Maester Walys ran his fingers along the chain around his neck. He cherished the five platinum links in particular, which represented politics. It took ten and two links to forge a full chain, and you did not often see more than four of one metal unless a man had made that subject his whole life's work.
Nearly 300 years the dragons had controlled the continent, and their rule was finally coming to an end because of his help.
Walys Flowers waited inside the rebel command tent, the first to arrive. Nobles took pride in tardiness. They found some childish pleasure in making others sit and stew. Walys had learned that as a bastard in the Reach, watching men who had done nothing of worth preen as if time itself belonged to them.
The tent smelled of smoke and ink, and to Walys it was pleasant and familiar. The map table had been scrubbed clean, but the air still held the memory of war. His fingers slid to the silver links for healing. Most maesters forged three or four. Walys had forged two and stopped. He preferred wordplay to wound care, and he had never been ashamed of it.
His eyes drifted to the tent's corner where a crate sat half-covered by canvas.
A small lizard clung to the wood. Green, with a pale belly and a narrow head that turned in tiny, precise movements. It held perfectly still, as if it had learned that stillness was the safest disguise in a world ruled by boots.
Walys felt his brows lift.
A greenstream lizard, he thought. Native to the Trident's green fork. Often found among river stones and sun-warmed roots, yet unseen during the winter season. Walys had not seen one himself since his first trip to Winterfell all those years ago.
He watched it for a moment, curious at the irregularity. The creature's throat pulsed, quick and steady. Its eyes did not blink as often as they ought. It watched him the way an eager novice listened at his first lecture.
Do they migrate to the sea? Walys wondered. Or is their waking a sign the last frost has passed?
Regrettably, there were no copies of Maester Linnaeus's Natural History nearby to consult. The question tugged at him in the same way all questions did: lightly, persistently, promising a dozen answers if he only had time.
The tent flap lifted, putting his musing to an end. Cold air and candlelight spilled in together.
Hoster Tully entered first, his cloak heavy, his red hair dulled by travel and worry. He looked older than he had at Harrenhal, though the same was true of all of them. Jon Arryn followed, tired but proud. He did not bother with ceremony. He never did, not in private.
"My lords," Walys said, inclining his head.
"Maester," Hoster replied, brisk. Jon only nodded and moved straight to the table.
The three of them settled without fuss, as if they had met like this a hundred times already. In truth, they had. Harrenhal had not been the beginning. It had only been the first time the pieces were laid out so plainly.
Jon unrolled a parchment and pinned it under a candlestick so it would not curl. "Tywin's terms," he said.
Hoster snorted, humorless. "The lion doesn't ask. He names a price."
Walys leaned forward, taking in the neat hand. Tywin Lannister demanded a pardon for Jaime's regicide and broken kingsguard oaths. He demanded his daughter crowned alongside the rebellion's choice of king. He demanded Pycelle remain on the small council, pardoned for advising Aerys to open the gates. There were other clauses as well—promises of gold for rebuilding, assurances of order—but those were ornament. The heart of it was simple: Lannister legitimacy bought with royal blood.
Hoster tapped the parchment with one blunt finger. "I knew a grandchild on the throne was always a reach," he said. He did not sound bitter. He sounded as though he were noting the weather. "But we were the keystone. Without Riverrun, without my daughters' marriages, none of this would have succeeded. I will have a royal match in the next generation."
Jon's eyes stayed on the page. "You intend to barter children already unborn."
"I intend to ensure the Riverlands did not bleed for nothing," Hoster said flatly. "Catelyn's firstborn daughter. Or Lysa's. One of them can be promised as a future queen." His mouth tightened. "Or Edmure can be raised higher still. Marry him to Princess Rhaenys. My aunt Celia was denied the queenship when Jahaerys II refused to marry her. House Tully is a Paramount Lordship and it deserves to be treated as one."
Jon finally looked up. His gaze was thoughtful. "A marriage to Rhaenys would bind Dorne as well, if she lives. The Martells were shamed greatly by Aerys and Rhaegar, there is no need to make enemies of them."
Hoster's shoulders eased a fraction. "Then you see my point."
Jon steepled his fingers. "My point is different. We did not spill this much blood to trade the mad king for another tyrant. The crown must be weaker than it was."
Hoster's brow creased. "Robert hardly cares about the going ons of his vassals."
"He rarely takes interest," Jon agreed. "Yet he has strong feelings when he does get involved. A king can be a fool and still be dangerous if the laws allow him to be." He tapped the parchment again. "Tywin has already undone some of the crown's recent indulgences—poaching allowances, petty grants of privilege that undercut noble authority." Jon's mouth curled faintly. "I never thought I would praise Tywin Lannister, yet here I am."
Hoster gave a low chuckle. "Tywin has many flaws, but incompetence isn't one of them."
"What concerns me," Jon continued, "is pit and gallows. Royal overreach. Aerys used justice as a whip. Robert will use it as a club if someone points him toward a target." Jon's gaze slid to Hoster. "As Master of Laws, you need put protections in place for noble heirs. No more hostage-taking dressed as honor. No more heirs stripped from their houses without cause."
