Chapter Text
Lyarra sighs, her rose tinted sunglasses sliding slightly down the bridge of her nose. “You always go to him. I wish just once you would come to me with this sort of problems.” Her fingers are fiddling with the decorated pipe, pressing into the swan-like neck. “Are you listening?”
Like a fat kid at the burger joint for their turn, Lyanna thinks, not without a drop of humour. “I am always listening.” For a brief moment she considers adding another always just for good measure. But she doesn’t, because that would surely anger mother. Her cup meets the saucer with a soft click. “And I came to you now.”
Her mother rolls her eyes, well visible behind the lenses. “Don’t get smart with me.” She takes the glasses off and hands them to Lyanna. “These are really nice.” There is a smile and her face and it’s frightening how she went so fast from anger to pleasantness. Must be where Benjen gets it from.
“I know,” Lyanna replies nonetheless. She takes the glasses back and places it in her purse. “And I’m really grateful I can count on you for this.” She only hopes regret won’t leech off of this decision by the end of the week. Which Lyanna feels she might indeed be regretting this, because, the gods know, her mother can sometimes be spectacularly ill-behaved at times. Not so much out of malice than from a sense of carelessness.
But she’ll take her chance and hope that it all turns out well. The gods know she needs something for Jon to look forward to. Her mind made up one hundred percent, Lyanna looks at her empty cup thoughtfully, in two minds on whether she should linger.
A slight discomforting shift is never far when she’s in the presence of her mother. More knowledgeable minds, by which she means the old psychiatrist that lives two floors down and for whom Lyanna has done some shopping at some indeterminable past, have warned that it is a sign of unforgiving attitudes on her part. A load of nonsense, of course. It is in par with believing in the horoscope, the predictions of maegis and the less known, but not less charming leaf reading, as if leaves will tell one anything. At all. She looks at her mother’s face. The desire top get up and leave now that her business is concluded remains undeniable, almost tangible in its power.
“So,” her mother picks up softly, a sly look upon her features. The daughter suffers a moment of confusion. And then she’s back to herself. “How is Robert?”
The alarms start ringing at this point. Lyanna leans back in her seat, somewhat put out. But she’s anticipated this, so her response does not fail to come. “As well as can be expected. Naturally, a bit scared.” Okay, so he is very, very scared and Lyanna still has made no actual decision in his case. After all, she’s only meeting with her little informant today.
Which is a pain, as two days are already gone and her nails are already short enough. Alas, Poole will bring her whatever she needs today and everything will turn out fine. She hopes.
“But really, to be accused out of thin air. and such a nice man too,” Lyarra sighs. It’s not really a secret that Robert can charm the bark of a tree if he so wants and her mother has rarely shown fortitude in resisting charming men. “You will get him out of trouble, won’t you?”
“If I can prove his innocence.” Even partly. It would be a coup. The young woman is aware, however, that such a feat requires a lot of help. She can only count on Robert for it at this moment. The bother. “If you’re so interested, then perhaps you should meet up with him.”
The words leave her lips without her meaning to. Lyanna cannot make up her mind whether the impulse to injure has to do with the admiration exhibited or with the direction of it.
The look in the other woman’s eyes speaks of genuine hurt, as if she can feel the seed of malice. “No. You know I don’t meet up with your brother’s friends.”
“Of course.” Lyanna gives a light no, as if she doesn’t know any better. “I think I’ll go by Benjen’s a bit, if you don’t mind, mother.”
“Certainly you may. He’ll be glad to see you.” She actually leads Lyanna to the small balcony connecting the two apartments. The conjoint flats face the sun at about this hour so Lyanna finds herself shielding her eyes until she gets her hand on the doorknob and turns it.
Mother doesn’t follow her in, but leaves with a wave of her hand and a smile. Lyanna steps foot into the sunlit room, looking around carefully. The unused space is rather dusty. Benjen must not be putting his hands on those dusters still. With a shake of the head, she continues on her way, entering a hallway.
From her vantage point she can hear the voices on the TV. It’s a form of the High Lysene tongue she’s hearing. Lyanna rolls her eyes and hopes it’s a good series, otherwise her brain is likely to implode. Without a second thought she enters what serves as the living room and finds her brother lounging on the couch.
Benjen looks up at her entrance, his mien not moving an inch in its expression. “Well, hello there,” she greets with a wide smile. “How is my favourite brother doing?”
He shrugs, but sits up nonetheless at her approach. Lyanna wraps her arms around him and presses a small kiss on his cheek. “Nothing to say to me?”
“Hi,” he mutters into the light material of her blouse, as if that is conversation enough for him. Benjen lets go and sits back on the couch.
Lyanna follows without complaint, her eyes moving to the screen.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, until her brain can catch up with the latest plot. “Wait, did they actually plot together to kill the king?”
“Yes.” The short reply has her looking at him squarely.
“But why, I thought they wanted an alliance.” These period dramas are confusing. She’s glad Jon is not old enough for any of them yet. It would be insanely boring to sit through one.
