Robert's fingers stopped drumming only so he could take up his cup. "Gods, listen to you all. Ships, grain, duties, shutters. Is there no matter in this city that does not sound like a shopkeeper's grievance?"
"The city is mostly made of shopkeepers and the people who fail to pay them," Renly said pleasantly. "That is one of its more tiresome qualities."
Jon slid another parchment forward. "There is also the question of watch discipline. Janos Slynt requests increased stipend for three barracks and replacement of broken equipment in two more. There have been nightly knife-fights in Flea Bottom this past week, and three robberies under the Hill of Rhaenys."
"There are nightly knife-fights in Flea Bottom every week," Robert laughed, spilling some of his wine on the floor.
"That does not make them desirable," Stannis ground out through clenched teeth. The man would work that jaw into a diamond soon enough.
Robert gave him a long, irritated look. "No, brother, only inevitable. If half the city wants to gut the other half over a crust, let the watch hang a few and be done with it."
Jon Arryn's face did not change, but I saw the weariness gather behind the eyes. "If hanging a few solved the matter, Your Grace, we should have had peace in King's Landing years ago."
That landed. Robert scowled at the table and got up.
"Fine." he said, slapping the table. "This is why I let you handle these matter, Lord Hand. So that I might not develop an ulcer when bringing my esteemed Council solutions. I trust you have the matter well in hand."
He pushed his chair back and looked back at me. "Stay. You'll let me know if there's anything important by the end of this meeting." Then he turned around and waddled out of the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy in tow.
I heard a sigh and saw Jon Arryn reaching for another paper, then pausing as another cough took him, harsher than the first. He covered it with a handkerchief. Pycelle shifted in his chair, beard rustling over his chains.
"My lord Hand," the maester began, "if the chill persists, I might prepare..."
"It does not persist," Jon said, folding the cloth away. "Continue."
Pycelle subsided, though not happily, while Stannis looked closely at Jon. He was almost staring at him, studying his face. I could feel the intensity of his gaze from across the room.
I frowned.
Varys, who had thus far been still as cream in a bowl, now folded his hands more tightly over his middle. "If I may, Lord Hand," he said in his soft, silken voice, "the temper in the streets is not merely a matter of bread and knife-fights."
Jon Arryn raised an eyebrow. "What troubles your web now, Lord Varys?"
"Whispers," Varys said.
Renly let out a laugh. "There are always whispers."
"True," said Varys. "But some are the harmless poison of washerwomen, and some drift upward from below because they have been fed too well to die quietly."
Jon looked across the table. "Speak plain, Lord Varys."
The eunuch dipped his head a fraction. "I hear, from kitchens, stables, alehouses, and the river steps, an increase in certain... indecorous murmurings. Concerning the royal children, my lords. Their appearance. Their resemblance. The strength with which they seem to favor one side of the family."
Silence followed. A real one this time.
Then Pycelle gave a scandalized little choke. "Base gossip. Filth. The city breeds this sort of venom whenever idleness and envy are left too long together."
I saw Jaime by the door stiffen. Oh. Did that mean my cousin was truly complicit? Or that he merely suspected the truth about his actions.
Then Pycelle found his outrage again. "These rumors are beneath contempt."
"Not when they concern the succession," Jon Arryn said, cutting off Pycelle completely.
Stannis's face had not changed, but I saw it then: the smallest turn of Jon Arryn's head. The meeting of their eyes. A glance, no more. Too quick. It passed between them like a whisper.
I kept my own face blank and my breathing even. Jon Arryn had sent me to confirm for myself that Baratheon bastards had Robert's features. That meant he knew without a shadow of a doubt, what I had suspected for so long.
Varys saw the silence settle and moved with exquisite care. "I do not report the tale because I believe it," he said. "I report it because others may."
"And what would you have us do?" Renly asked, easy in tone though no longer easy in the eye. "Order every tavern in King's Landing to admire children more discreetly?"
"I would have the matter watched," Jon Arryn said.
Littlefinger spread two fingers on the tabletop. "Watched, certainly. Though if we begin swatting at every rumor, we shall soon have no coins left for those grains."
At length Jon sighed and said, "Enough for today. Lord Varys, continue to listen. Lord Stannis, I want names from the harbor clerks within the week. Lord Petyr, find me room enough to ease grain duty for a month without bleeding the city watch. Grand Maester, see me afterward. The rest of you, dismissed."
I took my queue and left the room, all the while thinking about the developments regarding the parentage of the royal children. I felt the noose tightening, and for once, I wondered, if I should talk to my line. To my cousins. The Queen and the Kingslayer.
Did I owe them that?
"A prince owes his blood loyalty, Arthas, but he owes the Kingdom more." My father's words answered.
The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
Of course, the Queen had already decided for me.
A serving woman in Lannister crimson found me before I had reached the outer stair.
"Her Grace would have a word with you, My Lord." she supplied.
There are invitations in the Red Keep that no man can mistake for choice. I inclined my head, cursing inwardly, dismissed Johne and William with a glance, and followed her deeper into Maegor's Holdfast.
Before I turned the corner, I caught Tyrek's eye. He was looking at me with a raised eyebrow, but I merely shrugged in reply. He was too young for the games being played.
The queen had not chosen one of her larger chambers for this. That alone made me wary.
The room I was shown into was small by royal measure, though richer than most lords' halls: a withdrawing room with carved paneling, a low fire burning and three tall candles set in a silver stand that threw soft light over crimson cushions and gilded lionworks. If I had been anyone other than who I was, maybe that would have impressed me. Cowed me, even. As it stood, it was a poor attempt at intimidation, but nothing less than I could expect from my cousin, the Queen.
Cersei Lannister sat beside the window in a high-backed chair, one arm laid along the armrest as though it were a throne. She had not yet fully undressed from the day. Rubies still adorned her throat and years. Her gown was deep green, cut to flatter and to remind any who looked upon her that beauty, properly wielded, was itself a kind of weapon.
Her beauty disgusted me, I thought. It had much of the same quality I had seen in the banshees of the Scourge: ruin clothed in the memory of grace, malice wearing a comely face.
One of her women stood behind her with a comb in hand, drawing it through the queen's pale gold hair in slow careful strokes.
The serving woman who had fetched me bowed and withdrew. The one with the comb waited only until I had made my own bow before Cersei lifted two fingers.
"Leave us." she commanded.
The women left without a word, leaving only the two of us in the room.
I remained standing, while the Queen studied me. Her eyes were narrowed, while she looked me up and down.
"You have been very visible of late, cousin," she said.
I bent my head. "I had not known I was under orders to be forgettable, Your Grace. My father, Lord Kevan, has bid me perform to the best of my abilities in King's Landing." I said. "As has my Uncle, Lord Tywin"
At that she stiffened. I knew mentioning Lord Tywin would provoke a reaction in her. She had never hidden her resentment of the favour the Lord of Casterly Rock had shown me over the years. I knew well enough what lay beneath it. Tywin did not cherish tools; he valued them. He saw what use might be made of a thing and cultivated it accordingly. A boy who could think, keep his own counsel, and swing a greatsword hard enough to matter was not the sort of tool a man like Tywin Lannister let rust.
Her mouth curved, though not in amusement. "Do not begin by trying to be clever with me, Arthas. It is tiresome in men and intolerable in boys. You are on the cusp of both, so the annoyance is doubled."
I simply looked at her, knowing she despised me when I did not react to her goads.
She studied me in silence a moment longer, green eyes cool and bright.
"Robert is enamored with you. He says your name in his sleep by now. Are you certain you are not bedding him, Cousin?" she said, in a disgusting voice, before continuing.
"Jon Arryn has begun to summon you. Jaime speaks well enough of your sword arm. You have acquired, in a remarkably short time, the sort of notice that usually gets lesser men killed."
"Then I am fortunate not to be a lesser man," I said before I could stop myself. I cursed myself inwardly. Goading the septon and the Queen had been one of my favorite past-times every since arriving in King's Landing, but I knew that I had outgrown the phase where it was merely an amusement. Now, my words could feasibly get me killed.
One pale brow rose. Cersei leaned back in her chair. "There," she said venomously. "That little flash of teeth. Robert hears it and thinks spirit, like a little soldier. Jon Arryn must surely hear it and think promise. Most of the fools in the castle hear it and think youth. I hear it and think danger. Every since I have laid eyes on you."
The room had grown very still. She had never spoken like this to me before.
