JORY V
The early afternoon sun was still shining ever bright, though hindered by the heavy direwolf curtains in the tall glass windows of King Eddard Stark's solar. Jory stood guard to his right side beside him, as ever.
The doors creaked, and Lord Tywin Lannister appeared like a red and black phantom from the relative dark of the hallway, his deep red crimson cloak streaming behind him. He had two guards with him, who Jory immediately assessed to be great fighters the both of them, but whom he hoped he could still match with his blade if it came to that. They stopped to either side of the broad doors, planting themselves there as Lord Tywin strode forth in front of King Eddard's solar desk and bowed.
"Your Grace. I thank you for having the time to meet with me."
"Lord Tywin. Please sit."
The King had not yet begun calling Tywin Lannister by "my lord hand" or any similar pleasantries, the memory of Lord Jon's ghost still hanging heavy upon them from somewhere high up in the ceiling, but nonetheless, he was showing him as much respect as a king and a true northman of honour could allow himself to do, Jory thought with a wary anticipation.
Lord Tywin took and seated himself on the elaborately carved chair which was placed in front of the King's desk, as Jory tried his best to examine the temper of the guards.
He always preferred to know the names of everyone who moved in the castle with a sharp object on them, from his own brothers in arms to Lord Robert's guards, Ser Gylbert and the others all the way down to the smallest kitchen boy with a cheese knife, but in this case he was not entirely sure yet. Something with an R, for the right one, he was sure, though. Rylden? Ristan? Relden? Reldan?
And the other one, Serwyn perhaps, like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield? No... Selwyn? Sedgekin? Jory would find out the next time, or else ask his brother Ser Arys. He would know, surely. He was always acquainting himself with people who'sever side they were on, even if it did no good, all smiles and pleasantries from him. Aye.
Would they be quick to come forth and lounge at him if Lord Tywin gave the command? Aye, he saw that they sure would. They were at least as nervous as he was. Perhaps five times the more. True Lannisters, westermen from Casterly Rock, by every breathing inch of them, in their red and golden plate enameled with rubies and the like, their pale faces only slightly tanned by the western sunshine of the yellow golden plains. They were sure to be fast, though, and trained by the very best southron knights of the Rock.
But Jory Cassel was a Kingsguard, the king's own guard, and a northman at that; he would take them down if he had to. He would beat them first, and then Lord Tywin himself, and then die for his king, gladly. No honour could be greater than that, none at all. He only hoped that the Old Lion himself did not chance bear some concealed letter knife in his shin pocket. Old liar...
Lord Tywin, as ever, Jory sensed, did not dance about the topic. He was very direct.
"Your Grace. I was wanting to speak to you regarding your Master of Coin. Lord Petyr Baelish."
The king may have been surprised by that statement, but he did his best to remain an iron mask.
"Lord Baelish, aye. … Go on then, my lord. Speak if you will."
Lord Tywin repaid the sternor with an iron mask of his own, Jory saw.
"It has come to my understanding that he was previously taken off the Small Council some years back, for some... affairs in conflict with the interests of the crown. Is that correct?"
King Eddard scratched his chin, angling his face to look up at Lord Tywin with his icy grey eyes.
"It is indeed, my lord. Petyr Baelish was taken off the concil for some time, but then reinstated again after what I pray was learning a valuable lesson. What of it?"
"Your Grace... Have you perhaps thought about filling the position with someone more suited to the task? Someone who comes from a more reputable house, for a start. "
"Might I suggest my son Tyrion? He is a dwarf, I grant you, and not the most graceful one, at that, but a quick learner, and diligent at most every task he is placed upon. I do believe he would serve you well if given the chance."
"Your son... Tyrion?"
King Eddard seemed to consider the proposal. His left hand slowly scratched at his dark beard, which was now cropped down to its common short length again, ever since the journey back from Winterfell.
"I put him in charge over the water systems at Casterly Rock early when he came of manhood", Lord Tywin explained, "and he proved himself utmost to the challenge. He may have some base qualities of an unbecoming nature, but his wit makes well enough up for it. After a lowborn foster lord of the Fingers known foremost by your wife, I believe most candidates would be an improvement of rank. No?"
