AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everyone, back with a new chapter. This is a bit of a slow one, where the royal procession is heading north. We're introduced to a new (old) character that's going to play a big role in the future!
As always, I await comments and hope I landed the tone and characterizations!
Next chapter we're going to land in Winterfell and meet the Starks, so stay tuned!
"Roads are for travel. Inns are for truth."
The King's Road, The Riverlands, 298 AC
The gift from the King had turned out to be an oddity.
He was a large white destrier, thick through the neck and shoulder, deep in the chest, with good legs under him. He took the bit cleanly, and from the first had shown that rarest quality in any mount worth the name: he seemed to understand what was asked of him almost as soon as it was asked.
He was white, too.
I remembered the day I had gone to retrieve him from the royal stables. I had put my hand on his neck and felt the heat radiating from his body. The strength and power. I had expected more fighting, a nastier temper. So I had named him Invincible, to honour my old friend. I could have chosen some other quality, as the paladins of Lordaeron usually did. Uther had ridden Steadfast. My father had ridden Courageous. There were a dozen such names that could fit a horse, all fine and proper and empty to my ears.
He had surprised me. And more than surprised, he had bid a memory from the depths of my mind.
It was a summer day.
I had gone to him while Calia's weeping still rang in my ears, wanting to be out of the palace. Away from all that talk of duty, marriage.
So I saddled Invincible with my own hands and rode east.
His white mane whipped my face as he ran, and for a little while I could almost forget what I was.
He wanted nothing from me. Asked nothing.
We took the hills hard, stones scattering under his hooves, the city falling away behind us.
Then came the jump I loved best, and Invincible did not hesitate. He gathered himself and leapt, and for one heart-stopping instant we were airborne together.
I remember the lightness of it still. As though the world, for those few breaths, had loosened its grip.
A bellow interrupted my thoughts.
"Seven fucking hells!" Robert shouted from ahead. "We might as well drag the Red Keep north stone by stone!"
I looked up at the King. He was red-faced, the same look he had worn these past few days since leaving King's Landing, meaty hands grabbing the reins tightly.
The King jerked his chin back down the road. "Look at that cursed thing, Moore."
I watched Moore turn around with the interest a deaf man has for a song. I followed his gaze.
The queen's wheelhouse came on behind us like a castle on wheels. It was large and sturdy, with carved panels, shuttered windows and a high rounded roof painted and gilt against the dust. Its wheels were thick and even from a distance I could tell it was made wholly for comfort.
Close to the wheelhouse rode guards and servants, with baggage horses and wagons thick behind, banners unfurled and flowing in the wind.
The journey would have been so much easier without it, I sighed.
That had become apparent the moment our journey north started with us waiting for the Lannister party to return to King's Landing. They had barely made it past the first crossing of Blackwater on the Goldroad before the messenger had reached them and bid them back.
So back to King's Landing they came. Cersei alongside Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella. Jaime as well, of course. It struck me then the mastery of their situation. He was a Kingsguard, sworn to protect the King and the royal family. A position which afforded him a closeness to the Queen, that would have been nigh impossible to achieve otherwise.
I thought about Jaime then. My relationship with him had always centered on the yard. He had always made time to train me, to listen, and to teach me what he knew of the world, in his own way. Boasting all the while. Swaggering through it.
But his relationship with Cersei was something that bordered on abominable.
Incest.
The thought would have been impossible in my old world. I had never even heard talk of such a thing back in Lordaeron. Here, it was an oddity, sure, but it had been heard of. Practiced, even.
The Targaryens, dragonlords and kings of old, conquerors of Westeros, had brought that practice into this land when they fled the Doom across the narrow sea.
Or so the books said, I snorted.
Along with them came the practice of blood purity and the increasingly odd pairings between brothers and sisters or uncles and nieces.
I sighed. In my old life I would have been horrified by such a revelation. It would have shaken me to my core, to know that Varian or Muradin would ever contemplate bedding their own sisters. Contemplating bedding Calia was not even possible.