She folded her hands loosely in her lap. "You were with Jon Arryn after supper last night. You were present in council today after the king left." Her gaze did not leave my face. "What did he want?"
There it was. The cold-hearted bitch knew something was afoot.
I kept my own expression level and replied. "He sent me on an errand."
"Yes," she said, dripping with contempt. "I know that much, Do not insult me again by pretending both of us are that stupid."
I swallowed, knowing the time had come. I had to make a decision there. Share my task with this depraved harpy, thereby aiding my house, or keeping the secret a while longer, preserving the dignity of Robert and providing Jon Arryn time to uncover the web.
But where would that road lead me to? Would it land me a step closer to the throne, or miles away from it? Would it help prepare and gird the realm against the threat to the North or would it weaken it?
Turning my mind from that line of thought, I asked myself another thing.
Did I have a middle way, an answer that would merely mollify, not satisfy?
"He asked me to collect a piece from Tobho Mott." I said slowly. "He asked for me to see, not listen,"
Her gaze sharpened. "And what exactly did he mean by that?"
I sighed, feeling a sliver of hope in the confession. Maybe she would buy it. "He meant for me to see a piece of our Grace's long line of bastardry. He wishes to remove all Royal Bastards from King's Landing, so they might not impute on Her Grace's honour."
"Too careful" she murmured, almost whispering."Far too careful."
I had to strain myself to hear her voice.
"So," she said at last. "Jon Arryn sends a Lannister boy to inspect one of Robert's bastards and send him away." Her mouth flattened. "That is bold of him."
I measured my next answer carefully. "The Lord Hand has always been aware of your disapproval for those born out of the Royal Bed. By sending me, he might have wished to avoid scrutiny from people closer to his own House."
She was watching me intently now. "I suspect there is more to this than you're letting on, dear cousin," she said. "So do not play the fool with me."
"When you would test a heart, Arthas, do not threaten it. Merely name aloud the thing it fears most." was the advice given by Uther as were preparing to interrogate a Defias Brotherhood member.
Looking back into her eyes, I decided to test her mettle. Gods help me if it was the wrong choice. But goading Cersei would ever remain my favorite past-time. Even Uther agreed.
"Your Grace," I began. "Today, during the small-council meeting, Lord Varys revealed some rumours that have been peddled by the lower masses, attempting to denigrate you and the Royal Children. They are naming the children bastards, born out of your union with our cousin, Ser Jaime."
At that, her whole body stilled. I could see her spine stiffen, her whole body lock up for a second, before she mastered herself. The look on her face was one of cool fury. So, there was truth to the rumours. I would have to decide later if learning the truth had been worth the cost.
"I presume the Lord Hand wishes to remove all potential objects of gossip, lest they become dragged and used to inflate the rumours to higher proportions," I opined, hoping she would see my line of thought.
After several long moments where neither of us said anything, she finally unclenched. She took a few steps towards me.
"You are blood of mine," she said at last. "Do not misunderstand what that means. It protects you from some things. It does not protect you from me."
That was the first honest thing coming out of her cunt-mouth.
"My place has always been with my house," I said.
"Has it?" she asked. "You speak of the Light unlike any septon, pray like a zealot, haunt the city like some little saint in crimson silk, giving alms to those deformed wretches in Flea Bottom, and now old Jon Arryn thinks you useful. Do not imagine you have leave to choose your loyalties."
"I have chosen nothing, Your Grace." I replied, slowly.
She studied me a moment longer, then gave a short, humorless smile "You have your father's steadiness, I'll grant you that. But remember this, cousin: You are of the House Lannister. Remember that before you run errands for other Houses."
"Lord Arryn is Hand of the King, your Grace. It is not for a squire to refuse a task set out by him," I said, knowing there was truth to the statement.
She took two steps back and her voice went cold.
"If Jon Arryn asks more of you, remember this: old men die. Blood remains."
I bowed. "As you say, Your Grace."
She flicked two fingers toward the door.
I left without another word, but her warning followed me out into the corridor and all along the torchlit passage.
Old men die. Blood remains.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chapter 3 is here everyone! Let me know what you guys think. I appreciate any kind of discussion and criticism!
"It is a perilous thing to be praised by kings in the hearing of princes."
The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
"Cut low, Tyrek," I shouted. "Pivot and use your momentum. Remember, movement is key!"
Standing in the yard, I could see my cousin sparring with a squire close to his age. Tyrek was panting heavily, barely keeping his sword up. His opponent wasn't faring any better, the boy having taken a blow to the mouth that had busted open his lower lip. Droplets of blood were running down his face, staining the yard.
"I can't," he growled. "I just fucking can't."
I looked to my right and raised an eyebrow at Ser Santagar. He was watching the bout from further up ahead. He met my eyes and made a gesture with his hands that suggested: Be my guest.
I sighed.
"Come on," I said, walking towards Tyrek. "Let me show you."
Before I could take Tyrek's sword, the door of the armory banged open hard enough to turn half the yard.
Out came Prince Joffrey, strolling like he owned all of us, which in his mind, was probably true. He was wearing a short quilted training doublet, worked in crimson and gold, the crowned stag and lion picked out bright upon the breast, with polished boots, and a look upon his pretty face that made me think he would rather be out torturing kittens and dogs, than sparring with steel in the yard.
At his shoulder strode Sandor Clegane, big as a gate and ugly as sin, half his face scarred and burned. The Hound's mouth twisted when he took in the yard, the panting boys, but he smiled when he noticed the blood.
I thought about the Cleganes then. Sandor and Gregor Clegane: two of the sorriest proofs in all the Seven Kingdoms that knighthood and honor were not one and the same. Sometimes, I still wondered how the Light had not scoured them from the face of Westeros.
Sandor, for all his bitterness, still had the look of a man who could control his impulses and string together a coherent thought. His brother, on the other hand, who was the one responsible for Sandor's face, was something much fouler. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, had long since passed beyond ordinary cruelty into a sort of infamous legend of the blackest sort. Men told tales of him in every hall from the westerlands to the Trident: dead horses, broken men, servant beaten to death, women screaming behind closed doors. And of course, the story that had truly made his name known across the Seven Kingdoms: the handling of Elia Martell and her children during the finishing touches of the Rebellion.
And both Clegane brothers had been raised to their present standing by none other than my uncle, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock.
I thought about him then. Whatever else might be said of Tywin Lannister, no man could deny the force of his will. He was a man who saw disorder and moved to master it. A man who, upon his elevation to the Lord of House Lannister, had found his realm rotted from the inside out and through sheer force of will and some brutal application of violence and fear, had managed to turn it into one of cleanest, prosperous and most ordered realms in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Yet, for all he had built, there was much in his methods I could not admire, and less still in certain men he chose to keep close. Ser Gregor was one such choice. Useful, no doubt. Terrible beyond dispute. A beast set loose in service to order was still a beast, whatever banner flew above him, I thought.
I had never questioned him directly on that, but I knew that at some point in the future, the actions of our own bannermen would most likely lead to me carrying punitive actions against them.
"There he is," Sandor drawled, breaking my line of thought. "The king's chosen example."
Joffrey's mouth twisted, disfiguring his beautiful features. "I need no example."
"No," continued Sandor, watching Joffrey. "Only practice. His Grace made that plain enough for all to hear."
Joffrey's lip curled even more, if that would be possible.
Tyrek muttered something under his breath that ended in a cough. I looked at him, but his eyes were still downcast. Everyone was scared of "insulting" Prince Joffrey. Though the boy made it as easy as the Seven with his behaviour.
Ser Santagar came forward with measured steps, hands clasped behind his back. "My Prince," he said, ""His Grace, the King, commanded that you spend the morning in the yard."
"I know what he commanded," Joffrey snapped. His eyes slid to me at once. "Must I practice with him?"
Sandor gave a snort but kept his mouth shut.
""Aye, with him!" boomed a voice from the stands. I turned around and saw Robert Baratheon leaning on a rail with a goblet in hand. "Arthas! If the prince is to train, stop standing there gawping and put some sense into him. Santagar, don't coddle the boy. I'd have him sweat before midday for once in his life."
That won a few smothered sniggers from the squires. Joffrey heard them all.
"As you command, Your Grace," Ser Santagar called up.
Joffrey tried once more, sneering. "I've no need of him teaching me anything."
The King's laugh boomed across the yard, making me cringe. He was definitely not helping my case with Joffrey and the Queen. "No? Then you'll have no trouble showing it. Arthas, with him!"
