Thank you to everyone who has read, alerted and favourited this story. Thanks especially to those who have taken time to review, it means a lot. Thank you!
Chapter Thirteen: Out of the Question.
Whether it was the floorboards making that creaking noise or Grand-Maester Pycelle's old knees, Lyanna couldn't tell. But she could definitely hear the old man rattling about his chambers all the same. She leaned closer to the door and wondered whether she ought to knock again, but didn't want to rush the old thing either. Instead, she cleared her throat and rather awkwardly called out.
"Grand Maester …Grand Maester, it's the Queen."
From within the chamber, hands fumbled at the latch quickly followed by the groaning of the old hinges. Pycelle's wrinkled brow and voluminous white beard appeared through the aperture. He regarded her for a second, narrow-eyed as though he didn't quite believe she was who she said she was. Which was fair enough, she supposed. She even took a backward step so he could get her in view.
"Ah, your grace," he said, cheerfully. "Enter and be welcome."
Lyanna found herself being admitted to a large chamber filled with ancient tomes, strange instruments, Myrish lenses and a myriad of tools she could not put a name to. A pretty astrolabe sat on the window ledge, catching the sun. She didn't dare touch anything, so hovered in the middle of the room rather stiffly.
"With your grace's leave, I would caution against this course of action." His gravelly voice rattled from his chest, sounding like an admonishing grandfather. "It could be called unwise, in light of what happened before."
Nevertheless, he had reached for a silver vial engraved with Robert's coat of arms. She took it from him and lifted the lid, wafting the liquid inside under her nose. It had little by way of scent and she couldn't even remember what the last dose smelled like, either.
"I'll take the risk," she said. "Who knows? It might even work. Did you follow the recipe to the letter?"
The look on his face suggested she was questioning his expertise in the matter. She wasn't, of course. She didn't know the first thing about herblore or medicine. She just needed reassurance.
"Absolutely to the last letter, your grace," he said, sternly. "And, if you want my opinion, the potion is entirely useless when it comes to promoting fertility."
"But you also said that none of the ingredients in this potion would have caused an adverse reaction," she said. "That's right, isn't it?"
Pycelle frowned, the sparkle in his blue eyes sharpening in concentration. "Every herb that makes that potion is commonly used in other remedies, your grace. You've probably imbibed them in other medicines for other maladies such as sleeplessness or headaches. If you had no reaction to those, there's no reason why you should have had a violent reaction to this."
She listened to the Maester's explanations, wondering all the time why the last dose had almost killed her. The list of ingredients was utterly innocuous and Pycelle just confirmed what she already suspected.
"Your Grace, please, listen," Pycelle continued. "If you take that potion you may well fall severely ill again. It is possible. What isn't possible, is conception. You will not get with child just from taking this."
She had told herself she was trying this concoction again purely for academic reasons. Just to see if it was this that had made her so ill, the last time. She had a feeling it wasn't. But, hearing the out-right refutation of its abilities to promote fertility nevertheless brought a shiver of bitter dismay to her.
"Thank you, Grand Maester. You have the antidote you gave me last time?"
"But, there's no guarantee-"
"Thank you, Grand Maester," she cut in with finality. "I appreciate your help and I don't want to take up any more of your time."
She supposed he was worried about Robert finding out. He had pleaded with her to stop all this after the last incident. But this was different. This was about more than trying to get with child. She took another small vial, this one in gold plate and bid the old Grand Maester good day.
Outside his chambers, in a turret north of Maegor's Holdfast, she paused in the outer-gallery and sniffed at the 'fertility' potion again. She hesitated a moment, pausing with the vial touching her lips. Now or forever hold your peace, she thought to herself and swallowed the lot in one go. The taste made her wince, the knowledge that she had swallowed something that had once made her violently ill had her struggling to keep it down. But hold it down she did, then closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to ease her racing heart.
Several minutes later, she was still alive and breathing the open air of the Red Keep's inner courtyard. Jon was fighting off several competitors with Ser Barristan shouting instructions from the side lines, Sansa was watching from the spectator's stands not far off, with Jeyne Poole at her side. Over by the perimeter wall, leading to the Mud Gate, an open wagon full of rowdy, cat-calling boys was stationary. Lyanna watched them for a moment, wondering what they were doing there. Until she remembered Yoren.
