In the Red Keep…
Nightfall had once again consumed the skies above King's Landing. Snugging underneath his bedsheets rested Prince Tommen Baratheon, youngest brother of King Daveth I Baratheon and publicly acknowledged as second-in-line of the throne behind his newborn nephew Prince Lyonel. The 14-year-old is known by most at court as kind hearted and well-intentioned, but considered a passive and weak-willed lad. Despite his shortcomings, Tommen actually tries very hard to meet the expectations set on him. Even Daveth himself occasionally took time out of his schedule to help educate Tommen on political intrigue and learn the importance of what it means to govern should anything happen to him.
Tommen groaned, stretching his arms out to the side and gave a big yawn. Rubbing his eyes, he reached for a glass of warm milk. Tommen felt the liquid slide down his throat with each gulp and set the cup down. Deciding that he would not fall back to sleep for at least a while, Tommen gazed at the nearest painting across from him. It was an old portrait; one from a time from when the royal House Baratheon of King's Landing was whole: from left to right, the painting depicted a younger Daveth holding a toddler Tommen, a younger Joffrey posturing as if he meant to make himself look more glorious and a younger Myrcella smiling sweetly. Behind them was their father King Robert I Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister.
Looking at it somehow made Tommen feel saddened. 'Another life, another time,' he would sometimes ask himself in times of doubt. 'Back when we were… happy, I guess. Brother didn't smile enough, but kept some for 'Cella and me.'
"Pway wif me, big bwover! Come pway wif me!" a 3 ½-year old Tommen would pester Daveth almost regularly.
"Okay, Tommen," a 10-year old Daveth would reply.
Tommen looked back on those memories fondly, even if they had faded away a bit once he grew older. As a child, wherever Daveth went Tommen was not too far behind him like a puppy on a leash. The lords and ladies of the royal court often remarked how cute the boys looked—complementing on how good Tommen was behaving. On the other hand, whenever their brother Joffrey bullied and tormented Tommen (whether physically or emotionally) or even killed his pets for amusement, it was Daveth who intervened and put an end to it—sometimes if it meant being physical.
"He-he killed my-my… Joff killed Ser Fonsie!" a 6-year old Tommen sobbed, referring to a fawn he once adopted as a pet, burying his face deep into Daveth's shoulder to cry on. Moments before their brother Joffrey had killed and skinned the animal.
A 12-year old Daveth ignored the tears and snot staining his attire; instead patted Tommen's head and held him close. "Shhh, shhh, shhh. Hush, Tommen. Dry your eyes and go to room. I'll take care of it."
And take care of it he did. The next day, Daveth returned with a litter of kittens—much to Tommen's delight. Indeed, the youngest Baratheon wiped his puffy eyes and was back to his old self in no time. But it was also the beginning of the hated sibling rivalry that formed between Daveth and Joffrey—and the estrangement from their mother Cersei Lannister.
Nowadays, Prince Tommen knew his brother would have any time to spare now that he's not only King of the Seven Kingdoms but now as a father himself too. It was something that Tommen wanted from the beginning as soon as his awareness matured; a family, whole and supportive. But there was indeed a slimmer of hope he held for himself once he was informed of his engagement to Lady Margaery Tyrell.
Outside his room, a small sound broke his concentration. Tommen looked at the edge of his bedroom door, now cracked open ajar and assumed it was one of his cats.
"Ser Pounce?" he called out.
But lo and behold, Tommen soon noticed he had a visitor: Margaery Tyrell. She hadn't made any formal requests known and it was possible that King Daveth wasn't aware of her unannounced visit to the Prince's room at this hour. Holding a lit candle in her left hand for illumination, Margaery looked absolutely beautiful despite the twelve-year age gap between them; an olive-green ivory dress with golden rose embroidering and seed pearls, her soft curling brown hair was as smooth as silk, and her slender but womanly figure was enticing; quite tempting in Tommen's opinion. Understandable, considering he found his betrothed so attractive. Even so, he shook his head to rid himself of any perverse thoughts.
Tommen blinked. "How did you get past the Kingsguard?" he whispered curiously.
Margaery gave a sweet smile. "A bit of charm and grace never hurt anyone," she answered, "so long as words are chosen carefully and timed just right."
'You make it look so easy,' the Young Cub suspected. Still, he kept his voice quiet—not wanting her to get into any trouble. "I… I don't think you're supposed to be here," he watched Margaery lean on his bedside, lighting candles nearby. "Daveth doesn't let me have visitors at night."
