Chapter 6- A lovely day for a tourney
Nat's cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling. Usually this only happened at extended festivities and ceremonies, but when it came to Laina the prince couldn't help himself. She simply made the smiles rise from his belly to his lips. Said lips were frequently occupied when around Laina, but not for the moment, much to the prince's dismay. Unfortunately for his lips, it was time to discuss business.
Nat reached for the chair tucked neatly under his writing desk and spun it around. Arms crossed over the chair's back and legs sticking out on either side, the prince studied the woman sitting at the corner of his bed as she spoke.
The afternoon sunlight gleamed in shimmers off of her hair. She smelled sweet, despite her journey through the Red Keep's dankest tunnels, like a freshly plucked rose straight from Myrcella's garden. He would have to pay his sister a visit soon and acquire something nice for Laina, under the guise that it was all for Sansa Stark, of course. He would save the girl something, but a woman such as Laina deserved the best Westeros could offer, he thought.
"Nat?" she called.
Ah, his mind had been drifting again.
"Pardon me, what was it you were saying?" the prince cooed.
A smug smile crept across Laina's cheeks as she cocked her head at him. She knew how much that would irritate him. "I swear by the Old gods and the New," she nearly whispered. "It's a shame you're a Baratheon, with the amount of time your head spends in the clouds you'd fit right in at the Eyrie."
Nat returned her smile, "A shame you haven't learned your manners by now, I think I might have to dock your pay for the month," he said, ducking under a pillow aimed at his head.
Her eyes softened as her smile faded into a frown, "As much as I would love to engage in pillow combat with you, we should save the games for later, my prince, I'll remind you that I have important information regarding the death of Jon Arryn."
Nat closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, she was right, he'd been on edge for weeks since he'd received her letter, just because he was elated to be home didn't mean that Laina's words could be ignored. "Proceed," he told her.
Laina tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and leaned forwards, resting her elbows on her knees. "As you know, Lord Arryn was seen several times entering a brothel, Chataya's brothel, in the weeks prior to his death," she began.
Nat nodded. Chataya's brothel was an establishment he knew well, Miana Granes, one of his other contacts, and frequent bedside company, was of its employ. The brothel was a favorite of the king as well. Jon Arryn would have known this.
"Miana corroborated the eyewitness accounts for me, Lord Arryn visited perhaps once every two weeks, never on the same day, and always left without partaking in the brothel's services," Laina continued.
Nat's brow scrunched up. He hadn't expected Lord Arryn to partake in whoring, it was beneath the man's honor, but for what reason would he so frequently visit the Street of Silk if not for its whores? Several of the theories he had come up with in the past few weeks crossed his mind. The prince sighed, he couldn't decide which of them was the most plausible, he was never one for detective work and the sheer number of possibilities gave him a headache. Thankfully, he had Laina with him to sort out the pieces.
"What do you make of this?" he asked her, rubbing his temples.
The whore stifled the sentence on her tongue and tapped her index finger on her lower lip as she did when she was thinking. Nat loved to watch her think, Laina was amongst his favorite people for many reasons, but chief among them was her mind.
"I've thought about it quite a lot, and at first glance it's perplexing, I asked Miana to question some of Chataya's other whores, discretely of course," she tacked on, noting the prince's expression. "According to them, all Lord Arryn did in his time was talk to one specific whore, a woman who had given birth to a daughter just months prior."
Nat frowned. What would a trivial whore in Chataya's brothel mean to him? Certainly nothing unless she were connected to someone important. Since Nat's own business in the brothel was limited to Miana, the only other person of interest must be-
"My father," the prince concluded.
Laina met his gaze and nodded, "I had the same thought, there's a very good chance the whore, and her daughter, are connected to King Robert, and if I were to bet, I would say that he's fathered a bastard."
Nat stood slowly and shoved the chair back under his desk with a barely restrained thud. The bastard. The whoring itself was disgraceful enough for a married man of his stature, but to father bastards? Royal bastards? He ran his right hand through his thick black hair. No…he wasn't much better…and this shouldn't be a surprise to him. If anything, it was a miracle only one bastard had been identified. Nat felt, of all emotions, a sharp pang of pain well up in his chest. Months of effort had led to this? No closer to solving the murder of Jon Arryn and a bastard sibling? He felt like tearing the Red Keep to the ground.
He felt the fingers on his left hand unpeel themselves from his palm one by one, a smaller, softer set interlocking with them as Laina made her way to his side. She had known the prince for many years and could feel his frustration.
"Don't lose your hope, my Nat, we've got a real lead now, we've only got to sort out what the Lord Hand was planning on doing with the knowledge of the King's bastard and we'll be able to discern who killed him," she whispered. "He will be avenged."
And with that, Nat felt his anger begin the slow process of dispelling. Laina had a way of calming him with just her presence and a few words that not another soul in all the Seven Kingdoms could hope to match. Truly, she was a light in a winter storm.
