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Chapter Text

"I should have spent more time with you. Shown you how to be a man. I was never meant to be a father."

Exactly one third of that was true, by my estimation.

Robert Baratheon spending more time with me? Good grief, no.

Show me how to be a man? If ever there was a man manifestly unqualified for the task of teaching the art of productive manhood, it was Robert Baratheon.

Never meant to be a father? That sounds about right.

I suppose I should have been at least a touch melancholy. Mournful, perhaps. A touch more forgiving on the man, certainly. After all, as unsuitable as he was for the role, Robert Baratheon had been my father. Alas, I had more important tasks than discovering any tucked-away grief.

Tommen and Myrcella would have to be secured, first and foremost. Even though it was not public knowledge that the King was dead, the people who did know were still sufficiently powerful to cause trouble. They would have to be dealt with in due course.

“Have the Kingsguard rally to my brother. Keep Myrcella and Tommen secure in Maegor’s Holdfast until I explicitly instruct otherwise. Separately.”

Better to have my coin in different purses, even if those purses were precariously close.

Ser Barristan seemed to hesitate. I rounded on him. The wise old knight did not flinch or even blink. Not that I expected him to. The hero of Duskendale was most certainly not finished just yet. All of which made his hesitation all the more irritating and perplexing.

“Speak your mind, Ser Barristan.”

The command seemed to surprise him. That was to be expected, my father had seen the Kingsguard as a nuisance; to be neither seen nor heard. Much like his children.

“Your Grace, it was your father’s wish that Lord Stark become Regent until you reach manhood.”

I blew air through my teeth. Honourable men are useful and annoying in equal measure.

“How well do you know your history, Ser Barristan?”

He shrugged. “About as well as any other knight does, I suppose, Your Grace.”

Not at all, then.

“Do you know what happened the last time a Stark served as Lord Regent?”

I could see him racking his brains and, frankly, I didn’t have time to wait for those old cogs to start spinning quickly enough to find the answer to that question.

“Never mind. Just know that it didn’t end well. Or quickly. Eddard Stark is a good and honourable man, and a capable lord. But he is a man of the North. He is not suited to the South and particularly not to King’s Landing. He cannot become Lord Regent or this place will devour him.”

The Lord Commander of my Kingsguard seemed disheartened by this. I placed my hand on his shoulder. A king should be wise, even fatherly, in times of strife.

After serving a king who was sickly, a king who was mad and a king who was drunk, Barristan needed a king who was strong, caring, and wise. Age is but a number to those who are willing to ignore it. Many boys would make good kings.

“The king is dead, Ser Barristan.”

Ser Barristan looked at me then, and I saw that he was mine.

“Long live the King.”

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark was the key to the North. That was the fullest extent of my mother's political wisdom, so far as I could tell. She would have to be kept close. Not that that would be a huge problem, I mused as I knocked on the door to her chambers.

Of course, she was also much more than that. She was to be my wife, and I dearly hoped that whatever troubles I was to encounter, this would still be the case at the end of it. It wasn't just because she was pretty either, though that certainly didn't hurt. The thing that attracted me the most to Sansa was her potential. When I first met her, I'd thought her to be sweet and kind, but frankly a little bit simple. This might have satisfied most men, but I wanted a queen whom I could trust to stand behind me, and who could hold her own in court. Sansa was already showing enormous promise in this. All I would have to do was keep her within my reach, and away from harm.

"Enter."

I complied and found Sansa sitting with a few of her friends, chatting loudly about something I didn't really care about. It took them a beat to realise who had come among them and stand hurriedly.

"Your Grace!" Sansa cried happily, curtsying. Her chirpy companions followed suit. "I apologise, we did not expect you."

I smiled. Florian may have been a fool, but he had taught me that charm could go a long way when it came to empty-headed maidens.

"Nor would I have expected you to. Pardon me, my ladies, but might I be allowed to speak to my betrothed alone?"

I think my smile survived the giggles that rippled through the group. If my marriage hadn't been so important I might have been tempted to stave one of those insipid girl's heads in.

Once the vermin had filtered out and I was left with my future wife, I allowed myself to "collapse" into one of the chairs. Sansa rushed over to me, concern evident in her expression.

"What is it, Your Grace?"

I paused, as if lost. Weakness, even feigned weakness, begets pity and pity can melt a person like a stick of wax in the Dornish sun; the end result perfectly malleable and endlessly manipulable.

"M-my father is dead."

The stutter was maybe overdoing it a touch, but it had the desired effect. Sansa gasped and rushed to throw her arms around me. I sighed contentedly. It felt nice. I could definitely get used to this...

"If Your Grace requires anything of me, anything at all, I am here for you."

Such sentiments were dangerous in King's Landing. They would have to be neutered in due course. In the meantime, however, it would be foolhardy not to take advantage.

"In that case, I have two requests."

Sansa pulled back, looking for all the world like a pup waiting for a pat.

"Firstly, I would very much like you to call me Joffrey. We are betrothed, after all. Is that acceptable?"

Sansa blushed, trying - and failing - to conceal her delight.

"Only if Your Grace will call me Sansa."

I genuinely laughed at that. It would seem that she was already talented at getting what she wanted.

"You drive a hard bargain, Sansa."

Sansa giggled, shaking her head giddily. Her innocence was intoxicating. Such a pity.

I paused for a moment, to add weight to my next request, and to let her think I was putting more effort into it than I actually was. I knew what I was going to say even before I walked into the room.

"Tommen and Myrcella... They are still young and, frankly, I worry about them... Would you go to Maegor's Holdfast and keep them company for me? At least until I can sort this mess out. It would please me greatly if you could become close with them; they are to be your good-siblings and I would like you all to be happy with each other."

If any other person had nodded as fiercely as Sansa did at that moment, it would have looked faintly ridiculous. But this was Sansa. The bobbing of her head simply made the colours of her hair hit the light from new angles, and the earnest sincerity in her eyes shoved a dagger of guilt into my stomach. An uncomfortable truth became clear to me then: I was beginning to love her. But was this who Sansa would be once she had her carapace and her sting? Only time would tell. As it was, I hid my unease behind a smile.

"Thank you, Sansa."

There weren't many things that could me render speechless - an accusation which was also levelled at my uncle Tyrion - but in that moment, Sansa beamed and, well... That was it.

I looked at her, and she looked at me. Our eyes met and she averted her gaze, blushing. I reached out and grasped her chin between my thumb and forefinger, bringing her eyes back to me.

"What is it?"

I think my voice might have gone up an octave.

Sansa tried to avoid looking at me but I held her fast, raising my eyebrows. Her skin warmed between my fingers.

"It's just... No, it's silly."

I leaned closer to her, not releasing her from my grip.

"If you really thought it was silly, it wouldn't be on your mind, Sansa."

It took her but a few seconds to crumble. She nodded, took a deep breath, and looked me in the eyes with renewed confidence.

"I've been taught all my life that I was going to be married off to some lord or another, and that we would have children. I always accepted that. And yet, Septa Mordane always told me that it was sinful for a woman to want... congress."

I don't know how I didn't laugh at that particular euphemism.

"But recently, I've been thinking more and more about you, and what we're going to do on our wedding night, and I look forward to it. Not just the children, but what comes before it too. I mean, men go to whorehouses so it must be enjoyable. Yet, it feels wrong that I feel that way, Joffrey."

I took a few seconds to consider my answer to that. I didn't believe in the Seven, but I recognised the paradoxical power of religion in this mad world. A god is far more powerful than a king, and a king with a god on his side is like a leaf in a gale-force wind; he might be propelled to immortality by the unstoppable force at his back, or he might torn to shreds by its ominous, omnidirectional might, or both, or neither. I reached out with my free hand and wrapped my fingers around hers.

"I agree with you; why would men pay for whores if they didn't enjoy being with them? However, the real question you should really ask yourself is whether or not the gods would have made it enjoyable for us if they didn't want us to do it."

She perked up at that.

"And if the gods wanted us to do it, it cannot be wrong."

I grinned cockily.

"Exactly."

I leaned in invitingly. Sansa glanced downwards and reciprocated shyly.

I'd kissed her on the cheek before, but nothing could have prepared me for the feeling that me hit like a brick when my lips touched hers. It was sweet and shy and fumbling and undignified and oh, so right.

That glorious feeling was replaced by a burning sensation in my lungs as I realised that we were suffocating each other. I pushed her gently but firmly away and turned my head to avoid breathing all over her.

"That was..."

Sansa giggled, looking more like a tomato by the second. Gods know what I must have looked like.

"Interesting?"

I raised my eyebrows, bobbing my head slightly.

"That's one way to describe it."

I leaned in again and quickly pecked her lips again. I brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"I need to convene the Small Council."

Sansa wasn't good at hiding her disappointment, either. Her smile dimmed a little, and she fell quiet.

I took hold of her chin again.

"Once my coronation has been arranged, I will need you to get started on our wedding."

Her eyes brightened, and she beamed.

"Perhaps you could start planning with Myrcella now. Have Clegane escort you to Maegor's Holdfast and tell the Kingsguard that I have given my permission for you to enter."

I never said that she could leave.

She nodded earnestly, and I kissed her one more time before letting go of her. She crossed the room and opened the door, looking back at me as she left. I smiled and nodded encouragingly and she reciprocated, closing the door as she left.

I breathed out slowly and sank back into the chair. I twiddled my thumbs for a few seconds, listening keenly. Not that I expected to able to hear anything.

Time for an experiment.

"Would you be so kind as to bring Lord Varys to this chamber?" I asked nobody in particular. "I will wait for a half-hour." As amusing as the sight of the Spider running would no doubt be, it would be a trifle optimistic to expect such an outcome. Instead, I scanned Sansa's shelf and picked a book off it.

"The Wonderful Adventure of Womanhood."

My mouth twisted into a smile saturated with contempt. An suitably unfortunate title for such literary sewage, so much so that it was unclear who had written it. I liked to think it was because the author had been so ashamed of its contents that they refused to have anything to do with it, but it was more likely that it was written by some septa in the Riverlands who had neglected to provide her name in a fit of pretentious humility. The Riverlords possessed a quite uniquely nugatory brand of piety: not sufficient to belie zealour, and thereby pliancy with the correct handling, but enough to write this kind of dross, and this unfortunate mediocrity extended to their septons. Still, it was, if nothing else, a masochistic yet amusing read. I stood and dragged my chair to the far corner so that I could see the whole room, and settled down to read.

Chapter Text

"The Wonderful Adventure of Womanhood."

I snapped the book shut and was greeted with the sight of the Fat Spider, as Varys was somewhat cruelly known as by people who didn't know better.

I did know better than that, of course. It is not without justification that spiders strike more fear than men. After all, what would be worse: a spider-sized man, or a man-sized spider?

"I do not know many kings who would concern themselves with books such as this."

I grimaced.

"A few years ago, I decided that it would be good to learn as much as I could about the female form as I could before my marriage. It was one of my more unfortunate errors of judgement."

Varys smiled, looking distinctly like an ulcer propped on human shoulders as he did so.

"But you learned nevertheless, Your Grace."

I waved my hand toward a chair. Varys sank into it with an eerie grace, almost comically weightless.

"Your Grace wished to speak to me so I rushed to your side, of course. I must admit that I was surprised by the nature of your summons. It was a novel method, to be sure."

Not an especially high bar to clear, but a bar nevertheless. I even detected a hint of admiration in those oddly-accented tones.

"Yes, well, the problem with having a network of spies, Lord Varys, is that there is no excuse for ignorance. You are aware of everything of importance that happens within these kingdoms, and I know that."

The best threats are left unspoken.

Varys bowed his head, insofar as he could in his seat.

"I shall endeavour to remain vigilant in your service, Your Grace."

He straightened himself and met my gaze.

"What does Your Grace require of me?"

"Your honesty, to start with." I leaned forward. "You hold a unique position in my esteem, Lord Varys. I recognise your talents, and your value. However, I am unsure of your loyalty. I will not prostrate myself before you, nor will I make demands of you, but I will simply ask: You served Aerys Targaryen with distinction, I understand he trusted you greatly, and then you served my father, his mortal enemy, with equal capability. What motivated you to stay? Was it just to save your skin or did you see something in my father? Who do you serve, Lord Varys?"

Of course, I had considered the possibility that Varys still served the Targaryens in secret. The Mad King's children still lived in Essos, well within Varys' sphere of influence. Still, there was no need for Varys to be aware of that particular suspicion. Far better for him to respect me yet underestimate me all the same.

Varys smiled slimily.

"Your Grace has an inquisitive mind, to be sure. I hardly know where to begin. I suppose I shall simply have to answer all of your questions at once. When I was marooned upon the streets of Lys, I saw that the wickedness of men extended far further than any septon would ever dare say. Babes abandoned in the mud, some with their heads caved in and others still alive, squealing in pain and fear and starvation. Little boys and little girls being used by sailors, then passed on to the drunkards, and then to the beggars and then the priests. Pressed up against the walls, pinned to the tables, waiting for it all to stop. Women dragged into alleyways, robbed and raped. Men butchered, carved apart, and then sold to street vendors. Slaves marched to death, their corpses crawling with unspeakable horror, rotting in the sun. I serve those people, and the realm in which they reside."

"Yet I sense that you do not seek to do so from a throne. Would that not serve them better?"

Varys scoffed.

"I understand that Your Grace enjoys riddles, so allow me to share this one with you. In a room sit three great men, a king, a priest, and a rich man with his gold. Between them stands a sellsword, a little man of common birth and no great mind. Each of the great ones bids him slay the other two. ‘Do it,’ says the king, ‘for I am your lawful ruler.’ ‘Do it,’ says the priest, ‘for I command you in the names of the gods.’ ‘Do it,’ says the rich man, ‘and all this gold shall be yours.’ So tell me, Your Grace, who lives and who dies?"

I sat back. Riddles are annoying, but they usually teach you something.

"If true power resided with the king, there would be no rebels. If true power lay with the priest, miracles would occur daily. If true power lay with the rich, my grandfather would be emperor of the world. Power is an abstract concept. You ask a question to which the answer is different to every man. Since he is a sellsword, I would presume that he places greater stock in money, but I'm sure the answer is much more interesting than that."

"A reasonable presumption, but you understand why I do not seek power for its own sake. Who would believe that power resides with a eunuch when a knight stands beside him? Who thinks a spider has power, when a king can squash him without a second thought? Power resides where men believe it resides, and it does not reside with me."

"Where do you believe it resides, then?"

Varys leaned forward with that vomitously saccarine smile.

"Information, Your Grace. For instance, the information that Lord Stark intends to depose you and hand the throne to Stannis."

My eyebrows shot up, though I kept my composure.

"Why in the Seven Hells would he do that?"

Eddard Stark was a naive fool, but he wasn't impulsive or an idiot. He would not do this without a reason. Varys sensed my confusion.

"I'm afraid that Lord Stark has been led astray by some ghastly rumours concerning your mother and Ser Jaime Lannister."

My eyes narrowed. This was news to me. I don't like news.

"What rumours?"

Varys hesitated. My patience thinned instantaneously.

"I asked for your honesty, Varys. Not your comfort or your pity, but your honesty. I expect it now."

He gave me a look as if to say 'Well, if you insist.'

"There are allegations - completely unfounded, of course - that your mother and your uncle were close as children - inappropriately so - and that this... activity continued into their maturity and even later into Queen Cersei's marriage to your father."

I didn't need to hear the rest.

"I assume that the culmination of this rumour is the revelation that myself and my siblings are the fruit of that union?"

Varys nodded solemnly.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and counted to ten, breathing out slowly.

"Is there any truth to the--" I waved my hand. "Actually, no. Don't tell me."

I stood up and stared out of the window across the city. I would deal with the issue of my blood some other time.

"How does Lord Stark intend to remove me from power?"

"He intends to take you and your family into custody, and invite Stannis to King's Landing."

"Stark's household guard is not sufficient to hold the Red Keep, and Sansa is already in my custody in Maegor's Holdfast. I have given orders for Arya to be taken too, if possible."

Of course, Varys would know these things already.

"You were prepared to move against Lord Stark from the beginning."

There was no point denying it. I shrugged.

"Eddard Stark is many things, but a Lord Regent?" I shook my head. "No. I wanted to persuade him to return to Winterfell and enjoy a life of governing his own lands - with naked steel if needs be. If what you say is true, then I need to move quickly."

"Your Grace should not trouble himself so. As you quite rightly say, Stark does not have the numbers to remove you by himself. He has enlisted the help of Lord Baelish and Ser Janos Slynt."

The weight lifted from my shoulders. A sly weasel with ideas above his station, and a mole at the summit of that mountain of incompetence and corruption called the City Watch. I almost felt sorry for Ned Stark.

"The poor fool. I take it from the fact that you have told me of this even before Lord Baelish that I have your support?"

Varys stood and bowed, far further than his corpulent form would suggest was possible.

"I live to serve, Your Grace."

"Then I have only one instruction for you. Henceforth, you'll report to me alone. Not to the Small Council, not to the Hand of the King, and not, under any circumstances, to my mother. In return, I shall do everything in my power to be the king that the realm requires."

Varys tapped his nose and smiled knowingly.

"Those are most generous terms, Your Grace. Long live the King."

Chapter Text

There are two things that prospective Kings of the Seven Kingdoms ought to know about the Iron Throne of Westeros.

Firstly, it is bloody massive. I had often wondered how on earth my increasingly more rotund father had ever managed to climb the steps of that gargantuan steel monstrosity, and that wonderment was even more profound once I had fulfilled that unpleasant task for the first time myself.

The second is that all the tales of its legendary uncomfortableness frankly fail to do the damnable grotesquery justice. Within five minutes I felt as though my spine had somehow detached from my pelvis and the gap between my ribs had expanded by another inch or two from my efforts to avoid the seemingly endless smorgasbord of spikes, jagged edges and lumps contained within. Aegon the Conqueror must have thought himself so clever when he uttered the famous phrase "A king should never sit easy." An absolutely correct statement, but did the man really have to take it this literally? I grunted quietly as I shifted my weight for the umpteenth time, trying to find a position which would allow me to maintain at least a thin veneer of dignified authority.

I peered down the stairs of the Iron Throne, and saw another of Aegon's legacies. Four knights of the Kingsguard stood to attention before the dais: Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Preston Greenwood, and Ser Boros Blount. What a colossal shame that the White Cloaks should be stained by such incompetence, complacency, sloth and worse. Only Ser Barristan and, ironically, Ser Jaime Lannister were worthy of their station. It was the first of many swamps that I would have to drain. Of course, there was the snag of the Kingsguards' vows, which are binding for life. Still, there are ways around that.

The great oaken doors of the throne room slowly creaked open. Ned Stark limped into the room between the ranks of the City Watch, flanked by Janos Slynt, Varys and Littlefinger. It was not an impressive sight to behold.

"All hail his Grace," The royal steward crooned, "Joffrey of the House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

I dearly wanted to strangle the man. Everybody knows the damn titles. Titles are like keys: the more you wave them around, the more likely they are to be stolen. Stark's entourage came to a halt before the line of Kingsguard.

"I wish for preparations to be made immediately for my coronation, and for my marriage to the Lady Sansa of House Stark. I would have both within the moon's turn. Today, I will accept renewed oaths of fealty from my loyal councillors, and from those of noble birth who presently reside in the capital."

Stark's face betrayed no emotion. He stared up at me for a few seconds before looking at Ser Barristan.

"Ser Barristan, I believe no man here could ever question your honour."

He held out a scroll. Barristan took it and turned it over.

"King Robert's seal -- unbroken."

He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

"Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm, to rule as regent until the heir come of age."

I stood quickly and held out my hand before my mother could speak.

"May I see that?"

Barristan climbed the steps of the throne and handed it to me with a reverent expression on his face. If I had looked, I imagine I would have seen my mother seething as I seized her moment.

I took it and read it. 'Until the heir come of age.' Interesting wording. I would like to think my father would have at least mentioned my name.

"I can't help but notice, Lord Stark, that this is not my father's hand. In fact, unless I'm very much mistaken, it is yours."

Stark set his jaw.

"King Robert dictated his will to me. I merely recorded his words."

I nodded.

"I see. And was there anybody in the room with you to witness this?"

I don't consider myself a sadist, but it was mildly amusing to see Stark squirm.

"No."

I read the will again, then tore it in half, dropping the pieces to the floor. Ser Barristan looked on in shock.

"Those were the King's words, your Grace."

I looked down at the old knight with a sad frown.

"They bore my father's seal, Ser Barristan. That does not make them his words."

The old knight nodded with a crestfallen expression. I looked back at Stark.

"You're an honourable man, Lord Stark, so I will not be harsh on you. Bend the knee, my lord, and I will pardon this outburst. You may remain in the capital until I marry Sansa, and I will release you from your post as Hand of the King so you can return home and serve the crown as Warden of the North as you have served for so long."

Stark gathered himself and raised his voice.

"You have no claim to the throne."

"You condemn yourself with your own mouth, Lord Stark." My mother snipped from her chair, desperate to have a say.

"Ser Barristan, seize him." I commanded.

"Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man. Do him no harm." Stark's voice wavered with panicked urgency as his guards moved to shield him.

I scoffed.

"Do you believe he stands alone?" I asked rhetorically. "Clegane, present arms!"

The throne room filled with the sound of shivering steel as the Kingsguard, the Northmen and the Lannisters all drew their swords.

"Commander," Stark turned to Slynt. "Take the queen and her children into custody. Escort them to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard."

"Men of the watch!" Slynt called out.

Stark seemed galvanised by the spears which swung down behind him.

"I want no bloodshed." He called, "Tell you men to lay down their swords. No one needs to die."

The arrogance of a humble man is so unlike anything else. A rare animal, true, but not dangerous to anybody but itself. Stark's righteous confidence had given way to hubris. Varys slipped out from behind Lord Stark and crept around the aisles of City Watchmen to take his place beside the dais.

I shook my head.

"I'm afraid that is not true, Lord Stark."

Behind him, Slynt exchanged glances with my mother.

"Now!" Came the battle cry. The watchmen raised their spears and tore into the Northmen. Clegane charged forward and cut two men down.

Before Stark could even react, a blade appeared at his throat.

The crash of battle subsided as quickly as it had come. An eerie silence fell over the throne room as Littlefinger held his knife fast.

I descended the steps of the Iron Throne.

"Clegane, Ser Janos, sweep the Red Keep. I want every Northman accounted for, dead or alive. Take Lord Stark to the Black Cells."

Stark stared at me as the City Watchmen seized him, shaken yet defiant.

"You won't win this fight, Joffrey. The North remembers."

I stopped alongside him, turning my head to look him the eyes.

"Good."

Chapter Text

Every so often, a day comes along where I feel as though the gods had embarked upon a quest to drive me to madness. This was fast becoming one of those days.

I pinched the bridge of my nose hard and breathed out slowly, peering at the knight kneeling before me.

"Alright, just so I'm clear on this; I dispatched four highly-trained and well-armoured Lannister soldiers and a knight of the Kingsguard to apprehend a ten-year-old girl, whose only protection was a Braavosi dance teacher armed with a wooden sword, and you mean to tell me that you lost the girl? Have I got that right, Ser Meryn?"

Trant stared at this boots like a little boy being told off by his parents. I hissed with fury.

"Has your courage deserted you?! Has your tongue leapt from your throat?! You are a Kingsguard, ser!"

Not that he was worthy of the title.

Trant seemed to almost flinch at the force of my voice. His jowls trembled as he tried to scan the room and beseech his fellow knights for support without me noticing.

Of course, I did notice. I sighed and turned away from him.

"Remove your cloak, Ser Meryn."

I could have sworn that somebody gasped, and with that any noise in the room was suddenly sucked out.

Ser Meryn looked up in shock.

"Your Grace?"

So his tongue worked, but now his ears had failed him.

I peered up to address everybody in the room. All of the Kingsguard, bar Jaime Lannister and Arys Oakheart, were assembled in that room, and all looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"I know what my father was. He was a drunken lout who had no idea how to rule. I know what Aerys Targaryen was. He was a madman who burned his subjects. The standards of kingship have slipped, and with them those of the Kingsguard. I intend to rectify that problem, and many others besides, but I cannot do that if I am looking over my shoulder every moment of my life. And so I must restore the Kingsguard, and return some semblance of honour to the White Cloak."

I gazed at each man individually, watching for any squirm or waver.

"However, there can only be seven of you - too many Kingsguard would be bothersome - and so I must cleanse it rather than inflate it. My standards are high, and you," I returned my gaze to the kneeling Ser Meryn, "do not meet them. The Kingsguard should consist of the best that the realm has to offer. Loras Tyrell will be a fine replacement for you."

Trant turned an impressively beet-like shade of red and lept to his feet.

"You think I'll allow myself to be disgraced by some pillow biter from the Reach?!"

I raised my eyebrow impassively.

"Do you think I will allow myself to be disgraced by a man who rapes little girls?" Trant paled as the other Kingsguard knights stared at him, "I suppose it doesn't matter now. I've made my decision. Remove your cloak and I'll leave you to whatever hovel you have lined up for you back home."

Of course, there was an aurochs in the room. I was waiting to see who would mention it first. It was Ser Preston Greenfield who obliged me.

"Your Grace, forgive me, but the Kingsguard's vows are for life. Only death relieves us of our duty."

So now I knew who else was in my mother's pocket. Ser Meryn visibly relaxed.

I nodded slowly.

"Ah, yes. An excellent point, Ser Preston."

I turned to the knight in question and regarded him for a moment. Then, I shrugged.

"Clegane, kill him."

Sandor Clegane is nothing if not dutiful. Steel scraped, flesh was cut and armour crashed to the ground, and within seconds it was done.

I examined the corpse for a moment, then bent down to unclasp its cloak, and held it up. The white silk was flecked with crimson. It was eerily beautiful, in a morbid sort of way. I turned to Clegane and held it out to him.

His flinty eyes darted from me to the cloak to the corpse on the floor.

"I'm not a knight."

I snorted.

"Good. I don't need knights, Clegane. Knights have betrayed and lied and cheated, just like the rest of us. I need warriors now."

