JORY IV

"The sun shone high over the streets and red walls of King's Landing. The day was a hot and warm one, as ever, now at the end of the Long Summer. The Red Keep was calm enough, but Jory knew that such tensions that blossomed up between differing houses could oft be treacherous and slow in becoming, and slow and easy had not been their time with the strange Lannister guests so far.

They had fought on the way home, along the Trident, with Arya, as was no man's surprise, and after that they had all been terrified of the direwolves. Even of Princess Sansa's sweet and quiet Lady.

Jory could understand it, in truth. He almost felt a little strange himself at times, when he saw Robb's Grey Wind passing him by on the pathway of the cobblestones, its grey feet padding softly by on the white pathway and the red tile mosaic streets,]]]] and felt the fur of the beast rising up to stand on its back in anticipation, its snarling fangs and the saliva dripping from its teeth as it did its best to cool down, gasping and flamting on the hot warm summer days.

He pitied it, the poor Northern wolf, as yet another creature being stuck in the terrible heat here down south, but he also feared it, the same amount as was healthy.

At any rate, things had calmed down sufficiently during the past five or six days or so, he supposed, and there was nothing more but tiny sullen looks coming from the young golden lord Joffrey, as well as the strange green- and black-eyed ones coming from the dwarf, as he would look up on each and everyone around him with a suspicious look, as if they were the weird ones, and not him. Freak, Jory thought, but said nothing.

The King had changed him for Ser Balon, and so Jory made his rounds around the courtyard instead. That was also one of the lesser duties of the Kingsguard, and especially now that all of the children were gathered together in one place again, and with Queen Catelyn and Bran and Rickon all the way up at Winterfell with Erryk and Ser Mandon. He did not stray far, though, only keeping the watch directly in front of the Red Keep, to complement the regular guards and do his routine walk, which he did perhaps once in a septance – or week, as he still said, being a northerner.

He saw Matthys standing by the northeastern gate, the Iron Gate of the Rosby road, keeping guard as usual. He had only been a watchman in truth for a little more than a year, having been trained up before that, but from what he had heard and seen, he was doing great. He never gambled, never fought with any of the other guards so far, never let in any trespassers, never slept on the job, even at night, having inherited Jory's upkeeping and troubled mind, with his gaze fixed on the horizon and happenings-on in front of him, and he never spoke ill to his commander.

The only thing he did was fight in the courtyard, practicing with Prince Robb and Gerion Buckwell and all of the others of the prince's friends, and then he would do his best to knock them all down. But that was to be expected. And he drank some. But not much. That was to be expected, besides. Who did not fancy a drink of ale or strongwine now and then, when the heat was pressing on? He was six-and-ten, after all.

He seldom spoke to his brother, in truth. Such was the way of the Kingsguard, who had sworn to take new brothers instead, and to live their service in the king. Besides, Matthys was far younger than he was, and they had barely grown up together until Matthys had come to the capital. Those had been their closest years, of course. But now he spoke to him again, being an elder brother, and trying his best to be a good one at that.

"How are you feeling?" He asked. "Anything troubling of late?"

Matthys looked up at him.

"No. No trespassers today. Or… What do you mean?"

"Just... Fighting with someone, or... Something retaining to our new guests, perhaps?"

Matthys lowered his look then.

"It was not my fault", he said sourly.

"Not your fault?" He had no idea what Matthys was talking about, but he would surely find out, by being clever.

"And why is that?"

"He was only being rude to me. He was not being chivalrous. He's no proper knight, like you."

"How was he being rude?" Jory still did not know who they were talking about.

"He made a joke about me."

"A joke?" Jory was suspicious. "What type of joke?"

"About the way I speak, is all..." Matthys said, slowly, lowering his voice and looking away.

"About the way you speak?" He could hardly believe it, but all the same... "But you speak better than me. You barely have your Northern accent left."

"Shut up! I do sure have. And I don't want to speak like any of these southerners anyway. They're all southron cunts."

Jory stood silent, trying his best to disagree. It was not easy, in truth. If the king can manage, so can I... He thought, as he had a thousand times before.

"All of them? … They can't all be cunts, surely...?" He said then.