She reached for a set of keys attached to her belt and set off across the courtyard. A loud wolf-whistle rent the air as she approached, coming from the direction of the boys now jumping up and down on the wagon. Another had dived off the end, landing on his head on the cobbles.
"That's a particularly vile rabble, your grace."
Lyanna hadn't even heard Cersei Lannister's approach, but the woman herself had materialised at her side. She surveyed the riotous Night's Watch recruits with a look of cool disdain in her emerald green eyes.
"They look thoroughly charming, don't they?" replied Lyanna. "Well, the sooner I let Yoren into the black cells the sooner he can take our prisoners and be on his way. I had best get moving."
"Do you mind if I walk with you?"
"You're welcome to."
The two of them set off across the courtyard, back towards the Red Keep. Deep below the castle, a network of cells spread out in the damp and dark, with not so much as a stray chink of daylight penetrating the thick walls. It was where they kept their prisoners, many of whom boasted of being the most dangerous men in the realm. Those who refused to join the Night's Watch would be left to rot, others would be executed in due course. Whatever they chose, their future was bleak.
"Are you quite all right, your grace? You're looking a little pale." Cersei's golden brow creased.
"Am I?" Lyanna replied, abruptly. "Am I really?"
She had been feeling a little odd since taking the potion, but that was just nerves. Or was it because she really did react badly to the ingredients, last time? Cersei went to reply, but was but off by a particularly loud catcall from the rowdy recruits just a few feet behind them.
"Teats out, blondie!"
The challenge was met with a roar of laughter from the catcaller's erstwhile companions. Cersei stiffened, her eyes turning icy.
"I think he means you," Lyanna pointed out.
Whatever happened next, it was going to be interesting. Cersei turned sharply on her heels, facing the jeering crowd of 'admirers' and began taking slow, measured paces in their direction. Instantly, the lads fell silent, grinning like idiots in the face of their impending destruction. Lyanna followed at a distance, an expectant smile on her lips. Meanwhile, Cersei was cold as ice.
"Who said that?"
She was answered by snorting laugher from the lackwits in black.
"It was you, wasn't it?" Cersei continued.
The hapless creature was rooted to the spot, gaping open mouthed at Lady Lannister's dangerously calm approach. He wore the look of a man just waiting for the axe to fall.
"They dared me – Oooh!"
His sentence turned into a strangled cry as Cersei's hand struck, quick as a viper, and clenched his groin. Lyanna watched as the other woman's fingers dug into tender flesh, vice-like, tightening and twisting. The poor catcaller could barely breathe, never mind fight back.
"As you can imagine, a woman of my standing doesn't get her teats out for just anyone," Cersei explained, as calm as a milk pond. "I like to know what's down there, I like to know if you're a real man."
She stopped talking and gave the lad's balls another thoughtful squeeze for consideration. As Lyanna watched over Lady Lannister's shoulder, the young lad was turning beet red, sweat beading on his brow. The only sound he seemed capable of making was a high-pitched, wavering whimper somewhere at the edge of hearing. His comrades looked on, torn between hilarity and horror. Not one of them stepped forward to help. In fact, a large and fat boy that cowered in the corner, covered in cuts and bruises, looked quite happy.
Lyanna feigned a sympathetic look. "It's just as well you won't be needing your manhood where you're going, isn't it?"
Another high whimper came in reply as he slowly sank to his knees in the dirt. Instead of letting him go, Cersei tightened her grip one last time and leaned down as he sank. Once he was on his knees at her feet, with sweat now dripping down his face, she leaned in close to his ear: "Tell the white walkers: Cersei Lannister sends her regards."
She released her grip and stood with her head held high, turning her back on the gasping, sweating catcaller who'd tried to humiliate her. A cheer of approval greeted her as she and Lyanna carried on with their business as if nothing had happened.
Jon watched as his mother and Lady Lannister made their way back across the yard, a wry smile on his face. "What was all that about?"
"One of those Night's Watch recruits picked on the wrong lady," Ser Barristan answered. "Well, he won't be doing that again, if he knows what's good for him."
The victim was soon back on his feet, but limping badly as he made his way back to the wagon he'd jumped off. It seemed like forever ago that he had been chomping at the bit to join the Watch. If that was the calibre of the recruits, he was beginning to think he'd made the right choice in coming south.
