Author's Notes: Good day, everyone! I hope you're all doing well. The response to this fic continues to astound me. Thank you for your support! This would be a lot harder without your encouragement.

Chapter 50

Aemon XIV

Aemon strode to the small council meeting with his head held high. Ser Meryn Trant flanked him as he strode across the grounds. It didn't seem to matter that he had been king for more than a month, the resident nobility bowed and curtsied as he passed, whispering excitedly to their neighbors. He should be flush from his accomplishments: he'd neutralized all of the Baratheon men, taken the Keep bloodlessly, won over the Vale forces, and persuaded the Night's Watch to catch a wight and ship it south to King's Landing. It was enough to inflate the egos of most men who would be so lucky to accomplish such a feat in their lifetime. Yet Aemon felt tempered and overwhelmed by all that he had yet to do and needed to do.

Before leaving Dragonstone, he'd arranged for the mining of the Dragonglass to start, but there simply wasn't enough manpower left on that island to do little more than make a dent. He was chomping at the bit to devote more of the crown's resources, but not only was there little enough money left in the vault, but he knew he would have to convince the small council to agree to commit and that would not happen until the wight was shown to impress upon them the urgency of being prepared.

And before that...there are problems closer to home to deal with, he thought, his eyes lingering on Maester Pycelle and Petyr Baelish as he swept into the room. For once, he was the last to arrive. Jaime was looking exhausted once more. He noticed over the few weeks that Jaime had periods where he was rested and then exhausted and then rested again. It concerned him, but compared to before when Jaime was simply exhausted, he would let it go. Though they practically lived next to each other in the Keep, their paths only crossed at council meetings and when Jaime needed his seal of approval. It left Aemon feeling isolated, though he did his best to fight the feeling.

"Good afternoon. I have called you here today because we need to start planning my trip to Dorne, so that we can finally bring them into the fold," Aemon said. "Lord Velaryon, how long will a trip to Dorne take?"

"Well, Your Grace, with a fast ship and pleasant weather, you could be in Dorne in as little as three weeks. It will most likely be four weeks though."

"Will it be the same back?"

"It may take a bit longer, Your Grace. The current heads south, so you will be going against the current on the way back."

Aemon frowned. The wight would almost certainly reach King's Landing before he returned, but he had plans of bringing at least one Martell back with him to King's Landing.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but do you intend on traveling alone?" Jaime asked. The question was innocent enough but there was an intensity to his look.

"No. I will be bringing my uncle, Lord Stark with me."

Jaime frowned. "Your uncle?"

"Yes, Lord Jaime, my uncle."

"Is he really the best choice?"

Aemon did his best to look cross, but it took everything Aemon had to stifle a chuckle. They rarely saw each other, but Jaime obsessed about his protection. Although he had pledged himself to Aemon in the life before, he hadn't tailed him like a loyal dog. The intervening years between Jaime's revival and their reuniting had appeared to foster in Jaime an unbreakable need to protect Aemon. Refusing to sire Cersei's bastards, refusing to tell the king of Cersei's bastards, and acting like there wasn't a hidden Targaryen at Winterfell had all been acts to protect him. Or at least that's how Jaime preferred to frame it to Aemon.

"My uncle rightly pointed out before that you were supposed to stay behind for the Stannis negotiations and rule the kingdom in my stead. My reasons for bringing you along then were legitimate, however that won't work this time. As you'll recall, the Martells aren't particularly fond of you."

"I doubt they'll be fond of you either," Jaime replied with a grimace. An uncomfortable silence followed until Jaime sighed and nodded. "Very well…"

"I would like to start putting together an offer to entice them. Courtesy of myself and Lord Jaime, Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch were apprehended and sent to the Martells in recompense for the loss of Princess Elia Martell, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, and Prince Aegon Targaryen. They have also been neutral during the...conflict," Aemon said. It felt odd referring to his half sister and half brother like they were apart from him. They were related, but it was difficult to feel anything familial towards them when they died before his birth. If they had survived, he'd hoped he could have a cordial relationship with that part of the family, but he suspected there would always be tension if he had remained at his half brother's side. That was a ripe plot for the Littlefinger's of the world to use to drive them apart. Speaking of my half brother, he quickly jotted down one option that he would offer with or without the approval of the small council. If there was one thing he had learned in his short time being king, its that diplomatic gestures counted as much as real ones. He felt it would make considerable headway into persuading Dorne to agree to the alliance.

