Dp11: I think that Cersei would love Orys, but only because he is her son. I want to try and develop her feelings towards him as Orys grows older and begins to look like Robert.

Fifteen years later

"Remember. These are real swords boy. Not toys." Ser Barristan Selmy said, pointing his sword at Orys.

Orys didn't reply, instead choosing to lunge at his tutor's head. The knight parried the clumsy thrust with ease, shaking his head and laughing at the poor attempt.

"What did I tell you? Think with your head, not your heart or you will lose your head."

Orys, now a headstrong and competent young man, did precisely what Ser Barristan had expected him to do. He thought with his heart, and charged.

Orys was by no means a poor fighter, in fact he was an excellent duellist, but he had without a shadow of a doubt inherited his father's legendary temper and after four hours of hard training and receiving a multitude of bruises, he stood little chance against the calm and collected mind of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Ser Barristan simply stepped to the side sticking out his foot, as a surprised Orys ran straight past him, tripping over the outstretched limb and landing on his arse.

Orys' father, King Robert, stood up from where he had been watching, laughing as he did so.

"You should have listened my boy. He's the best swordsman in all of Westeros; you can't go wrong if you do what he says. You're much like me in that respect. You let your temper get the better of you and don't think." Robert's words were kind, but that didn't stop Orys from making an excuse.

"I'm tired and hungry. I could have beaten him if I wanted to."

"No you couldn't. You couldn't hit a dead cow if you tried. You're shit at fighting." The snide voice caused Robert to turn, turning his jovial mood instantly sour. Behind him stood his son Joffrey, his arrogant, moronic heir. Just his presence was enough to send Robert into a foul mood, which in turn sent Joffrey spiralling into a bad mood. Joffrey neither enjoyed his brother's company, nor sought to improve his relationship with him. This was because Orys had something which he did not; his father's love and approval.

"Shut your mouth you fool. Even now in the state he's in, Orys could beat you without breaking a sweat. Don't even try and pretend you can fight either, we all know you can barely swing a sword." These withering remarks were commonplace but to Joffrey, they still stung as much as they had the first time. Robert's contempt for his heir had only increased over the past few years as Orys became an exemplary prince, whilst Joffrey became arrogant, obtuse and materialistic.

Orys had been tutored in combat by Lord Commander Selmy, in the histories of Westeros and its Great Houses and mathematics by Grand Maester Pycelle, had become fluent in several languages including High Valyrian and had been taught to ride and joust by his uncle Ser Jaime Lannister; he had taken to knightly pursuits like a duck to water. He had grown tall and handsome, with high cheekbones, piercing sapphire-blue eyes and a mop of curly jet-black hair. He had developed a heavily muscled body through his rigorous training, had become an elegant and graceful dancer, and had resolved to be a member of his brother's Kingsguard. On top of that, he was anxiously awaiting to participate in his first tourney, which would begin on his fifteenth name-day and last for three days.

Joffrey was the polar opposite of his brother. Whilst he too had become handsome, he had neglected learning how to fight, claiming that the heir to the throne should not have to endanger himself. He was unable to do the simplest of calculations, had at best a passable knowledge of any Great House in Westeros bar his own, and had straight up refused to learn any language other than the Common Tongue. Joffrey preferred to preen himself next to his mother as she was attended by her courtiers, and took even less of an interest in learning to run the Kingdom than his father had. Most of all, however, Joffrey had become arrogant.

"No he couldn't Father. I'll fight him now if I must. I bet Orys is too scared though. He knows he'll lose." Joffrey said with a pretentious smirk.

Clearly, Joffrey had been expecting Orys to decline the challenge due to his weariness, and was taken aback at Orys' reaction.

"All right then. If you think you're so good let's see what you can do." Orys said, picking up his training sword and motioning to Ser Barristan to stand back.

Joffrey paled when he saw that he would have to fight Orys or risk showing his cowardice. Seeing no choice in the matter he drew his sword and cautiously walked into the middle of the circle of knights which had formed to watch the fight, a lump forming in his throat as he did so. Turning to his father with a final sliver of hope to see if Robert would stop them, he saw that the King had sat back down to enjoy the duel.