"I'm not a visitor, my Prince. Word has it I'm to be your bride once your nameday has passed," she explained.
Tommen gulped. "Y-yes, of course. My brother did mention that much."
"Did you know that people in arranged marriages often never meet until their wedding day?"
'We met Sansa at Winterfell three years ago and THAT was before father decided to marry her to Daveth the next day,' Tommen remembered. He kept his mouth shut and shook his head; perhaps this was another lesson he needed to learn.
"So until then, before we decide to spend our lives together, we ought to get to know one another. Don't you think?" she continued and leaned closely, applying aptitude intelligent shrewdness in her voice.
She was getting a bit close to Tommen; his face slowly reddened at Margaery's charm and beauty. The Tyrell maiden felt as if she won the first match effortlessly.
'So easy, and yet so cute,' she complimented herself.
Tommen's blush deepened, trying desperately to maintain appropriate eye-contact with Margaery without his eyes glancing down at her bosom before quickly bringing them back up. "Y-yes," he stammered. "But if my brother finds out, then he'll—"
Margaery pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "It can be our little secret. Hmm? If we're going to man and wife, we'll have a few secrets from him, I hope. Only a small one never hurts once."
'Well…' the Young Cub thought, 'I-I suppose at least one little secret wouldn't hurt. Daveth will understand, I hope.'
"So, my Prince," Margaery applied her charm, leaning close to Tommen's face, "tell me a secret and I'll tell you one of mine."
Tommen gulped and felt his heart racing faster. He felt unnerved by her presence. But before he could say anything, both Tommen and Margaery received an untimely welcome.
"*MEOW!*"
One of Tommen's cats meowed and jumped on top of the bed, surprising Margaery as the animal nuzzles up to her. Tommen smiled as she pets the feline gently.
"Well, hello there. Aren't you a proper fellow?" Margaery feigned surprise.
"That's Ser Pounce," the Prince said, referring to his cat.
"Very handsome."
Tommen's smile vanished and turned into a frown. "Joffrey didn't like him," he confessed.
Margaery raised an eyebrow. 'Ah yes, him. Their other brother, Joffrey Baratheon; the cruel one His Grace personally exiled to the Night's Watch for instigating that bloody slaughter,' she realized, referring to the murder of King Robert I's bastard children.
"He threatened to skin Ser Pounce alive and mix his innards up in my food so I wouldn't know I was eating him."
Ser Pounce jumped off the bed, leaving Margaery and Tommen alone again.
"That's very cruel," she sympathized. "We heard what he did back at Highgarden. You don't strike me as cruel, though."
Tommen shook his head. "No. I don't think I am. I never want to be like that."
Margaery felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. 'Good; at least his heart's in the right place.' She placed a hand on Tommen's shoulder. "That's a relief to hear, my Prince. Because you do know what happens when we marry, right?"
Tommen nodded his head eagerly. "Mhmm! We say our vows in front of the High Septon, and after the ceremony there's a feast—"
Margaery took advantage of the distraction and pressed her lips against Tommen's ever so gently. Tommen was taken aback by his betrothed's act, but did not resist. Her scent smelled of spring roses and her lips tasted like sweetened honey. Tommen instinctively kissed Margaery back, returning it with as much passion as he could possibly muster. Margaery giggled at Tommen's inexperience and pulled away. The Young Cub tried to kiss Margaery again, but she placed a hand on his chest to stop him.
"Uh-uh, my Prince," she teased, waiving a finger from side-to-side. "There will be more of that later. Because when we marry, I become yours… forever."
Tommen blushed again, eagerly anticipating the time when his wedding comes along. In his mind, perhaps it would be as lavish as it was with Daveth's and Sansa's wedding. Margaery looked at the door, noticing the distinctive sound of footsteps approaching.
"It's getting late. I should return to my room," she said. "May I come and visit you again sometime?"
Tommen nodded.
'So easy, like training an eager puppy. Give him a tasty treat and he'll soon be begging for more,' Margaery thought. "All right then," she whispered. "Remember now, it's our little secret."
Tommen nodded. Margaery kissed his forehead and soon took her leave, glancing over her shoulder and waved goodbye—one more charm of the night. Once the doors closed behind her, Tommen slumped back onto his pillow and smiled to himself as he drifted off to sleep.
'Brother… thanks for arranging a suitable match for me!'
