THE FALLING FALCON

"Today is the day most righteous of the Gods," came the voice of the silver-clothed man donning a crystal coronet. From the Starry Sept of Oldtown itself, Septon Merrylon, was his name. An Oldflower bastard, they said. A bastard of a bastard line by itself. Supposedly was a man who was once offered the position of the High Septon no less, but refused the great honor citing his lack of faith in the current place of the Faith in King's Landing and treading on centuries-old conventions on the most dominant religion of Westeros. By several accounts, he is among the leaders of a faction within the wider Faith, one that encourages greater autonomy for local septs, or so the Spider reports it to him. And to that end, he was wasted away, now heading the still influential but undeniably demoted seat of the Starry Sept, and the good thing it was.

But of course, as any high-standing Reachman's words, his were soaked in honey, they bloomed easily and spread widely in the sept of Highgarden. As did the smoke of the burning incense, alluring with its fragrance but being easily swept away and turned as the wind from the open windows would.

"Today, Willas of House Tyrell and Arianne of House Nymeros Martell come forward, brought forth under the light of the Seven Who Are One. Untainted, untouched, and unbesmirched. Innocent as the day they were born. To be joined in a most sacred union, bound by the Gods themselves."

A most damning union, Jon Arryn would say, and the fruitful source of his never-ending stream of headaches. The serpent and the rose, as Varys was prone to call it.

Jon Arryn himself was no stranger to weddings. Thrice he had done so. A cousin, a bannerman, and a great lord's daughter. Out of love, out of duty, and out of desperation. Lysa… he thought back to his wife, screaming, refusing to go along to Highgarden. And his heir remained with her. The boy was turning four, and still as sickly as a newborn babe in its first sennight. That was to be his legacy. The honourable Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and the Hand of the King. A sickly son to inherit it all. A child still on his mother's teats to rule over a kingdom won by might. He's but a child. He's young. He'll grow. He'll change. Lysa will see…

But at least his young wife had been better ever since he indulged her in inviting that boy Baelish to King's Landing. Good, good, a presence of a friend will do her wonders. The queen was no friend of Lysa, after all. And with Cersei Lannister, went along most of the noble ladies at the Court. And it didn't hurt that the Baelish boy was a wonder with his gold-seeking hands and head for all sorts of arrangements involving coins.

Should he be honest, Jon pitied his wife as much as he cursed her. How close to tears she was when they laid at night, man and wife bound by marriage vows. For my duty. For an heir, he told himself. Surely… surely, she can see that. But then again, Jon Arryn didn't outlive five kings and survived to seat sixth one atop the Iron Throne by being honest his entire life. Nay, honour, he held. But even honour could be found in the most twisted of lies. And there's no web of lies as twisted as the one played in the heart of the Reach.

"Oh, buggering hells, would they just get on with the bloody wedding," he heard Robert mutter under his breath. But the King was not one for subtlety, so Jon moved to chide the man he held as his own son but found that Prince Renly had already beaten him to it.

Great with words and easy with a smile, Renly was. Fit to charm nobles alike, in the softer and less brutish way than Robert had done in the past. But certainly not the all hard and edge that Stannis possessed. Gods willing, Renly's bond with the young Loras could be the key to their problems along with additional agreements that can be reached.

Is that what you wanted, a leverage to haggle for royal favors,… Lord Tyrell? He didn't strike Jon as a very cunning man, however. So Lord Willas then? He certainly had the raw intelligence for it or more like fruitful imagination, what with the new ideas tracing back to the Darling of the Reach, but he wasn't reputed as a schemer nor had he anywhere near enough experience. So was this Olenna's design? It stank of her, in any case. But what is the angle of Sunspear in all of this? So many questions and so few answers. However, the Lord of the Eyrie knew how to wait for the right moment. And his power block was stronger than ever, more than capable to face and defeat whatever sinister treachery there might be. Or not. Surely, the Tyrells aren't so foolish. But it didn't dispute the indisputable truth... that the dagger was wielded in their hands.

Then the bells chimed. Clang. Clang. Clang. Little bells. And the great bell whose rang was deep like a night sky torn asunder by sunrise. And when the chimes died down, the great oaken door of the Sept of Highgarden opened. With that, the bride came striding in, hand in hand with the bride's father. For years, rumors had swirled around Prince Doran Martell. Hidden away in his tower at Sunspear, never at sight. Some whispered that the man was ill, terribly so. Some more wanton had even suggested that the Martell Prince had passed away, yet kept hidden by his family out of fear of what Dorne might face. Spindly, gout-ridden, dim-eyed, crippled, they called him. And yet the Prince of Dorne walked, in rich layered samite, escorting his daughter. Bright as the sun, towering tall as the spear his house took their sigil from.

They each wore orange. A rare contrast, or was it a statement? For usually, the bride would traditionally wear the colors of her groom's house, with tints and hints of her birth house. And yet, this Princess Arianne boldly took her steps in garments of orange. Princess of Dorne and nothing less, as if refusing to shed it behind. Hers was the deepest shade of orange that Jon had ever seen, reminding him of thirteen years ago when he gazed upon the sunset sky of Dorne and saw the sun - distant in the dunes. It was a magnificent dress, and yet at the same time plain. It ran delicate, ending beneath her shoulders, made of what must've been the richest silk of the east. Made for the taste of the Gods-on-Earth that ruled in Yi Ti. Over her arms, her shoulder, her face, and her head, the Princess had golden jewelry of extreme finesse draping over her olive skin, further topped by a thin veil no doubt produced in Myr or maybe even Yi Ti.