As Joffrey turned back to his brother, he had to duck instantly in order to avoid the wooden sword which had been thrust at his head. As Orys circled, his eyes watching Joffrey's every move, a smile crossed his face.

This is too easy.

Without him noticing, Joffrey had been manoeuvred in front of a rock. Seizing his chance Orys sprinted forward, sword raised, making Joffrey scramble backwards in fear, tripping over the rock as he did so.

As Joffrey hit the ground his sword flew out of his hand, landing at Orys' feet. He kicked the sword aside, slowly walking towards his brother as he savoured the immanent victory. Resting his sword on the nape of Joffrey's neck, his eyes posed a question that did not need to be asked.

"Yield! I yield! Please brother, don't hurt me." Joffrey whimpered as he felt a warm feeling spread across his crotch, before raising his hands in another gesture of surrender.

Orys looked at his brother with pity. He loved Joffrey, but wanted him to be a good king; cowardice was not something any good king possessed.

"Get up you pansy. Fuck off back to your mother. I don't want to see you down here again." Robert said to Joffrey as he walked over to Orys to congratulate him.

As the king talked to his second son, Joffrey looked at the pair with a look of pure hatred on his face. Never before had he felt such contempt for his brother. He had been jealous of him, yes, but had never hated him. He was about to leave the training ground and return to his mother, when a young squire came running up to the King, a worried look on his face.

"Your Grace, the Hand has been taken ill. He has a fever and the Grand Maester says that he will not last much longer. Please Your Grace, the Hand has requested your attendance."

Normally, anyone who requested the King to attend something would lose his head, but Jon Arryn was practically Robert's father, having raised him alongside Eddard Stark and so Robert took off immediately.

Orys followed closely behind, turning to give his brother a look of apology as he walked away.

Joffrey shot back a look of pure hatred. Nothing his brother could do would ever endear him to Joffrey. Nothing in the world would stop Joffrey from hating his brother.

…

Robert knelt beside the bed upon which Jon Arryn lay, gently looking at his foster-father's face. He wished that Ned was there to comfort him, to share his grief for the man who had moulded them into the men they were today.

If only Ned were here. We were like brothers once. I haven't seen him in ten years. I wonder if he's the same man. I know I'm not. The one thing that I want now, more than anything else is for Ned to be here. He's the only friend I have left, except for Orys.

As Robert sat reminiscing, Lord Varys the Master of Whispers, entered the room. He approached Robert carefully, cautious not to provoke the King's legendary anger.

"Your Grace." Varys said with a hint of nervousness.

"Huh? Oh, Varys. What do you want?" Robert replied, not bothering to disguise his dislike for the eunuch.

"To talk to you about the appointment of a new Hand." Varys said bluntly. "He'll need to be someone you can trust, someone you can rely on."

"And who would that person be? You I suppose?" Robert said gruffly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I need someone I can trust, a friend, not a man who would stab me in the back the moment I turned away."

If Varys was insulted, he betrayed no sign of it. Instead he asked the King a question.

"And which of your friends would that be, Your Grace?" Varys' honeyed words were natural to the Court, and Robert paid the fake sweetness little heed.

"I only have one friend. Eddard Stark. And he's in fucking Winterfell. He would never come down here unless-" Robert stopped, an idea forming in his head.

Ned would do whatever I told him to. And he's someone I can trust. He knows how to rule. He is just. He is wise. Hmm, yes, he would be a perfect Hand. He'd rule better than I do, haha!

"Your Grace? Your Grace did you hear me?" Varys asked Robert.

"What!" Robert shouted, angry from being disturbed from his thoughts.

"I asked Your Grace whether you were going to appoint Lord Eddard as your Hand, if you hold him in such high regard."

"Yes. Yes I will. Send a raven to Lord Stark informing him that the King is coming to Winterfell. Nothing more, nothing less. Understand?" Robert said, his booming voice reverberating around the room.

"Of course Your Grace."

With that, Varys strode out of the room, his garments flowing behind him.

Robert turned to Orys, who had been standing behind his father for the entirety of the exchange, a huge grin painted across his face.

"We're going to the North lad!"

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, although I felt as if it was quite clunky. Any criticism appreciated.

I won't be able to update for a while, as I have several important exams coming up. Hopefully should be able to post an update relatively soon though.