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"Your wife is a beautiful lady, Lord Lucaerys, and as accomplished a dancer as I have ever seen." Luke smiled, for both statements were entirely true. His wife had her silver hair half up and half down, trailing down the open back of her equally silver dress with its white lacings. The mass of one color may have been seen as garish, but something about it combined with Daenella's striking violet eyes made it look terrific instead of tasteless.
And even if that hadn't been enough, her broad smile would have made her beautiful if she had been wearing only a sack.
"Thank you, my lord. I must say the same of Lady Sansa, for she seems to be the only woman on the floor as tireless as my Ella." That too was true, for Sansa Bolton with her traditional beauty hadn't left the floor since the dancing began, long after many younger lords and ladies had gone for a respite. The Lady of the Dreadfort and the Lady of Duskendale were currently in cahoots, laughing together as they simultaneously dragged half-unwilling partners onto the floor, Sansa her younger brother Lord Brandon and Daenella the quiet Lord Aemon.
The sight, both of Daenella's smiling face and sage Lord Aemon's terrified one, had Luke grinning like a madman as he turned towards Sansa's husband, Lord Domeric Bolton. Double Lucaerys' own age, the powerful northern vassal had long black hair with a heavy sprinkling of gray tied back into a braid, his eyes an odd pale that he had inherited from his father Roose. Of average height and features, the head of House Bolton was mostly unremarkable save for those eyes, and he near disappeared when standing next to his radiant wife. But while he didn't stand out physically, the Lord of the Dreadfort was a strong-willed, intelligent man, trusted by Lord Brandon as a diplomat and advisor. That was impressive in and of itself, for the history between the two men's houses was less than amicable.
But the Lord of the Dreadfort was smiling, a real smile by Lucaerys' usually-accurate estimation. Two other figures were with him, red from dancing with their arms interlocked, and Lord Bolton extended a hand towards them both. "I believe you remember my son and heir Royce, and of course Lady Alysanne."
Luke smiled, extending a hand to shake Royce's. The Bolton heir was tall, with the coloring of his mother, and reputedly an excellent archer and swordsman. "Of course. I anticipate you'll do well in the melee, Lord Royce." Luke turned to the shorter, lithe form beside him, taking one of her hands and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Alysanne Targaryen, blue eyed like her wilding mother and black haired like her royal father, grinned a familiar grin. "And you, cousin, grow more beautiful by the day."
Even as he was greeting his kinswoman and her new husband, Luke noted the consistent shake in Lord Bolton's extended hand. That was a fascinating story, though it had all occurred years before Luke had come to have any role in the kingdoms politics. Ramsay Snow, the only sibling—bastard or otherwise—of Domeric, had been infamously mad, though he had had the terrifying ability to hide it under layers of diplomacy and charm. The Bastard of Bolton had poisoned his elder brother on their first meeting before the War of the Three Kings, though that fact hadn't been made known until years later. It had nearly killed Lord Domeric, as was its intent, and the poison had left a semi-permanent tremor in the Lord of the Dreadfort's hands that periodically would flare up, as it appeared to be now.
It was rumored that Lord Domeric, having desperately wanted a sibling, hadn't believed his half-brother to be responsible. It was also rumored that his father, Lord Roose, had. Whatever the two men had or hadn't believed, no action had been taken against Ramsay. It wasn't until after Roose had died at the Wall and Lord Domeric had married Sansa and returned north with the other northern families that the Bastard of Bolton tried again. It had been a surprise coup, carried out in the dead of the night, Ramsay and twenty men trying to seize the Dreadfort from within. It would have worked as well, for Lord Domeric still didn't believe his brother responsible for the 'illness' that had left permanent effects on him and had thusly been unprepared for any attack from the inside, but Lady Sansa's direwolf Lady had alerted her master that something was off. Sansa had woken Domeric and barred herself and the infant Royce in their chambers, as Lord Domeric roused his men as Ramsay and his engaged them.
Near fifty Bolton men-at-arms and servants had died before Ramsay was subdued. Lord Domeric had nearly flayed his brother alive in his wrath, but Lady Sansa had urged him to leave the matter in the hands of her brother, in an attempt to both strengthen the northern lords' belief in their young leader and spare her husband the stain of kinslaying. Lord Brandon at only six and ten had ridden to the Dreadfort and condemned Ramsay to die, following the old way of the North by beheading the unstable Snow himself.
