Chapter 4: And the Game Begins

When my eighth nameday rolled around, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Jon Arryn was alive. Somehow, something I had done had delayed, perhaps even averted, his demise. The butterfly effect had, in some way, changed everything. I was in uncharted territory, and in spite of the uncertainty, I was happy with that fact. Sure, events had divulged significantly, but things could hardly get worse than they had been in canon, now could they? I had extra time, and I was going to make the most of it.

Speaking of which, I was progressing nicely with Ser Barristan, and the prospect of becoming his squire loomed all throughout my seventh year until I was named as such upon my eighth nameday. He described me as 'brimming with potential', which I took to be high praise. Though my attitude was anything but exemplary, when the lessons in combat began, I focused in, well aware of just how useful the skills would prove to be. The result was that I made faster progress than most of the other boys in the yard my age, soundly thrashing them in a straight fight. At this stage, I was likely good enough to be able to reliably beat the average peasant levy in single combat, which was no easy feat for a boy who had not yet reached the double digits. Truly, Selmy was an exceptional teacher.

My lessons with Pycelle continued at the same ferocious pace. In maths, science and a few other areas of practical study, in spite of his best efforts, the work remained a breeze, my modern education serving me well. Expressing a further interest in numbers, on account of my past experience with them, Pycelle walked me through basic geometry, trigonometry and what seemed to be the beginnings of calculus, though in an extraordinarily rudimentary form. Naturally, there was an administrative focus, and I remained at somewhat of a disadvantage on account of lacking anything resembling a calculator or computer, but with several years to adjust to the change, it was in truth no more difficult than any of the challenges I had faced thus far. By my eighth nameday, Pycelle even raised the possibility of me going to the Citadel to seek further education in the subject, after which I restrained myself in his lessons, not desiring to attract further attention.

Perhaps most interesting, however, remained my work with Tyrion. By this stage, the work on the sewers had was well underway and had even been completed in some districts of the city, all the liquid waste finding it's way to the sea, and all the solid waste being collected and boiled before being sold to the surrounding farmlands as fertiliser. It was a relatively small income at this stage, but as the technique proved itself in expanding crop yields, if only marginally, the demand grew, and the incomes were already proving sufficient to pay for the maintenance of the sewers that had been built. The excess coin was deposited within the Royal coffers, which I felt to be a waste on account of where it would likely be spent, but I didn't voice that concern.

Tyrion's curiosity had already been aroused by my using him to acquire investment incomes throughout King's Landing. It wouldn't do to arouse so much, however, that he would feel the need to inform mother, father or even grandfather of my enterprises.

Most importantly of all, however, was that the potency of the smell was diminishing, of course, much of it lingered still, and the city would likely reek to the high heavens for a couple centuries more even when the system would be complete in a few years time, but there was a noticeable improvement. Not only had the hygiene and living standards of the average resident of the city improved massively, once my ideas began to bear fruit, both Tyrion and I began to acquire a degree of notoriety from some of the members of the court. Being in the position that I was, I naturally directed much of the praise in Tyrion's direction, seeking to avoid further attention, though there is a chance my humility may have backfired. Still, Tyrion lavished in the attention, seemingly happy at being recognised for his own talents rather than his family name for once in his life. Of course, there were some snide comments shot in our direction at the nature of our achievement, mostly by Joffrey, but I had become adept at ignoring him over the past few years.

Speaking of attention, whilst it had taken some doing, I appeared to have shaken mother's interest. Once again, she returned to treating Joffrey as the apple of her eye, lavishing upon him a bounty of praise and attention, which had the added bonus of easing Joffrey's attempts at tormenting me. In spite of all the moves I had made and the work I had done, once mother was convinced of the fact that I remained a harmless child with equally childish ambitions, she returned her attention back to her usual pursuits. The burden of scrutiny lifting slightly afforded me some freedom around the Keep, people gradually adjusting to my new outlook and mannerisms. Of course, I remained fastidious about retaining the façade of being a small child, knowing that Varys and Baelish would both be watching, but it was nice to have the space nonetheless.

With the majority of the work with regards to planning the sewer project being completed, I had a lot more time to be able to dedicate to some of my other pursuits within the city. My campaign to win the favour of my uncles continued. Most of all, I prioritised Stannis, believing him to be the most likely to see reason when the time came. Sure, Renly was more fun, but I saw the intimacy that Loras and him shared, and I remained keenly aware of the fact that the man had been willing to betray his own brother for the promise of a crown. Of course, I also remained aware that Stannis had become a kinslayer in the books and show both, and yet I was convinced that appealing to his sense of duty would prove effective, especially if I could get his Red Witch to show him the vision of the wights and convince him that the only way to beat them was to cooperate.

Baratheons aside, I remained committed to forging a real connection with the Lannister side of my family. Tyrion, as ever, remained an easy person to get along with, though I had less opportunity to speak with him following the conclusion of the sewer project. Still, our time together had given us a rapport that translated well to raven and parchment. However, now that I was spending time in the yard, I also made attempts at forming a bond with my other Lannister uncle. Initially, Jaime was resistant to my charms, but I wore him down with my persistence, and eventually he began to assent to my requests for practice spars or demonstrations when Ser Barristan was too busy. It was slow goings, but I could tell that the beginnings of an emotional attachment were forming, one that I would need if I were to establish any semblance of control that could then be used to tear him from Cersei's grasp later on.