The history of this land didn't excuse Jaime's behaviour. But it normalised it. And growing up with the stories of the dragonkings had maybe altered my perception about it as well.
I did not accept it. But for now, I could ignore it.
Robert spat on the ground to my right, interrupting my thoughts.
"This fucking road," he said. "We'd have been there in half the time without this anchor."
"While I would agree, Your Grace" I said, leaning in. "I'd rather not do so openly."
Robert looked at me and boomed a laugh.
"Gods, man," he said, clapping my back, still laughing. "You sound like Jon Arryn. 'Not openly,' he says. That's how the old falcon would have put it."
"Then Lord Arryn must have had good instincts." I said, smiling.
"Hah!" he said, bellowing again. "He had a cursed life, on account of me."
He snorted and glanced at the road. "Once, years back, Ned and I raced ahead of the column coming out of Gulltown. Thought ourselves grand riders for it too. Jon caught up an hour later and told us any lord fool enough to outrun his own men deserved to die in a ditch."
I laughed. "And did your Grace listen?"
"Not then." Robert grinned. "Later, perhaps. A little."
He looked at me then, amusement on his face. "You've got that look, though. Like you've already weighed every fool on the road and found them wanting."
"I find foolishness wanting. Someone should."
Robert snorted. "Careful, lad. Talk like that and you'll sound like Tywin."
He spat again, spurring his mount.
"One Lord Lion's enough for any lifetime." he replied, laughing and moving ahead.
I followed him a few horse-lengths behind, wondering about Winterfell. I had heard of the Starks and their honor. Their frozen lands and colder people. Honorable people. Lawful people. People who still cleaved to the old gods. It would be an interesting place.
"After it!" came a shrill shout from somewhere to my right. I turned around and saw Joffrey, a mad look in his eyes, pointing at the treeline. A small red fox could be seen scurrying, trying to hide from the great procession of people.
"Fetch it, dog! I want a new scarf."
Dog? Ah, he meant the Hound.
I sometimes wondered whether Sandor's posting to Joffrey was some penance for all the wrongs he had done in his life: watching over the spoiled fool, and having to entertain his every whim. If Joffrey had not been Prince, I was certain Clegane would have cleaved him in two and fed the remains to the poor of Flea Bottom.
I watched them ride toward the trees, wondering whether Joffrey was mad enough to think they would actually catch the fox.
"Cousin!" came a voice from behind me, interrupting my thoughts.
I turned around in my saddle and saw Tyrek riding up alongside me.
"Is it true then?" he asked, eagerly.
"That depends on what you're about to ask," I said, mouth twitching.
He grinned and leaned in. "I heard it from the wheelhouse. Cousin Tyrion. The Imp. They say he'll meet us at the inn."
"Don't call him that," I answered him with a frown. "He's the same as us, just born differently. Listening less to what the Queen says would do you some good."
He rolled his eyes. "So is it true?"
"Yes," I replied. "He's going to meet us at the Crossroads Inn."
Tyrion came to my mind then. Another cousin. The half-man. The dwarf. The devil. All those names, but none came close to describing the real man.
Yes, he was a dwarf. A gnome, actually, by the standards of my old world. Maybe that was why it didn't bother me. Even with his miss-matched eyes and strange features.
We had always gotten along. The man had a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, with a vast intellect and a strong sense of humour. His irreverence reminded me of Muradin, only sharpened by courts and wounded by mockery.
"How come your father and Lord Tywin didn't come north as well?" asked Tyrek, interrupting my thoughts again.
"My father has duties in the west," I replied. "And Lord Tywin does not ride half the realm to cold weather for an old friendship and a Hand,"
The road started bending not long after that, and the inn came into view.
"There," I heard the King from somewhere to my right. "Finally."
The Crossroads Inn, The Riverlands, 298 AC
The place smelled of horse, wet wood, stale ale, dung, onions, hot grease, and the river not so very far away.
The building itself was low and broad beneath its bell tower, with timber darkened by the weather and years of smoke. I could see the plaster between the beams was cracked in places, the roof dipping a little at the center and one of the shutter hanging crooked.