"Ser Clydeon sure as winter is. He's a bloody Lannister cunt of a knight".

There it came. So it was Ser Clydeon, one of the imp and the boy lord's guards, and a knight at that, that had offended him so. That was hardly surprising.

"What did he say exactly was the problem with the manner of your voice? Eh?" Jory pushed Matthys on on his shoulder somewhat. The [sixteen-year-old?] shied away, frowning in annoyance.

"It doesn't matter. He hit me back anyway."

Jory regarded his younger brother, looking for any scars or other recent signs of battle on his face. He found none but the usual ones. Nothing too much, but that could be hid underneath his armour and clothes, of course. On his chest and arms, most like.

"So you fought with him?"

"Only a little..." Matthys said, clearly uncomfortable.

"Right. That is... We do not fight with our guests, Matthys. Even if they sure are cunts, some of 'em."

"Yes", Matthys said, agreeing already. He knew that he had done wrong. He did not need to pester him for much longer than that.

"Are you hearing me? Do you hear what I say?" He only said it because he had to. He knew that he had already learned his lesson, by the downtrodden looks of him. Still, he waited for the necessary moments, putting his wild open eyes on him. Matthys looked up, and then looked down again.

"Yes... Ser."

"All right. You don't need to call me bloody 'ser', as long as you do what I ask of you. Now go on. Go back to your duties. And stay the best away from the Lannisters if you can."

He gave him a little pat on his back, or a slap more like, but tried to be careful not to do it too hard, in case the boy had a sore back from his fight. Perhaps Ser Clydeon had even cut him there. He could not be sure until he had spoken with Grand Maester Pycelle, or someone else, if Matthys had even had the courage to go up and ask for help from him. Perhaps he had only asked some of his brothers in the guard to patch up his sores for him. That would not be as good, surely, Jory thought.

Still, he left his younger brother in his place, as he continued on his walk, and then returned to the Red Keep after making sure that no commotion was about.

The King was still sitting in his solar, tryign his best to keep cool with a glass of cold iced lemonwater. He gave Jory only a short, tired look of acknowledgement as he stepped inside the room.

The King peered over his papers, and parchments and letters, as always. Today he seemed more engrossed in them than most times. He looked interested, truly diligent at his task, glad to be back, no doubt, but tired, tired and sweating and half dead from the heat all the same.

He had reluctantly asked for two servants up to his chambers, Jory now saw, but they were standing far away on either side of him, two young boys fanning the King with palm leaves from all too far away. That won't do much of a difference, Jory thought. He spied more comfort of relief of cold coming from the sparkling glass of cold iced lemowater standing on the King's massive wooden desk in front of him.

The contraptions by which they found the ice to take to King's Landing was quite extraordinary, as Jory had remarked upon several times. It was taken and harnessed from the Vale, most likely cut out from the mountains all the way high up, and then transported down to the docks of Gulltown and the like, and after that stowed away in the darkest hulls of the ships, as they took sail for the capital, a swift journey of only perhaps a day or two, Jory guessed, though he knew little about ships.

Then after that the blocks of yce were brought up from the harbour, still kept in their strange vases and covered by white tarps of fabric and put down into the deep cellars beneath the Red Keep. Then, when the King asked one of the servants for a drink of iced water, the poor servants would have to run all the way down the six or seven flights of stairs down to the kitchens at the bottom floor, to get the lemonwater, and then even further down the next stairway, one or two floors down to the darkness of the earth cellars, at that. They were only a room or two from the dragon skulls, if Jory understood it all as he thought that he did. At any rate, it was a sure blessing which kept the King and many others at court cold on the warmest of summer days. Once in a moon or two, even Jory would dare to request a glass of the stuff, although only when he was on a quick break of course.

The King peered over his parchments at his great desk, and made notes on another, as the hours waned on, and the afternoon became evening.

.

.

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...

Jory counted the days before Lord Tywin's arrival to finally take up residence as Hand after Lord Jon. They had waited for all of their travels to Winterfell and back, and even still then, the Lord of Casterly Rock had not troubled himself to be present for them as soon as they came back. Although, as he had guessed several times himself, perhaps that was a good thing, if wolf and lion were indeed to tangle over the grips of this great city, that the King got back to his routines and held the sway over the Red Keep and the city well enough before Lord Tywin could come in and change that.