He stared at the cloak for a second, then grunted and wrapped it around himself.

I turned back to the other Kingsguard, all of whom seemed to be in varying degrees of shock.

"I won't punish honest mistakes, but I expect you all to live up to the cloaks which you wear and the oaths which you took. I also expect you to keep your... nocturnal activites within the realms of common decency. You should serve as an example to others. Your loyalty is mine, and mine alone. Have I made myself clear?"

One by one, they all nodded.

"Return to your stations."

As the knights began to file out, I sat down in a chair.

"Ser Barristan, remain."

The old knight looked almost queasy as he glanced at the corpse and approached me.

"Speak freely, ser."

He gathered himself.

"Is it true that Ser Meryn...?"

I nodded sympathetically.

"Unfortunately, yes. I'm told that he would visit brothels and pursue young serving girls, rather than the whores who were offered to him."

Ser Barristan grimaced, but also seemed reassured.

"Then he was not fit to wear the cloak. All Kingsguard must suffer temptation, some might even succumb to it - for that I cannot judge - but to violate children is another matter."

The door opened then, and two servants entered and began removing the corpse. I almost smiled; Varys was indeed quick to act.

"Nevertheless, we must obscure this truth. When you take the time to record this sorry episode in the White Book, let it be known to history that Ser Meryn Trant died valiantly defending his king from treason. That is the tale we will tell his family as well. It would not look good for me to be seen killing my own Kingsguard, no matter how justified I may have been in doing so."

He nodded slowly, visibly swallowing his honour. I knew what I was asking him to do was difficult. Honour to a good man is perversely similar to money to a rich man: the more of it they possess, the more obsessively they will hoard it. Eddard Stark suffered from the same heroic flaw. Ser Barristan would require careful handling and attention in order to allow him to believe that his honour would not choke him.

"Why did you give Clegane the cloak? Why not Loras Tyrell as you said?"

One would think that he had never met a liar before.

"Ser Loras Tyrell is, as Ser Meryn so delicately put it, a pillow biter. That in itself is not a problem, he is a fine knight regardless of his personal preferences; unfortunately, the pillow he bites happens to be that of Renly Baratheon, who is currently preparing to openly revolt against the crown. Besides, Clegane is far easier to control than any Tyrell would ever be. He is not of great noble stock, his family are Lannister bannermen, and he has no interest in politics; none of these things are true of House Tyrell. I also require men who are personally loyal to me. My mother has her claws in every matter of court, including the Kingsguard. I need to limit her influence as much as I can without directly acting against her - at least until I have reasonable cause to do so. I can afford to be patient, so long as the Kingsguard is both competent and loyal. I believe that I have made significant progress to that end today, but I need your help to ensure that that progress does not go to waste."

I stood up and examined my clothes.

"I don't have any blood on me, do I?"

The question snapped Ser Barristan out of whatever reverie he might have developed. He gave me a once-over.

"No, Your Grace."

I straightened my tunic.

"That's good. I'm about to have a very difficult conversation with my betrothed. Bloodstains don't tend to reassure young women."

I probably imagined it, but I could have sworn that the corners of the old knight's lips twitched.

I walked briskly through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, the corridors lined with Lannister men. Ser Arys Oakheart stood stoically outside the main chambers. Ser Arys was the most approachable of the Kingsguard by some distance. While not a particularly intelligent man by any stretch, he was good-looking and polite, with enough humility to make his presence a relatively easy thing to tolerate, and his demeanour made him the best at handling children. I harboured some hope for him. He could claim to be an acceptable Kingsguard. Perhaps, when he heard of the fate of his Sworn Brother, he would be motivated to improve himself.

In the meantime, however, I barely paid him any mind as I pushed open the door to the chambers and stepped in to see Myrcella and Tommen curled up on a futon together, reading - or, more accurately, Myrcella reading a book out loud while Tommen stared at the pictures and fidgeted occasionally.

"Tommen, you should listen to Myrcella. She's trying to teach you something."

Tommen peered over the back of the chair at me much like a little lordling might look at a septon after he made a mistake with his numbers.

"Sorry, Joffrey. It's just that Myrcella's books are all so boring."

Myrcella sniffed.

"It's a book about animals, Tommen. It could be a lot worse. Besides, you love reading."

Tommen crossed his arms.

"Yes, but I like books that have stories, with big castles and knights and dragons."

I chuckled and ruffled his hair.

"Alright, why don't you go to Ser Arys and ask him if he'll let you get some books from my chamber? I'd rather you read something than nothing at all."

The illusion of choice is a seductive one. My books did contain big castles and knights and dragons, but they didn't contain mere stories.

Tommen beamed and practically bounced out of the room.

Myrcella watched him leave with a bemused expression.

"He's bored. You've holed us in here while you get to have all the fun."

I rolled my eyes and picked up a jug of wine.

"You know why I have to keep you here, Myrcella. Drop the simple little sister act. I know how clever you are."

She narrrowed her eyes at me.

"And you think you're cleverer. You think you're cleverer than everyone."

I poured a cup and held it out to her.

"I repudiate that accusation entirely. I have never claimed to be cleverer than everyone; I simply haven't met anyone who might prove me wrong if I were to do so."

Myrcella snorted into her cup. I grinned at her cockily. She pointed a finger at me.

"You're bossy."

I snickered.

"Crow calls the raven black."

She pouted.

"Father was right about you; you really are an insufferable know-it-all."

I sipped my wine, smiling.

"That's good. Know-it-alls make good kings."

She patted my arm.

"I know. I just don't want your head to get too big and pop on the Iron Throne."

I patted her on the head in retort.

"Never fear, dear sister. I'll always have you to bring me down a few notches."

She waved her hand and bowed her head mockingly.

"At your service, Your Grace."

I glanced at the only closed door in the room. Myrcella saw it and sighed.

"She won't come out. Not even for food."

I drained my cup in one go.

"She'll come out for me."

I crossed the room and knocked firmly on the door. A squeak came from within, and then a cry.

"Go away!"

I turned the handle but the door was locked. I glanced back at Myrcella, who smirked and gave two thumbs-up. I glared at her and responded with a two-finger salute.

"Sansa, it's me. Open the door now."

Another squeak, and the door rattled and opened.

Sansa shied backwards. Her face was red and splotchy and her hair was slightly dishevilled.

"Your Grace, I swear I had no idea what my father was planning, he never told us anything, just to pack our things and get ready to leave, I swear I didn't want to g--"

She squealed as her legs hit the bed and she fell on it with a small whimper.

I closed the door behind me.

"Sit up, Sansa."

She obeyed me, and flinched as I sat beside her. I shushed her softly and cupped her face in my hands.

"You're going to be my queen. You shouldn't be cowering from anyone, let alone from me."

Her eyes widened.

"You mean...?"

I kissed her firmly on the lips.

"Yes, we're still going to be married. And what did I tell you about calling me 'Your Grace'?"

She giggled a little tearfully, but the brightness had returned to her eyes.

"Sorry, Joffrey."

I grinned and kissed her again, this time lingering for a bit longer. I pulled back and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Your father is in the Black Cells."

Her face fell, I lifted her up by the chin.

"Can I see him?"

I sighed.

"Not right now. I don't want you going down there on your own. When I have time, we'll go and see him together. I want to speak to him as well."

She nodded, sniffling slightly.

"Are you going to kill him?"

I held her by the shoulders.

"No harm will come to him. I promise."

She wrapped her arms around my neck really very tightly.

"Thank you." She whispered.

"Of course." I grunted. "But I need something in return." She pulled away, nodding furiously.

"Anything, Your Gr-- I mean, Joffrey."

"I need you to write to your brother. Tell him what has happened and that I want him to come here so that we can speak face to face."

Sansa frowned.

"I already wrote to my brother. The Queen asked me to write to him for her. She told me what to say and everything."

Life - or rather my mother - vomits upon my riding boots once more. My mother's talent for diplomacy was as absent as her talent for incompetence was prodigious.

I contained my horror and looked Sansa in the eye.

"Sansa, tell me everything."

Chapter Text

I resisted the urge to kick down the door to my mother's chambers. It would not be kingly, and it would also resemble a tantrum. I knew that any sign of madness, any sign of ineptitude or unsuitability, and my enemies would multiply like rabbits. Besides, a show of power does not have to be violent; it can be simple, even quiet, but it must above all things be irreverent in the extreme.

I entered her chambers without knocking on the door.

I've often thought that a bedroom will tell you a lot about its occupants. Thus far my theory seemed to hold some truth. My mother had a habit of ignoring that which she did not like to see; naturally, therefore, she had decided to simply ignore the fact that she was married to a Baratheon when decorating her own private chamber. There wasn't a single black object in that room. Not even a picture of a stag. There was plenty of gold, of course: banners, bedspreads, basins, gowns, jewellery -- you get the point. Even the bloody furniture was made from solid gold. I'd always cringed internally at the sheer uselessness of such excess. There is a difference between a comfortable life and an unnecessarily extravagant one. My mother would have used a solid gold privy if she could. True, Lannisters did have a practically unique connection (ahem, addiction) to gold, but matters of personal hygeine are surely a step too far.

At that moment, thankfully, my mother was not shitting into a pot of pure gold, but sitting at her table with a not insignificantly-sized jug of wine, and sat oppposite her was Grand Maester Pycelle. I didn't trust Pycelle, but not because he seemed clever. In fact, it was the opposite; it was impossible that a man this incompetent and lacking in vitality should have served under the Mad King and survived to tell the tale, even taking into account his prodigious gift for sycophancy and his age. It was even more impossible that he should have remained in my grandfather's service after that. Tywin Lannister may have had an ego the size of Casterly Rock, but he knew a sycophant when he saw one, and he did not suffer such fools easily. No, Pycelle was clearly hiding something.

But now was not the time to unravel that particular mystery.

"Pycelle, leave us."

The old fool looked like he might hesitate, but nodded submissively and wobbled to his feet. I listened to him shuffle past me, his chains clinking irritatingly along with his steps.

"Now!"

I was too annoyed to smile as Pycelle yelped and redoubled his efforts to slowly leave the room as quickly as possible.

My mother, on the other hand, was suppressing her facial expressions rather less successfully. She shifted her jaw from side to side to stop a large grin spreading across her face.

"You really should be more gentle with Pycelle, his bladder isn't as strong as it once was."

I breathed out through my nose.

"I'd rather have a Grand Maester who pisses himself than a mother who pisses on my plans."

She had the bare-faced cheek to look offended.

"I've been trying to help you."

I blinked.

"By virtually destroying any chance we had of reconciling with the Starks without a war?" She raised her eyebrow, "Sansa told me everything."

She scoffed.

"You care too much about that girl."

So she did get some things right.

"That's beside the point. Last week, I was the heir to seven kingdoms. Yesterday, I had five. Now, thanks to you, I have two. And the Dornish despise us, so let's just be realistic and say I have one. King of the One Kingdom doesn't sound quite so formidable, does it?"

I sat down and leaned over the table, staring at her.

"You are overly concerned about the Starks, my sweet. Robb Stark is the acting Warden of the North, and he is not a threat to us."

"Robb Stark is not an idiot, Mother. He'll know whose words are on that paper, and he will call his banners. Even if you don't think the Starks are a threat to us, you must realise that twenty thousand Northmen are."

"And they will fall on twenty thousand Lannister swords."

She still didn't get the bloody point.

"And what about Stannis and Renly? When those twenty thousand Lannister swords are all pointed north, who defends the south? Us? We had to borrow men from Ned Stark just to police the capital."

"That would be a much smaller problem if you stopped killing members of your own Kingsguard."

Ah, so she knew about that. Ser Preston really was a dutiful informer.

"Well, the next time you decide to put a sexual deviant in a White Cloak, at least make sure he's competent and I won't have to." I snapped.

An uneasy silence fell between us. Another good way to find the measure of a person is how well they react to silence. I twiddled my thumbs patiently. My mother, on the other hand, did not possess such restraint.

"There are other ways to resolve this. You are overestimating the Northmen: send the Starks north and they will retreat back into their caves."

I wanted to laugh, and cry, and throw my chair out of the window. No wonder my father turned to drink.

"I'm not overestimating anything, Mother. Do you think the Northerners are going to just settle down once we hand over the Starks? The North is different to the other kingdoms; it was only the dragons keeping the North loyal and now the dragons are dead. Then it was Ned Stark's friendship with Father, and now he's dead. If we don't show strength to the Starks, we will lose the North." I stood and leaned over the table, "And while Grandfather is fighting the war you just started in the Riverlands, Stannis will be sailing up the fucking Blackwater, and Renly will be riding up the fucking Roseroad, and we" I snatched her glass from her grasp, wine splatting across the table, and smashed it on the wood, "Will be dragged by our ankles through the streets and burned alive."

She brushed an imaginary piece of dirt from her gown distractedly.

"We don't need the North. Let them go. Those savages contribute nothing to the rest of the kingdoms."

You'd think the penny was falling down a bottomless pit, it was taking so long to drop.

"You're right," She looked up at me in surprise. To be fair, I hadn't expected myself to say those words either, "we could do without the North. But what happens when the Dornish decide that they want independence, and they look at the North and see that we let them go when they kicked up a little fuss? We don't have any Dornish hostages, we don't have any footholds even close to Dorne. There will be nothing to stop them. Then the Iron Islands, then the Reach, and before long, I will have nothing. That is why I can't let the North go."

Yet.

My mother sniffed.

"So, what do you plan to do?"

I snorted.

"Do you really expect me to tell you? I didn't come here to plot with you, Mother. I came here to make myself clear." I stepped around the table and leaned over her. "I will not be stopped. Not by you, or the Starks, or the Baratheons, or anyone. I will do whatever I must to ensure that this kingdom stays together, and I will not tolerate your interference. You will be allowed to remain in the capital because you are my mother, but you will do so quietly, and if I discover the slightest whiff of treason, I will ensure that you live out your days in a sisterhood."

I turned and walked from the room.

"You are the widow of a dead king, nothing more."

I walked back to Maegor's Holdfast, my feet feeling heavier with each step. I blinked one eye, then the other, then both, yawning. Night had long since fallen, and my path was lit only by candles and torches. I hadn't slept properly since before my father died, I realised, rubbing my eyes. I half-walked, half-trudged up to my chamber and rested my head against the door. I sighed and looked at the door next to mine. Sansa's.

Oh, to the hells with it.

I knocked gently on the door.

Sansa opened it sleepily. Her eyes widened when she saw that it was me. Her brow furrowed in concern.

"Joffrey... It's late. Is something wrong?"

I shook my head with a small smile.

"No, I just wanted to know if you wanted some company."

Sansa laughed quietly.

"Are you really here because you think I might want your company, or is it because you want my company and you're just too proud to ask?"

I pouted.

Damn. She had me there.

She raised her eyebrows smugly, and stepped backwards into the chamber.

"It's not appropriate, you know."

I followed her inside.

"Fuck appropriate."

She giggled and fell back onto her bed. In the dim candlelight, she barely seemed real, her copper hair fanned out behind her, her skin barely distinguishable from the sheets and the nightgown she wore. She looked like a beautiful ghost.

I grinned and sat down beside her, bracing myself on my arm so that I could look down at her.

"Go on, say it."

She shook her head.

"It's not ladylike."

I tapped her nose.

"You're not a lady anymore. You're a queen."

She reached up.

"Not yet."

She tapped my nose to punctuate each syllable.

I chuckled.

"Alright, you're not the queen yet. But I am the king, and I can still tell you what to do."

I looked down at her pointedly.

She rolled her eyes, even as a blush spread from her chest up to her neck and face. She took a deep breath and stuttered:

"F-fuck appropriate!"

She covered her face and descended into a fit of giggles.

I laughed and settled down next to her, pulling her into my embrace. I pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.

"See, was that so hard?"

She hummed contentedly.

I rested my hand on her stomach, letting my fingers spread out and feel the warmth beneath her gown.

"I fear that Your Grace will get quite hot if you sleep with your clothes on. Perhaps you could remove them and join me under the covers?"

I smirked.

"Is that my lady's command?"

"It is. I promise to close my eyes if Your Grace is too embarassed."

I poked her gently in the ribs.

"Not at all, I simply wouldn't want to spoil any of the surprises that await my lady on our wedding night."

Sansa stayed true to her word and kept her eyes closed as she pulled the covers over herself.

I peeled off my clothes and climbed under with her, reclaiming her in my arms. Her skin became even warmer to the touch as she settled back into my chest.

She looked up at me over her shoulder, smiling.

"This is better, don't you think?"

I craned my neck downwards to kiss her tenderly.

"I have a Small Council meeting in the morning, then I'll come back for you and we can go to see your father after luncheon."

She nodded.

"Thank you."

She giggled as I opened my mouth and yawned.

"Just let your head down and rest, my love."

I obeyed, and barely a moment after my head had settled into the pillow did sleep take me.

Chapter Text

I hadn't attended many meetings of the Small Council in my youth. Not because I thought it was beneath me, or because they weren't interesting, but because I had very quickly realized that I wasn't going to learn competent governance from a Small Council which was bound to obey Robert Baratheon's commands. Unfortunately, I was consequently left unprepared for exactly how much of a state the realm was in.

"Six million golden dragons."

Nobody else said anything. I glared at them one by one. At this point it would have more apt to call it the Tiny Council. Only Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle, and Janos Slynt remained at the table. I had excused Ser Barristan from attending. I knew he didn't care for governance, nor was he suited to it.

"How did this happen?"

Varys was the first to open his mouth.

"With the deepest respect, Your Grace --"

I pointed my finger at him.

"No, no, no. I don't want to hear 'with the deepest respect,' I want to know how this council allowed my father to accrue six million gold dragons in debt."

"We are merely a Small Council, Your Grace. The king commands and we must obey."

"You are the King's advisors. Do I take this to mean that you did not advise my father, or Jon Arryn for that matter, that there was a problem with the Treasury?"

I turned to Littlefinger.

"Lord Baelish, you are the Master of Coin. The Treasury is your responsibility, and given that it is empty, I would say that you have not done a particularly good job."

He frowned.

"Your Grace, surely you must understand that the Treasury provides the money, and the King spends it, regardless of our guidance, or indeed that of Lord Arryn. Even Lord Stark was not averse to excess expenditure."

I nodded.

"Yes, but surely the Master of Coin should be able to tell the King that the Treasury is empty, and that the King should not be three million dragons in debt to his own generals?" I held my hand up before he could speak. "Never mind. It's done, and now we must repair the damage."

Littlefinger opened up his book of accounts.

"The outlook is not good, Your Grace. We have lost taxes from all of the rebel Kingdoms, as well as a great deal of trade from the Free Cities due to the uncertainty regarding the Narrow Sea. Nevertheless, the Iron Bank has indicated that they are willing to back us."

I scoffed.

"So you want me to get out of some of my debt by getting into more debt, all the while my other debt is getting even bigger and my incomes are diminishing?"

Littlefinger at least had the decency to look mildly sheepish.

"Anyway, the Iron Bank doesn't really back us. They're betting on a horse race. They'll give a loan to Stannis, then a slightly bigger loan to me, then another one to Renly and on and on it will go until someone wins. I've bet on horse races before, Lord Baelish, and the one thing I learned is that you never beat the gambling house. The Iron Bank of Braavos is the biggest gambling house of all."

"Your Grace is most wise, but armies need to be paid for, and we have no coin. We could raise taxes within the loyal Kingdoms; call it a necessity of war."

I turned to Slynt.

"Lord Slynt, how do you believe that Lord Baelish's proposal would be received by the smallfolk?"

Slynt blanched at the prospect.

I looked back at Littlefinger.

"I think that answers that question. I have a better idea."

They looked at me with a mixture of surprise and interest. I might have been offended by that.

"Lord Baelish, I want you to conduct an audit of the Crown's property, starting with the Red Keep. Work out the value of every single thing in the castle, and work out what can be sold and replaced with something cheaper."

He frowned.

"Surely that will cause some difficulty at court?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Call it a necessity of war."

Varys smirked.

"Besides," I grinned, "you won't be that much worse off, Lord Baelish. You're richer than I am."

There are few things in life which please me more than embarrassing confident men. He even blushed.

"Of course, Your Grace."

"Excellent. Those savings will go toward the defence of the city. Start with my mother's chambers. A few gold buckets might need cleaning out, but it's a start. I'd like to take a few more measures outside the capital but we can deal with that at a later date. Let us move on to the matter of the brothers Baratheon and the Starks."

Varys pulled a bundle of small scrolls from his sleeves.

"My little birds in the Stormlands inform me that Renly Baratheon has arrived at Storm's End. The Tyrell army stands behind him, with all the retainers, bannermen, and resources of the Reach, along with a majority of the lords in the Stormlands. The remaining Stormlords have declared for Stannis, who masses his army, such as it is, at Dragonstone. As for the Starks, the whole North has rallied behind them as expected, as have the majority of the Riverlords. Reports suggest that the Stark armies have already passed through the Twins."

That was a blow.

"Walder Frey let them through? The Late Walder Frey?"

Varys nodded.

I sighed.

"Walder Frey is an untrustworthy man, and you can usually trust an untrustworthy man to be untrustworthy. In fact, the second an untrustworthy man becomes trustworthy, you should trust him even less, because if you can't trust an untrustworthy man to be untrustworthy then what can you trust him to be?"

I looked around at my councillors. Varys and Littlefinger both grinned, catching on to what I was doing. Slynt, unsurpisingly, scrunched up his face in confusion, trying to work out what I'd just said. Interestingly, though, Pycelle seemed to be pondering the question, which of course meant that he'd understood it. Not quite the senile dolt he pretended to be after all.

"An interesting rhetorical question, Your Grace, but Lord Walder has not become a man of principle overnight. It would appear that Robb Stark has offered certain... benefits, in exchange for his cooperation."

"Such as?"

Varys unrolled one of his scrolls.

"Olyvar Frey is to be taken as a squire to Robb Stark, thereafter to be knighted. Furthermore, Walder Frey and... Walder Frey," I raised my eyebrows, to which he shrugged, "are to be taken as wards at Winterfell. Arya Stark will marry Elmar Frey - Lord Walder's youngest - when she is recovered. Finally, Robb Stark will marry a Frey girl of his choosing."

Ouch.

"So, he's whored himself off for a bridge." And you all thought my marriage was a bad idea, "Well, at least that means he can't make a marriage alliance with another great house."

"Quite so, Your Grace, but the Stark armies are making swift progress toward Riverrun. Lord Tywin is unlikely to wish to take up a seat on this council until the war is won in the Riverlands."

"I'll have to offer him the position anyway; he'll be grievously insulted if I don't."

Varys nodded and tucked the scroll back into his sleeve.

Littlefinger leaned forward.

"Your Grace, there is also the issue of Eddard Stark."

I waved my hand.

"I will deal with Eddard Stark. Now, Varys, is there any prospect of the Brothers Baratheon uniting against us?"

"Stannis is adamant that he is the rightful king and Renly is adamant that he is the rightful king. Needless to say, they're both wrong, but it does make a long-term alliance between them an unworkable situation - unless one submits to the other, of course."

I mulled it over for a few moments.

"We can afford to be patient. If Renly kneels to Stannis, the Tyrells will abandon him; they only support him because he will put the Lady Margaery on the Iron Throne. If Stannis kneels to Renly, he will not do so without a fight. In fact, I wager he'd rather die. Either way, it is unlikely that the winner of such a contest will be in a position to attack us immediately. We can then trust Lord Tywin to conclude the war in the Riverlands quickly, and bring his armies to bear in the Stormlands."

Slynt frowned.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but are you suggesting that we do nothing?"

I gave him my most unnerving smile.

"No, Lord Slynt, I am merely suggesting that we sit back and enjoy the show. Perhaps you have a better suggestion?"

Slynt's jowls wobbled as he struggled for an answer in the face of my withering gaze.

"And I'm not saying that we do nothing besides that either." I turned to Littlefinger, "Lord Baelish, I want you to see if you can predispose Mace Tyrell more favourably to us. Massage his pride, tell him we aren't looking forward to facing him in battle and that we do so wish that he was on our side. Indeed, should we defeat Lord Renly in the field, I dearly hope that he survives; his service would be quite invaluable."

Littlefinger looked at me slyly.

"Your Grace, do you believe I have the means to deliver such a message?"

I chuckled.

"Of course not, Lord Baelish. I know you do, and you will do it personally."

His eyes widened. He scrambled for a response for a few seconds before relaxing and grinning.

"Do I have your permission to offer him certain incentives for his eventual support?"

"Such as?"

"I had thought that Lord Tyrell might more swayed by promises than by praise. Promises of a marital nature for instance."

Varys leaned forward.

"I think what Lord Baelish is trying to say, Your Grace, is that the Tyrells might be more amenable to our overtures if we could offer a marriage to the Crown in exchange for their support."

I ground my teeth. The temerity, the nerve, the sheer bloody cheek to make such a suggestion.

"No."

Varys blinked.

"Your Grace, with all due respect, Margaery Tyrell is a quite excellent match for you and, if the rumours about Renly's afflictions are true, she should still be unbesmirched in the eyes of the Maiden."

A eunuch giving lectures on the marital bed. The world is a strange place.

I glared at him.

"That has absolutely nothing to do with this and you know it, Varys. My marriage is not a concern of the Small Council."

"Alas, Your Grace, you are the King. Your very life is the primary concern of the Small Council."

"We must all make sacrifices in the service of the Realm," Pycelle, that great authority on sacrifice, simpered from his chair, "If Your Grace is concerned about your betrothal to Sansa Stark, I have already consulted the High Septon. His Holiness shares the opinion of this council: that due to the treason inflicted upon the Crown by the Starks, an end to the betrothal would not only be reasonable in the view of the law, but also pleasing to the Gods."

I ground my teeth some more.

"His Holiness would be wise to devote more attention to the prostitutes in his bed than the scripture on his desk. I'll hear no more of this. Lord Baelish, you have my commands and you will carry them out to the letter, and I invite all of you to keep your thoughts about the suitability of my betrothed to yourselves. Now, get out of my sight."

