Main Lannister Camp
"My Lord," Ser Kevan Lannister rushes into the commander's tent, "there's word from Riverrun!"
"So it has been taken." Lord Tywin Lannister glances up from his half-written letter, light coming low from open flaps illuminating his hardened looks. His tent is the largest among the Lords, containing a long ironwood table enough to host all his commanders and generals. Sitting at the far end, walled by several books and a neat pile of letters, Tywin's voice is expectant, like a lion waiting upon a bleeding doe. "I assume we have Ser Daven to thank for this news; it's clear that he's not his father."
Though near imperceptible, Kevan knows when his brother's satisfied; the little raise of his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth… "It arrived alongside foragers carrying fresh boar and milled grains, using the outposts he established. Lord Stafford raised a fine son." Moving to the central table, he spreads out the various letters and pages from the leather bag he received.
The smell of roasted duck and ox wafts past their noses, rich with rosemary and garlic. Merriment is underway outside, celebrating Ser Jaime Lannister and their victory over the Tullies. Many take it as a sign of the war drawing to a close, that they may return in time for their harvest festivals and huddle through the harsh march of Winter.
But the Old Lion remains seated with his brother beside him.
With the documents split into two — accounts of Tyrion's excursion through Southern Riverlands and accounts of the siege — Kevan decides to examine the latter. Much of what's written is expected: the slow advance, the occasional skirmishes against Rivermen, the ebbs and flows of the Red Fork… It's quite a surprise, then, when they read of its command. "After his arrival, Tyrion had formed the plan of the final siege, exploiting Tytos Blackwood's haphazard command before splitting the force… Ah, Ser Jaime led a party within and brought down the bridge gate, allowing entry of Lord Brax's men."
"His tenure in the Kingsguard hasn't dulled his steel," Tywin dips his pen before continuing his letter. No regard for Tyrion. "Hostages."
That, they have many. Names of captains and knights allied to House Tully and Blackwood line the pages, alongside their expected ransoms. "Tytos Blackwood was slain in a duel by Ser Jaime; his hand was injured but full recovery is expected soon. As for the Tullies, we have Edmure and the ailing Hoster. Their steward, one named Utherydes, asks for the Black."
"Once the war's won he may leave for the Wall by way of Lannisport. Assuming the deaths of Lysa, Catelyn, and Brynden Tully by the self-styled Stormcrow, they are the last of the line. House Tully was never known for its fertility," Tywin flips open a book titled The History of the Twins and its Prodigious Founders, by Maester Alfe, "unlike the Freys. But lions now grace Riverrun; the Late Lord Walder shall not remain as opposition.
"Even so, he will hem, he will haw, and make demands unbecoming of a man of his House and standing. Perhaps going so far as claiming the title of Lord Paramount," Tywin's scoff says enough of his opinion on the house of copper counters; Kevan nods. "Even our young King will see it foolish; there are better candidates for that position. Mallisters, Blackwoods, you…" His eyes glance a moment at Kevan, filling the younger brother with pride for even the consideration. "For now, let us foster alliances. As he's already wed again, then marriages to Lord Walder's daughters, sons, grandchildren…" With that, he folds the finished letter and stamps it with a wax seal; a red lion rears up from the parchment. "What else?"
Kevan reads out a few more pages regarding the situation at the Western camp as Tywin prepares another letter. As he reads, Kevan notices a few words being repeated. Odd, fantastical things one would expect to hear from accounts of travellers to Eastern Essos, not the Tully captives or his own relatives: Ser Emmon Frey, husband to Kevan's sister Genna, makes a fearful plea. A Brax knight recounts the human remains on Riverrun's Northern wall. All speak of someone, something scouring through the bloodied halls of Riverrun. The true reason for their victory. A sheen of sweat forms on his face as he rummages for clarification with Tyrion's excursion notes.
Then he finds it, the black of the ink heavy against the page.
"…Seven's hells."
"Well?"
"In regards to our victory in Riverrun, Tyrion, in his scouting, accrued the help of… A sorceress, and a demon."
Tywin stops his writing and leans back in thought. His eyes scan the documents. "…Demon."