He counted the days, aye. Mother's Day, Warrior's Day, Crone's Day, Smith's Day, Maiden's Day, Father's Day, Stranger's Day. They had other names as well, in the North and on the Iron Isles, from what he had heard and understood. There the Mother's Day was called Moonsday, and Stranger's Day was Sunday, and several others were named after ancient First Men gods and legends.

Today, as he had taken his rounds, it had been the Smith's Day, or Tormund's Day, as it was known by many in the North, from the ancient First Man warrior king Tormund the Thunder-Maker. Then came Freyday, after the ancient First Man king of the Reach, Frey the Flowery, and his wife Freyja.

After that came the Father's Day, the day when Jory washed himself properly, as was the old way, as he wondered if Erryk washed himself the same all the way up in Winterfell with the Queen and the young princes, and then the Stranger's Day, and then Mother's Day and finally Warrior's Day. That was when Lord Tywin and his massive host of some four thousand men strong came to the Red Keep at last. All of the castle was on the alert as the outriders of the honour guard had caught up with them a day before and sent word back, and as there had been the heralds of the red banners that had been spied beyond the castle walls earlier during the day.

Jory saw the King as he went to prepare himself for the encounter, sitting first beneath the godswood for a short while and then walking all the way up to his chambers, washing and dressing into his best clothes, taking his place in the throne room and telling Ser Balon to make sure that all the children were in their places. For once, or so it appeared, they were.

Princess Sansa, Jeyne, Wylla, Prince Robb, Gerion, Quentyn and Arya, along with all of the rest, and all of the court, lords and ladies all stood gathered in the gallery of the throne room, dressed in their finest dresses and doublets, waiting for Lord Tywin's arrival as if it was the coming of spring. Regardless of whether he was well-liked or no, it was certainly an exciting prospect, and perhaps even more so for the children, who had little or no bad memory of the Sack of King's Landing, and merely thought it exhilarating to finally get to meet and see the arrival of the great Lord Tywin Lannister, whom they had all heard so much about ever since they were small.

Princess Sansa was as beautiful and graceful as ever, pretty and pale, with her beautiful auburn hair worn long and straight, and her smooth head adorned with a fair silver and pale gold tiara, wearing a red and golden dress, as she had chosen it herself, although to the protest of the King, symbolizing both her Tully ancestry and the gold of the crown, albeit in secret Jory thought that she might rather like to resemble the colors of House Lannister instead. Her blue eyes sparkled with the excitement and her cheeks seemed to glow in the light streaming from the tall painted glass windows with happiness and anticipation.

Her ladies were dressed in their finest, perhaps even more so than the princess. Wylla Manderly of White Harbour had her teal and green dress embroidered with silver and golden thread, along with a large silver grey seasnail shell and white silver lace rosette in her [blonde/brown/green?] hair, Jeyne Poole of Winterfell was dressed in the greyish black and silver dress which was her finest, as well as with blue inlays for the small but proud House Poole of her father, her eyes a Northern grey and with dark blueish grey lace linings tied into her Northern-style braided hair, her hair which was the darkest brown even in the light of the chandeliers, almost black. Marla Piper of the Riverlands was dressed in an elaborate orange, red and pink dress, and her blondish reddish brown hair made up in the southron way, her rosette laces pink, orange and red as well.

Prince Robb was wearing his Stark silver grey doublet with red inlays of Tully at the sides, his blue eyes and auburn hair shining regally in the commotion of the room. Quentyn Martell of Dorne had combed his dark hair with water, to make it more sleek, making his head appear even squarer, and he was wearing an orange and red doublet with the sun-and-spear sigil of House Martell. Gerion Buckwell had his dark brown hair semi-long, and was wearing the yellow and blue colors of House Buckwell in a checkered pattern on the chest and stomach of his finest doublet.

The trumpets were heard again, and then they saw Lord Tywin's host approaching through the streets of the city, coming from Visenya's Hill behind, and through the city up to Aegon's High Hill, to make their entrance through the gates of the Red Keep at last. The red Lannister banners streamed.

