Present Day

The New Hand

Saoirse Arryn sat on her window ledge looking out over the slumbering city below her. Her eyes were drawn toward the Sept of Baelor, a great looming structure that seemed hollow this late at night. She could just make out the outline of the dome against the navy blue night sky. There, underneath that dome that from this distance was no bigger than the width of her small, calloused hand, she would say goodbye to her father the next day. His body was being embalmed in the catacombs under the Sept probably as she was watching the stars move across the sky.

She wept at the thought. It was bad enough that her father had died, but the thought of his body being cut up, his innards in jars at his feet, then after the funeral his body would be turned to ash and the ashes sent to the Eyrie, where part of them were to be buried under the heart tree in the small Godswood, the rest thrown from the highest balcony. She remembered the tradition from when her cousin Elbert had died during the Rebellion.

"How undignified death is." Her father commented as they watched the gray ash drift towards the rocks below. Saoirse, being only six or seven at the time, didn't really understand death yet. "That is why I will never die!" He'd picked her up then and blown a raspberry on her cheek, which made her giggle.

She wept now at his words. Of course he would die, every one did in the end. She could feel his scratchy blonde beard on his cheek; smell the vetiver oil he wore as an understated scent. She could hear his voice, clear as day, but their conversations were now decidedly more one-sided.

Her door creaked open and she turned to see who had dared enter her chamber without knocking. She was surprised to see her little half-brother, Robert, half-hiding behind the wood of the door.

"Saoirse? Are you crying?" he asked in his weepy, weak voice.

"Yes, Robbie." She wiped away the tears on her cheeks, "I'm crying."

"Are you sad about Father?" he moved into the room, but remained against the wall by the door, nervous, as if she would snap at him like his mother often did. She wasn't surprised at his trepidation around her. They had never been the closest of siblings, being that they were eighteen years apart in age (indeed, Saoirse was closer in age to her stepmother than her half-brother) and Saoirse had been traveling for two-thirds of his life.

Upon her return from Dorne, she found Lysa to be more intolerable than ever, as the new mother gained a false sense of superiority after giving Jon his heir. She'd even gone so far as to commission a portrait of the family, but told Saoirse nothing about it. When Jon found out he demanded that Saoirse join them, which sent Lysa into a conniption.

The fight ended with Jon refusing to pay the artist for work he hadn't yet done, Lysa sobbing in a corner, and two year old Robert going into one of his fits, attended only by Maester Colemon. Saoirse had been none the wiser until Lysa cornered her in a courtyard and accused her of stealing all of her father's affection (a common indictment from her stepmother), and then blaming Robert's fits on lack of paternal love.

"Of course I am. Are you?" she asked, patting the ledge next to her. He took the hint and made short, halting steps toward her. Since he was a little short she hooked her hands under his armpits and helped him up.

"Yes. But I don't think Mother is sad." His skin was almost translucently pale; she wasn't sure he should be out of bed, especially at this late hour. He'd had three fits in as many days since their father died and she couldn't help but be moved by his large features. His eyes, like Saoirse's and their fathers, were blue and sizeable. Those eyes were perhaps the main reason he looked years younger than he actually he was, along with his small stature. Instinctively, the boy curled into Saoirse's side. Seeking comfort or warmth, she didn't know. She obliged him and wrapped an arm around his too-thin shoulders.

"Oh? Why do you say that?" she asked conversationally. She knew that Lysa wasn't torn up about her loss, but at least she was putting on a good show to the public. Anyone looking at her during their visits to the Sept to arrange the funeral with the High Septon would believe that she was a dutiful, grieving widow, but behind closed doors she was anything but.

"She says that Father loved you more than me. That he never even loved me at all." Robert tucked farther into her side and curled his legs up into his chest.

She squeezed his shoulder gently, "You know that's a lie. Father loved both of us, and your mother, very much."

"I know." He muttered, folding his tiny fingers into the folds of the sleeve of her dressing gown. "Mother would cry into his wine."

"What was that?" He'd said it so quietly she'd almost missed it.

The young boy lifted his head and looked her in the eye, "Mother put tears into Father's wine…so he would know her sorrow, she said. And then he got sick."

The boy's words made her blood run cold. Adding anything to wine sounded suspicious, but tears…she'd studied poisons with Prince Oberyn in Dorne and one of the worst ones was called Tears of Lys.