The candles flicker, the light outside dulls to burnt orange, and little pinpricks of white decorate the evening sky. "There's… Nothing about this sorceress in the accounts of the siege. But of the demon," Kevan gulps, "Tyrion found it in Harrenhal. Allied with it, then took it to Jaime's camp before sending it to the Northern wall of Riverrun. All to weaken and redirect their defenses. It… It melted through walls and consumed more than a dozen men. It drew long shadows that cut stone like bread, it's…" Unbelievable, is the word, madness! But if the men he's known and trusted through his life wrote of Harren the Black's curse wrought in shadows, what else is he to make of it?
Kevan turns to his brother, his Lord Tywin, the Warden of the West, the old lion, for guidance…
And sees the ghost of a smile on his face, for it died long ago with his wife.
"It seems," his voice low and deliberate, "without prior knowledge, Tyrion executed my orders more admirably than any in my command who heard it leave from my lips."
"My Lord, what-"
"With a paltry retinue of fledgling knights, he acquired strengths hitherto unknown in this part of the Known World and demonstrated its power by conquering a castle notorious for its impenetrability. He did not cower, unlike a certain rooster-filled knight whose only reason to be at my table is by being your good father. What did Ser Harys Swyft run from again, a gaggle of fly-winged children the size of kittens? Is that mentioned in Tyrion's notes, or must we find a new head of House Swyft with more palatable lies?"
With a quick look, Kevan finds it. "There was an encounter with things Tyrion called fairies, not far from the Ruby Ford. Described as winged children."
"Yes," Tywin flips through the pages, "and he has a lot more to say than simply 'I ran'." He stands to fetch a pitcher of brown yeasty ale, last from the batch at the Crossroads Inn. "A few days ago, I inquired with Leo Lefford's maester, the one who bore three links of Valyrian steel on his chain. He's learned in all things sorcery and magic, second or third only below the Archmaester Marwyn. At least, that's what Leo claimed. I brought him to where you stood and asked: what is magic? How does it function? How can a woman conjure storms from a clear blue sky? His answers," he pours a cup to himself and Kevan before picking up a random page of Tyrion's accounts, "were not worth the dagger those links could have made.
"Every brick has its place in war, and we must know where magic fits else our castles be left without a hearth. But with this," he waves the page, "we can begin to understand. Jaime recounted how a Riverman peasant wielded a spear that could be thrown with such speed it could rend plate armour like flesh. Peasant. Another page here claims to us more information regarding Lady Stormcrow and her origins. Yesterday, did you not witness a woods wizard we acquired reattach a knight's sword arm, and thus prolonging his service to us?" Tywin sips his cup and offers one to Kevan. "That maester answered me with shame. Not from what he lacks, but from what he knows. He pushed me that it is a fruitless venture, a blade without a hilt. I made Leo find a more dutiful maester."
The sky outside has turned dark, the air filled with the crackling of campfires. "I intend this to be my last war, a victory for House Lannister before I take my position as Hand for my grandson. Yet House Mallister still vies for the Tullies, and Tyrion reports of growing forces in Harrentown." The candles grow short, molten wax trailing down their bronze arms. "How would you deal with the one who styled herself Ruler of the Vale, Kevan? Someone who commands the winds and birds alike? Who threatens our House with a bet that my misbegotten son agreed to?"
"I… Don't know, Tywin." The cup is heavy in his hand; an actual question from his brother. A rarity. But if it's something Tywin can't answer, what help can Kevan even conjure?
…
Silence passes between them.
Outside, the merriment is at its fullest. Bawdy songs, fighting over prizes, and squires playing mock tourneys with practice spears. The army is blind to their commander's plight beneath the crimson-red tent.
Kevan is first to speak: "Perhaps a supper will be beneficial, my Lord. One can't think out of an empty stomach," he chuckles.
Tywin relaxes, taking his seat. "I shall dine here. I will need these papers understood before I call for council, then we can decide how to dispense with our enemies. Inform my usual serving boy."
"I will dine here as well, my Lord. A commander must not ruminate without his liege." With a bow, Kevan leaves the tent, graced by the red light of the comet shining above. A good omen for it is our colours, he tells himself. The air, damp from a slight drizzle and rich with cooked meats, invigorates him.
Tywin's firepit stands not far, tended to by Casterly Rock's own cooks. But as he reaches it, one of his knights kneels to him. "Milord, we intercepted a group during our patrol."
"A moment- Two meals, yes, for Lord Tywin and myself. What group?"
