Disclaimer – This fanfiction was not written by me; it belongs to the user William Dellinger on alternatehistory, by publishing it here I only intend to bring it to a wider audience and make it available for offline reading. I do not claim any ownership of the content.
Jon V
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
The sun scorched the open seating, wave after wave of burning heat, forcing those of sufficient rank to their covered benches and private seats. Jon was not one such as that, a Stormlander heir without a knighthood. No, that right was reserved for men like Velaryon and Celtigar, who were even now fanning themselves lazily in the shade, sipping chilled wine, the ice having been freshly delivered from the North just this morning. A horrid expense for the luxury of chilled wine when there were many other ways to invest the gold, especially here in Driftmark.
More towns and villages would bring in more revenue, more people would mean more skilled labor. The shipyard was situated so that it could rival the shipyards of Braavos, if someone of the right mindset were lord. Velaryon was not that man, nor was he ever likely to be, resting as he was on the wealth collected by greater men than he and using that wealth to curry favor and influence at court. It was part of the reason the fortunes of House Velaryon had declined slightly, while houses such as Lannister, Hightower, and Tyrell ascended. Velaryon was still the richest man in the Crownlands; indeed, that was all he cared about. But his ignorance of events far afield from King's Landing gave him a blindspot; a Tywin Lannister sized blindspot.
The island's great wealth came from its position north of the Gullet, their trading ships bound to Essos and back, as well as charging protection for other trading vessels making the same route. Many a ship's captain had grumbled at paying for Velaryon's protection, but as Master of Ships, Velaryon had the utmost authority on all matters of sea and trade. His men controlled the docks and rumors abounded of shipments that had "fallen off the ship" making their way into Driftmark's vaults.
A bugle sounded, announcing the next two champions. The three headed dragon of House Targaryen was unfurled and lashed to the side of the opposing stands, while the blue swordfish of Ser Toram Bar Emmon matched it on the other side.
The Knight of Sharp Point was a formidable opponent, raised in the saddle as most Crownland heirs were known to be. There was a shock of black hair beneath his helm and the broad shoulders and waist that would almost certainly run to fat in ten years' time. His armor was clean, serviceable, but not overwrought. Ser Toram led his courser in its paces, both horse and rider snorting furiously in preparation for the battle, raising his lance over his head to the cheers of the audience. Rhaegar, for his part, watched the display, calmly checking the fittings on his armor before setting the dragon-winged helm on his head.
House Bar Emmon was ostensibly sworn to Dragonstone, but most knew that Lord Togarion Bar Emmon followed the beat of Velaryon's drum. What most didn't know was that Lord Togarion received compensation and discounts on Velaryon's protection, which boded well for Rhaegar. If a man's loyalty can be bought by another man, it can be bought by a richer man. And as Rhaegar was Crown Prince and would one day sit the Iron Throne, he would be in a position to bestow a much higher level of patronage to lords like Bar Emmon.
Jon looked over his shoulder, seeing the Lord of Sharp Point sitting one level below Velaryon, near the boots of the Lord of the Tides. The man was laughing at some jest, his red face forcing a hearty laugh from deep within the belly. But that laugh never reached his eyes, and those eyes glanced from time to time at Velaryon's shined, glossy boots, growing ever harder. Ah, yes, that was a man who hated where he currently sat. And where there was one, there would be more.
Jon sighed. He knew he was distracting himself with conspiracies and the subtle turnings of the court. It wasn't that Jon wished Rhaegar hadn't entered the joust; it was his place as prince and heir to show that he was the equal to any he would command and rule. And it wasn't that he was afraid for his prince, either; Rhaegar had proven his martial ability in the melee two days before and the first round of the joust the previous day. But all it would take was a splintered lance beneath the helm, or a gap in his black armor, or–
The crash of lances on armor broke the anxious thoughts and the horses whinnied in near-unison as their charges were interrupted. Both lances were splintered, jagged slivers covering the ground and the larger, more deadly pieces in the hands of the knights. Jon looked frantically at Rhaegar's back, praying to the Seven that he wouldn't turn around with one of those splinters in his chest or neck.
