276AC Red Keep Kings Landing
In the dim-lit chambers of Maegor's Holdfast, Jon found himself ensnared in a web of contemplation as he awaited the summons to face to Lord Tywin Lannister. The flickering candle flames cast elongated shadows that danced upon the stone walls, mirroring the intricate dance of politics in which he was about to partake. The air in the room hung heavy with anticipation, each breath laden with the weight of the upcoming discussion. Jon, seated at the oak desk that bore witness to the revelation of Lord Darklyn's contract, was a solitary figure amidst a brewing storm.
The contract, a silent witness to the machinations of power, fuelled the flames of intrigue in Jon's heart. This and the ones like it, held the potential to shape alliances, steer loyalties, or sow the seeds of discord. Each clause, each signature, carried the weight of a thousand decisions that would reverberate across all of Westeros.
As Jon immersed himself in the details, the inked words became a dance of shadows and secrets, whispering of alliances forged in steel and quills. The weapons contract was not merely a legal agreement; it was a key to the inner sanctum of political manoeuvring, a testament to the interconnected web of noble houses vying for influence.
The imminent meeting with Lord Tywin loomed like a distant thunderhead on the horizon. Jon's mind, sharp as Valyrian steel, sought to anticipate the currents of conversation and manoeuvrer through the subtle undercurrents of the Lannister lord's intentions. It was a dance of words, a silent war waged with parchment and quill.
A Lannister guard arrive to escort Jon to the tower of the Hand. The man, a silent sentinel draped in the crimson and gold of House Lannister, emerged from the shadows of Maegor's Holdfast to guide Jon through the labyrinthine corridors that wound like veins through the heart of power.
While they silently ascended spiralling staircases and traversed dimly lit hallways, Jon felt the weight of responsibility settle upon his shoulders like a regal mantle. The Tower of the Hand, standing tall like a sentinel overlooking the city, beckoned as both a fortress and a crucible where alliances were forged and broken.
As they reached the entrance of the Tower of the Hand, the heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing the antechamber where Jon stood before Lord Tywin Lannister. The guard's stoic presence faded into the background, leaving Jon alone to confront the impending discourse that awaited him within the tower's walls. The escort had fulfilled its duty, marking the end of a symbolic journey and the beginning of a pivotal chapter in Lord Blackstar's destiny.
Up close, the Tywin Lannister, who stood in front of Jon, cut a figure that blended the chiselled elegance of Jaime Lannister with a more restrained, severe demeanour. The Lannister features, a symphony of golden hues, manifested in his neatly combed golden hair that cascaded down with the controlled grace of a lion's mane. His steely gaze, inherited from the same line that gave birth to Jaime, held an intensity that spoke of ambition and unwavering determination.
The contours of his face, marked by a strong jawline and a stern brow, reflected the gravity of a man wise beyond his years. His nose, straight and regal, hinted at the family's aristocratic lineage. Tywin's lips, set in a firm line, betrayed little of the thoughts swirling beneath the surface.
The regality in his posture, borrowed from the Lannister legacy, commanded attention. His form, draped in meticulously tailored garments that spoke of wealth and influence, exuded an aura of calculated authority.
In the youth of Tywin Lannister, one could glimpse the seeds of the formidable figure he would become. Jon thought.
"Lord Hand." Jon said, as he settled into the opulent chambers of the Tower of the Hand, the air thickened with anticipation.
"My Lord Blackstar. Please sit." Tywin gestured towards the seat opposite to him.
As soon as Jon was seated across from Tywin, slipping into the role of Lord Blackstar, he framed his question carefully, choosing his words like a skilled swordsman choosing his strikes. "My lord, I heard whispers about the King's condition prior to your arrival." he lied. "In truth, how fares His Grace?" The question hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken implications.
Tywin, the shrewd architect of the realm's destiny, regarded Jon with a discerning gaze. Weariness etched lines on Tywin's face, a testament to the burdens he bore as Hand of the King. Jon's inquiry, a delicate dance on the precipice of propriety, delved into the heart of the matter. He sought not just information but the subtle currents beneath the surface – the undercurrents that shaped decisions in the Red Keep.