Jory gripped his blade hard. That was a crude slight on the Queen's honour, and a deliberate one, to call the queen of the Seven Kingdoms as anything less than her title, least of all as something so common and demeaning as "your wife". As if she was some washerwoman fetched from the hillrushes along the Red Fork. Any man with ears could hear it.
The fact that King Eddard did not lash out at the comment made him an even greater figure in Jory's mind. My king. If the king can hold his temper like ice before the lion, then so can I...
King Eddard looked straight back at Lord Tywin, his face once again gone frozen, just as his words.
"Rank and title are all pretty things, as I'm sure you would agree, my lord, but not all the pretty banners of the south, or all the gold of Casterly Rock, can save a man if he has not the right heart within him. Lord Petyr Baelish is many a thing, and I have certainly my fair share of reasons to think of him and his position here at court, but the last of those things that I would blame him for is his birth. You will excuse me if I do not treasure your own son on the merit of it alone."
One could have dropped a needle pin to the floor and heard it like the sound of an earthquake in that moment, as the lion of the west stood practically red-faced, staring down the wolf of the North in complete silence. Even the seagulls in the sky outside the castle windows had gone quiet.
Jory felt as this was it, and he let the southeast of his eye only lazily tremble towards the sight of the Lannister guardsmen, seeing if they would now reach for their arms.
...
Alas, they did not.
An eternity seemed to pass. Only the sound of a stubborn fly buzzing somewhere around one of the Lannister guardsmen's boots, caked with mud from the courtyard earlier, was heard.
Finally, when Lord Tywin would not budge in his silence, the king spoke up once again.
"The position for Master of Coin is one that is, regrettably, not very easy. Least of all for someone as young as Lord Tyrion. I am sure that his abilities are fine, but... It takes a vast knowledge of the city, and its ports, or at the very least those of a similarly sized one, to manage it well. What of Lannisport? Has she spent some time in charge of it?"
Lord Tywin clenched his teeth somewhat, before replying.
"No. Casterly Rock is the largest keep in all of the Westerlands, and all of the Seven Kingdoms put together. You have seen it once. It is far more significant than the harbours of King's Landing, which I have overseen myself for many years before. I am well aware of the duties of the position."
He almost spat out his words with contempt.
"Nonetheless... Lord Gyles is currently serving as Master of Coin, and doing it quite well. I shall have to ask him if he wishes to remain, and I suspect that he will want to do so.", the king said.
Lord Gyles... Yes... Jory realised.
Lord Tywin looked almost bespuffled for the briefest of moments, at the words, before he gathered his eagle-like visage once again.
...
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but surely it is Lord Petyr Baelish's position that we speak of."
"Lord Gyles is Master of Coin", the King explained. It is the position of Master of Whispers that Lord Baelish is currently serving as. "
Lord Tywin tried again, intensifying his eyes now, so narrow that they seemed ready to disappear.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was under the impression that Lord Arryn had recommended him to the position of Master of Coin some years back. It is quite well known."
"So he had. And yet I took him off that position, and reinstated him to another. It is Lord Gyles Rosby who is now the Master of Coin, since little over a year back. I thought it best. He has manged the work well so far."
Lord Tywin seemed to think on that before he spoke. Master of Whispers..., Jory thought in sync. That was not a position which Lord Tywin had counted on before. Or if he had, he did not show it.
"Nevertheless. I am sure that my son would be suitable for that particular position as well, if not more so. Your Grace… May I speak to you in a manner of great confidence?"
King Eddard seemed to think on that, before replying.
"You may, my lord."
"The truth, Your Grace, is that my son is a lowly creature, who despite my many warnings, time and time again chooses to revel with commoners and people of ill repute, dragging his name into the dirt of back alleys, whorehouses and worse. You will no doubt have noticed as much during your long journey together."
King Eddard said nothing, not wanting to get drawn into some backwards trap by giving offense in any shape or form.
"I have seen no ill deed from him as of yet, that would be able to lower my opinion of him or his house", he said carefully.
