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Chapter Four: Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

Chapter Four: Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

Part I: The Tower of the Hand

Steam from the bath poured over the sides of the basin. Carefully, Rhae poked the water with a toe before climbing and submerging herself.

The scalding heat would've burned anyone else, but to her it was blissful. It burned away her aches, her painful memories - of which she had too many of late, chiefly among them her betrothal and impending marriage to the man who stabbed a sword through her father's back.

Rhae tipped her head back, letting the water soak through her hair. What would her children's hair - my children with the Kingslayer, she realized - look like? Would it be Targaryen silver, Lannister gold? Would she be allowed to give them the names her ancestors had born? Would her children scorn their heritage and curse their mother for the crimes of a king she never knew?

Would she even survive to have children?

She'd heard from Lord Stark himself that her siblings in Essos were amassing an army of Dothraki. How much longer would it be before they decided that a little sister living on the other side of the world was of no consequence to them?

"Viserys," she whispered to herself, testing the name on her tongue. "Daenerys." She tried to conjure an image in her mind of what her brother and sister looked like.

She had seen them last night, or thought she had. In her sleep, she had dreamt of a silver twin and a boy with pale lilac eyes playing in a garden with a lemon tree. High above them a man with a sorrowful gaze watched from a window as a shadow fell over the garden, and an enormous black winged beast breathed fire on the children.

Rhae plunged her face into the water, hoping to burn the sour memory of the dream from her mind, but the water had turned lukewarm. Annoyed, she quickly climbed out, dried and powdered herself. The Hand's Tourney was that day, she remembered. Lady Sansa had offered to embroider something lovely on her nicest gown, and her needlework didn't disappoint. Dragonflies and butterflies had been sewn on the pale green silk in silver-gold thread.

"Like your hair," Sansa had explained.

Rhae has just finished dressing and brushing her hair when the door flew open.

"Lady Rhae!" One of the Stark girls called.

Startled, Rhae jumped around to face Lady Larra standing right behind her and holding an enormous book.

"Y-yes?" Rhae stammered.

Larra had the good grace to blush at her rudeness. She took a step back, allowing Rhae her space. "I apologize for barging in," she said, "but I was in the library yesterday, and Cress and I -"

"Cress?"

"Cressana Baratheon," Larra clarified. "We found a book written in Valyrian glyphs, but neither of us could translate it." She held out the monstrosity of a tome, and Rhae took a moment to admire it. "There was a note tucked inside stating that it was gift for the Mad King from the Maesters in the Citadel."

Rhae took the book, wrinkling her nose at the bizarre waxy smell the leather binding gave off. "Thank you," she said. She paused, looking down at the glyphs on the cover. "Larra," she called as the younger girl walked away. Larra paused in the doorframe, peering over her shoulder. "Did the note say why this was sent to Aerys?"

Larra shrugged. "No, but it did say that the book was from Asshai, if that's any help."

Rhae set the book down on the table as soon as Larra was gone. She looked down at the runes, glanced out the window where the sun was not yet overhead, and looked back down at the book.

I have some time, she decided. Better that I spend it productively rather than brood over . . . over the inevitable. She reached for paper and a quill. Rooting through her trunk, she pulled out a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star written in the Common Tongue on the left pages and Valyrian on the right, as a translation practice that she had written when she was twelve to improve her High Valyrian.

The glyphs were easy to convert into phonetic Valyrian, and from there she could flip open her translated book.

She wrote the Common Tongue translation.

And froze.

She looked down at the words she had written, looked the translations in the Star, and looked again to the words on the parchment.

Slowly, she set down the quill. It can't be, she thought as she drew in a breath. It's not really . . .

With shaking hands, she opened the tome. The Valyrian glyphs inside were a dark brown, rusty color.

Rhae slammed the tome shut, picked it up, and threw it under her bed. She took the paper with the translations on it, ripped it to shreds, and stuffed those shreds into the fire.

Only when that was done did she stop and look down. Her hands, her arms, even her knees were trembling, and her lower lip quivered. Seven preserve me, she thought desperately, trying to erase the image of the words that she had set down on paper.

Se Tembyr Hen Anogar Sylvie, the cover had said. The Book of the Blood Sorcerer.


Part II: The Red Keep

Josafyn stalked the halls of the Red Keep. It had only been a few days since arriving back to the Red Keep, and already she was in over her head, drowning in plots and conspiracies while trying to keep her family afloat.