I took several deep breaths as they left the rooms in varying degrees of haste and dignity. Once I had calmed down sufficiently, I looked out of the window. By the looks of it, it was already past noon, and so I was late for luncheon with Sansa. I stood and stalked through the corridors of the Red Keep, barely registering the presence of the Kingsguard who escorted me.

Sansa was sat at the dining table in the royal appartments. She started as I burst through the door and jumped to her feet.

"Joffrey, wh--"

I cut her off by taking her face in my hands and kissing her hard, trapping her between my body and the table as I pulled her into me. She tensed briefly, then relaxed and laid her hands over mine.

I pulled away.

"Sorry about that."

Sansa breathed out heavily.

"Um... I take it your council meeting was frustrating?"

I nodded and sat down.

"Everything is worse than I expected. We're going to have to cut down expenses."

Sansa climbed into my lap and reached behind me.

"Well, we'd better make the most of what we have now."

She held a strawberry up to me. I shook my head.

"I don't like strawberries."

She frowned.

"I've seen you eating strawberry cakes."

"Those are cakes. You love lemon cakes, but you wouldn't eat a lemon."

She rolled her eyes and popped it into her mouth, humming theatrically as she ate it.

"What else did they say?"

I sighed.

"They tried to convince me to break our betrothal. They even went to the High Septon behind my back."

I had expected to see worry, perhaps even fear in her eyes as I said that. Instead, I saw only indignation. She was learning fast.

"Why would they do that?"

"Varys wants me to marry Margaery Tyrell, to bring the Reach back into the fold, and Pycelle is my mother's pet, and she despises you, so he wants me to marry anyone whose name isn't Stark."

"And Lord Baelish?"

I shook my head.

"I don't know what Littlefinger wants, apart from power. But then again, who doesn't in this city? I can't put my finger on him."

"What will you do?"

I shrugged.

"I've sent him to negotiate with the Tyrells personally. That will remove him from the capital for a time. Pycelle isn't a threat on his own, even though I think he's hiding something. As for Varys, I need him. He's as intelligent as I am, and he can put spies in places I can't. We have an understanding: he will remain loyal as long as I act in the interests of the realm, which basically just means not going mad."

"And you trust him?"

I scoffed.

"Of course not, but there's no point trying to mislead somebody who knows everything. Besides, it is necessary to get behind someone before you can stab them in the back. I intend to keep facing Varys and Littlefinger at all times... and have you facing everyone else."

She did a double-take, her jaw opening slightly.

"Me? You trust me that much?"

I took her hand, intertwining our fingers

"Of course I trust you that much. It wouldn't make for a happy marriage if I didn't."

She shook her head.

"No, I mean I don't know how to keep track of anybody. I-I have no idea where to start."

"It's perfectly straightforward, Sansa." I held up one finger. "The first rule of politics is that everybody wants something. You know all the easy ones: power, money, prestige and so on. Most people want one of the easy ones, so you watch them. You find out what they're doing and you ask yourself what they acheive by doing whatever it is that they're doing. With me so far?"

She nodded.

"Good. Take my mother for example. This morning she tried to send a letter to my grandfather. In it, she tells him that I am out of control and that he must come to the city at once to rein me in. What do you think of that?"

She frowned.

"But, that's not true... Is it?"

I put up another finger.

"Second rule of politics: nobody cares about the truth. Now, what does my mother want?"

She nibbled on her bottom lip thoughtfully.

"Well, she's probably hoping that Lord Tywin comes to the capital and restores her to the regency."

"Exactly, which brings me onto the third rule. Do nothing that makes you look weak, unless it is beneficial to do so. Perception is everything. So, with that in mind, why do you think I allowed that letter to be sent?"

She thought about it for a few moments, then her eyes widened.

"Because it makes her look like she's lost control."

Which, of course, she had.

"And now my grandfather knows who holds the power in King's Landing. Now I look strong to him and weak to her. That means that he will pay more attention to me and she will underestimate me. So, you see, politics is not so difficult after all."

I tapped her nose with my third finger. She still seemed unsure, so I pecked her on the lips.

"Don't worry, I will help you."

She nodded and I kissed her again.

"Let's go. Bring some food and water. I don't think the Black Cells have a kitchen."

The door of the cell swung open with a groan, as though it too had suffered unspeakable torture in the depths beneath the Red Keep.

I stepped through the gap, my hand leading Sansa along with me.

"Lord Stark?"

In my other hand, I waved a torch in the blackness. A faint clinking echoed through the cell as we stepped further inside.

"Father?" Sansa called.

There was a shuffle, then a voice responded.

"Sansa?"

Sansa snatched the torch from me and led me after the voice, until we came across the haggard form of Ned Stark.

"Father!"

She let go of my hand and rushed to kneel beside him, throwing her arms around him. It took him a few seconds to reciprocate, as if he wasn't sure if she was really there.

"Sansa, what are you doing here? They- Cersei hasn't-?"

"My mother won't be throwing anybody into the Black Cells anytime soon, Lord Stark. Sansa wanted to see you."

He started at the sound of my voice, and looked up at me stonily.

Sansa placed a basket next to him.

"We brought you some food."

He looked down at the basket and then back at me doubtfully. Sansa read his expression.

"Joffrey isn't going to poison you, Father. He's the one who agreed to let me see you."

Stark nodded stiffly.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

He looked around.

"Where is Arya?"

"Escaped. I have men searching for her."

Stark glared up at me angrily.

"If you hurt her, I swear before gods and men that I'll--"

I held my hand up.

"No harm will come to your daughters under my watch, Lord Stark. You have my word."

He swallowed thickly, but nodded.

"What of the others? My household guard?"

"Dead to a man."

Anger flashed in his eyes.

"You won't get away with this, Joffrey."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I haven't."

"Robb is marching south."

His head snapped around to face her.

"He what?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

"That's why we need you to confess your treason. It will allow us to surrender you to Robb without losing the North."

Stark shook his head.

"I will not."

Sansa looked taken aback.

"Why?"

He smiled up at me.

"Because he can't kill me. Not while Tyrion Lannister is in our custody."

I smiled back at him, and a flicker of doubt flashed across his face.

"My uncle is no longer in your wife's hands."

Stark froze for a moment, then sank back against the wall.

"Then slit my throat and be done with it."

"No!" Sansa took hold of his collar and buried her head in his shoulder. "Please, no."

I cleared my throat.

"I'm not going to kill you, Lord Stark. I need your help."

Stark looked away.

"I will not abandon my honour just to ease your conscience, Joffrey."

He put his hands on Sansa's shoulders to push her away, and looked at her sadly.

"Go, Sansa. Leave me here. You don't have to die."

Tears dripped down her cheeks.

"I don't want to go without you. I want us all to go home, just like you told us."

He shook his head.

"I can't, sweetling. Go now. I love you."

Sansa looked up at me in despair. I simply nodded and stepped to one side. She got up slowly, painfully, and trudged toward the open cell door.

"Sansa." Stark called. She turned. "The lone wolf dies,"

"But the pack survives." She responded, and left the cell.

Stark turned back to me, his eyes glistening.

"Why are you still here?"

"I won't take no for an answer."

“You think my life is some precious thing to me?”

I scoffed and crouched beside him.

“No, of course not. But what about your family? What about Sansa?”

Stark paled.

“You vowed not to hurt her.”

“And I will keep that vow. There are many instruments of death which are quite painless. That mercy will not extend to the rest of your family, however. Arya is so fierce, I’m sure many would greatly relish breaking her, myself included, and I can't help if she were to fall into the hands of, say, Gregor Clegane. Once I’ve reduced her to nothing but a husk, I’ll dump her in some whorehouse. A Stark should fetch a high price for those who can afford to pay. Robb will be slain in some battle, no doubt. I won’t have him buried; he’ll be left on some road for the horses to trample and the worms to crawl upon. Your other sons I’ll hang, but first I’ll ask Roose Bolton if he still knows how to flay a man. Your wife will witness all of this, and then I will hand her over to Littlefinger in chains. That ought to buy his loyalty - at least for a little while. And then, in ten years, when all these things have come to pass, you will still be alive, and I will bring them to you, you will see them, and I will ask you if your honour was worth it.”

Stark looked up at me stonily.

“I don’t believe that you would do that.” The almost imperceptible waver in his voice belied his words.

I snorted. Even after all this time, Ned Stark still didn’t know how to deal with liars.

“Please, Lord Stark. Give me the word. You’d be doing me a favour. Do you think I’m marrying Sansa out of the goodness of my heart? Because she will aid me in the struggle against my enemies? No; I could marry Margaery Tyrell and have the swords of the Reach in my hand by the moon’s turn. I am marrying Sansa because she will make me happy, but if I have to sacrifice my happiness to secure the kingdoms, so be it.”

I pulled a quill and some parchment out of my pocket and placed them next to him, then stood and walked to the cell door, leaving the torch burning in the bracket above his head.

“Did Varys ever ask you his little riddle?” I asked, not really expecting him to respond. To be honest, Varys probably never asked him. He probably had no idea what I was talking about. “I think it’s his favourite. His eyes lit up as he told it. It’s funny, you know. He thinks he knows the answer: ‘Power resides where men believe it resides,’ he says. Well, he may think that, but it isn’t the rich man or the king or even the priest who has ultimate power in that room but the sellsword, because it is the sellsword who survives, every time. I hold power over you, Lord Stark, because I know that I will survive this. I don’t know if you will, though. I await your decision.”

Chapter Text

"Your Grace?"

I glanced up from my book. A servant hovered around the door of my chamber.

"Yes?"

"A holy brother is here to see you. He says he has been sent by the High Septon himself."

I sighed and closed my book. Will nobody rid me of this troublesome septon?

"Alright, send him in."

The servant nodded and receded from view. I sat up straight and put on my most welcoming face. I both admired and despised the Faith of the Seven. It was a truly remarkable feat to harness the stupidity of thousands of people so effectively for so many years. It was just a shame they had to be so obnoxious to those they didn't have control of. The blind piety of the lower echelons also grated, a fact I was reminded of as the holy brother entered my chamber, shaved scalp and brown roughspun robes and all. So arrogant in their humility.

"Your Grace." The man bowed deeply, giving me a clear view of the top of his head.

I smiled graciously.

"Good brother. I understand that you are here on behalf of His Holiness."

He nodded.

"That is true, Your Grace. His Holiness most urgently requests your presence in the Sept of Baelor at your earliest convenience."

His Holiness was clearly testing the waters with his new king, then. I would have to tread lightly with this.

I cocked my head to the side.

"If His Holiness wishes to speak to me, he is most welcome to come to the Red Keep at any time he desires. My door is always open to him, and to any member of the Faith."

He shook his head.

"It will certainly gratify him to know of your piety, Your Grace, but His Holiness was most insistent. He feels uncomfortable among the trappings of wealth, expecially given the appalling suffering of so many in the Riverlands and beyond."

I desperately hope he didn't believe that. It took a significant portion of my willpower just to keep a straight face.

"He also feels that it would be pleasing to both the Gods and the commonfolk to see their King make a pilgrimage to the Sept of Baelor before his coronation."

More likely His Holiness was too fat to fit into his litter. I pretended to mull it over for a second.

"Very well. Tell His Holiness that I will come to him before the day is out."

If you asked me which of the Targaryen kings was the worst, you might have been surprised by my answer. Yes, Maegor was cruel and Aerys was mad and most of the others were stupid, but my personal oppobrium I reserved for Baelor the Blessed.

My reasoning was that, even at the very heights of their madnesses, Aerys and Maegor still exhibited sane, if excessive, responses to their paranoid delusions. Would I have reacted to the threats they faced in the way that they did? Of course not, but they were at least acting to preserve their own positions. Baelor, on the other hand, locked his wife away in the Maidenvault, took a Septon's vows so that he couldn't have children, appointed first an illiterate stonemason and then a nine-year-old boy as his High Septon, and generally did his best to throw away everything that he had. If that wasn't sheer madness, I'm not sure what is.

That question slipped from my mind for the moment, however, as Baelor's legacy loomed above me. The Sept of Baelor was the ultimate expression of incongruity and hypocrisy. It was a gleaming temple of stone alongside houses made of wood and barely held together by nails. It smelled of the finest incense upon a street littered with dead rats and human shit. It was whiter than a pure maiden's smallclothes yet housed the perpetrators of the worst perversions, who grew fat and complacent even as in its shadow men withered in starvation. It was built by a man so terrified of his temptations that he was willing to lock them away, and now was occupied by those who gave themselves so willingly to their own: another of Baelor's innumerable failures.

That's not to say it isn't an impressive structure, however. I shudder to think of the difficulty of constructing the Hall of Lamps, with its glass globes hanging from that cavernous ceiling. It was just a shame all that craftsmanship should be used on Baelor's great folly and not on something more useful. I wondered how many trees had been cut down to form the doors as I walked through them, how many cliffs had been destroyed to build the statues as I passed them. All of this, created from the credulity of one man. That was why I admired the Faith of the Seven.

The High Septon stood before the statue of the Father, bedecked in rich silks and adorned by glittering rings. The sunlight bounced off his crystal crown and flashed my eyes blindingly. It was just as well because he wasn't particularly attractive to look upon. It would appear that I was right about the litter; the man would have dwarfed my father.

Nevertheless, I swallowed my distaste and bowed down to kiss his ring.

"Your Holiness, how may I be of service?"

He smiled at me rather like how a butcher might smile at a lamb.

"It is I who serves you, Your Grace. It is the will of the Gods that puts you on your throne." Meaning, of course, that the will of the Gods could remove me from it too. "However, I hoped to discuss the matter of the crown's debt to the Faith. Our resources across the Kingdoms have been stretched thin by the recent conflict, and this makes the charitable work of the Faith much more difficult. As such, if the crown could repay that debt, it would be a great boon to our efforts."

I nodded slowly. Of course it was about money. I should have expected that.

"The crown owes a great deal of debt to many lenders, including the Faith of the Seven. Financial management was not one of my father's strengths. Besides, I had hoped that the Doctrine of Exceptionalism would permit us to overlook that little difficulty."

He chuckled condescendingly.

"Now, Your Grace, we both know that the Doctrine of Exceptionalism applied only to the Targaryens and you are not a Targaryen."

"I am the king, and the Baratheon line is descended from that of House Targaryen."

"With all due respect to your ancestor, Your Grace, Orys Baratheon was a bastard. In any case, it does not change our needs. The Doctrine was intended to smooth relations between the commonfolk and the crown, not to allow you to avoid paying your debt."

"No, it was intended to stop the dragons from burning your predecessors alive." I snapped. If only such an option was available to me now.

He did not deny it.

"Nevertheless, Your Grace, I think you would be wise to prioritise certain creditors over others. If the crown does not repay its debt to the Faith, I will have no recourse but to withhold my blessing of your kingship, and of your marriage to the Lady Sansa."

I barked with laughter, startling him.

"And who do you plan to bless? Renly? I think his night-time habits might be a tiny bit more offensive to the Seven than my financial situation. What about Stannis? I hear he’s burning effigies of the Seven at the behest of some Red Witch. Do you think the Most Devout could stomach that, because I sincerely doubt it. Robb Stark wouldn’t be too attractive either, since he directs his worship towards a load of old trees rather than your grand septs. Don’t take me for a fool, Your Holiness. The only way for your blessing to do me any harm is for you to bless the damned.”

He wilted before my tirade, but a wilted plant can still be poisonous.

"And what of the royal wedding?"

I shrugged.

"My betrothed is of the North. It would be quite acceptable for me to choose to have a wedding in their tradition should it suit me to do so. And if I am asked questions as to why I chose to shun the Great Sept, I will reveal the details of our conversation. Should my version of events be disputed, I will order a royal inquiry into the affairs of the Faith."

The High Septon's face reddened with fury, looking very much like an overgrown tomato.

"A royal inquiry?! You would not dare--"

"Or..." I interrupted. "you could forgive the Crown's debt to the Faith and put some of your own money towards your expenses for a change. In return, I will ensure that no awkward questions are asked about your affairs and allow my coronation and wedding to be held here."

His meaty lips pressed themselves almost to invisibility as he glared at me. A vein bulged in his temple. It was really quite funny. Eventually, he sighed.

"Yes, Your Grace."

I beamed brightly.

"Wonderful. I will begin preparations immediately. Good day, Your Holiness."

As I walked out the Great Sept, a street urchin appeared out of nowhere, holding out a small scroll. One of Varys' little birds, no doubt. I fished in my pockets for a coin and gave it to him for the paper, and he vanished just as quickly as he had appeared.

I unfurled it as I emerged into the sunlight, and felt the blood drain from my face as I read it.

"Your Grace?" One of the Kingsguard had obviously noticed my distress.

"I need to get to the Red Keep. Now."

I almost smashed the door off its hinges as I stormed into my mother's chamber.

"What have you done?!"

She started in her chair at the suddenness of my entrance, but quickly composed herself.

"What have I done?"

My stomach was boiling like the pit of a volcano, and I felt ready to implode with rage.

"Eddard Stark is dead!"

The mixture of emotions which cascaded across her face did little to assuage me. First surprise, then joy, then triumph, then worry, then fear.

"You can't possibly be suggesting that I--"

I slammed my fist on the table. If only the wood were bone and teeth instead, it would have been much more cathartic.

"Myrcella was handed a note by a servant telling her this while Sansa was in the room. I don't know anybody else who would do something as wantonly cruel as that."

"Take your pick of anybody at court."

I scoffed and shook my head. There was always a clever answer.

"Perhaps, but I can't be certain it wasn't you, any more than I can be certain that any other treason in this city won't be in your name. You'll leave for Lannisport tomorrow."

Her eyes widened and she stood falteringly only to fall to the floor at my feet.

"No! Please, Joffrey! Think of Tommen and Myrcella--"

"I have," I stepped back from her grovelling form. "and I think it would do them some good. You will be allowed a monthly correspondence with them, but I will read each and every letter you send."

I turned on my heel.

"You cannot do this! I am the Queen Regent of--"

I slammed the door behind me and walked to the congregation of soldiers outside. At my signal, they moved to the door.

"Have you found her yet?"

"In the Tower of the Hand, Your Grace."

Of course.

I rushed through the castle with as much dignity as I could manage. My mind filled with the most horrific possibilities: images of Sansa throwing herself off the top of the tower, smashing into the ground, her skull obliterated against the hard cobbles; or taking a knife and cutting her own throat; or taking a draught of some poison. I was so distracted that I hardly noticed the journey from the Royal Appartments to the Tower, and reached the top of the stairs inside.

I instantly relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief as I entered Lord Stark's chambers to see Sansa curled up on his bed.

"Sansa."

She did not move.

I walked around the bed and sat down beside her. For the first time in my life, I had no idea what to say.

"Your Grace."

Varys stood in the door to the chamber, looking somewhat shaken.

I walked over to him.

"Did he write his confession?"

He shook his head.

"If he did, it was taken by whoever killed him."

I sighed.

"Keep searching for the killer. If Stark did confess, and we find it, we might jus--"

"Get out, Varys." Sansa sat up and spat. "Get out now."

I glanced at him apologetically and nodded.

Varys bowed and slinked out of the room smoothly.

"Sansa, I--"

Her hand whipped around and struck my cheek. It wasn't a particularly strong hit, certainly not as strong as my father's, but somehow it hurt so much more.

I brought my hand up to my stinging face.

"There are kings who would have your hand for that."

Sansa scoffed.

"You don't care. My father is dead and you’re worried about a piece of paper.”

The final minute strands of my patience broke. In my own way, I exploded. My voice no longer carried the seismic force I had barraged my mother with, but simply coldness.

“What would you have me say then, hm? ‘I’m sorry?’ Well, if that’s want you want me to say, then I’m sorry that the world isn’t like those stories you read when you were a little girl. We’re in the great game now, Sansa, and there’s only one way to make sure you win."

I put my hands on her shoulders.

"You carry on, no matter what happens. You block out the screams and ignore the crying children in the dark. You stoop lower than everybody else, not because you want to but because you must, to protect your family. That is what war is: doing the unspeakable because the only alternative is to have the unspeakable done to you. Your father failed to understand that and that is why he is dead. If you can’t find it in yourself to accept it, I will put you on a cart and send you home."

Sansa swallowed thickly and stared at her clasped hands.

I sighed. It wasn't ideal or enjoyable to have to speak to her that way, but harsh lessons should be taught quickly. I rested my forehead against hers.

“I love you, Sansa, but if I let you become a weakness, we will both die.”

She nodded and breathed out shakily.

"I won't. I promise."

I smiled sadly and kissed her on the forehead.

"I'll let you grieve."

I left her lying on the bed and exited the room, looking around the chambers. A large book rested atop Stark's desk.

'The Lineage and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms'

I frowned. Ned Stark didn't seem like the sort of man who would pore over lists of dead men. He must have had a reason to have this book.

'You have no claim to the throne!' He said.

I opened the large tome and turned to the lineage of House Baratheon.

"Orys Baratheon, black of hair." I mumbled aloud. "Axel Baratheon, black of hair."

Black of hair, black of hair, black of hair, black of hair, black of hair, black of hair--

"Joffrey Baratheon, golden-haired."

Chapter Text

It could be worse.

It could be a lot worse.

It could also be a lot better.

This tunic is very uncomfortable.

My feet itch.

Has the room got hotter all of a sudden?

Gods, this is boring.

Does that man never tire of his own voice? There were hardly enough poor souls in the sept to warrant a sermon of such mind-crushing vastness.

What would I give up to have this over with?

Before I could begin to contemplate that question at length, I saw Sansa, and my complaints vacated my mind.

She was resplendent, even in a gown that had been hurriedly stitched together from whatever material was lying around that happened to be the appropriate shade of grey.

Even in the relative quietness among the small smattering of subjects in the sept, a hush fell over the group as she walked toward the altar on the arm of Ser Barristan. When she was firmly within my view, she looked up and offered me a shy smile.

I responded with a subtle wink and turned back towards the High Septon as she stepped up beside me.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

I swept the black velvet cloak from my shoulders and pushed her own white cloak to the floor. A strange sort of pride blossomed in my chest as the gold stag of House Baratheon spread across her back, as she was marked as mine and mine alone.

"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Sansa placed her hand upon mine, and the High Septon wrapped a long ribbon around our wrists.

"Let it be known that Joffrey of the House Baratheon and Sansa of the House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

He untied the ribbon.

"Look upon each other and say the words."

We obeyed, and began in unison.

""Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

I turned to the assembled audience.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love."

It was perhaps a touch more chaste than either of us would have wished it to be, but it still caused applause to ring around the sept.

Sansa rested her head on my shoulder, shaking me from my thoughts.

"What's wrong?"

Where to begin?

"What makes you think there's something wrong?"

"It's your nameday, we just got married, and yet you're sat there thinking instead of eating at your own feast."

I frowned.

"I spend a lot of my time thinking, and I don't like celebrating my nameday."

"Why not?"

"I don't see the point in celebrating the fact that I'm another year closer to being dead, that's all."

Sansa lifted her head off my shoulder to look me in the eye.

"You are such a cynical pessimist."

I scoffed.

"A cynic is what a fool calls a realist, and a pessimist is just someone who is always prepared for the worst."

She shook her head.

"Will you at least try to enjoy yourself?"

I smiled.

"I am enjoying myself. I enjoy thinking, and I enjoy being with you."

I leaned in and kissed her gently.

Somebody cleared their throat behind me. A steward bent down beside me.

"My deepest apologies, Your Graces, but Grand Maester Pycelle has called an urgent meeting of the Small Council immediately."

I clicked my tongue in annoyance and nodded, dismissing him with a wave.

Pycelle had better have a bloody good excuse for this.

"Come on."

Sansa frowned.

"Why?"

I stood.

"I want you on the Small Council. You are the queen now."

She looked up at me with a skeptical eyebrow raised.

"You want to me to serve you on the Small Council while my brother is at war with you?"

"The strategy of the war has been delegated to my commanders in the field; it is no longer in my hands. If you're going to help me rule, I need your voice on the council."

She sighed and shook her head.

"I don't want to sit on that council discussing things I don't understand yet with people I don't know. Besides, one of us should stay here. This is supposed to be our wedding day."

I didn't miss the barb in her tone but nodded anyway. She was right, of course: it would hardly reflect well on us if we were both absent from the celebrations. I turned to Mandon Moore.

"Any man who lays his hand on her loses that hand."

It was unlikely that anyone would be drunk or stupid enough to try to cause trouble this early, but when the wine flows one can never be too careful.

"The raven arrived this morning, Your Grace."

As Pycelle spoke, a servant placed a large birdcage on the Small Council table and removed the sheet around it. A white raven stood nonchalantly on the perch, its beady eyes glaring around its new surroundings.

"The conclave has met, considered reports from maesters all over the Seven Kingdoms, and declared this great summer done... At last. The longest summer in living memory."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.

Just my luck.

"The peasants say a long summer means an even longer winter."

Pycelle scoffed.

"A common superstition."

I shifted in my chair.

"It doesn't matter if it's a superstition or not, Grand Maester. The point is that they believe it."

"We have enough wheat for a five-year winter." Littlefinger noted, desperately trying to sound solemn. "If it lasts any longer, we'll have fewer peasants."

Now it was Slynt's turn.

"The city's drowning in refugees, Your Grace, fleeing the war."

I snorted.

As if they're any safer here.

"We have nowhere to house them, and with winter coming it'll only get worse."

The raven cawed. I beckoned for a servant to take it before I threw the damn thing into a wall.

"Lord Slynt, are you not Lord of Harrenhal?"

Slynt frowned and gulped audibly.

"Yes, Your Grace. I am most gra--"

"And," I interrupted, "you are going to have to deal with a similar issue when you take your seat. People will seek shelter at Harrenhal, just like they will at every other castle. Tell me, how would you deal with them?"

Slynt's mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled with the problem, giving him the appearance of a freshly caught fish. A fish out of water indeed. After a few seconds of this, I took pity on him.

"You say you are undermanned: recruit the men into the City Watch, put them to work on our defenses, have them build their own shelters, give them jobs. Just because they are displaced doesn't make them useless."

The light of epiphany shone upon Slynt's face and he nodded earnestly.

