Chapter 3: Hard at Work

Truth be told, things were going surprisingly well.

Tyrion had settled right into King's Landing, making camp in one of the brothels for the first week before I managed to lure him out. Soon after, he set to work on the new sewers, albeit with much grumbling and anger at being reduced down to the level of a Lordly plumber yet again, although he accepted my argument that it was only those who made something that truly ascended to become legends in their own rights. He may not have wielded significant capacity for greatness in war, but I had no doubt that he would not struggle to follow in the footsteps of Bran the Builder, and, as I assured him, sometimes even the shortest of men could leave the longest of shadows. Even still, I suspect that it was only my pleading and seeming eagerness to offer suggestions that were suspiciously insightful of a five-year-old that kept him on task.

Truth be told, I couldn't help myself. The longer that time went on, the more and more of my adult personality began to seep through my childish veil. Tyrion was just that damn charming, and it helped that I didn't much have to worry about my supposed wits being revealed to the world. Let me tell you, being able to drop the illusion, even if only partially, of a giggling child and actually engage in a mentally stimulating activity, even one as mundane as city planning, was a relief. Speaking of which, finding the funds for the project had proven to be easier than imagined, on account of my father approving of the project and ordering it completed in the midst of one of his drunken stupors when I first told him about it.

Turns out, there were some advantages to having a spendthrift wastrel for a King.

Time with Tyrion aside, my fears that mother would be following my movements all the more closely proved to be well-founded. Initially, it remained a mere suspicion, until it was revealed at dinner one day that I had been slinking off in my free time to learn how to fight. In spite of the loudly-expressed concerns of my mother that I was a tad young for the pursuit of warfare, my father appeared positively delighted at the notion that I wasn't merely a sweet young boy, but also one with steel in my spine. He clapped me on the back, let out a bellow of laughter, and offered to show me some of the moves he used to cave in Rhaegar's chest at the Trident when I was older.

It was then that Myrcella piped up, regaling the table with tales of my desires to one day be worthy of squiring for the Barristan the Bold. She offered me an encouraging smile at the end of her childish parable, but it was just as effective in achieving what she had likely intended all the same.

That very evening, I was made page to Barristan the Bold.

I had to tell you, I may like Myrcella, but at that precise moment, I wanted to punch her in the face. All of a sudden, my free time had simply vanished, only to be replaced with learning to complete the menial tasks required of a Knight, all whilst acting as though I was awestruck rather than bored by the whole affair. Not to mention that it had thrust me front and centre into everyone's crosshairs.

Joffrey, jealous of the attention I was receiving, intensified his efforts to make me miserable, shooting me scathing looks and uttering horrible taunts in my direction whenever we were out of earshot of an adult. He even ventured into my room and had my pets killed and skinned, an act for which he received no punishment. Now, I didn't actually care for any of those animals, but acting devastated at their loss was another annoyance that I would have to tolerate. Were I actually a five-year-old child, I imagine that his attempt at tormenting me would have proven quite effective. As it was, I mostly ignored his efforts and remained, at least on the inside, largely unfazed by them.

My grandfather, on the other hand, sent me a letter offering me his congratulations at becoming Barristan's page. From the looks of things, remaining unimpressed with Joffrey's cruel and slovenly nature, the man had pinned his hopes for the future of his house upon my shoulders. He'd even used the phrase, "You bring much prestige to your house", which I was pretty sure was the greatest kind of compliment the man was capable of offering. This level of praise coming from a man who was typically notorious for his unflappability was strange, to say the least.

Consequently, Pycelle intensified his efforts to melt my brain, firmly rejecting my attempts to convince him of my lack of intelligence. Seemingly, he had received orders from grandfather, because the old goat pushed me harder than ever before, accelerating through the material until he were teaching me things that I doubt even Joffrey had gotten to, in spite of being my senior by several years. It appeared that at Lord Tywin's behest, he was grooming me to serve as a potential heir to Casterly Rock upon the Old Lion's death, thereby denying Tyrion his birth-right.

My mother appeared torn between concern that her child would be thrust into the danger of the world before his time, and anger over the fact that I had chosen Barristan over Jaime. All the same, I remained lucky that I was her child, because she offered me the same care that she always had. Say what you want about her proclivities, but when she wanted to be, Cersei Lannister could be a damn good mother.

In spite of my firm status as a child, I was also beginning to attract attention from the fairer sex. It was noticeable when the Lords of Houses who had previously paid me no mind began to go to some lengths to introduce me to their similarly aged daughters. Some girls as young as three were attempting to flutter their eyelashes at me, likely at the behest of their parents with the hopes of building a bond that could later be used to entice me into their respective beds.

The very thought made me feel sick.