Nat raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Thank you, please send Miana my thanks as well…we'll have to look into this further in the coming weeks."
Laina smiled faintly, satisfied with her prince's response. She snaked her hands up to his neck, standing on her toes to wrap her arms around him, "Of course, now tell me, is the Warden of the North really so unbearable that you need send me a dozen complaints in the span of a month?"
Nat laughed deeply. "Oh he's quite dull and closed off, the stories about him are accurate, but he's a good man, I think; we'll do well to have a man of such honor as our Lord Hand," he said, pecking her cheek.
She laughed in that way that she did when she couldn't believe the words she was hearing, "Oh? And what of the rest of the Starks? I heard his daughters accompanied him South," she asked.
Nat quickly lost his smile at the mention of the Stark girls. He had specifically neglected to mention his betrothal to Sansa Stark in his correspondence with Laina for fear of her reaction. He had determined it would be more honorable to break the woman's heart when he was in the same kingdom as she was.
Nat unraveled himself from her embrace, to the woman's confusion. He glanced down at the stone flooring of his bedchambers, wishing he were anywhere else in Westeros at the moment. At last, the heir to the Iron Throne gently held her shoulders, and opened his mouth.
"An unforeseen goal of my father's trip North had to do with Lord Stark's eldest daughter," he spoke slowly and quietly, "My father intends to marry me off to her to preserve the North's loyalty."
Laina's inquisitive face melted into a one that was rarely worn in the prince's presence: one of pain. "You- well, you aren't going to accept being married off to a child, are you?" she seemed to squeak.
Nat exhaled, reaching for her arm before she quickly pulled away, "Laina…I've told you I'd marry you if I could but-"
The whore scoffed and back away from him as though he were plague stricken, "I can't believe you'd give into that oaf's will on this of all subjects!"
Nat grit his teeth. Laina knew the crime she had committed insulting the king, especially in his presence: she was plainly livid to speak so loosely. It wasn't as though he wanted to marry Sansa Stark, couldn't she see that? Did she really think that she meant so little to the prince that he wouldn't try to get out of the betrothal?
"Laina, I cannot avoid politics forever, if not Sansa Stark then it'll be another…" the prince thought back to his conversation with the king months prior in Winterfell, "someone must bear my children and keep the royal line going!"
Laina turned to him, tears welling in her eyes. Nat's heart sank. He had expected this conversation to be difficult, but he had never seen her so hurt in all their years together. It was clear that the mention of children, the ones that she could never bear for him as a whore, had crossed a line for the woman.
"Well…it seems you've made up your mind then," she said before making her way for the door. She gave the wood a quick double tap, the signal for Ammett to guide her back to the Keep's tunnels so that she could exit the palace without arousing suspicion.
"Laina!" Nat called as she reached for the door's handle. The whore turned to him, her pale-green eyes growing red as the pain of their hopeless situation dug its way further into her heart. "If I had any say…it would be you, no other."
She glanced down at the floor, looking as though she wanted to respond. To the prince's dismay, she said nothing as she slipped from his bedchambers, leaving the stench of betrayal and heartbreak to stir with him for the rest of the evening.
~0~0~0~
The prince was sluggish as he made his way towards the Hand's chambers the next morning. His fight with Laina had stayed with him all through the night and he had been awake late into the night thinking of more points he could have brought up to her. He hated leaving her on a disagreement. On the rare occasion it did happen Laina was cold to him for weeks, and never had their arguments been about something so important to their relationship. Why couldn't she see that he had no say in this either? Curse the king for putting them in this situation.
Nat shook his head and straightened his back. He would have to leave thoughts of Laina for later, he had more pressing matters to consider. By coincidence, one of those pressing matters in Lord Eddard Stark was approaching him.
"Ah! My Lord Hand, just the man I wanted to see!" Nat cried in faux cheer, raising a hand to the Warden of the North.
By the look of him, Nat could guess that Eddard was as troubled as he, if not more.
"My Prince," Eddard acknowledged with a nod of his head. "Do you have a moment?"
Nat chuckled boisterously, "Weren't you listening? I decided to spend a fraction of my precious hours coming to speak with you, my Lord- of course! What is troubling you?"
Eddard gave him a quizzical look before sighing and motioning for Nat to walk with him down the hall. "I met with Robert yesterday evening to discuss the tournament as we had discussed-"
"I take it he was a stubborn old boar?" Nat asked, looking straight ahead as they walked.
Eddard glanced up at him, "That's one way of putting it, yes…he insists on a tournament."
Nat snickered bitterly, "Of course he does; say what you will of the man but at least he's consistent in his foolishness."
Eddard tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, a nervous tick the prince noted, before continuing, "I must proceed as the king desires but I've no clue how to avoid the strain this will further place on the Crown's coffers."
Nat smirked, "And you've come to ask my sage advice?"