Bran Stark had awoken, but by all reports he remembered nothing. Still, Josafyn knew, the Starks would begin to wonder how their son had fallen - especially since an assassin had attempted to kill the boy only days fatre the Royal party had left. If Josafyn's sources were to be believed, Catelyn Stark had been in the room with the unconscious boy and had held off the attacker with her bare hands.

At any other time, Josafyn would have been impressed, but now she could only wonder who in their right minds would have sent a catspaw to do such a clumsy job? It couldn't have been Jaime and Cersei - could it?

No, she thought, Cersei may not be clever, but she's not fool enough to kill the boy with a blade so the whole world could know that he'd been murdered. Poison would've been her weapon.

It couldn't have been her half-brother, either. If it had been, Jaime would've used his own sword, and even he knew that doing so would've been an even worse mistake than shoving the boy out of the tower in the first place.

But then - who?

And to add to her growing list of concerns, there was Jaime's sudden and still unexplained dismissal from the Kingsguard - likely Lord Tywin's work, but if so, then why would he not tell his own children?

There was the possibility that it had been Lord Stark's doing. It was said that back when Robert became king, Ned had urged his friend to strip the Kingslayer of his white cloak lest he betray another king. However, Robert had pardoned Jaime, and Lord Stark would never go against Robert's wishes (Why else would he have left Winterfell for a position which he clearly was not equipped to handle?).

If anyone had the answers she was looking for, it would be Grand Maester Pycelle. Lord Tywin had once told her that the Maester's loyalties laid with House Lannister, and he was the only one in the city who she could trust with sensitive information. That was her mission for the day - find Pycelle, and find out what she could about her brother.

However, as she approached the old Maester's chambers, she heard voices from inside - the raspy tones of the Maester and the flat, blunt voice of Eddard Stark. She paused outside the door and leaned against the wood, straining to hear.

" . . . Quite certain he died of a natural illness?" She heard Stark say.

"What else could it be?" Pycelle was heard rasping.

"Poison."

Ah, so they were discussing the mysterious death of Jon Arryn. Wonderful. Another concern to add to her list.

"A disturbing thought," Pycelle said. "The Hand was loved by all. What sort of man would dare -"

"I've heard it said that poison is a woman's weapon."

A woman . . . was it Cersei he suspected? Josafyn hadn't dared to ask her sister if she knew whether or not the previous Hand's death was natural.

She had been afraid of the answer she would receive.

Because if it was Cersei and someone found out, then the reason for why she had done so would soon follow.

And if it hadn't been Cersei - or Jaime - then that meant that a murderer was still at large.

"Yes. Women, cravens . . . eunuchs. Did you know that Lord Varys is a eunuch?

"Everybody knows that."

Yes, yes, of course. How that sort of person found himself on the King's council, I will never know."

"I've taken enough of your time."

"No trouble at all, my Lord. It's a great honor -"

"I'll find my way out."

At that, Josafyn walked backward four large paces from the door, then started walking forward again. The door opened just as she was about to reach the door, and Lord Stark emerged holding a large book.

She looked up at him, raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes.

"My Lord," she said, dropping into a quick curtsy.

Stark bowed his head respectfully, although his gruff expression changed little. "Lady Josafyn. Are you here to see the Grand Maester?"

"Yes, Lord Stark, I -" She ducked her head down, hiding her face and feigning a blush. "It's for womanly matters."

She smirked to herself as Lord Stark shifted from foot to foot in plain embarrassment. Good, she thought, that'll keep him off of my trail.

"Is some ailment troubling you, my Lord?" She asked, looking back up at him.

"No," he admitted. "I was asking after Jon Arryn's death."

She had to restrain herself from giving him an odd look. Surely Stark knew better than to tell someone he barely trusted that he was investigating a possible murder? Then again, all Stark knew was honor and honesty. She shouldn't have been surprised, after all. Larra Stark had to have learned that sort of bluntness from someone, after all.

"Is that so?" She murmured. "I admit my Lord, I had wondered how a man as robust as Lord Arryn perished so suddenly." An idea struck her - a way to distract Stark and cast attention away from her siblings. "Perhaps you ought to write to Lady Gwenevieve Arryn."

Lord Stark considered her for a moment. "Jon's eldest daughter?"

Josafyn shrugged. "She was close with her father, my Lord. She might have some inkling of how Lord Arryn fell to such an illness."