The rest of the ceremony went fleeting by. Under great pillars and crystal domes Jon's eyes were set, not on the happy union above the altar, but at the front row seats. Where the Red Viper sat in stark yellow and Lady Mellario draped in a forest green shawl. The Martells are stirring, he thought, glancing at the dark-haired boy standing next to Prince Doran, visibly fidgeting. Prince Quentyn, his mind supplanted, the next heir to Dorne and a potential match for little Princess Myrcella… if the Old Lion should ever agree to relinquish his granddaughter into the serpent's pit. Worse still, Tywin had been pushing him to send assassins over the last Targaryens across the Narrow Sea. The King would be eager for the idea, he was sure. But Jon wouldn't- he couldn't. Not until he was done with the options he was exploring right now. And knowing Tywin, there's a chance he would do exactly that behind our backs. The Warden of the West, after all, was intent on preserving his legacy more so than anything else. And the dragons were the catalyst for that.

As seven vows were being made, he turned his attention back to the groom. Lord Willas wore a peculiar piece of dress, a c that Prince Renly had told Jon to be a jacket, whatever it was. Such thing was above him, for he was a relic of the past, uncarried in this new stream of changing time. His was emerald green and high-collared, decorated with golden floral patterns, running in the middle, parting the set of twin golden buttons that spanned diagonally from the Tyrell's shoulder to his waist. Golden chains linked them up. And Jon thought that the Heir to Highgarden looked the very piece of the princes from the songs. If not for the cane his hand rested atop.

"With this kiss," the newlyweds spoke loud and in unison, holding each other's hands. "I pledge my love."

"Let it be known," the Septon was finally finishing, now that Willas Tyrell had cloaked his bride in green. "That Arianne of House Nymeros Martell and Willas of House Tyrell are now one heart, one flesh, and one soul."

And with the proclamation, the already enliven room burst into thunderous applause. The room was all smiles, and there was none but sweet singing and grand music to usher it. Even Robert clapped, unsmiling and yet polite. Prince Renly was more thunderous in his response, a wide grin plastered on his face. And yet, something gnawed inside him. Something that he can't simply put away, always seemingly lurking in the back of his mind.

Slowly, he joined the waves of clapping that embraced the groom and the bride. He turned his head and watched as the nobility of the Reach and Dorne stood from where they sat, all applauding, all thundering. Mathis Rowan and Randyll Tarly, each hard and pragmatic man, even had smiles on their faces. Bright and bubbly new Lord Oakheart and old but graceful Lord Hightower. Regal and tall Lord Yronwood and old yet ever-sharp Lord Fowler. His eyes looked and looked, finding Hoster's brother and son, smiling warmly, good lad that Edmure. And then he found the Mallister heir, Lord Swann and his strong sons, and even his own bannermen of the Vale. Fossoway and Mullendore and Beesbury. Dondarrion and even Dayne.

A grand victory, he checked in his head, for both House Tyrell and Martell, the former more so, if his suspicions proved correct. This is not simply the union of two Great Houses, he realized. If they were truly harboring desires to seat a Targaryen on the throne… blood would spill. Innocent blood. And it would be a mercy to agree to Tywin's urgings for assassinations. What is the worth of two exiles… over the blood of the people of Westeros? He then thought back to the words the Spider uttered in his chamber. The day he brought him the news of Willas Tyrell and Arianne Martell. "For the sake of the realm, my lord. For the children." But no matter, Jon pushed aside the thoughts. There would be time for all that. And now, he must play the courteous Hand, weary and tired in his old age.

They rode atop their horses from the sept, through briars and vines of the mazes of Highgarden. "These damned gardens are never-ending," Robert grumbled from his side.

"Well, I think it's lovely, brother. A nice change from the stink of King's Landing, no?" came Prince Renly's reply. "And that reminds me, how fares the city, Lord Jon? Any word from our dearest dour brother? Might be that he just outlawed whores and chase them all away while you're gone, Robert. Well, not that Littlefinger would-"

Robert's response what to gulp down what little drink was left in his flask. "Then I'll just send your little head off to bring them back, won't I? Stannis is a stiff prick, that might be, but he knows his commands. He won't dare overstep his brother like that." And when he finished, he threw away his flask. Jon frowned as he saw the poor new squire scrambling around to fetch it, with the Lannisters out of the wedding and all. A Selmy, the boy was. "Gods!" he yelled, momentarily jerking his own horse, who he reigned in but a short time. "I'll start burning these pretty-for-nothing damned gardens if I have to-"

"It's not all for beauty, Your Grace," Jon interrupted, worried about the litany of insults that could follow. "These briars are full of thorns. You will find an armored knight unable to run past and just through it easily. It's especially large now that Highgarden has never seen war brought to its doorsteps. At the Gardeners' time, they would often burn their-"
"Alright, that's enough, Jon. I get it," Robert cut him. He nodded, now returning to silence. It was not long until they reached the festivity.

The wine smelled strong in the air. And then the Lord of Highgarden raised his glass and called his toast. "To my son and my new good daughter! The future Lord and Lady of Highgarden!"

Jon winced at the voice but raised his own glass nonetheless. Instead of the indoor festivities they had held on the previous nights, it seemed that the Tyrells chose to prove faithful to their sigil by arranging the wedding reception sprawled around the mighty gardens of their castle. He tasted the Arbor Ruby on his lips, eyes trailing around, finding that Robert had been swindled into the gathering Stormlords, all chattering on regarding the upcoming jousts. Jon didn't join them for that, no, those days of his were long gone.