I knew there was absolutely no way I could refuse this entire ordeal, so I inclined my head towards the Prince.
I took up a blunted sword from the rack and bowed my head slightly. "As Your Grace wishes. We can begin lightly."
"Do not condescend me," Joffrey said.
Light, give me strength; I thought.
"Then do not give me a reason to," I drawled.
That reddened him. He snatched a practice blade from an attendant and came into guard quickly enough. Not well, but not hopelessly either.
Ser Santagar's eye passed over the stance and stopped at the feet. "Wider, Your Grace. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight learned his guard in a yard, not from flatterers."
Joffrey moved his feet, while watching me with narrowed eyes.
"Strike at my shoulder," I said.
He did. His strike was quick enough that a slower boy would have taken the blow. I caught it on my blade and turned it away.
"Again." I commanded.
This time he came lower, trying to change his approach. Better. I let the edge glance away and nodded once. "Good. But your weight is running ahead of you. Keep it under…"
"I know what I'm doing." he snapped.
"Then do it." annoyance coming off me. He was impossible.
The third blow came harder, out of temper now. I gave ground, let him think he had pressed me, and then stepped inside the next thrust and touched his wrist with the flat.
"There," I said. "Once you overreach, a man takes the hand or the arm."
His face darkened. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Yes," I drawled. "It is called instruction."
King Robert laughed above us, turning to Ser Mandon Moore, who was standing near him. "Gods, listen to him." He turned and boomed again. "Go on, Joff. Hit him properly if it offends you."
Joffrey tried. To his credit, he did not freeze or whine. He came at me in a brief flurry that was fast, full of heat and pride and the need to look strong before all the people gathered. The first cut I turned. The second I checked. The third I slipped inside and laid my blade across his chest before he could recover his feet.
Silence fell in a ring around us.
Joffrey stared down at the wood against his doublet, then knocked it aside hard enough to sting my fingers. "You moved too soon."
"No," I said. "You gave me the opening"
"I did not." he said.
"Your Grace," said Ser Santagar, carefully, "one must always temper speed with discipline. You must think about the way your body might betray you, and open the way for an enemy strike…"
Joffrey looked from him to me to the gallery above, and I could see the exact moment shame curdled into hatred. That was the true lesson of the yard, where pampered boys like him were concerned. It was not in their performance, but in the way others would see them.
Pathetic, I thought.
Sandor scratched at the burned side of his face. "Well. He didn't kill you. That's a start."
The King barked a laugh and leaned over the rail. "Enough of that. The guests for Joffrey's nameday tourney have started arriving. Arthas, you'll ride and fight, as discussed. I want to see you take their fucking heads, boy!" he bellowed.
Then he calmed down, taking a large drag out of his goblet. "And you, Joffrey" he said, looking at Prince intently, "you'll train until you stop looking like some frail Frey come to ask for quarter."
Joffrey's lips thinned to a white line.
My face was stony, although inwardly my mind was already working. The nameday tourney. It would not be a great mad crush, like the stories of Harrenhall that men spoke of years later, but it would be large enough to matter: enough banners, enough knights, enough eyes watching that any triumph or humiliation there would travel far beyond King's Landing. It would serve as the first step-stone on the road to making my name known all across the Seven Kingdoms.
Uncle Tywin would come. My Father aswell. The thought pleased me, but it was laced with caution. Lord Tywin would no doubt need but a moment to sniff out the discord in the Red Keep. The King's praise, Joffrey's resentment, and Cersei's jealousy. He always saw where the danger gathered.
Joffrey lowered his practice sword and looked at me as if committing my face to memory for some future grievance. "This is not finished," he said.
"No," I dead-panned, turning around and rolling my eyes.
"Your training has only just begun." I called over my shoulder, walking away.
The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
The Lannister procession had arrived in King's Landing earlier that day, men in crimson and golden colours bearing banners that proudly displayed the lion of our House. Behind them came wagons loaded with chests, rolls of cloth, strongboxes, writing desks, casks, and all the other small burdens that trailed after power wherever it chose to settle. Gold cloaks had cleared the way before them, though the smallfolk had needed little urging. Men always made room when my uncle entered a city. Some did it from respect, more from the memory of the Sack, and the wisest from both.
I had watched from the outer yard as they came through the gate in a measured river. No songs had been sung. No man shouted. The sound was harness leather, iron-shod hooves, wheel-rims grinding stone, and the occasional barked order from a captain.
My father rode near the front, plain beside the brighter men around him, which was his way. It had been near two years since last I saw him. I had missed him, if I was being honest with myself. That was the simple truth of it. The Light had been kinder to me than I deserved in this much, at least, for it had given me a second father who was as good a man as the first: wise, dutiful, patient, and of a steadiness I had come to value more with every passing year.
I remembered a winter night in Lordaeron, when I was still a boy and the world had not yet broken. I had come to my father in tears over some small hurt I can no longer name, and he had drawn me close beneath the weight of his mantle while the fire burned low.
"Never doubt this, Arthas," he had said, his hand warm against my head. "A crown may command men, but it is love that binds them. Family is not the burden of a king. It is what makes him worthy of becoming one."
I had believed him with all the faith a son could give. He had loved me truly, and I had answered that love with ruin.
I will never betray my father again, I thought.
When he saw me standing by the yard wall in my crimson doublet, he pulled up at once.
"Arthas." he said.
"Father." I inclined my head, smiling.
He dismounted and caught me by the shoulders before I could fully bow. The embrace was brief, hard, and real. I enveloped him in an embrace and held onto him, tightly, screwing my eyes shut until I could feel tears forming. My Father was not a man given to wasting feeling in public, which made what he did show all the more valuable. I smelled dust on his cloak, horse on his gloves, and the clean leather of the road. After a moment, we broke the embrace and he leaned back enough to look at me properly.
"You look well," he said.
"Well enough to pass muster," I snorted.
That drew the faintest huff from him, almost a laugh. "Has the city shown it's true colours already?"
"In more ways than I had wanted," I replied, shrugging.
"Yes, that sounds like King's Landing." His hand stayed on my arm a moment longer before he let it go. His eyes moved over me then, quiet and assessing, taking stock the way he always did. "You've changed some."
I let the moment hang between us. He and Uncle had both maneuvered pieces in such a way that I landed as King Robert's squire. While I readily admitted to myself it had brought me closer to the seat of power, capable of amassing influence and meeting people, it had also brought me closer to the harpies nest and her brood. I had no idea if I could be completely honest with my Father regarding the dealings of these past months.
"You've not seen me in two years, Father," I replied, smiling. "A boy changes into a man soon enough at my age. I would endeavour to change even more."
My Father looked at me closely then. "You have learned some manners from the Court as well, I see,"
I shrugged once more. "Being near the Royal Family makes one learn many things, Father."
At that, he snorted. "Ah. And what do you make of them?"
I glanced past him, toward the tail of the procession filing through the gate. "You don't want to know," shaking my head.
He patted my arm. "A fair answer, for I can imagine the heat Cersei has put you through. But your Uncle will not take it."
I sighed again. "No, he won't."
"He'll want the plain truth," he said, taking hold of my arm and squeezing. "And he usually gets it."
As if summoned by mention, Lord Tywin's horse came through the gate moments later, pale mane tossing as the beast stamped once upon the stone. My uncle sat the saddle as if he had been poured into it and set there to judge the world. Age had silvered his whiskers and lined his face, but none of it had softened him. It had actually sharpened him.
His gaze found me at once and he drew nearer.
"Arthas," he said.
"My lord." I said, going to a knee. Over the years I had learned that Tywin Lannister despised groveling, but he had always valued proper respect, especially from men he judged useful.
"Rise, boy." he gestured with his hand. "You have not embarrassed the House yet, I trust."
"Not beyond recovery, my Lord." I replied.
A faint movement touched his mouth, gone so quickly another man might have missed it. With my uncle, that was close enough to warmth.
"See me when the rooms are fit for work," he said.
"As you command." I bowed.
He turned his mount slightly. "Kevan."
"My lord." Father replied, bowing his head.
Then he was gone again, already issuing orders before the horse had fully wheeled, his voice low and measured, never wasted. Men leapt to obey all the same. My father watched him for a moment, then looked back to me. "You know what that means."
"It means I am to report." I replied.
"It means," my father said, "that he has already heard fragments and wants the truth."
"Then I had best provide it." I said.
"You had best do more than that." Kevan settled a firm hand on my shoulder. "Do not try to impress him. He has known you too long for that. Speak plainly. He has use for plain speaking, though few are wise enough to offer it in the proper measure."