The yard was nothing more than churned earth and trampled straw. A through stood by the stable wall, green around the edges, with a pair of dogs sleeping under it.
"Gods!," a voice boomed behind me.
I turned around and saw Robert on his horse.
"The last time I was here, I cracked that Targaryen cunt like a nut." he continued. "I wonder if they still have Sherrie with the big tits serving ale. You've got to experience a tavern wench, Arthas. It builds character."
Then he winked at me. Light save me.
"Isn't that right, Trant?" he said, dismounting his horse and taking a loot at Ser Meryn Trant. "Gods, you're dour. Look alive, man! We've got ale, food and women coming for our necks. And you're out here looking like a sack of wet oats."
I could see Ser Meryn Trant having his same scowling face as ever. The man was almost as bad as Ser Mandon Moore. Both of them had the look of "knights" that would have been better served as slavers or assisting Illyn Payne in his duties. They all shared the same dead eyes. I often wondered what those people did in the hours they were free from duties. Did they whore? Did they drink? Did they torture people on errands?
"Yes, You Grace," Ser Trant replied. Ser Mandon Moore came out of the inn at that moment.
"The inn has been prepared for your arrival, Your Grace" he said. "They await you inside."
"They await me inside," he laughed. "Did you hear that, boy? You cave in a dragon cunt's chest and then they'll always wait for you."
The King threw the reins of his horse to the nearest groom and started walking towards the inn, boots sinking into the mud. He looked like a man going to battle.
"Arthas!" he shouted once, turning at the front door. "Stop daydreaming, boy, and attend me inside. I've a war to wage." he finished, laughing again.
With that, he turned around and entered the inn.
I sighed and dismounted more quietly. The King was in a boisterous mood. A groom came to me and I handed the reins of Invincible to him. Before letting him go, I put a hand on his neck. He flicked an ear towards me, more interested in the smell of oats than any fond farewell.
I smiled, pulling away.
From behind me came the sound of mud churning. I turned around and saw the wheelhouse pulling up to the yard, escorts making way, servants scurrying around, having learned the cost of being slow in the Queen's presence. It looked more like a fair contraption, too large, too close-built and too ornamental, than anything else.
On the other side of the yard, I could see Jaime lounging and watching the wheelhouse. His white cloak was road-stained, but it looked just as fine on him. When he saw me watching, he inclined his head.
I did the same.
A whinny drew my eyes. The Prince had arrived in the yard, with all the pomp and sneer of a twelve year old boy who thinks himself King in-the-making. Behind him rode Sandor Clegane, ugly as sin, face locked in a scowl.
So, they hadn't caught the fox.
My mind turned back to Joffrey. After leaving King's Landing and returning to the Red Keep for the procession north, he had been oddly subdued. The question had churned my thoughts on the road. Subdued didn't fit Joffrey at all.
Perhaps it was my Uncle's meddling. I wondered if it would last.
I snorted, unwilling to watch the unfolding farce and started walking towards the inn.
Then I saw him.
"Cousin!," I shouted.
He was standing near the side of the inn where the yard narrowed toward the stables, one boot set on the lower rail of the fence and a cup already in hand. His legs were too short, his body squat and twisted, his head too large for the rest of him, with mismatched eyes and a tongue sharper than a Valyrian Sword.
I had missed him.
A few westermen stood not far behind him with their horses, road-dusted and travel-stiff.
At my words, his head turned towards me and a smile came upon his face. It twisted his visage, but it made me smile in turn.
He raised his cup a little when I approached closer. "There you are," he said as I came up. "I was beginning to think they'd lost you somewhere between the capital and the next lie."
"They tried, at first," I said, grinning. "Now I'm safe. The lies were thicker down south."
Tyrion smiled at that and pushed himself off the rail. "A pity I was not there. I've always liked seeing Lannisters with their knives out."
"You survived all this time," I said.
"Bah! Barely." he said, gesticulating with a tiny hand. "But remember, I began lower to the ground. Less distance to fall."
I laughed at that. He looked at me pensively.
"You've been gone a while," he said.
"One could say the same thing." I replied.