Rhaegar finally turned, his chest unblemished, throwing his broken lance to the ground and calling for another. He lifted his visor and scanned the field, eyes on Ser Toram. He rotated his shoulder, loosening it and stretching the muscle. The blow had glanced off his inside shoulder, just enough to break the lance, but not nearly enough to unseat him. But there was a gap between the shoulder brace and the cuirass, covered only by a rondel. If the motion of the horse and rider was just so, a lance – even a dulled one – could strike in the gap to wound. The rot would sink in, if the wound was not cared for. And with Driftmark being a day and a half of hard, continuous sailing back to King's Landing, Rhaegar would be at the mercy of whatever maester Velaryon chose to attend him.
Jon moved down the stands, pushing his way through the merchants and guildmasters who had bought their way into the audience, moving to stand at the lowest level near the railing. He gripped the hastily lashed wooden beam hard enough to turn his knuckles white, praying that Rhaegar would emerge unscathed. Should Rhaegar fall, the ruling court would be without an heir, at least for the time being. The Queen was pregnant, yes, but she had also had a great many stillborn babes, or sons dead in their cribs. A succession crisis was the last thing the realm needed, not with Lannister, Velaryon, and Father knew who else eyeing power like crows over a corpse.
Rhaegar spurred his horse onward, slowly settling his lance into the crook of his arm. The tip wavered slightly, finding the right spot to penetrate to the opponent's chest, the long, lean wood flashing in the sunlight. Jon's body tensed, his shoulders and arms tightening. Rhaegar rode low in the saddle, hips and thighs thrust forward to balance the heavy, cumbersome weight of the lance. The knights met in the middle and Rhaegar thrust home, his hard lance driving squarely into Ser Toram's chestplate. The knight fell from his saddle, legs open and flying until the ground halted his fall.
Jon breathed audibly, relief evident. His arms ached from gripping the wood and he had lost all feeling in his hands. He turned away from the arena, heading towards the vendors and their refreshing, albeit warm, wine.
As he strode down the stairs, he caught a glimpse of a black haired serving girl watching the events. Beneath the handkerchief, he recognized the face; Rhaegar's mummer. The woman smiled softly when she saw Rhaegar's banner raised in victory, then turned back to her duties, carrying a basket of bandages toward the maester's tent.
Jon fumed silently. The whore was trouble, and had influence with Rhaegar above her station, speaking to him as equals, using his given name. Dragging him into this conspiracy, forcing him to kill the sworn guards of their host. Forcing Arthur to make the same decision, his white cloak not allowing him any choice. Two nights before, Jon had helped dispose of four men, dropping their bodies down the garderobe so their bodies would not wash up to shore.
It made little difference if Rhaegar chose to bed her, for she was not ugly. Her face was too broad for Jon's liking, and it made her brows seem the larger by comparison. But there had already been one Prince of Dragonstone turn down his birthright for a Jenny, one that had nearly led to rebellion when the Storm King had marched on King's Landing, claiming the Iron Throne. Rhaegar would have to marry and marry well, for King Aerys would would not be as lenient or forgiving as Aegon the Unlikely.
Jon paid for his wine and sipped it slowly. Lannister obviously wanted Rhaegar to wed his daughter, Cersei. A golden haired slip of a girl, barely nine years old, but already with the Lannister ambition in her eyes. And that one was a Lannister twice over. The North had their one daughter, Lyanna, but she was half-barbarian already, dressed in black fur like the wolf on their banners. The Tullys had two daughters, their names escaping Jon at the moment. Neither offered much in the way of wealth or power, but perhaps that would be enough to not offend one of the other Great Houses. The Tyrells and Hightowers and Florents had their daughters, but if King's Landing politics was a den of vipers, the Reach was a dozen dens, each more venomous than the last.
There was Dorne, of course, with the sickly, dusky Dornishwoman, the sister of Prince Doran. Surely the King would not make such a match; the rest of the Great Houses would squirm under a Dornish Queen, as surely as they had generations before, leading to the First Blackfyre Rebellion.
Jon sipped his wine as more knights matched up for the next joust. The only thing that mattered was the stability of the realm and that Rhaegar lived to be crowned. Any obstacle in that path had to be stopped. Right now, it was Velaryon and his conspiracy. After that... well, there would be time for that later.
Arthur III
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
Arthur watched the joust with a critical eye, a dozen tiny details marking an imaginary piece of parchment. Rhaegar's form was atrocious, his only saving grace a greater athleticism and strength. The tip of his spear wavered and wobbled, diving at the last second to strike Ser Toram in the chest. The force of the blow nearly knocked the lance from his hand, because it hadn't been seated properly. Rhaegar had struck on the horse's off-gait, losing a good bit of force behind the blow. He would win, of course, but against a more skilled opponent, it would have been Rhaegar rolling in the dirt.