Tywin, ever mindful of the fragility of political truths, measured his response. "Aerys is... unwell," he finally admitted, choosing his words with the precision of a surgeon. "The events surrounding his recent ordeal have left scars, not only on his body but on his mind. A consequence of the kidnapping, I'm afraid." The revelation hung in the air, a pall over the room. Jon sensed the weight of the unspoken, the implications of a King teetering on the precipice of sanity. Tywin, the master tactician, sought to assure Jon of Aerys's eventual recovery, a carefully crafted narrative designed to soothe the unease that lingered like a spectre in the room. "Of course Aerys will recover in time," Tywin declared, his voice a measured cadence that echoed through the chambers. "The King's resilience is not to be underestimated." Yet, beneath the veneer of Tywin's reassurance, Jon sensed a lingering doubt, an acknowledgment that the road to recovery might be fraught with uncertainties. The Hand of the King, a man accustomed to controlling the narrative, couldn't conceal the undercurrents of concern that rippled beneath the surface.
Jon's gaze met Tywin's, an unspoken challenge in the air as the words lingered between them like the faint scent of wildfire. The question, heavy with the potential for treacherous revelations, had slipped from Jon's lips, a gambit to glimpse the unseen depths beneath Tywin's calculated veneer.
"And should his grace not recover, Lord Hand?" Jon's voice, edged with the weight of scepticism, cut through the tension like a Valyrian steel blade. The inquiry hung in the air, a shadowy spectre challenging the certainties that Tywin sought to uphold.
Tywin's response, delivered with the austere certainty of a man accustomed to wielding power, echoed through the chamber. "He will recover, Lord Blackstar," Tywin's words, a proclamation forged in the fires of political necessity, resounded like the ringing of a command bell. "Any other consideration would be treasonous, both you and I are aware of that."
The air seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken gravity of consequences lurking in the shadows. Tywin's gaze, a steely force of authority, bore into Jon's eyes, demanding acknowledgment of the unspoken truths that bound them in this delicate dance of loyalty and duty.
"Do not be an impertinent fool to ask such a question to anyone outside of myself, the prince, and her grace, the Queen." Tywin's admonishment, a warning etched with the severity of unspoken consequences, echoed through the room.
"I am not the fool you think I am," Jon retorted, his voice a blade honed in the crucible of northern resilience. The retort, a defiant ripple in the air, carried the weight of a direwolf's growl.
"Only a fool would have asked that question," Tywin countered, his words a cold gust that swept through the chamber.
The foreshadowing of Aerys's deteriorating mental health lingered like an ominous prelude to an impending storm. Jon, ever the pragmatist, understood the delicacy of navigating political waters when the ship of state sailed through troubled seas. As Tywin's reassurances echoed in the regal chamber, Jon knew the stage was set for a nuanced dance. Where loyalty to crown and realm entwined with the stark reality that the political landscape of Westeros was as unpredictable as the shifting winds of fate. The storm, though distant, murmured its presence, and Jon, a key player in the unfolding drama, braced for the tempest that awaited on the horizon.
"Now, onto more pressing matters. Do you have the contract with you?" Tywin's voice cut through the air like a razor-sharp blade, his words carrying the weight of a thousand political intricacies.
Jon reached within the folds of his doublet, retrieving a black leather-bound contract. The very embodiment of House Blackstar's alliances and ambitions lay within those pages. With a nod, he handed it over to Tywin, a symbolic exchange of power in the dimly lit chamber.
Tywin, his fingers deftly untying the lilac ribbon that bound the contract, unfolded the parchment with the same meticulous care one might employ dissecting the delicate wings of a butterfly. His eyes, sharp and discerning, danced across the familiar words etched into the vellum. Recognition sparked in Tywin's gaze, a flicker of shared history between lord and arms dealer.
"The same contract you signed," Tywin observed, his tone measured like the careful balance of scales. "Nothing to prevent using the arms against the King."
Jon, his gaze steady, nodded in acknowledgment of the unspoken truth. The words, a binding pact between them, resonated in the silent understanding that power, once unleashed, could carve its path through the realm, regardless of initial intentions.
