—In the Small Council chamber—
(Six months after the Battle of King's Landing…)
Much of the Red Keep had been repaired and functional with many rooms and sections reopened for business. Along the colonnade past the map room, Tyrion was the first to arrive in the refurbished Small Council chamber. The room had been redesigned with new concrete, new marble with shades of grey and blue, two separate banners hanging from the walls showing both Baratheon and Stark, and the finishing touches included vines wrapped around the marble columns; such décor was previously used during King Robert's rule but were previously discarded in favor of stag antlers. Now that peace loomed over the Seven Kingdoms, it was back to discuss state of affairs.
"Hard to believe it's been six months already," Tyrion sighed. He looks out at the map on the floor before turning to step into the chamber. He looks at the Hand emblem on the chair at the front of the table next to the chair with the Iron Throne emblem stitched onto it before looking down at the Hand of the King's badge pinned to his chest. "Hah, suppose it's time to begin today's session."
But before he could, Tyrion noticed some of the castle designers had rearranged other chairs surrounding the table in different directions of each other. There were several more chairs than there normally was as opposed to the seven non-hereditary positions (possibly to reflect the traditions of the Faith of the Seven) – as part of Tyrion's agreement to lessen the burden on his nephew and created several more offices of his own. After all, this was a new beginning for Westeros. Still, seeing them disorganized bothered him greatly.
"Ugh, must I have to do everything? Again?" he groaned.
Sitting up, he decides to do some rearranging. Correction, he meant. Tyrion does not take long since he prefers not to be theatrical about it like the time he dragged chairs around to annoy Cersei years ago. He just wants everything to be right, all set up in an orderly fashion. His focus was temporarily disrupted by a familiar sound.
"Still my lion fusses about with the furniture," Shae arrives with a small bundle in her arms. Since being named Lady of Harrenhal and adopting the name Shae Sadelyn for herself, the Lorathi prostitute-turned-maid was given some legitimacy to rise through the ranks of nobility. Gone was the pink halter high-slit gown with the interlocking apricot belt buckle; now Shae's dress consisted of an emerald green stain dress with crimson sleeves, indicating her ties to House Lannister if not already evidenced with a golden lion pendant around her neck. "Leave it for the servants to handle. You have much on your mind already."
"Ah, my wife arrives. And with our son too. How fares little Tygett?" Tyrion asks.
Shae leans down to show him their newborn son and heir; Tygett of House Lannister, son of Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lady Shae Sadelyn of Harrenhal, their first child and heir to his father's lands and titles. When Tyrion first learned of Shae's pregnancy, the Imp was delighted to start a family of his own but overall was worried his heir would turn out the same way he did: misshapen. However, when Tygett was born, Tyrion glanced at the tiny newborn and was relieved to see all was well. No deformity, just a normal looking baby with arms and legs the same size with no enlarged head. Tyrion even joked that their son Tygett would be much taller than him in no time – a joke Shae responded by punching him in the eye.
"He's sleeping," Shae answered. She grinned that wicked grin Tyrion like so well. "But when he wakes up, oooh our little cub is a rather fussy one. Much like his father was… or rather, is."
"Oh come on, you wound me! I don't make that much of a mess."
"Suuure you don't. So, what's on today's agenda, my lord?"
"Ah, you know. Things. Much of King's Landing is up and running again, but the hardest ones that were hit during the war still need to be furnished. These projects will no doubt take at least somewhere between two to five years to complete."
"That big?"
"That big."
Hearing approaching footsteps, Tyrion sits down again in the Hand chair with Shae next to him with a sleeping Tygett in her arms.