The Hand grumbled, "In a way, what do you make of this? What would you do if you were king?"
Nat smiled; it was nice to know that the new Hand of the King was smart enough to understand who to consult in matters of the Crown's affairs. "My my, Lord Stark, you must be careful with your volume or someone will think you're seeking to replace my father!" he joked.
Eddard's gaze was steely, the Quiet Wolf was truly no fun at all.
"There are several paths we could take to solve this issue, none of them particularly safe," Nat began as they rounded a corner. "We could refuse to do as my father demands and thus incite his wrath for one."
Eddard grimaced at the thought.
"But of course that would be foolish, and one doesn't combat foolishness with foolishness so it's not the route we shall take," the prince continued. "We could simply bend to my father's will and throw the Crown into further debt in order to avoid the headache and resign ourselves to cleaning up the mess later but that, alas, would be more foolishness."
"Then what shall we do, my Prince?" Eddard asked with a pinch of impatience.
The prince smiled and stopped, turning towards the Lord of Winterfell, "We need a way to ensure minimal expense in this endeavor, namely the prizes to be awarded to the victors in which there is a simple, albeit risky solution: I shall enter the tournament."
Eddard's eyes widened, "But my Prince these tournaments are dangerous! Surely we cannot risk your safety for-"
Nat held up a palm to quiet him. "I've participated in tournaments all my life, Lord Stark, I've been trained by the very best in all manners of combat," the prince held his arms out before the him and a shadow came over his face, "I am our ace-in-the-hole so to speak; I shall win both contests and thus save us sixty thousand gold dragons or I shall die trying."
Nat stood to his full height and clapped the very uncomfortable man on the shoulder, "No need to worry Lord Stark, that last bit was only a joke though I can see you don't quite understand my sense of humor, ah well, I am off to court your daughter!"
And with that, the Warden of the North was left alone to stare at the limestone floor of the hall and contemplate the danger before him.
~0~0~0~
The Iron Throne in all its intimidating glory towered over the small figures of Sansa Stark and her tutor, Septa Mordane, as they worked their way through a brief overview of Sansa's future role as queen.
"Someday your husband will sit there, and you will sit by his side. And one day, before long, you will present your son to the court," at this suggestion, the eldest Stark daughter made a face. "All the lords and ladies of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince!" the Septa explained.
"What if I have a girl?" Sansa wondered aloud.
The Septa laughed, "Gods be good you'll have boys and girls, and lots of them!"
Sansa gazed up fearfully towards the throne. Her future little princes and princesses had been the subject of her thoughts for ages, but recently a new intrusive, terrifying thought had come into her mind: "What if I only have girls?"
The Septa quickly dismissed her concern, "Oh I wouldn't worry about that."
"Jeyne Poole's mother had five children, all of them girls," Sansa insisted.
"Yes, but that's highly unlikely-"
"But what if?" Sansa asked, feeling the pressure of the towering mass of swords on her shoulders.
The Septa paused and looked up at the Iron Throne, as if seeing the unpleasant scenario unfolding before her, "If you only had girls, I suppose the throne would pass onto Prince Nat's younger brother Joffrey."
Sansa shrank before the throne as the Septa seemed to confirm her fears, "And everyone will hate me!"
The Septa touched the girl's arm, "No one could ever hate you, Sansa."
Sansa almost laughed, "Prince Joffrey hates me! I'm sure that Nat hates me now too- you should have seen how he looked at me after the king asked me to tell him what I saw!"
The Septa frowned, "Nonsense! Why would you say such a thing?" she thought for a moment. "What you saw…is this about the business with the wolves? Sansa, I've told you a hundred times that a direwolf is not-"
At this point, Sansa had heard enough. "Please, shut up about it."
The Septa frowned once more before deciding to move on, "Do you remember your lessons? Who built the Iron Throne?"
"Aegon the Conqueror."
"And who built the Red Keep?"
"Maegor the Cruel."
"And how many years did it take to build-"
"My grandfather and uncle were murdered here, weren't they?" Sansa interrupted.
The Septa nearly choked, "Yes, they were executed on the order of King Aerys."
"The Mad King," Sansa said, face a blank slate.
"Commonly known as the Mad King, yes," the Septa sighed.
"Why were they killed?" Sansa asked.
"You should really ask your father about such things-"
"She's also welcome to ask me, though I'm known to be a bit blunt about such matters," a voice called from behind them.
Sansa's heart leapt into her throat. It was Nat! Had the Crown Prince been listening the entire time? She felt her cheeks grow hot.
"M-my Prince," Sansa curtsied.
She peaked up at him and caught his eye. She could hardly believe how handsome he was. Stories of brave knights, noble princes and princesses had filled her head since childhood, but never could Sansa have imagined she'd be betrothed to such a man. His eyes twinkled down at her knowingly. She was sure he could sense her tension.
"Pardon my interruption, Septa Mordane, but would it be alright for Sansa to join me on a walk through my sister's garden?"
