Chapter 7
Now that Arya had learned how to warg and my own ability to slip into Visha's skin was second nature, I began to branch out a bit. The Red Keep had a fair number of cats. They were sometimes pets, but most often just there to help keep the rodent population under control. A little piece of fish served as excellent bait and after I had one eating out of my hand it consented to let me carry it and bring it to my room. Visha yawned and the cat looked at her hesitantly but then settled in my arms.
Closing the door, I then attempted to warg into the gray feline. An effort of will and suddenly it happened. Immediately I was disoriented by a different set of senses. With Visha I had already experienced the sense of her while dreaming, but now it was completely foreign. The other difference was that Visha was comfortable and almost welcoming, but the cat was not. It let out a yowl and a hiss and then I exerted control. It didn't like that. I felt momentarily bad for crushing its will underneath mine, but the animal instinct to flee the room was not helpful.
That done, being a cat turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. Their sense of balance and grace was better than the direwolf's. Visha had more raw physical power of course, but the cat… the cat allowed me to roam and overhear things that would otherwise be impossible. Unfortunately, there were some problems with this plan.
Ugh.
As a cat I couldn't open the door, nor would I want the open entryway to my chambers in the Tower of the Hand to reveal my once again comatose form. I had not thought this through. I was just experimenting. I slipped out of the cat who immediately hid under the bed and hissed. This would probably be a two-person job, but for now, the experiment was a success.
I opened the door and the cat fled. I wondered what else I could warg into. Ideas percolated through my thoughts. Animals like horses, ravens, and the like had some uses. Ravens were used to carry messages, though the odds of picking the right one might be slim. And being unconscious to the world while I waited seemed hazardous. Slipping my skin into a horse to interfere with a joust for good or ill was another possibility. I had taken a sudden and rather extreme approach to dealing with Joffrey, but with this ability I could have potentially arranged a different accident altogether.
Though at the time I didn't know all I could do with this strange power.
And it was strange. This seemed so very different than strict mathematical formulae that governed magic. It was more… fuzzy, or perhaps nebulous. I didn't like that aspect. Magic followed a set of rules and manipulated physics and chemistry, but it followed the rules. What the hell was this? What was actually being changed within reality that allowed me to hijack a primitive mind and control it with my own unconscious one. The disturbing oddity of it would not keep me from further experimentation but it was disquieting.
The safest way to experiment with other animals and attempt to find a use for it would be to work with Arya. She was normally good about listening to me, but I knew she chafed sometimes and wanted to rush ahead. I wasn't sure I wanted to reveal to her that she could warg into other animals. The cat had tried to fight me before I had forced it down. But I was a person who was on their third life and had a very strong sense of self, what if Arya did not have as easy of a time? The wolves bonded to us seemed safe, but another animal altogether seemed more dangerous to me. Even if the odds were low, I didn't want to take the chance until she was more secure in her warg abilities.
Father seemed frustrated with his new role as Hand. Over a private family supper with me and Arya, I probed a bit about the issues.
"You've an able mind, Sansa, but I fear my problems cannot be solved with your wits. Robert has borrowed extensive sums to pay for tournaments and feasts. He is offering staggering sums of gold for this gods-cursed tourney he wishes to hold. The realm should be mourning the loss of its prince, not having a celebration."
I nodded. Spending, debt, income, and the like were not just numbers and accounting problems. It would be nice if they were just mathematical problems to be solved, but I lived in the real world. Budgeting on a national scale was about politics and status. Emotion and pride.
"I suspect the king wishes to turn the page from grief to something that brings him comfort. Perhaps a direct approach where the tournament does not happen is impossible to accept. Have you tried looking for a compromise on the expenses?"
"He considers it 'counting coppers' and will not hear of it."
A frown creased my face at the seeming incongruity.
"The king was explicit with the numerical value of the prize purses?"
My father paused mid-bite and then frowned. "He dictated a letter with the amounts."
"Strange, for someone who does not wish to count coppers," I replied thoughtfully. "If the king is being obstinate and insistent on a big public spectacle to move on from the grief of losing his son, you will need to approach it less directly. What are the amounts in question?"
My father told me the staggering prizes. No wonder he was upset. For three hundred gold dragons, you could pay a ransom for a knight. Ten thousand gold dragons for the best archer? Twenty thousand for the winner of the melee? A total of sixty thousand split between the winner and runner-up? Insane. With ten gold dragons, I could pay a guard's yearly salary and outfit them with a set of steel armor that included a greathelm.
"That amount is far too high, I agree, Father. Since the king wants it done sooner than late, you have a few options before the ravens go out announcing the prize pool."
He looked on, curious as to what I would say.
"The first is to use your power as Hand of the King. He has given you instructions, but you are the one who interprets his orders. Robert is a king who does not want to be fussed about the details. Simply alter the prize amounts on your own authority. There's an element of risk here, but if the king tells you to send a raven to summon a lord who has already arrived in the city, do you make the man wait while you write and send the letter anyway, or do you simply speak to him directly? Depending on your prior conversations with the king, this may no longer be possible, but you can also fall back on the notion that if you intend to stay as his Hand, you must be given autonomy to make decisions."
The honorable man, the Lord of Winterfell, looked pained at the suggestion.
