Summer skies encircled a green sunlit meadow. At the centre, weathered wooden stands were erected with rows of seating. Tents were sprawled across the grass behind the stands, filled with young squires rushing across the yards with swords and armour in their arms. Noble knights brandished shining armoured plates of steel, shirts of chainmail and padded shoulders of boiled leather. Westerlands knights sported crimson, yellow and gold banners across their breastplates, whilst Baratheon banners hung off the backs of glistening silver knights, the stag muddied by dirt and blood. Each were pitted against one another for the favour of the young Prince Joffrey.
Another shallow favour. Another tourney. It numbered three in six moons. Lannisport had been an exquisite affair, he had heard. Lord Tywin had spared no expense, revelling in the near utter ruin of the Greyjoy rule. Once more they celebrated the victory at Pyke in King's Landing. A largely unnecessary affair, one he had advised against to no end. He rubbed his temples, feeling a familiar ache creep at the back the skull. And now, another tourney for the nameday of the Crown Prince. An overtly indulgent event, one far too indulgent for a boy of five namedays.
A young herald adorned in red, yellow and black banners made his way to the bottom of the stands. "The first of the final tilt, Sandor of House Clegane and Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard!" He screamed in a high-pitched voice. The crowd clapped excitedly. The young Prince looked intensely bored, despite the Queen's insistence. Her dark red gowns did little to hide her growing belly, but she remained as regal as ever. Robert had made it clear it was a far from loving marriage. But the fruits born of their union were enough. Three children, and if the gods are good, the third a son, then the realm would remain secure.
The two knights rode at each other fiercely, shattering each lance with every pass. Ser Jaime was a known and beloved contender. His armour glistened as he shed his white cloaks for
Lannister gold. His opponent was new to King's Landing. A giant of a man, larger than even the King, he wore scratched black armour and a carefully welded greathelm of a snarling hound. Jon had been hesitant upon hearing his anointment as Joffrey's shield. He had no doubt the man's performance during Pyke and Lannisport was extraordinary. Yet, the stench of his name was strong, and so came the stories. Of a burned child and a brother's rage.
Horrors to join the whispers of the late Princess and her children.
His back ached and his bosom grew sore. As Jon searched for the King to relieve himself of the tourney, he found no one. Had he grown so unobservant? To not hear Robert during a tourney was a difficult task. To not notice his absence and lose him? Jon cursed himself silently for his ineptitude. He made his way through the stands, excusing himself as onlookers remained intent on the joust, making his way quickly to the King's tent.
"Ser Barristan," The knight greeted him with a smile, yet wearing his white cloak, "You were quick to change your attire. Have you withdrawn?" Jon rarely did engage in betting. On the odd occasion, Ser Barristan was a quick choice. Though he himself did not have the martial prowess of a younger man, Ser Barristan had remained as dangerous as Jon remembered, cutting through men like butter during the War of Ninepenny Kings, slaying Maelys himself. The reign of Aerys was soiled by much, but certainly not Ser Barristan.
The man seemed held back, giving him an awkward and tight-lipped smile. "His Grace has asked that I stand guard. He has decided to ride in my place."
Jon sighed. "Has he now? Well, he will have a hard time of it, following after you." He shook his head lightly, walking into the tent. It smelled strongly of wine and sweat. Empty cups of drink were littered across haphazardly placed tables and chairs. Random pieces of armour and chainmail were on the floor, along with tourney blades and a pair of striped black and yellow lances. A young squire stood nervously next to the King, holding a greave in his hand.
"Get out, damn you, now!" Robert bellowed. The boy squeaked, dropping the greave before rushing away, tripping at the sight of Jon, quickly regaining his footing before bolting through the tent. The King had his leg lifted on a chair, struggling to fasten the greave against his calf. Robert's breastplate was made of carefully carved steel, picturing a crowned stag in the centre. It was tight against his skin, his bulk spewing over near his pits and belly. Jon had ordered that smithed for Robert's nameday only a year past.
"Your Grace," Jon said politely.