Still, serving Barristan did have its advantages. Given his age, he was stuffed to the brim with sagely advice and daring tales, and whilst interacting with him wasn't nearly as entertaining as doing the same with Tyrion, it certainly held its own charm. I learnt more about the ways of the sword from the man in a single week than I had in my lessons with the guardsman over the course of several months, and all that without picking up a single blade over the course of that week. The man was also as honourable as it got, and I felt certain of my safety whenever I was in his vicinity. I had watched him fight in the training yard, and by and large, he cut through his opponents with a practiced ease, barely breaking a sweat in spite of his advanced age.

It was a magnificent thing to witness.

It was easy to see why every boy in the land idolised him. If ever I had dreams of fighting in great battles and of wielding a sword, hell, I was pretty sure that even I would idolise him. Alas, I had heard all too much of war to ever desire such a life for myself, but at least I could now say that I saw the appeal.

And it was in this way that the days flew by. I would rise in the early in the morning, playing at giving my prayers to the Seven, before making my way to the Grand-Maester's chambers for my lessons. Upon their conclusion, I would seek out Ser Barristan, and attend to my duties as his page. What few hours of sunlight I had left between the completion of these duties and dinner and bed I would divide between playing with Myrcella, working with Tyrion, and seeking out my other Uncles.

Stannis, in particular, was an interesting character to converse with, his focus resting solely on duty, remaining utterly unyielding in his convictions in spite of the myriad of distractions and insults the world seemed to offer up. I could tell my presence grated at him, likely on account of his suspicions that I was a product of incest, though he tolerated me and even seemed to approve of my diligence when attending to my duties. Renly, conversely, was very flighty, and seemed to share Tyrion's preference for japes and wine, although there was a noticeable absence of whores in his bed.

As entertaining as this lot was to interact with, especially on account of all that I knew about them, I still remained frustratingly distant from the remaining members of the small council. Varys, Baelish and Jon all remained tantalisingly out of reach, always too busy and too distant to be able to pay much attention to a child. Lacking the justification of a family connection, I couldn't even seek them out for curiosity's sake. In spite of my best efforts, all attempts at influencing the decisions of the small council seemed to be proving to be utterly fruitless, my subtle suggestions falling on deaf ears, ignored as the words of a silly, even if moderately intelligent, child. I remained certain that Varys, and perhaps even Baelish, were aware of at least some of them, and yet they played at ignorance.

I was tempted by the possibility of seeing them dead, but the likelihood was that they would discover any such plot or cutthroat long before any killing could be done, which would only endanger my prospects further. Not that I could anyway, I remained closely watched and guarded at all times, with only a few sparse moments to myself, and even then I remained sure that someone, likely Varys, was watching my every move with a keen eye.

My time frittered away, my efforts stymied, and my every waking moment filled to the brim with work to do, my sixth nameday came and went almost without notice, were it not for the cornucopia of gifts that seemingly the entire realm had seen fit to send. Most of these gifts promptly found themselves relegated to the corners of the Keep for the other children to play with, with me finding little use for trinkets and toys, save to give them out to those who found value in them. The finer gifts I sold off quietly whenever I could, taking the money and using some of my free time to go and organise the purchase of several taverns and a blacksmith's within King's Landing, from which I could derive a sizeable income for my future endeavours. Naturally, these all purchases had to be done using Tyrion in my intermediary, who was thoroughly bemused and perplexed at my request, but assented to it nonetheless. In the end, only a handful of the more practical gifts remained, the most treasured of which was a small blade, roughly the length of my forearm, made with a dull grey steel, utterly utilitarian in its design, gifted to me by one Stannis Baratheon.

Maybe I was finally making my way through his hard exterior? It was hard to tell, in truth.

My father had wanted to throw a tourney upon my nameday, but given that one was already occurring in King's Landing at the time, I managed to convince him that it would simply be better if that one was repurposed rather than have an entirely new one be organized. Sure, I still had to spend a few tiresome days watching people beat the absolute snot out of each other, but it was less of a hassle than a full-length tourney would have been. Naturally, when Joffrey's nameday came around, he insisted upon a tourney all of his own, and naturally, father was only too happy to oblige.

The very next day, I was back to the daily grind of my routine, my frustration mounting at the futility of it all. Nothing I did seemed to make any lasting difference. Father remained a drunken whoremonger, Mother remained spiteful and vain, Joffrey remained vicious and cruel, Baelish and Varys kept plotting, and the kingdom kept barrelling towards disaster with no means to stop it in sight.

Still, at least the stench was beginning to fade.

And the plot draws nearer and nearer! How will the SI's actions affect it's progression? What will he do?
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Hope you guys enjoy!