"And your other suggestions?"
"The next alternative is to raise money to pay for the expense. Increase taxation, possibly a gate tax for visiting knights and lords. Tournament fees for the participants. Levy additional incomes from lords great and small across Westeros. No doubt, this will be highly unpopular and you can then sit with Robert and show that all expenses must eventually be paid for."
He shook his head. "He'll never agree to it, for he likes being beloved by the people."
"Go on a hunt with him then. Find a time and place where you can at least explain these things to him as well as the consequences. But if neither sound doable, perhaps I can speak with him about an idea to keep the roads safer so something like what happened my betrothed won't happen again." I let my eyes lose focus a bit and added a slight tremble to my hand and a hitch in my throat before continuing.
"I can ask the king about an idea I had that my Lord Father said couldn't be done because of the expense of the tournament. It would mean having regular patrols near King's Landing and perhaps a small watchtower near where Joffrey was slain next to the Trident. As the maid who was despoiled by brigands, I can be very persuasive and see about cutting the tourney purses in half and then use half of the savings for those ideas."
Arya laughed. "And you save the realm…" She scrunched up her face. "Twenty-two thousand five hundred gold dragons!"
It was clear that my father was deeply uneasy with my recommendations.
"Sansa, I fear this place has already sunk into you, and it has only been two days! These… conniving means are not honorable and are why the Seven Kingdoms have been beggared."
"We must adapt. None of what I would say to the king is a lie. Having a vital artery of trade well-guarded, especially as the harvest comes due and winter eventually looms, is to the good of all. That we find ways to spend less than the full forty-five thousand gold dragons we are cutting from the purse is just good stewardship." I took a small sip from my cup. "This assumes I am also successful, but I believe it can be done."
He looked at me for a long moment and then slowly nodded. "I will not act contrary to what my king has directly commanded. He will not listen to detailed explanations about incomes and spendthrift ways. If you think you can convince him, I will somehow arrange a time."
That, of course, could be dicey, as it really should not look like Father arranged it.
"No, I will handle it."
A frown crested his features again, but before he could raise an objection, I pressed on and made my case for allowing me to handle it myself. A direct, seemingly forward, and impromptu girlish push seemed far better than an attempt at a formal meeting or a public spectacle. I had already handed some silver stags to the serving maids to let me know about the comings and goings of the powerful. Nothing like proper spying, just the lay of the land in terms of when meals were held, who the queen liked to be accompanied by, and the schedule for room tidying and the like. It had allowed me to create a picture in my head of the default schedule that the Red Keep followed.
Though clearly with some misgivings, my father agreed, and Arya eagerly said, "I want to help."
You'll help in other ways soon, Arya.
***
Robert detested court, so he did not make it a daily affair to sit on the damned uncomfortable Iron Throne. He had not made it back to the royal bedchamber, and instead had collapsed unconscious after sleeping with one of his new favorites. The Red Keep had a number of places to fuck and, in this case, sleep. He knew better than to take his dalliances into the room he shared with the queen. Though he did find it quite the lark to make the queen's brother guard his door on nights when he fucked women who didn't guard their cunt as much as Cersei did.
By the time the morn had come, Robert woke with a pounding skull and the sour aftertaste of last night's wine thick on his tongue. The golden son of Tywin had already been relieved by someone else. Today it was apparently Ser Preston Greenfield.
"Your Grace, pardon the interruption, but the Hand's daughter is without and wishes to speak with you."
Robert rubbed at his head.
"What? Why is she here?"
Ser Preston looked uncomfortable, "She seems upset, says something about a quarrel with her father."
"Seven Hells! What does that have to do with me? Ned can handle his own household."
"Yes, Your Grace."
He closed the door and Robert muttered to himself before shouting, "And send for my manservants, I may as well get dressed."
He quaffed some wine and heard Preston speak through the door at length. The muffled words could not quite be made out but he seemed to be taking his damn time. The door opened again.
"Your Grace, she says that it has to do with… what happened to the prince."
A fresh wave of haunting energy filled him.
Has she remembered something?
He grabbed some clothing and quickly dressed, not completely properly, but now he needed to know.
"Give me a minute, and then send her in."
Sansa Stark entered. Her eyes looked a bit puffy and his heart went out to her. What had happened to her and his Joffrey was a cruelty beyond words. It reminded him of what had happened to Lyanna and a familiar rage was beginning to rouse.
No, I mustn't scare her.
She curtsied. "Forgive me, Your Grace, for intruding. I did not know what else to do. I may just be a silly girl, but what happened to my betrothed haunts me and my father will not listen."
Her eyes were red-rimmed and there was a bit of dampness on her cheek that she rubbed away as she put on a trembling effort to keep a gentle and composed face.
There is not much of Lyanna in her. The hair and height are wrong, but there is a touch within her face.
"Calm yourself, child. That doesn't sound like your father."
"He says he wants to, but that the treasury cannot bear the expense. I had… I had suggested that maybe the roads be patrolled more along the kingsroad. That we expand the guards to keep it safe so nothing like what… what… you know." Her voice faltered, but then she pressed on. "He says that there are already difficulties in borrowing sums for the tourney and that he cannot conscientiously approve any further spending at this time. I know the realm is so looking forward to honoring the bravery of the prince, but I had hoped that as a gesture of goodwill the knights who are victorious donate the coin they win to that cause."
