The Hands of the King
"I received the census from the quartermaster earlier today," Captain Bryen reported to Tristifer. "He informed me that we now number around 5,000 gold cloaks. My recruits seem to be shaping up well." Tristifer had wasted no time in leaving his mark after gaining the power and authority to do so, swiftly calling for a doubling of the gold cloaks' ranks. Tristifer nodded gratefully to Bryen before his attention was caught by the man on his other flank.
"The officer exams have yielded results," Addam followed as the three marched through the pale red-colored corridors of the Red Keep. "The old rabble from Merryweather and even Crakehall have been purged with minimal outrage. The new officer corps, while perhaps a tad inexperienced, appear eager to improve and are far more competent compared to their predecessors."
Tristifer nodded again. "These are good news. With Prince Rhaegar's departure, it will once again be important to have a strong force here in the capital." Many might perceive the gold cloaks as mere enforcers of the law, but Tristifer was in the process of changing this perception, aiming to make the position of Commander of the City Watch one of the most powerful. Who could challenge him with 5,000 men under his command in the city? The only one who came close was the King, but a majority of his men had joined Rhaegar's march north.
To ensure his power extended beyond the West Barracks, Tristifer had promoted Bryen to the position of Captain of the Gate of the Gods. Tristifer knew that almost all in the barracks were loyal to him and, by extension, Bryen. He had then appointed Addam as Captain of one of the gates based out of the Eastern Barracks, which were closer to the Bay near the Dragon Gate.
With this setup, Tristifer maintained a strong presence in all three of the gold cloaks' barracks: the Western, Eastern, and the one at the Red Keep. With the latest officer exams, Tristifer found himself in almost total control of the officer corps—an influence that many lords might overlook but wasn't lost on him. Every gate was under his command, and anyone wanting to leave would have to pass through one of those seven gates, unless they knew of one of the legendary passages of the Red Keep.
Tristifer was aware that at least Varys knew of a few passages, though he wasn't certain of their destinations—whether they were secret exits or ways to spy on the keep's inhabitants.
"Oh, the Outriders have also been deployed," Addam suddenly informed him. The Outriders were concealed mounted scouts tasked with keeping an eye on the areas around King's Landing. In a time of war, having forward warning of approaching enemy armies was crucial, yet Tristifer found it foolish that no previous Commander had thought to implement such a measure. While it may not have been within the official job description, he had little trust in the King or Hand to perform this task.
The Outriders wore brown cloaks and each carried a unique clay tablet inscribed with a family relationship, such as "mother", "son" or "daughter." This served as a security measure upon their return to the city, ensuring that they could verify their identity. Tristifer knew there were other ways for spies to infiltrate the city, but he was determined to reduce the possibilities of lowborn spies.
As they halted before the decorated double doors of the Small Council chambers, Tristifer turned to his friends. "Thank you both for the update. I have another improvement I intend to implement, but I will consult with you two after this meeting." Tristifer may not have known Bryen for long, but the man had proven his loyalty time and time again. Addam was, of course, self-explanatory.
"Good luck, Ser. Those vultures have no loyalty to anyone but themselves," Bryen stated with contempt, while Addam nodded in agreement.
Tristifer bowed his head. "I am well aware, but unfortunately, I cannot avoid or handle them quite yet. Thank you, friends, but I must go now." With that, he bid his goodbyes and turned on his heel to knock on the sturdy oaken door of the Small Council chambers.
As the doors opened, revealing the opulent chambers of the Small Council, Tristifer took in the sight before him. Past the last remaining Kingsguard, he spotted the centrally placed table where King Aerys sat at the far end. On the King's left sat Varys, the Master of Whisperers—an Essosi-born eunuch whom Aerys had brought over the Narrow Sea to oversee his spy network. Varys was the only one on the council whom Tristifer would even consider calling an ally of convenience; they were both interested in surviving this war, at the very least.
Further along the table sat Lord Symond Staunton, a lackwit lord better suited to managing a buffet of cheese than serving as the Master of Laws. Tristifer was grateful for the man's incompetence and ineptitude, as it granted him more room to work with, with minimal oversight.
Past Lord Staunton sat Grand Maester Pycelle, a seemingly diligent and loyal advisor to the king—except for the unsettling rumors that Robin's girls had informed Tristifer of. Despite his unassuming appearance, the Maester was one of the King's most competent advisors, though this was more due to the lack of competition.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon was another lickspittle lord, more concerned with pleasing King Aerys than with actual governance. The Lord of the Tides' only quality was his disdain for Prince Rhaegar and his constant ability to speak ill of the King's son—an attitude that curiously earned him a seat at the Small Council in Aerys' court.
