"There has been a raven from Lord Rogar Baratheon, Your Grace," said Grand Maester Elysar. "He is going to come to King's Landing, along with his children and nieces."
It looked like good news. Alysanne was always delighted to see her baby brother and sister, but she had barely had a chance even to greet the two of them during the wedding celebrations. Lord Rogar's visit would be welcome, too – he hadn't been at the wedding at all, sending his apologies and explaining he was ill, and whatever problems she had had with him in the past, Alysanne was determined to let bygones be bygones: her mother, in her final years, had been content at Storm's End.
The one detail troubling Alysanne was the fact that Rogar was bringing his nieces as well. It was quite the entourage for a simple visit.
"It might be that Lord Rogar has some serious reason for coming here," she said to Alaric when she informed him of the news.
"Maybe he's hoping to rule in the stead of a young king again."
"Aemon has a crowd of people doing it already, Rogar will have to get in line for that. Besides, I think the warnings he got from Jaehaerys were enough to discourage him from kingdom-scale politics, and he holds no official position at court."
"Well, then, is he going to be trouble? Will he ask for money?" of course, Alaric's first concern was not wasting any coin in vain.
"Probably not, he's usually very careful with spending, unless it's some truly grand event like the Golden Wedding. It's just... I don't know."
"You don't seem to like him much," Alaric observed.
"I don't," she admitted. "I've decided to be friendly with him, for Mother's sake – after Jaehaerys helped them reconcile, he had, despite everything, made her happy. But... when I was a girl, he schemed to marry me off to his brother without even the courtesy of consulting me first, and later, when I wed Jaehaerys, he did everything in his power to break us up. I mean..." she searched for words, hoping Alaric would understand her. "It's not even his matchmaking – and matchbreaking – efforts that made me so angry. It was hard to make the Seven Kingdoms accept my marriage, and I knew Rogar and Mother didn't want another Faith Militant revolt. I was outraged that he didn't even talk to me about his plans. As if my opinions and wishes and feelings didn't matter."
"It's hard for regents to realize their kings have grown up."
"I hope we won't fall for the same trap," Alysanne smiled.
"Oh, I don't even really count as a regent. I'm only here because, as the singers would put it, I am favored by the queen."
"Then you'll be the one to keep the rest of us regents in check."
"I'll do my best," said Alaric, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly. Alysanne had noticed that ever since he suddenly kissed her in the small council chamber, he had taken to stealing light kisses and touches during the day when they were alone, and he had been doing it more and more often. It showed that not only was he content with their marriage in general (how relieved she was back then to hear it, after all her misgivings!), but she was genuinely attractive to him.
False modesty had never been a trait of Alysanne's, and in fact it annoyed her as much as intense vanity did. She knew that she was very good-looking, even though she wasn't quite the breathtaking Valyrian stunner like her grandmother Rhaenys was said to be. However, she also knew that the Northmen had different beauty standards and that beauty alone couldn't hold a man's fancy for long – especially if the man wasn't some young squire who'd fall for any girl who'd smile at him, but a man who had already been wed once and had probably seen scores of lovely women in his life. If Alaric was increasingly affectionate towards her, it wasn't merely because she was pretty.
She squeezed his hand back. Since their wedding night, she had grown used to his rougher skin, and the feeling of it against her fingers evolved from all-around wrong to kind of pleasant. The painful guilt of betraying Jaehaerys's memory, too, was now more like a gnawing unease, something of the sort she felt as a child when she stole cakes from the kitchen.
Does Alaric feel the same when he remembers Jonelle? she wondered to herself. She rarely spoke to Alaric about his first wife – after all, it was only a matter of courtesy since he did his best not to remind her of Jaehaerys – but she had heard enough of her to know that Alaric loved her very much. On the other hand, Jonelle had been dead for the past six years, and he had much more time to mourn her...
After all the losses she had suffered in her life, starting from Father who died when she was six, Alysanne knew that even a heavy grief eventually healed into a scar that weighed down on you but didn't hurt unless prodded. But could the same happen after losing Jaehaerys, who was practically the other half of her soul? The very thought of it seemed traitorous.
Since Rogar Baratheon's visit didn't coincide with any festive day, the preparations for it were thankfully modest. The upcoming Warrior's Day celebrations were draining enough financially – sometimes, when Alaric reviewed the city treasury with the Tyrells, it seemed to him that being part of the royal family meant constantly celebrating something.