Sansa looked up at the Septa, eyes pleading. The Septa sighed and nodded, "Oh, I suppose that's enough for today…"
Sansa smiled broadly and took the prince's outstretched arm, excited to spend more time with the man, even if she wasn't quite sure what he thought of her yet.
~0~0~0~
Myrcella's Garden was like a cool gust of air amid the burning red limestone of the rest of the Red Keep. Greenery stretched across every pathway in arches and twists. Hedges lined the cobblestone pathways with flowers in every imaginable color tucked away at their roots. The sweet scent of honey and plant life was nearly overwhelming. Sansa had only been in King's Landing for two days, but she had already found her favorite place in the city. The North was full of wildlife but not in such splendor and variety as only a few steps into the princess's garden; Sansa could spend ages in here without tiring of the environment.
She looked up and to her left to behold her betrothed staring straight ahead, leading her through the garden at an easy pace. His eyes were dull and unfocused as he guided them along the pathway, like he was working his way to their destination on memory alone. Sansa couldn't help but feel disappointed, when the prince had asked her to walk with him, she had assumed that the two of them would spend time getting to know one another rather than this slow silence that she had already become comfortable in. She studied his distracted expression and a thought occurred to her that she'd nearly forgotten in all the excitement of the city. One that she hoped might ignite the embers of conversation.
"My Prince," she began. "I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me."
Nat's emerald eyes seemed to snap back into focus, drawing him away from whatever distant place he had been in before. "Forgive me Lady Sansa, but what is it you mean?" he asked.
Sansa blushed, she probably should have been more specific. "For protecting Lady for me, is what I meant, on the Kingsroad?"
Nat's expression softened and a smile crept across his features, "Think nothing of it! I'd be a poor prince to let such an injustice occur in my own kingdom, wouldn't I?"
Sansa's blue eyes shone with delight that her idea had worked. She hardly knew the prince, but he was just so…good. So considerate and noble and intelligent. Every time they had spoken he had further demonstrated his nobility to her. This was the prince that she wanted to fall in love with. All of the worry that had clouded her mind over the last several weeks seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had come. Septa Mordane had been right, Nat couldn't hate her when he spoke to her so sweetly. A man like him would make a fine king someday, she just hoped she could make a fine queen to match him.
"How have you been adjusting to your surroundings, Lady Sansa? I trust the southern climate has been to your liking?"
Sansa nodded, "It's strange being so far from the North, but I'm quite enjoying the grandeur of the city already!"
Nat smiled at her and gestured toward a bench as they entered a courtyard near the center of the garden. The two nobles sat side by side and took in their surroundings. The hedges here were much higher than those at the edges of the garden so that seated one couldn't be seen past them, not even one so tall as the prince.
Sansa observed as he leaned back on his haunches, eyes closed taking in the heat. The light seemed to accent his features, contrasting his groomed dark hair with its golden hues. And just like that, they returned to the comfortable silence they had been in only minutes before. Sansa furrowed her brow as she remembered the words her mother had said to her months ago.
When I first married your father I didn't think much of him, nor he of me, but we grew to respect and love one another over time, that's what makes for a proper marriage, love her words echoed.
She had chosen to ignore those words in Winterfell, but now they wouldn't leave her head. What did the prince think of her, really? Reflecting now on all their interactions together, Sansa could hardly think of a conversation that hadn't gone in the same direction as the one they were currently having was; all pleasantries but nothing much of substance. A pit of worry reformed in her chest. She had initially taken this to be a good sign, that the two of them were getting along, but shouldn't they be having real conversations by now? After months of betrothal?
"My prince," Sansa started carefully. "Why did you ask me on this walk?"
The prince opened his eyes and cocked his head at her, that familiar toothy smile quickly formed on his face. "I beg your pardon, my lady?"
"Well, it seems we've exchanged quite a number of pleasantries over the last several months," she said quickly. "I was just wondering if that was all you wanted from this talk as well."
Something changed in the prince's expression. For a brief moment, just a flash, it seemed as though he didn't know what to say. That was strange. The prince had never seemed to run out of words to say before.
"Please forgive me, Lady Sansa, for my ignorance," he said holding up his palms. "You see, it was my understanding that courting subsisted mostly of such pleasantries and time spent in one another's company; I thought we-"
The prince stopped cold and his expression shifted drastically. Sansa nearly gasped at how quickly his warm tone and appearance had collapsed into the cold deadpanned look that he now wore on his face. He was staring across the courtyard, to a figure behind the small fountain at its center. Crouched there was a woman in pale pink robes, tending to the purple lilies that rested on the surface of the water. She was gorgeous and looked older than either Sansa or the prince from the look of her. Her hair glowed in the midday sun, cascading elegantly down her shoulders. Her face was soft and womanly as was her figure. She looked more like a noblewoman than her simple dress said that she was. Glancing back towards the prince, Sansa noticed that his knuckles were now white as his hands clenched around the fabric of his tunic.