It was to be expected, however. Rhaegar's skill with sword and spear was equal to any in the Kingsguard, much less the field at Driftmark. But the playhouse didn't lend itself well to jousting and Rhaegar often had to be forced outside its walls. Though, how he had been spending his recent nights, assuredly without the watchful eye of the Kingsguard, gave Arthur cause for alarm. Of course, now that Arthur was a part of Rhaegar's conspiracy within a conspiracy, he could protect the prince on his nightly outings. Though, Rhaegar had not been completely without protection. The mummer girl was quick with a knife, and Arthur could tell she had used it more than just the other night.
Arthur adjusted his grip on the lance while he waited his turn, barely able to feel the turned wood beneath the heavy gloves and mail. He preferred to keep his own hands on his weapons, feeling the blade and lance beneath his fingertips for the advantages it offered. Becoming one with the weapon, making it an extension of himself. Too much plate and mail and boiled leather made a man braver than he really was, more aggressive. Honor was found in man and sword versus man and sword, relaying less on a lucky strike in between armor and more on the skill of defense and attack of the man.
But honor is not everything, is it, Sword of the Morning?
Arthur blinked. Those thoughts had come unbidden of late, since two nights before. He had killed a man with a hunk of iron, bashed his skull in from behind. There was no honor in that, and even less when he dropped the man's body through a hundred paces of shit and piss to sink to the bottom of an inlet bay.
It was his first kill and it had not been what he had expected.
The scene replayed in his mind, as it had for the last day. He hadn't thought twice; if the man had raised the alarm, Rhaegar would have been exposed as a traitor to Velaryon and his conspirators. And a man in Velaryon's position might be made to do truly desperate things in the face of such a betrayal; including killing a prince and his companions. It was a choice between the guard's life or Rhaegar's, and his sworn duty to protect the king and prince preceded all others. Including his own honor.
Arthur shook his head. It didn't make the killing right or honorable, but yet there was honor in following one's vows, was there not? Lord Commander Hightower spoke of protecting the royal family at all costs, and never judging them. Defending the Iron Throne and Targaryen crown whether right or wrong, and at any and all cost. That was the oath of the Kingsguard.
And so Arthur would follow Rhaegar's lead, whatever plan the prince had come up with. There was precious little time left; the tourney would end today, there would be another feast and more entertainment tonight, then tomorrow at midday, the ships would set sail, carrying lords and knights and men toward King's Landing. The timing was perfect, as the conspiracy would dock in the dead of night and all those men would just happen to be on hand to protect the king once the Hand was dead. Less than a full day until the ships were loaded and by then it would be too late.
Arthur spat on the ground, irritated. Jon was the one with the mind for court and conspiracy, not him. Arthur could read a man true enough, but these men fought their battles with no honor, daggers in the night and poison in the wine. He had no taste for it; let Jon play their game and serve Rhaegar as Hand one day. Arthur would be content to remain beneath his white cloak, the sword and shield at his prince's back.
He turned his attention back to the lance. The tip was blunted, a tourney lance churned out as quickly as possible by the armorers. It was not perfect, nor was it a particularly deadly in all but the most unfortunate of circumstances. But it had a single purpose and it served that purpose, despite whatever else it was.
Arthur looked at the lance for a long time.
Jenny III
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
There was, very simply, too many damned people.
The four long tables seated a hundred or more to a side, with the fifth table at the head of the hall making at least a thousand men and women to serve. The head maid, a horrible fat woman called Brigid, ran the fifty serving girls with an iron fist and a wooden spoon. They were never fast enough or calm enough or smiling enough. It was enough to make a woman plot murder.
Jenny kept one eye on the wandering hands of the lords and knights, dodging the glares from their lady wives, while keeping the other on Rhaegar at the head of the table. He kept saying he had a plan, but wasn't forthcoming with the particulars.
He was making an effort to look relaxed and calm, but she could see the tension in his eyes and shoulders. He was waiting for something to happen and him being nervous made her nervous. He did foolish things when backed into a corner.