Within moments, the rest of the Small Council arrives for today's meeting: Samwell, the new Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms; Bronn, Lord of Summerhall and the Council's first Master of Commerce; Trystane Martell, the Master of Laws and Lord Justicar; Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor and the new Master of Coin and Lord Treasurer; Davos Seaworth, now risen to rank of Lord of the Rainwood and the new Master of Ships and Lord Admiral; Bodrin, one of Daveth's best spies and the new Master of Whisperers; and Lucius Blackmyre, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Tyrion nods at them which they reciprocate as they head to their seats. Davos sits next to Tyrion's left, next to Bodrin and Trystane and Samwell. Across from Davos, Paxter sits next to Bronn and Lucius.
Samwell—having given up his family name Tarly—was donned a large grey custom made Maester's robe with several chains around his neck linking one to each other. Having forged each chain of office, they each depicted ravenry (black iron), astronomy (bronze), history (copper), electrum (astrology), gold (money and accounting), iron (warcraft), lead (poison), pale steel (smithing), silver (medicine and healing), steel (construction) and Valyrian steel (magic) respectively. Since the spat between the Citadel and the crown, the Order of Maesters conceded to the request for Samwell being named as Pycelle's replacement – albeit by a slim margin. In his arms, he carries two large books and drops one of them in front of the Hand of the King.
Tyrion looks at the book in front of him. Embossed on its leather cover, the Imp studied it closer before doing a double take. "What's this?" he asks.
"A Song of Ice and Fire," Samwell answers. "Archmaester Ebrose's history of the wars following the death of King Robert I. I… helped him with the title."
"Why? What did he call it previously?"
"It was, uh… formerly titled A Chronicle of the Wars Following the Death of King Robert I. Felt the title didn't do it justice so I asked him to write something more… poetic?"
"Poetic. Huh," Tyrion flipped the book open and grins ruefully. "I suppose I come in for some heavy criticism."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that."
Tyrion is surprised and gratified. "He's kind to me? Well. I never would have guessed." He clocks Samwell's nervous expression and is confused. "He's not kind then?"
"He…" Samwell isn't sure how to put it.
"He what? What does he say about me?"
"Didn't say much. But you are in this one," Samwell places the other book next to A Song of Ice and Fire with an audible thud. Gods, this one was just as heavy as the first one!
"And what's this one?" Tyrion looks at it.
"The Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper," he answers. "It mainly centers around the life, accomplishes and struggles of King Daveth I, but it does mention you in quite explicit detail. The Master of Whisperers, Lord Bodrin, helped provide the necessary information to the Citadel so that way Archmaester Ebrose got everything according to exact detail."
Tyrion pages through both books to verify his mentioning therein. He was only named once or twice in A Song of Ice and Fire, but he did see his name in The Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper many times. Well, at least there was someone that took the opportunity to write his name in the historical chronicles.
"Well, there's some consolation in that," Tyrion spoke. Hearing the approach of soft footsteps, he knew who was coming and closes both books.
Sansa enters with Brienne, Podrick and Ariyana at her side. The Wolf Queen entered the Small Council chamber just as regally as she was composed; her auburn hair was worn completely down, but one of the elements on her elegant royal gown that stood out was it had beautiful red beaded leaves falling from growing weirwood branches at its pattern falling from one sleeve forming what looks like a metal breastplate over the actual gown itself. There is a feathered and embroidered direwolf pelt on the edge of its feathers and fish scales across her left shoulder as a cloak. One accessory is her needle necklace pinned to her leather armor top. From afar, the pattern of Sansa's dress looked quilted, but a closer look reveals her true Northern colors—emphasizing her willingness to fight and defend herself, even if it's not in the same direct way others would.
In her arms, Sansa carried her fourth child: Prince Rickard of House Baratheon, named after her paternal grandfather Lord Rickard Stark. She had given birth to her third son last month and was well enough to walk around and always carried the one-month-old Rickard with her. Like a mother wolf, her pups were never out of her sights and she was always fiercely protective of them.
Everyone stands as Sansa nears the table and surveys them all.
"Your Grace," Tyrion acknowledges.
"Your Grace," Bodrin acknowledges.
"Your Grace," Bronn acknowledges.
"Your Grace," Paxter acknowledges.