Tywin's eyes lifted, meeting Jon's with a scrutiny that cut through the shadows of the room. "Nothing would stop a man from bearing your arms against the King, should he so wish. However, your words must now be included to protect you, not the Lord who signs the deal."
Jon's hands rose in a gesture of feigned innocence, palms upturned like an offering to the gods. "My hands will be as clean as a whistle," he quipped, a wry smile playing upon his lips.
"Glad to hear it," Tywin replied, his words carrying the weight of a seasoned strategist who understood the delicate dance of appearances. "It is imperative they should continue to appear so. There should be no suspicions of the king's closest advisors bearing him sufficient ill will to wish harm upon him. It will not help him... recover." Tywin's final words hung in the air, a sombre reminder of the fragility of power and the intricacies that lay beneath the surface of loyalty and duty.
Jon, like a hunter tracking elusive prey, sought to test the depths of Tywin's knowledge. The tapestry of events between the Defiance of Duskendale and the tempest of Robert's Rebellion hung in the shadows, its threads woven in secrecy and obscured truths. Aerys, the mad king, danced on the precipice of paranoia, blaming shadows and casting suspicions like a storm casting lightning.
Rhaegar and Tywin, the perennial scapegoats, bore the weight of Aerys's ire, but Jon, the enigmatic Lord Blackstar, stood veiled in the mists of history. What role had he played in the clandestine dance of power that unfolded between 276AC and 281AC?
"How should we help him recover?" Jon's words, a probing dagger, sought the vulnerabilities in Tywin's carefully constructed armour "Can I be of assistance? I wish to prove myself to the King. After all, Lord Darklyn used the weapons he purchased from me to bear against the King."
Tywin, a master strategist, met Jon's gaze with an unwavering intensity. "There is nothing you can do to help him recover. However, you can ease his mind, prove you will ensure the wording of your contracts is changed. That is why we are here now."
Jon, a furrow forming on his brow, couldn't help but question the sudden urgency. "Why so sudden? I'm sure the King has other... concerns." His scepticism, a glint in his eyes, mirrored the unspoken currents beneath the surface of their conversation. The game of thrones, ever intricate, unfolded its secrets in whispers, and Jon aimed to decipher the cryptic language that bound them all.
Tywin, the master puppeteer, leaned back, his steely gaze piercing through the shadows of the room. "He wants you to prove you will be happy to change the details of the contracts, even if it means potentially losing money."
Jon, perceptive as ever, raised a quizzical brow. The dance of gold, the currency of power in the intricate tapestry of Westeros, was a language Jon understood well. "Why would I lose money?" he inquired, realising that Lord Blackstar, unlike Jon, must be partial to the gleam of coin.
Tywin, a shrewd negotiator, unspooled the thread of the impending challenge. "Your largest contracts will need to be re-negotiated. Include a new clause regarding bearing arms against the King."
Jon, a wolf in the midst of political machinations, couldn't help but bare his teeth in a questioning snarl. "Isn't that why Lords swear fealty?" he asked, his voice a low growl echoing the deep currents of scepticism swirling within him. In the dance of power, where gold and oaths entwined, Jon was poised to tread carefully on the treacherous ground of Westerosi politics.
"The King wants it on parchment. This is the way he will get his fealty. Of course, most Lords are clever enough to realize this is a way to swear fealty once more. However, with the king's mind being as it is, I fear some may be a little... reluctant to do so."
Jon, the wolf amidst political intrigues, mulled over the implications. The dance of fealty, a ballet of power and loyalty, played out on the stage of parchment, where inked words held the weight of kingdoms. "How should I become more persuasive?" he queried, a predator assessing the best tactic for the upcoming hunt.
"Rhaegar is to accompany you for some of the trip. You will only need to visit the main houses, the Tullys, the Arryns, the Starks in the north with their boiled armour." Tywin said with a look of disdain.