She dodged another groping hand, this one climbing her thighs like a thousand legged spider. Lord Chyttering, again. The man's hands felt like overstuffed sausages. Sweaty, overstuffed sausages. The patrons of the feast were drunk, but not overly so. The entertainment – another one of Rhaegar's plays, this one Alester, Knight of the Gate – had been enough to keep the lords and ladies occupied. They drank less as a result, but now they seemed to be making up for lost time. It would be hours yet before the feast ended.
Jenny felt eyes on her, a lifetime of awareness paying off. She was a servant; no one should be watching her.
It was Connington, of course, his eyes flickering to her over his wine. Ser Arthur sat beside him, glancing between her at one end of the hall and Rhaegar at the other.
She followed his line of sight, seeing Rhaegar get up from his chair. She immediately put her pitcher of wine down on a serving table, moving quickly without seeming to, not wanting to draw outside attention. Rhaegar caught her eye and exited the hall off to the side, while Jenny took another exit, one that would lead around to the same place. She could feel Connington watching her still.
Servants moved in and out of the hallway, but they paid her no mind, focused on their own tasks. They were all young women, and all had been groped from tits to tail a dozen times this night. They knew sometimes a serving girl just needed to get away for a moment.
Jenny turned a dark corner, almost running right into Rhaegar. He pulled her close, whispering in her ear and shoving scraps of parchment in her hand.
"Wait a quarter of an hour and discreetly give these to Velaryon, Stokeworth, and Thorne. Once you've done that, I need you to get out and get to the dock."
"Rhaegar, what are you planning?" she asked, more forcefully than she'd intended. "I'm not going to leave you here with them."
He put both hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. "Everything is as it should be. Just trust me." He kissed her again and left her, striding confidently into the darkness of the tunnel, toward the other side of the castle.
Jenny reentered the hall, steeling herself for another round of serving. The quarter of an hour passed immeasurably slow, made all the more nerve-wracking by Connington's constant gaze. Picking up her pitcher again, Jenny made her way to the three targets and surreptitiously left the folded parchment in each of their laps. She was gone before they could see who had left it, blending in as just another serving girl.
Back at the serving table, she put the pitcher down for the last time. Catching Connington's eye, she motioned to the exit Rhaegar had used and started towards it. She saw the proud man stiffen and sneer at what he surely saw as a command, but Ser Arthur placed a hand on his arm and began to stand. Connington followed a moment later, his face angry.
Once away from the feast, she waited for them to find her. Rhaegar was a great many things, but her protector he was not. She could protect herself, as she had for many years on the road. Whatever he had planned, she knew it would be something she wouldn't approve of, and knew that as well. That was why he hadn't told any of them his plan. And getting her down to the docks only meant that it was liable to end in bloodshed.
Connington and Ser Arthur came around the corner a moment later, and before Connington could say anything, she stopped him.
"Rhaegar is meeting with all three of them right now. Alone. Whatever you think of me, or him for loving me, is beside the point. He needs our help."
Rhaegar XXVI
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
Luck had been on my side for at least once today. The feast was in full swing, after the play but before too much wine had been drunk. Only a few had left the tables for their beds, the rest telling stories told too many times, or remembering events that hadn't happened – not, at least, the way they were being told.
Velaryon would follow in a few minutes time, giving me just enough to properly set the stage. The castle of High Tide, rebuilt after the Dance of Dragons, contained two grand halls. One was currently the scene of the feast, high ceilings and chiseled columns, stone washed to an inch of its life, torches set in gold flaked holdings. All of it was a testament to wealth and power.
The second grand hall, located on the opposite side of the castle, was smaller, but more carefully made. It was not a hall for feasting and entertaining, but built to house a singular object, rising above the rest of the hall on a stone dais. The high windows faced east, and would let in a great amount of sun every morning, and the deep purple carpet led directly to the dais, a path of royal color. The main entrance was directly opposite the dais, forcing any who entered to traverse the entire length of the hall, toward the Driftwood Throne.
It was a reception hall fit for a king.
Even through the darkness and absence of torches, I could see a layer of dust on the floor reflected in moonlight, which meant that even the servants were not allowed here to clean. Though, there was a small trail of disturbed dust leading to the dais and throne. Velaryon would undoubtedly come here every morning he was in residence, watch the sunlight gleam against the bleached white of the driftwood and imagine himself holding court. The throne itself was an intricate mass of twisted white wood, bending and turning into a hatchwork in the shape of a chair. The back of the throne rose in two points, nearly twinned but for one being slightly longer than the other, the small flaw giving it a rakishness, a hat tilted to one side. The throne of a pirate.