Losing interest in the fracas, he returned to the training yard with Ser Barristan. After the previous training session, he was fighting Ser Barristan himself today. Being put through his paces relentlessly, stopping only to have his shortcomings pointed out and to be taught new ways of defending himself while attacking others. The heat was still a problem, but he pushed himself through it and kept on fighting until every muscle ached.
When he returned to the sparring yard after Lady Cersei's brief interlude, he found Ser Loras Tyrell waiting for him. Armoured in steel, gauntleted and sword in hand, his cloak of flowers hung from his shoulders. Now it begins, Jon thought to himself. But, before it began, Ser Barristan took him aside for a quick pep talk.
"Remember everything I taught you this morning," he began. "Pace yourself, don't go rushing in. Think ahead and plan your next move."
Jon nodded. This time, it was just Ser Loras and not half his cousins too. He thought he might have a chance. However, by the time he made it back out into the sparring yard, the Night's Watch recruits were back in full force. Shouting, stamping on the wagon and throwing stones at passers-by. On the spectator's stands, Sansa shot them dirty looks.
"Seven hells, was Cersei Lannister not enough for them?" Barristan laughed.
Jon didn't think them particularly funny. They were starting to get on his last nerve. A group of them had taken to kicking a pile of cloaks, for some reason.
"You two carry on," said Ser Barristan. "I better go find Yoren and see if he can't restore order."
With that, he left Jon and Loras standing in the sparring yard with swords in hand. The aptly named Knight of Flowers extended his hand for Jon to shake.
"I didn't want to fight you the other day," he said. "Barristan told me you're only fourteen and … well, you can imagine. Safe to say, I'll not be making that mistake again."
Jon couldn't help but laugh. "That's all right, my lord. I thought Ser Barristan was just an old man, the first time we met. No one likes raising their sword to an ancient."
They took up position in the yard but, just as Jon was trying to concentrate, a fight broke out among the recruits. Even Loras noticed, swearing audibly under his breath as he glanced irritably in their direction. But something had struck Jon. The pile of cloaks he thought they were kicking. It moved now, it had arms and legs. He realised it was a person.
"Shits!" he cursed.
The one who'd been brought to his knees by Cersei Lannister had made quite a recovery and was now venting his fury on the boy at his feet. Lashing out with a wooden sparring sword, he landed a blow on the fallen boy's head. Having put his arms up to protect himself, the blow landed on the boy's forearm.
Jon had seen enough. He pushed past Ser Loras, vaulted the low wall of the sparring yard and ran across the courtyard. Ghost had woken up and followed at his heels. As soon as he reached the gaggle of bullies now crowded around their victim, he struck out with a blunted tourney sword.
"Leave him be!" he snapped to them all.
Ghost had hunkered down at Jon's side, teeth bared in a silent snarl. But when one of the recruits went to smack Jon around the head with a wooden sword, the wolf lunged while Jon fended off another. All the while, the boy they'd been picking on lay on the floor and whimpered.
"Run!" Jon implored him as he blocked another attack. "Will you just run!"
In the moment of distraction – barely a split second – one of the attackers lunged at Jon. Leaping from the top of the wagon, he grabbed Jon from behind and tried to drag him to the ground while another kicked the tourney sword out of his hand. Jon responded by elbowing one in the face, busting his nose wide open and throwing the boy on his back over his shoulder and giving him a sharp kick in the groin. He really hoped it was the same one Lady Lannister had hurt earlier on.
Meanwhile, Ser Loras realised what was happening and come charging into the fight to help Jon.
"Get him out of here," he called over to Jon, meaning the fallen boy.
More than happy to leave this rabble to Ser Loras, he called Ghost to heel and punched another of the lads still causing trouble. With no sword, he had no other choice but to resort to his fists. However, the victim of the assault still lay quivering in a heap on the floor. His lip was swollen and bloodied, bruises formed on his face where he'd been punched and kicked. He was so afraid he could not move.
"Come with me," said Jon, holding out his hand to help him up.
The fallen boy trembled and bled.
"Come on!" Jon sounded angry now. He couldn't understand why he wouldn't even help himself. "Seven hells!"
He dragged the boy to his feet, a feat that proved impossible because of his bulk. But he came to his senses before too long and hauled himself up. Although still only a new recruit, who hadn't taken his vows because he hadn't even made it to the Wall yet, he was already dressed in clean blacks. Expensive, too. He was no barefoot urchin scooped off the streets. If Jon didn't know any better, he'd say the lad was highborn.