But that was all the past, and this was the present. Luke knew Lord Domeric had more on his mind than a mere introduction, and after only a few moments of chatter with young Royce and Alysanne he urged them to dance once more. Luke was smiling at Bolton even before the two were out of earshot. "Tell me, my lord, what are you offering, furs or lumber?"
Domeric smiled back, not the least bit abashed. "Iron, Lord Lucaerys. My vassal Lord Belthasar Locke and I have opened three mines on his land, and the returns have been quite impressive so far."
Luke cocked an eyebrow. "Aye, now that is something I can deal in."
And so they did.
Lord Domeric was not the first lord to approach him that night intent on making a trade deal, nor would he be the last. The Lighting of the Lions, the poetic name given to the brutal deed of the destruction of Lannisport at the hands of Luke's grandfather Aelor, had been terrible for the Lannisters but excellent for Duskendale. Nearly all of the evacuated civilians had resettled on the opposite coast, in the very home of the man who had burned theirs. They had brought with them their skills and trades, as well as their connections to foreign merchants and ports. The populations of Duskendale had tripled, and in the coming years so did it's revenues. Goldsmiths, spice traders, masons; all had rebuilt their lives and their trades under the warring white dragon banner, and had attracted traders from as far as Qarth to their home port. Now, near forty years later, Luke was reaping the benefits, as Lords near and far wished to have access to the abundance of goods found within the two-walled city.
And he was more than prepared to make them pay for it.
Lucaerys' grandfather had been an unparalleled warrior and his father a promising swordsman himself, but that was not where Luke's true skills lay. Oh, he was decent enough with a mace and better with a lance, but he knew his limitations well. Lucaerys' had a mind for trade and stewardship, and had honed his diplomatic skills to assist in those endeavors. Even now, when he hadn't been in his home city for more than a fortnight over the past half a year, he could tell you exactly what was being produced and in what quantities, tell you which of the silversmiths in his city had the best prices and which had the best work, two facts that rarely ever found a home in the same business. He knew the amount of Myrish lace expected to arrive in the next month, knew the individual dressmaker's part of said shipment was going to, and knew the trader and guards caravanning it east to Harrenhal. He could tell you the exact figures from the last three years of Duskendale trade and the exact amount of coin he had paid to the crown in trade taxes from the last five. Business, for what it was, was booming.
But even as Luke struck more than one deal and turned down plenty of others, he kept his mission in the back of his mind. He used small talk—which the opposite lords likely thought part of a negotiating tactic—to sniff around his true questions, leaving small directory statements and feelers. Most either had no idea and continued on oblivious that the conversation had a double meaning or were very good at hiding their true thoughts, though there were a few who reacted as if they knew more than they let on. Luke was careful not to push too hard or make himself seem unduly interested in the lords of the latter category, and made a point of returning to the dance floor more than once, trying to appear for all the world like a young man simultaneously enjoying a feast and using it as an opportunity to secure assets for his family.
It was rather easy to pull off, for it was true. He was enjoying the feast, and he was using it as an opportunity to advance his own lordships interest; he just also happened to be investigating for the King of the Iron Throne.
The King in question knew perfectly well that Lucaerys was carrying out his interests, but even a trained intriguer would never have known, for the Prince That Was Promised seemed to be having as fine a time as anyone present. King Aegon was past forty, the blessings of youth having for the most part left him, but he still danced as he had when he had been seven and ten. His smile had lost none of its charm as he first spun Rhaella Targaryen of the Reds—meaning one of the Targaryens living in King's Landing, and in this case the eldest child of Princess Daenerys Stormborn—and then Rhaella Targaryen of the Greens—the Targaryens of the Golden Tooth, in this case Lord Aemon's daughter. There were three other branches of the Targaryen dynasty, the Golds of Summerhall and young Lady Viserra, the Greys of the New North and Prince Jaehaerys, and Lucaerys' own Whites of Duskendale, each identified by the color of the dragon or dragons on their banners.
Luke imagined Aelor would have been proud to see how secure and widespread his family had become, for at one point in the Dragon of Duskendale's life the royal bloodline had been reduced to himself, an old brother of the defunct Night's Watch and five children, barely removed from a war that had sought to kill them all.