Last but not least was the Lord Hand, Lord Qarlton Chelsted. The previous Master of Coin, a position yet to be filled, was as spineless as Lords Staunton and Velaryon. Together, they formed the trio of King Aerys' 'greatest' supporters—doing nothing but whispering poison in the already unstable king's ears and then bending over backwards to cater to his whims. If not for their positions, they would not have been worth mentioning at all.
Tristifer nodded to Ser Jaime Lannister as he passed, then made his way to the last unoccupied seat next to the Hand and opposite the other councillors. He bowed toward the king before taking his seat.
"Commander Mudd, a pleasure for you to answer my summons," King Aerys began with a strained smile. Tristifer couldn't discern if this expression was borne from anger or if the king had simply forgotten how to smile.
"I am at your command, my King," Tristifer replied humbly. The king's smile grew dangerous as his gaze swept over the others around the table.
"A... healthy mindset, and one that many seem to have forgotten," the king remarked. Lord Velaryon gulped audibly, while Pycelle and Varys were the only ones who didn't lower their gazes demurely.
"My King," the Hand began, his voice slightly trembling before he was cut off by the king's demanding gaze. The Hand faltered, then stopped speaking altogether.
"I believe that we should begin our meeting," he managed to say after a moment, attempting to regain his composure.
The king's smile widened, revealing more of his discolored teeth. "Begin? Have I not already begun our little council with my greeting to young Ser Tristifer here?" The king raised a frail hand, silencing any further protests from the Hand. "Refrain from such comments in the future. Now, what news do we have of the Traitors?"
Varys gained everyone's attention as he cleared his throat softly. "The Rebel host left Riverrun toward the east a few days ago, presumably to engage Prince Rhaegar's forces."
The king's smile had been replaced by an ugly grimace. "How far along is my army?"
"They have left Lord Rosby's lands and are presumably in proximity to Sow's Horn or Butter Hall by now," Varys reported softly, his voice calm despite the king's penetrating gaze.
King Aerys considered this for a moment before abruptly turning his attention to Lord Velaryon. "Where is the Royal Fleet currently stationed?"
Lord Velaryon, clearly startled by the king's sudden question, stammered in his response. "M-moored at Dragonstone, my King. W-with patrols in the Gullet and waters outside of the Bay of Crabs." The Lord's voice trembled slightly, betraying his nervousness.
"I want the fleet here in King's Landing. The traitors possess no navy that could challenge us at sea." The king's command was firm, and to Tristifer, it was clear the king sought a route of escape, though for whom was yet to be determined. The King's pride was far too great to flee his seat of power, and King's Landing had never fallen to a non-Targaryen under his rule. Tristifer couldn't imagine Aerys being the first to do so willingly.
"Of course, Your Grace," the Master of Ships replied quickly, bowing his head.
Just as the king was about to speak again, another knock interrupted the session. Ser Jaime promptly opened the door following an impatient gesture from the king. A breathless, brown-haired man entered, and King Aerys's features immediately lit up with a mischievous smile, while the Lord Hand frowned, his displeasure fleeting but not unnoticed by Tristifer.
"The council is adjourned," the king declared abruptly. Tristifer's eyes shifted between the king's eager expression and the messenger, noting the gravity of the message by the king's reaction. His gaze met Varys', who gave a nearly imperceptible nod towards the doors. Understanding the cue, Tristifer remained silent.
"Your Grace—" the Hand of the King began, protesting the abrupt end to the meeting, but the king silenced the lord with a stern look before his gaze returned eagerly to the messenger.
Lords Staunton and Velaryon rose immediately and scurried out of the chambers. Tristifer followed the slower-moving Varys and Pycelle. The last thing he saw from the chambers was the hesitant form of the Lord Hand and the messenger relaying something to the king.
A soft cough drew Tristifer's attention, and he noticed Varys had separated from the departing Pycelle and was walking into a less-used corridor. Tristifer followed the Spider as they made their way toward the gallery of the Throne Room, or so Tristifer assumed.
"Your results have been impressive, Commander, especially in such a short time and doubly so in comparison to your predecessors' achievements," Varys remarked, his tone unsettling.
Tristifer narrowed his eyes at the Master of Whisperers. "While our Master of Laws may remain unaware of your... exploits, I have kept a closer eye on such things." Varys continued with something akin to amusement in the depths of the man's dark eyes.