"Follow me," he urged him. "I know where to go."
He grabbed the lad's wrist and began running toward the Red Keep. But, overweight and completely out of shape, the other boy had difficulty keeping up. At the same time, Jon struggled to think of somewhere to hide. He didn't know the castle yet. Only the Dragonvault, where he had been the day before. Underground and out of sight, it would have to serve.
He found the steps easily, this time. Rather than waste time telling the lad following where to go, he grabbed him again and almost shoved him down the stone steps. His breathing was laboured, sweat now mingled with the blood that oozed from his busted nose and split lip – his face was a mess.
As soon as they were underground and away from the baying tormentors of the Watch, Jon slowed the pace and let the other boy catch him up.
However, at the foot of the stairwell, he collapsed. He couldn't even talk for breathing so hard. For a moment, Jon was at a loss for what to do. He had nothing to tend the wounds with and didn't even know the lad's name. But help came from an unlikely source. Jon had forgotten that Sansa and Jeyne Poole were watching from afar. Now, both of them came running down the steps with their skirts hitched above their ankles.
"We saw what happened," Sansa explained between her own laboured breaths. "We saw it all."
"Is he all right?" Jeyne was wide-eyed with fear.
"Erm," said Jon, nodding at the semi-conscious form now trembling in the stairwell. "Well, he's alive still and that's a start."
Both girls had silk handkerchiefs which they now used to dab the fallen boy's open wounds. He seemed to come around a little, his pale blue eyes slowly moving into focus. A few minutes later, supported by Jon and Sansa, he was slowly limping into the Dragonvault proper. He gasped at the sight of the monstrous dragon skulls – it seemed he was afraid of everything. He couldn't even stammer out words of thanks as Jon and the girls settled him beside one of the dragon skulls, leaning him against one of the sturdier beasts.
"Don't be afraid, Lord Tarly," said Sansa. "Jeyne and I saw everything, if anyone asks we'll tell them exactly what those boys did to you."
Lord Tarly? Jon frowned at his sister. How did she know that? She knows everyone. How does she know everyone? She caught the look on his face and pointed to a small sigil on his tunic.
"The striding huntsman," she said, sighing mightily. "House Tarly of Horn Hill, sworn to House Tyrell of the Reach. Jon, you really need to know these things."
Jon shrugged, but before he could ask why he needed to know the sigil of every Westerosi house both high and small, the boy finally talked.
"I'm Sam," he blurted out. "Just Sam."
Jon knelt to be even with him. "Well, Just Sam, we'll look after you now."
Sansa looked thrilled, smiling brightly. "Jon's my brother and he can defend anyone. I know it."
Jon's eyes narrowed as he looked at her now. For some reason, he had risen remarkably high in Sansa's favours. The days of "he's our half-brother" seemed a dim and distant memory. But why? He remembered the day he was legitimised at Winterfell, the look of mild disapproval she had worn on her face, mirroring her mother's. Now she looked at him as if he was a god among men. She's up to something…
Even settled and Lyanna was pleased to see she was still alive. The potion she took had made her a little drowsy, compelling her to let herself into Robert's chambers to sleep it off in his bed. Now she awoke with him at her side, they made love together before sharing a light meal on his terrace.
"Do you remember the fertility medicine that almost killed me?" she asked.
"Lya, we've talked about this," he replied, dropping his knife. "I never wanted bloody children anyway and Stannis is my heir. When I die, if before you, you're free to go wherever you please and remarry who you please, all my private assets will be yours. Get away from here, go somewhere the sun never sets and let Stannis and Renly fight it out amongst themselves-"
"It's not about that," she cut in. When she had his attention, she continued: "I took the recipe from Lysa's chambers and showed it to Grand Maester Pycelle. He said there was nothing in that concoction that could have caused such an extreme reaction. So I had him brew up another batch. I took the same dose this morning and here I am, alive and well and in perfect health. What do you make of that?"
Robert's countenance changed. Although he had mellowed with age, he still had the spark of his old temper, the Laughing Storm reborn. She could see his palms growing itchy, ready to reach for the Warhammer again. Acting quick, she topped up his wine.