Robert rolled his eyes. "Nearly ten years Jon and still I must hear 'Your Grace' from you. What does the Hand require of his King?"
Jon huffed, his lips pursed. "A keen ear for wise counsel. I have told you once before, Robert, there is no place for the King in the tilts. Any drunkard with bad luck could knock you dead off your horse."
Robert raised his glass smugly, pouring the wine down his throat quickly. "I'll be sure to even the odds then."
Jon shook his head, sat down beside Robert, his hands in his lap. "You have always been a sporting man, Robert. What fairness is there for a man who must ride against his King?"
Robert scowled, pouring himself another glass. "You think those shits would fall off their horses for their King? I didn't come here to throw tourneys for cravens!"
Jon watched him drown the cup, moving to pour another. "Robert, be reasonable—"
"Reasonable? Reasonable? What other reason must I need, Jon? I am King! As if that is not reason enough!" He yelled, his eyes putrid with rage, a scowl carved onto his red, bulging face. "Be reasonable. I've heard your counsel and I'll hear it no longer. If I wish to joust, I will joust. You hear me?" He pointed a finger accusingly at Jon, finally fastening the remainder of his armour and taking another drink before storming out of the tent.
"Aye, Your Grace. Good luck, then." Jon added quietly. He recalled Robert's youth. The boy who would be King. Though none would know it then. A boy who cared more for the yard and the brothel than a crown and a throne. But never a foolish boy. Never an ungrateful one. One who understood a guiding hand. Jon sighed, calling Ser Barristan into the tent.
"My Lord Hand." Barristan stood awkwardly, holding Robert's discarded cup.
"Ser Barristan. Who shall the King face?" Jon asked. He takes what remains of Robert's wine jar, smelling it, before pouring himself a cup.
"Ser Jaime, my lord."
Jon took a sip, finding strong Arbor gold. "Ah. Do remind him of who he is charged to protect, will you?"
"Of course." Ser Barristan bowed, leaving immediately to find the knight. Jon rubbed his forehead, suddenly finding the wine unbearably strong in smell. He swirled it in his cup, before slowly pouring onto the ground. He stood alone in the tent for a moment, before hearing the familiar horns of the herald and the clattering of hooves and armoured knights.
He heard the cheers cry out across the field as Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard was called upon. When he returned, the Lannister knight riding up and down the stands, his glittering rode smile shining beneath the summer sun. His helmet was of a roaring lion coated in shades of gold, his breastplate the same with blotches of crimson and white. From his vambraces to his greaves, to his shield to his lance, each piece enamored in sparking jewellery and decadent plates of gold. Unscathed, without a scratch nor speck of dirt, despite the man defeating half a dozen opponents.
"Riding in the place of Ser Barristan Selmy, is His esteemed Grace, King Robert of the House Baratheon!" The herald cried, a chorus of loud claps following after. Robert approached atop a large stallion, his helmet haphazardly worn, with rusted antlers and small dents. He made no attempt to please the crowd nor take favour, looking increasingly agitated as Jaime approached the stand, asking charmingly for the Queen's favour, who answered with a wide smile.
The joust began, but Jon saw little of it, his thoughts again drifting away to pits of doubt and regret. Was he the fool? For believing the security of the realm was possible without the dragons. For believing Robert was the man to pave such a future. It was not the first time Jon had wished the throne required more than blood. It was not the first time Jon had wondered if Eddard was the one that should have been crowned when the dust settled upon the Trident.
Robert's roar returned Jon to the joust. He frowned. The crown was held together by a King who cared more for wine, swords and teats than a throne. With only a child and a little girl for a future. Robert cried as he rode against Ser Jaime. They passed once, and then twice, and then thrice, each time their lances crashing off one another with enough force to fell half a dozen men. Better Ser Jaime lose now. Let this spectacle end.
And Jon's wish came true, as the Kingslayer was thrown off his horse into the dirt, his golden armour suddenly muddied, his hair tangled. Still, the man smiled, bowing to the crowds and caring for his horse, seemingly indifferent to his defeat.