"It is good to hear that the King's ears don't miss anything, then. He is lucky to possess such a diligent and... loyal servant," Tristifer replied. It was no great secret, but it was enough so, especially if Lord Staunton poked his nose into it. With no Master of Coin and increased expenses from the City Watch, it was especially easy to slip through the cracks.
"And yet I have heard whispers that you seem to be trying to infringe on my territory as well, so to speak," Varys stated as the two passed into the gallery, which looked down upon the Throne Room, almost eye level with the gigantic dragon skulls that decorated the room's roof.
Tristifer wasn't surprised that Varys knew of this, but he wondered why the Master of Whisperers felt the need to confront him now.
"It is quite a clever ruse, and one that I must admit I can't replicate, considering my lack of certain equipment that your friend has used in this case. Coins are all well and good, but this has become more personal than that, I have heard," Varys continued.
"It is merely a means for me to stay informed about the city's affairs, I assure you. There's no cause for concern regarding your position on account of me," Tristifer responded. He was keenly aware that with enough adversaries beyond the city walls, it was unnecessary—and unwise—to estrange the one seemingly reasonable man of influence remaining in the capital. With Rhaegar and his forces dispatched on campaign, the King's men held sway without challenge, leaving neutrals like himself and Varys in a precarious position.
Varys nodded his bald head sagely. "I believe we both understand the true threat here—such clarity seems rare in this city."
Before Tristifer could respond, Varys continued, their gaze fixed on the Iron Throne below them. From the gallery, it appeared almost diminutive, yet it was imbued with immense power. This, Tristifer knew, was an illusion. The throne itself was nothing more than twisted, melted iron—a symbol of power rather than power itself. And when the one who sat upon it lacked true strength, the vultures began to circle.
"The man who met with our King today was from the Alchemists' Guild," Varys said, his voice devoid of emotion. The mention stirred a recognition in Tristifer; though the city teemed with numerous guilds, none bore the notorious reputation or wielded their influence quite like the Alchemists. The rumors Tristifer had heard, albeit likely embellished, painted a less than flattering picture of their dealings and demeanor.
"I am familiar," he replied succinctly, turning to face the inscrutable visage of Varys, known to many as the Spider.
"They are indeed secretive, and were it not for the king's patronage, they might have slipped into obscurity. Yet his favor has elevated them considerably. They are, after all, the suppliers of his Grace's wildfire," Varys confided.
The rumors had circulated, but having them confirmed was still jarring. The terrifying green flames had become King Aerys' great obsession following his ordeal at the Defiance of Duskendale.
"I see. Do you harbor some personal animosity toward these Alchemists?" Tristifer asked, noting the subtle shift in Varys' demeanor as the discussion turned towards the guild.
Varys's smile was icy. "Pyromancers, they call themselves. Attempting to replicate Essosi magic of which they understand little."
"Magic?" Tristifer echoed, his skepticism evident. While he acknowledged the Targaryen dragons were no ordinary beasts, the notion of magic seemed relegated to the realm of children's tales.
Varys turned, fixing him with a penetrating stare. "Indeed, how else do you suppose I became a eunuch?"
Tristifer was visibly taken aback. "Why are you telling me this?" he managed, grappling with the implications. He had always perceived Varys as a figure shrouded in mystery and potentially deceit—a spider with as many sources of information as hidden daggers.
Varys's gaze remained unflinching, the weight of his next words hanging palpably between them. "Because understanding the true nature of those who wield power behind the throne is crucial. And knowing who you can trust, even more so." His voice was low, hinting at the deeper layers of intrigue that danced just out of sight.
Tristifer's response was cut short as the doors below creaked open with a resonant groan, and the sound of marching feet and murmured conversations filled the great hall. He turned his attention downward, where a procession was forming. At its center, a pyre was being carried, followed closely by the still haggard figure of the King, with Ser Jaime, resplendent in his white cloak, by his side. Behind His Grace, a line of guards and courtiers snaked through the room. Tristifer's keen eyes picked out the emblems among them; he recognized Lord Velaryon's silver seahorse and the black, grey, and white sigil of Lord Staunton among the throng.
A subtle rustle of fabric diverted Tristifer's gaze to a small child who had approached Varys, quietly handing him a slip of parchment even while maintaining eye contact with Tristifer. Without hesitation, the child then turned and slipped through a slightly ajar door leading away from the gallery. The door closed almost silently behind him, hiding the young messenger from sight.