Jon's heart nearly stopped at the notion of seeing Winterfell again, a sentimental storm churning within him. Yet, the practical concern loomed larger—Rhaella's revelation about Jon resembling Brandon Stark raised the spectre of curiosity from Lord Rickard, a watchful eye on a face that might hold echoes of the past. In the game of politics, every move was a dance, and Jon was poised to tread the familiar, yet treacherous, steps.
"Rhaegar will not accompany you north to House Stark. Your great-grandmother, on your mother's side, was a Stark cousin. It still bears its hallmarks to this day. It will do better should one who looks like their own be sent north," Tywin declared, his words a roadmap through the delicate political terrain.
Jon, navigating the intricacies of his dual heritage, harboured doubts. "Wouldn't sending a bastard insult to Lord Stark?" he questioned, a wolf wary of stepping into a potential trap.
"You are Lord Blackstar, one of the most powerful and respected men in all of Westeros. Despite your age, you have the world at your fingertips. I wouldn't be surprised if Lord Stark tries to betroth you to his daughter, Lysanna, is it?" Tywin mused, a wrinkle forming on his brow as he struggled to recall the name. "I remember not her name. Besides, it is your company, you may not be officially be representing the king, but you are representing Blackstar Metalworks."
Jon sensed the undercurrents, a dark river flowing beneath the seemingly calm surface. "His Grace wishes for Rhaegar to be as far away as possible," Tywin declared, his words carrying the weight of unspoken truths.
"I cannot presume to know the king's mind, as you are well aware," Tywin continued, a masterful player in the dance of veiled intentions. Jon, however, was no stranger to the art of deciphering political riddles. "His Grace may believe the crown prince was involved in the kidnapping plot," Tywin revealed, the words a shadow lingering in the dim-lit room.
Jon's mind raced, connecting the dots. "And me by association and due to my connections with Lord Darklyn," Jon surmised, a chess piece moved involuntarily in the intricate game.
Tywin leaned back in his chair, a calculated retreat. "I cannot say for certain. However, there have been whispers of Rhaegar leading a plot. Your name was mentioned. I ensured it was never repeated. A promise was made. You and the prince will prove your loyalty by visiting the houses to swear fealty by signing the new contracts," Tywin explained, the burden of unfulfilled plans evident in the weariness etched on his face. "I had hoped to have Cersei betrothed to the prince by now, but Aerys is determined for it not to be."
Tywin's green eyes narrowed, a silent exchange of understanding that eluded Jon's grasp. The intricacies of courtly communication, a dance with veiled meanings, left him uncertain. Seeking clarity, Jon opted for a more direct approach. "I take it his grace has other ideas," he ventured, trying to pierce the enigma that Tywin presented.
A subtle nod from Tywin hinted at an unspoken agreement, and he reached for a gold and glass carafe of red wine at the table's centre. "Would you care for some?" Tywin offered, an invitation draped in politeness.
Knowing it would be impolite to refuse, Jon acquiesced with a nod. "Just a small amount, Lord Hand," he replied, a courteous smile playing on his lips.
The wine, a rich crimson in the ornate goblet, flowed as Tywin poured with practiced ease. He handed a goblet to Jon, a gesture carrying unspoken trust. "I know we can speak freely, Jon. I trust you more than my own children," Tywin remarked, his words hanging in the air like the scent of aged wine. "If either Jaime or Cersei had half the intelligence you possess, I would feel far more comfortable with the future of House Lannister. I would much prefer you to be my son." The words, heavy with implications, settled like a complex vintage, leaving a taste of both flattery and intrigue on Jon's tongue.
The revelation hit Jon like a thunderclap, a shocking resonance that reverberated through his core. The man standing before him, the puppeteer of his family's demise, had the audacity to express a desire for kinship. Hatred, a mere flicker compared to the inferno within him, burned in Jon's chest as Tywin Lannister spoke.
The words, laden with a twisted sense of familial warmth, sent a chill down Jon's spine. His visceral disdain for Tywin was a beast too fierce to be tamed by mere words. And yet, here stood the architect of his family's tragedy, extending an olive branch tainted with blood. Jon couldn't deny the truth in Tywin's words – the man had played a significant role in shaping Lord Blackstar's destiny.