Robert winced. The girl did not understand matters of state. The crown could not be seen as so weak as to depend on donations. Such a thing would make him the laughing stock of the realm. Besides, there was always more coin to be found from somewhere, surely.
"The matter of additional protection for the roads will be taken up by the Small Council. The crown has coin; we will not be seen as some poorly managed reign unable to provide for the common safety. Do not fret, child, you shall not go unguarded again. I… I must apologize for the lack of it before this."
Sansa lowered her head. "Your Grace, 'tis not your fault. Not even my own father's men were with me. It was the actions of wanton cruelty from lesser men." She bit her lip. "And I thank you for letting the small council hear my plea. I fear that as my father is the head of it, there may not be much that comes of it. I love him, but he is so overwrought. He fears for the realm, Your Grace. Mayhaps, could I ask whoever the winners are to donate to the cause? That way it does not seem to come from the realm's governance itself. As a gesture for the construction of Joffrey's tower to house the guards upon the Trident perhaps. They would be seen as courtly and generous and as hearing a widow, of sorts, plea?"
Robert still didn't like the look of it. He also misliked how disturbed Ned was about the finances. Surely it couldn't be all that bad. The man was always so serious all the time. Seeing the earnest girl before him made him want to just resolve the matter then and there without being forced to look at stacks of parchments and numbers.
"Child," he said, trying to keep his voice mild, "Sansa, 'tis not necessary. We have coin enough."
"But we don't, Your Grace!" she said, with wide-eyed despair. "I overheard my father say that the crown is being charged ruinous rates to borrow sums and that he struggles with trying to fix the crown's finances. I don't know all the details, but I was taught sums by Maester Luwin and it shouldn't cost more than forty thousand gold dragons to build Joffrey's Tower and man it with knights and riders. If we must borrow for just such an amount, are not things dire?"
Robert clenched his teeth. He wanted to throw something, but he would not further traumatize his best friend's daughter. He detested these petty details, but if Ned was truly so distraught over this… a thought came to him then: a way to appear wise and kingly to Lyanna's niece and a girl that had been wounded by his laxness.
"Such a sum brings you to tears? Fret not, my lady, your king can see to this at once. We will not ask the winners of the tournament to forfeit their winnings, but we can just offer them less in the first place. I'll inform the council this very day. Will that please you?"
I like the idea of Joffrey's Tower too. A monument to the son I didn't raise properly, but at least his final deed in defense of his lady love will have a tangible mark on the world.
He was caught unprepared when Sansa rushed toward him and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Robert felt his heart melt a bit at her murmured thank-yous.
He patted her back and then gently extricated himself from her embrace.
"There, there, child. I'm honored by you wishing to name such a thing after my son. You would have been good for him."
He nearly winced again; he didn't want her to think she was going to be considered for Tommen. It was too early, only midday after all, to be too guarded with his words.
"He was gallant. I enjoyed singing with him. Would you like to hear about our stroll through the Godswood back in Winterfell? He said the most delightful…" Sansa trailed off. "Oh, forgive me, Your Grace, I know you must be busy. It is just… the queen and Joffrey's siblings are filled with grief and do not want to speak about him with me. And my father is so busy, and I'm afraid my little sister was too eager to cheer for our brothers in the yard to like him and… no, I'm sorry, Your Grace, I should go."
Robert hesitated. He really didn't have anything to do with court not in session, and he was not planning to attend the Small Council meetings that day. There were no requirements of his time until the feast that evening. He would rather get drunk and maybe fuck one of the new girls Littlefinger had recommended, but it was hard to tell Stark women no. She was away from her mother for the first time, had unspeakable things happen to her, and no one to share her grief over his son with.
"Aye, I would love to hear more of your time with my son."
They ended up talking for the better part of the hour and she even shyly asked if they could meet again. She would love to hear stories of her Aunt Lyanna, if he could recall any in the future. Her father was too grief-filled to speak of her much, but the older folk of Winterfell had all sorts of stories.
Gods, it is hard to think of her and not be filled with wrath and the urge to smash something. But this had been… pleasant. She saw the best in Joffrey. I never cared for singing myself, but it seemed to have won Sansa's heart. I'll find a match for the girl, even if I have to help with the dowry given Ned's pinchpenny ways. And I can meet with her again. Perhaps it would do me good to remember the fonder times, when I could still ride and fight with the best of them. Gods I was strong, then. So alive and full of vigor. I could fight and then drink and fuck all night and still wake up at dawn ready to face any challenge.
***
Arya felt guilty for being so happy. A new world was opening up and all the while tragedy was happening around her. Why should she be pleased with life when her sister had been attacked and lost her chance to be queen and her brother was crippled by a fall? It felt wrong, but there were just so many exciting things happening. Her ability to warg into Nymeria filled her with glee. It was exciting and mysterious, and there were so many scents to experience. Yesterday, Sansa had guarded her body while she, in Nymeria's skin, explored the godswood of the Red Keep.