Saera near dragged him from amidst negotiations with Lord Edwyn Mallister of the Seagard Mallisters, and he didn't manage to escape the floor before he had danced with her, his laughing wife Daenella, Lady Sansa, Shireen Baratheon, his cousin Aelora Tyrell and a handful of other ladies of higher and lower nobility. Even Queen Aemma insisted on a dance, though both her health and spirits had been dampened since the birth of Vaekar. The labor had nearly killed her, and the maester had been certain she would never conceive another child. The entire process drew terrifying parallels to King Aegon's mother Elia Martell, whose own difficulties in the birthing bed had, when paired with her husband's desperate desire for another daughter, helped lay the foundation for the civil war that had claimed the lives of two Targaryen kings.
Although in hindsight that seemed to have been a blessing of the Seven, for if neither king had died when they did Prince Aelor would never has risen to power, and who knew if the world would look anything like it did now.
He negotiated, he drank, he talked and he listened. He was there when Lords Forrester and Whitehill nearly shed blood under their liege lord's roof, only talked down by the icy and firm commands of Lord Brandon. He watched as Florian Blackwood and Talla Bracken danced in clear adoration of the other, to the fury of both their fathers. He sang along with the crowd when the singer from White Harbor led a round of The Bear and the Maiden Fair.
And, a long time later, he carried his inebriated wife into their chambers, where hours earlier Baelor and Baela had been put to bed. Luke and his family had been awarded spacious chambers within Winterfell itself, not quite as impressive as those for the Lord Paramounts but better than many other lords of equal ranking to Lucaerys had been given. His position as a surrogate brother to the Lady Winterfell helped of course, as did his surname and his status as a favorite of the king.
It was through those chamber doors that he near fell, Daenella wrapped around him, adding her drunken chuckles to his baritone ones.
"The twins are asleep," his wife said in a low, slurred tone after Luke had deposited her on the bed and turned to close and bar the door. Another luxury of their chambers, for the children and their nursemaid had a separate chamber to themselves, separated by a thick door towards Luke's right.
"Aye," he agreed as he closed the heavy oak and slid the iron bar into place. "Mary took them when she took Prince Vae—" His ability to breath was suddenly gone, forcing the last syllable of what he had to say out in a hoarse half-whisper. "—kar."
Daenella was much faster at getting out of clothes than she had ever been at getting into them; Lucaerys swore it was some kind of long-lost Valyrian magic, sorcery of the most sinfully helpful variety. In the time it had taken Luke to drop her on the furs, walk to the door and close and bar it, she had somehow escape the latch of white and silver. It was a most impressive feat given the complexity of the ties and the fact that had his wife had downed one or ten too many glasses of wine. She was waiting wearing only a smile and her underclothes by the time he suffered his shortness of breath, eyebrow raised in invitation. Her voice was breathy and sultry beneath that sinful smile, indigo eyes positively smoldering with a fire that consumed Luke entirely.
"That wasn't my point."
He had his lips on her neck with her hands fighting the ties of his breeches when the knock sounded at the door. "Ignore it," his wife urged, pressing his face back to its original position on her collarbone when he began to turn.
Luke groaned, disentangling himself with a sigh. "You know I can't."
His wife ran a hand down the front of his breeches, biting her lip. "Then get rid of him."
Luke opened the door barefoot and bare-chested, giving not a damn what the person on the other side thought about it. He cursed out loud when it turned out to be Ser Arthur Dayne, his white armor glowing in the relative dark of the hall. Of course. Of bloody course.
The Sword of the Morning raised an eyebrow at Luke's exclamation and appearance, glancing over the Lord of Duskendale's shoulder. His expression quickly became a sympathetic grimace when he saw the naked woman waiting behind him. "The King has requested your presence, Lord Lucaerys."
Luke glanced back at Daenella before giving the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard a near begging look. "Can't he wait until morning? Or at least half an hour…"
Ser Arthur shook his head sadly. "You know the King. When there's something to be done, he does it then and there, and he hates delays." The Dornishman shrugged and smiled in apology. "Even understandable ones."
Luke looked between his naked wife and the waiting Kingsguard thrice before he gave a long, pained sigh. "At least let me put on a shirt."
Loyal fucking Lucaerys, defender of both the crown and my own bloody chastity.
He followed behind the legendary swordsman as they made their way through the darkened Northern fortress. The revelry was done for the night; his wife, who he could be at this very moment bedding, had been one of the last to leave the floor, and by default Lucaerys had been as well. The other nobles had retired to their quarters in Winterfell Winter Town or the city of pavilions and tents outside the walls, leaving only servants to walk the hours of the night, attacking the evidence of debauchery strewn across the castle. The servants and those like me. One's duty can be a nasty business, and the opposite of pleasurable.