From the corner of his vision, he spied Lady Olenna making her way to him. He swallowed a groan at that and emptied away his cup of Arbor Ruby before setting it away on the garden table nearby. For dealing with the crone was a luxury he'd gladly give up, and his poor health surely wouldn't appreciate the fast-approaching burden.

Still, he took a deep breath, in and out, and turned with a smile as he faced the Queen of Thorns herself. "Ah, Lady Olenna, as radiant and breathtaking as ever as I first saw you. What was it? Forty, fifty years ago?"

The Dowager Lady of Highgarden laughed at that. "The first great beauty undone by the cruel lord of time, I am not. So none of the pleasantries for me, I'm sure you'd be better off saving them all for your pretty little wife, my Lord Hand."

"I must say, my lady. What a splendid festivity your son has thrown. If my days at King' Landing have ever taught me anything, I'd say that it is to savor the smell of the gardens when you're still able to."

She clunked her cane as she walked to stand closer to him, prompting Jon to sway around himself. "A fool's errand, I am sure, whatever it is that you're doing at that gods-forsaken city."

Jon chuckled at her wit. Time wasted away them all, but in Lady Olenna's case, it only seemed to have emboldened her. "The Hand of the King is a most prestigious position, some would say. Even the second most powerful man in the realm, others would claim. Men have died for this gold pin, my lady."

"Foolish men, all of them, then."

He stifled a smile. "Is there a purpose in your endeavour save for practicing your insults at me, Lady Olenna?"

"Such a bore you are, like my late husband himself. Luthor, bless his soul, you know him, I believe?" she questioned.

He considered his answer first. "A most valiant soul, he was. I remembered knowing him personally. Quick with a jape and generous for a laugh. The realm hurt at his loss, my lady, but the Gods are good, for Lord Mace seems to be more than able to continue his service."

In truth, Luthor Tyrell was an amicable and jovial man. A smile for everyone but not thoughtless inside. He, too, had seen the signs written in the sky during the last days of the Targaryens. But with Luthor Tyrell, came Olenna Redwyne. And the Queen of Thorns was dearly unhappy with her husband dallying in what were potentially treasonous talks. And kept him away, she did. And Jon Arryn was forced to look North and South to compensate for the loss of the breadbasket of the realm.

She chuckled yet again at his words. "Most valiant, indeed. To go out with hawks and horses. Men…," she sighed. "Such a disappointment. But rest assured, I do have something in mind for you."

"Oh?" he inquired.

"Tell me about the Old Lion. I dearly hope we haven't chewed on his tail too much. But for a man who claims to be so above the rest, surely he can see the necessity behind it. We're dancing with vipers, after all."

Sweats ran down his temple, amidst the breezy wind of a summery Highgarden. "The Crown does appreciate House Tyrell's effort in re-binding this realm of ours, once torn asunder by the dragons years ago. Your house's amicability and willingness to open Highgarden's doors to peace and unity has been a boon that we all treasure, especially we of the Small Council at King's Landing. Ser Loras has been a welcome and frequent addition to the capital. And Lord Hoster has nothing but praise for Ser Garlan, my lady. And I have followed it up by asking Ser Edmure myself. And his words gave me great hope for the future of the Seven Kingdoms."

"My, my, how splendid it all is, then," she said. "But of course, the greatest of them all, my grandson's marriage to Prince Doran Martell's daughter. A most important piece in bringing Dorne back into the fold, don't you think?"

"Indeed," he assured her. "The wounds of the Rebellion have been sealed shut. And there's nothing better than love than the one your grandson shares with Princess Arianne to heal it through."

"Ah, young love," she said, sarcastic. "I won't pretend that my heart fully goes with my foolish little grandson's choice. But at the end of the day, who am I but an old woman nattering her way to an overdue grave?"

He let small laughs drip down from his lips at that. "If you truly do feel that way, my lady, King's Landing will always welcome your natter with warm smiles."

She nodded, and for a second passing, Jon Arryn felt that he had dodged the fiery breath of the dragon. "And still this all leaves my granddaughter. Flowered with a beauty graced by the Maiden herself. It rather breaks her poor little heart with the hook you dangled in front of us. I take it, King Robert is not warm to the idea?"

His words were picked carefully. "The King is most insistent that Prince Joffrey shall marry a girl of his own choosing. And from a house with his blessing. The Queen… has endorsed her husband's decision in this matter. Furthermore, King Robert has also asked his servants of the Small Council to bar any talk and discussion regarding the Prince's future betrothal, citing that in his tender age, the Prince's future is too early to be determined."

The woman laughed at his words. "And how many times do you recite those words and practice it in front of the mirror before you go to bed, Lord Arryn? Is it Varys who wrote it? Or is it that boy, Baelish? Small man, that one. But he has a talent with words." He made a move to answer, but she cut him. "No, no, spare me the holy sermon, my lord. I also take it that this new Bank of Lannisport is also part of the plot? And here I thought we're all friends who peck each other on the lips."

"The endeavor had been Lord Tywin's idea for a long time. We simply felt that with the current economic boost that Westeros is enjoying, in no small part thanks to The Reach and House Tyrell, establishing such an institution would be beneficial for the prosperity of the realm. And of course, the success of the Bank of Oldtown built in the days of the old Targaryen Kings has also brightened the prospect of such an idea."