"Ever yet so. He may not be the finest of men, but he is surprisingly capable in matters of the mind. Many of our potential enemies to the crown and your rule dwell in the same filth. I am certain that he would be able to put his many… unsavoury connections to good use in the interests of the crown. The position for Master of Whispers was never one reserved for the cleanest of hearts or minds. Only the most loyal.
And whatever else flaws he has, my son is loyal, to his house and to you, Your Grace. Name him to the position of Master of Whispers, to seek out what threats and conspiracies against your reign lurk in the shadows and alleyways of this vast city, and you will not regret it. You have my word."
King Eddard sat silent for a long while, seemingly contemplating the offer. Jory was gripping his handle, knuckling his sweaty fingers and shifting his eyebrows in the tiniest motion to be rid of an annoying droplet of sweat, before the King finally spoke.
"I shall think about the offer", he promised, with a bow.
Lord Tywin seemed somewhat unsatisfied by that reply, but he steadied himself and nodded.
"Your Grace."
The lord of Casterly Rock bowed, turned and went away into the hallway again, as quickly as he had come, followed by his guardsmen on either sides and tapering after him. Jory relaxed a little.
King Eddard looked down onto his massive manganian table desk for a while, seemed to scratch on something on a piece of parchment, fingered a wolf broche lying next to it and then sighed deep.
"That was well handled, my king", Jory said, feeling that the atmosphere called for it, as it so often did. "Lord Tywin is one to not be trifled with. He did his best by fooling you with the Imp for his offer."
His king looked at him. It was then that Jory sensed perhaps he should not have spoke.
"Fooling me?" He shook his head. "No... He is not lying this time. He is sincere in his request. It is no trick. He wants me to name his son. Truly. … And that is what frightens me even more."
...
After the meeting, Ned sat for another hour and half at his desk, writing letters of correspondence, and handing them over to servants hurrying through the long corridors to give them immediately to Grand Maester Pycelle at the rookery.
Mostly they were about petty lords failing to pay their taxes. One such, from the Sisters, had even proclaimed something quite rude in his letters, Jory seemed to remember. The man, one Lord Longthorpe, said that he did not owe any more taxes to the previous Lord Arryn, who had visited them the last time some fourteen years back, and certainly not to this young boy lord who he had never heard about. He proclaimed that the only one whose loyalty he would confess was that of a Stark, and demanded that King Eddard himself, or barring that, his brother, came to the island to show himself before the people of the Sisters if he would have their taxes. Elsewise, he wrote, they would deal with themselves, as they always had been, and not get into any wars or other problems on the mainland. Their god and king was the sea.
King Eddard had now written and summoned him to go to White Harbour for it, to speak in front of Lord Wyman about his issues with the crown. That would surely help fix some of it. If he would not
acknowledge the tenuous hold of power over the islands by the Vale, then perhaps House Manderly. King Eddard also wrote to remind Lord Longthorpe of the maesters being sent there some eight years back from the Citadel and taking their way via the Vale of Arryn, as well as the work that the sailors of the Paps did to keep Essosi pirates well and out of the Bite. Surely that much deserved taxes. If not, he could send his plea to Lord Benjen, and prepare himself for a trial at Winterfell.
At writing his seventh letter, the King tired and arose from his table, stretching his back.
"Gods save me..." He mumbled.
"To the balconies, Your Grace?" Jory asked, sensing what he wanted to do.
"Aye."
The king stretched around his hand to his belt to look for his handkerchief, but did not find it.
"Here, my king", Jory said, quickly giving him his own. He took it and wiped his brow without a word.
They went in silence, walking across the [hall/gallery/[ ]] as the clanking steps of their boots echoed against the matte walls, candle holders and murals hanging on either side.
Jory did not know who would be worse to trust, Littlefinger or the strange Lannister dwarf. Baelish had already made his mistakes at court, whereas the little Lord Tyrion's would be in the future, if such a time for it came. The King would do what he saw was best for the kingdoms, Jory knew.
His king would choose Lord Tyrion for the position if he believed it to be the right choice, no matter any personal qualms he might have.