"I can still knock you on your arse, Kingslayer. Remember that the next time you wear that satisfied grin outside my door." Robert said with venom, the crowd silent as Robert's words carry to every corner of the field.
"As you say, Your Grace." Ser Jaime bowed his head, quickly leaving the field, his knuckles clenched.
The herald approached the King hesitantly, handing him a flowered crown of yellow roses and marigold. Robert held it in his hands roughly, crushing some beneath his dirt-ridden hands. The crowd watched as he stared at it, as if looking for something else, before tossing it towards the Queen without a second glance, walking away without a care for the
victory, gold, nor his own stead. The Queen smiled mutely, placing the crushed crown upon Princess Myrcella's head, who clapped her hands in joy.
Jon rose quickly, clapping loudly and calling the tourney to an end, welcoming all the nobles to join the Royal family for the evening feast. As the crowds slowly dispersed, the knights slowly taking their winnings and their losses and their young squires, Jon sat silently in the stands, a single lone Kingsguard and a mountain of worry his only companions.
Soon enough, he returned to the King's tent, dismissing his guard and giving a silent smile to Ser Barristan as he entered, finding Robert seated across the tent.
"Robert." Jon asked, his eyes quickly scanning the room. Robert's armour had been crushed, half stuck in the ground, some thrown around the room. Jon reached to pull a the rusted antler of his stag helmet from the ground, brushing it between his fingers as he looked at Robert.
His back was turned to Jon, intently looking at nothing.
"Gods, what is it, Jon? Something else you've come to chastise me for?"
"If you cared to listen, Robert, you would hear it far less." Jon said it without any edge to his voice, his tone resigned.
Robert only laughed. "Aye, mayhaps. What is it this time then?"
"We shall enjoy the festivities tonight, Robert. But on the morrow, the wheel must keep turning. The people have not seen hold court since before Pyke. It is not a good statement to be making, especially now." Robert kept his back to him still. "The duties of the throne cannot fall upon mine own, Robert. It is not I, who wears the crown. The court must see their King, as King."
Robert remained silent. Jon's frown only deepened. The King said nothing, did nothing. He did not even move, so Jon continued, "And today, Robert. You are quick to silence my pleas. If you wish to indulge, to exercise your rights as King, then do so. But must I teach you control once more? Such indulgence borders recklessness."
Jon came around to meet Robert now, his voice softer. "I cannot command your council, nor can I counsel, without knowing the plights of my King. You have teetered through the Red Keep since your return. What ails you?"
Robert looked up at him for a moment, his eyes puffy and red, his face bloated. "Ser Barristan!" He called, turning to the flaps of the tent.
The old knight came at once, glancing at Jon for a moment. "Your Grace?"
"Fetch me my damned squire. I've run out of wine." Robert said, looking back at the ground. "At once, sire," Barristan nodded, a light breeze following in his absence.
"Robert—" Jon said disapprovingly.
Robert stood tall, waving Jon off. "I will sit upon the damned throne, Jon. Aye, you have the right of it. The King, must be.. kingly." And he chuckled, but it is hollow, and lined with sorrow, like a watered-down rage. It only chilled Jon's skin and deepened his wrinkles.
"Of course. I shall see you at the feast, then." Robert said nothing, leaving without a glance backward. The squire returned soon after, meek and lost with an absent King. Jon pat the boy on the back, taking the wine for himself and deciding a nap was in good order.
It was short lived, for the feast soon arrived. The gardens of were transformed quickly, outfitted with each luxury possible to entertain the lords and court of the realm.
Jon peered over the garden terrace that overlooked the godswood. Across the castle walls he could see the dazzling still waters of Blackwater Bay, and the faint light of distant ships. Its cool breeze was a refreshing smell, a well-earned respite from the stink of the streets that permeated each wall. Above him, the Red Keep glimmered in the glow of the fading sun, turned a golden red by the shimmering summer light. A cloudless sky painted the feast in
beautiful colours of yellow and orange, and slowly, the moonlight crept behind the shadow of the castle, stars revealing themselves one by one.