I inclined my head. "When have I ever misjudged measure?"
"When you were ten and informed your uncle that a steward was a thief in front of half the hall." he dead-panned.
"He was a thief." I cringed.
"He was," my father agreed. "You were also ten."
"He thanked me for it later." I supplied.
Kevan huffed a laugh. "No. He did not."
"No," I said. "No, he didn't."
The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
I had been made to wait outside my Lord's new offices, while one messenger entered and another departed. Somewhere deeper in the Red Keep a woman laughed too loudly.
At last the door opened and one of Uncle's men stepped outside. "My lord will see you now."
I stepped inside.
The room was not large by the standards of Casterly Rock. A heavy table stood beneath the window, half-covered in rolls of accounts and correspondence. A map of the crownlands had been weighted flat by a dagger, a seal case, and a stone paperweight carved in the shape of a lion. Two chairs faced the desk.
Tywin Lannister sat in black and crimson, a gold chain at his throat, one gloved hand resting beside an open letter. He did not bid me wait. He did not rise. He simply looked up, and that was invitation enough.
"Close the door."
I did.
"Sit."
I sat.
For a moment he said nothing. He folded the letter once, set it aside, and studied me with the same measured attention he had given me in the yard. When he spoke, his voice was calm.
"You have been at court long enough to begin learning which fools are dangerous and which are merely tedious. I will have your accounting of recent events. Begin with the queen."
No preamble. No wasted courtesy. That, at least, was familiar. Why would I expect anything different? At least I knew I could speak plainly with him; an agreement we had reached when I had displayed potential far beyond my years while growing up in Lannisport.
"The queen takes offense as other people take breath.," I replied. "She prefers obedience to honesty and praise to competence. She mistrusts any man she cannot bend."
Tywin's face did not change. "Arthas, we once agreed to speak plainly. What you're describing is accounted for. Tell me something useful."
Useful. Of course.
"She is increasingly open in her displeasure. With the king, with the household, with men she believes to be his, and with any Lannister not wholly under her thumb." I said, thinking about my situation. I was certain he knew. "When thwarted, she presses harder rather than approaching a different path. That wins her small victories, I admit, but the fact remains: she is increasingly prone to taking a warhammer to a problem that requires a knife."
My uncle gave the slightest incline of his head. Continue.
"She also overvalues the prince's future authority," I went on. "She speaks and acts as if his position already settles all questions. In my opinion, it does not. Not while King Robert breathes, and not while half the court think the boy weak and the other half thinks him cruel."
At that his gaze sharpened. "And what do you think?"
I knew he was only probing me. Tywin Lannister already had an opinion of the boy, even though they had not met in a year. Soon enough, he would see the boy in the flesh, and adapt his prediction accordingly. I did not give Joffrey any favorable odds.
"I think Prince Joffrey is vain, thin-skinned, and too accustomed to mistaking fear for respect," I said. "When crossed, he lashes out to prove himself. When laughed at, he remembers. When corrected, he sulks unless his mother speaks first."
My Uncle steepled his fingers. "Cruel?"
"Yes," I instantly replied. "But with no discipline. At present it's merely a boy's cruelty. Sudden, selfish and more often than not, foolish and unbecoming."
"At present." Tywin's green eyes remained fixed on mine, while an eyebrow slowly raised. "You expect that to improve?"
"No," I snorted. "I expect it to ripen."
That earned a pause. He looked at me then, for a long while.
"Good," he said at last. "I had hoped your beliefs would not make you sentimental."
"In matters of the court, I have found the habit truly expensive." I replied, holding his gaze.
"As have I." came the reply.
He leaned back a fraction in his chair. "The queen sent one letter to me in which she described the prince as spirited. Another courtier wrote that he was high-tempered. Varys, with his usual talent for dressing rot in silk, calls him sensitive. I am not interested in court language. I am interested in whether the boy can be shaped."
I looked back at him then. Who could truly shape Joffrey? Not Cersei, that at least, was plain for anyone to see. Not the King; not while the Queen was present, at least. The only option would be to send the boy back to Casterly Rock and squire for my Uncle. That would surely turn that slurry into something that resembled a spine.
"By some men," I snorted. "Not by those who indulge him, that is plain for anyone to see."
"Does Robert indulge him?" he asked.
"The King neglects him," I said. "Which is worse in it's own fashion. When the king notices him, it is often to mock or rebuke. The prince then runs to the queen, and she takes matters into her own hands."
"But that is not truly the issue at hand, Uncle." I said, leaning back in my chair. "The problem is King Robert does not see himself in the Prince. He despises him, I think. The issue has grown to staggering proportions ever since I have become his squire."
"Is that so?" asked Tywin, leaning forward a fraction. I could see I had piqued his interest.
"Yes," I replied. "The King has taken a liking to me. More so, now that I have begun sparring with knights. He's started coming to the yard, to watch my training. He is constantly comparing Prince Joffrey with me, and most recently, he has ordered him to the yard to spar and learn from me."
"A bad thing?" he replied.
"In some ways," I said. "The boy despises me already. I fear instructing him in the yard will only solidify his dislike into something that will cross into hate. As I've said earlier, the King often comes to the yard to oversee my training. He has already done so. He has already mocked the Prince for his disinterest and his behaviour in the yard."
Uncle's eyebrow rose.
"My Lord, you must see the way he conducts himself for yourself," I said. "That will give a far better answer than I could."
"Mmm."
Tywin's fingers tapped the arm of his chair once. It was the only sign he gave of irritation.
"And the king?"
"Restless. Bored. He drinks as if he's a barrel with a hole at the bottom. His appetites are endless, while his interest in rule is non-existent." I said, pursing my lips. "He still has force in him, but I fear he will soon become a man lost in the muck of his excesses. In truth, Jon Arryn rules the realm in his stead."
He nodded. Nothing had changed there. King Robert never changed. And never would.
"And where do you stand in all this muck, Arthas?" he asked, at length.
"With our House," I said.
"That answer is beneath you." he replied, sharply.
I felt the rebuke like a slap, though his tone had remained level.
"I stand where I can be of greatest use to the House and our interests," I corrected. "The queen would like me pliant. The king prefers men who speak plainly, so long as they do not preach. The prince dislikes me when I do not flatter him."
"Which is often?" he asked.
"Whenever he speaks." I instantly replied.
A dry silence followed. On another face it might have been amusement. On Tywin's, it was merely the absence of displeasure.
"At least you have not learned stupidity in the capital," he said.
"I do try my best." I grinned.
He turned the letter in his fingers once, then set it down. "There are other things."
I said nothing, knowing the shape of what was to come.
"I have heard gutter whispers tying the queen too closely to her brother," Tywin said. "How far have they spread?"
There it was.
"Farther than they should," I replied. "Not in the halls that matter. Not openly. But in wine sinks, wash-yards, among servants, guardsmen, and the sort of men who trade in filth. Lord Varys put forth the issue before the small-council, a few nights ago."
"Do you credit them?" he raised an eyebrow.
"I credit that people have begun to whisper them more than once," I said. "That alone makes them dangerous. And lends credence in the eyes of some."
Tywin's face gave nothing away. "You will not repeat such talk."
"Of course not." I bowed my head.
He studied me a moment longer, then said, "I am also told you have been wandering Flea Bottom."
So that had reached him as well. It would have been more surprising if it had not.
"I have gone there," I said.
"With a purse." he said.
"With coin, yes." I replied.
"For alms?" His tone made the word sound faintly ridiculous.
"For bread," I said. "And for ears. Hungry men will lie for silver, but less well once they have eaten. I gave alms. I also listened."
I had gone mostly for the alms and the poor. But my dear Uncle did not need to know that.
"Charity is a poor habit in a man who wishes to rise," Tywin said. "Information is not. See that the city knows the difference, even if you do not trouble yourself overmuch with it."
"Yes, my lord." I said.
His gaze remained fixed on me. "And I hear you still pray."
I shifted in my seat. "I do."
"To this Light of yours?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes." I replied, steadily.
"And do you still hate septons?" he asked.
I let out a breath through my nose. "I hate men who fatten themselves while others live in squalor a stone throw away, all the while preaching the opposite."
Tywin regarded me in silence.
"Hatred is of little use unless governed," he said at last. "The Faith is an old beast. Do not kick it merely because you dislike its smell."
"I do not seek quarrel with the gods," I said. "Only with the hypocrites."