The guards and serving staff still looked at the growing wolves warily, but ever since she had learned how to slip her skin, Nymeria was even more well behaved. Both Visha and her own wolf never growled or barked or did anything untoward toward anyone, so the sight of the wolf roaming was no longer cause for alarm.
Sansa says it helps that no one wants to get on the bad side of the new Hand. She says that position and power allow people to get away with things others wouldn't be able to.
It wasn't just her time as Nymeria that was exciting, but the lessons with her dancing master. Her bald instructor was teaching her the ways of the water dancer. Her first lesson had demonstrated how good he was, while the second had her beginning on a variety of strange exercises. She was doing one when Sansa saw her on the steps trying to balance on her toes.
"You shouldn't do that on the stairs."
"Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours."
She had told Sansa about her training and her sister said that it was wonderful she found a hobby that would keep her active and fit. Arya didn't like thinking about it as a 'hobby' but she didn't want to argue the point with Sansa. The fact that her sister approved at all made her smile.
"But you are not a water dancer yet. If you slip, there's a low but not insignificant chance you could hurt yourself tumbling down the stairs. Or if the timing is exceedingly poor you fall while some maidservant or guard is coming up the stairs and you hurt someone else. Balance practice can be done on level ground just as easily."
"Syrio says that every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better."
Sansa let loose a rare grin. "Yes, I have always found that to be true as well. But falling on the hard floor is a good enough lesson and does not risk the injury of others."
Arya gave her a suspicious look. She had to be careful with what Sansa said. It always felt like Sansa was once again pressing her into a corner with the way she talked. Arya knew that Sansa was worried over her, but also knew that any such argument would not sway her, and so instead she was forcing Arya to either relent or say she didn't care about harming others.
"I will listen for footsteps."
Sansa gave her an appraising look. "Do I need to talk with Syrio? There are ways to make training safer. I'm sure he's quite good at what he does, but he's from Braavos and may not understand that potential serious injury to the Hand's daughter can have troubling ramifications, especially so soon after my own experience."
Arya huffed out an angry exhale and lost her balance and then caught herself.
Trying to argue with her never works.
"No, you don't need to talk with him. I will practice elsewhere."
Though a part of her really wondered how that would go. Syrio was exacting, precise, and strict. Sansa had outlasted their mother's displeasure and cowed Septa Mordane. She felt uneasy at the idea of the two clashing. Better to just practice at some other set of steps where Sansa didn't regularly travel through.
Setting that aside, she was very happy in King's Landing. She missed her mother and Jon, and Robb, and Bran, and even little Rickon. Arya wondered if Shaggydog was getting properly trained.
Jon would see to it, I'm sure.
She was going to be a warrior woman, like the Mormont women. She would wield Needle like a water dancer and have Nymeria at her side. She'd be better than any knight! And at night she would slip her skin and explore an entire new set of sensations. Her sister would find someone else to marry and be happy. Bran would wake up and get better. Her family would be reunited one day too. Yes, everything was working out really well of late!
Author's Note: https://www.patreon.com/cw/failninjaninja
Chapter 8, 9, 10, and 11 are up as Early Access! In addition we have a few days left to cast your vote on what my next project will be. Halo or Warcraft!
Chapter 8
After my successful visit with the king, I had also said that with all the turmoil, it seemed that no arrangement had been made for me to visit with Myrcella and comfort her in her time of grief. I had so enjoyed doing needlework with the young princess, and I hoped he could see to a continuation. Not that I particularly enjoyed it, but the princess was bright for her age and she would one day be married to someone important. No sense in wasting an opportunity to network.
Arya claimed she was far too busy, and I did not press the issue. If Arya was to eventually wed Tommen, and that was not at all decided from what I could deduce, then she would have to get used to this sort of thing, but it wasn't an urgent problem to solve. Septa Mordane joined me, as did Jeyne Poole. Surprisingly, Myrcella did not have much accompaniment. Four Lannister guards awaited without, along with Rosamund Lannister, a girl around her age from the cadet branch of the Lannisters, and Septa Eglantine.
We chattered happily about the upcoming tourney, and Myrcella openly hoped her uncle, Ser Jaime, would win.
"Oh, yes, the Kingslayer is very handsome, and fierce as well," Jeyne began. Mordane inhaled sharply while Eglantine gave her a cross look.
"Jeyne," I said, grabbing her hand, "has a few uncouth friends among the smallfolk here in King's Landing. They used that impolite title for the Lion of Lannister, beg pardon, Princess Myrcella – she meant nothing by it."
Myrcella gave a hesitant smile.
"My uncle is not one to take offense, and neither shall I."
Is she a good liar or does she genuinely believe that? Hard to say.
Jeyne looked mortified, and when she began to try to apologize, I squeezed her wrist. Myrcella had already granted pardon for the faux pas. Jeyne remained quiet for the rest of our time together, which suited me fine. I made an effort to include Rosamund in our conversation. Often it was useful to obtain the approval of the companions of the person with whom you wished to maintain good relations.
"I've only been to White Harbor once, and in truth, it sounds far less majestic than Lannisport. Do you miss your home?"
"Sometimes," Rosamund admitted, "but it is a great honor to serve the princess."
Myrcella added that she too loved Lannisport and the high-masted trading vessels, but that King's Landing port was even busier.
"Will there be knights from the North participating in the tourney?" Myrcella asked.