I stepped onto the dais and took a seat on the throne. Velaryon would be here soon, along with Stokeworth and Thorne, and I needed him to be in a particular frame of mind. I threw one leg over the armrest of the throne, leaning back as irreverently as I could manage. I didn't want my pounding heart to give anything away, or I'd end up dead and thrown into the bay.
From the way I was sitting, facing the high windows, I heard the door open behind me. Whispers soon followed; Velaryon and Stokeworth and Thorne. The strangled noise I heard was undoubtedly Velaryon, once he saw me sitting on the throne. That was good; I needed him angry.
"Your Grace," he said, his face a mask of fury, his voice clipped, but polite. "Might I ask why you have summoned us here? This hall has been sealed for quite some time." He lied through his teeth with ease, as if any one would believe that. I'm not sure what angered him more, that I had my royal ass all over his family's ancient throne, or that others had finally seen his greatest vanity.
I motioned them over to in front of the throne and dais, so I wouldn't have to crane my neck to see them. Velaryon positively seethed at moving into the position of petitioner.
"Lucerys," I said, almost indifferently, "I think it is beyond time we renegotiated our plans. It's too unseemly, you taking over as Hand days after the Lannister's untimely death. Rumor and gossip would positively flood King's Landing. Everyone knows of your ambitions, and your rivalry with Lannister." I paused for effect, waiting for it to sink in, both with Velaryon and the others. "It just wouldn't seem... proper," I said with effected emphasis.
I had pitched my tone carefully. The unquestioned superiority of a prince speaking to an underling, not a lord; a head servant, or perhaps master of stables. Just enough rank to be patronizing, not enough to be offensive. Well, perhaps a little offensive.
Velaryon went slowly still and slowly quiet. It was the look of man with murder on his mind.
Stokeworth, looking back toward the door they had entered with a nervous glance, answered while Velaryon fumed. "Your Grace, who would be your choice instead of Lord Velaryon–"
"Scheming swine!" Velaryon hissed. "The Handship is mine, by birthright and blood!"
"His Grace speaks the truth, my lord," Thorne said hesitantly, moving all the while behind Stokeworth. "We would risk all should you succeed the Lannister–"
"And who should succeed him, then? You? Lord of an overgrown stable and village? Or you?" he said, turning to Stokeworth. "Lord of Thugs and Criminals?" Velaryon's rage had left him and his voice was deadly quiet. I would have preferred him frothing at the mouth, but as long as he was distracted, my plan would work.
"It was my house that traveled across the Narrow Sea with the Targaryens, my house that stood beside them when they conquered your lands and ancestors," he said disdainfully, brandishing his forearms. "The blood of dragonriders and kings flows in these veins and you would presume your blood to equal mine?" He scoffed. "Tread carefully my fellow conspirators, or poison will find more than the Lannister's cup."
Both Stokeworth and Thorne seemed properly cowed, but both spared a glance at me. That was the key, one of the moments I'd been waiting for.
I had always wondered what Velaryon had over the other two that had kept them from combining forces against him. It hadn't been gold or influence or the promise of power. It had been fear. Fear of what Velaryon could do to them with his limitless wealth. But as soon as I had joined the conspiracy, I had leveled the playing field. Now, Stokeworth and Thorne had a power they could hide behind, someone to bear the brunt of Velaryon's rage.
Those poor damned fools.
I laughed, a high pitched peal of pure amusement. All three of them turned to look at me and I gave Velaryon my most concerned, most patronizing expression. "My dear Lucerys. Lords Stokeworth and Thorne wouldn't be my first choice to replace the Lannister at all. You misunderstand me." I lifted a booted foot onto the throne, scraping off unseen mud on one of the sharper points of the driftwood. "I want you as my Hand, certainly. Just not right away."
Velaryon's face snapped up and he very nearly charged me in that moment. I dangled the thread a little bit more. "I certainly need your superior breeding and sophistication at court. But I was thinking someone else, someone old, that would only be physically able to hold the position for a year or two, at most." I paused, letting the scrape of my boot against the driftwood echo off the walls. "Perhaps Lord Walder Frey? He's nearing seventy. Or Luthor Tyrell, he's not much younger."
Velaryon purpled with rage. I rather enjoyed watching the man restrain himself, knowing it was a revenge for the many sleepless nights he had given me.