They stopped when they came to the western towers, overlooking the slanting slopes of Aegon's high hill and the city beyond. Further west, the Riverlands lay, and then the Westerlands, where the new hand had come from. And further north, Winterfell. The Queen had still not sent a letter since Prince Bran had woken up. That was the last they had heard from her. His king missed her sorely.
Jory had prayed to the Old Gods, and even in silence to the Mother at times that the prince would be all right, but he doubted if his prayers had any sway over what went on all the way up there.
King Eddard looked out across the city, no doubt considering the lives of his many citizens. There was smoke and commotion from the Street of Steel somewhere far off, and the yowlings of cats and goats and sheep being herded along the pathways and into the small pens here and there. Matthys would be standing somewhere down there by the city wall outposts, but he did not see him nor his colleagues over the beige brick rooves of the guardhouses in the far distance.
The air was dallering from the heat, at any rate, preventing a man from seeing properly anywhere past the rise of Visenya's hill and the Great Sept of Baelor, if even as much as that. But the road there was enough to see, and hear, and smell, Jory thought, to get a good feel of the summer city, just so as it was.
Clanking from anvils and pot shops, carts of turnips, fish, wooden carpentry, wheel spokes, hatchets, rakes and fishing nets being hauled around by the people like small ants down below there in their disorderly rows... Merchants in their stalls, the commonest people wearing simple wool brown, the richer ones mostly clad in red and orange and white silks, their hair of the women worn long or put up in southern-style braids.
And then there was the eternal stink as well. He could almost smell it from all the way up here, in the sweltering heat of the early afternoon, even as they stood some two hundred feet or more up in the westernmost of the major red towers of the Red Keep.
He secretly longed for autumn, when the city and all of its contents would be a bit more bearable. But he would never say so to his king. The Stark words were Winter is Coming, and as a Cassel he did well to go as much as he could by their alware as well, distant as it may seem.
The King suddenly cleared his throat to look at him. He looked back.
"Your Grace?"
"Perhaps it would have some good to come of it."
"What would, Your Grace?"
"Sending Lord Baelish off the council for some time. Though I do wonder if he would be willing for it himself."
"Whether he is willing is of no consequence, surely. You are the king. It is your counil. Your word is law."
"Even a king needs to make sure that he does not aggravate those who serve him. Especially a man such as my lady wife's old friend, and a friend to Lord Hoster and the Tullys. I am certain that he will like to return as soon as she does. If the gods are forgiving..."
King Eddard mumbled and turned away his face again.
"I am certain that the princes and Her Grace will return again soon", Jory tried and comforted.
Eddard said nothing for a while, but then turned to face him again.
"I thank you, Jory."
Jory bowed his head.
"We would do well to keep an eye on him", he said.
"That is precisely what we have him for. To keep an eye on things", the king gave a bitter laugh into the bricks of the castle wall, and grabbed ahold of the window slate with his right hand, as if bracing himself towards the reality of his lack of power over everything going on around him.
"But what if one cannot always trust one's eyes, Your Grace? We must also trust in our hearts."
"Then... Perhaps we would be better to take on the Lannister lad."
Jory felt a slight uncertainty at the king's using of the word lad, but he supposed that he must surely still be talking about Lord Tyrion. He was older now than Ned Stark had been when he'd become king, as Jory understood it, seven and twenty, five and twenty or thereabouts, and seeming both older and younger than his years at the same time, but his role as son to Lord Tywin, along with his height, made the phrasing at least possible to understand, as he thought over it.
"Lord Tyrion is, if I may say so, Your Grace... Someone whose loyalty we cannot be sure of."
"True enough. But men of loyalty who would serve to whispers and plots are a rare thing to find. I am sure that if Lord Tywin has any ill intentions towards us, he will not need the aid of his disfigured son to come through with it."
They stood still for a moment, as Jory considered what his king and liege was saying.
"So... You will speak with Lord Baelish about the proposal, then, Your Grace?"
"Aye. I believe that I must. Again."
...