It was more or less a small army, of four thousand westermen knights and retainers, Jory thought, men of a hundred different banners streaming all the way across the Gold Road and leading their gleaming way into the capital, but he was not surprised to see the spectacle of it all, in truth. This was the Lion of the West, after all. His pride and power would not have been contained by anything less.

…

Lord Tywin Lannister's white horse lifted its tail and took a massive dump on the steps leading up to the throne room. The tall double doors stretching all the way up into the ceiling a hundred or more feet up into the shadowy dark black, where the pillars ended, opened to give way for the Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, as he rode forward in a majestic tempo, parading slowly and dignified, as if every step was another fallen foe that was being crushed beneath his hooves.

Jory took careful note to watch on the visage of his face. His look was hard, dignified, sour, arrogant, majestic, although with a certain magnimonious restraint to it all the same, as he faced down the only man in the Seven Kingdoms that even the great Lord Tywin Lannister had to bow down before. King Eddard Stark, the Silent wolf King, sat seated on the Iron Throne twenty feet up, wearing his finest doublet of silver grey and white, with frosted weirwood patterns entangling like vines of the old gods, a thick wolf pelt even though it was in the heat of summer, and his silver grey and white mantel with the grey direwolf of House Stark running on a white snowy field enblanketing the jagged blades of the throne behind and arround him, as if he was resting in a still winter wind, his eyes an icy grey, his visage still, kingly and forlorn, his long dark hair and short beard closely cropped and cleaned, and for once in a long moon wearing his bronze and iron crown with the nine swords like the old Kings of Winter.

King Eddard Stark had never looked more to live up to his name, Jory thought, at least in the eyes of the southerners, who all valued the gleamings of a man's clothes more than his heart's deeds. Even Lord Tywin must surely bow down properly before such a true king, Jory thought.

And bow down before the great King Eddard he did, and he did so deeply, at that, to his credit, Jory thought, as he stepped off his horse, giving it to the servant besides, walked all the way up to the bottom steps of the Iron Throne and closed his eyes in a look of solemnity and respect, declaring his allegiance to King Eddard Stark – once again, though Jory had not seen the first time with his own eyes – for all the realm to see.

"Your Grace. … As Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, I hereby declare my allegiance and fealty to you, King Eddard of House Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Shield of His People and Protector of the Realm."

The entire throne room was silent, as Lord Tywin uttered those words, his tone curt but agreeable, and held his eyes closed. Then he rose up again, and looked at the king with severity and awaitance in his green-golden eyes.

"Lord Tywin.", the King said in his frosted Northern accent. "I thank you most sincerely. Welcome to the capital."

Lord Tywin nodded again, saying nothing.

"I trust your ride here was good?" The King enquired, as a servant ran up to the top of the stairs all the way two hundred feet back in the throne room to scoop up at the horse muck from Lord Tywin's horse. Jory did his best to not steer his gaze in the direction of the absurdly comical sight in between all of the kingdom-spanning tension which lay in the air.

The second most powerful man in all of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion, the golden terror of the West, and yet not even he can have control over the bowels of his horse, Jory mused to himself. Or perhaps he had commanded his horse to shat on the steps to the king's castle, as an insult perhaps. That would be worse, Jory realised. Much much worse.

But the meeting seemed to go to accord, all in all, although certainly every man with a living and breathing red heart in the room was holding his breath for something terrible to happen. Lord Benjen and Cersei Lannister were married with Willam, Myrcella and Tommen at Winterfell, as they had just seen, and officially there was no bad blood between houses Stark and Lannister. The King and Lord Tywin were sworn together by marriage. But Winterfell was a place far away, up in the North, and as far as Jory knew Lord Tywin himself had never visited the place more than perhaps once. Instead the memory of the far colder common point still lay between them... That of Lord Tywin's heir and eldest son, Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.

Lord Eddard had commanded for him to either die or take the black for his crime against his former king. A thing which no one but a true man of honour could understand, as his uncle Ser Rodrik had explained to him when he was still a boy. Ser Jaime had sworn to serve, and serve he had did, all up until the city was close to falling, and the Mad King seemed a sitting duck in his own keep. Then, and not before, had he taken up arms against the Mad King, spearing him alive on his sword, the sword that was meant to protect him, and as he then sat himself on the Iron Throne, as Lord Tywin was closing in from the south. Ned had gotten there in time, though, and found Jaime sitting on it, and after that nothing had ever again been the same.