"Then learn to tell the difference quietly," he said. "A man may keep his gods. Or his Light. He need not advertise them."
He leaned back a fraction. "You have promise. That is why I have spent time on you. Promise is coin not yet struck. Do not mistake being valued for being beyond disappointment."
"No, my lord." I replied, knowing he always did that.
"Good." he said.
He reached for the letter he had set aside and turned it between his fingers without looking at it. "Your cousin has ever been preoccupied with power." changing the topic back to the Queen. "The prince has inherited the same weakness, but lacks the wit to disguise it."
There was no heat in his words. Tywin could flay better without it.
Even though I suspected what he thought of Joffrey, I couldn't help myself but probe.
"He may yet grow out of it," I said carefully.
"He may," Tywin allowed. "And a beggar may find a dragon egg in the gutter."
There was my answer. If my Uncle thought Joffrey was an imbecile as well, that at least settled the matter for me at the moment.
He set the letter down again. "You will remain near the center of things, but not in the queen's pocket. Observe. Speak little. Report what matters. And from now on, I expect us to converse more frequently."
"Yes, my lord." I said.
"Do not make everything plain in those letters, but you can indulge more than you think. The Grand Maester is not deaf to our interests." he said.
He shifted then, as if setting one matter aside and taking up another more worth his time.
"Onto more pleasant matters." he said. "I trust you mean to participate in the tourney?"
"Ha!" I let out a short laugh. "The King would have my hide if I dared not to. He all but signed me up to the lists himself."
Tywin's eyebrows shot up. He had not yet seen the favour king Robert had begun to show me. He hadn't seen me in the yard in years, as well.
"Yes, Uncle," I said. "You shall see soon enough. I mean to ride in both the joust and the melee, though I'll not hide that the melee suits me better."
"If that is so," Tywin said, "then hear me plainly: I expect Jaime to carry the joust."
My own brows rose at that. Ser Loras Tyrell would be there, and if half the tales told of him were true, the Knight of Flowers was no man to dismiss lightly in the saddle.
Tywin either noticed the flicker in my face or had expected it. "You may think as you like of Tyrell skill with a lance," he said, "but I am speaking of what I expect, not what mummers and fools delight in wagering upon."
Then his gaze fixed on me more directly.
"If you were to win the melee," he said, "it would bring a great deal of honor to our house."
He let that settle before continuing.
"More importantly, it would remind this court that House Lannister breeds more than pretty faces and soft-handed princes."
I held his gaze and inclined my head. "I'll do what I can to bring honor to our name, Uncle."
"See that you do," he said. "The court remembers spectacle for a day. Houses remember usefulness for a lifetime."
He rose then, and I rose with him. Standing, he seemed to fill the room more completely than before.
"You resemble your father in some things," he said, looking at me. "Keep that. You resemble me in others. Govern those."
It was as close to affection as Tywin Lannister was ever likely to come.
"I will try," I said.
"Do not try." He moved past me toward the table, already dismissing me by returning to work. "Do."
I bowed and turned for the door.
The Jousting Field, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
The shock of the blow ran through my shield, arm and then shoulder, exploding my shield and Ser Perwyn Frey's lance in a shower of splinters. My own lance broke a heartbeat later upon his in a burst that flew bright in the sun.
Then we were through, both still ahorse, both hauling mounts round under the roar of the stands.
I turned my destrier around with my knees and spurs, feeling the old stillness descend beneath the roar of the crowd. Not silence. The Light had never made battle quiet for me.
The Light is my strength, I intoned.
Tyrek came running alongside the rail with a fresh lance, red-faced and grinning as though he were the one with splinters in his arm. "You nearly had him, cousin."
"Near is wind," I said, dropping the splintered shaft. "Another."
He handed one up. I caught sight of blood on one knuckle where he had scraped himself in his hurry. He did not seem to feel it.
Across the lists, Perwyn was circling too, his own squire fastening a fresh shield-strap. He sat a little lower now. Not much.
Beyond him, beneath the banners of the Twins, Lord Walder Frey sat hunched in his seat like some ancient weasel done up in velvet and mail. Age had shrunk him to a bag of bones and spite, his parchment skin hanging loose upon his face, his little mouth pinched and mean beneath his hooded pale eyes. He looked less like a lord and more like a corpse too stubborn to lie down.
I glanced once more toward the stands. The King had leaned half out over the rail, laughing at something one of the men beside him had said. Joffrey was wearing a vicious smile. Cersei's mouth had gone thinner still. My uncle had not moved at all. My father's gaze was fixed on me, his brow furrowed in thought.
Jon Arryn sat near the king, spare and grave in his falcon-grey, one hand curled about the arm of his chair. Stannis was there as well, rigid as a spear haft, while Renly lounged beside him with that easy grace of his. Varys gleamed in silk a little farther down, smiling his soft spider's smile, and Grand Maester Pycelle seemed half-swallowed by his chains and beard, a stupid look on his face.
Then the horn sounded again.
This time I waited longer before lowering the lance.
We thundered together beneath the streaming pennons and the shrill cries of heralds. I saw Perwyn commit too early, his shield turning to receive where he thought I would strike. I shifted the point at the last instant, let the horse's stride carry the strike, and drove home.
The impact was better. Clean. My lance burst across his shield and I felt rather than saw him lose the seat of it. His body pitched sideways, legs flying loose of the saddle, and then Ser Perwyn Frey was tumbling down into the sand in a crash of mail and shield, while his horse ran on riderless.
The roar that followed hit a moment later.
King Robert was on his feet. "Ha!" he bellowed, voice carrying over trumpets and crowd alike. "Well struck, boy! Sent him flying like a sack from a mill-cart!"
The smallfolk took it up in their own fashion, not my name so much as the noise the king had made. Cheer, laughter and a few cries of "Lannister!". I looked up as I reined in and saw Joffrey's face darken. Cersei had not moved, but she looked as though she had bitten something bitter.
I saluted the king with the remnant of my lance, then the queen, then the stands at large, bowing for the people attending and cheering for me, and turned my horse from the field.
Tyrek came running from further up ahead and started shouting. "Arthas, you did it! Did you see his face when you sent him flying?"
"I admit the shower of splinters complicated matter, cousin," I said, swinging down from the saddle. I could still feel the shock of the tilt in my arm. "Now, stop gaping, cousin. Water."
Tyrek shoved the waterskin in my hand and hovered while I drank. Around us, the yard was in a frenzy. Grooms ran, boys shouted, armor creaked and further up, a herald bawled out names for the next pairing.
I spied Perwyn Frey across the yard. He was on his feet now, furious and dusty. I didn't envy his position: unhorsed by a fifteen year old. Not bad for a Frey, I thought, laughing.
"Why are you laughing," asked Tyrek, looking in Perwyn's direction.
"Nothing, cousin. I merely thought of a bad jest," I replied.
A herald passed us by then. "Ser Arthas, your opponent is ready in the next line."
Damn it, I thought.
Ser Jaime Lannister rode from the far side of the lists in gilded armor bright as a new-minted coin, the sun flashing from helm and gorget and lion-worked breastplate.
The crowd started roaring at once.
Tyrek looked on in silence. "Oh."
"Yes," I said. "Oh."
He looked from Jaime to me and swallowed. "You can still have him."
"Perhaps," I said, lowering my voice. "Don't know if I'm allowed."
He looked at me then, understanding what I meant. I would have to make the joust true, but there was no way I could win. If I valued my life and standing, that is.
Not that I could do so, in any case. Unhorsing a slurry-spined Frey was one thing. Meeting Ser Jaime Lannister in the lists was another matter entirely. He was not merely good. He was practiced in the way only men born to command horses, arms and men from the cradle could be practiced.
I sighed.
When I mounted again and rode to my place, Jaime gave me a courteous incline of the helm. Through the lifted visor I caught a glimpse of his green eyes.
"Cousin," he called across the rail, in a mocking way. "Do try not to make me look unkind."
"I had thought to spare you the effort," I called back.
That won a few laughs from the lesser stands. I saw my father close his eyes briefly.
Then the horn blew.
Jaime came on smoother than Perwyn had. Not faster. Not harder. Smoother. There was less to read because there was less wasted motion to betray him. I settled low over the saddle, felt my horse lengthen beneath me, found the strike, lowered late, and braced.
The first hit was immense.
Both lances shattered. My shield rang like a struck bell. Jaime rocked in the saddle, recovered at once, and thundered on. I stayed ahorse, legs locked hard, breath punched out of me. The roar from the stands after that one carried a different flavor. Less laughter and more interest.