"You're not quite wrong," Alysanne laughed when he told her. "If the people see they can make merry, they know the kingdom's doing well. For us, it's less celebrating and more waving at the crowds and, backstage, finding the necessary money."
"Especially the latter. Listen, since we are going to pick the playwrights for The Royal Penance, we'll need to have as many mummer troupes in the city as possible, and Lady Tyrell had the idea of the innkeepers offering them lodgings and food at lower prices."
"And of us paying the difference to the innkeepers?" Alysanne finished.
"That's the idea. I thought that maybe we should have less of the pomp at court, to save the money for that. We can dispense with the tourney, and the feast needn't be too grand."
"With the tourney? For Warrior's Day?" she asked incredulously.
"We had one just over two moons ago for our wedding!"
"It needn't be as grand as that one, perhaps only limited to the joust, but it needs to take place."
Alaric was never going to understand that fascination with tourneys. Spending money on the mummers was regrettable but necessary, for the sake of getting The Royal Penance staged, but the ridiculous mock fights such a short while after the last ones were performed – this was a sheer waste of resources.
"The Crown's treasury is full of coin," Alysanne said reassuringly. "We can afford it, Alaric."
"The treasury's not a horn of plenty! You never know when you might need the money for the truly serious matters. We've already had the wedding, and we'll have to welcome the Baratheons, which is still going to cost us a few pennies. The Warrior's Day is something that happens every year."
"Alaric," she said with a gentle smile, "I know you follow the old gods, and it might be hard for you to understand, but please see the mindset of the majority of our subjects. Canceling the tourney on Warrior's Day, for them, is akin to barring maidens from the septs on Maiden's Day."
She put her hand on his shoulder and looked him into the eyes:
"We'll leave out the courtly feast and ball entirely. Septon Barth and I will think up something – say, that it's the first Warrior's Day after Aemon's official coronation, which it is, so we need to spend it in piety and pray for Aemon and Baelon growing up to be strong warriors. Come to think of it, that'll earn him more respect from those who think him an abom... ab... an unworthy heir. We'll save up on that – but the tourney's got to happen."
When she spoke to him in that soft voice, with her bright blue eyes looking pleadingly at him, Alaric felt he could deny her nothing. If she had asked for the tourney and the feast and the ball, he would have let the treasury hang and said yes.
"All right, I'll inform Lady Tyrell," he said, and Alysanne's smile widened.
"I'm sorry for sounding like a spoiled child about this tourney," she said. "But, please, trust me, I know more about the Faith of the Seven and its followers' nature than you – I grew up with it since the cradle. When we go to the North, I promise to carry out the planning entirely in accordance with your commands whenever there's a feast of the old gods."
"A convenient promise, because the old gods have no feasts."
"Ow, now that's bad," Alysanne said with a pretended pout. "How, then, can I prove to you that I'm really a proper, economical lady and that I'm only depleting the treasury because I've got no choice?"
"The very fact that you chose me for a coin-related task is proof enough," he said, and it was only half a jest. Alysanne knew full well how he hated waste of money, and yet she asked him to work with the Tyrells on the payments.
"I figured that between the Tyrells' Reachman indulgence and your carefulness, we'll ultimately get the most balanced of approaches," she explained cheerfully. "Looks like I was right."
"Seven times four is twenty-eight," Aemon said, wrinkling his forehead in concentration. "Seven times five is," he tried to raise and then fold his fingers to better figure it out, but the Grand Maester stopped him:
"Keep your arms folded on the desk, Your Grace. Do you think that when you're talking to the master of coin, he will wait for you to count the sums on your fingers?"
Lord Martyn Tyrell actually could do just that, Aemon thought – whenever he saw him in the throne room, Lord Tyrell always waited for everyone's talking to end before adding his own contribution (most frequently something brief and generic like I think my lady wife makes an excellent point or I completely agree, Your Grace). But the implied answer to the Grand Maester's question was obviously "no", and anyway, Aemon had already learned from the history lessons that members of the council could resign and leave, so by the time he was sixteen, there could well be another master of coin.
"Seven times five is, is, is thirty-four, no, thirty-five. Seven times six is, um, forty-two. Seven times seven is forty-nine," that was a sacred number, Septon Barth had told him – The Seven-Pointed Star had forty-nine chapters and The Book of Holy Prayer was written by forty-nine authors – so it was easy to remember. "Seven times eight is, er..." as he started to count in his mind, clenching his fists to avoid counting on his fingers, the door opened to reveal Lord Alaric Stark.