For the next several minutes, suggestions flew at him from nearly all sides. It did not escape him that Pycelle remained quiet during the discussion. David the healer did as well, but this was far outside his expertise and he had little knowledge of politics, let alone what would be acceptable to Dorne. He spent much of the discussion impatiently tapping a quill on his parchment.

Patience, David, he wanted to say to him, but there were far too many here to convey the message properly.

He was surprised that Littlefinger had actually offered a decent idea, suggesting that there be a marriage between his cousin Bran and Princess Arianne Martell. He couldn't know that Bran would be indisposed and that Aemon would instead offer his uncle Viserys instead. Still, he wrote it down all the same, never voicing his opposition or reasoning either for or against any of the offers. He, Jaime and his uncle would narrow down the options in a more private setting.

"This is an excellent start," Aemon declared. "Lord Jaime and I shall continue paring down the suggestions to something more suitable. Now, if there are any other issues…"

There was a moment of silence. Then David spoke, "Your Grace, it has come to my attention that the Grandmaester Pycelle has both frequently and recently violated his oaths as a Maester."

Pycelle drew up in indignation. "Preposterous! I will not sit here and be slandered by this upjumped peasant who couldn't even forge one link in his chain at the Citadel!"

David's smile only grew wider. "I do not make these claims lightly, Your Grace. I have evidence."

"By all means, enlighten us," Aemon said.

"I am a healer to the poor and the unfortunate of which the majority of King's Landing is. I serve the prostitutes in the brothels, the lowliest in Flea Bottom, and many of the Keep's servants. A number of women have approached me for care, claiming to have had sex with the Grandmaester."

"You would believe those whores over your own Grandmaester?" Pycelle bellowed, his face reddening under his beard.

"I assure you, there are at least a dozen girls. His favorite pastime is planting bastards in them. Another close second is passing on disease," he replied.

They all turned to look at Pycelle as red as a tomato. "Grandmaester, would you care to refute the charges?"

"They're all liars," Pycelle blustered. "This is a conspiracy to unseat me."

If only you hadn't done things to be unseated, Aemon thought.

"That's not all he stands accused of, Your Grace," Jaime began coolly. "I may have been on...rocky terms with my sister, but I am still a Lannister, and I have it on good authority that he was accepting payment on behalf of my sister."

Pycelle froze then and the blood which had been accumulating in his face was now leeched of it. He opened his mouth, but did little more than gasp like a fish.

"Tell me, Pycelle, did Lord Jon Arryn really pass of a fever? Or were you remiss in your duties to heal him?" Jaime asked nonchalantly.

"W-why would I wish the Lord Jon Arryn to pass? I had no ill will against him," Pycelle said, but he couldn't hide the tremor of fear in his voice.

Jaime smiled. What little warmth it gave to his eyes was like a crackling fire. "Come now. Jon Arryn learned of the bastardy of my sister's children. So, being in the pay of my sister, it would have fallen on you to dispose of that annoying loose end. She couldn't have him report his findings to the king after all."

Aemon's frown was severe. "Is this true, Grandmaester Pycelle?"

"N-no, none of it! I have only ever served the king in residence with unfettered loyalty, Your Grace!"

"You're not supposed to be loyal to the king. You're to be loyal to the Keep," David snapped. "That is part of the oath maesters take once they've forged their chain. You are to be dutiful, not loyal!"

"If what Lord Jaime says is true, then you would be in dereliction of your duty as a maester, let alone a grand one," Aemon began. "And you're sleeping with serving girls and whores? This is the best the Citadel has?'

"I assure you, Your Grace, you will find fewer worse than Grandmaester Pycelle," David retorted.