At the rail Tyrek was wide-eyed. "You had him that time."
"No," I said, though I was not certain of it. "He was measuring."
I looked to the high seats again. King Robert had gone from loose delight to real attention now, leaning forward with his goblet forgotten in one broad hand. The only way for him to forget his wine, I thought. Cersei's eyes were fixed wholly on the lists. Joffrey's face was locked in a sneer. My father was looking at me with concern, while Lord Tywin was fixing me with a passive gaze.
Jon Arryn had not moved at all, but his old eyes were on the lists. Stannis watched in the hard, joyless way he watched all things, as if measuring worth by whether a man stayed in the saddle. Renly, by contrast, looked amused even now, though I could never tell how much of that was real and how much merely court-wear.
The second horn.
The line exploded into motion.
Halfway down the tilt I knew.
It was not some heavenly warning. Jaime had altered the angle by so little most men would not have seen it at all. I saw it and understood too late. He had read the way I held my shield after the last pass, the fraction of compensation in my left arm from Perwyn's earlier hit, the simple human habit of guarding a bruise.
I put my lance where it needed to go and struck his shield hard enough to burst the shaft. At the same instant his own lance hit me a finger's breadth higher, striking me above the shield and straight into my chest.
The world leapt sideways.
There was sky where there should have been horse, heat where there should have been breath, then the earth came up brutal and fast. I hit shoulder first and rolled, helm ringing, all wind driven from me in one savage grunt. Sand filled my mouth. Pain struck a beat later, bright and mean from hip and ribs and the back of my arm.
For a moment the crowd vanished into a single great rush inside my skull.
Then training did what it always did. I rolled onto a knee before any man could come running, planted one boot, and shoved myself upright. The yard tilted once. I ground my teeth until they creaked. Dust slid from my surcoat. Somewhere nearby I heard my horse neighing. Jaime had already wheeled his mount and was looking back down the lists toward me, lance-gone, composed as a man at practice.
The roar that followed my rising was not the same as the one that had greeted Perwyn's fall, but it was no less real. Men always liked to see another man take the dirt.
King Robert's laugh boomed across the lists. "That's it!" he shouted. "Down hard and up again! Better that than sitting pretty and squealing!"
The common stands roared their agreement with all the refinement they could muster.
I looked up in time to see Joffrey lean forward over the rail, his mouth curved in a disgusting sneer.
"Perhaps now," he called, almost shouting for the rest to hear, "he'll take instruction as readily as he gives it."
My mouth thinned. Light, give me patience to endure, I thought.
There was laughter at that, some eager, some uneasy.
Cersei did not smile, but satisfaction had come into the set of her mouth.
My father was on his feet, though he stopped himself short of coming down from the stands, and I could see in his face that he was contemplating Joffrey's latest words.
Lord Tywin remained seated, though I saw him take in the entire scene. He looked at the King, then at the Queen, and then at Prince, when he spoke. His passive gaze returned to me.
I bent, picked up my helm where it had gone spinning from me in the fall, and knocked the dust from it against my thigh. Then I looked once toward the prince.
"Your Grace," I said, loud enough to carry, "I shall keep that in mind."
That bought me another ripple of laughter.
It had not been a poor showing, I thought. Jaime had stopped me right before the semi-finals, allowing me to collect some favour for my performance, while opening the way for him to gather the rest for our House.
Jaime raised a gauntleted hand in salute from the far end of the tilt, acknowledging the match. I matched the salute, knowing I would never hear the end of it in the yard.
The Melee Arena, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
In the end, Ser Jaime had been unhorsed by Ser Loras. It happened in the fifth tilt, and I could still see my Uncle's face when Loras' lance took Jaime straight in the chest, unhorsing him. It was the only time I could truly say I had seen a twitch on Lord Tywin's face. His mouth had thinned, eyes narrowed and a vein had bulged on his forehead. Once Jaime had risen, his face had been schooled back into stone.
Cersei, on the other hand, had looked positively murderous. She had ever been a sore loser, and Jaime had always been treated as an extension of her. No doubt, she felt humiliated by his loss, mostly because of how it affected her image.
I turned around, taking in the arena prepared for the melee. It was a broad enclosed field of beaten earth and churned sand, ringed by rails and packed beyond them with a crowd that had grown louder and uglier as the day wore on. Wine had been working them since morning. So had blood. Men who had watched the jousts with their chins lifted and their hands folded now leaned over the barriers shouting names, wagers and insults. I watched on as a tall man spit into the ale of a smaller one crowding him for a better view.
I snorted and started walking.
Squires darted like rats between armored legs. Heralds strutted. Septons frowned. Ladies watched through veils, fingers bright with gems.
Before arriving at the ring, I looked once towards the high seats. The situation since the joust had not improved in the slightest. The Queen was still looking positively spiteful. Joffrey's face was locked in his ever-present sneer. However, Lord Tywin was watching me intently now. No doubt, some stories of my sword-arm had reached him by now.
"Arthas!" boomed king Robert, from beside Cersei. I could see her cringe for a second at the shout, before she schooled her features. "Let me see your true mettle, boy. This is no yard. Put that hammer to work and send some lordling kissing the dirt. Gods, I'm sick of painted cocks strutting before they've ever been hit."
That drew laughter from the lower benches and a few sharp cheers from the common crowd farther back, the sort of men who liked a king best when he sounded like one of them.
I turned around and went to the waiting rack. I took up a blunted warhammer and felt its weight settle into my hand.
For an instant I was no longer in the Red Keep, but in the Cathedral at Lordaeron, with Light's Vengeance laid across my palms and Uther's voice falling over me like judgment.
"This is not a weapon for pride, Arthas," he had told me. "It is a pledge made iron. You do not raise it to magnify yourself, but to stand between darkness and those too weak to withstand it. Let other men chase glory. Yours is to bear the blow, answer the wicked, and keep the innocent from harm."
I had taken the hammer as though I were worthy of it.
Tyrek hurried to my side with my shield and helm, breaking my reverie. "You don't have to do this, cousin," he said, in a low voice. "No one would think any less of you after the lists."
I smiled, knowing Tyrek was worried for me. The fall I took after the joust with Jaime might have shaken lesser men. However, with the Light's blessing, I barely felt it.
"Hush, cousin," I said. "I am here because I wish for it. The melee has been and always will be my favorite challenge, one I would never turn my back on. Now, fasten the shield."
After he finished, I took the helm from him and slid it on my head. Light save me, but I hated helms.
I turned from him and started walking towards the middle of the arena. I could see men gathered there, in helms and bright surcoats and hard-used armor, stamping, stretching shoulders, testing grips and measuring one another with the cold quick looks of men who knew that the melee turned ugly, fast. Thoros of Myr stood out at once, red robes showing beneath his armor; I had heard he had beaten Sandor Clegane in the melee more than once. Bronze Yohn Royce was there as well, broad and heavy in his runed bronze, looking like the sort of man who broke others with a single blow. A pair of Freys lingered farther down the line, lean and hungry-looking. There were others besides, household knights, hedge men, freeriders, but those were the names that mattered.
The marshals moved among us with white staffs, barking rules no one truly listened to after the first line. Blunted steel only. No daggers. Yield when beaten. No finishing blows to a fallen man.
As the crowd started preparing for the start, I felt something in me tighten. My breathing slowed. The weight of the hammer seemed to settle more perfectly into my grip. Heat, low and steady, began in my chest and spread outward through the ribs and shoulders into my arms, as though a furnace long closed has suddenly been stoked.
The Light is my strength, I intoned.
The horn sounded.
The melee broke at once. There was no grace to it. One moment men stood in loose ranks. The next, the whole field lurched into motion with a roar of feet, iron and men shouting themselves raw.
I angled left, where the crush was looser. Once I was older, I could start there, but now, I had to be vigilant.
One of the Frey's came from the side, rushing me with an overhead strike, shield trailing behind the blow. I stepped inside his strike, faster than he expected, and bashed him with my shield. The hit staggered him, momentum carrying him stumbling, and once he was past I pivoted, bringing my warhammer in a wide arc, and hit him straight in his back. The blow sent him sprawling into the dirt.
The crowd roared at that first fall. I heard the King somewhere above it, barking approval like a man in a tavern-yard.