"A gaggle of men and boys, some in chains inside cages. The leader said he's a wandering crow, dressed in all black."
"Perhaps he is a wandering crow. Let them fly North," Kevan sighs, watching the serving boys carry away Lord Tywin's meals. "Or lend them a fire for the night on account of your men accosting them. I heard from Tyrion that the Wall cares not for warmth."
"Yes, Milord, but," the knight's voice lowers, "he came from the South, bearing news of King's Landing."
That catches his attention. "Bring him to my tent. And my meal as well."
Informing Tywin of his intentions, the two lock away the papers before moving to Ser Kevan's more humble abode; Tywin sits at its head, with Kevan standing to his right, and two sets of meals.
Waiting.
After a few minutes, what greets them is a smell akin to a wet bear. Next comes the man bearing it, clad in a tattered cloak old enough to turn the black grey. There are bits of leaves and mud in his beard — perhaps from the accosting — and not a word leaves Kevan's mouth before the man speaks: "The Night's Watch vowed to not partake in matters of the Realm, war, politics, or otherwise." He does not shy away from Tywin's gaze, and red drool trickles from the corners of his scowl.
This one looks more Wildling than crow, Kevan thinks.
"And the Lannisters never once intruded upon that vow, nor do I intend to break it," says Tywin with courteousness, gesturing to an empty seat with a plate of grilled lamb sauteed with cream and chives ready. "Tyrion told me of the Watch's plight. I believe he visited the Wall a few months ago, alongside Lord Stark's natural child."
"…He did. Tyrion's a Lordling o' yours?"
"Indeed he is. My son."
Some of the crow's wariness melts, no doubt helped by the warm plate of lamb. Taking off his cloak, he seats himself across Tywin and takes a large bite from a rack. A guard is already poised outside. "Talked some with him, carrying Lord Eddard's bastard boy to the Wall. Nice enough man, though that sharp tongue o' his pricked a few holes in Ser Alliser's breastplate," he chuckles, spitting a bit of chive onto the red embroidered tablecloth.
Tywin looks up from his plate. "Then you must be Yoren."
"Ah, told you about me, did he? Aye, Yoren's my name. And as a Brother of the Watch," he tosses the cleaned bone to his plate, mouth still full, "I demand leave from this camp."
"And not take our prisoners?" asks Kevan. "It would lighten the load on our supplies, and no doubt your Lord Commander would be glad of the aid. Thirty charges do sound small if you've travelled all the way from King's Landing."
"Aye, it is. Not many so eager nowadays, only rapists and murderers."
"I'm sure the King could've spared you a few men from his gaol, King's Landing is rife with such debauchery," says Tywin, watching his response. "And there's no shortage for boys eager for glory; Robert taught them that much."
"They did sign up," says Yoren, tearing through another rack. "More to leave the chaos, though."
Chaos? Kevan shifts in his boots, trying to remain calm and amiable. "Yes, I've heard of the deaths. A tragedy."
"T'was, t'was," Yoren licks clean his fingers. "Saw Lord Eddard in the Great Sept, crown o' flowers on his head, and pebbles for eyes; the Faith's funeral for a Northener," he shakes his head. "Too young, I say. Some trial happened with the old white cloak, Barristan Selmy. Rumours about killing the Hand, came up to a duel, but I left before it got too rowdy."
…Something doesn't add up. When Robert died, his funeral would've occurred in the Great Sept, and the Hand be at the Red Keep's private sept. And this man, Kevan notes,doesn't seem to be lying.
Tywin notices this, too. "I pray that King Joffrey can dispense justice and find his father's killers. I'm sure my daughter is lending her hand in that."
Yoren tilts his head. "King Joffrey?"
"…He is your King, is he not?"
"Last I heard, Robert's mine."
"But he's dead," Kevan presses, a little too loud. The guards outside notice but don't move. "Pardon… There was a raven."
"Huh. When I asked for a raven to the Wall there ain't nary a bird in their rookery. Neither was one at Duskendale. But," Yoren shrugs, "must've gotten new ones. Mine's mistake. Hail to King Joffrey."
…
Oh.
Oh Gods.
