THE KING'S HAND
Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the Small Council table, his face oddly contorted. To say that it was grief would ignore the stunned disbelief that still claimed him. Alicen, the serving girl with whom he had used up so much of his time, was banished from the chamber, but the king's wine goblet had been refreshed enough today. Standing behind the king, Ser Barristan Selmy, newly appointed to the title Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, remained silent. Yohn Royce looked from the Lord of the Vale to the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Grand Maester Pycelle watched the king intently, while Varys simply remained seated, his hands folded in front of him, utterly inscrutable.
"Is… is this true?" the king finally asked, looking to him.
"It is," Jon Arryn confirmed quietly. Dark wings, dark words. "Lord Stark… would have no reason to lie."
"And… is he bringing her here?" Robert asked. His voice was small. He had loved the girl. Jon knew it, despite the serving girl. Despite the others. Robert had loved her with all his heart.
"He… thought it best to… to return her to Winterfell," Jon said. Dark wings, dark words. Lord Stark had sent word of Lyanna's fate. He had sent word that he would not return to King's Landing, that he would travel north to Winterfell with Lyanna's bones.
He had sent word that he did not wish to see the king…
The wine goblet slammed into the wall, crumpling the hammered bronze and sending wine splashing across the wall. Robert stood up, howling in agony, in grief, in rage. He slammed his fists down on the table; the crown followed immediately before his head thumped against the hardwood. For a long moment he remained thus, incoherent rumblings escaping the thick black hair that blocked view of his face.
"Your Grace," Yohn said quietly. "I… I am so sorry."
"These are grave tidings indeed," Pycelle added. "Perhaps His Grace should be allowed time to mourn. Perhaps the governance of the kingdoms can hold for but a day."
"Even in death," Robert murmured. Jon barely heard it; Yohn Royce leaned forward.
"Your… Your Grace?" the Master of Laws asked hesitantly.
"Even in death," Robert said. There was an edge to his voice. The king raised his head, his blue eyes chipped from ice and his lips nearly forming a snarl. "Even in death, he steals her from me. Even in death!"
"Your Grace," Jon began, "I do not think-"
"Even in death!" Robert bellowed. He stood from the table with such force that the heavy furniture skidded forward. The rest of the Small Council stood quickly to evade the table; behind him, Ser Barristan stiffened, but said nothing. "Even in death, he takes her from me! Even in death he cannot let me have what is mine!"
"Your Grace," Yohn said, "you must calm yourself."
"No!" Robert snapped, turning on his Master of Laws. "For too long I have been calm! Now I will be the storm! The storm that won this war, the storm that broke the Mad King's reign of fire and lunacy! Even in death he reaches out to snatch her back!"
"Your Grace," Jon tried again. Robert turned to him, murderous rage in his eyes.
"Where does Stannis stand?" the king demanded. "How many ships does he command?"
"Your Grace," Jon said. "I hardly think this is the time-"
"How many ships!" Robert screamed.
"Your Grace, he is not yet ready to sail for Dragonstone, and this is hardly the time to consider such matters," Yohn Royce said. Robert turned on him with wild fury.
"This is exactly the time!" the Storm King shouted back. "This is exactly the time to debate just how we will destroy the last of the dragons and crush their cursed bloodline for once and all! I want anyone, anyone who shares blood with Rhaegar Targaryen dead! I want them all dead! Do you hear me? DEAD!"
Yohn Royce stared at the king in shock for a long moment. He shot a pleading look to the Hand before he returned his attention to the king.
"Your Grace," Yohn tried again. Robert's answer was little more than threatening growl.
"Perhaps… perhaps we should adjourn," Jon advised, stepping between the Master of Laws and the king. "This is troublesome news, indeed. The Grand Maester speaks truth. We will meet again on the morrow."
Bronze Yohn looked past the King's Hand for a moment, but then turned and exited the Small Council chamber. Pycelle stood slowly, making his way with painstaking care to the door, while Varys glided out silently on his slippers, not a word, not even a show of emotion, to add to the proceedings. Ser Barristan hesitated the longest; the Lord Commander's eyes remained on the king for a long moment, before turning to the Hand. Jon could feel a question forming on the kingsguard's lips, but then he too moved to the door, closing it quietly behind him. Jon watched the closed door for a moment before turning back to the enraged king.
"Your Grace," Jon began, "you cannot act on vengeance alone."
"And why not?" Robert asked angrily. "I am king! I defeated the Mad King, and I defeated his son! But even now he reaches from beyond his grave to strike me down in my moment of victory! I will send everyone who bears the name Targaryen to the same hell where he lies now!"
"Finish the war, yes," Jon agreed, "but do not turn this into a march for blood! Especially not the blood of children!"
"If there is a Targaryen left, I will kill it," Robert snarled. "For my Lyanna, I swear it!"
"I cannot let you go through with this," Jon declared.
"Then you are no longer the Hand!" Robert bellowed suddenly. Jon was nearly thrown back a step by the sudden outburst. "I will find a Hand who will deliver me the heads of the last Targaryens, and any who aid them!"
Jon had nothing to say to that. He only watched as Robert heaved in rage, his hands clenched into fists. Finally, the King's Hand backed up a step to the door.
"I… will do what must be done," Jon said noncommittally. He turned and pushed through the door quietly, leaving the enraged king to himself.