“The uncle did.” Her brother proceeds to explain to her the intricate weaving of this particular plot. Lyanna cannot help but wonder how he can actually retain so much information on this. Benjen goes on and on.
Poole actually laughs at the look on her face. Lyanna is just about certain she looks like a tomato. Which is an easy enough feat, given that she tends to flush extremely when the blood does happen to rush. Drat. “So not only are they cousins, but the Targaryens have strong ties to the underworld?”
“It’s more than just ties,” the man explains, accepting the drink she hands him. “They are arguably one of the few families controlling anything from investments to political life.”
“If they are so strong, why haven’t I heard of them?” Granted, she usually does not buy the newspaper unless she known something of concern will be in it. But this is rather strange. She doesn’t recall the name being all over the news, or linked to any prominent figure. Most of these clans, as they are sometimes called, do happen to be in the spotlight every once in a while.
“Most people without direct ties to the family are in the dark about this.” Poole downs half a glass of juice. “Do you want the in-depth version, or should I make this quick?” He has brought her some documents, but it’s better to have it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.
In consequence, her reply goes somewhat the like, “The lengthier, the better.”
Vayon swallows the rest of his drink with loud gulps. “Very well then, m’lady.” He opens the folder’s opaque cover, pushing it backwards. “The family itself is rather old, first attested in the six hundreds. Of course there is speculation they are tied to the dynastic ruling family of Westeros, House Targaryen. But that is neither here, nor there.”
It would be difficult to prove they are at any rate. In the tree hundreds a series of battles ravaged Westeros and many important documents had burnt. The stuff of legends. And if they are tied to the Targaryens of old, it makes no matter, as the Seven Kingdoms is a democracy at this particular point.
Poole continues. “They started out as part of the bourgeoisie, not even climbing to the upper echelons until sometime during the eleven hundreds when a Vaegar Targaryen allied himself with Q’ar of the Summer Isles in a profitable venture. And this is where their ascension starts. Gradually, the family gathered more and more wealth until they were almost of a level with the Iron Bank of Braavos, having co-opted a small number of other wealthy families to form a trade union.”
In these conditions it is stranger still to have not heard of them. Lyanna tenses slightly as the man speaks on. “By the thirteen hundreds, though their name featured less and less in news aimed at the masses, their influence on the political scene grew exponentially with a marriage between a Maegor Tragaryen and a Magella Tyrell. From there on a line of successors follows through the fourteen, fifteen and sixteen hundreds, but they are rarely if ever in the eyes of the public.”
“But I suppose their influence still grows.” This story is very familiar. It’s much like placing the history on her own family to face a mirror. An inverted one, of course, but, good gods, this is very strange indeed. “And so we arrive to the seventeen hundreds.”
“Quite so. The current head of the family, by his name Aerys, has a permanent home in Lys where he lives with his sister-wife, Rhaella, and apparently their youngest daughter. They have two sons, the oldest running of several businesses in King’s Landing and the younger studying in Oldtown.”
Spoiled rotten, that’s what those children are, Lyanna decides without further ado. An Oldtwon education is a dream. She shakes her head and concentrates on what dear Vayon is telling her. “Since it cannot be that the younger one send anyone, I’d say it’s the eldest son you need to worry about.”
She is handed a picture. Lyanna takes it gingerly, her eyes roaming the profile of a man. “This is blurry.”
“Notoriously hard to capture on camera, these Targaryens,” Vayon quips. “At any rate, that is Rhaegar Tragaryen. The child is Rhaenys, his daughter and oldest child.”
“He has another?” Lyanna continues to stare at the profile, for some odd reason finding familiarity on that face. It must be the silver hair. She places the photograph on the table. “Say I wanted a meeting with this man, how would I go about scheduling it?”
Despite the fact that he bears some resemblance to a man she knew a decade ago, Lyanna is fairly certain it’s that blasted silver hair. He could have dyed it for all she knows.
“My suggestion is to forget that course of action. This is one man you don’t want to meet.” Her father’s helper gives her a hard look, as if to emphasise the point.
It’s settled. She’ll demand an audience with this Rhaegar Targaryen and tell his exactly what she thinks of his attempt to obstruct the law. “Point taken,” she says to Poole, lest he run to her father. “What if he seeks me out?”
“I doubt he would; best pray he doesn’t.” The man stands up. “I’ll do some more digging and try to get a bit more, but I doubt it’ll be of help.”
“Are you suggesting that I give up the case?” Preposterous, of course, but he wouldn’t be the first and she knows very well that she won’t. Not during this lifetime.
“Consider it carefully.” And that is all he says before taking his leave. Lyanna sees him o the door of the office. “Come by whenever you can. My door is always open to you.”
Vayon Poole nods his head and with that he is gone, leaving Lyanna alone.
She sees herself back to her seat, pickling up this second file and looking through it. Maybe she should be concentrating on the patriarch of the family. Lys based or not, the man must be capable of controlling his children. Lyanna’s eyes travel to the picture.