"My lord," the Grand Maester stood up immediately and bowed.
"My lord," Aemon stood up too. Mother told him his father always stood up to greet others (except while holding a formal audience in the throne room), even though he was the king.
"Forgive me, Grand Maester. I was told the lesson ended forty minutes ago, so I thought Aemon simply stayed to talk to you or read."
"His Grace was somewhat tardy, having been delayed by spending time with the Prince of Dragonstone," the Grand Maester said. He looked apologetic, but Aemon was sure there was a malicious satisfaction in his voice. "We shall be finished shortly – we are reviewing the multiplication table."
Great, now I'll have a dressing-down from Lord Stark, too, Aemon thought miserably as his stepfather sat down to wait. Nurse Myranda slipped from the stairs and broke her ankle only this afternoon, and for the rest of the day, until a suitable replacement was found, Aemon and Baelon were put into the care of one of her maidservants, Nurse Marya, who didn't even have a last name. Nurse Marya was old and kind and clearly very in awe of them being the King and the Prince, so when Aemon and Baelon insisted on staying an extra half an hour in the yard, she couldn't say no. They played there with no care in the world until Alarra stormed out of the castle, shouted at them and at Nurse Marya, and basically dragged Aemon to the Grand Maester. The latter didn't shout – he never shouted – but he scolded Aemon in such an infuriating, acid voice that it felt even worse.
He spent more time on the multiplication table than he actually needed, hoping that Lord Stark would get some reason to leave. But it was to no avail, and after Aemon announced that nine times nine was eighty-one, the Grand Maester said:
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow morning for the history lesson, Your Grace. I am sorry for keeping you from talking to His Grace, my lord."
"It's fine – there's nothing urgent."
Full of apprehension, Aemon followed Lord Stark out of the room. They walked through the corridors of the Red Keep in ominous silence until they reached the antechamber of the family's private quarters, where Lord Stark stopped and turned towards Aemon:
"What is the meaning of this? Are you attempting to skip your lessons in favor of playtime?"
"I'm-sorry-my-lord," Aemon mumbled, staring at his boots.
"Don't lower your head! You are a King, Aemon, and you have to look your subjects in the eye, no matter what they're saying to you."
Aemon didn't feel the least bit kingly, but he obediently raised his eyes.
"You are six years old. I was a cupbearer at the Last Hearth at your age, and trust me, Lord Umber didn't cut me any slack if I was late to his meetings."
"I'm-sorry-my-lord," Aemon squeaked again.
"Stop repeating that! You haven't offended me. Did you ask Grand Maester Elysar to forgive you?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good. Being late to an appointed meeting is a disrespect to your subjects. Some may even take it as an insult. If you get used to being forty minutes late to your lessons, you'll grow up and be half a year late for your progresses, like your," suddenly Lord Stark paused, as if catching himself, and finished somewhat awkwardly after a tiny pause, "like your childhood misdemeanors, only worse."
"I'm so... I mean, I understand, my lord," Aemon said, looking at the door behind Lord Stark's back.
"I told you not to avert your eyes! Have you seen your mother holding court? She always looks at the person she's talking to, and she's never late. Tell me, by the way, how exactly it happened that you were so late today."
"I... I..." and Aemon, trying not to shrink from Lord Stark's fierce look, spilled the beans about Nurse Marya and the playing and how Alarra stopped it.
"So, not only did you neglect your studies in favor of playing, but you also bullied a servant into assisting you, taking advantage of Lady Hogg's illness," Lord Stark summed up. "You were very cruel to Nurse Marya, because she got scolded for what was essentially more your fault than hers."
Aemon jolted. He never thought he was being cruel. He knew that cruel meant his Great-Uncle Maegor, and Maegor had wanted to kill Father. Not like the Shivers did – the Shivers were a thing of nature and had no mind of their own, Septon Barth explained – but really wanted to kill him, with a sword, and almost killed Aunt Rhaena and Septa Rhaella, too. Aemon felt his lips tremble.
"Please, my lord, I'm sorry! I didn't want to be cruel! I didn't think I was cruel!"
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he cried in despair, especially when he imagined how Lord Stark would tell Mother about the whole thing and how Mother would look so sad and disappointed.