Another man came in at once, a hedge knight, by the look of him, with a washed tabard over scarred mail and a blunted sword in both hands. He chopped at my shoulder. I caught the strike on the rim of my shield, felt it jar my shoulder, then drove the hammer forward into his chest. The blow merely staggered him backwards, but it knocked the breath and stance out of him. I followed with a rising strike under the arm, into the gap where his shield had lifted. His arm spasmed and he dropped the shield. I lashed out with my foot and kicked him straight into the chest, sending him backwards.
He staggered away from me and into the path of a heavier man in bronze, who took him across the back with a mace and sent him sprawling face-first into the dirt.
Bronze Yohn Royce.
He did not even look at me. He simply stepped over the fallen man and kept moving deeper into the press, broad and calm, runed armor dull beneath the sun.
The melee thickened. A sword rang off my helm hard enough to make the world flash white for an instant. I could hear bells tolling. I turned by instinct and caught the next blow on my shield. The man behind it was older than me, but still young. He probed me with two more strikes before I took his third on my warhammer and guided it forward. When he was in position, my head shot forward into a brutal headbutt. My forehead slammed into his nose and I could feel the cartilage give way. He staggered backwards with blood running down his nose. I pivoted and the hammer went into his hip with a crack of blunted iron on steel plate, the strength of the blow sending him to the ground. By the time he had worked out which way was up, a marshal's white staff was already between us.
I moved on.
Heat had begun to settle through me now, low and steady beneath the breastbone. The Light had always come to me best when my world narrowed. The shouting crowd, the banners, the bright women in their silks, the king roaring like a madman from above; none of it mattered.
A red shape burst through the press on my right.
Thoros of Myr came laughing.
He looked mad, even by the standards of men who entered melees for pleasure, I thought. Red cloth showed beneath his armor, and his beard and hair were wild with sweat already, face flushed, eyes bright and eager. Tall and fat, he carried a blunted greatsword, which looked like a bastard sword in his hands.
He did not bother with a challenge. He came at me with a great overhand blow meant to shatter shield and arm together. I met it high and felt my knees bend under the force of it. He was strong. Stronger than I imagined based on his girth.
"Lannister!" he barked.
"Myrman," I said, through clenched teeth, and lashed out.
He dodged the blow, displaying a speed that bellied his size, taking a few steps backwards and resetting his stance. His smile widened.
"You're the cub they keep talking about, eh?" he said, flourishing the sword. "Come, lion. Let us see whether the Lord of Light has put any fire in your spine."
"There is only one Light," I whispered, setting my stance. He looked at me oddly, then, before shrugging.
He came again, chopping at me from the shoulder. It wasn't a fancy blow, just hard, one after the other, trying to open up my guard. I took the first on the shield, the second on the haft and the third glanced off my shoulder hard enough to numb the arm.
By then I had his measure, I reckoned. The priest liked to press his opponents. He didn't look like a man who liked being pressed back.
When he came at me with his fourth strike, I stepped into him before it could come down. My shield hit him in the chest and staggered him backwards. I felt his breath go out against me. Then I punched my warhammer forward into his faceguard. Once. He rocked on his feet. Twice. His head snapped back. Then I pivoted and hit him in the shoulder, sending him to one knee.
He cursed something under his breath.
I was watching him intently. I could feel the other fights in the arena going on, but my eyes were fixed on the priest. He came up with a snarl and swung the greatsword from low to high, a brutal and vicious strike. The blunted edge hit my thigh hard enough to numb my leg. Pain flashed up into my hip and I stumbled a pace.
The furnace inside me was roaring now.
Before he could use his momentum and bring about a second hit, I quickly shoulder checked him, making him stagger once more. I could see his rage at the strength I was displaying. No doubt he had underestimated me due to my age.
My next strike came in a short, brutal arc. The warhammer dug into his side, where the kidney lay.
He folded instantly, crimson vomit spewing from his mouth. For a moment, I thought I killed him there and then, but then I smelled the wine.
"Yield?" a marshal shouted, pushing in with his white staff.
Thoros spat on the ground, laughed through the pain, and lifted two fingers.
I moved on.
By then the field had turned foul. The mass of people from the beginning had cleared, and now all that was left were the warriors angling for the prize. Be it purse, or honor.
I put down one knight I didn't recognize, then another of the Freys came at me while I was turning. He had a slender face with a crooked mouth, looking more like a weasel than a Knight. His first probe I took on the shield, while his second on the haft. On the third, I stepped out of it and brought my warhammer in a vicious arc, smashing his elbow. The joint gave way in the wrong direction and his sword flew from his hand. He was howling in pain, now.
That had not been my intention.
I signalled a marshal quickly, before anything worse could happen. Yes, this was a melee, but I did not want to maim my opponents.
I turned around and noticed the change. The others were looking at me differently.
Three of them came together. One with a shield in front, one with a mace off my right and one hanging back with a sword, waiting for me to open myself.
The shield-man hit first and nearly took me off my feet. The mace caught my shoulder a moment later. Then the swordsman stepped in and drove his point at my belly. The edge was blunted, but I felt it push deep, rearranging something inside me. The pain was searing.
I heard Tyrek shout at me over the rail. I heard the crowd too, then, louder now, uglier. They smelled blood and demanded more of it.
Light, give me strength.
The shield-man was the first to try me again. Big bastard, I thought. I checked his strike and then I pivoted my warhammer straight into the hip of the swordsman. The hit sent him sprawling straight into the one with the mace. They both went down, while the shield-man was still advancing. He thrust his sword at me, taking me in the hip. The point dug through mail and leather, straight into the bone.
The pain was muted now.
Before he could have a chance to reset, I drove the edge of my shield into his mouth. Once. Twice. Then a third time, a slurry of spit, blood and teeth coming out in a spray as he fell on his back.
By the time I was done with him, the swordsman had gotten back to his feet. He looked at the other two and grimaced.
I rushed him. My shield took him in the chest, sending him two steps backward and then my warhammer shot out, taking him in the belly. He folded, while I pivoted and lashed out with my leg. The kick to his back sent him sprawling into the dirt alongside the other two. The marshals were on them the moment he fell.
I stood there, sawing air into my lungs, tasting copper.
Turning around, I saw not much was left of the field. A few men were still moving around, trading blows, but only one of them looked fresh enough to matter.
Bronze Yohn Royce.
The Light truly wanted to test me, I mused. After fifteen years, I could understand the need to see if I had rusted.
His knees were smeared with sand and his vambrace was bloody, but he looked steadier than any man left on the field. He wore the old bronze armor of his house, dark and heavy, cut all over with runes. It made him look less like a tourney knight and more like something dug out of a barrow in Northrend and put back on it's feet. A round shield sat on his left arm. In his right hand was a plain mace.
He was finishing another man when I saw him. One shove of the shield, one short blow to the helm, and the fellow went down. Then Yohn looked up and saw me.
The crowd was truly frenzied now. They were all screaming at the top of their lungs. "LANNISTER!" "ROYCE!" "CUB!" "FOR RUNESTONE!"
All the noise was mixing together, making it impossible to understand anything besides impressions.
Yohn said nothing, moving towards me, mace low and shield up.
The first clash was enough to confirm the truth of it. Thoros had been hot blood and heavy steel. Yohn was much worse. He was calm, tight, with no wasted motion. He hit my shield and I felt the bones in my arm complain. I swung for his shoulder, but he turned the blow over him. His answer came fast and low, clipping my thigh badly enough to make my leg buckle.
I bashed him with my shield then, the blow opening some distance between us. Sweat was running down under my helm and stinging one eye. My arm was heavy and my leg was numb. I knew it should have been worse.
The furnace inside me was an overflowing cauldron now.
He came at me again, this time with a flurry of strikes, each of them driving me backwards. The fourth landed with a crack to my forearm that nearly shook my warhammer free. I had to shift my grip to keep it in hand. His eyes narrowed at that. Of course he saw it, I thought.
So he pressed me.
His strikes kept coming from different directions, each one landing harder than the previous. I took the last on my shield and lashed out with a vicious kick that pushed Yohn back a few steps.
The crowd was howling now. I knew if I strained, I would hear Joffrey aswell.
"Sometimes ye buy the kill with your own flesh, lad. Better that than losin' the fight entire." Muradin's voice came back to me then, rough as gravel.
So that's what I did. I gave him an opening, free of charge. I only hoped he took me for what I look like in that moment: green, winded and hurting.
I set my feet a little wrong and let the shield sag, just enough to show my left side.
Yohn saw it at once. Good.