"The North only has a few knights that serve, and none came with us. We hold to the old gods and not the new. Our household guard does boast warriors trained in the same way a knight is. Jory Cassel, Alyn of Winterfell, and Harwin, our master of horse's son, are all fine riders."
Eglantine sniffed. "Do not fill the princess's head with such backward beliefs. The Seven are all she needs."
I eyed the septa for a moment. "Septa Eglantine, my mother is a fervent follower of the Seven. King Robert does not seek to curtail anyone's beliefs. Be they the old gods or the Drowned God of the Ironborn. If you are seeing to Princess Myrcella's education, I hope you have addressed that the Seven Kingdoms are bound by loyalty to the king, and not due to religiosity."
The septa's eyes widened a bit. She seemed on the verge of saying something, but then thought better of it.
"The princess is aware. I was just making clear you should not tempt her from the Seven."
"A harmless misunderstanding, then," I said with a smile, "for I believe people's beliefs are their own. That has always been King Robert's stance as was the stance of most of the kings before him. I do think that is a good policy, don't you agree?"
I said that with all the innocence of a lamb, and the septa neatly evaded the false dilemma I had backed her into.
"My focus is only on Myrcella's proper upbringing, and not His Grace's decisions. It would be improper for me to comment on matters beyond my station."
Nicely done.
Mordane was looking uncomfortable, and I changed the subject back toward safer territory. I drew out what she thought of some of the other regular participants. She liked Ser Barristan and found him gallant. She also giggled and said Ser Beric Dondarrion was handsome and that he always rode swift horses. The Knight of Flowers was a favorite of Rosamund's, though Myrcella was not fond.
"Why not?" I asked, actually curious. The Knight of Flowers was Ser Loras Tyrell, a youth who had recently turned sixteen. He was the son of Lord Mace Tyrell, ruler of Highgarden and of the second wealthiest family in Westeros.
"It is because he unhorsed her uncle," Rosamund supplied.
"'Tis good to be loyal to one's family," I smiled at Myrcella. "Will your uncles ride in the Hand's Tourney?"
Myrcella giggled. "Tyrion riding in the tournament would be a humorous sight. It would just be the sort of jape he likes to play on me!" She gave one last bit of laughter and concluded, "Uncle Jaime will ride, of course."
Hmm, most interesting. Is she not close to Renly?
"And your Uncle Renly?" I asked politely.
"Oh," her cheeks colored a bit. "I'm not sure, but he usually rides in the lists. He does well enough, but I don't think he has won a tourney here in King's Landing."
"Well, I must cheer for the riders representing the North first, but I shall gladly favor both Lord Renly and Ser Jaime as well."
I finished up my stitching and went about the next part of my day. I had grown used to trying to warg into different animals and returning to my own body. I had tried it on several cats, as well as on one of the kitchen dogs I had managed to corral with treats. But I was curious if I could switch from one animal directly into the skin of another animal before turning back to my body. If so, that level of flexibility would be incredibly useful.
***
Renly lay sprawled with his lover on the generously sized bed in his chambers. He enjoyed moments like these. The urgency of their ardor reduced after being fully sated, when they could relax and speak freely.
"You say my sister does not look like Lyanna Stark, but does that mean the plan no longer works? I hear the king and queen are quarreling more than usual," Loras questioned.
"Yes, they are," Renly said with a lazy smile, tracing a finger along Loras. "It seems my brother had the thought to take a personal hand in Tommen's training. It did not go well. My nephew did not take it seriously enough, and Robert was already ill-tempered by the heat and being out in the yard. But as to Margaery, perhaps, if the king is more dissatisfied with his wife, it might be an opportune time."
Cersei has lost a step with Joffrey's death. Still beautiful, or so people say, but she looks far less composed than typical. The servants in the Red Keep walk softly and frightfully around her.
"Is it true our new Hand is attempting a similar ploy?"
Renly laughed, then sat up to pour some wine for them both.
"Eddard Stark? Attempt to whore his daughter to his friend? Where did you get such an idea?"
Loras's naked shoulders shrugged. "There is whispered talk of it. All know Robert enjoys his whores, and it would give some use to a despoiled daughter. Didn't you mention the king even cut the proposed purse for the winners of the Hand's Tourney?"
"He did, they are long friends. But the Starks, they aren't like the more civilized places. He is not a man to use such a ploy, and his daughter is too young. Perhaps in a year or two, when her bosom grows more prominent, but even then, no, I think it unlikely."
Loras accepted it, though Renly did find it odd that some were speaking of it. Robert had met with Sansa, but it was to share stories of Joffrey and the North, not anything carnal in nature. It would take a bold man to spread rumors that would earn the ire of both the new Hand and the king.
It had taken him by complete surprise that Stark had managed to convince the king. It would be useful to try to keep a cordial relationship with the man, even if he was a dreadful bore. He was like Jon Arryn, but even less flexible and more obstinate. At least the old man had been able to bend and smile a little at a well-timed jest.
He vexes the Lannisters and is not their friend. Far better than the other likely candidates for the role.
Cersei would have argued for Jaime or her father. Stannis had wanted to be the Hand himself. He shuddered. All three would have been awful in their own ways.