"Yes, Your Grace."

And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere. And now the rains weep o'er his halls, with no one there to hear."

The whistled tune echoed into the chamber, announcing Tyrion Lannister's entrance with suitable dramatic impetus.

"Beloved nephew!" His misshapen face contorted into a wide grin.

I blinked.

"What are you doing here?"

As is his wont, he didn't answer the question. Instead, he clambered into a seat.

"It's been a remarkable journey," He reached for the wine. "I pissed off the edge of the Wall. Slept in a Sky Cell. Fought with the Hill Tribes! So many adventures," He looked pointedly at Littlefinger, "So much to be thankful for."

Littlefinger returned the look with a sly sidelong glance of his own. Clearly there was unfinished business there.

I raised my eyebrow but let it slide for now.

"Well, as much as I welcome your presence, Uncle, this is the Small Council. If you wish to sit in on these meetings then I will happily find a post for you."

Master of Sewers, perhaps.

Tyrion's smile did not relent.

"I thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but that will not be necessary." He placed a small scroll on the table.

Varys picked it up and read it.

"Lord Tywin Lannister has named Lord Tyrion to serve as Hand of the King in his stead while he fights the war in the Riverlands."

I sat back in my chair and regarded the dwarf for a moment.

"My lords, I would speak to my uncle alone."

There was brief shuffle as the other members of the council obeyed my command. An awkward blanket of silence fell between us.

"Have you enjoyed being king thus far?"

I snorted.

“Well, either Grandfather has the greatest political instinct in the history of the world, or you have very foul luck. A white raven came this morning from the Citadel.”

Tyrion grimaced.

“‘Winter is Coming.’ The Small Council?"

I rubbed my forehead.

"I'm surrounded by idiots."

"Good. It's the clever ones you need to look out for. Which is why I was so surprised when you called for Ned Stark's head."

"I didn't."

Tyrion did a double-take, goblet halfway to his mouth.

"Come again?"

"Ned Stark was assassinated in his cell. I did not want him dead. That was just a lie we told so that we wouldn't look weak."

"No, now you just look stupid. The North is in full revolt, and now Robb Stark has my brother hostage. Still, no matter. We have two Starks to trade. They value family, so we offer them an exchange."

I sighed.

"We don't have any Starks to trade."

He blinked, unable to comprehend what I had just said.

"I just saw Sansa outside. I assumed that the other girl was restrained somewhere."

I shook my head.

"Meryn Trant let Arya slip through his fingers."

"And Sansa?"

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, cursing the gods for their sense of timing.

"I just married her."

Tyrion did not respond for a moment. Then he grinned.

"She's a lovely girl."

I nodded, though that wasn't even the half of her.

"She is."

He placed his boots on the table.

"Well then, it looks like I'm going to be cleaning up your mess for a long while now."

Now I grinned.

"The king shits and the Hand wipes."

He raised his goblet.

"Here's to claggy bottoms."

I lifted my own goblet.

"And lucky dwarves."

Tyrion knocked back his wine greedily and placed his goblet on the table, smacking his lips. I sipped my own wine carefully.

"Who can we trust?"

I shrugged.

"Depends on what you mean. We can trust in Slynt's loyalty but not in his competence, we can trust Pycelle to be useless, we can trust Ser Barristan to be honourable, and we can trust Littlefinger in no way, shape or form."

"And Varys?"

"Varys and I have an understanding. I need him and he is willing to give us the benefit of the doubt."

"And if he decides that we are not worthy of his services?"

"We kill him, though I don't expect it to come to that. He claims to have the interests of the realm at heart, so all we have to do is not go mad and we should be alright."

Tyrion snorted.

"Easier said than done, nephew,"

I sipped my wine again.

"Is Slynt expendable?"

I raised my eyebrows at the question.

"I can think of nobody more so. Why?"

"I have my own man. He saved my life a fair few times in recent weeks, and a Lannister always pays his debts."

A sellsword, then. Perhaps this would give me a chance to try out Varys' riddle.

"I don't mind as long as he is capable, but I want a favour in return."

Tyrion looked intrigued.

"A king does not need to ask for favours."

"No, but I think it's best to make sure you keep my secrets."

He nodded.

"Go on."

I swept my eyes around the hall as the final feast of the day whirled around me. Men, highborn and low, knocked their goblets and their tankards against one another, singing bawdy tunes and occasionally fondling the poor serving girls.

It was all so bovine.

Sansa rested her head on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. I know the Small Council is important."

I hummed and buried my nose in her hair.

"It is, but our wedding is important too. I'm sorry I couldn't spend the whole day with you."

"We'll have many other days."

I tangled my fingers between hers.

"Still, I've told them that tomorrow is off limits. They are not to disturb us unless a pig flies over the walls and squashes someone."

She threw back her head and laughed.

"That's oddly specific."

I smiled.

"Yes, and it means we can spend tomorrow relaxing."

She raised her eyebrow.

"And fucking?"

I shrugged.

"If you want to... Are you nervous?"

She nodded and averted her eyes from me for a moment.

"A little. Honestly, my septas didn't give me the most reassuring descriptions of what happens on a wedding night."

I snorted into my goblet.

"Well, what would a septa know about it?"

"My thoughts exactly, but there are other things I'm not comfortable about. The bedding ceremony, for instance."

"Who said anything about a bedding ceremony?"

She stared me, brow furrowed.

"I... assumed that we would be following tradtion."

I hissed. Traditions at a wedding are like maggots in a good cut of meat.

"The right to the first night is ancient tradition too. Would you like it if I went around fucking every little lord's wife in the name of tradition?"

She pressed her lips together and sighed.

I swallowed and brought her hand to my lips.

"Sorry. It's just... Come on."

I stood up.

"We can't just leave."

"I am the king and you are the queen. We can do what pleases us, and no one else. Besides, they're all too drunk to care."

She looked out across the hall and saw for the first time what I saw: the debauched, unsavoury masses we ruled over, and contempt spread across her lips.

She got to her feet beside me.

"Where are we going?"

"I have a wedding present for you."

One of the advantages of having a castle the size of the Red Keep is that a structure of that size will generally accomodate anything one could conceivably require, including, on this fortuitous occasion, a garden large enough to contain several large trees. It was no Kingswood, but it was quite satisfactory for my needs.

I led Sansa out of shelter into the still-warm air of a dying summer's day. We trudged through the leaves and the twigs until we reached the middle of the garden, where the largest tree of the lot craned over us. At its base, somewhat comically, was Tyrion.

I turned to Sansa, who looked at me quizzically.

"It's no weirwood, but I hope it's an able substitute."

She frowned and smiled at the same time.

"Substitute for what?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I left her to join Tyrion at the base of the tree. Ser Barristan, who had been shadowing us in silence, moved next to Sansa and offered his arm to her.

"If Your Grace will permit me, it would be my honour to give you away."

Sansa's mouth fell open, and she looked at me. I smiled and nodded to her, and she took the proffered arm.

As Ser Barristan and Sansa approached, Tyrion cleared his throat. Fortunately, he didn't seem too drunk.

"Who comes before the Gods this night?"

Ser Barristan stood to attention and recited.

"Sansa, of the House Stark, comes to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who claims her?"

I stepped forward.

"I do. Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of My Name. King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Who gives her?"

"Ser Barristan of the House Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

Tyrion turned to Sansa.

"Queen Sansa, do you take this man?"

Sansa looked at me with tears in her eyes, barely able to get the words out.

"I take this man."

Chapter Text

I opened the door to our chambers and held it open for Sansa to pass by me. Somebody had clearly decided that candles are an aphrodisiac, as every candelabra was lit, as was the fireplace. All this basked the room in a warm but somewhat off-putting orange glow.

Sansa stayed silent in the centre of the room, wringing her hands, as I moved around closing windows and blowing out a few of the more unnecessary candles in an attempt to conceal my own nerves.

After a few moments of silence, I decided to cut the metaphorical limb off quickly and took her in my arms. I looked into her eyes for a second, then kissed her.

She moaned softly into my mouth, her hands grasping my shoulders tightly.

I moved my hands down her back to her legs and lifted her gently onto the bed. I hovered over her as she looked up at me with hooded eyes and lips parted, her chest heaving.

I looped my finger through the top lace of her gown.

"May I?"

She bit her lip and nodded; she shivered as I tugged on the laces one by one, opening her gown just enough to expose a corridor of skin.

I leant down to kiss down her chest, and she arched up into me. I took hold of the top of her skirt and tugged it down her legs so that she was left in her smallclothes.

"Careful with that!" She admonished squeakily.

I frowned. She had never taken that tone with me before.

"It's a wedding dress, Sansa. It's a dress made for the sole purpose of being torn off."

"And I am asking you to be careful with it."

As it made no particular difference to me, I folded it up and placed it on the floor by the bed. I turned back to see Sansa had taken the top of her dress off and had laid back on the pillows with her arms crossed, covering her chest.

A blush emerged from beneath her skin to envelope her face and neck.

I smirked.

"Was that a ploy to get me to look away for a moment?"

She bit her lip and nodded.

"Might I ask why?"

She swallowed and hesitated.

"I..."

I sighed.

"Are you scared of this? Of me?"

She shook her head.

"Not scared, just nervous. I don't want this to be a disaster, I want this to be good for both of us. It's just that you seem so confident and I'm not."

I scoffed quietly.

"Do you really think I'm that confident?"

She blinked.

I pulled myself up to lay beside her against the headboard and placed my hand on her stomach, drawing small shapes on her skin with my fingers.

"I'm the king, Sansa. I have to look confident even when I'm not."

"And if you can't pretend?"

"I take control," I took hold of her arms and pulled them away from her chest. "Like this."

She breathed in sharply as I took one of her nipples in my mouth and sucked on it hard, her fingers carding through my hair.

I kept at it for a few seconds, then switched to her other breast, feeling her chest vibrate as she hummed contentedly. I glanced up at her.

Her face was fully flushed, her lips parted, her eyes wild.

I leaned up to kiss her again, pushing a little bit more this time.

She groaned, opening her mouth against mine a little, just enough to let my tongue creep inside and brush against hers.

We pulled apart. I stared down at her and she stared up at me, her lips swollen. I trailed my hand down her body and reached her smallclothes.

"Have you ever touched yourself?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

"The septas told me it was sinful."

Of course they did.

I grinned.

"Well, it's not sinful for me to do it, is it?"

A naughty little smile spread across her lips and she shook her head again.

I winked at her and slipped my fingers beneath the hem of her smallclothes.

She gasped as my fingertips brushed over her. "Gods..." She whispered softly.

I quickly moved down and pulled her smallclothes away to expose her cunt.

"What are you--?"

Before she could complete the question, she moaned loudly as I pressed my lips to her and let my tongue roam around.

It was an odd taste. Sweet, but not solely or excessively so. Still, I found that I liked it, and she bucked her hips up into me as I licked deeper into her.

I followed her groans and moans, varying the amount of pressure I applied. Her hands laid themselves on my head and guided me, occasionally gripping tightly if I found a particular spot.

Eventually, she let out a small squeak and clamped her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as she convulsed around me, her legs squashing against my head and shoulders. I locked my arms around her hips and held her fast. She eventually stopped shaking and relaxed back into her pillow, her chest heaving as she sturggled to catch her breath.

"Wh-where in the Seven Hells did you learn to do that?"

I pushed myself into an upright position, wiping my face on my sleeve and feeling quite proud that I'd managed to extract another thunderous oath from her.

"I read it in a book."

She laughed breathily.

"What kind of book?"

I grimaced.

"A Caution for Young Girls. Tyrion gave it to me when I was thirteen. It's graphic. Very graphic."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Are there any other tricks that you want to try out?"

I shook my head.

"Perhaps you should read it. See if it inspires you."

She giggled and extended her arms out to me; I crawled over to her and let her taste herself on my tongue. She pulled away and looked up at me.

"Why are you still dressed?"

I tilted my head.

"Do you want me to undress?" I sat back and let my hands rest in my lap. "Take control, Sansa."

She practically jumped up and grabbed hold of my collar, then turned us both so that I was the one against the headboard and she was sat on my lap. It was quite something to behold, her messy hair falling around her face and shoulders as she gazed down at me. Her fingers made quick work of the buttons of my tunic and she almost ripped it from my arms. She dipped her head down to press kisses against my mouth and face and neck as her hands crept to my breeches. I lifted my hips and she wrenched them off me.

Now she stopped for a moment and looked down into my eyes. The look of pure arousal on her face was enough to make me harden against her leg.

She glanced down at it and grinned back at me.

"Are you ready?"

I nodded.

She reached between her legs and guided my cock into her.

We gasped together as I touched her entrance first, then as she slid gingerly onto me.

I took her hand and squeezed it gently as she closed her eyes and steeled herself.

She sank down with a small gasp and a pop.

"Breathe, Sansa."

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again, smiling down at me.

"It doesn't hurt."

I sat up and kissed her gently.

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and started to rotate her hips slowly, rising up and down.

I groaned into her mouth as she did so and let my hands roam around her back and hips, enjoying the feeling of her body rubbing against me, both inside and out, joining us together.

Our moans grew louder and more frequent, until eventually I could hold on no longer.

"Sansa." I groaned as I spilled my seed into her.

She slowed her movements, until we were both still in each other's arms, catching our breath.

Our eyes met and we giggled quietly together.

"I love you."

She beamed and pecked my lips.

"I love you too."

I lay back into the bed, taking her down with me until she lay straddling me with her head on my chest. I tried to turn and push her to the side, but she held fast.

"I want to stay like this. It feels nice."

I hummed and acquiesced, and we lay together until sleep took us both.

"What would you be if you weren't king?"

I shook myself from my thoughts and looked down at Sansa.

"What?"

She drew small circles on my chest with her fingers.

"If you were the fourth son of a minor lord and you could choose what you wanted to be; what would you do?"

"I imagine I'd want to be king."

She laughed.

"Be realistic."

I sighed. I'd never really thought about it.

"An Archmaester, maybe. I think I'd make a good archmaester."

"Is that because you like showing off how clever you are?"

"That may have something to do with it, yes. Perhaps I'd just become a septon."

"You don't believe in the Seven."

I snorted.

"Well, neither do most septons. All they have to do is memorize a few books, and for that they get the reverence of the masses, a good bed and more wine, food and vices than any minor lord could dream of. It's not that difficult to imagine the appeal, even for those who don't believe, and the ones who do believe tend to stop after a while. Which is just as well for us."

"Why?"

I looked down at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Because they might end up doing the right thing. At least you can get a crooked septon drunk enough not to notice what you're doing, or send him a little boy if all else fails. That doesn't work with the septons who actually believe what they're reading. You don't beat the Faith, Sansa; you only make it look the other way."

She nodded and settled back down.

I frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm just worried about the world I'm supposed to bring a child into."

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"You don't have to worry about that yet. You haven't flowered yet, and there's always moon tea if we need it."

She lifted herself up and turned to face me.

"But you need an heir."

I shook my head.

"An heir isn't really going to help either of us in the short-term. My mother once told me that men fight their battles in the field, and women fight their battles in the birthing bed. Well, any strategist would tell you to pick your battles. If it isn't safe to have a child, we won't have one. I don't want you risking your health, just in case. People will talk, but we can deal with that."

I cupped her face in my hands.

"Don't worry about it."

She nodded and took my hands.

"Are you going to forgive your mother?"

"It isn't about forgiveness, I can't trust her. When the war is over and our positions are secure, I will extend an olive branch to her."

"And if she doesn't forgive you? You sent her away from her children."

I didn't have an answer.

Chapter Text

"Is that the book you took from my father's chamber?"

I looked up from my desk to look at her.

"Yes."

She moved beside me, brow furrowed.

"'The Lineage and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.' That doesn't seem like the sort of thing that would interest him, or you for that matter."

I scoffed sardonically.

"It isn't, but this might be."

I opened the book to the page on House Baratheon and pointed.

Sansa leaned over and looked over the page, her finger trailing across the page. She read down to my name and stopped, looking back to me with a frown.

"What does this mean?"

"According to Stannis Baratheon, it means that I am not Robert Baratheon's son."

She barked out a short, derisory laugh.

"Because of your hair?! That's awfully convenient for him." She took hold of a few strands of her own. "Am I not Ned Stark's daughter because I take after my mother? Is my brother not the Lord of Winterfell because he has the Tully colouring?" She slammed the book shut. "This changes nothing."

I shook my head.

"It changes a great deal. My enemies will use this to attack my right to the throne. My father has bastards, Sansa; even if Stannis doesn't take the throne, somebody could use this to place one of them on it instead. They wouldn't even need to take Kings Landing. It could tear this kingdom--"

"Our enemies will try to kill us anyway. You keep telling me that nobody cares about the truth, so why have you started caring now? You're just being a pedant."

That was the wrong thing to say, and we both knew it as soon as she said it.

"Alright." I snapped, "Answer me this. If I hadn't been the crown prince, if I'd been some bastard roaming the streets of the city, would you have wanted to marry me?"

Sansa clenched her fists.

"What kind of question is that?"

"A very serious one, and one which we both know the answer to. I just want to hear you admit it. If I'd been a bastard, you wouldn't have given me a second thought. You wanted to marry the king and nothing less would do, so don't tell me these things aren't important."

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, unable to form an answer. I cocked my head to one side and she broke, turning and fleeing the room with tears in her eyes.

I ground my teeth together in anger. I didn't regret the words I said so much as the hurt that they caused her. I seethed in silence for a few minutes before someone knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Varys floated into the room and sank into the chair opposite me.

"Lover's quarrel, Your Grace?"

His spies work quickly, it would seem.

I rubbed my eyes.

"I would prefer not to discuss it."

"As Your Grace commands." He pulled a scroll from his sleeve and placed it on the desk.

I looked at it with the enthusiasm with which I might have greeted a puddle of vomit.

"Is that all of them?"

"That I know of."

I picked up the scroll gingerly.

"So there could be more of them?"

"Without wishing to cause offence, Your Grace, given King Robert's proclivity for such things I would say it is almost certain that he has bastards that almost nobody would be aware of. I can only tell you what I know."

He who has secrets must also keep it secret that he has the secret to keep.

I scanned the list.

"What do you recommend I do with them?"

Varys smiled.

"It is not for the likes of me to impress oneself upon the deliberations of the mighty, Your Grace."

The arrogance of humility, damning me with faint praise. He was baiting me, of course. This was a test, to see how low I could stoop.

I leaned back in the chair and crossed my legs.

"Spare me the pre-emptive contempt. Varys. I'm not going to kill them." He raised an eyebrow. "Well, not unless they become a direct threat. I may not be perfect, but I have no reason to kill them yet. They're still innocent."

"I consider all possibilities, Your Grace."

A dangerous thing to tell somebody.

I breathed in through my nose.

"They all have black hair, I assume?"

"To my knowledge, yes."

"And their mothers?"

He smirked.

"I am a spider on the wall, Your Grace, not an oracle."

I glared at him.

Would that I could squash him like a spider.

He did not falter in my gaze.

"I understand your concern, Your Grace, but your father's bastards are only a threat to you if you make them so. They are mere children, and you are the king."

"You served the Targaryens, Varys. You ought to know how much damage children can do, especially to kings."

"If Your Grace fears a repeat of the Blackfyre Rebellion, I can assure you that this is different. For a start, your father's offspring are unaware of their heritage, nor are they likely to be in a position to garner support independently. Stannis Baratheon does not gain from their existence, nor does Renly or Robb Stark. Your concern that they will be used as proof of your lack of heritage can be countered with exactly the point your wife made earlier."

So he knows about that. Of course he does.

I crossed my arms.

"I suppose you have some counsel regarding my marriage as well."

"I can only offer you what you ask for, Your Grace."

"Then I ask for your silence on that particular matter." I snapped.

"Very well, my silence you shall have."

"Keep track of the children, and inform me if any of them fall into my enemies' hands."

He bowed his head.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"So Jaime is your father."

I swallowed and nodded.

"I believe so, yes."

Tyrion gazed at me thoughtfully.

"You know, I'm not surprised."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Why not?"

He shrugged.

"I'm not sure. Call it a hunch."

Dangerous things, hunches.

"I refuse to call anything a hunch."

Tyrion smiled morosely.

"You are much too intelligent to be Robert Baratheon's son."

I scoffed.

"And yet I am Cersei Lannister's son too."

Tyrion looked at me pointedly.

"Don't underestimate your mother. Cersei devotes too much energy to avenging minor slights and fighting inconsequential feuds to be what she could be, but she is not stupid."

"And what makes me any better than that?"

"Cersei wields power rather like how a squire would wield a greatsword. She is clumsy where precision is required. She shouts when a quiet word would suffice. You understand what it is to hold power and wield it effectively. Your sword may rarely leave its sheath, but it never leaves your side. In some ways, you are a much better version of my father."

I cocked my head.

"How so?"

"You're just enough of a good person to be a benevolent king, and just enough of a heartless bastard to be a strong one."

Was that supposed to make me feel any better?

He drained his cup.

"Now, what is this business between you and Sansa?"

Oh, not this again.

I rubbed my eye.

"I don't wish to discuss it."

"I know," Tyrion reached for the wine jug. "That's what wine is for, Nephew." He poured me a cup. "Drink."

I sipped it.

"Drink!"

I took a swig more.

"How do you know about this?"

"I have sources of my own."

I thought for a moment. Then groaned.

"That new handmaiden;" I clicked my fingers, trying to remember. "What's her name, Sheila?"

"Shae."

So he is fucking her. I thought she seemed a little too exotic to be just a handmaiden.

"You remembered that name awfully quickly."

"Don't change the subject. You drove the poor girl to tears this morning. What did you say to her?"

I swallowed.

"I asked her if she would love me if I was some street urchin."

He grimaced.

I lowered my eyes in something approaching shame.

"I know you wouldn't have said something like that without a reason, and I know that you won't feel sorry for saying it either. I may not have been married for a long time, and I'm not a king either, but I do know that marriages don't go well when that sort of question gets asked."

I drank some more wine.

"Joffrey, I understand that this has been a shock to you, but it does not change anything in practical terms. We both know the history of every war ever fought was written by the victors. If we win, we'll be right and if we don't, it won't matter because we'll be dead. You have a beautiful, intelligent, sweet young woman alongside you who appears to be willing to put up with you for the rest of her life. Don't waste her."

He reclined into his chair.

"Now, I believe you have somewhere to be."

I nodded slowly.

"I suppose I do."

I crept quietly into the royal appartments and glanced around. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Sansa sitting in a chair, reading. I trudged over to her slowly.

"Sansa."

She looked up from her book and gave me a small smile, which was a start, but didn't say anything.

I gestured to the chair opposite her.

"May I sit?"

"You're the king. You don't need t--"

"That's not what I mean and you know it isn't."

She wet her lip and nodded, closing the book and placing it on the table between us.

I sat, raising an eyebrow as I saw what book it was.

A Caution for Young Girls.

"I was half-joking when I reccommended that to you."

She blushed a little.

"I know, but I wanted to read it all the same."

I cocked my head.

"Why?"

"You'll think it's stupid."

"But you clearly don't. If you did--"

"It wouldn't be on my mind, I know. It's just... I felt awful about this morning."

I frowned.

"Why? You were right."

She looked down at her lap.

"So were you. I wouldn't love you if you weren't the king, but if you had been some awful tyrant I would have wanted to marry you all the same because you'd be king and I'd be your queen. It made me realise how shallow I am."

I blinked.

"Do you think I'm any better? If you'd been a commoner girl, I would have found you as beautiful as I do now, but I wouldn't have considered marrying you. That's just the way it is. To the Great Houses, marriage is nothing more than a political tool. We just got lucky with each other."

She smiled sweetly.

"We did."

I returned the smile.

"So, can we just agree that you were right and move on?"

She nodded.

I glanced down at the book.

"You didn't finish explaining why you were reading this."

She inclined her head down and looked up at me.

"I was... looking for a way to make it up to you."

My mouth fell slightly open.

"Oh... Did you find anything you wanted to try?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

"No, I just kept reading because it was..."

"Arousing?"

Her face progressively more red as she nodded.

I leaned in and muttered in her ear.

"Did you touch yourself?"

She gave a small noise and shook her head.

"I wanted it to be you doing it for me."

I grinned.

"As my queen commands."

Chapter Text

"All of them?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

I rested my head in my hands.

"There are reports of men turning into wolves and..." Varys swallowed. "Eating corpses."

I waved my hand.

"I don't care about wolves eating corpses. The corpses are the ones who have peace. Bring me no more stories of werewolves. They are my grandfather's concern. Tell me of Renly and Stannis."

"I would love to, Your Grace, but there is nothing new to tell you."

"Nothing? They've done nothing?"

"Other than send letters proclaiming you a bastard and amass their forces? No. At this stage the Northern theatre is the only front seeing any change worth reporting. The King in the North continues to win."

"There are too many kings in this world. The King in the North, The King in the Stormlands, The King in King's Landing... What does Renly call himself, King of the Rainbow?"

Tyrion sighed from his seat.

"If we could return to the task at hand, Nephew."

I nodded.

"Thank you, Varys. You may go."

The Spider rose and bowed deeply before making his exit. When the door closed behind him, Tyrion spoke.

"We're going to need allies. Even if it's just so they won't take up arms against us."

"And even then."

He grunted.

"Myrcella is at the age where she should be betrothed. Tommen too, if possible."

"No. If we marry Tommen off now, I'm basically asking to be stabbed in the back. Myrcella is our only option."

"So we have to choose carefully. The way I see it, there are three viable candidates: Robin Arryn, Trystane Martell, and Theon Greyjoy."

I half-laughed, half-groaned.

"Who needs enemies with friends like them?"

"Quite, but we need all the help we can get, even if we have to kill them later."

"Even so, I'm surprised you put Robin Arryn forward. Didn't he want to throw you through the Moon Door?"

He grimaced.

"Don't remind me. The armies of the Vale would be recompense enough for me to swallow my pride, though. I was going to suggest that a betrothal might be enough, but I suspect that that is optimistic. Lysa Arryn may be a stupid cow, but she loves her son."