"N-no, no, Your Grace! If Jon Arryn had told the king what he knew, you never would have been in a position to depose the usurper Robert Baratheon to take his throne. I-I helped you!"

"Is that what you say to every king?" Aemon said. "You did not know I existed so you could not possibly have neglected to treat Lord Jon Arryn on my behalf. As far as I am concerned, this makes you an assistant to his death. Ser Meryn Trant, call the guard."

He hesitated for just a beat. "At once, Your Grace."

In the next moment, two guards walk in and grab Pycelle from under his arms. "Please take him to a cell. He shall await my decision there."

"Yes, Your Grace," one of them said and they began hauling Pycelle away.

The old Grandmaester didn't even attempt dignity. He howled and kicked and begged as they hauled him out of the small council chambers.

Aemon glared at the door, glad to finally be rid of that pest.

"Congratulations, Your Grace. He will not be missed," Jaime said.

"I shall write the Citadel this evening about replacing Pycelle and finding healers to add to your ranks," he said, looking to David.

"Thank you, Your Grace. You are most generous," David replied with a bow of his head.

"Well done, Your Grace," Littlefinger said with a greasy smile.

Aemon surveyed everyone on the council. Lord Willas looked resolute but alarmed. Lord Stevron and Lord Velaryon both appeared aghast at the revelations. However, neither Varys nor Littlefinger appeared perturbed. They were as inscrutable as ever. They were, by far, the two most dangerous men on the council and he had no way of seeing or knowing when or if they intended to strike. He would have to be patient.

|-The Dragon's Roar-|

Jaime XVII

Jaime had correspondence laid out in front of him, yet he was absorbing nothing from it. It was deliberately harmless information regarding the inspections Lord Velaryon had carried out on the remaining fleet. Progress was unfortunately slow to bring the ships to a safe standard since there was little room in the budget. He closed his eyes and cycled his breathing, but he couldn't keep his foot from tapping the floor.

He had sent a summons for Littlefinger. This was a conversation that he had put off for far too long. He'd had excuses, since Littlefinger reappeared at the least opportune time when he was busy with preparations for invading Dragonstone. Although he and Aemon were certain of Littlefinger's intentions, they still had to be confirmed.

He wished for nothing more than to run Littlefinger through, but while that might kill the spider, his web would still be intact and without being able to navigate that, they wouldn't be able to see other threats lurking in the shadows. He had to continue to be patient.

The conversation should be innocent enough, but he expected Littlefinger to lie through his teeth. And with his ability to see sounds, he should be able to distinguish the fiction from the truth.

How much easier would life had been were I born with this ability, he wondered. He would've been able to instantly see through Cersei's lies and would therefore have frittered less of his life away at her suggestion. Would he have seen the lies in King Scab? Prince Rhaegar? Ser Barristan had been not surprisingly truthful, but then he frequently wondered if there was anything like nuance in Ser Barristan's world. Could he have seen the lies of Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne? Were they truly at peace with standing outside Queen Rhaella's door when King Aerys was raping her?

But if I never joined the Kingsguard, would any of them have stepped up to become the Kingslayer? Would King's Landing be a pile of ash and rubble to this day as a result? He did not like these plaguing questions since there would never be a truly definitive answer, yet he wondered all the same. The seizures were a nuisance but they were a price worth paying for this kind of insight.

He heard Pod's telltale knock on the door and his heart leapt but he kept the position he was in. "Yes?"

"Lord Petyr Baelish has arrived, My Lord."

"Send him in."

The door opened and the weasel stepped in. Does he have any other expression? Jaime thought as he noticed the ever present smirk on his face.

Littlefinger nodded and said, "My Lord Hand. How may I be of service?" His voice was a peculiar combination of blue and a vicious dark purple that was enough to set Jaime's teeth on edge.

"I wish to discuss the relationship between the Lannister accounts and the crown's accounts," Jaime replied, getting to his feet to pour himself a goblet of wine. "Wine?"

"Your offer is generous, but unnecessary," Littlefinger replied.