Tristifer shifted his focus back to Varys, who had just finished reading the note. "One of my little birds," Varys explained, his voice low. "I could never bear to see such bright flames extinguished prematurely. These children can navigate spaces no lady of the night could manage, though admittedly, their gossip lacks a certain... refinement," he added, a sly smile playing across his lips.
"It seems that our King will soon be in need of a new Hand," Varys then remarked, almost as an afterthought.
At this, Tristifer turned back to observe the unfolding spectacle below. Indeed, he could see the dejected figure of Lord Qarlton Chelsted being escorted by two Targaryen men-at-arms toward a pyre positioned directly in front of the King, who appeared almost gleeful upon his Iron Throne.
"Why has our Hand fallen from grace with His Grace?" Tristifer asked, his back still to Varys.
He felt a slight surprise as Varys appeared suddenly at his side. "I'm not entirely certain, though if I were to speculate, it likely involves the... pyromancers," Varys murmured. Together, they watched in grim silence as the Hand was secured to the pyre. Two robed figures approached, each carrying a jar of the ominous green wildfire. They doused the wood with the liquid, and one of the pyromancers stepped forward with a torch while his colleague retreated.
The brown robed man threw the lit torch toward the struggling and bound form of the Chelsted Lord before all but throwing himself backward as the whole throne room was decorated in a green glow. The screaming from the soon to be late Hand filled the room and the green flickering flames seemed to almost rise to the height of the gallery. Tristifer took a step backward at the sudden and uncomfortable temperature that developed.
As the foul odor of burning reached their nostrils, Varys swiftly turned away, and Tristifer was quick to follow, casting one last glance at the now maniacally laughing King Aerys. Although he had heard tales of such executions, experiencing it firsthand—the sight, the smell—left an indescribable feeling of revulsion in him.
The moment the gallery doors closed behind them, Tristifer almost sighed in relief, the thick palace walls muffling the horrors inside.
"He needs to die," Tristifer stated resolutely, his voice firm. At this point, his allegiance in the ongoing war mattered little as long as the King was removed from power.
Varys regarded him with a steady gaze before responding with an almost nonchalant shrug. "He is of little consequence. Kings die more often than most during times of war. It is the successor one should be concerned about."
Tristifer swallowed dryly. "Prince Rhaegar then?"
Varys simply tilted his head, pondering the question. "This clash with the rebels will be decisive, and it's no straightforward matter. If not Prince Rhaegar, then young Aegon could be heir. If not him, then Prince Viserys." The spymaster then smiled subtly. "Of course, this all assumes the Targaryen dynasty survives this rebellion. If it does not, then Stannis Baratheon might be the heir, and your 'friend' Robert could be king."
Varys nodded toward him. "These are challenging times, Commander Mudd. With enemies both within and beyond these walls, I believe that we can greatly benefit from each other's assistance."
Tristifer watched Varys's departing figure impassively. It wasn't often that he became upset by anything, but the recent events had shaken him in unexpected ways. Tristifer realized that he could no longer afford to simply remain passive. When opportunity presented itself, he would seize it with both hands, without hesitation. There would be no room for hesitation in the turbulent days ahead.
Wisdom Rossart, a member of the Alchemists' Guild, was chosen as Lord Chelsted's successor. The pyromancer was singularly focused, showing little interest in anything beyond furthering his guild's interests.
As King Aerys descended further into madness, Tristifer found himself excluded from further small council meetings. The frequency of courtiers meeting swift ends for even minor transgressions led Tristifer to maintain a cautious distance from the increasingly unstable monarch.
A few days following the Hand's gruesome execution, the Royal Fleet made its arrival known. It was then that Tristifer finally learned the purpose of their presence: to escort two members of the royal family away from the capital.
Ordered to ensure the health and safety of the royals to the port, Tristifer was subsequently granted the authority to gather all his captains without drawing undue attention, ostensibly to "organize" the forthcoming procession.
The morning meetings were consumed by discussions of agonizing details concerning the ranks of the gold cloaks—everything from equipment to the progress of new recruits. Seizing the opportunity, Tristifer orchestrated the transfer of approximately a hundred gold cloaks, known to be fiercely loyal, from the West Barracks to the Red Keep Barracks. The extensive meeting provided the perfect cover for this maneuver. After all, who would notice or care if a few score of gold cloaks failed to return to their proper barracks?
The fleet remained in port briefly, focusing solely on resupply efforts, before Queen Rhaella and the king's second son, Prince Viserys, were embarked. Within the day of their arrival, they were dispatched to the ancestral Targaryen stronghold of Dragonstone.