"Your Grace," he said stiffly, finally reining in his anger into something much more dangerous. He fixed me with frozen eyes and fury, stepping up the dais until he was on level with me, leaning forward and bracing his arms on the armrests. His face was mere inches from mine. "I will continue with the plan. The Lannister will be poisoned the night we return to King's Landing. I will become the next Hand of the King. And you should remember, Your Grace; a prince's life is often precarious. Many of your brothers have died already, but I'm sure the Stranger will make room for you as well."
I smiled at him, which only seemed to infuriate him more. "Is that enough?" I yelled without looking.
Velaryon's face screwed up in confusion, then turned deathly pale. He spun around, looking at the door we had all entered, then to the main entrance at the end of the hall. A lone figure moved out of the shadows, a dark cloak high on his head.
Another came behind him, then another, then three more, all cloaked in shadow. One stepped forward ahead of the rest, pulling back his hood as he entered the moonlight.
Tywin Lannister.
Lord of Casterly Rock.
Hand of the King.
The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.
The two men directly behind him removed their cloaks as well, revealing the pure white beneath. Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell both drew swords and advanced on the conspirators.
"Lord Lucerys Velaryon! Lord Manly Stokeworth! Lord Adric Thorne! I charge you with treason in the name of King Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!" Ser Barristan's bellow echoed off the stone walls like the battlefield voice it was born of. A number of red cloaked guards entered at that, spears held at the ready to lead the condemned away. The conspirators sputtered and yelled and tried to run, but there was nowhere to run to. The red guards quickly bound them at the wrists and led them to the main entrance.
Lord Tywin raised a hand as they passed, halting them. Without as much as a glance at Velaryon, the Hand of the King leaned in and whispered something to him.
I would've given a lot of money to find out what he said.
Lord Tywin turned to the other three cloaked figures once the conspirators were gone. "I assume I can count on your testimony at trial?"
The three men removed their hoods and nodded. I peered into the moonlight to find the rest of the small council there; Lord Staunton, Master of Laws; Lord Chelsted, Master of Coin; and Lord Cressey, Master of Whisperers. All three had been at the feast earlier; indeed, they had been the ones to retire early, on my order of course.
And how did I pull that off, you ask? Simple, really.
It had been the cawing of the ravens that gave me the idea. Standing over the cooling bodies of Velaryon's guards in his own solar and those damned birds couldn't keep quiet long enough to let me think. One of Velaryon's own ravens to King's Landing, flying over water with no place to land, had taken less time than I had thought. It was about three hundred miles by air to the capitol, which means the raven arrived just as Grand Maester Pycelle rose to check the mail, so to speak. The coded message would have obviously been for Lord Tywin, and Pycelle would have taken it directly to him. Figuring a few hours to arrange a ship and put affairs in order, assuming he could do so without drawing any attention, made it likely he would arrive in the dead of night. I made sure he should include Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell, since their testimony would be above reproach, and ensure that Staunton, Chelsted, and Cressey were in a position to attend as well. I just had to get Velaryon to threaten me.
You see, it wasn't enough for Velaryon and the others to threaten Lord Tywin. It was even odds Aerys would laugh it off and dismiss it, or enter the game himself. But threatening me? With the Kingsguard listening in? That was a plot of a different color.
I looked to the hidden alcove where Jon, Arthur, and Jenny were hiding and waved. I'd known they were there, a flash of cloth in moonlight giving it away. There was nothing I could have done about it, not while the performance was underway. But it felt nice to have them there, knowing that someone was watching out. Things could have gone downhill quick.
Lord Twyin approached me once the conspirators had been taken away. "You tread dangerous ground, Your Grace," he said carefully.
I smiled and raised my hand, flashing the hilt of a dagger in my sleeve. "Dangerous, yes. But danger has two edges, my Lord Hand."
Lord Tywin nodded with what seemed like approval. "Fitting. Our rivalry is revealed to be a fiction; that will cause problems. In the other matter."
"Yes," I said evenly.
"And there is the matter of Darklyn."
"And then there is the matter of Darklyn," I agreed.
There hadn't been time to ensnare Darklyn in my net, but with his proxy gone, he was in no position to make a move. No, he would retire to Duskendale and plot anew, his wife whispering sweet conspiracies in his ear. It would be at least a year before anything he could do came to fruition, and I would be long gone by then, fishing and fucking my days away.
One could hope.