Barristan Selmy was just outside the door, ever at attention. The Lord Commander straightened as Jon shut the door behind him, his blue eyes watching the Hand as he turned away from the chamber.
"My Lord Hand," Ser Barristan said quietly.
"Yes," Jon prompted. The knight took a moment to consider his words.
"The deaths of Princess Elia and the young prince Aegon were wrong," he stated at last. "I do not wish to think I serve a man that will condone the murders of more children."
"Nor do I," Jon agreed. "I will speak to him again on the morrow. He has lost much this day." "Yes," Ser Barristan said. "He has."
"His rage will subside," Jon promised. He hoped that it would, at any rate. "He must have time to grieve. Once he has, he will not wish young Viserys' death."
"Nor Rhaenys," Ser Barristan added. Jon nodded, a sheepish smile coming to his face.
"Nor Rhaenys," he acceded. The Hand turned to the castle, wishing nothing more than to escape the noble knight's uncomfortable words.
"My Lord Hand," Ser Barristan called out behind him. Jon turned back. "You… you received word from Lord Stark?"
"Yes," Jon answered. "He sent word of Lyanna's death himself."
"Three Kingsguard were with her," Ser Barristan said. "Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Did he say what became of them?"
Jon paused a long moment.
"They… died defending Lyanna," he finally said. Defending Lyanna from her brother… "Only Lord Stark and Howland Reed survived.
"All of them?" Ser Barristan said. "Even the White Bull?"
Jon nodded reluctantly. Ser Barristan said nothing more, but turned away from the Hand and left down the corridor. Jon watched him depart for a long moment, but there was nothing he could say that would ease the pain. He knew that much. Slowly he turned in the opposite direction, wanting nothing more than the quiet and the relative peace of the Tower of the Hand.
He was only halfway across the courtyard when he found Lord Tywin Lannister in his way. The Warden of the West nodded easily as he saw the King's Hand, moving to join him leisurely.
"Lord Tywin," Jon greeted the fellow noble. "I had thought that you would depart for Casterly Rock after this time."
"Time at court has made me remember fondly the time I spent here in the past, My Lord Hand," Tywin said. Jon assumed his tone was what passed for pleasant with the western lord. "It has also seemed to agree with my daughter Cersei. She enjoys the pageantry of court. She belongs here."
"She is a rare beauty," Jon acknowledged. Lord Tywin clasped his hands behind his back as he walked with the Hand.
"And how fares the king, in the wake of such news that I have heard?" he inquired. Jon said nothing for a few steps.
"He is… grief stricken," the Hand finally managed. "He loved Lady Lyanna very much. I am afraid it will take him some days to recover."
"I remember when I lost my Joanna," Lord Tywin said. "It was no easy pain to bear. You gave also lost a wife, Lord Hand?"
"Two," Jon admitted. "It was not easy to recover."
"But a third wife has aided," Lord Tywin assumed. Jon tried to smile.
"Hopefully, in time," he posited.
"Perhaps the same would be true for our king," Lord Tywin suggested. Jon looked to him.
"So soon after the death of Lady Lyanna?" he asked. "I do not think the king would take such propositions kindly."
"Perhaps not today, and perhaps not tomorrow, but a king must marry," Lord Tywin stated. "A king without an heir may lead a kingdom to war. Stannis is too hard, and Renly too young. Some day, the king will have to marry."
"That is a problem for another day," Jon said. "A suitor I can find at a later time. Perhaps someone to the king's liking."
"Perhaps I already know of such a suitor," Lord Tywin said. Jon stopped, and turned to the noble.
"Who might this suitor be?" the Hand inquired, already guessing the answer.
"Cersei Lannister is fit to be queen," Lord Tywin said, confirming his suspicions. "She is graceful, beautiful, and knowledgeable of courtly manners. If not for the madness that took King Aerys, she would have been married to Rhaegar."
"Your daughter?" Jon said. Lord Tywin nodded.
"Do you not think it a most beneficial match?" the Warden of the West queried. "The daughter of the very lord who took King's Landing, who provided men and materials to build ships for the king's brother Stannis, who is currently dealing with the… situation in the Free Cities in which you do not wish to sully your honor?"
"You ask much," Jon said. Lord Tywin scowled.
"You need soldiers," he noted. "I have provided them. You need gold. The mines of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands have dug deep. You need agents. My own nephew seeks to strengthen King Robert's claim to the throne."
"That is a strange way to speak of killing a child," Jon said.
"A murder that you have done nothing to prevent," Lord Tywin said. "Do you think Dorne will be so quick to withdraw its support from the remaining Targaryens if they know that you have given leave to destroy the little princess?"
"This is how you wish to offer your daughter to the king?" Jon asked caustically.
"The king has a head only for beauty," Lord Tywin said, "and my daughter's beauty surpasses anything that wolf girl ever possessed. No, Lord Hand. I will present her to the king again, and you will negotiate for him to wed her. It need not be this day, but soon you will. The king will need the support of the Westerlands. Lord Tully's men and land have both been ravaged by the war. The North has lost many men, and I do not see Lord Stark in King's Landing any more. It seems as though you will need allies, should Dorne rise up and the Reach rally for the remaining dragons."
Jon could feel the trap around him. Cersei might not be his choice, but a maiden of the Vale would have to wait for another king.
"We will speak of this again," the Hand relented. Something akin to a smile passed over the Warden of the West's face.
"Indeed," Lord Tywin said. "That is all I ask."