A week had passed since the demise of the previous Hand, and a fortnight and some since Prince Rhaegar's departure. Initially, rumors had swirled—murmurs on the streets, whispers among Tristifer's gold cloak ranks. Then, almost simultaneously, a report from Robin and a message from one of Varys's "little birds" arrived in his office in the Red Keep's barracks, leaving slips of parchment on his desk.
Strangely detached, Tristifer's thoughts immediately conjured images of the infant Prince Aegon. Prince Rhaegar was slain, two Kingsguard knights were dead, and the last was captured. The Royalist host had been decisively defeated and scattered. All this, at the Ruby Ford.
It seemed King Aerys had a new heir now. However, how long the Targaryens would hold on remained uncertain to Tristifer. He knew how the situation could be salvaged, but he harbored little belief that the Mad King would act with any semblance of rationality.
The great host of the Reach was after all at least nominally on the Targaryen side. It was now the greatest host in all of Westeros with both the loyalist and rebel armies greatly diminished, assuming Lord Tywin Lannister didn't rendezvous with the rebels...
For three more days, that last sentence lingered in Tristifer's mind as he dismounted from one of the Red Keep's horses—a black-colored courser known for its relative obedience. Tristifer was no great equestrian, and he doubted he ever would be. The thought of facing his end beneath the hooves of an unruly horse was one he refused to entertain.
His personal guard dismounted behind him as he met with the approaching lieutenant of the gatehouse.
"Commander, two outriders were captured trying to enter the city. They were detained after failing to possess their identifying tablets," the junior officer reported, bowing respectfully before gesturing toward a door with a descending stair visible. "They await you in our temporary dungeons."
"Very well, lead the way, lieutenant," Tristifer replied, nodding. He turned right as the door was opened for him. His guard halted, and he gestured for them to stay. "Await me here; I will not be long."
Descending into the cool basement, Tristifer soon found himself facing two shackled men in his outriders' brown surcoats. A simple gold cloak approached, saluting him before presenting a hefty coin purse and a small medallion emblazoned with a roaring lion.
"These were found on their persons. We believe they were to meet with a contact within the city, possibly even within the Red Keep itself."
There was no doubt about what the lion emblem represented, though whether it was a deliberate ploy or genuine evidence of the men's affiliation remained to be determined.
"I see. Have they been cooperative during questioning?" Tristifer asked in a neutral voice as he eyed the two prisoners.
"No, Commander. They refuse to even open their mouths," the gold cloak replied with evident irritation.
"Do not show frustration, watchman," Tristifer commented, now looking directly at the gold cloak. He could hear the two spies snort, but Tristifer ignored them as he ensured that the younger gold cloak understood him. The young man nodded slightly, embarrassed yet trying to maintain professionalism.
"Good, slit their throats. We'll get nothing out of them in any reasonable time, I fear," Tristifer declared, his tone firm. The amusement of the prisoners was swiftly replaced with disbelief and a hint of fear. "These cretins are not worth the resources to even feed for a day. Be done with them now."
The gold cloak nodded more resolutely now, drawing a knife from his waist as he approached the now struggling spies.
"I will tell you!" one of them started, but Tristifer interrupted him with a roll of his eyes.
"He's bluffing," Tristifer asserted, the gold cloak nodding shakily in agreement. With a determined breath, the gold cloak swiftly slit the man's throat, leaving his expression frozen in a permanent state of surprise and distress.
"Lord Tywin, Lord Lannister, he comes with an army," the other man revealed, his voice edged with desperation. The gold cloak turned to Tristifer with a surprised expression.
Tristifer's gaze shifted to the revealed Lannister man as he pondered silently. "To besiege the city or... assist our King?"
The man shook his head in defeat. "I do not know. No one ever said."
"How many men?" Tristifer's inquiry was direct, his tone carrying an edge of authority.
The man hesitated, his uncertainty palpable. After a moment's deliberation, he responded, "12,000... milord."
Tristifer absorbed the information with a measured expression, concealing his thoughts behind a mask of composure. It was difficult to discern the truth from the Lannister man's words, but he made a mental note of the figure nonetheless.
Tristifer nodded thoughtfully before drawing his own blade. "Your usefulness has run out" The Lannister spy received no more time to protest before Tristifer pierced the man's heart swiftly.
Tristifer's voice cut through the tense silence in the basement as he addressed the wide-eyed gold cloak. "I do not like traitors," he stated simply, his tone carrying a weight that left no room for doubt. With that, he turned on his heel, sheathing his castle-forged blade.