Could Lysa have poisoned her father? There was no love lost between them, surely, and Lysa was bitter enough to consider it. But no way was she smart enough or devious enough to concoct a plan like this. She was merely someone's catspaw, a pawn in whoever else's larger plan.

"Robbie, you should get some sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow." She said, moving her arm and taking her half-brother's hand, leading him to the door. The chilly night air made Saoirse pull her robe tighter around herself as she led the boy up the stairs back to the nursery, where she found Lysa sleeping on a chair, her dress gathered at her waist, exposing her breasts. Saoirse groaned, throwing a stray blanket over her stepmother while helping her brother into the small bed by the fireplace. His skin was always cold to the touch, poor circulation Maester Colemon insisted, so Lysa insisted on having a fire going in the nursery at all times.

The boy was obviously dead tired, as he was snoring softly before Saoirse could even pull the sheet up to his neck. If he was so tired why had he come to see her? Why wait until his mother had fallen asleep to sneak up to her chambers? He knew his mother had poisoned their father, even if he didn't have the vocabulary to express it. Overcome with affection for the small, sickly boy with whom she shared half her blood, she bent down and kissed his chilly forehead before quitting the room.

Closing the door softly, she knew this would be her only chance. If her stepmother had been feeding her father poison, she must've hidden the vessel somewhere. Probably in her chambers, which were empty at the moment. Since there was no Hand at the moment, there were only guards posted at the bottom of the stairs, not at the top, so she could slink in unseen.

And that's exactly what she did. Leaving the door open, she lit a torch in the empty room and looked around. The large feather bed was made up in the red and blue Tully colors that Lysa refused to leave behind. On the other end of the room were her wardrobe, dressing table, and the plush chairs that surrounded the fireplace. If it was in here, it would most likely be hidden in a drawer. She crossed the room and sat down in the chair of the dressing table while she rifled through the drawers. Nothing but bits and bobs, hair ribbons and jars of anti-aging potions that Lysa had gotten from mummer's caravans.

In the drawer closest to the floor she found a dark wooden box, about the size of her palm. She opened it and had to stifle her cry of excitement. In it was a vial, about half the length of her pinky finger. The glass was curved into a teardrop shape, with a cork stopper in one end. She immediately recognized it as a poison vial, having studied the vicious substances extensively during her time in Dorne. She held it up to the light. It was empty.

If this was the poison she expected, it would've only taken a few drops to topple a full-grown man. Lysa had used the whole thing on her father. How much did she have to hate her husband to do such a thing?

Saoirse felt the familiar prickle behind her nose and seconds later, her eyes filled with tears. She wondered how much longer until she ran out of grief; of pain; of tears. The wounds were still fresh, but surely they would have to start healing soon. Now was not that time though, and she let herself cry as she delicately held the vial.

Having found what she needed to indict her stepmother, she left the room and returned to her own. She hid the vial in the pocket of the gown she was to wear the next day for her father's funeral; black as night, with a split skirt and falcons embroidered on the shoulders. The high neck led down to a lace-up over her bust, with two holes at the top and bottom. The dress she would wear underneath was sky blue, which gave it some color and represented her house.

Sleep did not come easy as she planned her next moves, so she paced her chamber. She would have to tell Robert about her suspicions as soon as possible, as well as confirm that it was poison with the Grand Maester. Speaking to the king had to come first, she decided, and she planned to do so the next morning. Because of the late hour, she wondered if she should go to sleep at all, but decided that it wouldn't do to look too haggard and sleep-deprived for her father's funeral.

She returned to her window and once more looked at the Sept of Baelor, dreading the next day and wondering what in the seven hells was going to happen next.

She just hoped she would make her father proud.

High As Honor, she heard in her father's voice. A pang of grief hit her in the gut and she blew out her candle before finally crawling into her bed.

Jaime

It was one of those nights where Cersei had claimed an illness to discourage Robert from visiting her bed so she could sneak off to Jaime's chambers under the cover of darkness. Although Robert's visits were a rare enough occurrence now that it hardly mattered, she still had to maintain the façade of caring enough to inform him.

They had finished in their usual fashion; quietly, but spectacularly satisfying for both of them. She rolled off of him and lay next to him, naked as their nameday, her porcelain skin damp with sweat.

"You should go," he said after a few minutes of listening to her breathe slowly. "Funeral tomorrow."