Red Keep
King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynars and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, sits high atop the Iron Throne, gazing down upon the Small Council. The Summer sun streams through the windows and galleries of the Great Hall, cascading on the stone floor as if dappled by leaves. His crown, gold wrought as antlers, rests on his head.
And as the din of arguments rises again amongst his counsel, he thinks to himself: Why am I the one still alive?
"A little bird has told me of happenings within Volantis…"
"W-We must name a new Hand f-for our…"
"Your Grace, the Gold Cloaks were unsuccessful in searching Barristan Selmy…"
"Perhaps we at court should find ourselves lucky that…"
"The Queen p-proposed the position to be held b-by…"
Robert holds himself awake and holds the half-finished goblet of Arbor gold even better. In his inebriated mind, the council sounds like the buzzing of bloodflies, eager to suck whatever's left in him. "I shouldn't have come," he whispers to himself. Were it not for centuries of Targaryen tradition etched into Westeros, he would've dissolved the Small Council long ago and rid himself of this mess. He's King, so why must he be restrained so? He's no Jon Arryn or Ned-
*CLUNK*
Robert slams down the goblet with such force that wine trickles down his hand and onto the Throne.
All fall silent.
He pulls his face, fingers running through the tangle of black hair on his double chins, stretching the sagging skin beneath. Dark bags hang beneath his eyes. Ever since his awakening, he can scarcely draw a deep breath, but it's more than enough to bellow at the vultures below: "Where is Renly?"
"Lord Renly had just settled in Maegor's Holdfast, your Grace," answers Ser Boros Blount, one of the few remaining loyal Kingsguard. Robert appointed him, but he can't recall why. "If you allow-"
"Bring him here," orders Robert, and the white cloak scurries off. The King leans back on his uncomfortable throne, feeling every ridge and edge of black blades pushing against his skin and clothes. Gods… Why did Aegon the Conqueror hate cushions so much, he groans before closing his eyes. And just like last night and the night before, all he can see is Ned's bones shuffling within-
"Your Grace, Robert," greets a familiar voice. Making his entrance is none other than the King's own smiling brother, Renly Baratheon. Dressed in a dark-green velvet doublet and a gold-embroidered cape, some would say he's the spitting image of the King's youthful days. To that, Robert thinks he's shorter, not as muscled, and far too disinterested in women; that doesn't stop unknowing Ladies and their maids to throw their flowers for him. Poor them. "I'm glad to hear of your swift-"
"You left, Renly," the King cuts, voice filled with gravel. "Ned died protecting me. Why?"
All eyes turn to Renly, the Realm's Master of Justice. Though his smile fades, he does not shy away from their gaze. "It was a tragedy, your Grace. Ned Stark was a prodigious Hand and the Realm shall be bereft in his absence. However, as I hold the seat of Storm's End, I took action upon receiving news of-"
"You left, and that bitch led a mockery of a trial to desecrate his name. We lost two more Kingsguard, Renly, and we still don't know who fucking killed NED!" Robert throws his goblet, wine raining down on Pycelle's blue robes before it clatters at the Spider's feet. Ser Boros turns as white as his cloak. "Sevens be damned… All of you, out! OUT! I'll speak with my brother alone." Pain surges through his chest and he coughs onto his fist; no blood. Better than yesterday.
His counsel scatters faster than when they arrived, leaving their drinks and much of the documents. Rising from his seat, Robert stretches his back before fetching his cane and descending the sword-made stairway. He dares not to think of himself as a cripple, believing his strength will once again emerge.
"You've recovered well, your Grace."
"Shut it," Robert huffs, clutching his chest before settling into what was once the Hand's seat. It creaks beneath his weight. "No more remarks," he snatches Pycelle's cup, sniffs it, then slides it away, "until I have answers."
Renly sighs before taking his seat next to Robert; he doesn't touch his cup. "Apologies for missing Ned's funeral. I know that you and Lord Stark were close since your time at the Vale."
"And his trial? You're Master of Justice, it was your trial to lead. Cersei knows no law, for Gods' sake, and look at what she's done!" Robert spreads his arms, but no one else is here but his brother. His voice echoes against the tall ceiling and dances in the galleries. "Why then? Or must I strangle it out of you?"
Renly takes his cup, not drinking it but swirling its contents, mulling on something. He then looks to his brother and whispers: "I warned Lord Eddard."
"…What?"
