CHAPTER XVI
On Tired Lions and Broken NosesJason Lannister stirred from a sleep as deep and troubled as the Blackwater's depths, his arse aching from hours bent over parchments that might as well have been chains. He had conquered the tide of them...or so he'd told himself...rewarding his triumph with a steaming bath, a flagon of Arbor red, and a collapse onto silken cushions in his chambers. Snores had chased away the ghosts of ledgers and royal decrees, but victory, like so much in King's Landing, proved fleeting.
A timid prod from a guard's glove yanked him back to the world. The man stood there, pale as milk, gulping like a fish hauled from the Rush. Jason's bloodshot eyes narrowed, a vein throbbing in his temple like a war drum. "What in the seven bloody hells do you want?" he growled, his voice a rasp of gravel and sleep.
"Y-Your Grace...no, my lord," the guard stammered, eyes darting to the door as if it might sprout teeth. "The king summons you. At once. To the council chambers."
Jason rose like a lion prodded from its den, his golden mane disheveled, his glare fit to curdle blood. The guard fled as if pursued by demons, and Jason couldn't blame him. Even a Lannister's morning temper was a thing to fear, especially when dragged from dreams of Casterly Rock's comforts to this stinking pit of vipers.
He dressed hastily, a crimson doublet over a linen shirt, his boots echoing on the stone floors of Maegor's Holdfast as he made his way. The Red Keep was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, its walls whispering of old cruelties. Guards nodded curtly as he passed, their eyes averted. Power was a cloak Jason wore lightly, but it weighed heavy on those around him.
The council chambers loomed, heavy oaken doors flanked by goldcloaks. Jason pushed through, the hinges groaning like old bones. The room was dimly lit by flickering torches, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and unwashed ambition. A long table of polished weirwood dominated the center, carved with dragons and ravens that seemed to snarl in the half-light.
Lord Ormund was already there, a bull of a man with a beard like black wire, rubbing his temples as if to crush a rebellion… of too much Redwyne's Red no doubt- in his skull. His eyes were red-rimmed, his massive frame slumped in a chair that creaked under his weight. Other councillors milled about: the simpering Lord Staunton, ever eager to lick boots; the sharp-tongued Maester Pylos, quill in hand; and a few lesser lords whose names Jason barely recalled, their faces blending into the tapestry of courtly mediocrity.
What snared his attention, though, was the Lord Commander, Ser Duncan the Tall...no, Ser Duncan the Large, as some jested behind his back...locked in a murmured exchange with his namesake, Duncan the Small. The Prince of Dragonflies, they called him, a title as mocking as it was apt. Lithe and quick, with hair instead of beaten silver was common black and a smile that could charm serpents, the prince had spurned Ormund's sister years ago for some lowborn witch of the woods. Their marriage was a bard's tale of passion, but barren as the Dornish sands...no heirs, no legacy. Small wonder Ormund ignored him, staring fixedly at the table as if it held the secrets to Storm's End's granaries.
"Why in the hells is that fool here?" Jason muttered to himself, sinking into a chair. The prince had ridden in from the Reach only yesterday, trailing rumors of tourneys and trysts. Yet here he was after all this time, in the heart of power, whispering with the Lord Commander like old campaigners.
The king's voice drifted from the adjoining solar, low and urgent, mingled with the steadier tones of Crown Prince Jaehaerys. Whatever they debated, it was not for open ears. Jason drummed his fingers on the table, irritation mounting. Dragged from bed for this? To wait like a common petitioner?
A guard burst in, announcing, "Lord Caspian Celtigar, of Claw Isle!"
Jason's smirk faded as the man entered for he had noticed as always his valyrian features were sharp, silver hair cropped short, but today his face was a ruin. A nose swollen like an overripe plum, crusted blood at the nostrils, eyes shadowed by bruises blooming purple and black. Behind him trailed Ser Jaremy, his sworn sword, rigid as an iron rod, and old Thoren Celtigar, the uncle, whose perpetual scowl was sourer- could spoil milk from ten paces.
The room stirred. "Seven hells, lad," Ormund boomed, his headache forgotten in a bark of laughter. "What demon did you wrestle? Looks like it won."
Caspian inclined his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips despite the pain that twisted them. "A demon named negligence, my lord. I sparred too late with Ser Jaremy here. Forgot how sharp his reflexes are when the wine's worn off."
Jaremy shifted, his face a mask of stoic regret. "My lord is too kind. 'Twas an accident...my pommel caught him wrong."
Thoren grunted, arms crossed like knotted ropes. "My nephew's been buried in scrolls and schemes. Forgets a lord needs steel in his spine as much as ink in his quill. I told him...train proper, or don't train at all."
Caspian chuckled, though it came out as a wince. "Uncle's wisdom, as ever. I'll heed it next time, lest I end up looking like I kissed a battering ram."
The Lord Commander, Ser Duncan, stepped forward, his massive frame dwarfing the room. "Well met, Lord Caspian. Gods, that nose...reminds me of my squiring days. Broke mine thrice before I learned to duck."