Cersei groaned, her eyes closed, "A tedious funeral for a tedious man. If Robert hadn't threatened to drag me there by the hair I wouldn't be going."

Jaime ignored her subtle attempt to make him angry with Robert, choosing instead to kiss her shoulder and move to the edge of the bed. He sat there and looked around the room for her shift. He found his pants first and pulled them on, casually glancing out his open window as he stood.

When he looked up he noticed that her window was alight; she was still awake at this late hour. Moving to the window as if drawn there by a gypsy's spell, he got a closer look. Saoirse stood at her window, silhouetted by the light behind her. He couldn't see her expressions from this far away, but he watched as her shoulders slumped and she dropped her head forward before blowing out the candle and disappearing from view.

She had been busy in the last few days, trying to plan her father's funeral with her insufferable stepmother and the High Septon. He had seen her the day previous, when King Robert had formally appointed her as Hand of the King in front of the Small Council. She'd barely had time to sign the proclamation and speak the oath before she had to scurry off to something else. Jaime remembered how red her eyes had been, brightly contrasting the icy blue of her irises. Whether it was from lack of sleep or excessive crying he hadn't known, but it pulled a string under his ribcage all the same.

How badly he wished he could've been more present in her life, especially now. He could've held her when she cried herself to sleep, could've wiped her tears away and spoken soothing words, could've helped her with some of the burden of planning a funeral as necessary and as large as the one taking place upon the morrow.

Cersei had moved behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her naked form against his bareback, her chin resting against his shoulder.

"What are you staring at?" she asked, looking over his shoulder and adopting his line of vision, "Oh…that."

The chill hit his back as she moved away from him, gathering her discarded clothes from the floor. She didn't say anything because she didn't need to. They'd had this particular fight so many times over the years that it had become redundant. Cersei had never accepted his feelings for Saoirse, but she was as sick of having that fight as he was. It was an uneasy stalemate that both were more than willing to set aside for their occasional trysts. However, like all stalemates, it was bound to end eventually. He knew it, she knew it, but both were too stubborn to broach the subject just yet.

"You should go," he repeated, turning away from the window and leaning back against the frame. He was careful not to meet her eyes but noticed that she was fully dressed as he said, "Funeral tomorrow."

"Yes. I should." Her words were cold as her long fingers clasped her cloak at the hollow of her narrow throat and drew up the hood.

She left without a word of farewell, but it didn't bother him. His thoughts were still muddling over the new Hand of the King and what in the seven hells was going to happen next.

The King

A sharp knock and a shout at his door interrupted his sleep. He rolled over and groaned loudly, sure that the person behind the door didn't hear his protestations.

"Your Grace, Lady Saoirse is without." One of his Kingsguard explained, he was too tired to care which one, "She claims it is urgent."

Robert groaned loudly again, "Let me find some pants," as he sat up. He could feel his pulse in his brain, making it slap against the inside of his skull. It was a wonder he wasn't more accustomed to this; he'd woken up hung over for the last several years straight. Clearing his throat, he spat into his chamber pot and rose to his feet, scratching and stretching his joints, which popped loudly. He grabbed the nearest pair of pants he could find, not giving two shits that they'd gone three days without a wash and were wrinkled as the Crone. The robe he found slung over the back of the chair. His breakfast was already set out and he tucked in before calling for Saoirse.

The lovely girl entered the room, her hands clutched at her perky breasts, gently cradling something between them. She was already wearing her mourning dress, which hugged every curve of her body. He stabbed a steak with his knife and brought it to his plate, beckoning her to sit in the chair to his right.

"The King's Hand sits to the right of the King!" he shouted jovially, ignoring his headache as he poured the two of them some wine. "What can I do for you Saoirse?"

The poor girl looked downtrodden, her face drawn and pale. Well, paler than usual, he thought as he took a bite of the steak. "Robert, I think…no, I know that Lysa murdered my father."

He laughed, "Oh? And what makes you so sure?"

She dropped her hands and looked at what she held between them, "She poisoned him, Robert." Her voice was small and for a moment she resembled the little girl in the Eyrie, confessing that she had dented his favorite helm. He had forgiven her easily because she looked so damned pathetic. Regret was never a good look on Saoirse Arryn, so he knew now that she was serious.

He put down his knife and fork, resting them against the plate. "Saoirse, what are you holding in your hands?" He made sure that his tone held the authority that came with the title of King.