Of course, it would take a while for a raven to reach the Eyrie, where Lady Gwenevieve had fled to with her stepmother and half-brother, especially if Stark decided to entrust such a message to a rider instead of a raven. Josafyn didn't have a plan yet, but she could give herself time to form one.

Lord Stark nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Lady Josafyn."

Josafyn smiled at him before turning and opening the door to Pycelle's study, making sure to close it firmly.

"Ah, my Lady," she heard Pycelle call out behind her. She turned to see the old man at his desk struggling to stand.

"No need for that," she said curtly, striding toward the desk. "It's only me this time."

The old man looked up at her and smiled slyly before straightening his back and meeting her eyes with his.

Josafyn grinned back at him. The old Maester kept up the perfect facade of a feeble man in the last stages of his life. Only she, however, knew better. "What was Stark doing in here?"

"He was asking after the death of Jon Arryn," Pycelle explained. "I gave him a book, some ponderous tome Lord Arryn had requested before he died. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms."

By the Seven, just hearing the title had her half-asleep already. "With any luck, he'll tire of it quickly," she said. "And what of Jaime? Do you know why he was dismissed from the Kingsguard?"

Pycelle frowned. "Unfortunately, my Lady, I do . . ."


Part III: The Tower of the Hand

Larra smoothed out the fabric of her Northern dress. She had considered lowering the neckline of the smock under her gown as Sansa had done, but ultimately decided against it and settled for sewing roses and adding embroidery around the neck of the overdress. It was a modest blend of the typical Northern styles and Sansa's more dramatic combination of Southern and Northern dress. Her hair had been braided on the sides, the rest of it left to curl down her back in strands of fire and molten copper.

She reached for a sheet of paper on her desk that had been covered in ink smudges and sloping, semi-cursive handwritten notes on the Targaryen Queens of Westeros. It didn't matter that Larra was attending a tournament; Cressana would be there, and the two of them were still debating the best Westerosi queen. Larra folded the paper, tucked it into her pocket, and ran out.

She didn't get very far, though. Halfway down, Larra saw Arya balancing on the stairs, her little arms wavering as she stood on one foot.

Larra paused, watching her sister with bemusement. "What are you doing?"

Arya's head jerked over to where Larra stood, throwing her off-balance for a moment. Larra watched in alarm, arms going out to try and steady her sister before she could tumble down the stairs and break her neck.

"Careful," Larra warned.

Arya scowled. "I know!" She stretched out her arms, resuming her earlier position. "I'm practicing my balance. Syrio says a good dancer can stand on one toe for hours."

"That's stupid," Larra scoffed. Her sister's new dancing master had some bizarre concepts about dancing, but if it made Arya less clumsy then who was Larra to complain? And with Arya spending half of the day focusing on her lessons, there was one less sister for Larra to worry about running into.

Now, though, a confrontation seemed inevitable. The Stark sisters would have to sit with each other during the tourney, after all.

"You're stupid," Arya shot back.

Larra sighed. "I know."

That took Arya by surprise, and she almost lost her balance again. This time, Larra caught her and drew her younger sister down to sit in the steps with her.

"I was stupid for blaming you," Larra admitted. "I was angry and hurt, and I turned on you. I was wrong. It wasn't your fault, Arya."

The two sat in silence for a moment.

"I'm sorry about Alicent," Arya offered quietly. "I know how much you loved her."

Larra didn't respond, only held out her arm, allowing Arya to fall into her shoulder in an awkward sort of hug.

"I'm still mad at Sansa, though," Arya said.

"Don't be," Larra pleaded. "She was in a difficult place, and she did what she could. It wasn't her fault anymore than it was yours." She gave Arya a pointed look. "We know who's fault it truly was."

Arya grinned at her, and Larra couldn't help but grin back.

"Should we sheep shift his bed?" Arya asked conspiratorially.

"Only when his mother has to stay overnight to rock her 'precious baby' to sleep," Larra quipped. The girls burst into a fit of giggles.

"What's going on here?"

The Stark sisters looked up to see the third member of their party - a peeved-looking Sansa, arms crossed and glaring down at them over her nose.

Larra stood, brushing dirt from the stairs off her dress. "We were only talking before the tourney, which speaking of," she looked down at Arya, in dirty trousers and a wrinkled shirt paired with bare feet, "don't forget to dress in something appropriate."

Arya made a face, but nodded and stood back up to resume her balancing practice.