"I knew of something afoul stirring within the Red Keep after your… Accident with the boar." He shrugs. "I could not verify, but I did not want to take my chances, and neither of your Hand's. As Pycelle had little hope of your survival — and he was wrong, that much is clear — I thought it was best for Lord Eddard and me to leave. Protect the Realm in your absence. But he refused, vowing to protect and watch over his only friend in this stinking city," he smiles, "and he did. A Lord who's honoured his words."
Robert blinks as if that could clear away the bleariness from his liquor. "You… Knew?"
"Little. Of who or why, I don't know, I'm no Spider. But someone here wanted- wants you dead, Robert. And as the Master of Justice, it is my sworn duty to uphold the law in the Realm. Personally," Renly leans forward, hands clasped, "I reckon it was the Lannisters' doing, your Grace. Because once I returned to Storm's End, what else did I find other than Lannister foragers within our homeland."
…
"…I sleep for but a moment and the Realm falls through my hands like sand." Robert closes his eyes, and he's back again at the harbour with the Wind Witch, about to depart with the rest of the Stark retinue. The wind howls upon a clear blue sky. He can see, right near his feet, a box. Ned was never a large man, but Robert didn't think his bones could fit within an arrow box. Tears burn against his cheek, more than the wounds from the boar. What do I do? he asks the bones. Who can I trust if you're gone? The bones are still, and Robert opens his eyes.
He's back in the Great Hall.
His brother, Renly, awaits an answer. "What do you want me to say? That it was a mistake to pardon the Kingslayer? That his oaths and vows are worth less than Aerys' blood on his blade? I awarded him the title Warden of the East for killing the Mad King, and this is how he repays his King!" Robert pinches his brow. His headaches return, and the crown pinches against the throbbing in his skull. "Barristan Selmy, he said I should have stripped the Kingslayer of his white cloak. Yet I refrained to appease Tywin. Gods, I should have listened." With Jon, with Ned, with Barristan…
"Now Barristan has left, and the Lannisters ride against your lieges. Of Cersei," Renly clicks his tongue, "she is a Baratheon by marriage. But she is Lord Tywin's daughter, the Kingslayer's twin, and the Imp's sister. I say keep her far from any political matters and with a close eye. But me, I'm the King's brother." An easy smile forms on his lips. "A Baratheon by blood. Both as family and duty, I shall stay by your Grace's side. We will not let this Realm fall to chaos."
So quiet is it in the Great Hall that Robert can hear the distant caws of crows. "…I will pardon Barristan, for leaving his post. Should he return."
"The man left your side and you plan to pardon him?"
"Cersei dragged his name through shit, it's no wonder he left. And he's still by oath the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. But the Kingslayer," Robert rises, pushing against his cane, "the Kingslayer will wish a boar had eaten him alive. Tyrion, that dwarf brother, he's a good mead companion, but not worth waging a war."
"Speaking of brothers, where's Stannis?"
"Injured. The eunuch said something about a fire."
"Gods," Renly laughs, "truly a time to be Baratheons!"
Robert shares none of his humour, sober or not.
Soon they leave the hall for the Holdfast, Ser Boros leading the way. Too little energy for whoring or hunting left the King with nought to do but actual royal matters, a rarity before the hunting incident. If someone is to attack him now he'll fight, but a cane is no war hammer, no matter how gilded and horned it is.
Somewhere along the way, Renly's guards join them. The rustling of wood and steel fills the air. "With the position of Hand empty," says Renly, "someone new must be appointed. I put forth myself, your Grace. The Targaryens had brothers as Hand and they went well enough. Besides, better than Stannis; he'll sooner outlaw joy than commit to his elder's wishes."
"Then who's Master of Justice?"
"Well, Mace Tyrell once petitioned for-"
"The Tyrells!?" Robert booms, scaring some passing serving girls. He turns to Renly. "They held Targaryen banners aloft til the last bloody second, in a siege against Storm's End! You think that I'd…" his words trail off.
Something else catches his attention.
Amongst Renly's men — some Robert recognises as Baratheon house guards — is what appears to be a girl with dashing white hair not unlike a Targaryen, or that healer woman. She's short, even with her helm she barely reaches- "Renly, is that girl wearing armour?"