"I've always been home. You're the one who left for greener pastures, remember?" he said, grinning. "You look tired."
"So do you," I shot back.
"Yes, but mine is a family trait. You look like you earned yours." he said.
I shrugged. "I was at court."
He laughed again.
"You have grown much sharper, young cousin," he said. "Now come, let's go enjoy a drink. I assume you're thirsty after all that riding,"
"The King has bid me attend him inside, Tyrion," I said.
"Bah, the King has most likely already drunk three kegs and is preparing to retire to the rooms with a tavern wench by his side," he said, waving his little arm around. "Now, come. I have heard many stories of the Dawnhammer from King's Landing."
Has that spread? I thought incredulously.
His eyes flickered past me and landed on the prince and the Hound moving through the yard. Joffrey pushed a groom when he got too close to him, sending the man sprawling into the manure-filled mud. "Our Joffrey looks ready to discover fresh cruelties."
I whispered, leaning in. "He was too quiet on the road. Besides, I shouldn't even think about him. Lord Tywin commanded it."
"Commanded it?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't realise you were playing such interesting games, cousin. I might have to visit King's Landing, now."
I grinned. "You have no idea what it's been like."
The prince had come in ear-shot now, his usual cunt-mouth turned into a sneer. "You do find fitting company, cousin," he snickered, hand resting on Lion's Tooth pommel. "I suppose they'll stable you together."
By the Light, I despised him.
I kept my mouth shut.
Tyrion sighed. "Joffrey, if you must be cruel, try not to be dull as well. One should always avoid doing two things poorly."
Joffrey flushed.
"Mind your tongue, Imp" he snapped.
"And you mind yourself," Tyrion said. "You are a prince, not a dockside brat."
Sandor cracked a wicked smile from behind Joffrey. I knew that had landed harder than any other insult. If there was anything that Joffrey despised, it was being taught anything.
I could see his fingers brushing Lion's Tooth, as if contemplating drawing it and running his own uncle through. He was considering it, that much I could see. But the yard was full of eyes, and even Joffrey knew that some of his stupidity was best kept behind closed doors.
I remembered my Uncle's words, then. Keep the peace.
So I stayed silent.
Tyrion saw that, and I think, understood the reason.
"Come, nephew," he said, not taking his eyes off Joffrey. "Go glare at someone who will fear you for it. There are always servants to be found."
Joffrey's face twisted in rage. "I have no need of your leave, you little monster,"
"No," Tyrion said. "Only manners."
The Prince sneered and turned around on his heel, heading towards the inn door with the Hound behind him.
Tyrion let out a breath through his nose. "Now that is a boy in desperate need of a beating."
I snorted. "He gets none."
"No," Tyrion said. "He gets flattered, which is how you get the next Aerion Brightflame."
I laughed at that. "He doesn't get flattered, cousin. He has nothing to be flattered about. People just fear him and his short temper."
"Either way," he said, starting to walk towards the inn. "You did well to hold your tongue."
I looked at him and cocked an eyebrow.
"With Joffrey," he said. "I know it cannot be easy. Silence is not your worst talent, but it has never been your favorite. Though, I can see why Father has "commanded" you to do it."
I snorted. "The Prince is not the only problem. You will soon see the Queen in all her glory."
"Ha!," he said, waving a tiny hand. "Cersei? I've known her since she was old enough to lie. If she means to turn her temper on someone else for once, I would like to see it."
I sighed and followed him inside.
The Crossroads Inn, The Riverlands, 298 AC
The heat was the first thing that hit me. Then the smell.
The common room was a sordid affair, smoke hanging under the beams, grease spat in the kitchens beyond and men shouting over one another. Cups knocked on wood. Somewhere near the hearth a girl laughed too loud, and as soon as I looked her bodice slipped loose enough for her breast to pop out. No one seemed surprised by that except me. A drover at the next table cheered. She slapped him with the cloth in her hand and laughed again.
Tyrion elbowed me in the knee and pointed.