His walk through the gardens was met with many smiles and warm welcomes, careful to note each and every man that attended. Invitations for Prince Joffrey's nameday were sent far and wide. A much-needed celebration in the wake of another victory for Robert's reign. Tyrell roses and maidens were tied close together with covered smiles and ambitious eyes. Lannister cloaks were thrown over long tables, worn well by guards and royalty alike. Baratheon stags were emblazoned in long banners and ornate sculptures and carved even into the soft leatherwork of wooden chairs.
Beside the high table, the small council members sat mutely, many of them men older than even Jon, aside from Varys, who are an even and seemingly amused expression. Lord Stannis was absent from the table, though Jon could see him by the edges of the terrace, his daughter standing upright and square behind him. Even the young Lord Renly attended, trailing behind a young boy with a mop of curled brown hair and a fitted velvet cloak.
Servants lit large braziers, jesters roamed around each corner with jugglers and singers not far behind, and lords and ladies approached the high table, giving their many thanks to the Queen, wishing well on the young Prince. Though, the King was still absent, Jon thought grimly. The festivities continued all the same, begun no doubt by the Queen and her impatience. A well-earned one, as of late.
Soon enough, the herald announced Robert as he walked through the garden, arriving to the high table with spilled wine soiling his Baratheon cloak, his breeches slightly undone. Jon could smell the sex and wine from afar and was quick to stand as soon as Robert arrived.
"Let us celebrate. A toast to the young Prince Joffrey. May his youth be long and prosperous." He called across the terrace.
"To Prince Joffrey." They remarked, quick to return to the festivities. Jon gave a kind welcome to Robert, who returned it carelessly, shouting for a servant immediately.
The Queen took off with the prince and her daughter, trailing to the garden where Ser Jaime and her dwarf brother laughed loudly. Jon frowned. Robert paid little mind to it, ordering the servant to bring food and wine.
His lady wife joined him soon after. Quiet and reserved, her lips tight. The plumpness of her recent pregnancy had shedded away, leaving her far frailer and gaunt. Lysa's face was rosy, concealed with perfumed powders, though it did little to hide her swollen, puffy eyes. She gave him a strained look as she sat beside him.
"My lady." He smiled affectionately with teeth.
"My lord husband." She glanced at him warily but returned the smile. The festivities grew around him, though Lysa made no attempt to join in, choosing to rather watch the Queen feed the princess.
"Have you spoken with Grand Maester—" Jon asked.
"The maester has prescribed nought but rest, my lord." She said quickly, avoiding his eyes.
An empty silence sat between them for some time. Lysa played with her food, though never taking more than one or two bites. Jon cleared his throat, "I wonder, my lady, if you have heard from your friend, Petyr. From the Fingers?"
Lysa looked at him with a sudden eagerness. "Petyr? Baelish? Not for some time my lord. Why? Is he ill?"
"On the contrary, Lord Grafton tells me the man has taken exceedingly well to Gulltown. The town has raised more coin through its port than ever," Jon says. It was true. He had been astonished at the reports. Mayhaps one day he would look upon the capital's own with such surprise.
She nodded, smiling. "Oh yes, Petyr was always superb at his numbers. And not without his kindness, either. He would always stop to help Cat and I as children. I am glad you took my advice, my lord."
"Yes, as a I. Perhaps then, I shall bring him to court. Have him serve under Lord Estermont. He rose to the challenge of Gulltown, I am certain he can rise to the capital." The vacant look in her eyes faded. Perhaps it would be good then. Lysa is without many friends.
"Oh, Petyr would love that. It would be good to see him again after much time." She bit her lips, looking around to the feast and back to Jon. "May I have your leave, my lord? My moonblood has made the festivities... disagreeable."
"Of course, my lady. Naturally. May I assist you...?"
"You are gracious, my lord husband. It is well, my uncle is here, and I have yet to reunite with him.
"Ah, well. Please do give my regards. Perhaps I shall see him later." Lysa nodded mutely, turning to leave. Jon called for her quickly, "If I may, Lysa, I wish to visit your chambers tonight."