"Hm? Ah," Renly turns and gestures the girl forward. That's right, the girl is wearing armour, and it's been fitted to her size. Well, as much as armour would fit on a maid. Her leaf-green eyes look to Robert, and she seems to hold herself well, if not with some degree of menace. "That's right, I've made acquaintance with someone. Introduce yourself."
"Your Majesty," she bows even deeper than the eunuch would, "my name is-"
"It is your Grace when referring to royalty," Renly corrects, "and you kneel, not bow." There's something behind her, like a translucent wisp trailing through the air. Robert shakes his head;that's enough wine for this afternoon. "Lady Youmu Konpaku is her name," he continues, regarding her as a knight would a squire. "A quite talented swordswoman I encountered whilst picking off Lannister foragers. Slew many on her own."
"Swordswoman?" Robert then notices the two curved scabbards attached to the girl's hips, one being near as tall as herself and almost dragging on the stone floor, a flower tied to its hilt. He blinks, not sure what to make of this comical sight.
"I brought her here because you're lacking in Kingsguard, your Grace. And so," both Renly and the girl smile, "why not consider her for the position? You'll find her a dutiful sort, and I have no doubt that any assailants, however armed, will bleed against her blades."
That.
That makes Robert erupt in raucous laughter.
His voice rolls through the windowed hallway like a pumice stone before cracking into a fit of coughs and wheezing; he leans against the wall, and this time he spits out some mucous and blood. Ser Boros comes to aid but he pushes him away before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Renly," he wheezes, tasting the copper in his mouth, "thank you…"
"For…?"
"Of all the quips and jabs you've tried to pull, this," Robert laughs, "this one I commend. Gods, a Kingsguard!" He does not notice the girl shrinking away at the comment, nor the awkwardness among the guards. "Ah… Why not introduce her to Myrcella and Tommen? They'd be happy to have new friends, considering that the Stark girls have left. Better than speaking to the Clegane; a Hound he may be, he can't play with anything but swords." With that, the King leaves Renly's retinue.
Maegor's Holdfast stands tall and lonesome within the Red Keep, a castle within a castle surrounded by a pit of iron spikes and connected only to a rope bridge. The Kingsguard would take positions at either end of the bridge, then one posted at the King's bedchamber.
Normally.
With Arys and Balon dead, Barristan fled, and the Kingslayer pillaging alongside his father, only three white cloaks are left in the Red Keep: Ser Mandon Moore guards the Queen and the royal children, Ser Meryn Trant the rope bridge, and Ser Boros the King's door. He's promoted all three himself, their loyalty should be without question.
Yet Balon died in my room, and Barristan claimed he was the one who murdered Ned.
Though the broken chairs and curtains have been replaced, not much can be done to hide the scratches and signs of struggle on the doorway and stone walls. Robert's fat finger traces a notch on the bed's edge. Was it Barristan who betrayed me? Or Balon? Or someone else? Has that Targaryen child made her move? Even his little Spider cannot tell him; is this what a King's pardon is worth?
His head is pounding, so he takes a rest on a satin couch, closing his eyes.
Sparrows flit and chirp, and a breeze graces his room.
It's nearly noon, time for luncheon-
"Your Grace, the Grand Maester and the healer has arrived."
-and time for treatment.
Robert hears the door open and their shuffling steps. Pycelle announces himself first with the clinking of two dozen chains hanging from his neck, each studded with gemstones and gold. "Y-Your Grace," says the Grand Maester, setting down their implements, "please, allow me…"
"Mm." Tired, Robert offers his left arm on top of the couch's armrest. Only when he feels a smoother set of fingers prodding his skin does he take a look.
Eirin Yagokoro, the Healer of Flea Bottom, is a sight for sore eyes.
She looks as old as Cersei, yet something about her belies her true nature. Perhaps her knee-length braided white hair yet un-Valyrian face? The soft scent of valley lilies about her? Her cold grey eyes as if plucked from Mandon Moore's own sockets? Or the firm yet calculated manner in which she always performs the procedures? Robert chuckles; a little everyday levity, he thinks.
The healer sniffs the air and frowns. "I forbade you from drinking."
"Heh, who are you to order a King?" But when she tells him to relax his arm, he complies. When she tells him to clench, he does. When she tells him to remain still as a metal-and-glass amalgamate — syringe, she calls it — pierces through his skin and into his vein, he relents, even when he can feel the piss-yellow liquid enter his body with an unnatural chill.