Emerging from the dimly lit confines of the basement, Tristifer was momentarily blinded by the brilliant sunlight. His guard formed around him as he walked unhindered to his courser. With practiced efficiency, they mounted their horses, and Tristifer bid farewell to the guardhouse's lieutenant with a salute.
Tristifer's entourage made their way swiftly through the bustling streets of King's Landing, the smallfolk parting before them as usual. Arriving at the nearest Western Barracks, Bryen awaited him at the entrance.
"Word from a friend, Commander. My solar is closest," Bryen informed him.
Ascending the steps to the Captain's quarters, Tristifer found his suspicions confirmed as he read the missive laid upon his old desk. Lannister banners on the horizon and a small council meeting called by the King—information courtesy of Varys, as expected.
Before they could discuss further, a knock interrupted their conversation.
Bryen opened the door to reveal a seemingly unsuspecting man with a passive demeanor. The man bowed in greeting, his gaze fixed on Tristifer as he delivered his message. "A friend wishes to inform the Commander that Grand Maester Pycelle has persuaded His Grace to open the city's gates for Lord Tywin's arrival. Our friend believes this to be a grave error."
With no further words, the man departed, leaving Tristifer and Bryen exchanging a surprised glance once the door was closed.
Tristifer shook his head, his mind already racing with plans. "The Lannisters will be approaching from the Gold Road," he mused, turning to a map of the city with the gates highlighted. "You are to send riders to the Gate of the Gods and the Lion Gate. No gate is to be opened, not even if the King himself arrives. Assign our most loyal lieutenants to each gate, ensuring that nothing enters or leaves the city."
Bryen nodded in understanding, his shock giving way to determination. "I'll also inform Addam of the situation and mobilize all his guardsmen," he added, making a mental note of the tasks ahead.
"Lastly, prepare a few more loyal and mounted men to accompany me to the Red Keep. Have them ready within minutes. I'll await with my guard in the courtyard. I trust you in this, Captain," Tristifer concluded, his gaze unwavering as he imparted his instructions.
With a firm nod, Bryen acknowledged the orders. "Consider it done, Commander," he assured before Tristifer departed the solar, leaving Bryen to set the plans in motion.
Tristifer mounted his horse once again, feeling the dull ache in his legs. There was no time to nurse joint pains now, he reminded himself, observing the barracks springing to life with activity as men hurried back and forth. Horses were watered and saddled, armories emptied as preparations were made.
His requested mounted men soon joined him, and Tristifer led the reinforced entourage out of the bustling courtyard. Riders carrying urgent missives rushed past him, heading back to where he had arrived from less than half an hour ago.
The smallfolk seemed to take notice of the increased activity, standing in parted lines all the way to the foot of Aegon's High Hill. Tristifer paid little attention to them, his mind instead occupied with thoughts of what the next hours would bring.
As Tristifer approached the gatehouse of the Red Keep, he saw the great bronze gates lowered before him.
"Who rides there?" a voice called out from atop the curtain walls.
"Commander Tristifer Mudd of the City Watch and his men!" Tristifer yelled in reply.
The creaking of rising gates soon followed. "Welcome back, Commander. It's a madhouse," the man atop the wall finally stated, relief evident in his voice.
Tristifer nodded in acknowledgment as he passed through the now raised gates, finally catching sight of the gold cloak lieutenant awaiting them.
"Lower the gates again, Lieutenant, and don't raise them for anyone other than me. Is this understood?" Tristifer commanded firmly as his entourage passed the lieutenant and a few gold cloaks.
"Of course, Commander," the lieutenant replied promptly.
Tristifer then turned to one of his riders. "Gather the men left in the barracks. I want them here in this courtyard yesterday." He didn't wait to see the man follow his command, already hearing the sound of a horse being spurred and thundering away. Just as he was about to dismount, a small child suddenly sprinted from behind a stable. Tristifer's guard moved to intercept the child but stopped at his command.
The child stood on tiptoes to hand him a note before disappearing back into the keep. Tristifer quickly read the missive.
"You two," he gestured to a couple of reinforcements, "gather some men on your way and detain Grand Maester Pycelle. He should be in his tower." The riders he pointed to nodded and set off without hesitation.
Tristifer then swept his gaze and selected one from the reinforcements and one from his guard. "You two will secure Princess Elia and her children. Take them to the barracks. I expect you to be respectful and courteous. Find some disguising robes to hide them as well. You are not to let her refuse, understand? Get it done."