"That's what I came to find you for, Larra," Sansa said. "I'd like your help with my hair for the tourney . . . if you don't mind."

"Not at all." Larra stood aside to let Sansa lead the way, and the Stark twins talked back up the Tower to Sansa's chamber, adjacent to Larra's.

Sansa's room was less cluttered than Larra's, who had books piled in every corner of her room. That didn't surprise Larra; Sansa preferred everything to be neat and pretty.

Larra helped Sansa out of the blue dress that she had made while they were travelling the Kingsroad. Laid out on the bed was a new gown of finer material than what they had in the North. The neckline was lower and wider, with flower-shaped embroidery trailing down the bodice, and the sleeves were noticeably wider than the ones on the blue gown.

Once the laces were tied, Sansa sat in a chair and stayed still while Larra braided her hair, trying to emulate the Southern styles while keeping some Northern elements.

"Your dress looks lovely," Sansa offered politely.

"Thank you." Larra paused in her work. "Are you excited for the tourney?"

Sansa sighed. "I don't know," she confessed. "It sounds like something out of a song, and yet . . . Joffrey is still angry at me. What if . . . what if he doesn't love me anymore?"

Larra rolled her eyes. "As far as I was aware, Sansa, he was never in love with you to begin with." When Sansa looked back at her with watery eyes, Larra quickly amended. "What I mean to say is that he barely knew you enough to love you. He treated you kindly before because you were his betrothed, meant to be his queen, and his father loves our father."

"Then why won't he treat me kindly now?"

Larra paused again in the middle of a braid. Because he's a selfish, beastly little boy who hides behind his vindictive mother's skirts, she thought to say. "I don't know," she lied. There wasn't any point in telling Sansa the truth, not when her heart was so dead set on becoming Joffrey's queen. And she was tired of fighting, she realized. Besides, with any luck Joffrey would continue to ignore Sansa, and then Sansa would come to realize that she wanted to call the betrothal off. "He'll come around, Sansa," Larra comforted. "Give it time. And if he doesn't, then Father will arrange an even better match for you." She tied the end of her last braid, took Sansa's handheld mirror from a table by the wall, and held it up so her twin could see her reflection.

Sansa smiled. "It looks lovely," she praised.

Larra smiled back and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sorry for snapping at you."

Sansa looked up at her twin. "There's nothing to apologize for, Larra. You were angry; I understand."

Larra offered her hand, and Sansa took it to stand. "I'm sorry I didn't to talk to you sooner," Sansa said, "but I feared you were angry with me. I wanted to talk to you, though."

"What did you want to walk with me about?"

Sansa blushed. "Oh . . . silly things, mostly. My dreams. I keep dreaming of the woods back at the Trident."

That piqued Larra's interest. "The Trident?"

Sansa nodded. "Where the incident with Joffrey and the direwolves occured."

"What - what happens in your dreams?"

Sansa frowned. "It's hard to say really. But I think . . . I feel as if I'm seeing the Trident through Lady's eyes. That I'm running through the woods in her body, smelling what she smells, feeling and seeing what she sees and feels."

Larra's mouth went dry.

But then, Sansa shrugged. "As I said, it's likely only a dream. And yet it's so . . . odd."

Larra didn't respond, only nodding slowly. "Come on," she said suddenly, offering her hand. Sansa took it, and the girls smiled at each other. "Our first tournament is about to begin!"


Part IV: The Hand's Tourney

Larra wasn't sure what to make of her surroundings. Hundreds of people had lined up along the arena for a glimpse of the action - which hadn't even started yet. Lady Rhae was absent, having claimed a roaring headache right as they were about to leave for the tourney. Sansa, having been so excited before, had reverted back to moodiness upon seeing the Crown Prince ignoring her. Arya, looking positively Northern in her smock and dress with an embroidered collar added for some embellishment, was surveying the field and the knights around it with a keen eye. Larra sat between the two.

Just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Confused, Larra turned backward, and came face-to-face with a grinning Lady Cress.

"I've always loved the tourneys," Cress said. "The melee is the best part!"

Larra smiled, jumping to her feet to reach over and hug her friend as Cressana laughed.

"Larra," she heard Septa Mordane say, "Who's this?"

Larra looked back down at her sisters and septa, who were all staring at her with a look of astonishment.

"Septa," Larra quickly said, "sisters, you remember Lady Cressana Baratheon."