And then she stopped, at the roundabout of the garden where it bent to reveal a water fountain. "My grandson is bedding a serpent. He's besotted. He's been ensnared by serpents. And a serpent's dance is charming, yes. Enchanting, one might even say. Yet the moment you look away, there you'll see, its poisonous fangs sunken into your crotch. You may think me… some devious old woman scheming her way until the day this old crone would finally expire. Well, you see… I'm not much for trouble. Better away with those, I'll say. And my house, Lord Arryn, this I promise. I would never see it come to ruins."

Something shot inside him. There had been too much bad blood between the Reach and Dorne. Too many wars. Too many castles burned. And too many towns sacked. A single marriage wouldn't be able to magically repair the long-standing feud between the troubled regions, he thought. And for all their smiles, the Reachmen were surely not eager to find themselves sharing a bed with the Dornish. Vain and proud, the lot of them were. And the Queen of Thorns was the vainest of them all. Yes, he could make do with this. He was no fool. Not deluded enough to ever dismiss the possibility of treason thanks to this union. He'd been there before. When Great Houses engaged in a series of betrothals. While there were a lot of reasons that made Tyrells and Martells rising for the Targaryens' cause even riskier than their own Rebellion, he would be a dimwit not to see the similarities. I must do more to prepare

"Oh?" he cautioned, wearily. "I rather think that this union is a symbol of a new era of forgotten feuds, and for everlasting peace, my lady."

"And that will remain the official truth. But there's no such thing as real truth, I have found. Everyone… has their own truth, don't they, my Lord Hand?"

"Indeed, my lady," he said, smiling and chuckling, towering over the aging Dowager Lady of Highgarden.

She nodded. Once and twice. She spoke, voice low, dropping into whispers. "Good. Long as you know that this woman here still has it in her to dance her last dance. Be sure to tell the Old Lion as much. I dare hope we haven't stepped on his tail too hard. I bid you farewell, Lord Hand."

What an interesting turn of events, he thought. He made his separate ways from the Queen of Thorns. The thoughts didn't die down easily in his mind, mixing and jumbling, each leading to a new one. Houses went in and out of his head, their names a litany of prayer and answer that he sorted through in mere seconds. If he dared, he might say that it was excitement rushing through his bones. The wind swept, his sable blue cloak fluttering in the air. And so Jon Arryn walked, to rejoin the reception party. In the distance, he could hear the falcon's cries. The lords must be hawking. The Tyrells had, after all, promised seven days of melee and jousting and hawking to serenade their honored guests. The cries rang again. And in the sky-high blue, Jon Arryn finally saw his legacy.

The jubilations remained throughout the day. The sun had been dethroned from its peak, and the sky is gearing to welcome the evening. All sorts of queer instruments were played by the bards. And the verses were stranger still to Jon's ears. Amidst a crowd of lords and ladies, Jon remained in the gardens. And he could see. Anders Yronwood was a sandy-haired great muscled man. And yet, he remained eloquent in his appearance, towering over most of the guests, with a haughty air of superiority to him. Fitting for a man who called himself Bloodroyal.

House Yronwood of the Boneway, he remembered. Supported the Black Dragon's cause more than once. Was it twice? Or was it thrice? Even when the Blackfyres had been left friendless, the Yronwoods declared for them, no matter how pitiful their rebellions were. It is no secret that the Yronwoods desire Dorne. And their current tale was a… tumultuous one, to say the least. Truly, the extent of the Spider's web of spies was terrifying at times. He told a tale of bad blood and the death of the previous Lord Yronwood. How the debt was then paid in Prince Quentyn being given for Lord Anders to ward. And how said Prince now became the heir to Sunspear.

"My Lord Hand."

As it happened, it seemed that the Warden of the Stone Way had also intended to talk to him. "Lord Anders," Jon answered, to the tune of the ever-gracious aging lord. "How fares Yronwood? I dare hope that all is at peace."

"It fares splendidly, my lord. The Marches are quiet, and we all rejoice for it. I haven't had to deal with any bandits or brigands in months. Bless the Seven, for indeed, we may be welcoming the dawn of a true peace," he spoke in a deep, rich voice that belonged to the kings of the old.

"Joyful news, then."

"Yes, the land has been at peace. The sea, not so much."

He frowned. "The sea? Is there any surge of pirate raids in the Sea of Dorne?"

An affirmative nod was his answer. "It's not just in Yronwood. Lady Toland has said the same of Ghost Hill. Quick, these new pirates are. They strike fast. And just as fast, they disappear. Into the treacherous water of Stepstones."

"The Stepstones is an ever-troubled region. The Targaryens have tried to lay claim on it in the past. And it didn't exactly go well. And be as it may, I have heard rumors that the Three Daughters are in quarrel yet again. Of course, not that we'd brush the issue aside. I'll be sure to tell Lord Stannis to send more patrol to the area."

"That would be much appreciated, Lord Hand," the Yronwood said, his voice deep. "I don't, however, think that these pirates have anything to do with the Daughters. There's been another rumor. Of a man. A pirate king nestling in Torturer's Deep. Words are saying that he styles himself as 'Lord of the Waters.' Rumors also have it that-"

"Rumours have poisoned men and women alike, Lord Anders. I wouldn't put too much faith in baseless whisperings. Certainly not enough to blindly send the realm into a war."