"Your Grace," Samwell acknowledges.
"Your Grace," Trystane acknowledges.
"Your Grace," Davos acknowledges.
"Your Grace," Lucius acknowledges.
"My lords," Sansa replies. "What is the current state of the renovations to the Street of Sisters district?"
"We've had some sponsors express interest in opening several new shops and homes expanding to the Street of Silk," Tyrion said. "According to the Master of Coin, we estimate an increase in not only funding but additional revenue of 12 million Gold Dragons which we can use to provide further relief to areas still affected by the war."
"Commander Duran has mentioned in his report that the City Watch has seen an increase in volunteers, excavating the wreckage done on the Street of Steel," Trystane said.
"Good. These people have been through enough. See to it the funds we generate are donated to widows and orphans." Sansa turned to Bronn. "And what of the Master of Commerce? How fares our recent trade talks with the Free Cities?"
"Pretty much as the same goes," Bronn rolled his eyes. "Sometimes you gotta grab 'em by the balls and twist 'em hard enough to listen. Once that's done, then they'll give you what you want."
"Language!" Sansa reprimanded refers to Prince Rickard's presence. With the look in her eyes and use of words, even the Wolf Queen could make even the stubborn, mightiest tremble. Calming down, she redirected her gaze. "And what of Rhaegal? Has there been any word?" she asks.
"My little birds reported he was last seen flying east towards Volantis—" Bodrin tried to speak.
Bronn interrupted. "The farther away, the better. I think we've had enough dragons burning stuff down in our lifetime."
"Here, here," Lucius echoed. "Still, I think if ignored the dragon could one day come back. Even if it's a time of peace, we must be prepared at all times."
Sansa nodded. "I'll send a raven to my brothers at Winterfell. Perhaps Bran might know more—"
"*Waaah! Waah!*" wailed baby Rickard.
Sansa hushed her baby and rocked him, humming a quiet lullaby so he could settle down. Three pregnancies and four children were a lot for the Wolf Queen to deal with; who knows, maybe Rickard might have possibly inherited the 'wolf's blood' that's been in her family for generations? No one knows. It was too soon to tell. But as soon as Rickard started, Tygett was woken up too.
"Shhh, shhh. Easy now," Sansa hushed.
"Easy, little one," Shae repeated.
The Wolf Queen looked slightly embarrassed. It's probably around his feeding time again. Gods be good, you are a fussy little boy aren't you, Rickard? "Ah… hehe, I apologize for the interruption, my lords." She stands. "I'll go inform the King of this Council's latest report. Please do carry on with the rest."
Tyrion nodded. He now understood how exhausting raising children can be. "As you wish, Your Grace," he said. Clearing his throat, Tyrion motions for all in attendance to rise. "We serve at the pleasure of our King, Daveth the Great, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign."
With a sloppy lack of unison, the group says:
"Long may he reign," Bodrin acknowledges.
"Long may he reign," Bronn acknowledges.
"Long may he reign," Paxter acknowledges.
"Long may he reign," Samwell acknowledges.
"Long may he reign," Trystane acknowledges.
"Long may he reign," Davos acknowledges.
"Long may he reign," Lucius acknowledges.
Sansa cringes. "Long may he reign," she groaned.
Tyrion smiles apologetically. "That will improve," he reassures her.
"I'm sure it will. Good day, my lords."
Sansa turns to leave with Brienne, Ariyana and Podrick in tow behind her. Shae took this opportunity to leave with Tygett as well so she could quiet him down. Once the Queen leaves, everyone sits back down as these smart, experienced people plan a better future.
"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," Tyrion looks at him. "Lord of Summerhall, owner of the successful Fishport's Trident Vineyard and Master of Commerce – would you say the crown's debt to you has been paid?"
Bronn looked rather pleased with himself. Having killed the right people and made the right deals and acquire newfound wealth from his late wife's business, his new attire consisted of a high-quality olive-green leather doublet and well-fitted jerkin with clasps. "In full, my Lord Hand," he says proudly.