The Alex's, both Red and Blue, stood to either side of the door to the King's grand guest chambers as they passed through it, and the Blooddragon stood within. Six other figures were waiting as well, five sitting and one hovering over another's shoulder.
Grandmaester Dagmer was relatively young for his loft position, only five and thirty and already in his fourth year as the Grandmaester of the Iron Throne. Born on Old Wyk in the Iron Islands, he had sailed to Oldtown and the Citadel as a child, three years before the Cleansing. That had been particularly fortunate for the bastard-born, slightly built man, for the damage and destruction caused from the dragonfire had been particularly vicious on the former seat of House Drumm.
He currently hovered around the left shoulder of King Aegon, draping a cloth over the old arrow wound the King had taken at the Second Battle of the Trident. Several other towels lay close to the fire roaring in the hearth, heating as the one on Aegon's shoulder already had. The King looked up, taking little notice of the healer's ministrations, as Lucaerys entered and gave a customary bow.
"Your Grace. I see the dancing has taken its toll on even you."
Aegon grunted. "Indeed it has, not to mention this weather. I thought I had left snow and temperatures smaller than my grandson's age behind me twenty years ago." Aegon smiled at another figure in the room, seated across from him with his head in his hands. "Though I dare say my son has it worse than I."
Prince Aelor leaned back in his chair with a great groan, his face one of pure misery. "Bloody Umbers. It's like trying to outdrink a fish. They drank me under the table so quickly I'm already half hungover, and I'm still bloody drunk."
Another man at the table laughed , his black beard and curly hair despite his relative youth containing more and more gray each time Luke saw him—which wasn't often. Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of the New North and always more wolf than dragon, had travelled south of the Neck only three times since the conclusion of the Second War for the Dawn, for the Cleansing of the Isles and the births of Aelor and Vaekar. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, the latter of whom had passed just the past year of a fever in her only son's castle of Northguard, pointed at Luke with the pinky of his left hand, the only finger he had left on it. The others and the thumb had been lost in the snows of the meanest winter Westeros had seen in centuries, when the Prince and his future wife had led an army of refugee children to Winterfell from the fresh ruins of the Wall. "Never try to outdrink a northerner, Luke. Mayhaps you will heed that advice, for my nephew surely did not."
Another figure, far more attractive than any of the others, chuckled. The Mother of Dragons was truly a beauty of no equal, even with the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Luke had always had half a crush and half a worship complex for the dragonrider of Aelon, who held more power in the running of the kingdoms than any woman in Westerosi history, even his own grandmother Alysanne, who had retired long before this impromptu meeting. "I imagine he wished he had now, and he certainly will wish he had come morning."
The Prince of Dragonstone gave them an unmistakable and certainly unprincely hand gesture, eliciting a laugh from the other Targaryens in the room. Save for Baelon of course. I don't believe I've ever seen my uncle laugh in all my days. King Aegon gestured towards another chair, and Lucaerys move to take it. The final Targaryen, his quiet and wise uncle Aemon, slid his untouched pitcher of water to his nephew, which Luke accepted with a thankful nod. "How does the Queen fair, Your Grace? I noticed she left quite early, and I see she isn't here."
"My wife was worn down early in the evening. It is common for her to tire quickly ever since Vaekar." Luke knew the King held no ill will or disappointment for either his second and youngest child or his wife. He of all people was in position to understand the difficulty that could occur in the birthing bed; his mother Elia Martell had nearly died giving birth to him, and his grandmother Rhaella had had more than her fair share of difficulties in the birthing chamber. "Besides, I wouldn't wish for Aemma to hear what you might have to say."
Lucaerys looked around, to the very walls themselves. "Are you sure you wish for Winterfell itself to hear what I have to say?"
Aegon smirked, the smirk of approval Luke had treasured as a child and then as a squire. "Well done, though I must point out that this is the north, not King's Landing. These walls hold back the cold and hold in the heat; they don't have spies in them. Besides, you're not my only operative, even in the deep north. We are safe to discuss whatever we wish here."
Luke nodded, digesting that bit of information in the back of his mind. "As you say, Your Grace. The grumblings seem to be coming mostly from the eastern Reach and western Stormlands. Lord Poddingfield's heir gave the most visible reaction to my prodding, and while Lord Selmy was much better at hiding his thoughts I believe he also has some affiliation with this rogue faction. Ser Aladore Ashford also gave some physical indications he may have some knowledge."