He dove in hard, shield first. It hit me like a battering-ram. Before I even finished taking that, his mace came down in a brutal arc and smashed into my shoulder. Something crunched. My whole arm went numb to the fingers. I bit my tongue and tasted blood.
But he had stepped to deep to take it.
I went into him instantly. I slammed my shield into his, fouling his guard, then brought my warhammer in a vicious arc and smashed his hand. His mace dropped. On the backswing, I struck him fully across the side of the helm. Bronze rang. He staggered two steps. I stepped after him and drove the hammer head straight into the middle of his chest, sending him flying.
For a few seconds, all I could hear was my breath.
Then, "I yield."
The whole place came apart with noise.
The King was on his feet, laughing and shouting and slamming his cup against the rail, spilling wine on the head of a guardsman posted below. "THERE! THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE!" he bellowed, turning to the Royal Family. "Did you see him? That's a fighter! Not some painted mummer playing at chivalry. The boy's got a spine of iron!"
Then he turned towards my Father and Lord Tywin. I could see Lord Tywin's gaze on me. My Father was smiling, but his brows betrayed his concern.
"Gods, Kevan, are you sure you haven't stolen him from the stormlands?," the King continued, roaring with laughter.
The smallfolk heard the King and made it worse. They were shouting whatever they knew about me. "LANNISTER!" "BOY!" "LION CUB!" "ARTHAS!" "THE PALE LION!" "DAWNHAMMER!" Where did that one come from, I thought.
I could see Cersei's mouth turning into a hard line at the acclaim. Joffrey looked sick. My Father still had that same smile, but his brows were even more furrowed. And Lord Tywin still had not moved, but he inclined his head for a moment. I smiled.
Only Jon Arryn's face gave me pause. There had been no smile there, no laughter either, only a small inclination of the head. Then a deep cough wracked his body.
Stannis had folded his hands before him, stern and unsmiling, whilst Renly looked fit to clap if court decorum had not forbidden it.
I brought my hammer up then and saluted Yohn first.
After that I turned to the Royal Stands and saluted the King, followed by every Royal member.
And then at last, I turned to the crowd.
The roar came again.
The Feast Hall, The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
After the melee I had gone straight for my chambers to bathe myself and change for the upcoming feast. Father came to me there after and embraced me again, saying I had brought honor to House Lannister, but what pleased him most was that I had made him proud. After the embrace, he had told me to be careful, for he had taken notice of the way the King and the Queen were battling over me.
By the time I entered the feast hall, I was already late.
The hall was loud, people still incensed by the violence displayed during the Tourney. Servants slipped between benches with trenchers and flagons of ale and wine. Some Lords leaned close to speak over the noise, while others were shouting and gesticulating wildly. Women smiled behind cups. I could hear boys, with barely a whisker, talking of the melee as though they had fought in it themselves. I heard my own name, once, twice, three times before I had crossed half the room.
A good way to start building a name for myself, I thought then. Champion of the melee at five and ten.
I snorted.
In another life I had been Champion of the Light, then a King of Darkness and now a Prince of Nothing.
"There he is!" the king roared, half-rising from his seat with a goblet in one hand. "GODS! Look at him. Still walking, too. I thought Royce nearly broke you in half before you put him on his ass."
Laughter rolled across the table. I bowed my head, though I could feel every eye in the hall turning towards me.
"My thanks for Your Grace's concern," I said, inclining my head.
"Concern?" the King barked. "Concern is for old men and maesters. I'm pleased, boy. That's a different thing entirely. Now, come here."
I stepped forward through the rest of the hall, while men shifted to make room. When I drew near, I could feel Cersei's gaze on me. She was sitting very straight beside the king, gold and emerald bright upon her throat, her face composed. Joffrey sat near her, pale and cunt-mouthed. The sight of me brought a new sneer to his face.
Ser Jaime lounged farther down the board, one arm slung over the back of his chair. When my eye met his, he tipped his cup very slightly. I gave a nod.
Lord Tywin sat beneath the lion banners with my father near him. My Father looked tired and thoughtful after our discussions. My uncle looked as he always did: still, intent and measuring.
Jon Arryn sat the nearest to the king than any of them, gaunt and grave. Stannis was beside him with all the warmth of a winter wall, while Renly shone by contrast, bright-eyed and easy, smiling as though feasts had been made for him alone. The rotund eunuch sat plump and powdered a little farther down, all soft hands, while Grand Maester Pycelle blinked owlishly over his cups.
A deep cough turned my head back towards Jon Arryn.
At the same time, King Robert beckoned me closer and slapped the table hard enough to make the cups jump.
"That," he declared, pointing a finger at nothing. "Was a proper fucking melee. Not prancing about in painted silk and smiling for highborn daughters. A real fight. Took the blow, gave one back harder, and put a bronze mountain on his back." He threw his head back and roared a laugh. "Seven hells, Kevan, there's more marrow in this one than in half the pups raised at court put together."
Father inclined his head, polite and careful. "The King is gracious,"
"I'm honest, man." the King shot back. "It's a rarer virtue."
That won more laughter. Cersei did not join it. Of course, I thought.
"You make much of a tourney field," she said, her voice cool as ice. "One would think the boy had stormed Pyke single-handed."
King Robert turned toward her, still smiling, but there was a little edge in it now. "Would you rather I praise another lad less worth the trouble?"
Joffrey's face darkened at once.
I kept my own expression still, while thinking the King was most definitely not helping my case with those remarks.
The king turned around and waved a hand toward one of the stewards. "Bring it."
A servant hurried forward with a heavy purse laid on a square of dark cloth, another man behind him carrying a worked silver cup with gilded handles in the shape of stags. King Robert took neither in hand. He only nodded toward them.
"The purse for the melee is yours," he said. "And the champion's cup besides. Win like that before the court and you may as well be paid for it."
I bowed. "You honor me, Your Grace."
"I'm not done," the King said.
That stirred the table. Even Cersei's eyes sharpened.
King Robert grinned like a man about to loose hounds. "From me, you'll have a horse as well. A white destrier from the royal stables. Big in the chest, vicious in the temper, and too fine for any soft-handed fool to spoil. He'll suit you."
White? I thought for a moment, remembering Invincible. Was the Light praying tricks on me, making me relive my old life?
I bowed more deeply. "Your Grace is generous beyond measure."
"Aye," king Robert said, pleased with himself. "And I've an eye for men worth spending on."
"Or boys," Cersei said.
The King snorted. "The one bleeds properly. That puts him ahead of many men."
I heard Jaime cough into his wine.
At the far end of the table Tywin moved at last. He only set down his cup and lifted two fingers. One of our own household men came forward at once, bearing something large wrapped in dark cloth.
The hall went quiet then. Not entirely, but enough.
"You fought well," he said.
He nodded once, and the cloth was drawn back.
Bright steel caught the torchlight first, then gold. It was a master-forged breastplate, close-fitted and clean-lined, the metal polished pale as moonlight, with the lion of our House worked across the breast in restrained gold relief.
A murmur went through the hall.
"You have shown yourself worth better metal than you rode in with," Tywin said.
I stepped forward and went to one knee.
"My lord," I said.
"Wear it well," he said. "And remember what it is meant to honor."
"Our House," I replied.
His eyes stayed on mine a moment longer. "Just so."
When I rose, King Robert was grinning again, amused by the whole exchange.
"Gods," he said, looking from the breastplate to me and back again, "you'll blind the yard outright when you put it on. Best warn the prince."
That was too much, but the King never noticed such things until the blood was already on the floor.
Joffrey's hand tightened around his cup.
His voice came out soft, in a way that made him sound even more sour, "A lucky day buys very dear favor, it seems."
Tywin looked at him then. "Luck may win applause. It rarely wins this much."
Silence followed that.
Jaime looked down into his cup to hide his smile. My father did not look at anyone at all.
Joffrey flushed red to the ears. Cersei's gaze went flat and dangerous.
The King, being the King, laughed loud enough for the rafters. "Ha! Well said."
The rest of the feast passed in a blur of noise and lingering gazes. Men came to speak to me and congratulate my performance. Yohn Royce arrived and clasped forearms with me, nodding. A knight asked after my hammer-work. Thoros of Myr came to congratulate me and ask if I had a moment to spare for the Lord of Light. A lordling from the crownlands invited me to hunt. Two women I had never spoken to smiled sweetly at me. Through all of it I could feel the hall adjusting to my new reputation.
I knew that was dangerous, but I also knew it marked the first true step toward fulfilling my purpose.