The rest of the day went on much as usual, with Robb, Gerion, Quentyn and the others stirring up some mild commotion at dinner as they came in, blood riled high from the day's practice. Sansa and Arya only gave eachother some mild bickering, but elsewise mostly held away from one another, as Septa Mordane spoke long and well on the blessings of this further warm summer and prayed and thanked the Mother for the bountiful late summer harvests soon to be underway again.
He saw to his regret how Princess Sansa changed something in her appearance at the words of Mother, and perhaps little roudy Arya as well, but did his best to not look at them too much. Surely they missed the Queen far much, but him holding up his thoughts about it would not bring her or the princes, nor even his brothers in arm back any sooner.
They would all come back, he told himself. In a moon or two, perhaps. As soon as Prince Bran was well enough to travel, and possibly so that a new transport could be arranged from Winterfell with an equal comfortability as they had. He doubted that the Queen would want to ride without the security of a decent-sized wheelhouse like the one they had used to get there. Had such a wheelhouse existed at Winterfell? Did Lord Benjen have one such for his own keep? Jory was not certain. He guessed that they did not.
The evening went by uneventfully, as the hour of the bat went, gave way to the hour of the eel and the early night came in its time, as he walked his turns up on the balconies, letting his thoughts twist and turn themselves over and over again. Lord Baelish... Littlefinger... Lord Tyrion, the Lannisters... Jory himself would have preferred the position of Master of Whispers to be removed entirely, or perhaps filled by one of the Manderlys, but so far they had not shown any interest in it.
He supposed that it did not matter much. If someone like the Lannisters wanted something ill towards his king, it was not only whispers that it would take, but swords as well. And his was a strong one, and aimed to and at protecting his king day and night until his death. So he prayed to the Old Gods, and even tryingly to the Warrior of the Seven at seldom and infrequent times... So far it had worked, and he would continue to do so until something changed.
He finally took off his white cloak when the hour went to the hour of the Ghosts, and went to the White Sword Tower. Ser Barristan was waiting for him as he came in, closing the door behind.
"Anything to report?" the Lord Commander asked.
Jory told him of the events of the day, such as they had been, giving extra thoughts to the matter of Lord Tywin's request. Ser Barristan did not look surprised, but he thanked him for the information. Then he was out in the hallway, alert and ready as ever, his dignified white hair lighting up the darkness in the hallway outside, as Jory hung up his white cloak, slowly removed his armor and lay down on his bed for his two hours of sleep.
He fondled the wineskin next to his bedside, but thought better of it. A Kingsguard needed to stay ever alert, for the safety of his king, and these coming one or two daynes would be extra requiring, he felt. Ser Barristan had never drank, for as long as he had known him. Jory felt ashamed once again at his flaws. He was not lord commander, but if he wished to be so one day he'd need to be better.
He would allow himself to drink once the decision of Master of Whispers had been made, he decided.
He felt after within himself, and noticed that he needed to relieve himself of his bowels. He stood up from the bed and sat down over the chamberpot and made his waste. As a Kingsguard, he rarely needed to go more than once or twice a dayne, just as he did not need much sleep. Oftentimes he would forget to feel after it. Such habits came with the position.
He banked on the wall of the small servants' alcove beside, where Pulter lay. The young servant boy got up at a moment's notice, apologized for his tardiness and went to quickly empty the chamberpot.
He had gotten less work to do ever since Ser Erryk and Ser Mandon had been gone, and as such became more hafsy with his duties, Jory reflected. He would tell him so on the morrow, but not now. Now the sleep waited for him. He would rest.
Pulter filled the water basin with fresh water as Jory waited in fret for a few moments. He washed himself thoroughly, all the while seeing the ugly face of the Lannister dwarf mocking him, floating as a mirage in the empty air in front of him, and then told Pulter to turn out the lights for the night. The boy blew out the candles, four tall ones on the left wall and many others in the rest of the room, further away, but left the two large ones at the center of the room by the altar of the White Book as usual. Those were the older squire, Sygand Massey's, to tend to. Jory saw him arise from out of the alcove, with his long and slender neck, studious blue eyes and flaxen hair, as he turned heavily to his side of the bedside wall with a sigh. Then the world at last became dark around him, and Ser Jory Cassel of the Kingsguard went to his well-earned first sleep of the night.