"I remember," Sansa said. "I just hadn't known that you two had become so . . . so . . ."

"I thought you were hiding by yourself in your room this whole time," Arya blurted out.

A man sitting beside Cress laughed, and all turned to looks at him.

Cress smiled. "Forgive me, but I don't believe you've met my Uncle Renly Baratheon," she introduced.

Larra looked over at them man, her eyes widening in surprise. Lord Renly was slim, and wore a green cloak pinned with an antler-shaped brooch, but he looked like what she had imagined King Robert to be twenty years younger.

"So," Cress said, leaning closer and dropping her voice. "Have you found any more queens?"

Larra grinned. "I have four," she confided. "Alyssa Velaryon, Daena the Defiant, Mariah Martell, and Alysanne Targaryen."

Cress nodded thoughtfully. "We'll talk more after the tourney," she promised, sitting back.

Larra looked over to her sisters. Arya was glaring over her shoulder at the Hound, and Sansa was looking back to the raised dais where the King and Queen sat with their children.

Where Joffrey sat.

Larra rolled her eyes.

"Lover's quarrel?"

The Stark twins looked up in surprise to see a small man with a pointed goatee. His clothes were simple, drawing little attention, but Though he was smiling, it didn't reach his gray green eyes. Larra immediately wanted to move away from him, but Arya and Septa Mordane were all sitting behind her on the bench, and it would've been rude to knock them off because of some inaccurate first impression.

Sansa frowned up at the man. "I'm sorry, do I . . ."

"Larra, Sansa dear, this is Lord Baelish," their septa spoke up, noticing the man. "He's known -"

"An old friend of the family," Lord Baelish quickly explained. He sat down on the bench next to Sansa, and it was all Larra could do to keep from recoiling. "I've known your mother a long, long time."

"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya piped up.

"Arya!" Sansa scolded.

"Don't be rude!" Septa Mordane chastised.

"Oh, it's quite alright," Lord Baelish dismissed their concern. "When I was a child I was very small - and I come from a little spit of land called The Fingers, so you see," he chuckled, "it's an exceedingly clever nickname."

"I've been sitting here for days!" The King suddenly roared, lumbering to his feet. Larra looked back from her seat to see Lady Cress and her uncle blushing in embarrassment for their kin. "Start the damn joust before I piss myself!"

As he plopped back down into his seat, Larra caught the queen as she rolled her eyes and quickly left the dais, followed by an annoyed-looking Lady Josafyn.

"Gods, who is that?" Larra heard Sansa say. She turned to look at the arena - and her jaw nearly hit the floor. Riding on an enormous black stallion was a man who made Robert look like a starving little boy.

"Ser Gregor Clegane," Lord Baelish said. "They call him the Mountain. The Hound's older brother." Ser Gregor pulled his horse to a halt in front of the king's dais, and Larra took in his dull, almost black armor. At once, she felt sorry for his opponent, a scrawny youth with silver armor that had hardly a scratch on it. Either he was a wealthy knight or a green boy with little to no experience.

"And his opponent?" Sansa asked, taking note of the smaller knight as well.

"Ser Hugh of the Vale," Lord Baelish explained. "He was Jon Arryn's squire. Look how far he's come.

Both men had bowed before their king, which Robert seemed none too appreciative of. "Yes, yes, enough of the bloody pomp. Have at it!" He yelled.

The two men rode to opposite sides of the arena, taking their lances from their squires. A horn was blown to announce the first tilt, and with lances in place, the two men rode at each other.

Larra watched with anticipation, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. When they missed, she groaned in disappointment along with the rest of the crowd. Unfazed, they rode back around, repositioned their lances, and rode again.

The cheering grew as the riders came closer and closer. The knight from the Vale thrust his lance forward, but the Mountain was quicker.

His lance struck the young knight in the neck with such force that it drove all the way through his neck.

There were cries and shouts, and Larra heard Sansa scream and felt her clutch her hand in terror.

The knight tumbled slumped his saddle onto the dirt - right in front of the Stark party. Larra sat, transfixed, as the man sputtered and gurgled. Blood poured from the wound in his neck and bubbled up from his mouth as he gasped for breath.

And then, Larra began to notice that her stomach didn't feel so well.

Flies were beginning to gather around the man's body, drawn by the sharp, metallic scent of blood, and he twitched and jerked while the sick feeling in the pit of Larra's stomach began to grow.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, rising to her feet and stumbling past Sansa, past Lord Baelish and Lord Renly and Lady Cress, though she heard her friend call her name.