King Robert was roaring. He had taken the best place by the fire and fortified it. A bench had been dragged out for him. Meat was coming. The ale was in his hand. One of the serving girls stood under his arm while his meaty hand sunk into her waist, as if she were another cushion to warm the bench.
Ser Meryn Trant stood near the king's shoulder. Ser Mandon Moore stood a little farther back, pale dead eyes roaming the room.
I spied Tyrek there as well. Poor lad, I thought. He was red about the ears and holding a pitcher like some overbred tavern wench.
At that moment, Robert saw us come in and laughed.
"There he is," he shouted, pointing his flagon at me and spilling half it's contents. "And the Imp with him. Good, good. Go on, then, sit with your cousin, for now. Tyrek can fetch and carry for me."
Tyrek looked at me as if I had just condemned him to the headsman block.
I smiled and gave him a shrug. Robert noticed that and laughed harder, thumping the table for more drink.
"Come on, boy!" he roared with laughter, pointing at Tyrek. "I might even gift you a wench if you manage."
Tyrion glanced up at me.
"Mercy from the Iron Throne," he snorted. "I would like a maester to mark the hour."
In the end, we found a place near the back wall where one could find less prying eyes and ears. A serving girl came to us shortly after we were seated. She was thin as a reed, no more than sixteen, and had a fading bruise under one eye.
"Ale," Tyrion said. "As for food, bring me what he'll have."
"Bread, onions, and what meat is left after the King's feast," I joked, thanking her.
The girl stared for a moment when I thanked her, then hurried off.
Tyrion watched her go. "You still do that."
"Do what?" I said, raising an eyebrow.
"Thank them. Look at them. Make them uneasy." he replied, leaning back on the bench.
"She brought the ale." I replied.
"Yes," he said. "And now she'll spend the next hour wondering what you wanted. Perhaps her bruise came from a noble, with sweet words and sweeter fists."
I snorted. "I thank them because it is decent, cousin. Do not mistake courtesy for advances."
The serving girl returned with the ale. Tyrion drank first and made a face.
"Seven hells, this is vile." he said, grimacing. "Go on, try it."
I drank. He was right, of course.
"It's no Arbor gold, certainly," I said. "Tastes more like some rotgut from the Bottom."
Tyrion burst into a laugh at that. "Indeed it does, cousin. Indeed it does."
We spoke of smaller things first, because it was easier. The old map table in Maester Creylen's rooms with the burned corner. The ledgers we used to hide books beneath. The damp in those lower chambers and the smell of old leather and lamp smoke. The stories we used to read, about the histories of the world, of kings and past rulers, about its magic and the loss of it.
"You were always a surprise, cousin," Tyrion said, laughing. "I have yet to encounter a man such as you. An arm to rival the Sword of Dawn, with the mind of an Archmaester."
I laughed at that. "You flatter me, cousin. But I remember Uncle was none too pleased about my inclinations."
"Bah!," he waved his tiny hand. "He only despised the fact you spent time with me. Your inclinations had nothing to do with it."
That brought a memory back.
I was standing with Tyrion in a room, looking over the histories of the Children of the Forests.
Uncle Tywin was standing in the doorway.
"A son of this house ought to spend more time in the yard and less in dust with distractions." he said, stiffly.
The serving girl interrupted us by bringing in the food. Tyrion took a hunk of bread, before stuffing it into his tiny mouth.
"Do you remember the sewers?" he asked between bites.
I laughed. "When Uncle made you lord of drains and shit?"
"As if it were a lesson and not a jest." he said, drawing deeply from his ale again. "I remember you had some fantastic ideas about improving those drains."
I remembered that well enough. The parchment spread between us. Bad lamp oil making the room smell. Tyrion cursing the slope and the old mason who had laid the western culvert like a fool. Me asking him questions and giving a few suggestions I remembered from my previous life.
Tyrion looked at me over the cup. "Where did that come from?"
I smiled despite myself. "From another life, cousin."
He laughed at that. "There. That one I remember. You always said things like that when you wanted to dodge an answer and still sound clever."
"I have improved since then." I said, taking a bite of the meat.
"No," he replied. "You've only grown taller."