“There is nothing you can do to take this case from me,” she tells the unmoving picture. The gall of some people. Yes, this is what she’ll do. She’ll call him out and tell him exactly how much she cares about his desires. A smile appears briefly upon her features. “You just try it.” This will be grand new adventure, her mind is telling her, to which Lyanna can only hope it will not be the case. Much as she likes adventure, it belongs on a screen, not in her semi-orderly life.
Gods, oh, gods. But the possibilities.
The cross look on the man’s face tells her she hasn’t picked the best way to discharge this volley. “It’s alright, Robert. There is no need for your head to explode over this.” Her method of calming him doesn’t seem to be working either, although, to be entirely fair, it might be because of the implied insults thrown in there; just for effect.
“I am calm.” Despite the fact that he says that, his grip tightens on the edge of the table. “You can’t give up the case.” The decisive manner has her raising an eyebrow. Robert; he never learns.
“I want to know what sort of danger you’re putting me in. So you either tell me, or I drop this and walk away.” This is her test. Of course, she’s not thinking for a moment to drop this, but Robert is the sort who would grow ill-disposed given too much confidence that it’ll go his way.
“I already told you. There’s no real danger.” They’ll see about that, Lyanna decides, for the moment allowing her mien to change to melt away the severity and show some compassion. “Whatever is, it’s between Shaena and me. Her brother won’t get involved.”
Just how well does he know this brother, Lyanna wonders. Not very, she would like to bet, but it might backfire, so she accepts the assertion. “I trust that you are telling me the truth.” He must be lying through his teeth by the look he gives her just then. Lyanna smiles, comfortable with the situation. Good, he should feel guilty at treating a person who wants to help him like this. “Now, let’s go over this again, shall we?”
Lyanna pulls out his file, opening it at the last page, her notes. “You started dating this woman a little over two years ago, yes?”
Roberts gives a brief nod. “And since moving in together, problems have started to appear?” He gives her a similar gesture. Like most couples then, Robert and this Shaena have found that sharing a small space, even with someone one likes, can lead to disasters. And people keep asking her why she doesn’t date. “So, tell me, what led to this?”
For a few moments, Robert stares at her as if he were a zombie and she the last piece on brain on the face of the planet. It disconcerts her enough to sit a bit straighter. No, no, no, no. He is not doing this. She clears her throat. “My answer, if I could have it.”
“I have no idea. We just started fighting.” Spoken like a man.
Lyanna nods her head, although at this very moment she wants to shake him so hard that all his memories come tumbling out. “Try to remember what led to the big arguments.” Results are all good and well, but she needs causes. Results are fixed, they rarely lend themselves to manipulation. Causes, well, those can be worked upon.
Robert looks deep in thought. Would it be abominably rude to laugh at that look of concentration on his face?
Jon slurps lightly, swallowing his Yi Tian noodles. Lyanna turns up the volume of the flat screen. “Oh, look,” she points to the daughter of the motion’s hero. “She is going to get kidnapped.” Her son makes a small sound of disagreement, but the food never leaved his mouth three. She can hear him perfectly though. “Of course she is. Just look at her face. That is definitely an I-am-waiting-here-to-be-kidnapped face.”
And this will give Stevron Shett a reason to go around punching criminals. Not that Lyanna can complain. He looks so good doing it. “Just you wait.”
As if to prove her point, the girl in the motion cried out as the window breaks, glass flying everywhere. She stumbled backwards over the bed and yells again at the sight of a man climbing into her room. “Told you,” Lyanna mutters, unconcerned for the character even for a moment.
“Mom, are you finishing that?” Jon asks, pointing his carved chopsticks to her package of food. Lyanna shakes her head, pushing it towards him. The boy liked his food.
“It’s a wonder you’re not full,” she says with a smile, watching him scarf down another portion. At this rate, they’ll be going to the Yi Tian restaurant often. “Bon appétit.” Lyanna’s attention returns to the movie.
Shett is currently bashing in the face of some poor drug dealer, hells bent on taking whatever information he’s after. Lyanna picks up a morrow cookie, breaking it in half. She pulls out the small strip of paper, placing it on the table, out of the way. The sweet dough is good enough to much on, as far as she’s concerned.
Now that blood is everywhere, in pure action motion style, and the baddies roll on the floor in pain, it’s time for the plot to advance. And thank the gods for that, this motion had been going on for more than an hour already. It’s good, but not that good.
Before she has time to blink though, a loud knocking is heard on the door.
Who in the seven hells knocks on door anymore? Don’t they know to pull the ring for that?
With a shake of the head, she rises from her comfortable seat and makes her way to the small hallway. Switching the lights on, she takes a look through the eyeglass and the blood freezes in her veins.
This can’t be happening.
She steps backwards, but her mind tells her it’s already too late. The knocking grows more insistent. Lyanna curses softly.
With quick steps she returns to the living room. “Jon, stay here for a few minutes and don’t come out until I come to get you. Okay?”
Engrossed in his motion, the boy gives a nod. That being enough for her, she closes the door to the living room and comes to the door again. “Just a moment,” Lyanna calls out.
The keys turn in the lock. Her heart hammers with powerful thuds.
The door squeaks, sliding open.
“Miss Lyanna.” A familiar face greets her.