish me. Tonight you bid farewell to me."
She sealed her lips to his, then, sweetly, more sweetly than his tastes extended, yet it was hardly the first time he found his tastes molded to her whims.
"I have not yet tired of you," Aerys admitted with some surprise. One of his longer-lived conquests, that one. "Any time you wear thin on patience for your stone-carved lord husband, any time you crave a proper dragon, you may come find me."
"I shan't," Lady Joanna stated without skipping a heartbeat. "But I might dream it, on occasion. So will you."
He might. He may even have Rhaella mount him on some nights, though he knew it displeased her, just to keep fresh the memory of the Lannister lass atop him.
It would be difficult imagining her curves rolling beneath his palms instead of his sister's, even though Rhaella was of a similar built. At times it seemed unfathomable to him her claims that she and the Queen were anything alike. Cool, silverstone Rhaella, whose every step was in painstaking calculation with the next two, who voiced little and dared do less. Rhaella was the intricacies of the court, the game for its stakes, while the Lannister wench was a less troubled presence of sorts, the game for its playfulness. She reminded him that there was yet an enjoyable side to playing these little games, a thing easily entombed in the day's tumult. Rhaella knew better, but oh, how this one's loose tongue only ever drew him to her, always bold but never ignorant, forever mounting that thinnest of lines where the end of his patience and the stir of his cock met.
"Well, then," Aerys bit out. "Why do you linger?"
The half-dark carved an arcane smile on her pale, ghostly face, yet she did not gloat in her victory over him like another might have, just pushed him back on the bed and shrugged off the blankets and climbed his manhood; seated herself as if he were a living throne made just for her. Allowing the golden snare of her hair to tingle their bare sides, she leaned over him to whisper, "My farewell to you."
The King had no desire to attend the Small Council meeting the following day, for he had tired of every vainglorious face on it, yet he knew his absence would hardly go unslandered. He felt particularly split on seeing Tywin, as he himself was not certain whether he would laugh in his Hand's face, or start to strangle the life from him.
"Let us get this over with quickly," the King declared as he strode into the council chamber, and all his servants rose as one to meet him. All save Tywin Lannister, who had already been on his feet and lingering suspiciously close to Aerys' seat at the head of the table. "You looking for your rocks there, Tywin?" Aerys snickered, and the table chuckled with him. "If only they were as grand as your damn golden Rock, you might not lose them so often." When his Hand did not see fit to respond, the King sank into his ornate chair heavily, head rested on the back of his hand. "What have we?" he opened the meeting with a wheeze, and resigned himself to his thoughts as his Masters-of-Something took turns wasting his time.
Wisdom Rossart spoke up at one time about a recent trove of unexploited wildfire left from the times of Jaeherys I, and that piqued the King's interest, until his Hand dulled the talk by requesting the substance be moved to a bare stone cell deep beneath the city, to be supervised and surrounded by stacks of sand at all times.
"What good is fire to me if I can't burn things with it?" Aerys griped in irk, but did not think the matter important enough to suffer through Tywin Lannister's decree-like accounting, and soon let it go.
Eventually, Grand Maester Pycelle's ramblings on an upcoming maintenance of the royal fleet proved too much for the King's patience. He swatted the man into silence and turned to his Hand, wine-stained lips quirking into an expectant smirk.
"Tywin, my old friend, when shall I expect you to build me that city?"
If there was ever a quiet storm to take the form of a man, then Lord Tywin must be that man in the flesh. "I was informed of your promises."
"Our promises, Tywin, or did you not hear?" Aerys cooed. Poured a glass of Dornish Red for himself and another for his friend. He slid the chalice across the table so that some of its contents spilled across the Lannister banner laid out in front of Lord Tywin. "I was generous enough to include you in my plans."
Tywin Lannister did not reach for the wine. "I have been brought in on the matter. I have also consulted Lord Qarlton Chelsted as you requested. Here are the early expense estimations, and the current numbers of the royal treasury to go with them." The bulging stack of paper was not slidden back, but rather delivered to the King by a circling cupbearer. It landed in near-offensive proximity to Aerys' face, and the wine flask clattered on its tray in discontent. "Lord Chelsted, would you care to explain in plain words to His Grace the prospect of his plan?"
Lord Chelsted fidgeted in his seat. "Your Grace, there simply aren't the funds."
Aerys' fist punished the flat of the table where it could not make work of his servants' noses. Why did they always need lecture him? This was not even about a great white city of marble anymore. Truth was the King'd had another idea during the night, a different construction up in the North which may prove far more beneficial to the realm and to his fame. But no, this was about obedience. Or, the lack thereof.
"I am King, make me the funds! Borrow, plead, negotiate, shit it for me if you must. Casterly Rock spits out gold like a brood mare yet I cannot afford a city? Foul joke!"
Tywin Lannister rose from his seat, then. Aerys resisted the urge to draw back in his own. "You will run this city into bankruptcy, Aerys, and perhaps the realm. It is not yet too late. This is a mistake of youth, one your people shall be willing to forgive. You vowed once to be a great leader. Is that how you turn into the greatest ruler in living history? By squandering taxes on passing thoughts and fairy tales?"