She stopped for a moment, before turning back with a smile. "As you wish, my lord." The thought of an heirless Vale always roamed in the back of his mind. He could only hope this next attempt would prove fruitful, and Lysa prove as strong as her father promised. His eyes lingered to a watchful eye that lingered on him, no doubt hearing much of their conversation. His lined face showed only amusement, but his deep black eyed were shrewd and sharp, watching him like a viper in long grass.
Jon grimaced. Of the one man he had hoped would not attend the festivities, it was Oberyn Martell. The Viper's fury was well known, perhaps even more than the King's. Jon had extended an invitation to Doran, though, he knew that the man would not attend. But Oberyn... the shadow of Elia loomed greatly, and it was Oberyn who had taken to Jon's words of reconciliation as veiled threats after the Sack, no doubt leading to his prompt but short exile across the sea. Jon's lips thinned, looking to avoid the viper's tongue.
And the gods were grateful, for a hulking warrior of man was quick to overtake Jon's view. The knight was covered in weathered bronze armour, inscribed with old runes and odd colours. His bushy eyebrows were risen in amusement, his grey eyes and wide smile an all too familiar sight.
"By the Seven, Lord Yohn Royce!" Jon exclaimed. He rose to greet the old knight. "My Lord Hand." The man bowed solemnly.
Jon waved him off. "Ah! Enough with the formalities, old friend. Please, sit, sit." Yohn plopped beside him, resting his hands on his stomach and breathing deeply.
"It has been too long, Yohn. I've not seen your face in the city for years. What adventures have you find yourself on now?" Jon asked.
Yohn laughed. "Adventures? You've got me mixed up with some lad from the Age of Heroes, Jon. My adventures are but the same. What is there to tell?"
Jon snorted. "Yes, a tourney's life for you. I swear it, you listened to far too many stories of Ser Duncan as a young man."
Yohn gave another hearty laugh. "And perhaps you listened to them far too little." Yohn pats Jon on his back, "Gods forbid you work yourself to death."
"Aye, gods forbid." He poured Yohn a cup of Arbor Gold, enjoying a small one of his own. "Tell me, how fare Lysa? I had wished to see her." Yohn asked.
Jon sat back in his chair with a light frown. "Ah, she is well. Yohn. Though, more quiet, and untrusting, as of late. Our daughter... Lysa did not take it well. News of her sister's healthy children these past years have done little to ease her fears." Nor mine own, though he said this only to his mind.
"She is young and beautiful. I wish many a fortune upon you both."
"Many thanks, my friend, truly. I am glad for a night such as this one. The respite is welcome. The maesters tell me the summer shall be long, thankfully. Perhaps we shall see many more of them."
"Long hours, I take it." Yohn said amusedly, bringing the wine to his lips with a smirk.
"Ha! If I were a younger man..." Jon japed. He called for a servant who refills their cups, before he scampered away to the cook's centre.
"You have never been without work, Jon. I would expect no less." Yohn commented.
"Well, yes, I suppose It is unfortunate that I do not share your penchant for eternal youth and strength, Yohn." Jon said with a stifled snicker.
Yohn looked to Jon pointedly. "I've a grey hair to share, don't fret. You are strong yet. And I'd watch your words, Jon. The Gods may favour you yet, and then, I imagine the King have you wear that pin for many a decade too long."
"Are the lines upon my face not deep enough?" They shared a quick laugh. "Your sons, they are well?"
Yohn nodded, a proud sparkle in his eye. "They remain strong, aye. The Gods are good. Andar remains in the Eyrie, no doubt enamoured by a woman he wishes to keep from his Father. Robar and Waymar joined the tilts."
"Ah, admittedly I saw little of the tilts." Jon replied.
"With a view such as yours from the stands? Mind elsewhere?" Yohn's curious gaze was knowing.
"Not on the field, that much is clear." He chuckled.
"Ha! I am glad to see the capital has not turned you sour. It would do you well to return to the Vale, however. A moons turn, at least. Time away from the city's stench can cure almost any ailment."
Jon hummed in agreement. "Believe me, long has it burdened my thoughts. I long for the smell of sweet air in the mountains and the chill of the wind upon the Eyrie's walls. Alas, such is the price of duty, Yohn. Responsibilities are more often painful sacrifices. One I am willing to make with each waking day."