"They'll stay out of the war. It does her no good to take a side, and if they haven't declared for the Starks then they almost certainly wouldn't declare for us."

"What if we sent Littlefinger to sweeten the deal?"

"I can only have Littlefinger do so much before he demands something concrete in return. Securing the Vale for us would require a great reward, and I don't know for certain that he wouldn't play us for fools. Massaging Mace Tyrell's ego is one thing, wooing Lysa Arryn is quite another. No, better to keep him on a leash until we have something over him."

"So that leaves us with two."

"I will not give my sister to the Greyjoys."

"It would bring us the Iron Fleet."

"Stannis smashed the Iron Fleet in the last war. It isn't supposed to exist. Either Balon Greyjoy has been rebuilding and harbours expanionist ambitions, in which case we would be giving him a hostage, or he hasn't and we would be using Myrcella to buy a couple of fishing boats and nothing more. And that's assuming that Theon Greyjoy would abandon Robb Stark. The answer is no."

A silence fell between us for a few seconds.

Tyrion swigged his wine.

"So... Dorne it is."

I ground my teeth together.

"Unless you have a better idea?"

I hope I didn't sound too hopeful.

He shook his head.

"The Martells are the last of the Great Houses with whom we might do business. Any other houses would owe fealty to their liege lords, and with Stannis controlling the Narrow Sea it will be difficult to get help from elsewhere. Believe me, Joffrey, if I had an alternative I would have offered it. Handing Myrcella over to the Dornish is the last thing I want."

I nodded.

"We'll have to gain some kind of insurance. What if we offer House Martell a seat on the Small Council? It would give Dorne proper representation in government, and it would give us a hostage."

"Who do you have in mind? We could ask for Prince Trystane himself; it might allow us to keep Myrcella here."

"No. We have to offer them more than the Small Council. Myrcella must go to Sunspear, but I was thinking; Prince Doran has a daughter, does he not?"

"Arianne Martell, his heir apparent. A strong woman, by all accounts."

"Well, who better to represent Dorne than the future Princess? And I think Sansa would benefit from having another woman with authority in the capital."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Is there anything in particular she could teach her?"

I snorted.

"Get your mind out of the brothel. I mean what I said. We ask for her specifically and if they send someone else it's no skin off either of our noses."

He nodded.

"So, we agree. Dorne it is."

"Dorne it is. I'll write to Prince Doran personally. Should I write to Princess Arianne as well? It may make her feel valued by us."

"If you write to Arianne, Doran may believe you're going behind his back, and he will not suffer that kind of insult. Much better to go through the proper channels, make sure he knows we respect his authority."

I nodded.

"Alright, I'll send the ravens in the morning." I stood. "Come, sup with us. Sansa will enjoy your company, I think."

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint her."

He clambered out of the chair and followed me from the room.

"Not so bad?! I used to be six feet tall!"

Sansa spat her wine into her cup and placed her hand against her mouth, containing her laughter.

Poor timing indeed.

I smirked and sipped my own wine.

Tyrion leaned back into his chair.

"Anyway, Lysa didn't particularly care for my confession so I demanded a trial by combat, and she accepted."

Sansa frowned.

"Why would she do that if she wanted you found guilty?"

"She didn't think I had a champion to hand, so I imagine the thought of a mouthy dwarf getting the shit kicked out of him must have appealed to her. The Vale seems so awfully dreary, they must be bored stiff up there."

"One would be forgiven for thinking that you pity them, uncle." I commented into my goblet.

"One would be wrong, nephew." He retorted. "And in any case, I wasn't guilty of the crime which she and your mother were accusing me of so it worked out fairly well for me in the end."

"But that doesn't answer my basic question," Sansa insisted, "Why do we allow trial by combat if it means that guilty people get away?"

So close, and yet so far.

Tyrion glanced at me.

I nodded and put my goblet down.

"That's the point."

She looked at me, both confused and appalled.

"The point?"

"It's about the distribution of power in the realm. Trial by combat dates back to when the Faith of the Seven had much more power than it does now, before the Conquest. It was a way of keeping power away from the Faith."

"Remember what I said, Sansa. You don't beat the Faith, you only make it look the other way."

"How?"

“Consider the humble thief. He owns no lands, holds no property, and casts no shadow on the world. Suppose he is then caught. He has stolen a few trinkets, mayhaps the odd valuable jewel, but nothing of consequence, so nobody cares if he lives or dies. The Faith and the Crown leave those decisions to the petty lord in whose domain he operates, because it makes no difference to anyone. Now, consider a high lord. He is master of all he surveys, and he only answers to the highest authority. If he were to find himself at the displeasure of the law, then the matter of who should try him becomes a matter of who is the highest authority: his fellow lords or the Faith."

"But I don't understand why we need trials by combat to determine guilt."

I leaned forward.

"Because the Faith used to use Ordeals to determine guilt. It allowed them to acquit people they needed and dispose of people they didn't like, all while making it look as though the Gods had decided for them so it couldn't be called a corrupt system. Trial by combat is the nobility's alternative to that. They couldn't cut highborn heads off arbitrarily, but they could get their champion blind drunk the night before the trial. It was our way of maintaining the balance of power without confronting the Faith directly."

"And the Faith couldn't complain because it's the Gods who decide the victor of the duel, so the verdict isn't in our hands anyway."

She still didn't quite get it.

"You said the Faith used to use Ordeals."

"Ah, yes. Maegor put an end to that practice when he banned the Warrior's Sons. The Faith lost the means with which to exercise what little jurisdiction it has left."

"So why keep the Trials?"

I smiled.

"Never hold a trial unless you know what the outcome will be. That was the mistake your mother and Lysa Arryn made."

"She must have had a reason to think you were guilty of trying to kill Bran."

Tyrion looked at her without speaking for a moment.

"Do you think I tried to kill your brother?"

She matched his gaze stonily.

"I don't know."

"And what would you do if it turned out that I had?"

She shrugged.

"Probably the same thing I'm going to do to whoever killed my father."

And with that, she returned to her food.

Tyrion and I traded a look, and I felt a large grin spread across my face.

Chapter Text

I sighed in frustration and tossed my quill onto the desk.

"What's wrong?"

Sansa lay on our bed, flicking through her book.

"I hate writing letters, especially to highborns. You spend half the time trying to remember all the titles, then you forget what you were writing about."

She got up and placed her hand on my shoulder.

"I could write it for you."

I smiled and shook my head.

"It's fine."

"Why not get someone else to do it?"

I placed my hand over hers.

"The more you do, the more you control. If I write it, I know that this letter will say what I want it to say. If I delegate it, it might not and then I'd have to rewrite it anyway, which is just a waste of time."

"If you want something done, do it yourself?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Well..." She bit her lip, "When you're finished, I have something I'd like to do myself."

I grinned.

"I look forward to it."

She leaned down and hummed as we kissed for a moment.

"I'll leave you to it."

She made to leave, but before she could do so, the door opened to reveal the miserable frame of Pycelle.

Shame. I was having an acceptable morning.

"Your Grace, I-I have a matter to discuss. A grave matter."

I frowned and exchanged a glance with Sansa.

"What? Are Myrcella and Tommen alright?"

"I-it concerns the princess, yes, but only in the matter of... Well, that is to say-"

"Spit it out, Pycelle." I snapped.

Sansa looked at me disapprovingly and held out her hand to the old man.

"Please, sit down, Grand Maester."

Pycelle murmered his thanks and wobbled into the chair.

"L-lord Tyrion has just told me that he intends to send the Princess to Dorne, to marry Prince Trystane. He told me that you must not know."

Sansa opened her mouth. I silenced her with a look.

"Thank you for telling me, Grand Maester. I will deal with Lord Tyrion."

Pycelle seemed a little put out by the abruptness, but I tilted my head to make it clear he should go. He struggled out of the chair and shuffled from the room.

Once the door shut behind him, Sansa frowned at me.

"What?"

"Why do you you hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him, I just think he's a useless waste of blood and organs."

She rolled her eyes.

"It seemed like he was trying to help you."

"If that's his idea of helping then I rest my case. He's not trying to help me, he's trying to get back into my favour. There is a big difference."

"He said Tyrion told him not to tell you."

"That may have been a lie."

"And if it isn't? You can't just ignore this just because you don't like the person telling you about it."

My eye twitched.

"I'm not ignoring it, I'm thinking. Never mistake that for inaction." I leaned back in my chair, and shouted. "Varys!"

Sansa started violently and stared at me as though I'd gone mad.

"Why did you just scream?"

I stood and grabbed a jug of wine from the sideboard.

"You'll see."

"Your Grace called for me."

Varys glided into the room.

Sansa paled and swallowed.

"How did you know to come here?"

He fixed her with a look that must have terrified her.

"Haven't you heard, my queen? Walls have ears."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Varys, stop being scary. It doesn't suit you."

He scoffed quietly but turned to me and bowed his head.

"What does Your Grace require of me?"

"Has Tyrion told you anything regarding Myrcella? Directly?"

Varys did not respond for a second too long.

"Directly, Your Grace, Lord Tyrion did mention the possibility that Myrcella might be betrothed to Theon Greyjoy. He said that he would discuss it with you, but that he was making the necessary arrangements without your knowledge."

So, there it was.

"Why would he do that?"

"I imagine that he wanted to free you of the more onerous and superrogetory burdens of kingship, Your Grace, and wished only to present to you those options which had already been arranged so as to expedite the process of their completion in the utmost haste."

Sansa frowned in confusion. I smirked.

"I see. And indirectly?"

"Indirectly, I have heard through the grapevine, such as it is, that there are also plans in place to send the princess to the Vale of Arryn, should that eventuality be deemed advantageous. My understanding is that Lord Tyrion has enlisted the services of Lord Baelish to that end."

I nodded.

"And was Lord Baelish permitted to speak to me about this?"

Varys shrugged.

"I cannot say, Your Grace."

It all clicked into place then.

"Thank you, Varys. You may go."

The Spider bowed and swept from the room.

When the door closed, Sansa inhaled sharply and turned to me angrily.

"Is he spying on us?"

I snorted.

"Don't be silly. He spies on everyone, including our enemies."

"You mean including us, and including my brother."

"Your brother is currently leading an insurrection against the Crown. Varys is the Master of Whisperers; he's doing his job."

"I fail to see how you are made safer by being spied on in your own chambers."

"Is there something specific that disturbs you about this?"

She opened her mouth and closed it again, like a fish on a hook. A blush crept up her face.

"It's just, they can hear us... When we're..."

I chuckled and pulled her into my arms.

"I actually hadn't thought of that... I mean, Varys is a eunuch, so I can't imagine he gets any particular pleasure from it. In fact, I don't think he particularly cares about us fucking; we are married after all." She smiled at that. "Besides, his spies are mostly little children because they can get into all the little nooks and crannies. I doubt they have a huge understanding of what goes on between a man and a woman. And in any case, don't you want people to know how good your husband makes you feel?"

She bit her lip, the blush now completely enveloping her face, and nodded.

"At least they're not watching us."

She giggled and buried her face in my neck.

"Stop it, it's embarassing."

I chuckled.

"Yes, but unfortunately it's something we're going to have to get used to."

She poked her head up.

"And if I can't?"

I grinned.

"Then at least it'll make our time together a bit more exciting."

She raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Exciting?"

"This is power, Sansa. The Red Keep is ours, in which to do whatever we please, and if everyone in this castle can hear us fucking it doesn't matter because they can't stop us regardless of where we are and what they think. That's power."

"Would you fuck me on the Iron Throne?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Gods, no. As fun as that would be, I have enough trouble sitting on the damn thing. Another thing about power is knowing how to exercise it. Fucking you on the Iron Throne would be like throwing Pycelle off a cliff: I'm sure it would be thrilling, but it would also cause more problems than it would solve. My desk, on the other hand..." I trailed off.

Sansa smirked and stood up.

"Well," She started hiking her skirt up to her hips, "in that case, I suppose I'm waiting for a real show of power."

I followed her to the desk, pushing her forward onto it, then I unlaced my breeches and pushed her smallclothes down, leaving her fully exposed to me.

"And who is the only one more powerful than you, my queen?"

She gasped as I grabbed her hip.

"You are."

We both moaned loudly as I entered her.

"And don't you forget it." I grunted as I picked up the pace a little.

She moaned and grasped the edge of the desk tightly.

"No, never. You're the king."

They say that power is the greatest aphrodisiac, but until that moment I never realised how great.

I shuddered and rested gently on top of her as I spilled my seed. My hands found hers and we lay there together catching our breath.

"That was..."

"Exciting?"

We both laughed at that.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you want to be there for this?"

"Why would I not?"

I shrugged.

"Because I won't be your husband in there. I'll be the king."

Sansa scoffed.

"I married the king, didn't I?"

I smiled.

"Alright."

We finished climbing the stairs in the Tower of the Hand. Two Lannister soldiers stood guard outside the door.

"You two may go." I reached for the door handle.

"Your Grace, we are supposed to stay outside these chambers at all times. The Lord Hand--"

"Did I misspeak?"

The men paled beneath their helmets.

I raised my eyebrow.

"Alright, let me put it another way. You will go, now. And if I hear another word from your mouth, I will have your tongue." I turned to the two knights of the Kingsguard who had accompanied us. "These two are all the protection myself and the Lord Hand will need."

The guards looked at the floor and sullenly marched away.

I glanced at Sansa and shook my head, then opened the door.

Tyrion sat in the corner with a book in his hand. He looked up to see us enter.

"Your Graces. To what--"

"You will not speak." I interrupted and sat down in one of the chairs next to him. Sansa stood behind me, while the Kingsguard took up positions beside the door.

Nobody likes silence, especially not somebody as unrelentingly loudmouthed as Tyrion Lannister. Unsurprisingly, it didn't take long for him to squirm uncomfortably.

"What is it that we are waiting for?"

As if on cue, Littlefinger barged into the chamber.

"I don't appreciate being made a fool of, dwarf."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Your Grace... I will come back later."

"No, you won't. Sit down, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger swallowed and obeyed.

"I don't appreciate being made a fool of either, and you are running dangerously close to doing so. Now, explain yourself. You knew Tyrion was planning to send Myrcella to the Vale and you did not tell me."

Littlefinger prickled.

"Was he? Or was he just playing his game with all of us? The dwarf lied to me."

"That may be, but I think you wanted to believe him. Tyrion promised you Harrenhal, didn't he?" He seemed surprised that I had worked that out. "You aren't angry because you were lied to, you're angry because your prize has been snatched away. I know what you want, Baelish, and if you play your cards right, you might just get it."

Littlefinger raised an eyebrow.

"How?"

"My uncle Jaime is currently in the captivity of the Starks. I would see him released, and you will help me."

"Robb Stark will never release Ser Jaime."

"No, of course he won't. His mother might, though."

Littlefinger's face softened momentarily.

"I still don't see what part I have to play in this."

He wants me to spell it out for him, it would seem.

"I have it on good authority that the Starks are planning to reach out to the Brothers Baratheon in search of an alliance. The Lady Catelyn is their envoy."

"And what good authority might that be? Varys?"

Who else?

"Irrelevant. You will go to Storm's End immediately and meet with Lady Stark. You will plant a seed in her mind, then you will stay with the Tyrells and grease them up for us, as we discussed."

I stood up and leaned over him.

"And if you do not do so, I will pass a Bill of Attainder against your name."

He paled.

"Any deviation, any failure, and everything that you have spent so long crawling in the mud to build will come crashing down around you."

Littlefinger swallowed again, his throat bobbing beneath that pitiable little goatee he insisted on inflicting on everybody else.

"I understand, Your Grace."

He stood and fled the room.

I sniffed and straightened my tunic.

Tyrion clapped his hands together.

"A masterful performance, nephew."

"Shut up, uncle." I snapped, sitting back down. "I still have to decide what to do with you. You've put me in a difficult position. Could you not have found another way to work out who was spying for me?"

"I must admit, I hadn't counted on you taking Pycelle so seriously as to actually check what was going on. I underestimated you."

"You say that as though that's what I want to hear. The king shits and the Hand wipes, not the other way around. Still, it gave us leverage over Littlefinger, so that's something."

"What would you have me do with Pycelle?"

Sansa frowned.

"Why does anything need to be done with Pycelle?"

I sighed.

"The Hand needs authority to govern alongside the King effectively, and we need to present a united front. A betrayal against the Hand is a betrayal against the King. If we don't give the boot to Pycelle now, our authority is tarnished."

"Tarnished, not damaged. That's no reason to punish Pycelle for telling you about a plot against you."

"Do you think he would have told me about that if I wasn't unhappy with him?"

"How do you know he wouldn't have if you weren't? You said that we should never do anything that makes us look weak, but what about looking cruel? What happens if you punish Pycelle and scare people away? Rewarding those who do right by you isn't weakness."

I clenched my jaw and looked at the wall.

"She's right, Joffrey."

I glared at Tyrion.

A compromise, then.

"Alright, we can put Pycelle in his place without too drastic a response. Take that sellsword of yours and a few tribesmen to his chambers. Scare him but don't harm him. Then Sansa will step in and shoo you off on my behalf."

Sansa frowned.

"Shouldn't you do it, if we want Pycelle to remain loyal to you? You are the king, he answers to you."

"I could do it, but it is much more beneficial for a king to be respected for his strength than loved for his mercy. A queen, on the other hand..." I reached up and touched her cheek. "I will always be hated, Sansa, and those who do not hate me will fear me. Maybe with time they will come to respect me, grudgingly, and appreciate my talents, but they will never love me. Not now. So they must love you instead, and you must learn to inspire love on your own merits."

Sansa blanched at the prospect.

"How do I do that?"

I smiled.

"By being yourself." I took her hand. "Look, this is just practice. Pycelle is firmly within our grasp anyway, and we can always use more... persuasive methods if he doesn't come around to our way of thinking."

"Such as the one you just used on Lord Baelish?"

I grinned and nodded.

"The Dornish have a saying: 'Take a man by the balls, and his heart will follow you anywhere.'"

Sansa grinned back at me.

"I'll remember that."

Tyrion smirked.

"Smart girl."

"Signed, Joffrey of the House Baratheon First of my Name, King of the Andals..." I muttered to myself as I finished writing my letter.

The door opened and Sansa stepped in.

I put down my quill.

"Did Pycelle enjoy your visit?"

Sansa crossed the room and sat opposite me.

"No, but he knows who to turn to if it happens again."

I smiled.

"And did you enjoy it?"

"Should I?"

"Does it matter if you should? I'm asking if you did."

She took a breath, hesitant.

"I did. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed hearing him crying out for help and knowing only I had the power to stop it. I enjoyed lying to him and knowing I would get away with it. I enjoyed everything coming together just like we agreed it would. I enjoyed being able to change your mind, to convince you that I was right."

I nodded.

"And you were right. Isn't that the best thing of all?"

She bit her lip as the smile spread even wider across her face.

"Yes."

Chapter Text

"And what part am I supposed to have played in this?"

Ser Lancel Lannister ignored Sansa and instead directed his response toward me. Alas.

"Using some vile sorcery, her brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves. Thousands of good men were butchered. After the slaughter, the Northmen feasted--"

I rolled my eyes and waved a hand. If it had been possible, I would have slouched drowsily back into the Iron Throne.

"'On the flesh of the slain.' Yes, I've heard that tale before and I find it tiresome. Now, answer the question."

Lancel sniffed.

"I do not answer to traitors, Your Grace."

I breathed in sharply, my nostrils flared.

"Do you think I'm an idiot, Ser Lancel?"

He blanched.

"N-no, Your Grace, I-I-I don't know how I could have given you that impression."

I leaned forward on the throne.

"So you don't think I wouldn't know if my own wife was a traitor?"

Lancel trembled and stammered incomprehensibly.

"You have a tongue, ser. I suggest you make use of it before I deprive you of the privilege."

Lancel swallowed and steeled himself. Except steeled didn't seem like the right word. Too strong.

"No, Your Grace. I-I don't think that."

I nodded.

"Very well, then I think an apology is in order."

Lancel nodded meekly and turned to Sansa.

"Y-your Grace, I o-offer my humblest apologies and beg your forgiveness if I caused offence with my suggestion that you were involved in Robb Stark's treasonous acts."

Sansa smiled gently and nodded.

"I took no offence, good ser. Your concern for His Grace's welfare is apology enough, and I sleep well at night knowing he has such loyal servants as you."

I smiled faintly to myself. We hadn't even rehearsed this, yet she was playing the game to perfection.

"Ser Lancel, I understand your concern. I was as shaken by Eddard Stark's betrayal as anybody. He was a good man, corrupted by lies and slander proliferated by the Brothers Baratheon, and it would appear that that corruption has, regrettably, spread to his son. If he could turn, anybody could. Your diligence does you credit, but matters of court are mine to deal with, just as matters of war have been delegated to Lord Tywin. You need not intercede on my behalf unless I explicitly ask you to do so. Have I made myself clear?"

He swallowed and nodded, clearly relieved that he hadn't stoked my wrath.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Sansa stepped forward.

"If your services are needed, you shall be sent for, Ser Lancel."

"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace."

He bowed and turned on his heel.

I looked around with a raised eyebrow.

"Anybody else?"

Nobody spoke.

"Leave me."

Once the sheep had filtered out, leaving Sansa and I alone, I stood and stretched.

"Very kingly." She commented sarcastically.

I snorted.

"It's been said that as time goes on, kings will begin to mirror the qualities of their subjects more and more, until they become the perfect embodiment of the people they rule."

"That sounds terrible."

"Yes, it does. Fortunately, I think we've got some way to go before that happens."

"Thank the gods for that."

I smiled and kissed her gently.

"I'm sorry that Lancel turned on you so quickly. I wouldn't have let him speak openly if I'd known he was going to do that."

"You said it yourself, I need to inspire love on my own merits. At least I've broken through a little bit. It helps that you scare people, but I'm still the daughter of the traitor Ned Stark."

"Give it time. If we keep blaming Stannis and Renly for misleading your father, his name will eventually clear."

"What if people don't believe it? What if we can't prove that it's true?"

"We don't have to prove anything. People have short memories; if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth eventually. It doesn't matter if anyone actually believes it because after a while nobody will remember whatever it is that they don't believe."

She sighed and sat down on the stairs before the throne, bringing her knees up to her chin.

I sat beside her.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know how you do it. When my father held court at Winterfell, he never had anyone talk back at him. The people all adored him, nobody was at anybody else's throat. Everyone was happy. I don't know how you cope with all this backstabbing and deceiving and tricking. I don't know how to lie to a whole Kingdom. I don't even know how to talk down Lancel bloody Lannister. How am I supposed to help you bring Westeros back together?"

I placed my hand on hers and nuzzled the back of her neck.

"Have you considered the possibility that you're already doing those things?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you've only just started actively participating in my reign and you've already helped keep Pycelle on my side and not my mother's, and for what it's worth I thought you handled Lancel bloody Lannister quite magnificently. You have all the tools you need; it's just a matter of honing them."

"How long did it take you?"

"I've never stopped. There are no ends to politics, only means."

"I thought that ends justify means."

"We don't need to justify anything; our enemies don't care about justifications, and everyone else can do nothing about it. It's best to think not of justification, but of reason. The Stormlords justify their treasons with the idea that I am not a Baratheon, but of course they don't know for certain that it's true, so why support Stannis?"

"They want something that Stannis is offering."

"Exactly, so they don't go about sullying their consciences with anything as sordid as evidence or justifications. Justification is just a fancy word for 'excuses,' and they already have their excuse ready-made for them, like a bed. They lie down in it, and when they wear it out and no longer find it comfortable, they get up and find another one.

She turned her head to look at me.

"And what about us?"

I blinked.

"We're no different from any of them."

"So we're all just... moral vacuums? No pity or remorse or guilt? Nothing?"

I frowned.

"I lost my taste for such luxury a long time ago."

She tensed and turned fully around, shoulders hunched.

"You think a conscience is a luxury?"

"It is if I have to pay for it with the lives of the people I love." I lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. "That is too high a price, even for a king."

Her stance softened and she took my hand, looking down at it.

"And what about a queen? Will I become a moral vacuum too?"

I craned my neck down and rested my forehead against hers.

"Gods, I hope so, my love."

I hummed with pleasant surprise as she crashed her lips against mine and threw her arms around my neck.

"The Dornish have accepted our offer."

I nodded and sipped my wine.

"So it's decided... I suppose we should tell Myrcella now. It will give her time to come around to the idea."

"I wouldn't worry. She's a smart girl, she will understand. And I have it on good authority that Prince Trystane is a fine young man."

"A kingsguard will have to accompany her, at least until the wedding. Then she will be their kin."

"Yes, I think that would be wise. They will probably be sending a few bodyguards of their own for Princess Arianne, so it shouldn't cause a diplomatic issue."

"So she is coming?"

Tyrion nodded.

"She is."

"I half-expected them to ignore that part of the proposal."

"Perhaps they believe that she is of greater use to them here than in Dorne. Her voice will be on the Small Council; they expect influence."

"It's one thing to expect influence and quite another to gain it. What do we know of her?"

"According to our reports, she is quite... Dornish."

I sighed.

"Just our luck."

"This was your idea, nephew, not mine. We knew how difficult it would be to find allies, thanks to whoever killed Ned Stark. I think we can bear the character of one Dornishwoman, given the alternative. Dorne's military strength is not inconsiderable, they can provide good materials for bowmaking among other things, and if nothing else," he raised his goblet, "wine shall flow."

I rolled my eyes.

"What was that other matter you wanted to speak to me about?"

Tyrion dug a small scroll out of his pocket.

"Lancel gave me this."

I picked it up and read it. My hands curled into fists of their own accord, crinkling and crushing the parchment.

"How did she know?"

"Pycelle blabbered to Lancel, who then told your mother."

"'Return Pycelle to his rightful place immediately, or face the consequences.' She presumes to give me orders."

"No, she presumes to give me orders. Lancel came to me directly, and made it clear that this message was for me."

"So Lancel is communicating with her."

"Yes. He is rather devoted to her, the poor fool."

I threw the scroll back onto the desk.

"I will deal with him tomorrow."