"It's not poisoned," Jaime smiled as Baelish studied him at that remark, pouring out the goblet and handing it out to him.

"If you insist, My Lord," Littlefinger said, taking the goblet in hand, but Jaime noticed he didn't drink from it.

They sat with Jaime behind his desk and Littlefinger on the other side. "Though King Aemon may be my ally, it is high time any king stop abusing the accounts of Casterly Rock. The Lannisters will not be the crown's personal financier. As Master of Coin, you know the crown is in a great deal of debt, to the Iron Bank and to my family. I want to hear from you how you intend to disentangle the crown from the gold of Casterly Rock without sacrificing the integrity of the crown."

"Well, His Grace, has already wisely cut back the spending in several ways, much of which is simply not being Robert Baratheon," Littlefinger said, his voice peculiarly dipping into the yellow range while still retaining that ugly purple uncurrent. He gave a fake chuckle.

"Robert Baratheon was a whoremonger who had a new whore everyday. Now, I understand that you yourself own a brothel, do you not?" Jaime asked, taking a sip of wine. His own voice was blue, but with that sentence his voice turned an accusatory red. Must have been nice to pay Pycelle in flesh instead of gold for the information in our letters.

Littlefinger's eyes widened a fraction before he smiled. "If the king, any king, has a need that I can meet, I will take great pains to provide it."

"But not at your expense," Jaime suggested and there was a notable stiffening of Baelish's shoulders.

"The king using my girls was the best publicity a brothel could ever want. I was happy to take the hit." The entire sentence was that vicious purple.

It took everything Jaime had to keep his lip from curling.

"It is some relief that our king no longer desires to soil his crown with such unworthy pursuits," Jaime murmured.

"It is indeed. Unlike Robert Baratheon, he does have eyes bigger than his stomach. He wishes to improve the sewer system in the city, remake the fleet, hire more goldcloaks. There simply isn't enough money in the treasury for it," Baelish's voice was back to a subservient yellow.

"I'm sure the king is aware of that," Jaime replied. A master of subtlety like Littlefinger could not miss the hint of warning in his voice. "But we are not here to talk about that. Let's get back to the subject at hand: when can the crown start paying back the gold of Casterly Rock?"

"With all due respect, Lord Hand," there was a tick of orange from annoyance peppering the dark purple current of his usual voice, "the Lannisters are a worthy and powerful ally of the crown. The Iron Bank is not. It demands its money be paid back first."

Jaime frowned at him. "But that shouldn't require you to spend Lannister gold to continue paying off the crown's debts, does it?"

"I'm afraid there simply isn't enough gold coming in to quite cover the payment structure they're demanding." Again, Baelish's voice went entirely purple.

Jaime frowned severely. "That's a shame. I certainly don't wish to leave the crown high and dry. For the time being, you are allowed to use Lannister gold to meet the Iron Bank's full payments, but you will give me a schedule of repayment with the necessary amount, and you will break down how much gold you will be siphoning from Casterly Rock to cover those payments. Do we have an understanding, Lord Baelish?" His voice was glowing orange with his annoyance and he hoped Littlefinger interpreted it as annoyance with the crown continuing to take his family's gold.

"Certainly, My Lord Hand. Beyond the actual numbers, the crown owes you a great debt. The people shall know it is by your good graces that the crown remains solvent," Littlefinger said standing and giving him a curt nod.

It took everything Jaime had not to roll his eyes at the weasel's honey-slicked words. "The people don't need to know that. It is enough that the crown succeed while King Aemon I Targaryen and I are allies."

"I never expected the Lion of Lannister to be so modest, My Lord. Redirecting your father's supply routes to provide the city its much needed food, that healer's clinic which is funded by your good graces."

"I'm not modest. But if that is what is required to keep the peace, then it will be done," Jaime replied gruffly. "You're dismissed, Lord Baelish."

"It has been a pleasure, My Lord Hand. As with the king, I will always be at your service."

Jaime's eyes followed him as his footsteps echoed down the stairwell and didn't dare breath until they disappeared. Maybe he should find Brienne for another spar to wash the filth from his vision.