Caspian clasped the offered forearm, his grip firm despite the mismatch in size. "Well met, Ser Duncan. And aye, ducking's a skill I must master. Though with your height, I'd wager you learned to loom instead."
Duncan barked a laugh, deep and rumbling. "Loom and swing, my lord. Loom and swing. But mind the small hours...nothing good comes from yard work after midnight."
Prince Duncan...the Small...grinned, leaning against a pillar. "Hear, hear. Though if it's a paramour's quarrel, we won't judge. My own nose stayed straight only by avoiding jealous husbands."
A ripple of chuckles ran through the room, but Ormund's face darkened like a storm cloud. He pointedly turned away, muttering something about "feckless dragonflies" under his breath. The prince's smile didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened, a flicker of old wounds.
Jason watched it all, his golden gaze keen as a hawk's. Caspian was smooth as ever, deflecting with charm, but there was a tightness in his posture, a subtle shift when he moved. And Thoren...old crab that he was, his rage simmered low even if he tried his best to have a smile- as ugly as it was, betrayed by a pulsing vein in his forehead.
Something stank here, and it wasn't just the fishy scent of Blackwater Bay wafting through the windows.
Before Jason could ponder further, the solar doors swung open. Silence fell like a headsman's axe.
Aegon entered, unadorned by crown or finery, his silver hair bound simply, lines of worry etched deep as riverbeds on his face. Behind him came the Crown Prince, still waifish yet the pallor of his skin had looked better than it had ever looked before, soft pink instead pale ice- he looked solemn, his jaw set like carved marble, eyes shadowed by the weight of something that had not existed yesterday.
Aegon's gaze locked on Caspian. "Gods preserve us, Cas...what happened to your face?"
Caspian bowed low, masking a grimace. "A trifle, Your Grace. Sparring gone awry. Nothing to trouble the realm."
The king frowned, unconvinced, but waved it aside. He took his seat at the table's head, Jaehaerys beside him. The air grew thick, pregnant with unspoken dread.
"You summoned us with haste, Your Grace," Caspian said, his voice steady as Valyrian steel. "What ill wind blows?"
Aegon hesitated, fingers drumming the wood. That pause alone sent chills through the chamber. Kings did not hesitate...not this one, who had forged peace from the ashes of rebellion.
"Claw Isle," Aegon said at last, his voice heavy as lead. "It has been attacked."
The words struck like wildfire in dry grass. The room exploded.
"Attacked?" Ormund roared, surging to his feet, chair toppling. "By whom? Pirates? Ironborn scum?"
"Seven hells!" Staunton yelped, his voice cracking like a boy's. "When? How many ships?"
Maester Pylos's quill scratched furiously, but his face paled. "Your Grace, details..."
Caspian staggered, color draining from his battered face. "My home... my family?" His voice broke, a rare crack in the armor.
Jaehaerys moved swiftly, gripping his shoulder. "Safe, Caspian. The raven vows it. Lady Vaelena, your cousins...all unharmed. The keep held."
Relief washed over Caspian, but fury followed like a tide. He sank into a chair, fists clenched white-knuckled on the arms. "Who?" he demanded, eyes blazing. "Who dares strike at the crown's leal servants?"
Aegon's eyes met his, grave. "Blackfyres."
The name hung in the air like smoke for that name had been a thorn that the Tyrells culd not prune. Blackfyres...the bastard line, the scars of wars still bore by the realm for the pretenders skulking in Essos stilled dreamt of stolen thrones.
Chaos reigned. Ormund slammed the table, splintering a goblet. "Blackfyres? Here? In our waters? How did no scout see their sails? Spies asleep, or bought?"
Staunton leaped up, pointing wildly. "Treason! We must rally the fleet...call the banners, the royal navy!"
"Send ravens to every port!" another lord shouted. "Block the Gullet!"
Prince Duncan stepped forward, his light voice cutting through. "Calm, my lords. Blackfyres or no, panic serves them best. Remember the Fourth Rebellion...they thrived on our haste."
Ormund whirled on him, face thunderous. "Easy for you to say, dragonfly. You are safe in reach suckling teats off mead and merry. This is war on our doorstep!"
The prince's smile turned edged. "My blood's Targaryen, Lord Stag. Same as the king's. And I've bled for this realm in yards and fields you wouldn't sully your boots in."
Ormund's lip curled. "Bled? Who are you foolin- You spurned my sister for a woods witch and call that service? Spare us your bard's tales."
Tension crackled. Ser Duncan placed a massive hand on the prince's shoulder, a silent warning. "Enough lad," he rumbled. "The enemy's across the sea, not in this room."
But the shouting swelled. Lords argued over maps that weren't there, fleets they didn't command, vengeances half-formed. Aegon rubbed his brow, frustration plain. Jaehaerys murmured to Caspian, offering water and words of steel: "We'll avenge this, friend. But wisely."