She placed a small glass object on the table between them before finally reaching for her wine, "Do you know what that is?"

He picked up the small, teardrop shaped vial and held it in his palm, shaking it slightly so it rolled a bit in his hand. "No, what the hell is it?"

"It's a vial that I found in Lysa's room last night."

"What were you doing in Lysa's room last night?"

"Little Robert came to me and told me that Lysa had cried into our father's wine. So he would know her sorrow, she told him." She relayed.

"It's an empty vial, Sair." Robert raised an eyebrow dubiously, not sure if he believed that Lysa would've killed Jon. Sure, they'd had a loveless marriage, but he was willing to bet that damn near every marriage in the kingdom was until a certain point. Except maybe Ned and Catelyn, but there was always an exception to every rule.

Saoirse sighed, "I know it's circumstantial and gods know Lysa isn't cunning enough to think of this herself but…well, it makes sense, doesn't it? My father was healthy as a horse and then suddenly he was dead. He was poisoned, Robert, I'd bet my life on it…You don't believe me." She stated. Her tone was stony as the mountains of her realm, her blue eyes cold as the winds that blew there.

"Of course I don't! Sair, anything could've been in this vial. Perfume or some such nonsense."

"Then why did she hide it? If it was indeed a perfume, why keep it in the bottom drawer in a hidden box?"

"Perhaps she didn't like it too well."

"Then why is it empty? Robert, if I can prove this vial contained poison will you believe me? Will you have her arrested and questioned? You must admit, even if it's not true it's more than a bit suspicious." She was bargaining now, she must've been getting desperate. He saw how the grief had affected her and figured this was just part of the sickening mania that followed the death of a loved one. Remembering how he'd reacted to his own parents' death, he couldn't fault her. He'd tried to blame the sea captain, then the ship builder, and eventually he and Stannis had come to blows over it.

He relented, "Yes. If you can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the vial contained poison, I will have Lysa taken in for questioning."

"Good. I've got Pycelle on his way in. Although it may take him a bit to get here." She chuckled halfheartedly at her attempt at humor. Robert let out a sharp, booming laugh before returning to his breakfast, urging her to eat something.

"You look as if you haven't eaten in days. Come on, Sair, men like women with a little meat on their bones!"

She flicked her eyes over to him, regarding him out of the corner of her eye before relenting and grabbing a plate. She put a small scoop of scrambled eggs and a sausage link on it before daintily taking a few small bites.

Once she'd finished eating the Grand Maester shuffled in, looking weary as ever. Saoirse immediately moved to greet him, thanking him for coming at such an early hour. Robert smiled a bit to himself, seeing how she was trying to get on the old man's good side.

"It was no worry, Lady Hand, I do not sleep much these days. A symptom of old age, I'm afraid." He wheezed as Saoirse helped him into his chair. "Now, what may I help you with?"

Saoirse reached across the table for the vial and handed it to the Maester gently, "Grand Maester, can you tell us what this is and what you believe was inside it?"

Robert watched as Pycelle's face lit up with recognition and his breathing quickened, obviously he knew something and he stated as much.

"I know exactly what was in this vial. It was stolen from my stores of poison a fortnight ago, where did you find it?"

"Poison? Which poison?" Saoirse's falcon eyes had locked onto their target and Robert knew she would soon dive in for the kill.

"Tears of Lys, my Lady," Saoirse sank back in her chair and Robert shifted in his seat, still not wanting to admit that the mighty Jon Arryn had been felled by a woman's weapon. It was preposterous to think that a man of his stature would fall to a few drops of liquid, but as the vial was empty and the Maester had confirmed its contents to be poison Robert had little choice but to concede.

"Did my father's body show any signs of poisoning after death?" she asked intently, her focus never shifting from Pycelle's face. It appeared to Robert that she was trying to wring every drop of truth out of the old man's face with nothing more than her gaze, trying to detect the lies before the words fell from the Maester's mouth.

The Maester shifted in his seat as he fingered his chain of many metals, "Come to think of it…his tongue seemed a bit discolored during my exam…and his belly was distended. Not direct signs of poisoning, but a bit peculiar to be sure."