At the Red Keep gardens…
The following morning was proving to be just as lively as it was the last one. In the castle gardens, King Daveth I Baratheon was receiving gifts from the various nobles who had arrived moments earlier to congratulate the Young Stag on his nameday celebration. In accordance, Daveth bowed his heads and thanked them for their gifts. It was big, but Daveth was rather insistent to Tyrion that the expenses would be kept to a fair minimum; the Imp understood, of course—his nephew wanted to ensure the crown's finances would be carefully balanced and maintained, and not to be spent recklessly or overdone with a lavish ceremony. That of course meant no jugglers, no 77-course meals… nothing too extravagant.
The guests at the celebration were reveling in much food and drink such as sister's stew, biscuits, honeycomb, sherbert, strawberry pie, lamprey pie, whisker fish, chicken, pomegranates, plums, hippocras, mead, Arbor Red and Dornish Red.
Guests each presented their gifts to the King: from Lord Yohn Royce, a rare gyrfalcon; Lord Selwyn Tarth presented a gem encrusted scabbard for the Young Stag's Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer. Although both knew there were actually no sapphires or rubies on Tarth, Lord Selwyn reassured him the gems were sold to him from a wealthy merchant in Braavos; from Ser Ronnet Connington, a lance with a shield covering the handle with a sigil depicting a mythical griffin; from Lord Leyton Hightower, a white marble model of the Citadel.
"20 years old!" Tyrion sat next to him, drinking from his goblet of wine. "Tell me, nephew, how does it feel to be another decade older?"
"Must you really ask me that sort of question?" Daveth retorted, sticking his fork into a piece of kidney pie before eating it. "Mmm. This is a good pie."
The servants serving the food overheard the King's praise and smiled to themselves. They slaved all day and night over a hot pot and worked the ingredients; flour, lard, water, eggs, milk, bottom round steak and calves' kidneys with gravy, peas and onions.
"A compliment! Why I'll be sure to tell the royal chefs that the King enjoyed their finest masterpiece."
Daveth groaned. "All right, now I know you're doing it on purpose."
Tyrion feigned being hurt. "On purpose? Me? By the Gods, you wound me, Your Grace. You know I would never do such a thing!"
"Uh-huh. Suuure you don't," he replied.
Beside him Shae and Brella held Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana, with the two infants occasionally fusing and whining about the noisy celebration. Wet nurses who bore children of their own played a role in calming them down. As he sipped his wine goblet, Daveth looked across the guests. Each of the Kingsguard was assigned to their specific posts; Barristan and Lucius stood by the main table; Jaime near the center; and Brienne and Ariyana both covered the exits.
"Where is she? Lord Tyrion, have you seen Sansa anywhere?"
Tyrion shook his head. "Not lately, Your Grace."
"It's not like her to miss out…" Daveth turned to his squire. "Olyvar, have you by any chance seen or heard from the Queen at all?"
Olyvar shook his head. "No, Your Grace. Not once."
Daveth was anxious as to find out exactly where Sansa was until another visiting guest approached. A tall, old man wearing fish-like scales mail and leather sleeves carrying a bushel of freshly caught trout in one hand and a bag of coin in the other. The Young Stag looked at him and recognized him.
"Ser Brynden Tully."
The Blackfish cackled. "Hah! There aren't that many wet shits in the Seven Kingdoms who call me that; probably because they don't remember my real name."
Randyll Tarly and a few conservative nobles frowned at the Blackfish's choice of words.
"Sorry about that, Your Grace. Spent too many years around lancers and pikesmen."
Daveth waved a hand. "No, no, it's quite all right. How fares Lord Edmure?"
"Ehh, missed the wedding. But from what I've seen at Riverrun, foolish nephew stopped his complaining as soon as he saw what his bride actually looked like on their wedding night," he mentioned.
Olyvar frowned. 'That's my sister you're talking about, old man!' he grumbled.
"And?"
The Blackfish placed a bag of coin on the table. "He likes her. The only Frey Edmure actually approves of. I'll admit Roslin is quite a pretty thing. Not like the rest of the Late Walder Frey's brood."
"Ahem!" Olyvar cleared his throat, clearly annoyed.
The Blackfish stared at him. "Ah, speaking of brood seems we've got ourselves another."
'No need to remind me of them,' Daveth shrugged. "You remember my squire Olyvar Frey?"
"With a face like that, how could anyone not forget?"
That remark earned a stifled chuckle from the guests, angering Olyvar.
"You—"
The Young Stag quickly intervened. "Olyvar's come quite a long way since our first crossing of the Twins. Considering his growing aptitude and contribution during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, he's more likely to earn himself a knighthood in honor of House Frey in a matter of weeks if not months."