"M-my Prince-" she sputtered before he stood and marched quickly towards the woman who had only just noticed the two of them and was smiling softly. Unsure of what to do, Sansa hurried after Nat who had already reached the fountain.
"Excuse me, my Lady," the prince said through grit teeth. "I've reserved the gardens for my private use for the next two hours- you must have seen the guards stationed at the entrance-you aren't supposed to be here," he accentuated the last few words.
The woman was shorter than Sansa, but her presence was much stronger. Her light green eyes flashed with a similar fire as the prince's as she spoke. "Oh I apologize, my Prince," she said with a melodic, crystalline voice. "I had just noticed that so many of the flowers in this courtyard hadn't yet bloomed, I just thought it a strange place for anyone to want to spend much time."
Sansa's frowned. Most of the flowers in this part of the garden are in bloom…but what is she even doing here, who is this woman?
A vein on the prince's temple began to bulge and his face, usually tanned from the southern sun, had taken on a strange red color. "Perhaps the flowers aren't quite in bloom yet, but they're still of the proper pedigree for a garden such as this one; where else would I be expected to spend my time?"
The woman's smile had faded and Sansa noted that she too was clenching her fists now. "Pardon my assumption, my Prince, but it still seems strange to me that someone of your intellect and ability would willingly choose to enter this garden at all! Surely you could find another garden if you worked hard enough!" she was shouting now.
Sansa looked back and forth between the two of them and began to grow heated herself. Who was this strange woman that thought she could talk to the prince in such a tone? Surely Nat would have her arrested or expelled from the city?
Nat closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and began to speak with a slow, restrained rage, "For a prince, there is no other garden I could choose, even though I wish there were; I'll ask you kindly to understand that, my Lady and to leave this garden before you get into trouble."
"But it's not fair!" she screamed.
Sansa was taken aback. Not only did the prince continue to disgrace himself by continuing to let this…woman disrespect him, but now he allowed her to defy his authority? What was going on? Sansa had to say something.
"Excuse me, but you need to leave! You've already spoiled a lovely afternoon walk and I won't stand for-"
"Sansa, for once I am asking you to know your place and SHUT UP!" Nat rounded on her.
Sansa choked on the rest of her sentence and brought a hand to her chest, taking a few steps back. This wasn't right…Sansa was defending his honor as any good wife would be expected to do, and he was angry with her? She had heard stories of the famous Baratheon temper and knew the words of the Great House like she knew that of so many others: Ours is the Fury. It seemed Nat was not the exception to the standard she had mistaken him to be.
Tears began to well in her eyes. Sansa had of course been scolded before, but never had she been so shouted at so fiercely. Even her father had never gotten so harsh with her before. The worries about this betrothal came rushing back to her. The doubts, the fear, and the anxiety hit her all at once. If there was a temper like this buried within the prince, one that could erupt so suddenly, there seemed little hope left for the gentle and proper marriage that her mother had described from coming to pass. Was the prince more like the king than she had thought, or rather hoped that he would be? It seemed so.
"Forgive me, my Prince," Sansa said as she held back tears. "I should return to Septa Mordane, I don't want to get too far behind on my lessons!" she squeaked as she turned and rushed from the garden.
The Prince groaned and rubbed his temples as he and Laina watched his betrothed flee from the garden. "She's nothing but a child," Laina declared. Nat whipped his head back to her and leaned in close.
"What in the name of the Seven did you think you'd be doing by pulling this stunt? Did you really think you would change my mind by infiltrating the Red Keep like this? How did you even get in here?" he hissed.
Laina met his eyeline with a cold glare, "I told Ammett I had more important information for you that just couldn't wait, he's a loyal one but far too gullible, you know."
Nat sighed and laced his fingers together behind the back of his head. He was angry. Angry at Laina, at his father, at the marriage he was being forced into by his role as a prince, but within all of the anger was a sense of exhaustion. Laina was right, Sansa Stark was a child. A child with clearly unrealistic expectations and an apparent ignorance in her view of the world that far too many noblemen and women in Westeros held. He didn't want to marry or father children with her. He hardly wanted to interact with her. By all of his own thinking, the woman he should be betrothed to was standing a few feet to his left. But what could he really do in the face of the future of his country?
Glancing down at the still heated Laina his heart ached. If only Westerosi society would see the vibrant life and energy in the Smallfolk that he did. The value in them. Then maybe…no, there was no use wondering what might be in a different world. This was the world they lived in, and it wouldn't change easily, not for them.
"Laina, I cannot change my circumstances and you know that…this was entirely inappropriate of you and I am asking you as your friend, as your lover, to walk away now before any more mistakes are made," he spoke mournfully.
Laina looked up at him with icy green eyes and said nothing for several moments as she looked into his eyes, searching. Then, without a word, she turned and strode from the garden, leaving the prince frustrated and alone.