"Good. Time to start incurring a new one." Tyrion turns to Paxter. "Lord Redwyne, we have hungry people to feed. Can we expect some assistance from the Reach in this regard?"
"I believe we can. I'm sure Princess Margaery will no doubt donate a rather generous amount of crops to the capital. The Arbor will see them ferried over as soon as possible," he said.
"Lord Davos, we have an armada to build and ports upgrading."
"We have," the Onion Knight replied. "These projects will begin at once as soon as the Master of Coin provides funding and the Master of Commerce and Lord of Lofty Titles provides us the goods."
"The Master of Commerce looks forward to helping the Master of Ships, but he has to ensure we're not wasting any valuable resources or soon there won't be no more resources," Bronn suggests.
"'Any more'," Davos corrects.
"You Master of Grammar now, too?"
Stannis would have done the same thing. Daveth… he might've been annoyed. Tyrion clears his throat. "Grand Maester," he looks at Samwell, "it is my theory, based on my years of work on the Casterly Rock sewers, that clean water leads to a healthier population."
Samwell nods and begins to expound. "Based on Septon Barth's work during the reign of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, yes. The construction of drains, sewers, sinking wells, and fountains carried the city's waste from the city and provided the necessary clean drinking water. I've taken the liberty to do some further research with Archmaester Ebrose on this subject and it turns out—"
"The strong live and the weak don't," Bronn scoffs.
"Find the best builders and set them to the task," Tyrion ignores him. "Bodrin, what other reports have your little birds made?"
"Interesting wrinkle: word of Daenerys Targaryen's downfall by King Daveth spread not just to Meereen, but throughout the city-states along the Bay of Dragons," he reported. "Not long after their leaders heard of the Dragon Queen's death, Meereen's regent… no, Mereen's former regent, Daario Naharis, tried mobilizing an army for an invasion. But unfortunately, the power vacuum created a window of opportunity. Our response was as immediate as it was swift. So I arranged for… an accident."
"What kind of accident?"
"He was quickly assassinated. As for the Unsullied exiled on Naath, they no longer have the means necessary to oppose or resist us. I think they understand the position they're in quite clearly. Essos has now been made aware of what happens if any who dare tries to invade us. No doubt the world will follow suit in not wanting to invoke the Oathkeeper's fury."
"Good. We could all use some peace and quiet for a few years. That'll give us time to rebuild."
"Oh, speaking of rebuilding," Bronn chimed in, "all the best brothels burned down. We could rebuild those to generate more coin."
Lucius gives him a disapproving look.
"Uh… the Archmaester is less than enthusiastic about the salutary effects of brothels," Samwell discouraged.
"I imagine he isn't using 'em properly."
"If we're going to rebuild anything," the Old Bull voiced his opinion, "then it should start with our homes, our fleets, and defenses. These things should take priority over brothels, lad. You of all people should know this."
"I think that's a very presumptuous statement, old man!"
Tyrion shook his head. Giving a small smile, it reminded him of a joke. "You know, I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel… The Madame asked, 'what can we do for you?' I said, 'I need a woman to lay with, for mine has left me.' The Madame asked 'You poor thing; whatever for? And why do you have a jackass and a honeycomb?' 'Well,' I answered, 'my woman stumbled upon a sorcerer, and he granted her 3 wishes. The first was to have the nicest ass in the land, so he gave her this jackass. Her second wish was for a 'house fit for a queen', so he gave her this beehive.' The Madame asked, 'And what was the third wish?' 'For her third wish, my woman asked the sorcerer to make my cock hang past down my knee.' 'Well, that one's not so bad!' the Madame exclaimed. ''Not so bad!?'', I replied, 'I used to be 6 foot 3!'"