Jon kept his face resolute. Stone-hard. "Of course, Lord Hand." But the Bloodroyal was not a man easily cowed, it seemed. "But still, rumors always possess a droplet of truth in them, no matter how small. And if they ring true, what seemed misleading could prove… revealing. They say that this pirate king has been capturing ships from the Reach. Agile and advanced as they are. But then again, sailors are often mad. I'm simply concerned… about how this could affect our realm. Considering how important the Stepstones are to the trade of the Seven Kingdoms. After all, one would only need to pick up a book to remember Racallio Ryndoon, who declared himself King of the Narrow Sea."

"That is indeed worrying, my lord," Jon settled to say. "Lord Varys will know better, I suppose. And I also remain confident that Lord Stannis will be able to smash them should it come to that."

"The Spider's reputation is known, even in Dorne. And the Master of Ships has proven his prowess during Balon Greyjoy's folly years ago."

He nearly winced at the reminder of that defiance of Robert's rule but it was a simple compliment so he refused to delve into the memories any more. It was now his chance to pursue his own interest. Prince Doran had turned the offer to betroth Prince Quentyn to Lord Anders' daughter, the Spider had said. And there was not a more opportune moment than now to court the Yronwoods to their cause. "If you would indulge me, my lord. Since you're fostering Prince Quentyn, what do you think of him?" Prince Doran was old. Sickly, others would add. He might not be long for the world. As I do. So it was paramount to determine and properly assess his successor to fully take things into consideration.

"The Prince?" The Dornishman was smiling, he could see. "Good lad, he is. Quiet, yes. But dutiful. He'll do what's right by his people. And he listens to the advice of those around him. Surrounded by the right men, Dorne will be most fortunate to have him in the future. You will most likely find a better answer from my son, Lord Hand, if what you seek truly is his personality. Inseparable, those boys, Cletus and the Prince. Like brothers. And I've begun to see him as my own son." And you wish him to truly be through marriage.

He settled for a light cough, before returning to a friendly smile. "The bond forged in youth, trivial as it may, can be tremendous for the future. I believe that I… have observed it better than most."

"Very wisely said, Lord Hand." Then one of the servants came upon them, offering glasses of wine. Jon graciously accepted, but the Bloodroyal declined it with a gesture of his hand.

"Not much for Arbor Ruby, are you, Lord Anders?"

The man replied with chuckles. "Red Water, you mean? I'm afraid I am not. After all, we, or at least we Stony Dornish, as the Young Dragon named us, know only one true wine. And that is Dornish Red. If I may be honest, Lord Hand, regarding my son and heir. Prince Quentyn's time at Yronwood is swiftly coming to an end. And I fear that my son losing the company of a sane voice, Prince Quentyn that is, will not be kind to my house's legacy." A request. And an opening for Jon.

"Well, we could always arrange something at King's Landing. Few would deserve the honor of hosting the heir to a house boasting the same proud lineage as Yronwood, after all. Six and ten, is he? I expect that soon he'll wed, then."
"Turned six and ten just last moon, yes. And wed? There are indeed some proposals. Lord Tarly's daughter, among them. As a matter of fact, I had just talked to Lord Tarly before. There's nothing confirmed, but then again, few houses boast lineage like House Tarly. So I thought, why not indulge him," Anders Yronwood calmly replied. Too calmly. Jon's eyebrows shot up at the mention of the name. Tarly… a powerful Marcher house by its own history. More so with the prestige Lord Randyll had built. The Yronwood in front of him was dancing a dangerous dance. "But I'm not that cruel a father, Lord Hand. We live in a time of peace. And I dare not rob my son of his chance of glorious, youthful pursuit. And of course, it's a tremendous honor to even be considered for an invitation to the Court of King's Landing. I have full confidence that should he be granted the honor, my son will uphold our family's name proudly. We, Yronwoods, after all, are ever-loyal servants to our King."

An interesting choice of word. Our King. "That is great to hear, my lord."

"I'm glad you think so, Lord Arryn. Now, if you'll excuse me. I fear that I have been taking too much of your valuable time." He nodded, acknowledging the man's farewell bid. "By your leave, Lord Hand."

He stood there, carefully considering the words of the Dornishman. Then he was approached, and he saw Prince Renly, still dressed sharply as ever, moving and making his way through the crowd of lords, muttering excuses along his way. "Lord Jon," Renly greeted him. "Enjoying the festivities?"

"Quite, Prince Renly. Is His Grace with you? It happens that I have something in mind to-"

"My brother? I fear that they have managed to swindle Robert away into the training yard. You can blame Lord Swann's sons for that. Stormlords through and through, they are. In fact, I was just about to go after them. Loras has stars in his eyes for the thought of testing his steel against my fabled brother. I haven't had the heart to break it to him. Poor lad," he said while sipping a glass of wine, laughing with his mouth and eyes.

"I see," he answered curtly. He turned around, finding his squire not far behind. "Hugh," he called out. "Would you mind sending the King a message from me? Tell him that I wish to see him in his chamber. I intend to retire early and write to King's Landing. And I need to consult with him before I write to his brother."

"At once, my lord," his squire bowed. It wouldn't do if Robert's reputation as a warrior king suddenly crumble away. The Crown had too much to deal with already. Especially from the Queen's seemingly innate talent for alienating lords and ladies alike.

"He'll be pissed, you know," Renly said to him.

He found himself huffing a small laugh, recalling easier days. "Heh, If I can handle Robert crying and throwing a fit, then I'm sure I can handle him being pissed, My Prince."

"Robert? Crying, really?" he asked with visible eagerness.