Jason sat amid the storm, listening, observing. The chaos grated like sand in his boots. These men...highborn fools...barked like hounds without a scent. And Caspian... his shock was real, yes, the pallor, the tremor in his hands. But surprise? That was absent. As if the blow had been anticipated, braced for.
Thoren's fury burned hot, but controlled...eyes darting to his nephew, then away. Jaremy's stance was a warrior's vigil, not a man's stunned by news.
Jason's instincts, sharpened by years in this keep's shadow and his own courtly dances, whispered of shadows within shadows. A feint? A ploy? Or something darker, coiled in the crab's shell?
His patience frayed to breaking. Enough of this mummer's farce.
"MY LORDS!" Jason's roar shattered the din, echoing off the stone like a lion's challenge in the Westerlands.
Silence crashed down. Ormund froze, fist mid-air. Staunton gaped like a landed fish. Even Aegon blinked, startled.
Jason rose slowly, smoothing his doublet, his voice now silk over steel. "If we've finished squawking like fishwives at market, perhaps we might act as the king's council. Not a flock of panicked hens clucking over spilled grain."
Ormund huffed, lowering his arm. "Watch your tongue, lion. This is no jest."
"No," Jason agreed, eyes sweeping the table. "It's war...or the whisper of it. And we have but one raven's word: Claw Isle struck by Blackfyres. No details of ships, numbers, losses. We leap to banners and blood without knowing if it's raid or invasion?"
He paced, hands clasped behind his back. "First, we need to confirm. Ravens to Claw Isle, Dragonstone, Driftmark. Question captains in the ports...someone saw sails, heard rumors. Spies in Essos? Stir them. If Blackfyres move, it's not in silence."
Murmurs of assent rippled.
"Second," Jason continued, "ready the fleet...quietly. No grand muster that shouts our fear to every whore in the east. Though we need to start arming the ships in harbor, recall patrols... we need to be poised, not parade around like randy hounds."
Aegon nodded, leaning forward. "Wise, Lord Jason. Haste has felled many a kings before."
"Third," Jason said, turning to Caspian. "Your kin's safety, my lord. Guard them close. This strike at Claw Isle...could be lure, drawing eyes east while knives slip in the west. Or..." He trailed off, watching Caspian's silver eyes meet his, unblinking.
"Or what?" Caspian asked softly but Jason shrugged. "Or nothing. But caution costs little."
Caspian nodded. "Your counsel honors me, Lord Lannister. I'll see to it."
Ormund grunted approval. "Aye. Quiet steel, then thunder if needed. But if those bastard flames show true..." His eyes gleamed. "We drown them."
"We will," Aegon affirmed, voice regaining its royal edge. "Maester Pylos, draft the ravens. Ser Duncan, alert the goldcloaks... for when the rumors will reach the city- and it will, make sure chaos find no purchase."
Prince Duncan tried to meet his father eyes but Aegon ignored him, instead turned to his younger son and heir, "Jaehaerys, oversee the fleet's readiness." With that the firstborn seemed to deflate much to Ormund's satisfaction.
Interesting.
The room exhaled, tension easing into purpose. Lords nodded, chairs scraped as they rose to tasks.
Jason sank back, exhaustion gnawing anew. His head throbbed, visions of his wife's arms and a soft bed taunting him. King's Landing was a cesspool, draining the soul drop by drop.
As the council dispersed, Caspian approached, Thoren and Jaremy flanking like shadows. "Lord Jason," he said, voice low. "Your words cut the fog. The realm owes you thanks."
Jason waved it off. "The realm owes me sleep. But tell me true, crab... that nose. Sparring, eh? Or did something esle peck it?"
Caspian's laugh was genuine, pained. "Would that it were so poetic. Nay, just my own folly. Though if enemies lurk, perhaps I should blame my own shadow."
Whatever the fuck it meant.
Their eyes locked...a moment of probing, unspoken questions. Then Caspian bowed and withdrew.
Jason watched them go with keen interest for Thoren's scowl had deepened more furious- as if it was even possible- as marched to his nephew's side and Jaremy's hand resting on his hilt as he looked around for eaves droppers, the trio stomped to their rooms, the crabs deep in hushed conversation.
Later, in his chambers, Jason poured wine, staring at the flickering hearth. Blackfyres rising? Possible. But Caspian's kin safe, the attack repelled...too neat. A staged strike? To rally the realm, or mask something else?
He shook his head. Conspiracies bred like rats in this keep.
Perhaps it was nothing…maybe it was exhaustion that played its old tricks.
But instincts lied seldom. And Jason Lannister's purred of deeper games, where lions had forever more danced on the edge of treason's blade.
The night deepened, ravens winging into the dark. In Essos, perhaps, kinslayer sharpened steel, his two heads stayed awake plotting. In King's Landing, eyes watched, and plots thickened like blood in the cold.
But Gods was he tired, the games would wait.
For it was a matter of well needed rest that was afoot.