For a moment he said nothing.
He straightened then, putting down the bread. "Now, cousin." he looked towards the room and back to me. "Perhaps it's time to share some stories from your times in Kings Landing."
"What is there to say, cousin? The king likes me. The yard likes me." I snorted, continuing. "The Prince likes me. The Queen likes me. The septons love me."
Tyrion laughed at that. "I honestly cannot believe you are still on about that. I suppose after enough time you'll only worsen. One day you'll walk into a sept and burst into flame."
I laughed. "They would like that, the gluttonous fools. No, cousin. One day I'll endeavour to teach them about the Holy Light. The one the seven draw their faces from. I remember you displaying an interest in matters of the spirit in your youth. Whatever happened to that?"
He laughed bitterly at that. "Plenty happened. But that is not the matter before us, is it?"
"No, it is not." I said, leaning backwards and running my hand in my hair. "The King has taken a liking to me. Because of my wits and my sword-arm."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow at that.
"Mostly my sword-arm," I said, grinning. "He compares me to the Prince, and that is no contest Joffrey can win. The Queen has noticed that, and rewards me for it. So has the Prince, though his rewards come in different forms."
"Ah," said Tyrion. "That sounds like King's Landing. A pat on the head from Robert, and Cersei sharpening knives by candlelight."
"It gets worse," I said, leaning closer to him. "There are whispers. Odd whispers. About Cersei and Jaime and the children."
He merely looked at me.
I knew then that doing what I was about to do came with some risks. However, if there was a person I could trust to share with and get advice, it was my cousin Tyrion.
"Before he died, Jon Arryn bid me on an errand.", I continued, whispering now. "He had me recover a piece of armor for the King, from a nearby blacksmith. Imagine my surprise at seeing one of Robert's get working the forge."
I leaned even more.
"The boy looked exactly like Robert. But the children look nothing like him. Why is that, Tyrion?" I asked.
Tyrion sat with that for a moment, then said. "Cousin, there's some things a man may guess, and things he'd be a fool to say."
Before I could respond, the same serving girl passed us again while balancing a tray of cups. One hand was red across the knuckles where the wood had rubbed her raw. I moved my arm so she had room by the table.
"Mind the leg," I said, drawing it back. "You'll catch on it."
She nodded and went on.
Tyrion watched her go. "You do enjoy being stubborn."
"Come on, Tyrion. She was carrying cups. What would you have me do, trip her?" I asked, gesturing at him.
"No, cousin. But you're Robert's bright new favorite. Every eye in the room sees more in it than either of you means."
Before I could answer, Joffrey came from somewhere. It was as if he was biding his time until now.
He had a riding crop in his hand, Sandor in tow. The Prince moved through the room with a dangerous looking sneer, looking like a hound scenting blood.
The serving girl from earlier saw him too late and tried to shift around him.
The Prince stepped into her path.
"Watch yourself," he said.
The girl twisted so she didn't touch him, but the tray tipped, and before she could steady it, his crop snapped down across her knuckles.
She cried out, dropping the tray along with all the cups. One shattered by my boot. Dark, foaming ale spread itself on the floor.
The girl dropped to her knees to gather the pieces before someone beat her for them breaking. Joffrey looked straight at me with a vicious smile.
I looked at him in turn. My fists were balled so tightly, my knuckles were turning white.
"Master yourself, Arthas. Any fool can loose his anger; only a paladin can hold it." came Uther's voice.
A bellow came from the middle of the room.
"What in the seven fucking hells is that?" roared King Robert.
The room turned silent. Joffrey turned. Along with half the room.
Robert was half out of his seat by the hearth, with a cup in one hand and the other greedy and broad against the waist of the dark-haired serving girl he'd been pawing since we came in. She had gone very still now, caught between the king's hand and his temper. Robert squinted, saw the girl on the floor, the broken cups, and Joffrey standing over her with a crop in hand, and his face darkened at once.
"You witless little shit," he barked. "If you must strike someone, strike someone who can fight back. Beating girls is craven work."