Yohn raised his cup, his chin set. "You honour them, always. A toast then, for Lord Jon Arryn, the finest Hand this side of the Narrow Sea."
Jon returned the toast, smiling as he sips the wine. "You will curse me with such praise, Yohn." The servant arrived soon after, two large plates in each hand. "Come, the day has been far too long. Let us eat."
And so they did. Jon's stomach grumbled quietly, ready for what would be his first meal. He was never a man of excess. His roasted venison was seasoned and cooked perfectly, served with baked carrots and radish.
"Thank you, lad." Yohn said to the servant. He quickly cuts into his capon, stuffed with the breadcrumbs and dried pear and fig. The cooks were worked hard it seems, for each of their plates was accompanied by almond-studded rice from Yi-Ti, and perfectly sautéed greens.
Yohn chuckled as he ate. "A fine feast."
"Yes. The King has certainly spared no expense for Prince Joffrey." Jon frowned lightly; grateful to the Gods for their blessings this evening, but yet still concerned on indulgence.
Yohn shook his head amusedly. "Ha! Robert was never fond of dull affairs. Every hunt or battle was one for the history books, in his eye. I tell you, Lannisport was no different. And
the Lannisters certainly did not exercise restraint. I had never seen more men piss drunk on victory since the Rebellion! It seems an Ironborn defeat is a better drink than Arbor gold."
"Or any gold dragon, if Lannisport is to be believed." Jon added.
Yohn only laughed, slapping his thigh, "Aye, certainly." He was quick to finish his food, leaning back as he drank. "Though, Robert seemed out of his wits. Morbid, even. I would have thought the King to be preening from our victory at Pyke. He did not join the tilts, nor even watch! Though, I am glad for it." Yohn was a loyal man, but he enjoyed his sports.
"I am sure your sons were rather jealous of your own little victory."
He gave a short but deep belly laugh. "Oh, like you would not believe, Jon. Though, they were happier to see the Kingslayer's golden ass hit the ground than my bag of gold dragons. Ha!"
Jon fell into a quiet thought. "I hear Eddard did not attend."
Yohn waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, Ned. The man never cared for jousting, nor tourneys. Keen eye for it, too. Could always spot a winner, but never gambled. Much to Robert's chagrin, I remember. Shame, really. But aye, not a single northerner attended. Likely following their lord's belief."
Jon sighed, placing his cutlery haphazardly on his half-eaten plate. "I have heard otherwise, Yohn. That it was an absence made of spite, not principle."
Yohn frowned, his wrinkled face suddenly grim. "You should not give credence to such tales, Jon. Aye, Ned was absent. It hardly makes him a dissenter."
"And yet all I have heard is of Eddard's rage, and his ire for our King. I was there, Yohn, the day of the Sack, in the throne room. The words shared between them, the damage, it was nigh irreparable. If it were not for the Lady Lyanna's passing... I fear what would have happened to the realm. The rumours speak of the same fracture, bleeding once again."
Yohn scoffed, washing his hands clean of rumour. "Robert underestimates Ned, Jon. Always has. You remember him as a boy? You'd think him almost timid. I would think it a most masterful deception, if I did not know the man himself. His temper is hidden well and is fearsome to face. Robert is no stranger to it. I believe if the King and Ned shared words, no matter how heated, it was for a good and just purpose." As was always the case with Eddard. The Targaryen children... it was an unfortunate situation. A despicable one, for the brutality of such an act. One Eddard could not overlook, even for the safety of the Crown.
"The Quiet Wolf indeed. I take it you spoke with him?" Jon asked, rubbing his chin.
"Of course! I fought beside him. Saw him wield that Valyrian greatsword with the strength of ten men. He is as dutiful as ever. You would be proud, Jon. But I cannot deny the man's fury. I would call him the Warrior reborn, if it were not an insult to his own faith. You could taste the rage flowing from his person. I have never seen a man so engrossed within it. Any man
should count himself lucky they were not the Ironborn on the day Ned Stark came upon them."