He wondered if Tywin Lannister still wanted for his son and heir to come home, or whether he had finally reconciled himself with the thought of him being forever sworn to the Wall, as he had apparently named the lad Joffrey his new heir now instead, and was prodding to marry him to Sansa for everything that it seemed. The King would surely know, Jory told himself. I need not think about these things myself. All the same the thoughts came, unbidden.

And how would surely [ ] react at the hearing of the incident between Joffrey and the wolf, Arya's wolf, the one she called Nymeria? Jory thought long and hard... One did not shed Lannister blood with impunity, or so they said it in the West. However, the beast had not been found, and so Lord Tywin would surely have to burn down half the Riverlands if he were ever to have some semblance of a chance at justice for the poor beast. Arya and Lord Joffrey, though... They were still far from the best of friends.

The King interrupted his thoughts.

"I have tried my best to keep the eastern part of the Gold Road safe for all to travel, my lord, but I fear that the poachers and robbers are always quick to infest its [ ]... I hope that you did not chance upon any such on your way", Ned said.

"Indeed I did not, Your Grace. But thankyou for your concern."

His tone was harsh, or restrained perhaps, eyes narrow, as he handled his black leather riding gloves, taking them off and placing them into the hands of his servant, who bowed with an underdånig motion just to his side.

"I dare say that they might have fled before us.", Lord Tywin declared, shooting up with his voice.

There was silence in the room.

"If so, they were wise to not stir you, I am sure you will agree." King Eddard said.

Lord Tywin regarded the king with a [suspicious/cool/contemplatory[ ]] look.

"Yees..."

He harkled himself, continuing.

"I will be glad to begin my work as soon as possible, if it please you, Your Grace."

That was only a courtesy. Tywin did not put the question on whether it pleased the king, who was still a good twenty years hs junior, no matter how much of a man he had grown into, but rather he seemed hellbent on at last getting back to the seat which he had been robbed of by his predecessor.

But that was only to be expected, Jory knew. Few people of true note and renown had been more unjustly spited than Lord Tywin in their lives or careers, and now he would have his redemption, once again ruling over King's Landing and the realm as he was meant to do before Mad King Aerys had stripped him of the title in his cruelty and mad jealousy towards his old childhood friend.

Eddard Stark was a good king, Jory once again thought, as he knew in all his heart to be true. Whereas Aerys Targaryen's sick heart had flamed and flickered with the madness of flames, his mind being clouded and poisoned by the fumes of its dark smoke, Eddard Stark's heart was as clear and cold in its northern justice and altane honour as ever any man had been. He would not refuse him the honour, nor keep the seat of Hand away from him for a moment longer than necessary, now that he had made up his mind about it. His decision was as hard as ice, as Jory saw in the king's eyes that he accepted.

"Of course", the King said. "The Tower of the Hand has been prepared and is at your command."

Lord Tywin nodded, and then swept all through the long line of the throne room again, as a hundred Lannister knights and guards and the entirety of King Eddard's court followed him with their steps and gaze, respectively. It was truly a mighty sight, even for a Kingsguard, who had seen most such things before.

And just like that, he was gone, off to begin his work. It was rather strange, thought Jory. He had supposed that Lord Tywin would have spoken much and more, and been glad to prowl in his glamour once he had finally come here, but it seemed that he was in fact commited to start ruling as Hand as soon as he could.

He supposed that he had to respect the man for it, somehow, even though it was certainly a strange feeling to be had. He certainly knew that he would not be able to ever fully replace Lord Jon, but somehow it seemed as though the entire keep had already forgotten about the King's foster father, the father to all the realm in truth, and his wise council and guardful watch all over the years, as the lion of House Lannister awakaned from its slumber beneath the Rock these past fourteen years and prepared its very best to make its golden mark on the crown once again.

And we shall all have to wait and see what a mark it becomes..., Jory thought to himself."