"Oh, yes. Your brother is not always who he is right now." And yet I do not know who he is any longer. "He was a loud kid. Boisterous. I've never seen the like before. Eight and already this great mass of flesh and bones. Always demanding, always shouting. The other one was always accepting, always silent. North and South, Ned and Robert were. When your brother first arrived at the Eyrie, he cried before the moon is over. Said his parents had forgotten him. I simply told him that ravens could get lost. As we often do, humans. I watched him grow. As he found steel and warhammer. And as he discovered drink and women. And that little boy… began to fade over the years." And long gone by now.

"My brother is many things," he heard the Prince say. "But I never imagine him as someone with a heart. Never even in my wildest dreams."

He remembered the cursed wedding-to-be at Riverrun. And the words telling of Lyanna Stark's capture. "He'd like to think that he lost his heart, somewhere during the Rebellion, your brother. But that's not the truth. Blackened and poisoned it might be, I believe that he simply refused to hear it any longer."

Renly, it seemed, had no words to answer his. And Gods know, the Master of Laws was rarely ever tongue-tied. "What do you think of the Tyrells, Lord Hand?" He finally broke the silence.

"Well, they are an interesting family, I suppose."

A little, short, bark-like laugh was his answer. "That's certainly a thought. But I suppose they are indeed a family. Such strange concept to me, it was. At least, at first. I grew up surrounded by maesters and tutors. In a castle my older brother feels he was robbed of. Anyway, I suppose that matters little today. Have you heard of Lord Beric?" At his confused look, Renly added with a hushed voice, "Dondarrion. Of Blackhaven. Well, I am happy to inform you that it's a success with Daynes. Officially betrothed and all that. To the Lady Regent of Starfall, no less."

"Thank you, Prince Renly. It's a little relief for this old man amidst today's heavy concerns, I must admit."

"Self-awareness suits you well, my lord. I can't imagine it, though, being Robert's Hand for this long. If I were you I'd have gone prematurely bald by now. I guess… I must relish in the mercy given to me as Master of Laws, I suppose. I do hope I can do more, though," Renly said, stroking his trimmed beard. "A chance to serve my brother. Prove myself to him. I thought I had it with my position. But it's practically useless, don't you think? Robert gave it to me just for fancy's sake."

The Master of Laws was good. He knocked the arrows swiftly and aimed them properly. But Jon Arryn was years ahead of him to fall victim to the easy mummery. "Well, Prince Renly. I dare say that it is a test."

"A test?" the other man mumbled, curiosity palpable in his voice.

"Yes. A test. To see what you're cut from. The Master of Laws is an honorable position. Do well… and you'll do for the rest. Of that, I am sure."

He smiled and rose to his feet. "Well, then, Lord Hand. I shall strive to prove my best."

"Good. Now if you would, I fear that I am not yet as acquainted as I would like with our newfound friends in the desert. Care to accompany me, Prince Renly?"

Renly took the offer. Swiftly and easily. He was young, there was no doubt. But so was I. And so was Robert. Jon Arryn didn't much believe in second chances. He believed in reassessment. Perhaps, the young stag could prove to be suitable as the next guiding hand in steering the realm. He knew that it sure would be a rough sea. Braving lions and the growing gardens of the roses. To the east, the dragon's cause might still prove to be not as dead as they would like. Merely dormant, perhaps.

It was yet another burden that he must bear. The executioner's blade rested heavy in his hands. As was the Stranger's scythe looming over his nape. The girl could be… a choice for young Prince Joffrey. The boy, the older one… the Black might prove suitable for him. But the stains of blood could not be erased. It would forever be engraved on the walls of the Red Keep. Of Maegor's Holdfast. Blood of Princess Elia and her children. Jon Arryn cursed Tywin Lannister for that. That day the Old Lion put him in the most difficult situation he had ever faced. To let his honor besmirched and speed along the consolidation of Robert's reign… or to be unyielding, the steel of a ramrod, and risk testing their mettle against the fresh and full might of the West.

"What do you think of the dragons, Prince Renly?" He asked as they made their way across the gardens. Atop the hills of which Highgarden stood, Jon Arryn could see the Mander in all its glory. The orange hues blended perfectly with the fairs along its banks. Sails were in the view as lords and ladies and smallfolk, even, fell in love with the pleasure barges of the Tyrells.

"I think they were an interesting beast. A relic of the past, now. Buried, long-forgotten. Or so my brother would hope. Not everyone is cut to ride a dragon, I'm sure. Let alone tame them."

"The Targaryens, I meant," he clarified.

"Oh, I know that. Viserys and… Daenys? Daenerys, is it? I heard about Lord Tywin." At Jon's raised eyebrows, he added, "Varys and I share a great taste in the newfound wonders of the tea that our Reach friends have discovered. We get together on some evenings. And you know what they say. Gossip is the vice of a eunuch."

He noted the revelation carefully. "Well? What do you think we ought to do, then? Be sure to remember, that these two houses joined here today, were dragon's men." Jon would easily admit that he was terribly curious at Renly's answer. After all, he had never seen the youngest Baratheon as more than a mere appeaser. Men might see him as a follower absent-mindedly following the words of his kingly brother. But Jon knew better. Renly appeased. He settled himself into the good graces of the others. Even the elusive Spider, too, if the additional information was one to believe.