"Are you well?" Loras asked.
"Just thinking about how fortunate we were with Robert choosing Eddard. We should write to your father. As Cersei continues to be at odds with my brother, he will be open to our idea of supplanting the queen with a younger bride. If Tommen disappoints him further, even that is to our advantage. If Tywin threatens to rally the banners, well, he will find himself in a poor position, with the Stormlands, the Reach, and the North arrayed against him. Old Hoster Tully has always been cagey, but his eldest daughter is married to the Starks, and Lysa now rules the Eyrie. The woman is daft and more than a little mad, but even she has no love for Cersei or any Lannisters."
Loras grinned. "Margaery is sweet and has a good head to match her pretty face. She will know how to tempt the king. We can add that we worry over gentle Myrcella, and that we feel she could use more highborn ladies of proper stature to be around during her difficult time of grief."
Gods, I love the Tyrells!
Renly took a well-earned drink from his cup, then handed Loras the other.
"And after the Hand's Tournament, we may well be rid of the Hound's baleful presence. It seems the queen blames him for not protecting Joffrey and has rejected his attempt to be Tommen's sworn shield. A fine thank you after killing Joffrey's murderers."
The Hound had always been a surly ass. Worse, he was atrocious to look upon. Seeing the hideous scarring regularly was revolting. Renly hid his displeasure well, for only a fool would let potential enemies know when he was discomfited, but he would be well pleased to see the hideous dog out of the city.
"He is good with the lance. Do you think some lord will snap him up for their service?"
"Doubtful, as that may upset the queen, and the Starks would not trust him. He thought he was secure in his role as the future king's protector and let his tongue run free. He is no knight, and should he keep up his manner, he is like to join Ser Ilyn in silence."
After some more relaxation, they got to work on the letter to the Reach. Not looking like Lyanna had decreased the likelihood of success, but the growing strain between king and queen had enhanced it. A wash, and still worth the attempt.
***
Ned was patient as he listened to the old Grand Maester ramble on about summers of old and his own memories. When the man finally returned to the death of Jon Arryn, the serving girl had already fetched the chilled milk.
"If truth be told, the Hand had not seemed quite himself for some time," Pycelle said. He went on to explain how the cares of the realm and more had weighed him down. His son was very sickly, and his lady wife was always anxious.
He listened patiently and wondered about how Jon had ruled. Dealing with Robert was not easy, something he was fast learning. That Sansa had somehow managed to convince Robert where he had failed was astonishing.
It still feels as if I played false. We had saved the realm some coin, but through base means.
"What can you tell me of his final illness?"
Pycelle explained that Jon had seemed hale enough when he came asking for a specific book. He seemed troubled, but not sickly. The next morning he had been twisted over in pain and that Maester Colemon thought it was a chill on the stomach.
"I went to him myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him."
"I have heard that you sent Maester Colemon away."
"I did, and I fear that Lady Lysa will never forgive me for that. Maybe I was wrong, but at the time I thought it best. Maester Colemon was purging Lord Arryn with wasting potions and pepper juice, and I feared he might kill him."
"Did Lord Arryn say anything to you during his final hours?"
Ned was desperate to learn of anything that might prove useful. So far, all of his efforts had proven fruitless.
"In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robert several times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Eventually, when I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should not suffer. He did whisper to the king, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, were his final words."
"Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn's death?"
The aged maester did not think so, and talked of how each death was different and yet all were the same in the end. Even when he pressed that Jon's wife thought differently, Pycelle was resolute.
"If an old man may be forgiven his blunt speech, let me say that grief can derange even the strongest and most disciplined of minds, and the Lady Lysa was never that. Since her last stillbirth, she has seen enemies in every shadow, and the death of her lord husband left her shattered and lost."
Ned made the suggestion that perhaps it was not an illness but poison.
The Grand Maester shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"A disturbing thought. We are not the Free Cities, where such things are common. What you suggest is possible, my lord, yet I do not think it likely. He showed none of the signs of the common poisons and the Hand was loved by all. What sort of monster in man's flesh would dare to murder such a noble lord?"
"I have heard it said that poison is a woman's weapon."
The man across from him stroked his long beard thoughtfully.
"It is said. Women, cravens… and eunuchs. The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, my lord."
You believe it is not poison but then all but outright proclaims Varys the poisoner? I despise these southern games.
One thought niggled at him. "I should be curious to examine the book that you lent Jon the day before he fell ill."
Pycelle said it was a ponderous tome by Grand Maester Malleon on the lineages of great houses, and tried to dissuade him as being of little interest, but Ned insisted. He would not let any potential piece of evidence go overlooked.
He returned to the Tower of the Hand and soon after, Littlefinger came to call upon him. Ned was uncertain as to why he was there and was wary. Contemplating how someone might have murdered the man who raised him felt more burdensome than riding to war.
"Is there a reason for your visit?"
The small man smiled. "I promised Cat I would help you in your inquiries, and so I have."
Ned didn't trust the man at all. They spoke, and Littlefinger inquired as to if he had bothered speaking to Jon Arryn's household. He had tried, of course, but Lysa had taken everyone with her. Jon Arryn's maester, his steward, the captain of his guard, his knights, and his retainers. Littlefinger had learned that some had remained; one of note was Ser Hugh of the Vale, Lord Arryn's former squire.