People were whispering as she rushed past, but she didn't care. She ran to the back of the dais and down the wooden steps to the woods, where she leaned against one of the trees for support as the sick feeling made its way into her mouth. She closed her eyes, willing her mind to erase what she had just seen, but doing that only made it worse. Instead of the Vale knight lying in a pool of his own blood, she saw Alicent, writhing and yelping as white-hot pain seared across her belly.

Oh, Gods. She was going to -

"Larra?" Cress called from behind her. "Are you alright?"

Larra turned - and spewed vomit across the front of Cress' gold silk gown.

She spat the rest into the ground between them, and looked up in embarrassment as Cress. The Baratheon girl stood in the same place, eyes wide as she stared down at her dress.

"I'll take that as a no," Cress said pleasantly.

"I'm so sorry," Larra moaned. "Here, let me . . ." She looked around, rooted through the pocket of her skirt, and pulled out a fairly clean handkerchief. She spat on it and used it to wipe at Cressana's spoiled bodice.

"No, no, leave it," Cress sighed. She quickly up and untied the front of her gown, letting it fall open to reveal her underskirt and the top of her shift underneath, which, luckily, wasn't stained.

"I'm sorry," Larra apologized again, standing up and wiping her mouth with a clean corner of the handkerchief. She stuffed it back into her pocket.

Cress frowned. "What happened?"

"I -" Larra paused. "I don't know."

"Do you want to go back to the Red Keep?"

"No."

"Do you want to go back to the tourney?"

Larra shook her head. "Definitely not."

"Then what do you want to do?"

Larra took Cress' hand and pulled her down so both girls were sitting on the ground. "I just want to stay here a while," she said.

Cress nodded, and the two sat in silence for a while, listening to the faint cheers from the arena.

"You told me earlier, before the tourney," Cress said suddenly, "that you have four queens for us to discuss?"

Grateful for the distraction, Larra nodded and pulled the folded piece of paper from her other pocket. She passed it to Cress, who quickly unfolded it and scanned the notes.

After a brief moment of silence as she read over Larra's notes, Cress looked up. "Daena Targaryen was no queen, not truly. King Baelor set aside their marriage on the grounds of it being unconsummated. And even if she had been queen," Cress pointed out, "she was too willful and wild. Her son with her cousin, Aegon the Unworthy, was the man who started the Blackfyre rebellion, remember?"

"She was well-loved for her courage and beauty," Larra argued.

"Ah, but courage and beauty do not political alliances make," Cress said.

Larra nodded in concession. "What about . . ." She paused, thinking. "Queen Alyssa?"

"Well, she wasn't unpopular," Cress consented, "but she wasn't queen for much of a time before King Aenys died."

"I thought we were also considering deeds done by a queen even after she became the dowager," Larra reminded Cress. "Because if so, then we can't forget that Alyssa served as Queen Regent in the early years of her son Jaehaerys' reign."

"But to what purpose?" Cress argued. "She had a few men executed, tried to end the marriage of her son and daughter but failed, and had a strained relationship with her eldest daughter."

"She married into House Baratheon."

"So?"

"Well, that would make you descended from her."

Cress snorted. "You share a name with a past Targaryen queen, but that didn't endear her to you any more, did it?"

"Well . . . no," Larra said.

"Family ties mean little and less than a good balance of policy and character."

Now it was Larra's turn to snort. "That's a lie. Family means everything. Our history is comprised of wars, one war after another, all in the name of family."

Cressana rolled her eyes. "You're getting off topic!"

"Sorry, but you started -"

"Queen Alysanne," Cress read from the notes. There was a brief silence as her eyes flicked over the notes Larra had written on her. "Of all four queens on your list, you wrote the most about her."

"Because she did so much!" Larra exclaimed. "Queen Alysanne held the first Women's Courts to listen to the women of the realm's fears, concerns, and hopes, which in turn led to the establishment of the Widow's Law and the abolishment of the lord's right to the first night. She expanded the lands of the Night's Watch, she worked with her husband to reform and organize the laws of the kingdom, the nobles adored her! Those in her service were absolutely devoted to her."

Cressana nodded as Larra talked, and once her friend had finished, said, "Alysanne was and still is beloved of the smallfolk, if I remember correctly. And her one rash decision - marrying her brother Jaehaerys against the wishes of the council - turned out for the better in the end."