King Aegon's face gave away nothing, violet eyes on Luke's near identical ones. "And the Lord Paramounts of those regions?"
That the Promised would even asked showed how seriously he was taking these grumblings that may in the end be nothing at all. "I do not believe any of the Lord Paramount's or their families are involved. As you know, both the Reach and Stormlands have close ties to House Targaryen, and have no reason to show anything but support towards Your Grace."
"Many of the lords who fought for Viserys had no reason to show anything but support for myself and your grandfather, but it didn't stop them then and it may not stop them now. I will not take risks of another War of the Three Kings, even if I do have dragons now when I didn't then."
Aelor spoke up then, eyes slowly clearing from the amount of ale he had ingested early in the evening. "I believe you may have just named the root of this disease. Poddingfield, Harvest Hall, Ashford…they are all three relatively close to Summerfield and Daena."
The heir to the Iron Throne spat the name like a curse, and Luke couldn't quite blame him. It had been the blessing of the Seven that Lucaerys had been married to sweet, loving Daenella and not her older, jaded twin. The other bastard of Viserys the Betrayer was a mass of pent up anger and near worship of her dead father—no number of tutors, mentors or attempts by family members to integrate her had made so much of a dent. She was smart enough to keep from vocalizing her near-hatred of those that had helped befall her father, and seemed to have a lever inside her that gave her more charm than Lord Bronn of Bronzegate, but the family knew of her true beliefs. She was close to none and rivals with most of them, and even good-natured Daemon, the uncle who had been unfortunately saddled with her, had nearly killed her more than once. She had named their only daughter, born four moons after Daemon's death, the questionable name of Viserra, and had instantly remarried a man of her own choosing, the son and heir of Lord Bowen Meadows, Lord of the Grassy Vale.
It was worth noting that Lord Bowen had dithered when the Reach called its levies, neither swearing for Viserys nor marching to his liege lord's aide. They had been spared in the aftermath of the wars, but had been viewed with suspicion ever since, a suspicion Dany brought to the forefront of this conversation. "And close to Grassfield Keep."
Jaehaerys looked between his brother and aunt, face waiting for an explanation they didn't give. "What are we expecting, a rebellion? No, not enough if any would come to their aide."
Aemon spoke up then, with his slight build and growing gut looking nothing like the man who had flown his dragon over Orkmont and turned it into charred ashes. "And, with no disrespect meant to Dany, their only claimant is a woman."
The Blooddragon's gravelly voice chimed in from his standing positon, Ser Arthur having gone to stand beside him. "A bitch of a woman to boot."
Aelor nodded, still in clear discomfort. "Aye. While her charm can be potent, only a fool can't see it for the manipulative tool it is."
The King was staring at the table in thought as Grandmaester Dagmer once again changed the hot press on his shoulder, though he clearly had been paying attention to the conversation. "Never underestimate the capability of men to be utter fools, Aelor. I've made the mistake more than once and paid for it each time."
Dany placed her hand over Luke's. "Anything else, Lucaerys?"
"No, Princess. I have a few other lords who reacted strangely to my prodding, and will have a list for the King come morning, but I believe them to be unrelated to this potential conspiracy."
Jaehaerys leaned forward. "And just what is this conspiracy? We all know they have no chance of winning a war, and they must know it too, which leaves the question of just what it is they want."
Aemon nodded. "Jae is right. Perhaps if we knew what their goal was, we'd have a better of time of discerning just who is involved."
Luke held his hands up. "That I could not say. It is beyond my knowledge at this time."
His King and mentor looked up from the table. "I have confidence it is within your capability. You're one of my most loyal lords, Lucaerys, and one of my most powerful. Men respect you and gravitate towards you, and you have no small amount of skill in diplomacy."
Dany smiled. "Thanks to myself and mother, I would like to point out."
Aegon continued on, though he gave a shadow of a grin at Dany's statement. "I must ask you to put your skills to work for me again, son. By the end of the festivities here, I want to know the men on your list as if they were on my own blood. Their friends, their rivals, their lovers…all of it."
Luke took it for the dismissal it was, rising to his feet and bowing to his elder family members. "Of course, Your Grace. I will not fail you."
Aegon smiled the approving smile again. "You never have."
Luke turned towards the door, wondering if Daenella would still be awake and willing to continue what had been interrupted. This, the intrigue and mystery, made him feel positively alive. Loyal Lucaerys, defender of the Crown.
He aimed to earn that title.