Hoster's eyes narrowed. "You mean Jaime."
"I mean Jaime," Jon said, unblinking. "Aerys broke the liege-vassal bond first. Taking an heir paramount into the Kingsguard was kidnapping dressed in chivalry." He leaned back. "Robert will pardon the Kingslayer. Not because I love the act, but because the act was performed against a king who had already torn the realm's vows to pieces."
Walys watched Lord Tully weigh it. He knew the river lord did not like pardons. Pardons made vassals feel safe to offend again, and the Riverlands had the most unruly vassals of all. But Hoster also understood compromise.
"Very well," Hoster said at last. "Protections for heirs. More constraints on royal seizure. If Tywin wants his pardon, he can have it."
Jon nodded once, satisfied. Their eyes turned to Walys.
"You were meant for King's Landing," Jon said. "We spoke of it more than once. A northern grand maester would have been… advantageous for unity."
Walys felt the old familiar sensation of being examined like a specimen in a jar. He did not resent it. This was how lords thought. How they had to think, perhaps, to survive.
"My mother would have been proud," Walys said softly.
He saw her in his mind without effort: a Hightower lady with gentle hands and a loving smile. She had kissed his brow when he left Oldtown and told him to carry the Seven north when he took his vows. To civilize a land of wolves and weirwoods. To make the North more like the South, for its own good.
He saw his father too. Archmaester Walgrave, bearing the iron rod for ravenry, pale eyes bright with the zeal of scholarship. His father had never spoken of gods. He had spoken of superstition, of ignorance and the necessity of truth. He had urged Walys to take up the fight against northern mysticism not with swords, but with patience and paper.
Walys drew a breath. "It is common," he said, choosing his words with care, "for maesters to form strong bonds with certain houses. That does not make them disloyal to the Citadel. Pycelle's closeness to Lannister is no different from any other long-serving maester's relationship with his patrons."
Hoster's mouth twitched. "You truly believe that."
"I believe Pycelle did what any Grand Maester would do in his place," Walys replied. "He kept the Citadel's voice in the room. Our conclave has never had much love for Valyrian excess, if we are being honest. I do not think my order will weep for Aerys."
Jon studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "And you do not want the chain in King's Landing."
Walys surprised himself by feeling relief at the simplicity of answering. "No," he said. "My work in Winterfell is not done. The North is… resistant." He allowed himself a faint, academic smile. "That is an understatement. I look forward to assisting Lady Catelyn. If she wishes it, I can help her integrate northern rule with southern governance and custom."
Hoster's expression softened slightly at the mention of Catelyn. Pride, and the distant ache of a father who had sent a daughter to a backwater kingdom.
Jon leaned back. "Then we accept Tywin's terms," he said. "With our conditions. A weaker crown. Stronger protections for heirs. A future royal match for Riverrun."
Hoster nodded. "Agreed."
Walys inclined his head. "Agreed."
For a moment, the tent was quiet except for the crackle of the candle.
"Ned Stark will make a good lord," Walys said, almost without meaning to. The name rose because it had been on his mind since the wedding. Since he saw how Ned's face tightened whenever duty demanded something personal.
Jon's mouth curved faintly. "You approve."
Walys chose honesty. "You raised him well. He is… much less erratic than his siblings." Walys said it the way a maester might say a horse had a steadier gait. "He will be easier to manage."
Hoster huffed. "Brandon would have dragged me into a new disaster every season."
Jon's fingers drummed once on the table, thoughtful. "Ned has been less pliable lately," he admitted. "I expected it. He is no longer the spare. He is carrying a house whether he wants it or not."
"Robert seems more worrisome," Hoster said, cautious.
Jon's eyes flicked toward the tent's center, as if he could see the king through canvas. "Robert is simpler," he said, and there was no malice in it. Only practicality. "Indulge his wine and his women and he will let me do what must be done in his name."
Walys kept his face still. Inside, something uneasy shifted.
A king who did not wish to rule could be a blessing, Jon would say. A king who did not wish to rule could also be a void others rushed to fill. Walys had read enough history to know how often that ended in rot. Aegon the Unworthy came to mind unbidden, and Walys disliked the thought.
Hoster's mouth tightened, though he said nothing. His silence was an answer of its own.
Jon stood, ending the meeting with the ease of a man used to closing doors. "We have achieved something," he said. "Together." His gaze moved between them. "I am proud of it."
Walys rose as well. "As am I," he said, and meant it, even as unease sat at the edge of his thoughts like a stone in a shoe.
Hoster and Jon departed with a few murmured parting words. The tent flap lifted, then fell. Cold air seeped back in.
Walys remained a moment longer, alone again with candlelight and smoke.
In the corner, the little greenstream lizard shifted. It clung to the crate, head tilted as if it had listened to every word. Then it darted, quick as a thought, and slipped out beneath the tent flap in the wake of the lords.
Walys watched it go, curiosity prickling.
Winter truly is loosening, he thought. Spring is coming to the North.
He turned back to the table, to the work that never ended, and began putting plans to parchment.