"And Alysanne possessed an incredible wit, as well," Larra pointed out, her voice becoming faster and louder as her excitement grew. "She loved learning and reading - in fact, when she and Jaehaerys visited the Reach, she attended lectures in the Citadel, and even lectured the maesters on considering allowing women into their ranks!"

"But she was also a fine hunter and archer," Cress said, referencing Larra's notes. "And she loved music and dancing. It's said that Alysanne once prolonged a royal progress because of her fascination with a lord known for his songs and skill with the harp."

"Alysanne didn't allow herself to be pushed into the background of history like Alyssa," Larra mused, "but neither was she brash and stubborn like Rhaenyra, or Daena the Defiant."

"No," Cress agreed. "She was both. Well, a mild combination of both."

"But mild is better than extreme," Larra said. "Mild is safe and predictable."

"Mild doesn't encourage wars the way extreme does, either," said Cress. "Mild allows the land to rest, to flourish and to heal."

The two girls glanced at each other and smiled.

"So I supposed mild wins out in the end, then," said Larra. "Queen Alysanne the Mild."

"Good Queen Alysanne," Cress corrected.

Larra's smile only widened, her gray eyes lighting up for the first time in weeks. "Good Queen Alysanne."


Part V: The Gardens

Fuming, Josafyn stomped into the gardens. Thank the Seven for that spectacle at the Hand's Tourney - at least it would distract the smallfolk and the nobles from the queen's rude departure before the joust had even begun.

Josafyn had tried to talk to Cersei, tried to suade her into turning back, but her half-sister had, without a word, ripped her crown from her hair and hurled it at Josafyn, where it struck her on the cheek.

She couldn't return to the tourney tolding the queen's crown and bearing a tiara-shaped mark on her face, but she couldn't bide another second second in the same room as Cersei. She had taken a separate litter to the Keep, and once she had arrived in the courtyard, she had marched off in the opposite direction as Cersei.

Which had led her to the gardens.

Which didn't have walls or ceilings or floors to shelter spies with, and which was currently empty due to everyone attending the tourney.

And so, thinking she was alone, Josafyn let loose a scream and kicked the fountain.

"Oh!"

Startled, Josafyn froze and looked cautiously around the yard until she spotted - there, in the corner - a Lady.

Her dress, pale green and embroidered with silver-gold thread, helped her blend into the bushes some. It was her pale face that stood out - a face framed by white hair and possessing two wide, frightened violet eyes.

Lady Rhaelyra Targaryen, Josafyn realized. Jaime's bride.

"Pardon me, Lady Targaryen," Josafyn said quickly. "I was just on my way out."

She turned to leave, but a voice stopped her again. "No, I beg your pardon, Lady Josafyn. I shouldn't have been here," the Targaryen girl apologized.

Josafyn turned back to look at her in confusion. "Then why are you here? You do know that you're missing the Hand's Tourney."

"I had - um, I got a headache," the girl said lamely.

Josafyn narrowed her jade eyes. The girl was a Targaryen in name, but she was as good at lying as a Stark - which was to say, terrible.

"Did you?" Josafyn said airily, slowly moving closer to the girl even as she shrunk away. "Or were you attempting to avoid someone?"

The girl's face turned paler, if that was even possible. When she spoke again, her voice was as raspy as Pycelle's. "How do you -"

"I have my sources, Lady Targaryen - soon to be Lady Lannister, if my sources are correct." Slowly, Josafyn sat opposite of her on the bench. "Quite a position for the daughter of a Mad King. Frankly, I'm surprised lord Tywin agreed to it."

"The King gave him no choice," Lady Rhaelyra said numbly, "just as he gave me no choice."

"Just as he gave my brother no choice, too," Josafyn snapped. "Don't play the victim, Lady Targaryen. It may suit you well for King Robert, but not here, not for me or anyone in my family. Play the victim and you'll find out what a victim truly is."

There was silence for a moment, only the rustle of the leaves and the flowers. Josafyn watched from the corner of her eyes, studying the Targaryen girl as her white hair blew lightly across her face.

"I'm not afraid of what he did," the girl suddenly said in a low voice. Josafyn gave her a confused look, and she quickly clarified. "Your brother, I mean. The Ki - Ser Jaime." She bowed her head, her hair falling over her eyes. "I know what my father was and what he did to those he thought were his enemies. I know what my ancestors are, and I know what both my brothers could've become with time. I understand that - that Ser Jaime had his reasons, no matter how twisted those reasons may have been."