Left with around a dozen men, Tristifer surveyed them all before issuing his orders. "The King has failed in his duty to his realm and is therefore unfit for his position. His tyranny cannot continue and ends today. All but one will follow me to the throne room. The last one will leave half of the men from the barracks here to defend the gatehouse of the keep and then bring the other half to reinforce us in the Throne Room. Let's move," he commanded before urging his horse toward the keep proper.
Tristifer encountered servants scurrying about, but none dared impede his path as he rode through the pale-red corridors of the keep. Finally, they arrived at the grand entrance to the Throne Room, where two Targaryen Men-at-Arms stood guard.
"In the name of his Grace, open these doors," Tristifer demanded. One of the guards shook his head firmly.
"His Grace's orders are clear. None are to enter," the guard replied with unwavering resolve, though his eyes darted nervously between Tristifer and the men behind him.
Tristifer turned in his saddle to address his men. "Restrain these men." He then guided his mount to the side as his dismounted men approached the Targaryen guards.
The guards were startled but quickly drew their steel. Tristifer's men followed suit, and in the brief clash that ensued, the leading Targaryen guard was wounded before they were subdued. Tristifer then nodded for his men to open the great doors to the Throne Room.
Passing the now restrained and gagged guards, who were watched by one of his men, Tristifer got the others to mount their horses once again. It would be important to be mobile, and the gods knew there was enough space in the grand Throne Room. The doors opened, and he entered. The scene revealed to him was concerning. A hoarse cackling reached his ears as he ordered his horse to enter the room.
"Burn them all!" echoed a voice around the voluminous room, King Aerys' haggard form pacing in front of the steps leading to the Iron Throne.
Tristifer then noticed the white-cloaked form of Ser Jaime entering at the same time from one of the side entrances. Blood was visible dripping from the Kingsguard's blade even from Tristifer's distance. The King seemed to notice this at the same moment.
"You killed him?!" the Targaryen exclaimed. Tristifer sped up his horse when the King began fleeing toward the Iron Throne in a panic. "You mean to kill me!"
Ser Jaime seemed singularly focused upon the now hysterical King, even seemingly ignoring Tristifer and his men's arrival.
"Halt!" Tristifer exclaimed as Ser Jaime began ascending the steps toward the whimpering form of the Mad King, who was half-way on his throne. Tristifer could already see blood running down from behind the King's frail form.
Tristifer's exclamation seemed to finally stir the Kingsguard knight from his unfailing march. The knight didn't turn away from the king. Lion and prey in many ways.
"He means to blow the entire city up," the knight stated in a shaky voice, raising his bloody sword toward the monarch.
Tristifer was momentarily confused. Blow up the city? How would the King even... Tristifer's eyes widened, while one of his men drew a sharp breath.
Without hesitation, Tristifer dismounted from his horse, drawing his blade in the next moment. He heard the telltale sound of blades being unsheathed from all behind him as his men followed his lead.
"Very well" Is Tristifer's simple reply. King Aerys who had seemed to believe he was being rescued chocked in surprise as he suddenly had his own Kingsguard's blade lodged in his throat.
The King's eyes grew unfocused as Ser Jaime retracted his blade and turned back to Tristifer and his men. The emerald green eyes of the Lannister were all but lifeless as he fell to a knee and presented his blade in surrender. Tristifer nodded to one of his men, who stepped forward and confiscated the bloody blade.
"Who did you kill, and is there any more risk from this wildfire plot?" Tristifer asked hesitantly as two of his men went forward and restrained the man.
Ser Jaime found some steel in his eyes as he met Tristifer's brown orbs. "The Hand Rossart. Our late King conspired with him to plant wildfire all around the city and blow it when my father's host entered. There are still two Wisdoms in the Alchemists' Guild that I am aware were involved in the plot, Garigus and Belis. They will not start it on their own, though."
Tristifer nodded. "A heroic action from the most unlikely of sources. I am sorry to say that we no longer live in the Age of Heroes. These dark times have no place for them," Tristifer explained. Ser Jaime seemed to already expect this. "Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, you are hereby under arrest for regicide toward his Grace Aerys Targaryen, Second of his Name. I am afraid that execution will be your fate," Tristifer declared with some genuine sadness. If Tristifer was to salvage this war and achieve anything, then it was all or nothing. There was no place for sympathy or heroes.
The room was suddenly filled with marching, and Tristifer turned to see his gold cloak reinforcements. He took one look at the Iron Throne before shaking his head.