Jon nodded with a sigh. "Anger was an expected ally. Balon's folly invoked old feuds most viciously, the Northerners most particularly." Yohn agreed. "Though, I hear talk of his direwolf was most salacious." He added.
"Aye. There is little I am afraid to face. But that beast? It was never far from Ned, always lurking. They call it Ned Stark's shadow, I hear. I was near envious that mine own banners do not sport such a creature. Perhaps the Gods would bless me with a shadow, also."
"I've a falcon of mine own. It is much work. More keen to sleep than battle." They fell into a sullen silence, Jon quickly losing his appetite, his eyes glancing worriedly over the festivities.
He could feel Yohn's eyes pierce the side of his skull. The bearded man placed his cup down gently. "I can see my words have concerned you. Speak freely, old friend."
Jon sighed, rubbing his forehead before leaning back into his chair. "Robert has always been quick to anger. It is such recklessness that inspired our armies during the Rebellion. It is what has crushed even the talk of resistance since his ascension. But the leader of a rebellion, is not the leader of seven kingdoms. Strength in a King, yes, but never recklessness. Never shortsightedness." He pulled at the stubbles of hair on his chin absentmindedly, "Eddard has long been a foil to Robert's rage. I groomed such a skill from an early age. To hone one's anger may take a lifetime of dedication. But to guide another's? It takes a lifetime more of patience. I am old, Yohn. I cannot afford another lifetime of patience."
He sat up now, shaking his head with his lips pursed and his face grim. "And Eddard? The man is no fool. I have little idea of the words shared between them, only that they have rattled Robert deeply. More-so than any accusation of cruelty. His absence at Lannisport? His silence for Joffrey's nameday? These are notthe actions of a forgetful man, nor a foolish one."
Yohn seemed befuddled, his brows furrowed deep in contemplation. "Never, never in my life would I think to accuse Lord Stark of treachery. Less so against Robert!"
"Neither would I, nor do I intend to imply such. The question is not of his loyalty, but his friendship. Friendship can mean a far deal more than any oath." Jon smiled sadly. "It is ... it is sad, Yohn, to see old bonds broken. It was not so long ago that Baratheon and Targaryen were staunch allies. We have seen how brittle words can be, how easily foiled our trust can be," he stares distantly at the growing crowd in the centre of the terrace, Robert dancing poorly with a serving girl, "I worry less for the realm, and more for the boys that I raised. They are men, now. And I haven't it in me to look back and discover where the time truly went."
Yohn Royce seemed thoughtful, looking at Robert. "You are kind-hearted, Jon. I am glad to be reminded of it after much time."
"It is the Hand's duty to worry for the King." He murmured.
"For their realm and their court, aye. But of their hearts? That is a father's duty," Yohn crooned.
A small voice quickly interrupts, soft hands grabbing at Yohn's thick arms. Yohn's face turns red, and Jon smiles as the little black-haired girl pulls at her father's arm with all the strength a girl of nine can summon. Her grey eyes were determined, and her face bore a cheeky half smile.
"Father! Can we dance!" She asked pleadingly, pouting her lips. "You would ask your old man for a dance?" Yohn jested.
"Yes! Dance!" She grinned.
"Where is your brother?" He asked. She shrugged casually, still pulling on her father's arm. He looked to Jon, begging his pardon with an awkward smile.
"You too, have a father's duty, Yohn." He said with a smirk. Yohn only shook his head amusedly.
"Aye, aye, silly girl. But I won't hear you complain when I step on your feet." Ysilla giggled, reaching for her father's large hands. Yohn threw her into the air as she laughed, before taking her hand in his and bowing stiffly. "My Lord Hand." Jon chuckled and nodded, watching them walk close to the bards in the terrace.
As he watched them, Jon's thoughts quickly fell to the young Mya Stone. Of her coal black hair and blue eyes. What an odd thing to think of. He had nearly forgotten the girl. Robert cared not for what the court would say, even as Jon chastised him. He loved that little girl. It was a happier time, he supposed. One long behind them.