Joffrey's face reddened and his voice came out high. "She spilled…"
"She spilled because you're in her way," Robert thundered. "Gods, boy, must you shame me in every room you enter?"
That drew a murmur from the tables. Joffrey heard it and stiffened.
"She's a serving wench." he said.
"Aye," Robert said. "And you're a prince. I know which of you ought to have better manners."
He turned his gaze from the Prince and looked at us, waving his cup.
"You there. Arthas. Imp. Get your asses over here and drink. I've no use for long faces in a place like this." he said, gesturing towards Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Mandon Moore.
Beside me, I heard Tyrion failing to suppress a short laugh.
Five feet away, I could see Joffrey's eyes still on me.
So, he had been biding his time all along, I thought.
I nodded towards Tyrion and we both rose. The serving girl was gathering the last of the shards with a reddened hand. Her dress had been spoiled by soaking all the ale and mud off the floor. The Prince had once again displayed his juvenile cruelty in a way that mocked his own station.
Robert slammed the bench with his cup as we came near. He was certainly drunk. "Sit, both of you. The room's gone gloomy, and I'll not have it."
The dark-haired tavern wench was perched half on the bench beside him, her dress tugged low by his wandering hand and one pale breast still threatening to break free entirely whenever she leaned to pour. Robert did not seem to find that troubling. He looked for all the world like some red-faced lord of appetite set down in the middle of a common room.
Tyrek stood just behind him with a pitcher and the expression of a boy reconsidering every dream he had ever had about court.
When our eyes met, he just shook his head. I merely smiled.
"Not far from here," the King started, pointing west with the rim of his cup. "I caved in Rhaegar's Targaryen breastplate and won the crown. Gods, but he looked fine in that armor. Black plate and rubies. Rubies everywhere."
He bellowed a laugh and took a deep pull from his cup.
"When the hammer took him," he went on, "they burst from his breastplate and went into the river red as blood. Men were diving after them while corpses still drifted by. That's a battle, boy. That's what a battle ought to be. Noise, fear, iron, and one good stroke when it matters."
He looked round the table then, flushed and pleased with himself. "Go on," he said. "Tell it. We're close enough to the Trident that I can taste the river. What do you remember?"
Moore spoke first, surprising me.
"The smell, Your Grace," he said in that dead voice of his. "Mud. Blood. Opened bellies. Horses screaming."
The King slapped the table. "Aye. There's truth for you."
Meryn Trant said, "I remember slipping. Thought it was the bank under my boot. It was a dead man."
That made King Robert laugh even harder. I could hear more of them laughing from behind.
"Ned was there," he said, grinning wider. "Gods, Ned with his long face and his quiet. Jon Arryn too, before and after, forever telling me not to outride my men, not to drink too much, not to take every charge as if the Warrior himself had kissed my brow. They all thought to keep me alive. I had no use for it at the time."
King Robert's eyes looked past me and his smile turned from happy to mocking.
I turned around and saw Jaime approaching.
"Kingslayer!," he bellowed. "Don't slink about like some maid avoiding the dance. Come here!"
Jaime came with his usual grace and swagger, and I could see his clothes were still the same road-stained white wool, but he looked like a man fresh from the yard.
Before I could think more of it, the King's voice boomed.
"Tell the boy something cheerful, Kingslayer. Tell him how glorious war is from the rear. Or shall we have the tale of the throne room again? Fire and old men and one bold knight doing what was easiest after all the hard work was done everywhere else."
I snorted. That was how the King approached Jaime. It was always praise wrapped around a jab.
Jaime was smiling when he came closer. He rested a hand on the back of a chair. "If Your Grace wants glory, you'd do better to ask Ser Arthur's ghost about the Smiling Knight."
Robert barked a laugh. "Gods, listen to him. I ask for a war story and he gives me brigands."
"Mad brigands," Jaime said. "That improves them a little."
Tyrion drank. I did the same.
King Robert thumped the table. "Go on, then. Tell it. The boy should hear something worth hearing."
Before Jaime could answer, the room shifted. I could hear whispers, servants scuttering about, laughter dying, Tyrek straightening while looking over me. I turned around and saw why.