"His squire?" Ned was pleasantly surprised. A man's squire often knew a great deal of his comings and goings.
The boy had been knighted recently by Robert after Jon Arryn's death. Perhaps a final gesture of respect for Jon Arryn. Ned did not venerate the Seven, but such a deed would be just like Robert. A grand gesture that was both inappropriate but heartfelt.
"I shall send for him."
Littlefinger winced. "My lord, step over here to the window, if you would be so kind."
Petyr Baelish, one of the small council members and master of coin, pointed out two individuals who had clear view of Ned's new home. He declared a boy by the armory to be one of Spider's spies. And a guardsman one of the queen's.
He had no taste for the inquiries and felt incredibly uncomfortable.
What am I doing here?
"Is everyone someone's informer in this cursed city?"
"Scarcely," said Littlefinger. "Why, there's me, you, the king… although come to think on it, the king tells the queen much too much, and I'm less than certain about you."
Ned found himself growing annoyed at the man's easy wit. And yet Baelish was useful, and seemed to know his way through the dangers of King's Landing. For now, he endured it, for lack of a better course, if he was to uncover the Lannisters' part in Jon Arryn's death.
Littlefinger instead suggested that Ned seek someone he could trust, because even the Spider could not watch everyone. It was sound advice.
"Lord Petyr, I… am grateful for your help. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust you."
The man laughed. "Well, if you do trust me, then perhaps I could give you some advice of a more personal nature?"
Wary of some jest, he gave a stiff nod.
"Sansa has met with the king privately, twice now. Tongues are wagging. Our good king has a reputation for… enjoying women." He held up his hands defensively. "Lord Stark, these are not my words, but the words of others. I accuse the king of nothing when it comes to your daughter, but others are. The talk is whispered, but it may increase with time. The thought, being that sweet Sansa being already despoiled once, suggested that you might not be opposed to providing her as entertainment for the king, has already been spoken aloud."
"Who?" Ned said with fury.
"My lord, if I were to reveal that, it would put those who overheard such a thing in danger and allow the Spider and the queen to move without us having warning. I promised Cat I would help you, but not to the destruction of what I have built and what may see the Hand's murderers brought to justice. I do not bring this to you to frustrate you, but to make the same suggestion I made to your wife. Send her to the Vale. I have friends there, and I will be able to find highborn who will marry her. From a noble house, not a landed knight or someone truly below her station. Get her away from these false rumors. Let her see this tourney and then send her away."
Ned frowned. It was good of Baelish to think about Sansa's reputation. Lysa believed her husband had been murdered and was caring for a sickly child. Sansa was a steadying influence, and could help soothe the pains of grief. He had suggested as much to Catelyn before he learned of the hidden message. For his wife and some of their children to go to the Eyrie and provide comfort.
I do not wish to split Sansa and Arya apart. And it is still too soon to consider another marriage pact.
"Thank you, Lord Petyr. I will consider your offer, but I believe allowing for more time to pass since the tragic events at the Trident is more appropriate."
"As you like, but I would urge you to at least put an end to these little meetings with the king. The court can be quite cruel and a young maid should not be subjected to such slanderous calumny."
On that, he agreed. But Baelish did not know Sansa. Court gossip and cruel barbs would no more faze her than the wind. He would speak with Sansa and determine what she wished to do. Ned trusted her to make the right decision.
***
Tyrion found the idea intriguing.
"I am fond of this as when I grow older, I do not wish to require someone to read to me. I am used to reading faster than someone could read aloud."
Sansa smiled, pleased with the positive reception.
"It is only a theory at this point, but a Myrish lens uses the curve of the glass to aid a person in seeing things far into the distance. I believe we can borrow that principle and make an adjustment to aid us in our dotage so we may continue to be delighted by books."
Tyrion's brow furrowed as he studied her.
"You say the curve must be altered," he said. "Altered to what end? A spyglass brings the distant near, but a book already sits in one's hand. Would this just make the lettering larger?"
Sansa was quiet for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal.
"I think the fault is not always in the thing being looked at," she said slowly, "but in how the eye receives what is seen."
Tyrion's gaze sharpened. "Go on."
"The eye must take in what it sees and make sense of it," Sansa continued. "If it does so imperfectly, then no matter how close the page, the letters will not appear as they should. They blur, or seem to run together."
"You speak as if you've taken an eye apart to study it," Tyrion said, half-amused, half-wary.
"Was that not part of your upbringing in Casterly Rock?" Sansa responded evenly. "Rickon will be having his first when he turns four."
Tyrion blinked and then could only stare at her in astonishment before her face cracked in a slight smile.
He laughed, sharp and genuine.
Clever girl. Gods, she is good.
"I have watched how others read," she said. "Some men hold a page at arm's length to read. Others must bring it close. Children see sharply at any distance, yet older men favor one range over another. It cannot be the page that changes."
Tyrion leaned forward slightly.
"So, you believe the eye itself changes shape over time?"
"Something like that," Sansa said. "Or at least, it fails to judge distance as it once did. If that is so, then the image it forms would be misplaced. Fuzzy. Not where it ought to be."
"And your glass would mend this?" Tyrion asked.