A reluctant acknowledgment dawned upon Jon, a realisation that in the tangled web of politics, kinship held a peculiar sway. An understanding, albeit begrudging, settled within him. There existed a common ground, a shared thread in their stories that Jon could exploit. Whatever elusive goal Bran had set for him, veiled in ambiguity, seemed to hint at a potential ally in Lord Tywin. All Jon needed to do was play the part, feign camaraderie, and dance the intricate steps of deceit.
Jon, navigating the treacherous waters of conversation, ventured into the heart of the matter. "I believe it's time we etched the words onto parchment for the contracts," he proposed, a subtle undercurrent of unease beneath the surface, wary of Tywin's thoughts on potential matches for Cersei.
In response, Tywin, a master of political manoeuvring, offered a gesture of goodwill. "As a demonstration of trust, I shall be the first to affix my signature. Past and future patrons may harbour reservations, fearing an oath of fealty to the crown," he explained, his words draped in caution, like a cloak concealing the true intentions beneath.
Jon chuckled, attempting to downplay the severity of the situation. "Surely, the realm isn't teeming with plots against the King," he quipped, only to be met with Tywin's stoic countenance, a silent warning that resonated deeply. A realization struck Jon like a sudden storm – in the intricate dance of power, the loss of coin might be a paltry sacrifice compared to the peril of losing one's head.
Tywin's words hung in the air, a foreboding cloud casting shadows over the impending task. "His grace demands a detailed account of every Lord's response to the amended contract. Be mindful, a new Master of Whisperers is on the horizon, vying for Aerys's favour. His network of spies will tail your every move. Accuracy in your records is paramount," Tywin cautioned, his words a chilling gust that stirred the air.
Jon arched an eyebrow, a silent question lingering in his gaze. "Lord Varys?" he ventured, a calculated guess that earned him a surprised look from Tywin. "The very one. How did you come by this knowledge?" Tywin inquired, his scrutiny sharp as a Valyrian blade.
With a quick response, Jon sought to veil the depth of his insights. "I have my own network of whispers," he admitted, the admission slipping out like a secret escaping from the shadows. A hasty realization dawned upon him: – discretion would be the key in navigating these treacherous waters.
Tywin, undeterred, retrieved quill and parchment, the tools of subtle power, and dropped the quill into the inkwell. "Shall we commence?" he proposed, his tone a measured symphony in the impending dance of secrecy and politics.
The remainder of the afternoon unfurled like a carefully woven tapestry, the warp and weft of words meticulously chosen. The parchment, once sacred and immutable, now bowed to the scrutiny of two minds seasoned in the craft of negotiation and political intrigue. Amendments, subtle in their implications, danced alongside a significant change – the nuanced declaration of fealty.
Ink flowed, as if the quills themselves were channels for the currents of power shaping the fate of Lord Blackstar's arms. The words, once camouflaged within the labyrinth of legal language, now surfaced, revealing themselves like hidden snares awaiting a deft navigator. Tywin's discerning gaze and Jon's sharp-eyed observations unearthed the intricacies of a pact conceived in a time of perceived stability, now tested by the forge of rebellion.
With each stroke, the new clause emerged, a monument to foresight crafted in the crucible of rebellion. It stood tall, an unyielding sentinel binding the wielders of Blackstar arms to an oath of unwavering loyalty. The quills, guided by minds well-versed in the subtle dance of strategy, etched a vow transcending ink and parchment.
The clause, a marriage of power and consequence, bore witness to the essence of political artistry. It spoke: "In wielding these arms, I solemnly pledge never to take up arms against the lawful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. In the event of my proven complicity in any rebellion or participation in acts against the sovereign will of His Grace, all rights to arms and titles shall be irrevocably forfeited. This forfeiture extends to encompass my life, the lives of my family, and the lives of my descendants. Our House will disappear, our name will disappear. All trace of our existence will disappear."
Within this solemn proclamation, the ink carried the weight of oaths sworn amidst the turmoil of rebellion, consequences as keen as Valyrian steel. The Tower of the Hand, a silent spectator, bore witness to a clause transcending the mundane, delving into the core of loyalty and its inevitable repercussions.