"Whatever those reasons were," Josafyn pointed out, "they're now why you're to be wed to him."

"I know," Lady Targaryen confessed, brushing her hair out of her face and looking over at Josafyn.

Something in Josafyn softened, and she felt the cold glare in her eyes change to pity as she regarded the poor girl who had no family, who'd been ripped from the only home she'd ever known and thrown from safety into the snake pit that was politics. "I truly am sorry."

"He scares me."

Josafyn sighed, rolling her eyes. "Yes, he likes to do that. Don't be fazed by it, Lady Targaryen." If your siblings are true Targaryens, it'll all be over soon enough anyway, she thought darkly as she rose from the bench and left the girl to her contemplation.


Part VI: The Eyrie

The air coming through the rookery was thin and cold. The ravens cawed at random intervals, but Gwenevieve didn't jump at the sound as she used to when she was little. Her unpinned sleeves and long hair the color of corn silk billowed in the wind that blew through the rookery, but a fur stole draped around her shoulders kept her warm.

There was a creak along the floorboards, causing the young noblewoman to startle and glance up from the message in her hands.

"Oh," she breathed in relief. "For the love of the Seven, Mina, do make sure to knock."

Her stepmother's young cousin, Mina Tully, smiled apologetically. "Sorry. I thought the boots would give me away."

Gwenevieve shook her head, looking down at the men's trousers, tunic, and vest worn by the younger girl. Younger, Gwenevieve thought sardonically to herself. Look who's talking; One and twenty and fast becoming an old maid, no wonder I'm sounding like Lady Lysa.

Mina Tully was only seventeen, though she appeared mature for her age. Gwenevieve figured it was because Mina had grown up alongside the Blackfish, her father, who had taken her with him across the Riverlands to the Vale when she was only seven and had been training her with a sword ever since. Despite the men's clothing, she had an earthy sort of prettiness to her. Lady Lysa was quite adverse to the girl - although, Gwenevieve thought, she's quite adverse to anyone she can't bat her eyelashes at and make her slave.

Gwenevieve had been one such person. Her mother, Lady Rowena Arryn, had died of a winter chill when Gwenevieve was three. Only a year later, her father Jon Arryn took to wife Lady Lysa Tully, a silly girl prone to tongue-tied silences and fits of giggles - hardly fit to look after a four-year-old child who wasn't her own.

Even now, Lady Lysa was hardly fit to look after her own child. Gwenevieve shuddered to think of her half-brother, thin, sickly, and still suckling from his mother's breast at eight years old, inheriting the Vale.

But that was what had happened upon the sudden death of her father. Robin Arryn had become the little Lordling of the Vale, with Lysa the Lunatic as his regent. And Gwenevieve - the firstborn, the darling of the Vale, a mature woman with a sensible head on her shoulders - had been relegated to another pawn for her stepmother to play with.

That's where you've made your mistake, Lysa, Gwenevieve thought. Even pawns have wills of their own. She'd bided her time, watching from the shadows of the Eyrie, reading and listening and taking note, even sometimes sending Mina to listen to the Valemen whenever they'd had too much to drink.

She had been beginning to admit defeat when, that day, that very hour as she'd been hiding away in the rookery gathering her observations, she'd received a raven from King's Landing bearing the Stark sigil.

"Gwen," she heard Mina call, drawing her out of her reverie. "What's that?"

She blinked, looking back down at the message and scanning it quickly, though she'd already read it over more than ten times. "Lord Eddard Stark, current Hand of the King, has written me from the capitol," she revealed in a quiet, steady voice as Mina came to read over her shoulder. "Apparently he and I are curious about the same thing - what in Seven Hells happened to Jon Arryn?"

Mina looked over carefully at her friend. "And?" She asked. "What will you tell him?"

Gwenevieve looked down at the note in her hands. She studied it, considered it, before walking quickly to the lantern she had placed on one of the window ledges, opening it up and feeding the note to the flame.

"Nothing while I haven't any proof," she said, tossing the message inside and closing the lantern. She looked back over at Mina. Her cold blue eyes took on a determined glint. "But, Seven willing, that will soon be remedied."

A/N: Finally, chapter four! Thank you for reading, and if you like this story, please me know in the comments.