—Outside—
Folding his arms, Daveth stood in the courtyard with his three children, plus Myrcella and Tommen. Watching them all. 4-year-olds Lyonel and Cassana were playing with each other while Myrcella held 1-year-old Torrhen's little hands in hers as she helped him walk after the child stumbled whilst still holding onto little Nymerios.
"That's it. Good boy, Torrhen! One step at a time. Good boy," Myrcella cheered him on.
Torrhen responded with a giggle.
The Young Stag folded his arms. This was it now. True to his word, he was spending more time with his family and had plenty of time on his hands. The burdens on his shoulders had been lessened with the Small Council taking on more responsibilities; competent, abled bodies blessed with talent keeping the realm afloat as it rebuilds instead of power-hungry, sycophants blindly following orders to one individual alone. Not that way, not ever again. Now, history would propel them forward—not backward. The process wasn't easy, the road to get here was long and hard.
But in the end… it was worth it.
He glanced down at the pendant in his hand; his fingers still brushed against the old medallion he held since his tenth nameday. Blue with a white falcon on a crescent moon. Daveth gave a small smile in reminisce.
"Today is the dawn of a new age. Isn't that right, my boy?" a voice echoed.
Daveth flinched and spun around.
"You've done well, child. You've conquered the darkness within you and usher in the dawn," said another.
Again, he turned to find where it was coming from. Seven hells, he swore he was losing his mind. It took a moment, but he realized those to voices came from Barristan Selmy and Jon Arryn; ghosts from his past, reminding the Young Stag he was not alone. That his friends and family long gone were still watching over him from the afterlife.
Daveth lowered his head, shaking it before letting out a quiet chuckle. Yes, it is, Ser Barristan. Lord Arryn. But I didn't do this alone. Now… now you may rest in peace, and the winds of this age shall lift you high into the heavens.
Lyonel and Cassana ran over and jumped at their father.
"Ngh!" Daveth groaned.
"Teehee! Hi, papa!" the twins greeted playfully. The elder twin carried a big stick in his hand whilst the younger wore a makeshift flower crown on her head.
"Well, that's one way to get my attention, pups."
"Come play with us, papa!" they beckoned.
"In a moment. We still have to wait for your mother first."
"Pwomise?"
"I promise. Now go play with your aunt 'Cella."
"Okie!"
With that, they ran off to join their aunt and brother. Torrhen by that point was walking by himself and would pretend to chase his elder siblings around the courtyard. Myrcella clapped her hands in promoting her nephews and niece in their games. Daveth stood and brushed the dirt off himself; just in time as Sansa arrived with the now-sleeping Rickard.
"There you are. I wondered where you were," Sansa remarked.
Daveth glanced at her. "Uncle Tyrion didn't tell you?" he asked.
"No. He's busy chairing today's Small Council session. Not that he would have told me otherwise. But I suppose it shouldn't surprise me to find you here. Ser Barristan once told me you would always sneak off to this area as a boy."
"It has a good view of the city." He exhales. "Hard to believe it's been six months. How have you been feeling lately?"
Sansa rested her head on his shoulder. "You mean after the delivery last month? I'm fine, love." She presents Rickard. "Here he is, little one. Here he is. Daddy's here," she cooed.
Daveth looked down at the baby who was now waking up. Opening his mouth to yawn, Rickard stuck his tongue out. He didn't have any teeth. But the Young Stag felt sentimental about his ever-growing family.
"Would you like to hold him?" Sansa offered.
He blinked. "What?"
"Our son. Would you like to hold him?"
Hesitant at first, Daveth slowly offered his hands. Sansa smiled and placed Rickard in his father's arms, gently at first until the baby's head was rested against Daveth's right arm. Once the transfer was complete, Daveth was trying hard to keep his newborn son in his arms. By the Gods, he looked nervous. He didn't want to drop him by accident! Rickard looked up at his father with his big blue eyes; so innocent and pure.
"Awww, how cute!" Myrcella notices and came over. "Hello there, Rickard. It's me, your auntie 'Cella! Look at him, sister-in-law, he looks like you.~"
"You think so?"