Then, his headache melts, and his heart calms.
Pycelle, a studied scholar he may be, studies the procedure like an eager acolyte, writing notes on parchment. "Liquor d-does lend a much-needed warmth in, in recovery."
"So does a good meal," her thumb swipes over the puncture and seals it, "and as King of this place, that you will not be lacking in. Many are not so lucky." She rises, wrapping the used 'syringe' with a cloth before packing it inside a wood-and-leather case; Robert spies a variety of vials, many of which glow a sickly colour. Her boots are stained with Flea Bottom's mud, though her azure-and-crimson dress remains pristine. He leers over the curves of her body, whilst cursing the restriction on 'strenuous activities' she imposed. "I still have unpaid promises made by Barristan Selmy."
"Barristan left, and his words left with him." The body of the Maiden — though much taller — yet the disposition of Stannis… If she's the one who tried to kill me back then, I would already be dead; the trial of combat found her innocent after all. "But as King," Robert sits up on the couch, cracking his neck, "you may have my generosity, by funding your…"
"Clinic."
"Yes, clinic. I'll have Littlefinger acquire the land, and you may request assistants through-"
*KNOCK KNOCK*
"Lord Petyr Baelish, your Grace."
"…Let him in."
"Your Grace," the short man enters the room with a curt bow, his smile as sharp as his beard, "my apologies for the absence at the Small Council, I was attending to a few matters around my establishments."
"You're enjoying your whores while I'm here forbidden to even partake my Queen until I'm healed," Robert snorts. In truth, he doesn't even remember if the Master of Coin was present in the meeting. "Well, at least they'll miss me. Not that someone named Littlefinger can satisfy them."
Littlefinger gives a short laugh before giving the reason for his disappearance: "My contact at Oldtown has finally arrived to bring something we all might find useful… Ravens."
"Ravens!?" Pycelle starts from his seat, at speeds unlike someone so aged and frail. "I've sent an acolyte and they've yet to return with birds. Y-You've acquired some?"
"Well, there's no man in Westeros who couldn't be pushed with a little purse," Littlefinger chuckles, stroking his beard. "Though, my contact did say there are some stipulations. I admit I know little of ravens," he flicks the little mockingbird pin above his breast, "but these birds are somewhat sensitive. There are not many of them, and they must be kept in larger cages than usual. They must also be fed a mixture of living bugs, meals, and fresh meat. And some, if possible, must be allowed to roam free in the rookery. There's an entire written instruction, much too complex if you ask me. My contact said, 'Walgrave's recommendations.'"
"Archmaester Walgrave," Pycelle nods. "He knows ravens well. If those are h-his recommendations… Ah, where are the-"
*KNOCK KNOCK*
"Lord Varys, your Grace."
Without even the King's reply, the lavender-robed eunuch walks into the room with soft steps, thick with the scent of roses. Servants carrying the King's lunch follow behind him. "Your Grace, I-"
"What is this?" Robert raises his voice in exasperation. "Why are you all here? Do not hold Small Council in the King's bedchamber!"
Pycelle leaves at that, eager to tend Littlefinger's shipment of ravens. Littlefinger, meanwhile, leaves with the healer, with talks of some future investments and purchases — he gives a knowing glance at Varys, unnoticed by the King. The servants leave upon placing the lunch. Ser Boros stands guard outside the door.
Varys stays.
Robert takes his seat beside the prepared lunch of roasted duck with stuffings, alongside a rack of pig ribs, roasted onions, and a platter of cut and splayed peaches taken from the Great Sept. The Spider remains in his view, ready to spoil his appetite. "What do you want?"
"Want?" The Spider takes his seat on the empty couch, hands crossed on his lap like a Lady in waiting. "There is little want this Spider has, your Grace, but he does bring gifts of whispers. For starters, much of the men we've sent after young Daenerys Targaryen have been recalled, though I'm afraid the gold we paid is lost."
"Let them keep it," Robert sighs, savouring both the duck and news. He remembers little of that fateful night, none but the pain and the heat and Ned… And that promise, in feverish mind, to call off the assassins for the Targaryen girl. That he remembers. He looks at the rack of ribs, but sees Ned's own, cleaned by the silent sisters; the King loses his appetite. "Lest they try to come back, the dragonspawn can remain in Essos all they want. Be rulers of Old Valyria. Fuck and breed the Dothrakii. Doesn't matter, not anymore."