"A great king does not shy away from boldness," Aerys spat. Stuck his nose in his goblet. Fished for arguments at the bottom of it.
"A great king stops short of folly. Are you a great king? Prove it. Call off this misstep before it's marred your reign beyond repair."
The King was getting a headache. The Hand was giving the King a growing, splitting headache. This was hardly how a Small Council meeting ought to be going. Aerys threw his hands up, voice raised in indignation.
"What of the peasants, huh? They're not that dense, you know, they'll remember what their King has promised them as early as the day before. You won't paint me the liar, Tywin, you hear me? You will not. I will not part with my people's love, not so soon after gaining it. You go out and tell them that their King fought long and hard in their interest, that he risked to make enemies of his sworn servants for the good of the realm, that it was the King's Hand or the Master of Coin or some other bugger that had the entire thing miscalculated. You do that and I'll get off the bloody thing."
Tywin nodded, slowly, but firmly. "I will."
The King chewed on an apple, feeling exhausted. It felt like an eternity since he'd first entered the room. "Inform me once it has been done. Now, if there remains nothing else for kingly consideration, I wish to be left alone for the afternoon."
"There is one more matter, Your Grace," Lord Tywin intoned. "I am to wed the Lady Joanna within two months. To follow the custom, we would like it to be done at Casterly Rock. I shall require a month's leave, a fortnight from now."
Ah, Aerys thought, there it is. His blood heated anew. He had given the matter some thought since his tryst with Lady Joanna, yet had only made up his mind upon seeing that damned arrogance on his friend's face once more. The lion bares his intent. The dragon would answer the same.
"Aye, that! I heard. Where are my manners? I did not congratulate you, as is custom. Here, let me hand you your wedding gift. How about a son? Not that I doubt your capacity to plant one in your wife, mind you, you're a smart man, I'm sure you'll manage it in due time, it's just that some men, we can't help ourselves, we do more than our duty. And why not? Consider it an honor, to shape the King's own blood under your supervision."
Tywin Lannister stood there, stone and steel, face as unreadable as a face might get. "You wish me to raise your bastard at Casterly Rock?"
"Need it spelled out for you, eh? S'pose you always were one for formalities. Very well then. See, I am your king, you are my most able servant. I have a bastard and you have an empty hearth. It makes sense. Tywin Lannister, lord-heir to Casterly Rock and Hand of the King, I command of you to serve as ward and fosterer to my bastard Raemon until he comes of age."
Lord Tywin, wisely, took his time answering. "I should think Your Grace would have preferred to keep his line within reach."
The King waved his hand dismissively. Made certain the entire room could hear his words, the meaning of them, as he spoke, "My line? Of course I'll keep it within reach. A bastard is no heir, Tywin. I know, I know, all children are darlings, and I would sooner keep the little rascal for myself, yet it would not make much sense, politically. I'm sure you understand the circumstance. Who better to raise this bundle that's unfit for my court? I am sad to part with the little one, but he is no real Targaryen, I fear the intricacies of the capitol would have been lost on him either way. I know the lion-court to be simpler, more straightforward. Plainer place for plainer children, aye? So then, shall we brand the matter done?"
Perhaps the longest silence the two of them had shared came to pass, at least since that time Aerys had suggested his Lannister friend had grown rather close to his then-squire.
"I shall bring the news to the Lady Joanna," Lord Tywin said, in the end, and then he said no more.
A sly grin licked its way on the King's face. "Aye, you do that; I've no doubt she will be pleased to take one part of her King home with her."
AUTHOR'S NOTES: So I've been spinning this idea in my head for a bit now. OCs are hardly something I would have considered a year ago but right now, given how wildly popular these types of stories seem to be, I'm willing to push my creative limits a little bit. So, here goes.
Past events and ages are book canon compliant. Raemon is born in the year 263 AC, one year after Aerys' coronation and Tywin's subsequent appointment as Hand. He is four years Rhaegar's junior, and three years Cersei and Jaime's senior. Also, please don't look for any hero stereotypes here. I am, well, to a point your casual antihero girl. Frankly speaking, I plan to write him as quite the Machiavellian prick, at times, but also as someone with firm personal beliefs and values. A villain with a code, if you will. I have tried to take his personality as far away from any of Aerys' children as possible, in that he is not exactly mad (some), and definitely divorced from the concept of noble, he has not been born into a position of significant power, and his motivations are simply quite different.
Most characters will not go OOC, but you cannot expect the Lannister kids to grow up exactly the same with Raemon's influence in their lives. How and to what extent he is going to change them remains to be seen. Also, Rhaella is a subtle scheming bitch in this, which may or may not be OOC, but anyway you have been warned.
Possible non-canon pairings may include Raemon/Cersei, Jaime/Catelyn, and Ned/Ashara. Canon pairings include Tywin/Joanna, Aerys/Rhaella, some one-sided Aerys/Joanna (I'm viewing this as canon, yes), Rhaegar/Lyanna, Rhaegar/Elia, and Petyr/Lysa. The rating stands for language, mostly, but I'm reserving the right to get into more graphic details later on, which of course will be indicated with an appropriate M-tag at the beginning of a chapter. Thank you for reading, or being about to, and let's get this show on the road, shall we?