"I do. Look. He's got your face."
"That's what the wet nurses said when he was born, that he looks a great deal like me." Sansa turns to her husband. "But I'm the only one who sees his father in him."
"Lemme see!" Lyonel beckoned. "Lemme see!"
"Manners," Sansa scolded her firstborn son.
"Sowwy, mama. Can I see pwease?"
Daveth shifted his posture and dropped down to one knee. Lyonel and Cassana looked to see their new baby brother, who looked at them with faint curiosity. There was so much of the world shown to Rickard that he wanted to see more of. Torrhen waddled his way over and held onto his sister's dress firmly.
"Wickad?" Cassana tried pronouncing his name.
"Close enough, sweetling, but yes," Sansa told her daughter. "Children, your father and I would like to introduce you to your new brother. Rickard. Be gentle now, okay? He's just a baby."
Lyonel and Cassana poked their baby brother's cheeks; Rickard squeaked at his brother and sister but giggled at the attention he was getting and gripped each of their fingers. Torrhen, on the other hand, was rather curious about what was going on. Pretty soon, Lyonel and Cassana were quick to make funny noises and faces at Rickard. The baby was laughing at such tricks. Sansa smiled – knowing they were being good big brothers and sister to the newest member of their family.
Hours had passed.
Sansa told Daveth about what she was informed by the Small Council. He listened to the reports and nodded. Over the following six months since the Battle of King's Landing, the Seven Kingdoms were quick to start rebuilding areas that bore the brunt of the War for Westeros. The Reach and the Riverlands were the most fertile lands in the realm and did their best to provide food for all, followed by trade with the Free Cities of Essos. Other administrative regions that were largely left intact or unharmed was the Vale of Arryn.
To the surprise of nearly all, Daveth had sent word to start rebuilding the Iron Islands—the same archipelago he had destroyed in the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. Not only would the Iron Islands be rebuilt, but Theon Greyjoy would be able to return home; the new Lord Reaper of Pyke had vowed to bring a permanent end to the iron price and instead reinstate the policies of his grandfather Quellon: opposed to the Old Way, freeing thralls, discouraging the taking of salt wives, encouraging marriage alliances with the mainland and bringing maesters to the Isles.
"It's been a long time since all this began," Daveth mused.
"I see a time of great peace and prosperity ahead," Sansa agreed.
"And how is it you see this?"
"Look around you. Where once the noble houses waged war against each other, they instead cooperate with one another. Instead of petty squabbles, we now have a sense of calm."
"But how long will it last?"
"We cannot plan for every possibility, my husband," Sansa says. "People will make their own choices. New evils will arise to replace the old. Each kingdom must choose its own path to follow." She gripped his hand. "But whatever those choices, we will face them together."
Daveth nodded. "We will be ready. Until then," he glances at their children, "we could at least enjoy ourselves with those who matter most."
Sansa nodded. "Children! It's time to come back in!" she called out.
"Comin', mama!"
Chapter End
Author's Note: Another chapter is done. Tyrion chairs the Small Council on behalf of his nephew and created more offices to take some of the burdens off him, but what is more surprising is the Imp of House Lannister has a family of his own—continuing the lion's bloodline to the new generation. Old and new faces have been appointed to the Small Council, some have been associated with Daveth himself. And considering six months have passed, Sansa Stark has given birth to another baby boy—Rickard Baratheon. What are your thoughts about the fourth child? Stay tuned for more updates!
Tohka123: Really enjoying the story, keep up the hard work
jeremiahkelley93: great 2 chapters.
GREAT CELESTIAL-DRAGON: Can't believe it's almost over! But so damn awesome, seen the trope, needs some updates but clearly someone who reviewed it is obviously a troll but loved the story! Smashed Ricardo would later inherit sansa's hair colour, mean most of her siblings have brown hair but be interesting how they think of his future and his siblings.