...
He awoke two hours later, as Ser Marlon entered the chamber and knocked on the door. The world was still dark, only the faint beautiful glowing light from the White Book altar an eternity away to his left, a the center of the room.
"Already, is it?" Jory asked.
"The hour of the Owl is here", Ser Marlon replied courteously as he unclasped his silver trident and merman brooch.
Jory got up from the bed, washed himself off with water from the fresh basin again, and called for Sygand to help him on with his armor.
"A long day?" Ser Marlon asked him, with a slight accusatorial tone at him not being fully ready and armoured in time.
"Indeed. His Grace has gotten a proposal from Lord Tywin to consider the Imp for Master of Whispers."
"Or so I was told", Ser Marlon replied. "It is not for us to think on such things. Only to serve. We must do so regardless of what the king decrees, or what other lords say or plan about him."
Jory grumbled a reply, as he saw Sygand coming over to help him on with his [shoes – [ ]].
"The better the servants of the King, the better chance we have to protect him.", Jory said at last.
"True", Ser Marlon allowed, "but it is surely amongst enemies of the king that we are here to protect. Let the Lannisters come, I say to you, my good ser. My sword is ready, and my heart is too. We will gladly fight for him, if the day comes today, or in a fortnight, or in ten years' time."
"Aye. … Seven as one", Jory said.
"Seven as one", Ser Marlon replied.
Jory went swiftly to the sleeping quarters of Prince Robb and the girls, where Ser Arys stood.
They nodded to eachother simply, as they had hundreds of times before, as Jory took the place to the left of the door, replacing Ser Marlon's post.
"Any trouble?" Jory asked.
"Not so far", Ser Arys replied. "You would do well to prepare yourself, though."
"What?" Ser Jory asked, anticipating all manners of terror. "Why?"
"The Prince is keeping his wolf in his bedchamber again."
Jory breathed out in what must have been a sigh of both relief and fatigue.
"I know hardly not what little protection we can provide compared to a direwolf.", Ser Arys japed. "That beast of his is larger than any of the dogs in the kennel by now. Noone would dare attack him so long as he has his Grey Wind close by. Not even a lion would have the bravery to dare..."
"Do not jest", Jory said. "Even wolves need to sleep, my ser. We are more needed here than ever, with lions and else in the capital. " He stopped himself. "Though it is true, that it keeps close watch of the prince… I'm beginning to think that they are one and the same, prince and wolf alike. There are stories of such things in the North."
Wargs. He did not say the word, though. He had not heard it spoken out loud since his wetnurse told it to him for the first time. Not by his uncle Ser Rodrik, not by his king or any others, north or south. It was not something one spoke highly of, especially not to a southerner, be they sworn brothers or no.
"They are close in mind and heart", he only said instead. "He follows his master. He holds watch sometimes, aye, but he also will sleep after a goodly while, from what I have seen."
Ser Arys merely nodded, for once. He must truly be tired, Jory concluded. His flowery brother in arms was elsewise ever the gallant and garrulous talker, as most reachmen were.
"What will the morning bring?" he asked.
"Not much, I hope", Ser Arys replied. "A bit of swallor for some time forward, according to the Grand Maester. No council meeting. Even our long-standing guests are departing, to your great joy."
"I do not call it joy to be able to sleep at night", Jory grumbled. "Lions, cocks, Freys, Dalts, roses..."
"Even when we do sleep we are not truly sleeping", Ser Arys said. "Is that not so?"
Jory thought after within himself, and felt it to be mostly true, even though he had dozed into darkness earlier.
"Aye, my ser.", he simply said.
"We dream of protecting him, we dream of serving", Ser Arys went on, as he put his white gauntlet on top of his sword that rested on alert in its sheath. "We are the king's sworn swords. Ever vigilant. Ever on guard. Ever on watch. Ever vigilant."
"Ever standfast", Jory repeated in his own words. "Seven as one."
"And one as seven.", Ser Arys replied.