Olyvar smirked, but noticed the King glancing back at him.
"If he behaves himself."
The young Frey said nothing and begrudgingly bit his tongue.
"Well, seems like quite an achievement for the King here to speak up in defense for you," the Blackfish complimented. "If you say so, Your Grace. Sorry I couldn't bring anything fancy; the Riverlands are rather busy gathering the crops and harvests for the coming winter."
"So I see. That's fine, then. Please enjoy the food and entertainment."
"Don't mind if I do."
Olyvar leaned in. "Your Grace, wasn't that being a bit too lenient?" he whispered.
"Let's just say that the more time you spend on the battlefield with the men under your command, you learn to get used to the words that come out of their mouths no matter how derogatory," he answered.
"If you say so."
More visitors came bearing gifts. What felt like hours passed when Daveth finally noticed his wife Sansa Stark carrying a gift of her own. The Young Stag stood motionless and took in her new look; Sansa wore a teal velvet gown with an embroidered collar beaded with a steel grey, silver direwolf embellishment with pearl beads and faux fur cloak. More noticeably is that the court noticed Sansa had styled her auburn hair similar to her mother Lady Catelyn Stark, sporting it in a simple braid tied off with twine to draw out her inner strength.
"Sansa…" Daveth spoke. Indeed, the Wolf Queen was looking so beautiful this morning—especially with the rays of the sunlight highlighting shades of the color red off her hair.
"I take it the way you're staring at me in this new dress so much is you're way of telling me you approve?" Sansa teased.
A few courtiers snickered and Daveth's face flushed embarrassingly.
"I… Th-that's not what I meant!" he stammered. "I meant to say that I like the wolf bit."
Sansa smiled. "Flatterer. Though I suppose it's a good thing it's your nameday today because I made this for you on behalf of my family, House Stark."
From the Wolf Queen, she laid onto the table her present prepared for her husband; a warm black winter cloak almost five feet in length with grey fur stitched into the collar and 3 ½-inch crossed thick internal leather straps in the style of the North. The only noticeable difference in the cloak is the sigil of a crowned stag stitched into the leather.
"I made it like the one my father used to wear," she explained. "As near as I can remember."
Daveth brushed his hand across the cloak. "You made this yourself?"
"I did. Do you like it?"
The Young Stag needn't answer that as he stood up from his seat to kiss his wife. Onlookers had noticed the act of affection between the King and Queen. For a long minute, Sansa sighed happily into the kiss before Daveth pulled back.
"How's that for an answer?" he asked.
"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Sansa replied.
The Wolf Queen circled around the table to sit next to Daveth, seconds later Tommen himself had arrived to the table to sit alongside his remaining family members. The Young Stag noticed how awfully cheerful he's being lately, but paid him no mind at the moment. He had presented his brother some strange foreign painting of Volantis, though Daveth wasn't necessarily sure what to make of it yet.
The last noticeable guest bearing a gift was a tall, old man around 70 years old with a stern face. Grey hair, a thick beard and a bald head, his cloak bore the sigil of a dark green turtle on a field of pale green. The Young Stag was not familiar with him nor did he recognize him.
"And you are?" asked Daveth.
"Lord Eldon Estermont of Greenstone, Your Grace," he introduced himself. "I served your father and grandfather for many years when they ruled the Stormlands. Your grandmother, Cassana Baratheon, she was my sister."
Daveth blinked. If what the elderly Lord Estermont was telling him was indeed true, then that would make him the Young Stag's great-great-uncle. The oldest living relative he's got.
"Dearest, I didn't know you had a great-great-uncle still living," Sansa spoke.
"Neither have I."
"I suppose you wouldn't have known that much about me. The rest of us in the Stormlands are quite… unhappy with Stannis's rule as of late, but that's not why I'm here."
With a snap of his fingers, the Lord of Greenstone had his servants actually wheel in the gift he planned on presenting. Wrapped in cloak, Lord Eldon unraveled it to show a weapon of immense size—a two-handed spiked iron warhammer weighing about 50-70 pounds; the hafted was crafted with steel covered with a genuine leather wrap with gold plated accent rings; the metal head had an antique finish with gold painted inlay which was 14 ½ inches long; and the plaque itself silkscreened fiber board. Lord Eldon knew it was aged and had his smiths repair and polish it beforehand.
Daveth appeared to somewhat recognize it. "Is that…?"