~0~0~0~
The members of the Small Council under King Robert I Baratheon sat in silence in the afternoon light. The Small Council Chamber was silent except for the slow tapping of the Commander of the City Watch, Janos Slynt's foot as the lords awaited the arrival of the sole remaining member of the council.
Ned leaned forward on the long table before him, sifting his fingers through his dark hair, "The Crown Prince isn't…usually, this late I would presume?" he asked.
Grand Maester Pycelle shook his head fervently, long chains clinking around his neck, "No, no, I assure you my Lord Hand, the Crown Prince is the epitome of timeliness and responsibility!"
"Such sweet words, Grand Maester, you flatter me," a voice called from the hallway.
Nat entered, closing the heavy chamber door behind him and quickly taking his seat at the head of the table. "Please forgive my tardiness, my Lords, I'm afraid I was caught up in some personal matters," he sighed, catching Ned's eye as he settled into his chair.
Petyr cocked his head slightly, resting his cheek in his palm, "Oh a personal matter, well if it's anything of worry you should certainly inform us; the members of the Small Council are here to assist the King, after all."
Nat flashed his Lion's Grin, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Lord Baelish, but I'm only a prince and thus my personal matters shall stay personal."
Petyr returned his smile, "Oh that's correct, how could I forget?"
Janos Slynt cleared his throat and raised a gloved hand slightly, "Pardon me my Prince, Lord Baelish, but might we address the matter I've come to speak of?"
Like clockwork, Nat corrected his posture, clasped his hands before him on the long table and put on his Lion's Grin, nodding to the commander. Eddard marveled at how quickly the prince switched personas. He had heard of the years that the prince had spent at Casterly Rock being fostered by his grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister, this must be the result of years spent under the master politician's tutelage.
"It's the Hand's Tournament that's been causing all this trouble, my Lords," Janos explained.
Eddard waved a hand in dismissal, "The King's tournament, I assure you the hand wants no part of it."
The man's face dropped somewhat, "Call it what you will, Lord Stark Ser, the city is packed with people and more flooding in everyday. Last night we had a tavern riot, a brothel fire, three stabbings and a drunken horse race down the Street of Sisters!"
The prince whistled, "That's quite a lot for one night."
"Dreadful," Varys concurred.
"If you can't keep the King's peace, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone who can," Renly suggested.
Janos's round head began to resemble a ripe tomato, Nat thought, as the lords of the Small Council added their opinions one after the other. "I need more men," he insisted gruffly.
"You'll get fifty; Lord Baelish will see that it's paid for," Eddard announced.
"I will?"
"You found money for the champion's purse, you can find money to keep the King's peace; you'll also get twenty of my household guard until the crowds have left," he continued.
Nat chuckled and stuck his thumb towards Eddard, "Isn't he noble? The stories about your honor don't do you justice, Lord Stark!" he declared.
Eddard gave the prince a grim look before turning to the rest of the council, "If there's nothing else, my Lords?"
With nothing else on their agenda, the lords of the Small Council stood and made their way out of the chamber, past the guards stationed at the entrance one by one. "The heat! On days like this I envy you northerners and your summer snows," Pycelle said, fanning himself as he hobbled towards the chamber door. "Until tomorrow, my Lord."
"I'd been hoping to speak to you about Jon Arryn," Eddard said from behind the long table.
The Grand Maester turned to face Eddard, "Lord Arryn? His death was a great sadness to all of us. I took personal charge of his care, but I could not save him. His sickness struck him very hard and very fast. I saw him I my chambers just the night before he passed; Lord Jon often came to me for council!" he summarized.
"Why?"
"I've been Grand Maester for many years, Kings and Hands have come to me for advice since-"
"What did Jon want the night before he died?" Eddard pressed.
"He came inquiring after a book."
"A book? What book?"
Pycelle shook his head, "I fear it would be of little interest to you, my Lord- a ponderous tome."
"I'd like to read it," Eddard insisted.
Pycelle nodded to the Hand of the King and motioned for him to follow him to his chambers. Eddard rounded the table and the two men quickly made their way out of the Small Council chamber to continue their conversation, passing a tall City Watch guard with tanned skin and dark eyes.
Lord Stark is inquiring about the death of Jon Arryn? Ammett thought to himself, back straightened as he stared down the hallway after the two men. I'd better make contact with the Prince as soon as possible, this is likely something he'll want to know about.
~0~0~0~
Jon Snow stood atop the Wall alone, peering into the black of night from thousands of feet in the air. It had been weeks since he had left his home and life at Winterfell to take the Black, and the Night's Watch had been different than he had imagined in almost all regards. Still, the solitude from so high up brought the man some solace in his circumstances. Or it had until he heard a shuffling from behind him.
Waddling slightly closer was a large man with a boyish face and the traces of a beard on his cheeks. He was Samwell Tarly, the man who only hours early had been humiliated in front of the other new recruits at Castle Black for his utter lack of combat ability.