"The war was a thing of the past, Lord Hand. I say… let the blood remain to be in the past. Tywin Lannister had graciously sullied his hands and shouldered most of the blame for us. Why should we forgo his sacrifice? I do not know what Prince Doran thinks. Or what his daughter or his son thinks. But the Tyrells… I know. Mace Tyrell is a man with a terribly big heart. Forgive and forget, he would say. His heir… Willas, is more cautious, to say the least. He, too, would say forgive and forget. But so long as we water his gardens. They're not going to start a war for two children with a lost cause. But why risk it? The Reach upholds chivalry above all. And a King who ordered the death of two children would not fit proper in their code of honor."

Jon Arryn offered a smile. "Excellent points, Lord Renly. But I'm afraid that you haven't answered my question yet."

"I had hoped you wouldn't notice," replied the younger man, offering a bright grin. "Forgive, I say. But not forget. We do not know the length of which the Free Cities are willing to grant them. Many would like to see Westeros shaken. Send men after them. But do not kill. Let the realm know the magnanimity of House Baratheon. Dorne begrudges us for Princess Elia. But that is Lord Tywin's debt. Not ours. Do with the girl what you think you should do. Cersei would raise all the seven levels of hell if we try to betroth her to her beloved cub, no matter how correct it would be. Eh, it's not as if Robert would even hear more than two words spoken about it. Some landless knight maybe. Or hells," Renly cursed, shaking his head, smiling, and snorting. "For the sake of this… this farce of a mummery, I'd even take the girl to wife. That is if Robert shall command me. But the boy… well, to imitate Bloodraven and Aenys Blackfyre wouldn't do us any favor, I'd say. So the Black and the freezing North it is for the Beggar King. Strong. Merciless. But all nicely fit inside a velvet glove."

He nodded, deigning the need to show approval. "Well said, I must say. And more or less along the lines of what I'm thinking. I believe… your voice will carry a great weight in our future Small Council meeting, My Prince."

"Your faith gratitudes me, Lord Jon. And ah… well, it seems that we have arrived," Renly said, stretching his fingers to point in the northeast direction. There stood, the dark-haired great beauty that was Allyria Dayne, judging by the colors of her dress. So reminiscent and yet so very different from her late sister, Ashara. Her eyes, for instance, were violet, yet bore a different shade to her late sister. A woman whose shadow lurked heavy in the haunted days of the Rebellion. And then lingered ever since, likely in a form of natural son of his another foster son. And to the Dayne's side was Willas Tyrell. The groom of the day. "I suppose this rather put us in a pickle. We'd need to dance this one carefully, Lord Hand. Else we risk overplaying our hands," Renly added in low murmurs.

And so Jon went. And greetings were exchanged. All the pleasantries and mummeries. "And to what do we owe the pleasure? A Prince of the Realm and the Hand of the King. I was just congratulating Lady Dayne here on her betrothal." It did come as a surprise to Jon. Willas Tyrell was smart. And a Stormlord marrying a Regent of an important house in Dorne would only be open to so much interpretation. The game they were playing was a naked one. But it was one of the precautions that they agreed upon on that Small Council meeting with Robert.

"There's nothing owed, my lord. And once again, congratulations on the wedding. I hope that your union will be a most fruitful and blessed one." The children that Willas Tyrell and Arianne Martell would have, after all, would be claimants to both the throne of Highgarden and possibly even Sunspear.

"Thank you, Lord Arryn."

It was now time to creep into the danger zone, he knew. House Dayne of Starfall had been largely exempt from any political wave ever since the Rebellion, with its lord preferring to keep them isolated. But said lord had just died. And a boy now ruled Starfall, if only in name for now. "How's your nephew, if you don't mind me asking, Lady Allyria? We all are praying for your brother's soul, of course."

"Ned- Edric, that is- is doing fine. He wanted to come, truth to be told. But the Maester forbid him from making such a long journey. Especially after he had just come down with a fever the week before."

"Such a pity, it was," Lord Willas cut in. "I had hoped that a future Sword of the Morning would grace my own wedding." But he quickly added while clanking his cane on the stone floor, "If that's the gods' will, of course, my lady. I wish you will find your little brother in perfect health upon your reunion."

"Thank you for kind words, my lord, I pray he becomes worthy of wielding Dawn in time."

"Pale like milk and sharp as a Valryian Steel," Jon offered his reminiscing to cut in the conversation again. "I have had the fortune of witnessing your late brother's glory with the sword before, my lady."

"An honor not many of us shared here today," Renly added from his side.

"The war did take too many kind souls from us," was Lady Allyria's answer. It was a bold one. Without finesse, steering the ship directly into the murky waters. But it worked justly as it unsettled Jon immediately. She continued, "But I suppose Arthur was indeed one of a kind, yes. It's quite amusing: he was my brother, yet I never really knew him. I was but a child when the Rebellion happened. As was Lord Willas here. And Lord Renly. I can't imagine, though. It's terrible enough for me. Let alone how it was for Lord Renly." Lord, she called him twice. Indicating that it was not a slip of the tongue. And Jon took note of that. Bold, the lady was. By bringing up the topic of the Rebellion, she had unsettled both him and Renly. And yet, she had also broached the mention of the Siege of Storm's End. One could call it brazen. But Jon welcomed it as a sign that House Dayne remained firmly unattached. At least for now.

Renly gave an awkward cough into his fist. "Thank you, my lady. But I'd rather we steer away from all the talk of doom and gloom. Wouldn't want the groom here to be tenser than he already is, would he?" The jape worked, with Allyria smiling, accepting the change of topic.