Robert could see Saoirse circling the prey she saw below, "So you mean to tell us, Grand Maester, that a fortnight ago a vial of the deadliest poison known to man goes missing from your stores and you say nothing? And then once my father, Hand of the King, turns up dead under suspicious circumstances with indirect signs of death by poison you again say nothing?!"

"My lady, I had simply not connected those two events. I swear, had I any inclination – "

"Who was the last visitor you had before you noticed the poison was missing?"

"Well, I do not check my supply every day, especially not of poisons. I keep those under lock and key."

"That's not what I asked. Who was the last visitor you had before you noticed the poison was gone?" she repeated herself, which Robert knew she hated doing.

"Pycelle, if you expect to maintain your position in court you'd best start telling us what we want to know. Answer the damned question." Robert chimed in for the first time since the old man had sat down. He was growing tired of the questioning and wanted to get to the arrest, for now he was sure of Lysa's guilt.

Pycelle's mouth opened and closed as he sputtered for words, "I-I have been Grand Maester for…How dare...?! Your Grace, I have served you well!"

"Then continue to do so and answer the bloody question!" Robert roared, slamming his hand on the table.

"It was Lady Arryn! She came to me with young Robert and asked for some milk of the poppy for his fits. I opened the cabinet, but then the boy started crying and I got distracted, didn't close it right away. That afternoon I noticed the Tears of Lys was missing."

Robert felt as if a bolt had struck him in the gut and he pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. "Are you sure, Pycelle?" He flicked his eyes over to Saoirse, who had drained of what little color she had left and, if he wasn't mistaken, had started trembling a bit. Perhaps she hadn't really believed it herself until just then.

"I am, Your Grace. However, I must say now that I am not sure that she was the one who took it."

"But it's possible she did?" Saoirse's voice was small but strong.

The Maester sighed, "Yes. It is possible."

"Thank you, Pycelle. You may go." Robert dismissed him and as he shuffled from the room Robert let the weight of the words settle over the two of them.

"She did it, Robert. She killed my father."

He could feel the rage pulse through his veins, spreading through his body like alcohol. He had called Jon Arryn a second father, he had loved the man's daughter as his sister, but never had he thought of Lysa Arryn or her sickly son as family. Seven Hells, he loved Cat as a sister and she was a thousand leagues away in Winterfell. How dare Lysa kill her husband, his second father? The man who defended him from the Mad King and had called his banners to do so. The man whom he'd ridden into battle next to, the man who oftentimes acted as Robert's conscience, cooling his hot tempers before he could do something rash.

That man had ceased to exist. Because of his bitch of a wife.

Robert leapt to his feet and stomped over to the wall where his Warhammer slept, unused, above his fireplace. He ripped it off the wall and let out a yell, swinging it down against the hearth and cracking the stone tile.

"I want her here NOW! I will make her confess and I will exact the gods' justice and turn her bones to dust!" he screamed. Saoirse got to her feet and glided over to him, approaching cautiously. He remained rigidly poised over the shattered tile, Warhammer gripped parallel to the floor in his hands ready to swing if necessary. She placed a small hand on his large shoulder and he softened a bit, his grip relaxing and the head of the hammer falling to the floor once more.

"We have to be smart about this, Robert. Give her a chance to crack under the pressure."

"I'll crack her. I will break every bone in her body until she confesses."

"No, Robert. We have to keep calm. I will confine her to the tower until after the funeral. That will give her enough time to start panicking. We may have a confession by the end of the day."

Robert smiled and turned to look at her. "Do you know how much like your father you are?"

She blushed a bit and averted her gaze to the floor, "I've been told, Your Grace."

Without warning, he scooped her up in his arms and gave her a bear hug; just like the ones he gave her when she was a child. His arms were under hers, wrapped around her chest, her feet dangling in the air. "He was so fucking proud of you, Saoirse. He'd be proud of you now." He said into her blonde hair. She started crying and he could feel his shoulder getting damp but he didn't care.

While he was never one for comforting crying women, they were the two people in the capitol who had loved Jon Arryn the most. They were also supposedly the two most powerful people in the realm, and yet they could do nothing to keep the man they had loved the most safe from The Stranger.

What they could do, however, is make sure his horrid wife paid dearly for her crime.

The plot thickens! From here on out I'm going to dramatically diverge from GRRM's work and bend this universe to my will! (Insert Evil Laugh Here) There will be some elements of the current universe in future chapters, but I'm not going to stress over it.

Reviews make me super super happy!