"Gather a war council in the small chambers. I want every small council member you can find, except the Grand Maester. He shall be transferred to the black cells under heavy surveillance."
Tristifer then turned back to the men holding Ser Jaime. "Escort him to the Black Cells as well."
The Mudd sighed for a moment, gathering himself as he approached his courser. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn't afford to dwell on fatigue now. With a deep breath, he mounted his horse, swinging his leg over the animal and settling firmly in the saddle. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon him, but there was no room for hesitation. What lay ahead was daunting, but he steeled himself for the challenges to come. After all, what choice did he have? Surrender to the whims of a Lannister lackey or succumb to the chaos that would surely ensue with Robert Baratheon's arrival?
The thought of fading into obscurity, stripped of his ambitions and reduced to a mere cog in the machine, was unbearable. Tristifer knew he was destined for more, and he was determined to seize his destiny, whatever the cost.
His guard followed closely behind as lieutenants barked orders and gold cloaks hurried to carry out their directives. Tristifer set course for the gold cloak barracks, navigating through the bustling corridors filled with men moving with purpose. Despite the chaos that gripped the city, he felt a sense of control. The Keep may have been teetering on the brink of upheaval, but for now, Tristifer held the reins of power firmly in his grasp.
They arrived swiftly at the barracks, and Tristifer soon found himself on foot once again, making his way through the almost deserted building. Voices reached his ears as he approached his quarters, and he wasn't surprised to find Varys waiting for him.
The spymaster turned to Tristifer with a raised eyebrow, clearly aware of the situation unfolding. "It seems you've cultivated quite a loyal following, Commander. They refused to let me near our new King and Queen-Mother."
Tristifer nodded to the guards posted at the door. "Let us pass, my friends," he said, and they parted to allow Tristifer and Varys entry, while his guards remained outside.
Inside, they found a weary Princess Elia holding her napping infant and toddler. She looked up sharply as they entered. "I demand to know what's going on! You have no right to detain me here, in your chambers," she stated pointedly.
Tristifer raised his hands placatingly. "You will have your answers, Your Grace."
Varys glanced at Tristifer before addressing Elia in his soft voice. "Indeed, much has happened. We require your presence at a war council. You are, after all, the mother of our new King."
Elia's expression shifted as she looked down at her son. "Oh."
Varys continued, "King Aerys was struck down by his own Kingsguard. A most unfortunate development."
"Ser Jaime?" Elia asked, disbelief and shock evident on her face.
"He has been restrained, caught in the act by me and my men. Rest assured, he will be treated with respect, regardless of his fate, Your Grace," Tristifer assured her.
Elia fixed him with a searching gaze before nodding distractedly. "So what happens now? Do we surrender?" Her gaze flickered down to her children.
Varys shook his bald head. "No," he said, exchanging a glance with Tristifer.
Without hesitation, Tristifer stepped forward. "I will succeed our late Hand Rossart and become young King Aegon's regent, to salvage this war effort," he declared firmly.
Elia looked at him in shock. "Hand of the King? Regent?"
"Who else?" Tristifer countered. "Robert Baratheon will show no mercy, and if he intends to usurp the throne, he cannot afford to let claimants like Aegon live. My gold cloaks are now the only thing standing between Lord Tywin and twelve thousand Westerland soldiers from wreaking havoc on this city and your children." He finished with a determined look, emphasizing the gravity of the situation they faced.
"I-I see. I suppose I don't have much say either way," Elia eventually concedes, her tone devoid of accusation.
Varys smiles softly, shaking his head slightly. "This is the only way. Ser Tristifer now leads the only Royalist force left here in the Crownlands."
"Then I will defer to you, Ser Tristifer," Elia states, her acceptance tinged with resignation.
"I appreciate your cooperation. It's imperative that we present a united front now, for King Aegon's sake," Tristifer replies with a grateful smile.
"King Aegon," Elia echoes, her gaze drifting to the still sleeping babe in her arms.
"King Aegon, the sixth of his name," Varys declares solemnly. "Long may he reign."
End of Chapter
This has been a chapter that since initially planned was a chapter I was very eager to write. A great political play lots happening, and Tristifer finally properly chooses a side.
I am aware that it may not be the most obvious choice but Tristifer would not gain anything from joining the Rebels now. As he mentions he would be lucky to remain Commander and that wouldn't help resurrect House Mudd at least not for a very long time.
We are now also halfway through this fic as far as I have planned. We will not reach WOTFK in this fic though that may become a sequel that I already have some ideas for... maybe. First I would need to finish this of course.
Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and want to read more! Until next time.