Bells chimed in Kings's Landing, their somber tone carrying a foreboding sign...
The smallfolk paid none more than a brief moment of attention to the chimes, for they did not know why it mattered, nor would they care that much when they learned it. Their opinions didn't matter though, for they were insignificant, mattering for very little, often ignored, poor, dirty, illiterate, inbred, the very definition of filth personified in human form...
They didn't know that they should be paying their respects to the Late Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. A man who had saved them all by raising the man who would one day be their King, Robert Baratheon, who had rid the world of the reign of the Mad King, Aerys II. A man so vle that he would stand idle and do nothing as the Lannister Soldiers razed his city to the ground.
Did not do a whole lot did he?
Jon Arryn was a man overshadowed by people.
Who could blame the smallfolk for not caring when he didn't?
Cedran Baratheon looked on as Jon Arryn's body was given its last rites beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. Mostly an empty room due to the death being sudden and without warning. A fever that ate him away in less then a week's end and took him apart faster than a Lion that ravaged it's prey. He imagined people would be very annoyed with this turn of events, for they would not be able to push their 'great' achievements in the King's face and off-handedly suggest that they be made Hand of the King...
As one could gather, the Prince's eyes were looking, but they were not focused, for his mind was on something else entirely, as was the case with his elder brother to his right. In fact, the only ones actually sad about this little turn of events were their father the King, standing in front of them, and Tommen and Myrcella, to Cedran's left. One side because the late Hand was his mentor, two because they were kind-hearted people, which could not be said for either of the elders.
Although Joffrey, their eldest sibling had not cared for the man in the slightest, having been exposed to their Mother's side of the family more than he was of their fathers, it was a much more different tale for Cedran, as from the moment he could talk, he idolized his father, not a day passed where he would not take his leading-example and vy for his attention and become his favorite child out of all the four in the end, a fact that none could challenge, for he had spoiled him rotten. Some even said he wanted him to be his sucessor instead of his firstborn, he had been with Jon Arryn a lot, the man had seen him grow from a child to a man...
As to why he was not saddened by his death, for the late Lord Arryn was his father's mentor, and his father loved the man like he was his own father. It was complicated, for he was plauged with mood-swings everyday, and there was something different every day. An order here, a forbidden action there, something to drive him away from his father because he was a bad influence there. Also he'd go against his pride to the point where he would lash out, (He even called him a narcissist! How dare he?! Old cunt.) The man had gone against him too much for him to even relatively care about his life.
He was getting worse just before his dying days as well. How often had he spotted him studying his face with a strange look upon his face, like he was assessing a cattle that was to be slaughtered within the fortnight.
He guessed that he was thinking marriage, as Cedran was a handsome man after all, his mother was prone to say that in rare occasions, practically a spitting image of his youth his father said too, with his flowing black hair with a blonde streak, (a tribute to his mother's house) lightning blue eyes, tall and lean stature. And not to stop there, the signature chiseled cheekbones of his mother's family, as well as her eye shape. But the thing was Jon Arryn neither had a daughter Cedran could marry with, (even if he would accept) or a higher title to gain because he was the Hand of the King already...
But now all of it was pointless, Jon Arryn was dead, his father had ordered for the whole court to prepare for a move to Winterfell, making it quite clear as to who would be getting that promotion, Eddard Stark, the Lord Paramount of the North, a frozen wasteland that was as big as the entire Southern Kingdoms combined, also his father's best friend, and by the Kings own words, the only man whom he trusted...
Now that stung, for it was clear that his father hadn't even been considering him for the role, despite him saying that he was more capable than the entire small council combined, despite Cedran forging himself in his image just so he could be the man his father wanted him to be, despite being ready, he was being looked over in favor of a fucking Northener whose sister his father wanted but couldn't get because he'd lost her to some Targaryen.
He ran a hand over the streak on his hair in frustration, -absent-mindedly noticing the dye fading away,- as was the case with most of the times when his father was the one causing the said frustration. Bad enough that he was stuck as the second son when he was clearly the better prince, (in every possible strech of the imagination) now he was being denied his only chance to make a name for himself!
That made him angry...
He buried that anger deep, for it would cost him a head to speak of them out here, with his brother, his oh so beloved brother next to him, already looking down at him in the usual snobby way of his, easy to do since he had a foot of length on Cedran, having noticed his frustration. He couldn't trust any of these people, they weren't Arn and Sal.
He buried that anger deep, for he had plans, and he needed to be cool-headed...
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