"Your father's warhammer, Your Grace," Lord Eldon acknowledged. "The same one Robert used to slay Prince Rhaegar at the Battle of the Trident. I had the smiths fix it up for you; figured it was time for his son to inherit it."
Daveth stood from his seat and approached the warhammer.
"Careful, dearest," Sansa called out to him. "Try not to strain yourself."
Leaning down to grasp the handle, he pulled but one tug hardly made it hard to budge—requiring the Young Stag to use both hands to lift it up. A couple of groans and grunts later, Daveth lifted up his father's monstrous warhammer before he stumbled forward sharply.
"Waah!" he loudly exclaimed in surprise as the tenderizing flat end of the warhammer hit the ground. Onlookers moved to stop Daveth from falling hard and help him regain his balance. "Seven hells, this is heavy…!" his voice strained.
"That's because you spent most of your life wielding swords in battle," Eldon mentioned. "The more you spend time practicing with that hammer, the faster and more efficient you'll move in battle."
'Two hands, yet father only used just one to use this lumbering behemoth?' thought the Young Stag, feeling veins popping in his forehead and neck.
As the courtiers backed off, Daveth tightened both his hands around the grip and lifted the warhammer up again. He almost stumbled again, but retained his footing. Daveth's face was turning read.
"Remember to breathe, Your Grace!" called out Jaime Lannister.
Daveth exhaled and panted, releasing his grip and noticed both his hands and knees were shaking slightly. An impressive weapon, but quite heavy and straining if carried for too long. This is going to take a lot of time and practice to utilize it properly. Sansa motioned for the guests to assist Daveth in returning to his seat. She was not happy.
"I thought I told you not to strain yourself," she quietly scolded him.
"Yeesh, sorry," he waved his hands up defensively.
Sansa sighed and shook her head as Shae and Brella handed her the twins. Lyonel and Cassana babbled happily and stretched their arms out, apparently happy to see their mother again and amused by their father's stunt. As she cooed at them, the Young Stag apparently noticed whilst fighting off a headache. Sansa was growing to be quite assertive lately.
"Yup. Quite the name day celebration indeed," Daveth quietly told himself as he shook his head.
By the end of the day, all visitors eventually left to return back to their strongholds. Any leftover scraps of food were donated to the smallfolk at Queen Sansa Stark's suggestions; the citizens of King's Landing loved their new Queen and her children. For Daveth, it was just another bonding moment with his new family… provided his muscles would stop aching from lifting up his late father's warhammer the next day…
Chapter End
Author's Note: Another chapter so soon after the last one, but the first half mostly described Tommen's interactions with Margaery Tyrell. What was your take on that? What is Margaery up to? And as for the 20th nameday of Daveth himself, he ended up getting to know he has a distant relative and received the famous warhammer itself. Think it was appropriate for the son to inherit the father's weapon? Thoughts? Let me know.
10868letsgo: I love it! Wonder how he will deal with Stannis duty with that red witch?
―Daveth will no doubt try to remove Melisandre from Stannis's service before she tries anything else to damage his family.
kira444: I can already tell that Stannis is going to cause a rift with his people. He's stable now, slightly, but he's going to start making too much noise for Daveth to ignore. Also, do you plan on adapting the rift between the royal family and the Sept? Like someone leaks that Tommen and Myrcella are bastards and Daveth must keep the Sept in line?
―Depends on who makes the first move, considering the Faith Militant's been long since disbanded and dissolved since Maegor the Cruel.
DarkJokes: Please don't get Marcella and Tommem killed lol. They deserve so much better
―I've no intention on screwing them over like HBO did.
LunaEvanna Longbottom: Hmmm...The amount of happiness and good times we've been getting is suspicious
kyrasaige16: Love the story! But I am confused by one thing. If Lord Estermont was Cassana Baratheon's father, and Cassana was Daveth's grandmother, wouldn't that make Lord Estermont Daveth's great grandfather, not his great great uncle? Keep up the great work!
―There's actually been three known contradicting information about House Estermont I found quite confusing. The Appendix of A Feast for Crows states Eldon is the uncle of Stannis Baratheon, the father of Aemon Estermont, and the brother of Lomas Estermont. However, the Appendix of A Dance with Dragons stated Eldon is the great-uncle of Stannis and has two sons, Aemon and Lomas. Bit annoying so I just went with only one.
ZabuzasGirl: A really good nameday indeed. Margarery better watch herself.
Patty 4577: Oh please tell me Olenna isn't going to use the strangler on him.
―No, she hasn't used the strangler on him. Don't worry.