Willas Tyrell offered a small grin, tinted with a hint of a grimace. He had had the chance to pick the Tyrell's brain beforehand, finding him a well-read man, well-versed in the matters of lordship. His mind wanted to wander into thinking how much a cripple can be competent in matters warfa-

"Speaking of weddings. Mayhaps our Lord Hand here would have a suggestion or two to share with our young groom today?" offered Lady Dayne. She was brave, he must admit. Outspoken and sharp.

Still, he barked up a laugh at that. After all, courtesy was to be his weapon now in his old age. "Hmm, what can I say? Marriage… marriage is a wheel, perhaps. For it to work, it needs to rotate, high and low and high and low. Else it'd clog. And a broken wheel it would be."

Willas Tyrell offered a smile at that. "How wise of you, Lord Hand. I shall take that under heavy consideration. So should Lady Allyria here. And you, too, Renly. Dread it. Run from it. That day comes for all of us, my friend."

The hand placed on Prince Renly's shoulder was a heavy gesture. But the words did send Jon's mind to wander, unraveling thoughts and possibilities. A Tyrell and a Martell… how might that work? Love, the bards would say. Duty, the nobles would answer. He would've snorted at such an answer, more so the latter. Three great weddings he had witnessed other than his own. Royal Weddings at the Great Sept of Baelor. The Mad King and his sister. Was a wedding ever so joyless? He remembered the sullen smiles of Aerys, still but a prince. Rhaella Targaryen wore a veil of white. But hers was a face of mourning as if cloaked in the black veil of a funeral. They were such children once. Done wrong by their parents. He wondered what could've been had King Jaehaerys not forced his children to marry each other. How many thousands of lives might've been spared…

The second royal wedding he remembered was that of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia. The realm stood still as the seemingly perfect prince cloaked his bride in black and red. And the lovely Elia Martell had won the hearts of everyone in attendance. Everyone but the people who mattered. Theirs soon turned into spites and insults. A king and his hand who both resented the bride, for different reasons yet stemming from their hate over each other. Did he, though? Did the Mad King ever truly hate his 'dutiful servant'? Or was he prey to his own fears and delusions? It mattered not. Now the realm remembered only two butchered children and a slain Princess out of the wedding. And the debt was Jon Arryn's to pay.

The third royal wedding was yellow and gold and red and black. The bride proved true to her moniker of the Light of the West. And Robert was clad in Baratheon colors, looking as mighty as any of his forebears had ever been. The Conqueror comes again… I had hoped. Yet that hope was fading fast. Quicker with every cup of wine that was downed by the King. Faster with every whore he shared his bed with, yet not the Queen. Which had only weighed his duty here and now the heavier. The balance of the realm is not yet secure. And an old falcon might be long past his time to keep the scale tipped.

"Arryn… Lord Arryn?" He was soon returned from his wanderings by Prince Renly's calls.

"Oh yes, do forgive me. I fear that today has been quite a lot for me." Convincing Lady Allyria of betrothing her nephew to someone from the Crown's choosing would be difficult, he knew. But if the said choice was Ned Stark's child… he wondered about the possibility of it happening. A Stark in the south would increase their alliance with the North. And a second tie to Starfall could be the door to establish the Crown's influence in Dorne.

"It is understandable, my lord," the groom answered. "Having you here has been such an honor." But if he could indeed pull it off, it would be a tremendous boon to counter the Tyrell-Martell union. And yet, judging by Lord Willas' presence here, he seemed to have realized it, too. But he was the Hand of the King. And the Heir to Highgarden was no equal for a man in his office.

"Actually, Lord Willas. If it is not a bother, I think I'd like to talk privately with Lady Allyria. Just for a few moments, and if the Lady doesn't mind, of course."

Renly took his cue with ease. "Yes, and I've been meaning to talk to you, too, Willas. From our last discussion, I'm interested to find the details of how we could bring some of these… theaters of yours to the capital. King's Landing can surely use the prestige. Seven knows that the city has had enough whores already."

The Tyrell and the Dayne both nodded. "It seems that we are parted, for now, Lord Willas."

"It seems that we are indeed, my lady." A smile formed upon the Tyrell's face. Kind and genuine and polite. No one would ever doubt that it was carefully crafted. But Jon Arryn had learned not to trust smiles easily. "Very well, then," the Tyrell said, lightly kissing the Dornishwoman's hand, "I'd let you steal away such a lovely maid, Lord Arryn. But only if you don't tell my wife I said that."

Jon Arryn swore, it was as if the world was frozen for a split of a second. And just as quickly, it melted. And Lord Willas opened his mouth as he laughed in amusement of his own jape, soon joined by Renly's boisterous laughs. And the Lord of the Eyrie found himself laughing alongside them, if only for the sake of politeness. But in Willas Tyrell's laughing eyes, bright as they be, Jon could see, the shades of amusement peeling off to hide another depth within them.

AN: So there it is. Jon Arryn in all his twisted webs of facades and lies and honors. I gotta say that I really enjoy writing the schemes of the four people presented here. First is Olenna, who will have her own things in the future. The Tyrell's gardens will not be sunny all day long in the future, after all. Second is Anders Yronwood, now spurned for a betrothal between his daughter and Quentyn. Third is Renly, poking around and testing waters all around. He has a lot of leverage with him holding Storm's End. And as canon tells us, he doesn't lack the ability to properly rouse them. Fourth is Allyria Dayne. A blank slate of a character. But this I promise, the Daynes of Starfall will play a pivotal role in the future of the story. And as always, foreshadows all around the corners. Though it may not be as much of a foreshadowing as an insight into the mind of our potential players in the future.