"Already done. We have come to an arrangement regard your mother's future communications."

"I see. What did you blackmail him with? Just out of curiosity."

Tyrion opened his mouth, then hesitated.

"Is it awkward?"

He nodded.

"In exchange for his cooperation... I promised not to tell you that he's fucking your mother."

My eyebrows shot up.

"Really?"

He nodded.

I blinked.

"I thought my mother had better taste."

Tyrion snorted into his cup.

"You seem strangely undisturbed by this."

"Compared to some of the other things I've heard, this is like two little children bumping noses in the garden. I'm more disturbed by the fact that she did it despite the rumours about her and Jaime. Did she not think people would notice?"

"She probably didn't think of it. Either that or she didn't care: your mother has never been careful. Even now, she will poke at you. Your restraint is admirable."

I nodded.

"I've been thinking a little on what you said, about Grandfather. I think you are also just enough of a heartless bastard to survive this place, and just good enough to make some friends along the way. You're more like him than he'd be willing to admit."

Tyrion sniffed and grimaced.

"My aunt Genna said something to that effect once; to his face, no less. He refused to speak to her for half a year."

"Well, he can't ignore me, no matter how stubborn he is."

"Nevertheless. dwarves are rather easy to overlook."

"Nevertheless, your contribution will be acknowledged, I promise you. Besides, I'm a Lannister now. A Lannister always pays his debts."

Chapter Text

"Renly is dead."

Silence rang around the Small Council chamber.

"How?"

"We don't know, Your Grace."

I stood up and slowly paced around.

"Well, what about his army? Was there a battle?"

"Not that we know of, Your Grace. There is a rumour that it was one of his kingsguard who struck him down, but that is mere hearsay."

I clenched my jaw until I felt my teeth creak, turning around on my heel.

"How did this happen?!" I shouted. "All these years, that insignificant speck has pranced around the land as though he owns it and when the time finally comes for him to pirouette off this mortal plane, he can't even fucking die usefully!"

I leaned on the Small Council table.

"Tell me Littlefinger reached the Tyrells."

"He did. The Tyrell army retreats to Highgarden as we speak, with Lord Baelish as their guest. He promises to continue his efforts. Meanwhile, the Storm Lords have all pledged allegiance to Stannis."

"Which means," Tyrion hesitated, "we are next."

I nodded grimly.

"We'll have to start preparing for a siege."

I turned to the sellsword in the City Watch Commander's chair, picking his nails.

"What do you recommend?"

The sellsword puffed out his cheeks.

"Well, if you'll pardon me, Your Grace, it seems like the City Watch is a sorry lot of sots at the best of times. What with the war and everything, well, they'd be fucked in a real battle. All the good men are gone, you see. Fortunately, we're not fighting a real battle. It's a siege, which comes with its own problems. Fortunately, you have me, and I can tell you right now that it ain't Stannis Baratheon that'll kill you if the siege takes a long time. Starvation, that's what kills you. If the soldiers can't eat, they can't fight, and if people can't eat, they eat the soldiers. When there's no more soldiers, they eat us. We need to make sure that the poor fuckers can eat, so we'll need to crack down on thieves, cheats, and swindlers. Make sure there's enough food to go around. If we do that, we can stay up here, nice and cosy; fortify the gates, piss arrows down on 'em and wait for reinforcements."

I nodded.

"Very well. You have my leave to deal with known thieves in any manner you see fit. Offer all the remaining fit men food and a good bed for their service; train them hard and train them well. If any refuse our offer, tell them to stay out of our way."

I turned to Varys.

"Send word to Lord Tywin. He is to send all forces which are not essential to the defence of seized territory in the Riverlands south with the utmost haste. We will hold the city until he arrives."

Pycelle murmured from his chair. A little bald patch had appeared on his face where his beard had once been, I noted with some satisfaction.

"Surely it would be unwise to compel Lord Tywin to weaken his territory if it is at risk from the Stark forces?"

It was a fair point, so I didn't bite his head off.

"Territory can be reclaimed, Grand Maester, but not time. We have a limited window before Stannis gets here and even if that were not true, I'd rather lose a thousand Harrenhals than lose King's Landing. In the end, whoever sits the Iron Throne rules the Seven Kingdoms. We cannot vacate the city."

Tyrion cleared his throat.

"Should we not send word to the Dornish? They could send troops to menace Stannis' forces in the Stormlands and buy us time."

A dry smile played at the corner of my mouth.

"I think we would be better off waiting until Princess Arianne gets here before telling the Dornish that we're expecting an invasion. After that, well, they'll certainly have an incentive to help us fight it off, and Myrcella will be in Sunspear and out of harm's way. Besides, I doubt they could muster their forces and get them here any quicker than Lord Tywin could. On the other hand, if we survive this, they can start the invasion of the Stormlands alongside our forces when the time comes. If we tell them now, they might decide to reconsider their loyalties."

"And how do you expect Prince Doran to react when he discovers your little ploy?"

I shrugged.

"Ravens get lost all the time."

Tyrion clenched his fists.

"Joffrey, listen to me. Do not place your sister in the snake's nest right before you kick it. Prince Doran will not suffer a deception of that magnitude when we have an agreement in good faith."

I scoffed.

"In good faith? The Dornish want us dead just as much as Stannis does. This marriage is nothing more than a temporary ceasefire and we chose to ignore that fact for the sake of the war effort. You are just as responsible for this as I am."

"Which exactly why we must not provoke them!"

"Provocation involves both the stick and the carrot, Tyrion. When Princess Arianne arrives, we will have our stick."

"And what carrot do we possess that would make up for it?"

"Gregor Clegane and Armory Lorch ought to suffice. There is a reason I left them off the table."

Tyrion closed his eyes for a second.

"You're assuming that we will win."

"Of course. There's no point planning beyond my own death; who would take my place? Tommen isn't strong enough to rule, even if he survives to sit the throne."

"And Myrcella?"

"Myrcella will be accompanied to Dorne by Ser Arys Oakheart. If the worst happens, he has his orders."

Tyrion's face hardened.

"And what of the rest of us?"

I blinked.

"I should think that you will follow whichever course of action serves your purposes best. I won't bother telling you what to do because it won't make any difference." I swept my arm around. "We're all politicians here, aren't we?"

Tyrion scratched his nose.

"Point taken, Your Grace."

I nodded and glanced around.

"Unless there are any further calamities to report, this council is dismissed."

I sat down and rested my forehead on my knuckles as the others stood.

"Varys, remain."

The Spider's face stretched into a smug, totally unsurprised smile. He had expected me to ask him to stay, of course.

"What does Your Grace require of me?"

"Take a wild stab in the dark."

"Queen Sansa?"

"I want her in a safe place if the battle turns against us."

Varys raised an eyebrow.

"I should think Maegor's Holdfast ought to suffice."

"Do not insult my intelligence, Varys."

"So long as you do not overestimate mine. If you are asking me to do something, you must be specific."

I glowered.

"Very well. If the city falls, you will smuggle Sansa out of this city and deliver her to her mother's family at Riverrun. Give Robb Stark my sincerest apologies for all that has happened, then you will be free to pursue whatever course you feel is best for the kingdom, as per our arrangement."

"Even if it threatens the existence of House Lannister?"

My lips stretched into a grim smile as I stared up into his eyes.

"Are you asking for my blessing, Varys? No. You don't need it, nor do you want it. My... forgiveness?" I leaned back in my chair. "As far as I know, you have yet to do something which would require forgiveness."

Varys shrugged.

"Then perhaps the closest thing to what you describe is a sort of pre-emptive forgiveness. You accept the possibility that I would become an accomplice to the destruction of your house?"

There it was. He wanted to avoid another Mad King.

"I may have nailed my breeches to the mast, but I can still make my peace with a world that doesn't include the Lannisters. Rest assured, Varys, I don't intend to die in a blaze of wildfire."

Varys nodded.

"That is indeed reassuring, Your Grace, thank you. And I shall ensure that the appropriate arrangements are made for Queen Sansa."

He turned and made for the exit.

"Oh, and Varys,"

He turned.

"If the worst happens, give my regards to Danaerys Targaryen."

For the first time, the smile wasn't sickly sweet. It was almost conspiratorial.

"I will, Your Grace."

Chapter Text

Tyrion poured himself yet another cup of wine and sighed contentedly at the sight.

"Are you sure you want to drink that much? I don't want you embarrassing me in front of Arianne Martell."

Tyrion smacked his lips and slurped noisily.

"Believe you me, nephew: I would be far more of an embarrassment if I were to be sober. Besides, I have my best ideas when I'm drunk."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Is that because you're always drunk?"

Tyrion responded by taking a large gulp.

"Suit yourself. How are we going to defend the city?"

"The usual: tall walls, big spikes, and lots of arrows."

"'Rain fire on them from above.'"

"Precisely."

I sighed.

"I'm disappointed. I expected a more elegant solution."

"Sieges are inelegant. If you expect a work of art from a sellsword, a drunk, and an egotist, you may find yourself disappointed."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that last bit."

Tyrion snorted into his cup.

"Speaking of pretending not to hear; what did you speak to Varys about?"

"He's preparing to smuggle Sansa out of the city if push comes to shove."

"I see. Were his terms reasonable?"

"The usual. No burning the city down with wildfire."

Tyrion did a double-take.

"How in the Seven Hells do you know about that?"

I shrugged.

"Do you remember a few years ago I went missing for a day?"

"Yes, your mother nearly had several men killed."

"I spent that day exploring the castle and I stumbled on one of Aerys' old caches. Given that wildfire is extremely unstable, I gathered it wasn't just for burning people at the stake."

"'Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off.'"

"Didn't one of the Targaryen princes drink the stuff?"

"Yes, he thought it would turn him into a dragon. The Targaryens were always a strange bunch, to be sure, and they could be unstable, but Aerys was something else. Varys is right to be cautious, and I would quite like to avoid being blown to smithereens..."

He trailed off, and we both had a thought.

"You don't think we could..."

"Use the wildfire to destroy Stannis' fleet? It's insane enough to work."

"How would we deliver it? Catapults?"

Tyrion shook his head.

"That's too dangerous. The soldiers won't have time to be careful, and the pots are extremely fragile, to say nothing of their contents. We'd end up melting the walls."

"Then I suppose we can't lay them on the shore. Too close to the city."

"We need some way of keeping the fire away from the city while still having the best chance of causing the most damage." Tyrion reached out and grabbed a map, unfolding it on the table. "Bronn and I have already checked the walls. We think Stannis will try to breach the Mud Gate with the main thrust of his attack, so we'll need to construct scorpions, trebuchets, and catapults."

"But how do we get the wildfire out there?"

"There's a bottleneck at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. We could load some fireships and send them to meet the fleet head-on."

"The Royal Fleet wouldn't stand a chance against Stannis anyway. We could use all of them."

"That won't be necessary. I'd wager three ships would be enough to send Stannis up in smoke."

"We would still need to make sure that they don't just sail away."

"That would mean closing off the Rush somehow, but only after they get through."

"Nothing permanent. I don't want us to be fishing for driftwood six months from now."

"A boom."

"My thoughts exactly. Once we've sent Myrcella on her way, summon all the blacksmiths still in the city. I'll get them working on this if you go to the Pyromancer's Guild and start them producing wildfire."

Tyrion burped and nodded.

"If you can stand up, that is."

It was curious to be standing on the docks, staring out into Blackwater Bay. It was like having a banquet in a field and knowing that the very next day, the only feast would be corpses and the only revellers would be crows.

I turned my head away from the peaceful waters and watched Tommen and Myrcella embrace. My brother's whole body shook with sobs.

"He's going to have to toughen up."

Sansa squeezed my hand.

"Not everybody can be like you."

"He doesn't need to be like me; he just needs to be capable of getting through the slightest adversity without bursting into tears."

"Your Grace," Tyrion pointed out into the sea. "She's here."

A small sailboat swept smoothly into view.

"Alright, Tommen." I stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's time."

Myrcella extricated herself from his grasp and stood up straight.

"Your Grace."

I scoffed and pulled her into my arms.

"I might be the king, but you are my sister. I will always protect you."

"I know."

"Ser Arys will accompany you to Dorne. He is your sworn shield. Whenever you want to send us a message, you give it to him and let him do the rest."

She nodded.

"Have courage, Myrcella, and remember our words."

"Ours is the fury."

"I swear if any harm comes to you, all of Dorne will know it."

She smiled.

"I know they will."

Myrcella moved away from me and approached Sansa, throwing her arms around her too.

"Thank you for being there for me."

Sansa laughed.

"I was about to say the same thing."

I let them have their moment and peered back out into the bay at the boat. By now a distant figure was visible, standing on the bow and leaning out toward us.

"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken." Muttered Tyrion.

I shook my head.

"Brave words, but brave words will do them little good in the end. If they do not bow, they will bend. If they do not bend, they will break."

The craft finally came to a halt by the pier, and from it emerged three figures. They walked from the pier in almost perfect step. On closer inspection, and somewhat to my surprise, they were all women. That, however, was where the similarities ended.

To my left stood the tallest of the three in bright lilac robes, to my right a small figure wrapped in pure white, and between them a handsome woman in orange and red. Arianne Martell clearly wished to make an impression.

The trio came to a stop before us and bowed in unison.

"Your Grace."

She spoke with a strong Dornish accent and a husky voice.

"Princess Arianne, welcome." I returned the bow with a smile. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"

A smirk spread across the face of the woman in lilac. I fixed her in my gaze.

"Or, if you find pleasantries undesirable, perhaps you could introduce your companions?"

The smirk shrank minutely.

Arianne rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

"Forgive my cousins, Your Grace, they are unaccustomed to life outside Dorne. They are Ladies Nymeria and Tyene Sand." The two others nodded in turn.

Bastards. Was Prince Doran really so bold, or had his daughter done this behind his back?

Their gazes travelled to where Tyrion stood a few paces behind me.

Lady Nymeria's mouth twisted again, this time in hatred.

"Imp." She muttered under her breath.

I sighed.

"Princess, if I cannot trust your cousins not to kill my courtiers I must ask that they leave. I do not wish to have a feud with you."

Arianne placed a hand on Nymeria's arm.

"You need not worry, Your Grace. Our feud is not with you."

My eye twitched.

"No, but it is with Gregor Clegane."

She blinked.

I leaned in.

"If you give me your word - now - that I can trust you not to act rashly and you keep that vow for the duration of your stay here, then once the war in the Riverlands is won I will give you Gregor Clegane to take back to Dorne."

"It isn't enough." Nymeria spat.

"Alright, I'll throw in Armory Lorch and any men who were under their command during the Sack of King's Landing."

Arianne's eyes widened.

"What if he dies?"

"Then you will have his skull. If nothing else, it will serve as a token."

I held out my hand.

She mulled it over for a few seconds, glancing back at her cousins. Then she nodded.

"You have my word."

When most people shake hands with a king or a prince they squeeze as hard as they can. It might be a way of gaining confidence, by reassuring themselves that they are strong enough to cause a king pain, or they might be trying to send a message: I am stronger than you. Some were indeed painful, while others could visibly strain themselves and still not even cause a slight itch.

Arianne Martell fell into another category of people. She shook firmly, but not with excessive force. It is the mark of a person unawed by power, and utterly confident in their own person.

She withdrew her hand and clapped.

"Now, where is this girl my brother's going to marry?"

I led the trio up the pier, exchanging a glance with Tyrion as we passed.

The Dornishwomen completely ignored him as we approached where Myrcella, Sansa and the rest of the assembled courtiers stood.

"My ladies, I present my wife, Queen Sansa, and my sister, Princess Myrcella."

Sansa had opened her mouth and held out her hands in greeting, but visibly froze in shock as Arianne planted a kiss on her cheek.

Arianne chuckled.

"You must forgive me, Your Grace. We Dornish are an amorous lot; I apologise if you are not used to it."

Sansa swallowed. I was about to step in when she smiled and nodded.

"No, I am not, but of course our differences ought to be celebrated. I shall have to introduce some Northern culture to you at some stage."

Arianne nodded and turned to Myrcella.

"Now you, my dear, are far too beautiful for the likes of my brother."

Myrcella beamed at the praise. Arianne cupped her face in her hands.

"Dorne will love you, and perhaps you will come to love it too."

Myrcella nodded and Arianne moved away so that she could enter the boat. We watched her slowly make her way aboard and waited for her to appear on deck.

I raised my arm and waved as the vessel gently sailed out of view.

Then I turned, and started back toward the Red Keep.

"Princess, walk with me."

Chapter Text

I glanced around the houses that lined the street up to the Red Keep with some trepidation. Honestly, to call them houses was a touch generous; they stood as though a child had built four walls individually and then haphazardly slapped them together so that each looked as though it depended on the next building - and a few prayers- for any kind of structural stability whatsoever.

Their roofs were hardly comforting either; if any of them caught fire, it would be a disaster.

All of that didn't concern me half as much as the people peering out of those houses, however. The city was tense now, not just because news of Stannis' imminent attack had filtered out of the Red Keep, but also the fact that the Roseroad was still closed meant food remained in limited supply. To compensate, I had ordered the distribution of food from the Red Keep among the poor. It was just enough to prevent widespread dissent.

At that moment, though, it was Arianne Martell and her companions that presented the biggest potential headache.

"I must admit that I'm surprised at you, Princess."

I sensed that Arianne was preparing to bristle at some insulting remark about her womanhood as she answered.

"How so?"

"When I made it clear that I would allow you to bring a personal guard, I expected a small army. Instead, you bring two of your cousins."

Arianne pursed her lips. I seemed to have touched a nerve.

"Believe me when I say, Your Grace, that these two are all the protection I need."

"You misunderstand me. I cast no aspersions on their capabilities, but I expected more for the heir apparent of House Martell. I had heard that your father is a cautious man."

Arianne tried to conceal a snarl.

"My father has never acted so sharply, even out of an abundance of caution. He did not wish to test the limits of your hospitality. My cousins are here only on my insistence, otherwise he would have given me nothing."

"If he was being so cautious, why send you at all? I told him that the offer of a small council place was optional."

She laughed humourlessly.

"My father has been waiting for years for an opportunity to remove me from Sunspear, and you handed it to him on a gilded platter."

Hook, line and sinker.

"So he was unaware of the siege?"

Arianne stopped dead.

"What siege?"

"Stannis is preparing an attack on King's Landing. As a gesture of trust, I sent a raven warning your father of this."

I obviously hadn't done that, but they couldn't prove it.

"We have not received any ravens about Stannis or an attack on this city."

"Then the raven must have been shot down. If you wish, I will send another so that he might provide additional protection for you, and I will assure him that my hospitality is far from tested."

Arianne narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw.

"And you get reinforcements. That's awfully convenient for you."

I smiled knowingly.

"I'm glad we understand each other."

I gestured for her to continue walking with me toward the Red Keep.

"Now, you mentioned that your father was trying to remove you from Sunspear: what makes you think that?"

"He's been offering me out like a rack of rib to every fat swine with a cock between his legs since I had my moonblood for the first time. He means for my brother to take my place."

"If he wishes to do so, why not simply change the order of succession? It is within his gift, is it not?"

She shook her head.

"You do not understand the Dornish, Your Grace. We take pride in our traditions; they are the spoils of our victory over the Targaryens. Our laws of succession are ironclad. Besides, changing them would require my father to actually do something for once in his life. Your proposal offered him a way out of that conundrum, and now my claim will be weaker than ever."

I nodded slowly.

"I know a thing or two about having to fight for what is mine, so perhaps we can help each other on a personal basis as well as a merely diplomatic one."

Arianne cocked her head.

"I'm listening."

"Serve me honestly on the Small Council and keep me abreast of your father's plans, and when the time comes I will personally support your claim to Sunspear."

She mulled it over for a second, then nodded.

"We have a deal." She placed a hand on my arm and gave me a charming smile. "Thank you, Your Grace." With that, she passed me by, close enough to allow me to catch the scent of her perfume.

"I don't trust her."

I looked up from my plate.

"Why?"

Sansa picked at her food with a fork.

"She's trying to seduce you."

"She's Dornish. They try to seduce everyone."

She glared at me disapprovingly.

"That's not what I meant."

I frowned.

"Have I done something to upset you?"

She shook her head.

"Tyrion said that the Dornish hate you, and you still insist on making an alliance with them. You just told her that we lied to her."

"Do you not trust my judgement?"

"I haven't been privy to your judgement."

I sighed.

"Sansa, if you must reveal something to someone, you reveal only that which they could very easily find out from somewhere else. She would have found out about the siege sooner or later; telling her now forces the Martells to back us."

"Why go to the Martells at all? Could you not speak to their bannermen and convince them to join you? What about the Vale Lords? They all hate my aunt, and surely some of them could be convinced to come to our side."

"Because the one thing you must never, ever do in politics is attack the system that keeps you in power."

"What system?"

"The Seven Kingdoms exist and operate on the implicit understanding that everyone has his place. The king sits above the Lords Paramount, who sit above the nobility, and so on. Moving between those social bands is almost impossible without a cataclysm of some sort."

"Like the Conquest."

"Exactly. Aegon's dragons allowed him to change the social order slightly and place himself at the top, but even he couldn't do much more than that. The Lords Paramount are all descendants of former kings or of lords who took the place of kings who were exterminated. The single greatest paradigm shift in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, and it didn't so much as scratch the present order; trying to do it ourselves would be a waste of time."

"But if it could be done--"

I cut her off.

"Then it would merely be suicidal rather than impossible. What do you think kept the Targaryens in power for so long? What was the one asset they had that nobody else did?"

"The dragons."

"Right, and after the dragons died out?"

Her brow furrowed.

I waved my hand and clutched at thin air.

"Nothing."

She blinked.

"I don't understand."

I stood up from my place at the table and took off my crown, placing it in front of her.

"Imagine you're a peasant sitting in a room and you have a sword in your hand. On your right, there is a priest; to your left a rich man; and in front of you a king. The priest commands you to kill the other two because the gods will it. The rich man offers to pay you all the riches you could ever desire if you kill the other two. And the king demands that you prove your fealty to him as his rightful ruler by killing the other two. The question is: who do you kill? Who holds the power in that room?"

Sansa hesitated.

"I...I don't know. The priest and the rich man, probably."

Starks are so predictable sometimes.

"Because you believe that the king is more powerful than them."

"I suppose so..."

"Then you understand why the Targaryens were able to stay in power for as long as they did. The dragons survived just long enough to make people believe that they were special, that House Targaryen was more powerful than them."

"But the Targaryens are gone. You are the king now."

"And by what right am I the king? Why do people believe I should be so?"

"Because you sit on the Iron Throne."

I snapped my fingers.

"People believe in the power of the Iron Throne - it is the symbol of a world order built on the backs of dragons but it isn't backed up by anything. It is the system that that throne represents that keeps us in power. We have no gold and we have no gods: we only have the crown."

"And inciting rebellion in Dorne would damage that system."

I nodded.

"Precisely. We can't shift the Martells without eradicating them completely or we would be kicking the ladder out from under ourselves while we still stand on it; we don't have the strength to accomplish that. On the other hand, even if we succeeded, we would be opening a barrel of worms. If the Yronwoods usurp the Martells with our support, what stops the Boltons from trying to get rid of your brother or the Waynwoods from rebelling against the Arryns? What then binds them to us? Once people start to realise that the rules of fealty are fragile, the Iron Throne ceases to hold any power. Tyrion and I understand that, so we never even considered disposing of the Martells or the Arryns."

"Tyrion told me that everything must be done, but nothing must be done for the first time."

I picked the crown up from the table and placed it on Sansa's head.

"That's one way of looking at it. I prefer to think that if we want to burn the world, we should at least wait until somebody else is standing on top of it."

Chapter Text

I was woken by the sunlight slashing across my eyes as it streamed through the curtain. I raised a hand to cover my eyes and rolled over with a sleepy grunt.

I must have woken Sansa in doing so; she sighed and opened her eyes slowly, smiling as her gaze focussed on me.

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Just a few seconds."

She lifted her head and peeked over my shoulder.

"It's still early."

I raised my eyebrows suggestively.

"It is."

We grinned at each other and drew in close. She rolled onto her back, moaning softly as we kissed.

I pressed my hand against her body and ran it down to between her legs, feeling her wetness.

She frowned and pulled away, grasping my arm.

"Joffrey, something's not right."

I pulled my hand up and looked at my fingers. They were tinged red. I grabbed the covers and threw them away from us.

Sansa cried out in panic. The sheets between her legs were a dull brown and her thighs were caked in blood.

"Sansa, calm down!" I took hold of her and pulled her back into my chest. "It's alright. It's just your moonblood."

She took several deep breaths to ease her hyperventilating.

"My... my moonblood?"

I kissed her neck comfortingly.

"Yes, darling. You've flowered."

"I've flowered..." She breathed, realising the implications of what I'd just said. "I've flowered! That means we can..."

"Let's not think about that now. Come and lie on my side of the bed and I'll have a maid prepare a bath for you."

Sansa nodded and shuffled over, while I got up, pulled on a robe and opened the door to our chambers. Ser Barristan and Sandor Clegane stood to attention outside.

"One of you wake the Queen's maidens. She's had her moonblood and requires a bath at once."

The two Kingsguard shared a look, as though arguing silently about who should go. Naturally, Ser Barristan won the argument; Clegane grunted and set off down the hall.

The old knight turned to me with a quizzical expression.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

"Ask your question."

"Your Grace, I don't mean to overstep my bounds-"

I sucked my teeth in frustration.

"The only people who say that are the people who mean to overstep their bounds. Just spit it out next time."

He pressed his lips together.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

"I apologise, Ser Barristan, that was unworthy. I imagine you were going to ask whether Sansa had flowered before our marriage?"

He nodded.

"Truthfully, I didn't feel we could wait that long. We both wanted it done quickly."

Ser Barristan sighed.

"I can't say I'm surprised, Your Grace. You've made a habit of rejecting convention."

"Is that a criticism, ser?"

"It is neither a criticism nor a compliment, Your Grace, merely an observation. It is not my place to judge my king."

I smiled wryly.

"Yet you do judge us - that's only natural - so what do you think?"