"Your reign has long been known for kindness, your Grace, but-"
"Kindness," Robert sneers. His people know him for that, but the Gods and the Others will take him for they know the truth. "I threatened Ned with decapitation when he dared to refuse me for trying to assassinate a child and her baby. I don't…" I don't even know what they look like. His hand wanders and snatches a slice of peach, dripping with juices. "What do you think of the Gods, Varys? You believe in one?"
It takes a moment for the eunuch to answer. "The Gods… There are many in Essos, some only worshipped in one city, some whispered under the cover of night, and many more capricious than the last. Though I've known countless priests and maegis and healers, I can't say I have much personal interest, sorry to say."
"That boar… Maybe it was a message. Damned me for unmanning myself, for trying to assassinate a pregnant girl," Robert chuckles, biting into the peach. The nectarine sweetness spreads on his tongue; his pain dulls and he can feel strength returning once again to his limbs. "The Messengers, they came to me a few days ago and gifted these peaches to me. A blessing, they say, for recovery. They wound, and they heal."
"The Gods are cruel," the Spider tuts, "for they took away our good Lord Stark early."
"…Perhaps I should visit the Great Sept, or the Godswood. Pray for him, and his family."
"Ah, that reminds me…"
"Another of your little birds, Spider?"
"Am I truly that readable, your Grace?" The eunuch giggles before rising from his seat and approaching the King. From within his flowing robes, he produces a paper scroll. "It is regarding the Faith, your Grace. Ever since the High Septon declared the Messengers' legitimacy, there has been a little… Schism, shall we say. The Starry Sept, with the backing of House Hightower and the Citadel, declared the High Septon heretical and call for the Most Devout to elect anew. And even within our good city, there are septons — and I hear a member of the Most Devout — wishing to cast the Messengers and lay support for the Starry Sept."
"Heresy," Robert mumbles. "And what would you have the King do, then? Intervene and they'll outlaw whorehouses, not that you'd care."
"It is, dare I say, a complex issue, your Grace. My whispers all but wipe a single stroke of mud off this horrid tapestry. I fear it'll take us some time to untangle this, but it is my belief that the Iron Throne should intervene. Accepting the High Septon's presence within the Small Council may be a start, your Grace, but we cannot ignore this pile of tinder. For the good of the Realm, the Iron Throne must take action."
For the good of the Realm. Just hearing this reignites the pounding in Robert's head. He's never been one to go into matters of the Faith, so prude and dry in their policies he'd find more drops of blood within grain dispute minutia. A dive into this will require reading and — the Gods will not help him — listening to prayers and preaching of the High Sept for extended periods of time; he could enjoy hunting or in the Street of Silk instead. Or even just to march against the Lannisters, how he wishes to flake off the gilding on the Kingslayer's helm! And so, he'll opt to close his eyes and ignore it.
But he sees Ned's bones, and he hears his old friend's wish for a nobler King. One who at least gives an ear to counsel. One who does not condemn children with poison like the Mad King.
Something he hasn't done for the past decade-and-half of his reign. Maybe that's why they took Ned away, and sent Robert a boar.
To humble him.
…
"I'll need a new Hand."
"Pardon?"
"Are you expecting the King manage this himself? I need a new goddamned Hand!" Robert slams down his fist and crack spreads on his wooden table — the peaches work wonders. "Renly's right, maybe I should raise him… Spider, tell your little birds to look for… Damn it if I know, anyone knowledgeable on matters of the Faith other than the High Septon. We can hear him out, then decide on the course of action."
The eunuch leans back with a quiet surprise — from what, Robert doesn't know — before a girlish giggle escapes his lips. "Of course, your Grace. Your servant shall see it done. Ah, but we must thank Lord Baelish for the ravens, too, else our words would be hindered by horses and men."
"Heh, must have known some merchants from Oldtown."
"Where would we be without our winged friends, your Grace? Well, I must take my leave," says the Spider. "I pray for your recovery, your Grace, and hope to see you at tomorrow's petition hearing." With that, the eunuch's out the door.
Robert, King of Westeros, leans back on his seat, thinking: do petitions happen everyday?