All in all, I was happy with the state of affairs, and remained content with making slow and incremental progress towards my goals.

And then, just a few moons after my eighth nameday, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, fell deathly ill. Shortly after, he died, following which father announced his intention to head north, to Winterfell, to seek Eddard Stark to be his new hand. More importantly, Jon Arryn's last words were the same as they had been prior, and Lysa Arryn was nowhere to be found in King's Landing.

Oh... oh fuck.

Following my shock at the suddenness of the whole affair, I calmed myself and considered the possibilities. In all honesty, it depended. From the looks of things, the direction the realm was headed looked to be the same as in canon. If that was the case, what did that mean for Dany and her dragons, for Euron, for the White Walkers? Had their moves been delayed too, or was I under a time-crunch? Losing as much as a year before gaining control could prove catastrophic, granting me inadequate leeway to be able to actually cement my position.

Far as I could tell, there had yet to be any news of Dany falling pregnant, something that would undoubtedly cause enough of a ruckus such that even I should hear of it, and acted as something of a mental timestamp for tracking plot progression. However, that did not necessarily mean that the plot had been set back a year, or that I was in the clear. Even if Dany's plotline was delayed, that didn't have to mean the same for Euron or the wights.

Or maybe I was overreacting. It was just as possible that I had misremembered the timeline.

Regardless, all of this had thrown a spanner into the works. It was now clear to me that at least some elements of the plot would play out regardless of any interference on my part, however, my previous plan of simply letting things play out with minimal interference until I were to ascend to the throne was no longer viable. I had to find some sort of confirmation of the direction and timing of events if I was to properly position myself for what was to come. Furthermore, I had to prioritise. As entertaining as all of the scheming in the south was to watch, the true danger lay behind the wall, up in the icy wastes of the far north.

Certainly a thought, though one best suited for another day.

At that moment I was making preparations for my trip north. My clothes and other belongings had been packed by the maids, and yet there were some items that I intended to bring along myself. For one, the dagger that Stannis had gifted me, which I prayed I would never have to use, but remained glad that I had regardless. For another, I packed a small chest, stuffed to the brim with several years of savings in coin, in excess of several hundred dragons. For my small frame, it was bloody difficult to move about, and yet I was sure that it would prove useful, and like with the dagger, it was nice to have the option.

Of course, I had plenty of time to reconsider once the journey actually began.

Oh god, that fucking wheelhouse was aggravating! Not only was it painfully slow and prone to breaking, it was extraordinarily bumpy and uncomfortable as well. Naturally, as the youngest son, it was where I was required to spend the majority of my time, where mother could watch me like a hawk. For a few brief moments of respite, I would be allowed to go outside to ride with Uncle Tyrion or my father, both of whom shared my distaste for the wheelhouse, and when we made camp, I was allowed to practice my swordsmanship with Uncle Jaime.

I had never been more grateful for the opportunity in my life.

Nonetheless, for me, the journey to the North was naught but torture, any excitement at the prospect of meeting the Starks thoroughly extinguished by the end of the first week. Watching the ground inch by, unable to feel the wind rushing through my hair, trapped in a little wooden box with wheels, forced to make idle and often mind-numbing chatter along the way, it was an endless cavalcade of tedium.

Still, as the days came and went, each day seeming longer than the last, I could tell we were making progress, the temperature gradually dropping till I could see my own breath form smoky curls as it escaped my mouth. Throughout the entire south, the temperature gradient had been tolerable, dropping by a maximum of a few degrees. Up here though, past the neck, it seemed as though every mile we moved forwards lowered the temperature by another degree. In spite of packing my warmest furs and coats, the cold was beginning to seep into my bones, making my extremities numb and inducing the occasional bout of shivering.

I guess I must be a summer child after all.

Still, as we approached Winterfell proper, I elected to leave the relative warmth of the wheelhouse in a choice Myrcella called 'mad' so that I could walk besides it, the activity creating enough heat in my body to abate the worst of the cold. Now immersed in the biting winds and falling snow from head to toe, it took only a couple of hours for my body to begin the acclimation process. Soon after, I began to gain a measure of comfort in such a harsh environment, at which point I was forced to clamber back into the wheelhouse, mother passing the time by fretting at the mud and snow on my clothes.

Before long, the walls of Winterfell began to draw near, and as they grew larger and larger in the distance, I felt a pit of anxiety form in my stomach. This was it, my chance to prepare for the plot was over, because we had finally arrived.

The game was officially afoot.

And now, the Starks! How will they see a new and improved Tommen?
I felt it best to age Tommen by a year, thereby granting him slightly more agency slightly earlier on. The time difference should allow certain plot elements to change whilst broadly keeping everything else the same. To that effect, some characters will have minor differences in their age, such as being aged by or made younger by a year.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. Not quite happy with the way this chapter came out. May be subject to a rewrite in the future.