Cersei had come.
She was moving through the common room, wearing a dark green silk and gold dress. I exchanged a glance with Tyrion and he winked.
When the King noticed her, the first thing he did was snatch his hand off the tavern wench after pushing her away. It wasn't a gentle push either. He simply shoved the girl aside, making her slip from the bench down into the hay.
Cersei's eyes shot to that first. Then to me and Tyrion.
So, Joffrey had wasted no time.
"You thought fit to rebuke my son," she sneered. "He is the Prince!"
King Robert's face hardened at once. "I thought fit to rebuke a craven."
Her mouth tightened. "He struck a serving girl."
"Aye," the King said. "A girl. That's the point of it."
"She's an inn drab," Cersei said. "A nothing. If the boy bloodied her for clumsiness, what of it?"
Robert gave a short ugly laugh. "If he wants to strike someone, let him strike a man grown and armed. Beating girls and kitchen trash is coward's work."
"He is a Prince." she replied, sneering at him with open contempt.
"He is a boy," the King said, louder now, "and too often a craven one."
Cersei went still. "You shame him in front of servants and hedge trash."
"No," King Robert replied, pointing a meaty finger at her. "He manages that well enough without help from me."
The queen's eyes flashed. "You sit there drunk, fondling tavern sluts, and dare speak of shame?"
King Robert's jaw worked. "Fuck off, Cersei."
I could see a few men looking down into their cups at once. To my right, I could see Tyrion's face displaying a wicked smile. He was enjoying this.
"You disgrace the prince," she said. "You disgrace all of us."
The King pushed himself half upright from the bench. "That boy disgraces himself, and you've spent years teaching him how."
Cersei looked from Robert to Jaime, then to Tyrion, and then to me. Her eyes lingered a moment, cold and measuring. There was enough in that look to tell me Joffrey had told his version of events already, and more than enough to tell me she had not forgotten the king's favor.
She turned around and swept off.
King Robert stared after her for another moment, then blew out a breath through his nose and reached for his cup.
"Gods," he muttered. "A man cannot even wage war in peace."
Tyrion smiled his crooked smile before replying. "Not if he brings his queen with him."
Robert snorted and drank deep, before bellowing and looking around the room. "Well? Why's the room gone dead? Moore looks no different, so it cannot be fear of him."
"That would require him to look alive first," Jaime said.
That won a laugh from Robert, and some of the room's tension went out with it.
"There," the king said, pointing with his cup. "Better. Gods, but I hate a silent table. It smells like Septs and funerals." He settled back onto the bench and hauled the wench near. "Drink, all of you. Trant, if you stare any harder at the wall I'll have to marry you to it."
Ser Meryn bowed his head a fraction. "As Your Grace says."
Robert barked a laugh. "Hah! There's some wit in him, after all. Hidden deep, but there. You just have to look," He waved the cup toward the west. "Where were we? Ah. Rubies. Rhaegar. A proper war. Gods, that was a day."
The King turned his gaze towards me then. He was red-faced and sweating.
"Tell me true, boy. What do they say of it in books? That I came on like the Warrior with a hammer in hand and the dragons fled before me?"
"They say many things in books, Your Grace." I said.
How could the same man from the books be standing in front of me, I wondered. The Demon of the Trident. Now, he was the Demon of the Inn, fondling a tavern wench with one hand and a flagon of ale in the other. Madness. Madness and depravity, I thought.
"Aye," Tyrion said. "That is their chief fault."
Robert grinned. "And what do you say, Imp?"
Tyrion replied, while rolling his cup around, "I say you won your crown there, which has the virtue of being both true and brief."
Robert laughed. "The Imp speaks truth, matched with wit."
He took a deep pull from his cup then. I looked at Tyrion with an eyebrow raised. He merely raised his own in response.
"Drink," the King said, waving his cup at us. "All of you. I'll not have long faces while the ale still flows." He looked at me then. "Tomorrow we ride, boy. Winterfell, wolves, and all the rest of Ned Stark's frozen joys."