"Oh, come here," he felt Lord Stark's arms lift him up and hold him. Although usually Aemon wouldn't dare to treat Lord Stark as familiarly as he did Mother or even Alarra, but right now he was so devastated he didn't really think of it, so he hugged him.
Aemon had already noticed that when someone held you close, your tears just sort of dried up pretty quickly. This time was no exception – he soon realized he had stopped crying and was only sniffling. Lord Stark sat down on the ottoman and put him on his knee (like Father used to do, Aemon recalled vaguely).
"I think you've already been punished enough for your lateness," he said, his voice much warmer. "But you will need to apologize to Nurse Marya."
"I will!" Aemon said earnestly. "I will, my lord, today! I'll give her something. Will she like a foal from our stables? Goldie – that's one of our horses – had a foal only last week, and Alarra's always taking us to see it..."
"I... don't think a foal would be the best present to an old woman with limited means. You better talk to your mother about it: she knows more about gifts, especially gifts to women, than I do."
At these words, Aemon's stomach dropped. So Mother would know about what he did.
"We won't tell her the whole reasoning for the gift," Lord Stark said, and he actually smiled. He looked less scary this way. "Your mother has enough on her mind as it is, and, like I said, you've been punished enough. We'll say you want to give Nurse Marya something in thanks for her caring after you – she didn't expect to be called for that duty, and still did it."
"Yes, my lord," Aemon said, feeling almost happy.
"If you're late again, though, Alysanne will hear of it."
"I won't be, my lord."
"I sure hope so. You are the King, Aemon, and you have to learn being responsible. But you know what you did well?"
"Uh, the multiplication table?" Aemon asked.
"That? I'm glad of it, certainly, but it's Grand Maester Elysar's job to take care of your sums. No, I meant right now. You acknowledged your mistakes and quickly began to think how to correct them, and, what impressed me even more, you didn't even mention your brother Baelon, who I know was playing in the yard with you."
"Er, Baelon?" Aemon tried to look confused. He didn't want Baelon to be scolded as well.
"The Grand Maester said you were with the Prince of Dragonstone."
Oh! Aemon still forgot it sometimes: just like he was now called King and Your Grace, Baelon was called Prince of Dragonstone.
"Baelon didn't do anything! He's only four, and he hasn't got a lesson today!"
"Exactly. Other children could have blamed their brother for keeping them at play, but you didn't. You didn't even say a word of him. My older brother protected me like that, too, and I glad to see you behave the same," Lord Stark's smile turned somewhat sad. Aemon still didn't see why it was such a big deal. Perhaps Lord Stark simply was glad to be reminded of his brother.
His stepfather sighed:
"And to think that Alysanne simply asked me to tell you the news because she thought the two of us should spend more time together."
"The news?" Aemon was instantly curious.
"Lord Rogar Baratheon is coming here next week, with his children Lord Boremund and Lady Jocelyn and his nieces."
Forgetting the scolding, the multiplication and everything else, Aemon jumped up and squealed in delight. Lynnie was coming to the Red Keep again! Most girls were silly and strange, giggling when they saw him and parroting their nurses' speech when he tried to talk to them, but Lynnie was great. She played at swords with him and Baelon, and had a collection of toy dragons, and loved playing the evil enchantress whom Aemon defeated heroically. Boremund was alright, too, but he was very grown – nine years old, almost as grown as Alarra – but, unlike Alarra, he didn't like talking to Aemon and Baelon and was very proud because he was learning archery and other advanced stuff.
"Lynnie'll be here! Can I go tell Baelon? My lord," he added hurriedly.
"Baelon is with your mother, he's being fitted for new clothing at the tailor's. You can tell him when they return."
Aemon bounced a little more with joy and sat down to wait for them. He thought that perhaps Lord Stark wasn't quite as frightening, after all. Sure, he did scold him pretty sharply, but it was no worse than if Mother had done it.
When minutes passed and the silence grew somewhat heavy, Aemon asked:
"Um, my lord? Is it true that the crannogmen have a castle that floats? Alarra says they have, but Baelon and I thought she's joking."
He didn't have the time to think up a less stupid question – the floating castle thing was one of Alarra's least believable stories of the North – but he felt he just wanted to say something.
"Actually, Alarra wasn't joking, Aemon," said Lord Alaric. "If anything, all of the crannogmen's castles float, but she was probably talking about Greywater Watch, the seat of House Reed..."
Aemon barely kept his jaw from dropping. He sat as quietly as he could and listened in amazement.