"If that mad bitch tried to poison you-"
"I have no real proof it was her," she explained. "But it came from her directly. Why would she poison something then hand it to me so openly? I know I wasn't meant to survive, but still it was risky – as evidenced by the fact that I'm still here. Someone else could have gotten to it, tampered with it. I don't know, Robert. All I know is, someone did something to it. Someone looking to be rid of the barren Queen so their own fertile young daughter can be inserted into your bed. That seems likely and Lysa simply does not fit that bill. She has no daughter of her own and she never seemed interested in becoming Queen herself."
"And she's not exactly fertile herself," Robert pointed out. "Only one child; that sickly creature who wears my name."
"She accused the Lannisters of poisoning Jon Arryn," she reminded him. "The letter she sent to Catelyn. I told you, remember? Robert, there's something going on and I don't like it at all."
He looked troubled. "I'm getting a taster for you. It's something we should have had anyway. But … Lysa's accusations. The Others take her, what proof has she that the Lannisters were involved? They've given us no trouble and Tywin has held the west for us against the damn Ironborn for all these years. Jaime is Warden of the East, until Robert Arryn comes of age … IF Robert Arryn comes of age. If she's throwing around accusations thinking we'll cast them down then she's wrong."
Lyanna had almost forgotten that small detail. "And she lashed out at me when I suggested Robert be fostered at Casterly Rock. Don't you remember? Nearly took my eye out."
"Angry enough to poison you?" he asked, eyebrow arched. "Have you talked to Ned?"
"I'm wary of talking to Ned," she admitted. "Lysa is Cat's own sister, I don't want to drive a wedge between him and his wife's family."
"He needs to know, Lya," said Robert. "Talk to him, he might even know how to handle his damn sister by law."
Reluctantly, she inwardly admitted that she no longer had a choice. "I think, as well, that we should go further. If there's trouble brewing here, we may need to make new friens. As such, I think we should lay to rest the last ghost of the rebellion – the Martells."
Was that a flicker of regret in his eyes? Lyanna thought so. The truth was, Robert had no quarrel with Prince Doran, nor any other Martell. But they had issues with Robert … and her. And rightly so.
"They will never have dealings with us, Lya," he said, quietly. "Not after what happened to Elia."
"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try. Let's invite them to the Tourney of the Hand," she suggested. "We won't push it. We won't try to talk them into it. Let's just send a messenger, letting them know they're welcome to join us. In fact, why don't I go myself?"
"No," he replied, firmly. "No, they'll capture you and kill you, for sure. Invite them here by all means, but they won't come. They only want our heads on spikes."
He was probably right. She thought she might be grasping at straws. Damning her eternal optimism, she returned to her meal and sipped at some wine.
"I might send Lysa Arryn to treat with them," she jested. "Two problems, one solution!"
Robert looked thoughtful as he drained his own wine glass. "The Lannisters are out of the question. My brothers are out of the question. House Stark is out of the question. The Tyrells are certainly out of the question. Who does that leave us with? Balon bloody Greyjoy?! Perhaps the King beyond the wall will put in a good word for us?"
It was a conundrum that left him in laughter.
"Gods, Robert, is there anyone the Martells do like?" she asked. "I hear Hoster Tully is frail, but what about his son? Surely, there's no bad blood between the Tullys and the Martells. They've never even met."
"I've heard the man's a fool," Robert replied, grumpy at the thought of it. "Look, we've a few months before the tourney is to begin. Just send Ser Arys Oakheart and be done with it. Think of some terms, I trust you. If the Martells turn us down then they can be damned."
Lyanna smiled and leaned over the table to kiss him. "Thank you, Robert. If we can win over the Martells, maybe we can still win over Lysa Arryn too."
Ser Arys was kingsguard, noble enough and he had nothing to do with the rebellion. He was as close as they got to impartial. As for Lysa, that left Lyanna cold.
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.
Thank you to everyone who made ship suggestions after the last chapter. Arianne Martell was the clear winner. A match that, obviously, would come with a lot of baggage and issues attached to it. But, it might work. Especially since I have tentative plans for Sansa to end up with Trystane already.
Margaery Tyrell was the next most popular. A ship I've already written but would love to write again. So, who knows? It might work here too. With Sansa charming the Martells back into the Westerosi fold it would make more sense for Jon to marry elsewhere.