"Not exactly," she said. "It would compensate. If the eye places the image too near, then a certain curve might push it farther. If too far, then a different curve might draw it closer. The lens would not strengthen the eye, only correct its error. The eye will remain as deficient as always, but if we were to craft a device that would allow a paired lens to rest right in front of the eye, it would alleviate the issues with attempting to read as one ages."
Tyrion could see the flaws; he ticked them off. "That would be expensive; glass is not cheap. Second, those who slowly lose their ability to read up close as they age is a progressive ailment. It gets worse, so one would have to replace these lenses multiple times. Three," he held up the third finger, "it is just a theory, and one that would require a contract with Myr."
"Well," she said with a smile, "I most likely have three decades, but you, less than two to get it right before our eyesight makes reading difficult. I thought you might be interested in pursuing this idea. While impractical for most people, it would be affordable by wealthy houses, like your own. Furthermore, there could be a score of different ones at various levels of curvature that could be placed in a library for general use."
I'd be worried about thieves, but then the Starks are a bit naïve. I still can't believe they didn't post a guard for the books of their library. Anyone at all could access it from the outside.
Visha, her fast-growing direwolf at Sansa's side, suddenly perked her ears. Tyrion glanced, and Sansa petted her wolf.
"Oh, Visha likely hears someone drawing near. It must be later than I thought. If you were expecting company, it might be best if I depart."
Tyrion was momentarily embarrassed. He did have whores over often, but none were expected this evening. He had never been embarrassed by his whoring, but around Sansa, it caused some shame.
She isn't even a follower of the Seven. Why do I feel this way?
"I am not expecting anyone; perhaps it is a guard. If you need to go, I'll not keep you."
"No, my lord, I just wanted to be respectful. We can continue."
Then he heard it – it was the sound of footsteps and armor. A gauntlet knocked on the door in his room within the Red Keep.
"Tyrion, are you alone? We need to speak."
"Jaime," Tyrion said, "I suppose my brother has need of me. Shall we meet again in a few days? I'd like to consider your ideas about the eye and Myrish lenses and then discuss it further with you."
"I would be delighted."
"You may come in," Tyrion said, raising his voice to be heard over the thick walls and stout door.
Jaime came in looking worried, then stopped in his tracks at seeing Sansa and her wolf.
"Ah, uh, Lady Sansa. I did not expect to find you here."
"Ser Jaime," she rose and curtsied. "I was speaking with your brother over eyesight and books, but I had best return to the Tower of the Hand. I wish you good fortune in the upcoming lists, but do go easy on any of my father's men."
Jaime looked flummoxed for a brief moment, but then smiled. "I will be sure to be gentle, but I have no need for fortune. I'll leave that for lesser men. Good eve, Lady Sansa."
Sansa departed, and Jaime waited a few moments and helped himself to some wine.
"Sweet brother, are you spending time with Sansa just to frustrate our dear sister? If so, that's low, even for you." Jaime's voice made the jape tolerable.
Tyrion rolled his eyes. "No, brother. She has quite the able mind and we share a fondness for things most nobles ignore. Nor would I start a false friendship just to be bothersome to Cersei."
"Good, because we need your help. Eddard Stark all but accused our sister of poisoning Jon Arryn to Grand Maester Pycelle."
Tyrion looked at him. "Did she?"
"No! We weren't even in King's Landing at the time."
As if that would prevent a poisoning? Gods, my sometimes-simple brother is actually being serious. Though I doubt Cersei would lie to him if she had done it.
"If she is innocent, there will be no proof of it. Robert may have little love for Cersei, but even he would not bring such an accusation without something to show for it. The question is not whether Jon Arryn was poisoned, but who has put such a thought into the new Hand's head. And why they might wish it so."
"He's hated me ever since he saw me on the Iron Throne after I killed the Mad King."
Tyrion shook his head forcefully. "That may be true, but the honorable Lord Stark would not falsify evidence or make baseless accusations without something substantial. If I were to hazard a guess… the Spider is playing his games again."
"Lord Varys? Cersei believes him to be our creature."
Tyrion laughed. "Doubtful, Varys is loyal to Varys. He will want to make himself indispensable to the new Hand, just as he did with Robert and the old Hand. He will dangle circumstantial proofs or bits that his little birds have heard, but there will be nothing the man could act upon. Old men die sometimes, and few would have cause to see Arryn dead. Surely, even Stark could see that House Lannister is not strengthened by him being the Hand."
Jaime chewed on his lip for a moment. "You believe there is nothing to worry about, then?"
Tyrion shrugged. "If Cersei didn't have Jon Arryn killed then Jon Arryn never knew about…" he made a hand gesture that got the point across.
Jaime recoiled. "Tyrion…"
"Let's not voice anything, but I'm not blind, brother. My point was that if Arryn did not know, there is no risk. Stark will dig and find nothing and all will continue as it is."
"You have eased my mind, thank you, brother."
Tyrion watched Jaime leave. His siblings were quite foolish in what they had done to Robert. Tommen and Myrcella were not trueborn. If Robert ever found out, those children would die, and Tyrion would not let that happen. He could only hope that Jaime and Cersei continued to be careful and keep up the deception that had lasted for over fifteen years.
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