"Hello, Ser Alliser said I was to be your new watch partner…I should warn you, I don't see too well," he greeted.
Jon nodded his acknowledgement and motioned towards the fire at his feet, "Come stand close to the fire, it's warmer," he insisted.
Samwell held up his palms and shook his head, "No that's alright, I'm fine."
Jon looked him in the eyes sternly, "No you're not, you're freezing."
Samwell crept closer to the fire and slowly peeked over the edge of the Wall into the abyss below. "I don't like high places," he declared.
"You can't fight. You can't see. You're afraid of heights and almost everything else probably- what are you doing here, Sam?" Jon snapped.
Sam got a gloomy look in his eyes before looking up at Jon, "On the morning of my 18th Nameday, my father came to me. 'You're almost a man,' he said to me. 'But you're not worthy of my land and title, tomorrow you're going to take the black, forsake all claim to your inheritance and head north. If you do not,' he said. 'then we'll have a hunt, and somewhere in those woods your horse will stumble and you'll be thrown from your saddle to die, or so I'll tell your mother, nothing would please me more,'" Sam finished.
Jon stared at him, mouth half-agape. He thought himself the sorriest boy in the world most of his childhood. The bastard son of the honorable Ned Stark. Forever to be ignored and unloved. Never to marry or father sons. Never to rule over a castle or truly have a family. But he did have one. A home with a father that treated him decently. In that moment, he felt pity for the bumbling man that stood uneasily beside him atop the Wall.
"Ser Alliser's going to make me fight again tomorrow, isn't he?" Sam asked with a glance. Jon nodded in confirmation. Sam groaned, "I'm not going to get any better, you know!"
Jon smiled slyly, "Well you can't get any worse."
The two men began to laugh heartily to themselves, enjoying the solitude of their Watch together amid the cold Northern winds and the flickering flame at their feet.
~0~0~0~
Hand to the King Lord Eddard Stark had much on his mind. The tournament that King Robert was to hold in his honor was pressing upon his mind, as were his daughter's activities in this new environment the Stark family found themselves in. But what was occupying most of the space in his head was the conversation he and the Master of Whispers, Lord Varys, had only hours prior.
What could Jon have wanted with a book of lineages of the High Lord and Ladies of Westeros? What were you doing, Jon? He thought to himself as he walked briskly through one of the Red Keep's courtyards.
A figure slithered up to his left side. Littlefinger. Ned tried to contain his disdain for the man as best he could. He didn't trust the Master of Coin very much, especially given his tumultuous history with his wife, Catelyn Stark. Being fostered at Riverrun, her girlhood home, by her father Lord Hoster Tully the two had grown up very close. The man had even gone so far as to challenge Eddard's elder brother, Brandon Stark, for Catelyn's hand in marriage in a duel, a foolish endeavor that nearly cost him his life.
It was safe to say given the man's slippery nature he wasn't one that the Warden of the North would put much faith in.
"I hear you're reading a boring book," Petyr said as he kept pace with Ned's long strides.
"Pycelle talks too much," Ned grumbled.
Petyr grinned, "He never stops; do you know Lord Hugh of the Vale?" Noticing Ned's blank expression he took it to mean that he did not know of the man and continued. "Not surprising…until recently he was only a squire, Jon Arryn's squire."
This, it seemed, caught the man's attention. Ned glanced over to him, nearly missing a step as the two walked. "He was knighted almost immediately after his master's death," Littlefinger finished.
"Knighted for what? Why are you telling me this?" Ned asked.
"I promised Cat that I'd help you," he replied.
"Well where is Ser Hugh? I'll speak with him," Ned queried.
Littlefinger shook his head, "A singularly bad idea; do you see that boy there?" Petyr nodded towards a young boy sitting under a skinny tree in an untilled patch of the courtyard garden.
"One of Varys's little birds. The Spider has taken great interest in your comings and goings, now look there," this time Petyr looked towards a manservant ahead of them, tilling rows in a different part of the courtyard. "That one belongs to the Queen; and that handmaiden up ahead walking of us just far enough to appear inconspicuous and just close enough to listen in on our conversation? The Prince's. And do you see that Septa-"
Ned stopped him, "Alright, I understand, to whom does she belong?"
Littlefinger's smile stretched further, "She's one of mine. Tell me, do you have someone in your service whom you trust completely?"
Ned thought of Jory Cassel, "Yes."
Littlefinger wagged his finger at him, "The wiser answer was no, my Lord. Get a message to this Paragon of yours- discretely. Send him to question Ser Hugh…after that you might want to visit a certain armorer in the city, he lives in a large house at the top of the Street of Steel."
"Why?"
"I have my observers as I've said, and it's possible they saw Lord Arryn visit this armorer several times in the weeks before his death."
Ned stopped and turned to face Petyr, "Lord Baelish, perhaps I was wrong to distrust you."
Littlefinger smiled and waved his goodbyes, "Distrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since climbing off your horse," he called as he left the Hand to the King alone in the courtyard.
~0~0~0~
Nat stood near the edge of the jousting arena, basking in the excitement of the crowd on the morning of the Hand's Tournament. A squire was tending to his jousting horse, a mighty black beast named Nightrider. The Prince wore his true armor, the plate he was meant to wear to combat, should the need arise. Black plate with crimson stained leather beneath, Nat bore the colors of both his Houses, though the golden stag adorning his chest plate and the monstrous black antlers stemming from his helmet signified which house the Prince truly belonged to. Holding the head-piece by an antler, Nat smiled confidently down the jousting pitch as his saddle was being strapped to Nightrider.
"I see you're taking this tourney quite seriously." A voice called from behind him.
Turning, Nat found himself face-to-face with Ser Barristan Selmy in his white Kingsguard armor, arms crossed and sad blue eyes shining with a dull light. Nat smiled at the Old Ser's presence; while Jon Arryn had taught the prince many things, and indeed had been the first man to show him how to properly wield a blade in his youth, the prince could attribute most of his combat prowess to Barristan the Bold, one of Westeros's proudest relics. As such, the Old Ser was one of the only men whom the prince would speak to in a nonformal manner.
"Of course, Old Ser, haven't you heard, there's quite a pretty penny on the line!" he jested.
Barristan rolled his eyes, though his smile gave away his true feelings. Barristan wasn't one for trickery or deceit, it was part of why Nat was so taken with the elder knight. The Commander of the Kingsguard raised a plated hand and stroked Nightrider's nose gently.
"Promise me that you'll treat this tournament with the degree of seriousness it requires- you do know who's competing, don't you?"
Nat glanced over his shoulder and thumbed towards his first opponent, Ser Gregor Clegane, more commonly referred to as the Mountain. The beast of a knight was even taller than the Crown Prince himself, a feat very few men in Westeros accomplished, and was built quite like…well, a mountain.
"Oh yes, I'm well aware of my impending doom, don't you worry yourself, Ser Barristan."
Barristan's pale blue eyes glanced up at the prince as he recrossed his arms, "My Prince, please," he urged.
Nat sighed and put on his serious face. He hated having to wear it in the presence of someone he actually enjoyed being around. It made him feel stiff and boring, and the Crown Prince was anything but, he thought.
"I understand the imagery wrapped up in this silly affair," Ser Barristan began. "But you needn't endanger yourself like this, you're the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the only heir it could suffer, begging your pardon…I'm surprised King Robert would even allow this," the man trailed off.
Nat smiled sadly at Ser Barristan. He knew the man well and knew his intentions were noble, but he simply couldn't see the larger picture of his being in the tournament, not that Nat would fault him for it. "Ser Barristan, I appreciate your concern, but I'm no one to worry over, you know better than any man in Westeros that I fight more with my mind than with my blade; besides, his Grace wouldn't endanger his heir if he didn't think I could win, would he?"
Barristan raised a brow expressing his doubts, to which the prince laughed warmly.
"You trained me well, Ser Barristan, you'll be proud to watch your student single-handedly bring down a mountain, eh?"
A cheer went up from behind them. The Mountain had clambered atop his horse and was now trotting towards the center of the pitch to formally acknowledge the king. It was time for the Hand's Tournament to begin.
Nat put on his stag helm and took Nightstrider's reins from the squire, pulling himself into the saddle. "I'll see you by the end of the day, Ser Barristan, of that you have my word," the prince waved to him with a smile before trotting off towards the Mountain to the roar of the crowd.
Ser Barristan sighed and watched the boy go, saying a silent prayer to the Seven for his student's safety. "That I pray you will, my Prince," he muttered to himself, climbing out of the jousting pitch to watch from the audience the first match of the tournament.
~0~0~0~
Whew! And that's finally Chapter 6. I'm so sorry for such a long wait, especially after promising to try and get these out more often! As you can imagine, my life along with all of our lives at the moment, is incredibly hectic and emotionally charged.
I find it hard to write with all the stress of the world as like many writers, it's hard to find any motivation to write amid depressing circumstances. In addition, this chapter was especially hard to navigate through as I wasn't sure what I was going to do in preparation for the hand's tournament. I think it turned out well enough, though, and next chapter we'll be getting into the actual tournament itself. It'll probably only be a chapter long in length, but if I find it's getting too long I may split it into two- we'll have to see.
As for when that'll be, I can't really promise anything, especially since the semester is starting up again soon. Probably for the best that I don't make promises about release dates anymore! But for better or worse, I'm going to finish this story. I think once we get out of the more rigid early story and more into the divergence from the plot of the show I'll be able to get these out a lot quicker (hopefully!).
Until then, have a great day and please take care of yourselves.
-Munch