"I suppose there were some practical benefits to your choice: you can immediately get to work on producing an heir, for one."

"True enough, though I don't like the thought of having a pregnant wife during a siege, however brief. I worry that starting too early would do more harm to Sansa than good."

The old knight placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Bearing a child is never without risk, Your Grace. I watched Queen Rhaella's health deteriorate over the years as pain and misfortune took its toll on her body and mind, and I watched Aerys grow colder and colder toward her with each stillbirth and miscarriage, even though she eventually bore him three children. I know you take great care to choose the safest course of action where you can, but sometimes there is nothing you can do but accept the risk and proceed regardless. The realm needs an heir, even if you do not want one yet."

I inhaled through my nose as Sansa's chambermaids came running down the hall and into the chambers.

"Thank you for your counsel, Ser Barristan. Perhaps that was what I needed to hear."

He accepted my thanks with a simple nod.

I steeled myself and walked back into the chambers.

"They're waiting for you in the Great Hall, Your Grace."

The poor serving boy was doing his best not to look at Sansa, who was sitting in the bathtub, a bright blush creeping up his face.

"Thank you... Podrick, is it?"

The boy nodded furiously and took his leave.

I watched his head disappear from view, waiting for the door to close before shaking my head and raising an eyebrow at Sansa.

"A key aspect of statecraft is knowing how to wield power effectively."

Sansa rolled her shoulders and covered up her chest with her hands, smirking at me.

"I thought power was always effective."

I crouched down next to her and leaned on the tub.

"Not always. A greatsword is a mighty weapon, but only if you practice with it. Otherwise, you're more likely to harm yourself or your comrades than the enemy."

She glared at me with mock outrage.

"Did you just compare my breasts to a sword?"

I tried and failed to suppress a grin.

"Well, they're certainly pointy enough."

I laughed as she smacked my shoulder and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.

"I need to go now. You relax and we'll try and make sense of everything later."

She pecked my lips in return.

"Fine, go and wield power effectively for me."

I stood and bowed.

"As my Queen commands."

She playfully splashed water at me.

I left the room with a small grin on my face but wiped it off quickly before I stepped into the corridor. Before I could go to the blacksmiths, however, I decided I would need one other person at the meeting. I made my way to the Tower of the Hand and entered the main chamber.

Tyrion sat on a stool, lacing up his boots. He glanced up at me.

"Nephew. I was just on my way to visit the pyromancers. I assume that the blacksmiths are here?"

"They are."

"So why are you here?"

I pointed at the sellsword standing by the door.

"I want to borrow him."

"He is the commander of the City Watch. He is at your beck and call."

"Yes, but you pay him."

He shrugged.

"Fair enough. Bronn, go with him and try not to pick his pockets if you can at all resist the temptation."

The sellsword glared at him with genuine offence.

"Fuck you, dwarf."

I rolled my eyes and turned to leave. Bronn was a coarse and uncivilised man, but he had his uses.

"So what do you want me for?" He asked as we descended the stairs of the tower.

"You're going to look scary and very possibly dismember someone. Do you think you can do that?"

I could have had one of the Kingsguard do it, but that would be counterproductive to the rehabilitation of the White Cloaks. Bronn may have been Commander of the City Watch, but he certainly didn't look the part.

"Is there gold in it for me?"

I grinned to myself.

"I think we're going to get along just fine, Commander."

"His Grace, the King!"

The assorted smiths and armourers fell immediately to one knee as I entered the Great Hall.

"Rise, goodmen. I won't keep you for long." I held out a hand. A servant passed me a heavy drawstring bag. I opened it and deposited its contents on the floor in front of the Iron Throne with a clatter. "These were forged here in the Red Keep yesterday. I would have a thousand like them made."

One of the smiths examined it.

"A mighty chain, Your Grace."

I sat down on the Iron Throne.

"Mighty but a little inadequate, I'm sure you'll agree. That's why I want every forge on the Street of Steel working day and night until it's done, and I want it done quickly. All other work is to be set aside."

A murmur crept around the group.

"Your Grace, iron is in short supply, and we are still fulfilling the royal command to equip the City Watch with weapons and mail."

"As I said, that work can wait. As for iron, I will find it for you if I must but I want this chain made. Melt down every horseshoe in the city if that's what it takes."

Another smith came to the front of the group. This one was clearly of far greater standing than the others; he wore fine robes which would look faintly ridiculous in a forge, and his peers moved out of his way respectfully. Exactly the kind of pretentious old codger who thinks that age equates to power.

He bent down and picked up the chain, almost sneering at it as he did so.

"Your Grace, this is not worthy of a master armourer. It is barely the work of a boy blacksmith, of amateurs who make horseshoes and primitive tools, not masters of the art such as myself or my fellows."

I breathed out through my nose. I expected this response. Men who are too proud of their work seldom go quietly into any endeavour.

"What is your name, master armourer?

The old man bowed deeply and puffed out his chest.

"Salloreon, Your Grace, and if it please you, I would be honoured if you would allow me to craft you a suit of armour fit for a king. Yes, I see it now: plate and scale, gold and black in the colours of House Baratheon, antlers large and gilded atop a helm with a visage so horrible as to make men tremble with fear."

I raised an eyebrow. A poet as well as an armourer, it would seem.

"Which hand do you hold your tools with, Master Salloreon?"

Salloreon was so captivated by his own bluster that he was caught off guard by my question.

"Well, my left hand, Your Grace."

I nodded to Bronn.

The sellsword moved quickly forward, grabbed the armourer by his right hand and sliced it off in one swift motion.

Salloreon fell backwards, screaming in shock and pain. The other smiths and armourers recoiled. Some even turned to flee.

I stood from the Iron Throne.

"I will make myself quite clear," They all froze at the sound of my voice. "Your lives are your own and I will not take them from you, because I care little for them. Your hands, however, are mine alone. Do not take them for granted." I glared down at Salloreon, who had curled up into a ball on the floor, rocking slightly. "If you claim that these chains are beneath your skill, then so much the better. I will expect them to be finished all the sooner and to the greatest possible standard. Now, go."

The smiths filtered out of the hall as quickly as possible. Salloreon still lay half-conscious on the floor. I bent over him.

"The dwarf told me you were ruthless. He never told me you were a cold-hearted son of a bitch."

I scoffed.

"It's nice to know I exceed expectation." I stood. "Take Salloreon to Grand Maester Pycelle. Have him patched up and sent home. A man of his self-proclaimed skill should be able to craft himself a functional hand relatively quickly. Once he has recovered from his ordeal, have your men encourage him to get to work just as the others have."

"Seems a little excessive to cut off a man's arm just to scare him. Why not an ear? Or his cock?"

"Because he thinks himself an artist just like the rest of them, and there's nothing more terrifying to an artist than the thought of being unable to pursue his craft. He will count this episode as a lucky escape, one that he will dare not attempt again."

Bronn looked at me with a mixture of unease and grudging respect.

"I've never been scared of kings, Your Grace, but you make my balls shrivel up."

I couldn't help but beam at him.

"Why, Commander, that might just be the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me."

Chapter Text

"Winterfell has fallen."

I leaned back in my chair, almost speechless.

"How is that possible? Winterfell is far from any of the fronts."

"Do we know who is responsible?" Tyrion enquired.

Varys turned to him.

"My little birds tell me that the attack was led by Theon Greyjoy. There are also reports of Ironborn reavers attacking the Stony Shore."

"So Theon Greyjoy has betrayed the Starks."

"We know that he was sent to Pyke to treat with his father. It would appear that Balon Greyjoy has seen fit to invade the North."

Varys shook his head.

"That may not be the case. There are no other reports of Ironborn activity between Winterfell and the shore. The raiding parties are said to be small, only attacking small villages within sight of the sea."

"Do you think that he is acting on his own?"

"It would appear that is so, my Lord Hand."

I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking.

"This attack is of no significance. If Theon Greyjoy has struck out alone then he is cut off from the rest of the Ironborn, and the Northmen will retake Winterfell in time. This is a humiliation for Robb Stark but not a disaster."

Varys swallowed.

"Actually, Your Grace, there is something else."

"What?"

He hesitated.

"There are also reports, albeit unconfirmed, that Greyjoy has murdered Brandon and Rickon Stark."

I closed my eyes.

Tyrion turned to me.

"You know what this means, don't you?"

I nodded. I could see where this was heading.

"Sansa is now the heir to Winterfell." I sighed. "This could work to our advantage. Catelyn Stark will be desperate to keep her remaining children alive and if Baelish has done his job properly, she might release Jaime to us."

"And Robb Stark will be without an heir unless he comes to the table."

That gave me an idea. One that would get me out the trap being built around me.

"What about Jon Snow?"

"What about him?"

"Stark could legitimise him. He would move before Sansa in the line of succession. You know him better than I do; would he accept an offer like that?"

Tyrion sighed.

"Jon Snow wants nothing more than to be a Stark, but he has taken his vows as a man of the Night's Watch. He idolises his father too much to break those vows, even if the Watch were willing to release him. He's a good man, some might say too good, but the biggest obstacle would be Lady Stark. She loathes him: he won't be inheriting the Northern Throne any time soon."

I nodded slowly, rubbing my hands together and glancing around.

"What if we did it?"

Tyrion tilted his head.

"Come again?"

"What if we legitimised Jon Snow? Even if it doesn't stick, it could create divisions among the Northmen. Robb has their support for now but if what Varys says is true, they might lose start to lose faith in his leadership. The Northmen follow him because he's a Stark and he brings a united purpose; he doesn't have the political skill to hold a thousand warring tribes together. If we can create those tribes and he loses his clarity of purpose, their numbers will melt away like snow in the Dornish sun."

Tyrion still looked doubtful.

"Poetic, nephew, but not feasible. As I said, Lady Stark would sooner die than see Jon Snow rule the North, to say nothing of the Night's Watch, and the Northmen are hardly likely to accept the decree of the same ruler who killed their beloved Ned Stark."

"They don't have to. There are extremists in every camp, and some of those Northmen will already have lost sons and fathers in battle. If the Young Wolf starts to look more like an oversized pup, they will look elsewhere for revenge. All we have to do is wait for the cracks to appear, then drive a wedge straight into them."

"And when do you believe those cracks will appear? In case you hadn't noticed, he's won every battle and we are withdrawing our forces from the Riverlands as we speak. What cracks are there?"

"If he doesn't suffer a military defeat, he will make a political mistake. He will kill the wrong person, ransom the wrong prisoner, make the wrong move at some point. He has to. Once that happens, we legitimise Jon Snow and the Northern unity will fracture."

"What makes you so sure he will slip up?"

I turned my gaze to him and spoke without a hint of irony.

"He isn't me."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a sly grin spreading across Varys' face.

"A bold plan, Your Grace, and beautifully put forth."

Tyrion grimaced.

"In my experience, the greatest beauty is also the beastliest bitch. The scheme of yours is something I'd expect from Littlefinger, not from you."

I sniffed, faintly insulted by the comparison.

"Littlefinger may be a loathsome tadpole, but he is undeniably good at what he does."

"He also has a habit of burning down the forest to get rid of a single ugly tree." Tyrion responded through gritted teeth, meeting my gaze sternly.

I sensed the challenge in his voice. He knew what I was doing, of course, or rather what I wanted to avoid. Sansa being the heir to North meant there was more pressure on us to conceive. I decided then and there to draw the battle line.

"If the forest is on his land, then it is his to burn down. I suggest you remember that."

Tyrion's expression remained neutral, and he did not respond.

"Your Grace, Princess Arianne would like to speak to you."

An interesting change of pace from endless catastrophe.

"Let her in."

The servant tried and failed to conceal the lecherous look on his face as she passed him. To be fair to the man, she was a sight to behold in her uniquely Dornish garb. Orange silk and lace flowed from her shoulders and clung to her impressive figure, cut low to reveal a healthy amount of cleavage.

I was reminded in that moment of one of Robert Baratheon's scant pearls of drunken wisdom: "If you value your sanity, don't ever glance down at a wench's tits. Once you let your eyes dip to those beauties, she'll draw you in and eat you alive." He had then laughed ribaldly and hauled one of said wenches into his lap, all while my mother glared from her wine jug.

Nevertheless, I recognised the value of his point, and firmly maintained eye contact with the Dornishwoman.

"Princess, please sit. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Thank you, Your Grace. I wanted to ask you about the Small Council, and my role on it."

"What do you mean?"

She huffed and leaned forward to rest her elbows on my desk, with obvious consequences.

"I visited the Street of Steel this morning to see if there were any smiths capable of forging weapons in the Dornish tradition, and I found every single one forging chains. They claimed to be doing so on the King's orders. Surely such a large commission would have to be discussed in the Small Council, given that it clearly relates to the defence of the city? Is that not the sort of influence you promised us?"

"I offered you a seat on the Small Council, which you accepted. I never said anything about influence. Influence is to be earned."

Arianne bristled, that famous Dornish temper showing its head for just a moment.

"I'm sure that your sister would be very interested to hear about our need to earn influence."

I set my jaw. Reckless questions were one thing, threats were quite another. Some home truths were in order.

"Princess, you should think very carefully before placing your head in the lion's mouth, especially after you've interrupted his breakfast. King's Landing is not Sunspear; making threats and dressing like a strumpet will only get you so far here. If you want to move up the food chain here, you'll have to learn subtlety and tact, and the influence you crave will come thereafter. Your father understands this and you do not. That is why he does not presently support your claim, and why I do not allow you into my inner circle."

She scoffed.

"I have nothing to fear of a lion with no teeth. You anticipate a siege, yet you make chains. I came here expecting a strong ruler, and when I met you that's what I thought you were. Now I see that you're no different from my father."

"Your father has ruled Dorne for a long time; he must be doing something right."

"Only because the lords he rules are too weak to rouse him to action."

"That is a mark of your father's capability. A strong king rules firmly, a great king does not need to rule at all. If your father was as weak as you claim, he would not have survived this long."

"By that logic, King Robert was a great king, given that he did not rule."

"My father appointed good people around him and let them get on with their jobs, he showed strength in crushing the Greyjoy Rebellion, and the realm was generally peaceful under his rule. He might have died a witless wine sponge but for a time he was a good king. The only part of the present catastrophe I really blame him for is the lack of funds in the Treasury, and he's not the first king to enjoy the odd tourney. It really could have been a lot worse, just as Dorne could do far worse than your father."

"It could also be much better. We could be better."

"Of course, but if you believe, as I did, that you will do better than those who came before you, don't spend your life crying about it. Put up with their stupidity and their weakness for now, and make sure that when your time comes, you keep the promises you made to yourself."

Arianne thought for a moment.

"Very well. I will suffer my father's prevarication in silence."

"Then you've earned your place in my plans. Welcome to the room where it happens."

She stood and curtsied.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Sansa?" I called out as I entered our chambers.

"I'm here."

She was sat at the table.

I hesitated.

She stood.

"What is it? Has something happened?"

I nodded.

"It concerns your family."

She came to me, eyes wide with concern.

"What?"

I inhaled deeply.

"Winterfell has been taken."

She froze, shock and horror spreading across her face.

"How? Who could have done this?"

"A small band of soldiers snuck into the castle and took control."

Sansa inhaled, her lips tightening.

"Who led them?"

"Theon Greyjoy."

She looked away, pacing in a small circle, wringing her hands.

"Why would Theon do this? He's like our brother; he and Robb were inseparable."

"I don't know why, love. All I know is that he currently holds Winterfell for the Ironborn."

"What about Bran and Rickon? Have you heard anything about them?"

I winced internally. This would be painful.

"Varys says that they've been killed, but we can't know for sure."

She nodded, and looked at me with a steely expression.

"Then they're not dead."

I sighed.

"Sansa, I know you want to cling to hope and I understand that, but you have to prepare yourself for--"

She cut me off with a glare.

"No, Joffrey, you don't understand. I am not like you: I can't just decide that my feelings don't matter and shove them into a bottle so that I can feel them whenever I get around to it. If there's the slightest possibility that my brothers are alive, I will not just resign myself to the thought that they're dead. If they are dead, then I will mourn them as I mourned my father, but I will not lie down and wait to do so."

She finished her tirade and turned away toward the window.

I moved behind her and rested my cheek on her hair, wrapping my arms around her. We stood together, staring over the city.

Chapter Text

Sansa moaned loudly as I latched my mouth around her nipple and sucked hard, her fingers sliding up my head to grasp at my hair. She pulled me up to her mouth and kissed me like her life depended on it.

We hadn't told each other it might be the last time. We hadn't acknowledged that one or both of us might be gone by the end of the battle. We hadn't needed to say anything, or ask what the other needed. We simply understood.

I tore myself away from her mouth and moved to a spot on her neck I knew she liked.

Sure enough, her breathing grew even more ragged and her hands desperately grasped at my back, her nails digging in to my skin without penetrating. Smaller, quieter noises escaped her as she drew me in as close as possible, her ankles locking behind me.

"Sansa." I growled into her ear, a sure signal that I was near the end.

"Please, hold on. I'm close." She whispered back, arching up into me.

I increased my pace and stuck my hand between us to rub between her legs, feeling her tighten around me like a crossbow being wound. Each thrust cranked her body one more notch until she opened her mouth and let out a cry, the rest of her freezing for a second before shuddering uncontrollably.

I responded to her cry with a shudder and grunt of my own, exploding inside her sweet spot as sparks danced across my vision. Unable to support myself on my arms any longer, I rolled to the side.

Sansa lay still, trying to get her breathing under control as she came down from her own high. Eventually, she turned her head toward me and stared into my eyes.

Even then, there was still nothing we needed to say. Instead, we moved closer and pressed our sweat-beaded foreheads together.

I never liked wearing armour. It was too heavy, too bulky, too restrictive. Whenever I complained of this, of course, my father or Ser Barristan or Ser Addam Marbrand or someone would tell me that it was there to protect me, and I would always respond that I would rather avoid or even prevent a blow, rather than be so reliant on something I had so little control over.

Unfortunately, this was one blow I would not be able to avoid, one confrontation that was inevitable. So I swallowed my pride and allowed myself to be measured and fitted for a suit.

In truth, it wasn't too dissimilar to any other kind of tailoring. One is required to stand improbably still for an unpleasantly long time, while a stuck up 'artisan' pushes and shoves and occasionally pokes them with a deceptively sharp fingernail, babbling nonsense and asking questions which either don't matter or can't be answered because no, I don't know how Dornish silk is made and I'm not entirely sure I want to know either.

At least I was spared the worst of the fingernails by my new breastplate. I'd insisted that all of my armour should be black and gold to match my official heritage: it would hardly help my claim to be a Baratheon if I went around only wearing Lannister colours. The downside was that I would probably stand out on the battlefield, but that didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. One does not go into battle merely to be an observer.

My squire, whose name I couldn't ever recall, had just finished tightening the last straps on my armour when Sansa entered the room.

She looked me up and down, a frown creasing her brow.

I waved the squire away.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, it's just," She turned away, covering her face with her hands. "I've been trying not to think about this for weeks, hoping that we'd find a way out of fighting, and seeing you like this... I realise now that it's unavoidable."

I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to face me, and brought her hands away from her face and kissed them.

"I have no intention of dying today, my love, but if something does happen, last night wasn't the worst way to say goodbye, was it?

In spite of herself and the tears in her eyes, she chuckled.

"No, it wasn't."

I grinned and kissed her, hoping it got across how sorry I was to put her in this position.

"Stay in your chambers. Do not leave them for anything or anyone unless Varys comes for you. He will take you and Tommen from the city and deliver you to safety."

"Why not keep Tommen with me?"

"Just in case something goes wrong. I don't want to make it easier for Stannis to capture both of you. Varys will come for both of you individually."

She nodded, running her hand over my armour.

"I wish you weren't wearing this; it doesn't suit you. It doesn't feel like my husband is under there."

I sighed.

"I do too, but honestly, it's such a pain to get on that I'm not sure I'd ever be able to convince myself to put it on again."

"One can dream."

I cocked my head to the side at the dryness of her tone, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

"Perhaps I've left a greater mark on you than I thought."

She shook her head.

"You don't know the half of it. I love you."

I leaned down to kiss her, possibly for the last time.

"I love you too."

I eventually struggled to the top of the battlements on the walls of the city.

"How much progress have they made?"

Tyrion turned from the view over the Blackwater.

"They're advancing up the river. Our last report said they were an hour or so out."

"How long ago was that?"

"An hour ago."

I snorted and shook my head.

"Fine. Might as well get it over with. Is the chain ready?"

"Yes, the blacksmiths came through. Your ability to terrorise men into action might just have saved us. The ships are filled and waiting for the signal to send them out. Once Stannis' fleet is close enough, Bronn will blast him to kingdom come."

"You make it sound so easy. Is he up to the task?"

"As long as we pay him, he is up for anything. Clegane will stand by to sweep up those who do reach the shore. Hopefully, we can kill Stannis today."

"It would certainly make our lives much simpler."

"Indeed."

We turned back out to the water. After a few minutes of straining our eyes over the dark water, I pointed to a spot on the horizon. There I could just make out the outline of a ship slowly making its way toward the city.

"There they are." I gestured to a squire. "Deploy the fleet."

Tyrion turned to bark at the assembled troops.

"Positions!"

There was a momentary stillness as the significance of the order dawned on the collective of volunteers, City Watch and hardened Lannister soldiers, then a crush as the archers struggled to line themselves along the wall and the footsoldiers gathered in the courtyard below.

We stared out into the bay as more and more ships emerged from the gloom. I recognised the ship at the head of the fleet: the Fury. Even in the dark, it was a magnificent vessel with its gold embellishments and grand sails. It was ruined a bit by that ridiculous flaming crest that Stannis had chosen for himself - it looked like something that would hang outside an inn - but I still felt it faintly unfortunate that it would likely be destroyed.

"Here come the fireships." Tyrion breathed quietly.

We watched nervously as the trio of wildfire barrels approached Stannis' fleet. They sailed slowly - agonisingly slowly - into the bay and threaded between the ships. I could just make out figures on the decks moving to and fro to keep their eyes on the boats.

"Where are the rest of them?" I heard someone murmur.

"Hold firm." I yelled in response.

An old man hobbled up the steps to the top of the wall and handed a burning torch to Tyrion.

He turned to me and I nodded, so he threw it over the wall.

As the torch hit the ground outside the city walls, a lone flaming arrow shot from a hill outside the city. It arced upward into the sky, almost like a comet, then came down behind the first wave of Baratheon ships.

For a single, horrible moment, we could see nothing. Then we heard something. A faint whoosh, almost like someone breathing on your ear.

Suddenly, a green flash forced my eyes shut, then the shockwave hit and I stumbled backwards as a roar cascaded over us. In that moment I noticed how much my face hurt, how hard I'd been clenching my jaw.

I blinked a few times to clear my vision, and stood up straight, pushing to the front. What I saw was gratifying and horrible in equal measure.

The Blackwater was on fire.

Except it wasn't just fire. It was wildfire, and it had engulfed their fleet. Even on the walls, we could hear the screaming, the creaking and cracking of collapsing wood, and the splashes as burning men threw themselves, armour and all, into the water. It was just like those scenes of the Seven Hells that septons would describe in their scriptures: nothing but pain and terror. It was both miraculous and stomach-churning to behold.

I recovered my senses quickly and shouted to one of the signalmen.

"Raise the chain!"

Tyrion looked at the old man, his eyes wide with horror and shock.

The old man simply grinned back at him. Of course he did; why wouldn't he? This was the moment he had spent his whole life waiting for, what his life's work was trying to achieve.

"Master Pyromancer," I swallowed. "I commend you on your work."

The old man turned to me slowly and bowed, then shuffled off the walls.

"They're still coming," Tyrion noted grimly.

He was right. Not all of the ships were gone, and from those that had survived soldiers were clambering and crawling and falling out, a battle cry echoing across the bay.

I turned to the commander of the archers lining the top of the city walls. "Loose at will, ser."

The man nodded and roared at his men to start firing arrows onto the enemy.

Tyrion turned to Clegane.

"Get your men ready."

He did not respond, but stood transfixed by the scene before him. The green glow of the wildfire wormed its way across his face, shadows filling the cracks and troughs in his scarred flesh.

Of course: Fire. The only thing Sandor Clegane feared.

"Clegane!" Tyrion snapped, finally grabbing his attention.

The Hound stared at him with his flinty eyes for a moment, then clambered down into the courtyard.

I exchanged a glance with Tyrion and turned back to the bay.

The Baratheon soldiers had mostly made it to the beach, and the Mud Gate opened to allow Clegane's force to come out and meet them. They poured out and smashed into the invading force, but some had already managed to reach the shelter of the perimeter. Noticing this, I waved to the soldiers waiting to drop boulders, and they began their work. Screams and crunches and squelches indicated that they were succeeding.

From my perch atop the wall, I could see that the fighting had turned savage. I watched Clegane cut down man after man with brutal efficiency, in stark contrast to Lancel, who fell backwards with an arrow in his shoulder.

Nevertheless, it was clear that our forces were struggling, and then Clegane froze for some reason. I couldn't see what had made him stop, but it was an odd sight to see one of the most hardened warriors I knew in the middle of a battle, not doing anything.

Then he turned slowly back toward the Mud Gate, and trudged back inside, calling a retreat.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Tyrion growled.

"Ladders!" Someone screamed from a far off tower, and the sounds of rams being built crept over the walls; although we could not see them, we knew where they would go.

Clegane grabbed a wineskin from a squire, pulling the stopper with his teeth and pouring its contents down his throat, wine spilling down his chin and onto his armour.

"Can I get you some iced milk?" Tyrion spat. "And a nice bowl of raspberries too?"

"Eat shit, dwarf." I almost smiled at that response.

"You're on the wrong side of the wall."

"I lost half my men. The Blackwater is on fire." Clegane voice cracked as he spoke. He looked completely broken.

Unfortunately, I couldn't just let him off the hook.

"Clegane, we need you out there."

"You're Kingsguard, Clegane." Tyrion insisted. "We must beat them back, or they're going to take this city! Your King's city!"

Clegane sighed, then scoffed.

"Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the city." He looked straight at me. "Fuck the King."

I ground my teeth together silently, and watched as he abandoned us.

The gate started to creak, as the Baratheon battering rams started their work outside.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan spoke for the first time. "If you wish, we will escort you to Maegor's Holdfast. You will be safe there."

I swallowed, genuinely unsure of what to do. I looked to Tyrion for advice, and he shook his head.

"If you are unwilling to help defend your own city, why should these men die for it?"

"What should I do?"

Tyrion put a hand on my shoulder.

"Lead. Go and lead your people."

I drummed my fingers against the wall, then I decided.

"Alright. How do we plan to counterattack them?"

Tyrion looked at me with pride.

"There's a sewer gate we can use to outflank them."

I nodded and turned to my remaining Kingsguard.

"Ser Barristan, stay with me; Ser Mandon, you are to escort Lord Tyrion; and Ser Boros will stay up here. If Stannis climbs those ladders, kill him and bring me his head. If he is still outside, I would do so myself."

As though on cue, Podrick Payne appeared, barely able to carry both mine and Tyrion's helms and an axe.

I took it from him and held it in my hands. It wasn't at all like my father's helm; there were no antlers or silly decorations. It was more of a bucket with a slot in it, in truth, but I preferred it that way.

I took a deep breath and called out to the soldiers, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Men! Form up!"

A grumble went around the courtyard, punctuated by the sound of the rams outside.

A pang of real anger spiked through me.

"If you don't want to go out there, then that's fine! Fine!" I shouted at them, "Just know that Lord Tyrion and I are going to fight with or without you," More and more men started to pay attention to me now, "If you stay here, you might live. If you run and you hide with your family, you might be able to protect them when this city falls. If you choose to do so, I wish you the best of luck because once those gates are smashed, those men out there will not stop. They will not stop until every possession is looted, every home burned, every woman raped." By now, the whole courtyard had stopped and turned, "And if you survive all of that, you'll live the rest of your lives with the knowledge that a boy and a half-man were braver than you!"

Murmurs and mutters emanated among the men. I sensed that I'd touched a nerve in all of them.

"Don't fight for me if you don't want to. Don't fight for the Seven Kingdoms. Fight for yourselves. Fight for your homes and your families, or you stand to lose them all."

A man shouted from the crowd, "But the only way out is through the gate, and they're at the gate!

Tyrion clambered down from the wall.

"There's another way out; I'm going to show you. We'll come out behind them and fuck them in the arses!" A laugh rippled around, in spite of everything. "Those are brave men knocking on our door: let's go kill them!"

A roar erupted from the soldiers as they lifted their swords into the air.

Tyrion and I shared a look and nodded.

I donned my helm and drew my sword.

I'd often wondered what it would be like to kill a man. Would it be difficult? What would I feel? How would it compare to killing an insect?

As it turns out, it wasn't very difficult at all. In some ways, it was easier than killing an insect: insects tend to be able to avoid being squashed.

He had had his back turned to us as we emerged from the sewer, so it was a simple matter of slashing into his exposed neck and watching as he crumpled, blood spraying from the wound.

I was far from the greatest warrior in the world, but I liked to think that in the course of training with, among others, Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime Lannister, I had at least picked up enough to be somewhat proficient in combat. I had spent some hours sparring with the various Kingsguard knights and had even bested a few of them, though I took that as more of a sign of the White Cloaks' decline than of my own prowess.

I didn't have time to reflect further as I was immediately attacked by another soldier. I lifted my shield to meet his swing, then attempted to drive my sword up and into his armpit, but missed and grazed his arm instead. It was still enough to cause him considerable pain, and he fell away screaming. I delivered as firm a kick to the head as I could manage in my heavy armour, then looked up to survey the scene.

The surprise attack had worked: the small force which had been gathered outside the gate had been totally caught off guard, and it was just a matter of finishing off those who were not quite dead.

The men cheered as a torch was thrown into the upturned battering ram, setting it ablaze. Chants of "Half-man!" and "Joff-rey!" filled the air.

Tyrion removed his helm to peer around. He looked down the beach and froze.

"Oh, fuck me."

I turned to see what he meant: a horde of soldiers sprinting toward us, screaming murder.

"Form up!" I called, lifting my shield as my men did likewise. Once we were in line, we advanced forward to meet the oncoming storm.

I heard crashes to my left and right, then an almighty jolt forced my shield back into my chest, staggering me. I gave ground, stabbing blindly and feeling the point of my sword deflect off my aggressor's breastplate. In the total absence of space, there was little I could do but keep my shield up and jostle with those next to me for enough room to move.

Suddenly, a gap opened to my right and I ducked into it so my assailant stumbled forward. I turned quickly and brought my shield down on his neck, knocking him down.

I found myself in some space, so I was able to take a breath and look around at all the chaos and death.

A wisp of white caught my attention, and I could only stand in awe of the sight of Ser Barristan the Bold in action. He sliced through soldier after soldier effortlessly, his white cloak and armour giving him the appearance of a ghost, a vengeful spirit whose only purpose was to bring death.

It was magnificent to behold. This, I thought, was what the Kingsguard should be.

Unfortunately, so transfixed was I by the spectacle, I only barely noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that the crowd had opened up and in the opening stood an archer, arrow nocked and drawn.

Realising my mistake, I urgently lifted my shield but it was too late.

The air was knocked from my lungs. A sharp pain spread through my chest. Spots dotted the edges of my vision. My legs crumpled.

I fell backwards.

Chapter Text

Waking was a gradual process. At first, I only registered blackness, though the mere fact that I could register it indicated that at the very least, I was not dead. Before the implications of this became clear, a high-pitched, inconsistent humming sound caught my ears.

Then I noticed that I was not in my armour on the ground, but on something much more comfortable.

Finally, I realised that that humming noise wasn't humming at all, but singing:

"They danced through the day
And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall
From winter to summer then winter again
'Til the walls did crumble and fall."

With not inconsiderable difficulty, I cracked my eyes open against the harsh light. Following the voice, I looked over and could just about make out a figure with red hair sitting by the window, sewing.

With cracked lips, I opened my mouth and sang:

"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave..."

Sansa gasped and dropped her needlework, rushing over to me. She leaned over me, trying tearfully to think of something to say.

I smiled up at her weakly.

"A slightly odd choice of song, don't you think?"

She shook her head.

"I was told to keep talking to you. After the first day, I couldn't think of anything more I could say, so I started singing instead. I've gone through pretty much my whole repertoire.

"Well," I raised my eyebrows, "It's a good thing I woke up, then."

I tried to sit up, but was immediately stopped by a stab of agony in my chest. I noticed for the first time that my chest was tightly wrapped in bandages.

Sansa placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me down carefully.

"Careful. You took an arrow to the chest."

I swallowed, remembering the battle.

"So I did. I assume, given that I'm alive and you're here, that we won?"

"Yes, you did. Lord Tywin brought reinforcements and beat Stannis away, but it was you that gave them the time to get here."

"It wasn't just me. Without Tyrion, this city would have fallen. Speaking of which, where is he?"

Her smile dimmed.

"He was wounded too. He's still recovering."

I frowned.

"How long has it been?"

"Three days. Pycelle has been giving you milk of the poppy so that you would rest."

I sighed.

"That's three days too many, Sansa. I need to get up."

She pursed her lips.

"No."

I glared up at her.

"Sansa, list--"

Her nostrils flared.

"No, I won't listen to you. You were shot by an arrow; Pycelle says your ribcage is in pieces. If it hadn't been for your armour, that arrow would have pierced your heart like it was nothing and I would have lost you, so you will lie here and you will rest!"

I clenched my jaw, prepared to say something stubborn, but I quickly realised that I was in no condition to do anything.

"Right now, I'm not letting you out of that bed until you have healed." She turned her head to the door and called: "Ser Barristan?"

The door opened and the old knight stepped inside.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Make sure the King doesn't leave his bed - chain him down if you have to. I'm going to fetch the Grand Maester."

Ser Barristan knew full well that she didn't have the authority to give such an order, but smiled and nodded anyway.

"Of course, my queen."

Sansa raised her eyebrows at me and swept from the room.

Ser Barristan turned to me.

"It is good to see you awake, Your Grace. I am thankful."

I shifted under the sheets.

"And I am thankful to you, ser. You distinguished yourself on the battlefield."

"I was simply following your lead, Your Grace. Not many kings would have led the charge at your age, and fewer still with such courage."

"Well, we know where that got me." I gestured to my chest. "What were our losses?"

"Not insignificant, but not as heavy as those of Stannis' forces. Ser Mandon Moore fell in the field; his bones have already been sent to his family."

"What of Sandor Clegane?"

"He has not been seen since the battle, Your Grace. We assume that he fled."

I felt an odd sadness at that news.

Ser Barristan must have noticed my change in disposition.

"Is something wrong, Your Grace?"

"Clegane has been my sworn shield for as long as I can remember. In a perverse way, he is my oldest friend, and I would have felt secure fighting alongside him."

"Well, one hopes this will turn out to be the last time your presence on the battlefield is needed."

I grunted.

"I am not optimistic. I assume that Stannis escaped our grasp?"

"Unless his corpse has yet to be discovered, it would appear so."

"Then the war will continue. We'll have to kill Stannis another day, once I am healed."

"That will take some time, Your Grace. Your injuries--"

"I know my injuries, ser. I want to know how they happened."

He frowned.

"Yes, it is suspicious."

"How so?"

"Your armour is some of the finest available to us. It should have protected you from that arrow with ease."

"What do you suspect?"

"I am no blacksmith, but I suspect your armour must have been compromised somehow. Whether it was deliberate or not, I do not know, but it is the only explanation I can think of."

"Where is the breastplate?"

"It was cut from you during the surgery; I have not seen it since."

I thought for a second.

"Somebody may have taken it, and they must have had a reason to do so. Have you shared your suspicions with anyone else?"

He shook his head.

"I did not feel comfortable doing so. This sort of subterfuge is not my area of expertise."

I nodded.

"That is prudent of you. For now, we will keep this quiet until I have the strength to act. In the meantime, I would like to send a message to the Tower of the Hand; Tyrion needs to know of this danger."

Ser Barristan almost seemed to wince.

"Your Grace, Lord Tyrion no longer resides in the Tower of the Hand."

"What?"

"Lord Tywin Lannister has taken up the post of Hand of the King, and as such, the tower has been turned over to him."

"My grandfather is here?"

"Yes, of course, Your Grace. He and the Tyrells defeated the invaders after you fell."

I silently cursed the milk of the poppy. It had clouded my thoughts, rendering me unable to draw even the most basic of conclusions or think of the easiest of questions.

As if on cue, the door opened and Sansa returned, Pycelle shuffling in behind her.

The Grand Maester took barely a beat before launching into another exhibition of sycophancy.

"Ah, Your Grace! The gods are good to return you to us." He was holding a small cup. "I have brought you milk of the--"

I lifted a finger, glaring up at him.

"Pycelle, do not ever put milk of the poppy to my lips again unless I explicitly ask for it. Give me water."

He looked as though he might object, but he swallowed and obeyed.

I craned my neck up to meet the cup, gulping greedily of its contents. Once it was empty, he placed it on the table next to me.

"How long am I to be consigned to bed?"

"Not long, Your Grace. In cases like yours, where the ribs have not broken the skin, we prescribe a day or two of bed rest to allow for treatment of any accompanying injuries and to keep the patient under observation in case of complications. Otherwise, we find a period of eight weeks to be more than sufficient for the bones to reform. Therefore, while I will not confine you to your bed beyond tomorrow, as your physician I must forbid strenuous physical activity for that duration."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sansa smirking. It would be difficult to conform to those instructions, as we both sensed.

Then the door opened again, and all smiles were sucked from the room as the imposing figure of Tywin Lannister marched onto my turf.

His emerald eyes scraped over the four of us before settling on Pycelle.

"Have you delivered your prognosis, Grand Maester?"

For the first time, I felt sorry for Pycelle as he wilted in the face of the blizzard-like stare. The old man nodded without his usual blabbering.

Tywin nodded.

"Good. If there is no more to report, His Grace and I will speak alone."

Sansa glanced at me and I shook my head. This was not a battle I wished to fight now.

Begrudgingly, Pycelle, Ser Barristan, and Sansa trudged from the room, leaving me alone.

Tywin gazed down at me like a permanently vexed statue, hard and unblinking.

"Ser Barristan tells me that your conduct on the battlefield is to be commended."

In other words: I was a damned fool who nearly got himself killed and scuppered his precious legacy.

"Well, I didn't see any other option."

"I did not intend it as a criticism. A king must be prepared to defend his people, or they will not defend him. This battle has enhanced your reputation enormously, as have your actions as king; you have done well for one so young."

I raised my eyebrow.

"But...?"

"Why did you marry the Stark girl?”

“I wanted to."

"Drunks and animals are driven by desire alone. I had hoped that reason might prevail in your case."

I smirked.

"At least I didn't marry my own cousin."

"I was not a king. You have a responsibility to the realm to find a good match. If you had married Margaery Tyrell, we could have counted on the armies of the Reach far sooner."

"So the Tyrells have bent the knee to us?"

"Yes, but for a price. They have demanded several positions on the Small Council."

"That shouldn't be a problem. To be honest, I have been considering restructuring the Small Council for some time."

"What do you propose?"

"The Small Council in its current form exerts very little direct influence over matters outside King's Landing. I suggest that we appoint a representative of each Kingdom to the Council, with close links to the Lord Paramount of each region - ideally, the firstborn son or perhaps a brother - to give each part of the realm a constant presence in the capital, as well as providing us with an army of hostages to stop a catastrophe of this magnitude ever happening again. Princess Arianne might serve as a test for the theory."

Tywin nodded.

"Your scheme certainly has merit. I will give it some thought."

"In the case of the Reach, we could easily give the Royal Fleet to Paxter Redwyne, the Laws to Mace Tyrell, and appoint one of his close relatives to the Council as the representative to the Reach. Is that in line with their demands?"

"Yes, save for one other condition."

A horrid sense of dread sat on my neck. What had Littlefinger done?

"What other condition?"

"Tommen is to be betrothed to Lady Margaery in your stead."

I exhaled. On one side, it could easily have been far worse, but on the other, Littlefinger might as well have hand-painted a target and nailed it to my back.

"I see. That does put me in a somewhat precarious position."

"Indeed. I allowed it because I thought it might motivate you to finally begin producing heirs. You have been married for nearly a year and yet your wife is not pregnant. Has the Small Council not been reminding you of your duties in my absence?"

"I do not answer to the Small Council.”

“No. Your duty is far greater than that. You are the king: it is the realm that you answer to.”

My mouth opened into a horrible smile and I groaned in pain as laughter shook my ribs.

“That is the paradox of power, isn’t it? I am the king, and yet I serve everyone.”

“It is the price of power.”

“And yet you have never paid it.” I spat. “You sit in the chair just behind me, always there, always watching, but never in the light. You don’t have to pay the price because nobody thinks to demand it of you.”

They say Tywin Lannister never smiles, but what appeared on his face in that moment was the closest thing to it.

It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.

“Finally, you understand.” He made to leave. “Rest, Your Grace. When you recover, we will decide how you will rule your kingdom.”

Chapter Text

I leaned gently against the windowsill, staring out over the city.

Oddly enough, there was little evidence that a battle had been waged just outside the city walls. I could just about make out the scorched remains of a few Baratheon ships being hauled from the bay, and there was still the smell of smoke on the air, but aside from that, it was peaceful.

I felt soft hands lay themselves on my shoulders, instantly soothing me.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to keep my hands off you again."

I grinned and turned.

"That doesn't sound like such a bad thing."

Sansa bit her lip in that wicked way she had and intertwined our hands.

"Especially as you are under orders to produce an heir..."

"I'm intrigued to know how you plan to get around the Grand Maesters' instruction to avoid 'strenuous physical activity.'

She grinned and pecked my lips.

"I have a few ideas that we can explore later."

"I look forward to it."

"Are you absolutely sure that your armour was sabotaged?"

I shook my head.

"No, but the evidence so far suggests that it is a possibility."

Tyrion shifted in his bed, grimacing.

As the skin of his face stretched and loosened, so too did the tear that Ser Mandon Moore's sword had cleaved across it.

"Then it would seem that both of us have been targetted in the same battle. It seems highly unlikely that this is a coincidence."

"I'm not so sure. Ser Mandon Moore was loyal to my mother; I can see her trying to kill you but do you really think she would do the same to me?"

"He could very easily have had another loyalty."

"She spent nearly two decades filling the Kingsguard with her own lackeys. I find it hard to believe she would have placed any of them in such a position without being certain of their loyalty."

"No, but let's face it, Cersei might not have been paying enough attention to notice. It's the classic problem of the stupid physician: a man cannot know what he does not know, a stupid man knows less than an intelligent man, and a physician who does not know a problem cannot diagnose it. Therefore, a stupid physician will seldom diagnose a problem."

"So we have no way of narrowing down the list of people who would want us dead."

"It would appear not. We should, however, take steps to make sure this doesn't happen again. It is possible, however unlikely, that your armour was simply damaged in retaliation for Salloreon's maiming. The guilds have been known to close ranks before, though this would be a radical step for them."

"I know. I already plan to issue an edict commanding henceforth that every piece of armour made for a king must be tested by the blacksmith who made it. That will at least provide a thin layer of protection to myself and future kings, but I still can't quite believe that someone who seriously wants me dead would rely on my armour not stopping an arrow that might never have even hit me."

"Perhaps they thought we were sure to lose the battle, and simply wanted to ensure that you died in the middle of it. It's also possible that your dispute with the guilds came up unexpectedly and they rushed to capitalise on it without the proper diligence."

"I still doubt that one party could be responsible for both attacks given how different they were. Most men don't have the imagination."

The grin that spread painfully across Tyrion's face was made even more ghastly by the scab where his nose should have been.

"When it comes to murder, nephew, imagination grows as deep and vast as the Sunset Sea."

"That doesn't allay my concern. I worry that if we assume they are the work of one party, we will leave ourselves exposed. If you're right, we will find them anyway."

"You really believe Cersei tried to kill me, don't you?"

"I don't see who else it could have been. Ser Mandon was her man, she hates you, and the battle was the perfect cover. Casterly Rock is her domain: the servants are loyal to your House and she probably knows ways to get messages out that no-one else does."

"I would probably agree with you were it not for the fact that we were both targetted at the same time."

"You said it yourself, murder inspires like nothing else; is it totally beyond the realms of possibility that two parties could have seen the battle as a perfect cover?"

"No."

"Then we move forward on the assumption that they were discrete. We follow each strand separately and see where they join."

"And we cut each string until our puppet master shows himself."

Tyrion started scratching his scab.

I grimaced.

"That looks like it itches."

"It does."

"Looking at your face makes me want to scratch my face."

"Sometimes I forget that you're a bastard."

"Your Grace, it is good to see you among the land of the living."

Varys bowed deeply.

"Lord Varys. I'm a little surprised that you are still with us; I'd thought you might have fled."

He placed a powdered hand to his heart.

"Your Grace wounds me. I was always expectant that you would prevail, but one must always make allowances for unexpected happenings."

"Such as my unfortunate demise?"

"And how unfortunate that would have been. My sentiment was genuine, Your Grace: I do not wish for you to die."

"Well, that makes two of us."

He smirked.

"You haven't summoned me to ruminate on your mortality, I assume?"

"No, I want to talk to you about Littlefinger."

"Ah, the newly esteemed Lord of Harrenhal. Always a fascinating topic of conversation."

I grunted.

"Personally, I'd rather discuss the contents of my chamberpot, but needs must. I'm wary of giving him Harrenhal, even if it is just a means to bringing Lysa Arryn into the fold. He crossed a line during the negotiations with the Tyrells: I was explicit in my desire that Tommen not be betrothed."

"From what I understand, the Tyrells would not accept anything else. Lord Mace would see his grandson on the Iron Throne; this is as close as they can get to it now."

"Nevertheless, I do not feel that Littlefinger's efforts deserve uninterrupted acclaim, nor am I inclined to let him accumulate more power. That is where you come in."

"You would have me clip the mockingbird's wings?"

"I am in no doubt that your spy rings overlap with each other, and I want to take advantage of that. I want you to eat away at him until there is nothing for him to fall back on, then he will have a choice: obey or die."

"Is this related to the recent attempt on your life, perchance?"

"No, I have always wanted to limit his influence, but I admit that I have far less patience for his like now than I did before. What do you know of it?"

"I do not know the whereabouts of the elusive breastplate, though I suspect it has been destroyed by now. I can, however, confirm that you are right about Ser Mandon Moore: as far as my little birds can tell, his only correspondence of late has been with your mother. It would appear that she instructed him to attack Lord Tyrion."

"I see. Do you intend to tell him?"

"If it suits my purposes, yes."

"Does it suit your purposes to tell me?"

"You are my king. Your purposes are my purposes. In any case, I cannot deliver definitive proof, and Ser Mandon is dead; Lord Tyrion could not act against your mother even if I did tell him."

I sighed, stroking my chin.

"Perhaps it would be best not to. He was sceptical of my suspicions, and I really don't need my family trying to kill each other at this moment. My mother will be here anyway, where Grandfather and I can keep her on a leash. If our investigations lead to her then we will have our opportunity but for now, we will let Ser Mandon stay dead."

"And what if she tries again? Your mother is not known for letting go of her vendettas."

I fixed him in my gaze.

"Then I will hold you responsible for finding out her plans. You are the Master of Whisperers, you are just as important as the Kingsguard in the protection of the King, or had you forgotten that?"

"I forget nothing, Your Grace, but I am not all-knowing. I am but a spider on the wall."

I gritted my teeth and hauled myself painfully out of my chair.

"I've been patient with you, Varys. As I have been with Littlefinger, and Pycelle, and the High Septon, and all the other mediocrities that crawl around this keep. Don't take it for granted."

And speaking of mediocrities, it was time to meet the biggest of them all.

Chapter Text

There are few duties of kingship duller than holding court, and fewer still of more importance. If mastered, court can be a weapon as powerful as any in a king's arsenal.

In most cases, court, as with most of the visible aspects of government, is little more than theatre: every decision and decree and doctrine of even the slightest significance decided upon in advance and endlessly rehearsed until the actors can carry them out practically in their sleep.

On rare occasions, however, no matter how impressively written the script and intricately choreographed the motions, an actor still finds within himself the capacity to improvise and so turn a good scene into a great scene.

Such an improvisation was necessary as I gingerly sank into the Iron Throne, while courtiers filed through the great oak doors to see the latest performance.

Of course, the scene always opens as expected: first, the steward called forth the actors, starting, as always, with Lord Tywin Lannister.

It was a good thing that I was atop the Iron Throne, far enough from the crowd that my expression was illegible. Otherwise, it might have caused a stir if the King had been seen suppressing laughter as the most feared man in Westeros rode into the Great Hall on horseback in full regalia.

It looked so hopelessly impractical and tricky to get into. I savoured the image of Grandfather fiddling with a buckle for a moment before banishing it.

"I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of my name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby proclaim my grandfather, Tywin Lannister, Saviour of the City and Hand of the King."

A steward presented Tywin with his badge of office, and he bowed with all the appropriate pomposity.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

He rode from the hall.

"Lord Petyr Baelish, step forward."

Littlefinger slithered up to the throne and sank eagerly to one knee.

"For your service and... ingenuity in uniting the Houses of Lannister and Tyrell, I grant you the castle of Harrenhal, with all its attendant lands and incomes, to be held by your sons and their sons until the end of time."

Littlefinger remained remarkably deadpan, though inside I could almost hear the squeaking.

He stood.

"You honour me beyond words, Your Grace. Now, all I have to do is acquire some sons."

He got a little laugh for that. That's always nice; gets the audience onside.

"Ser Loras Tyrell, step forward."

The Knight of Flowers knelt solemnly before the throne. This was evidently a dutiful son, and that was useful.

"Ser Loras, your House has done me a great service, and I owe you an unpayable debt for your heroism. I grant your father, Lord Mace Tyrell, the lands of the traitorous House Florent to be held by your House until the end of time; I also invite him to sit on the Small Council as Master of Laws. Finally, if there is anything you might ask of me, if it is within my power it shall be yours."

Ser Loras bowed his head.

"Your Grace, my sister Margaery, her husband was taken from us before..." He could not bring himself to say it. How interesting. It would appear that the rumours were true after all, "She remains innocent. I would ask that you find it within your heart to do us the great honour of joining our houses."

I smiled.

"Ser Loras, you honour me. Your sister is indeed beautiful; the tales do not do her justice."

Lady Margaery bowed her head, as though shy.

"But I cannot accept a marriage with her for myself. It is not within my power to break the bonds of matrimony, and I already have a wife."

At this point, I could sense that Pycelle might have intervened, had he not been under the strictest instructions to keep his mouth shut.

"I can, however, go some way to alleviating that wrong by offering my brother instead. Tommen is a sweet boy, and though young he has all the makings of a fine man. He has my complete confidence, and I believe that the Lady Margaery will learn just as much from him as he will from her."

Mainly about cats, but I don't judge.

Ser Loras stuck to the script perfectly.

"Your Grace is generous, and we gladly accept your proposal."

I nodded and decided that now was the time to improvise.

"In that case, I have but one more honour I might bestow on you, Ser. The Battle of Blackwater Bay has taken from us many brave men, not least Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard. I have heard that your own conduct on the battlefield was exemplary, and the tales of your bravery and skill are too numerous to count. I therefore ask you, Ser Loras, to take up your sword in my defence as a knight of the Kingsguard."

In one fell swoop: elevation, approbation, and castration.

Ser Loras did not respond for a second. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lady Margaery visibly start before he recovered his composure.

"Y-your Grace honours me. I will need time to consider it."

I nodded.

"Of course. It is a serious commitment, it will require your mind, body and soul to be as one."

Ser Loras stood and half-shuffled back to his sister, who stared up at me, her head inclined, and throughout the rest of the day, as the various supplicants streamed forward to receive their slice of cake, her gaze did not falter.

This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister was many things.

To some, he was like one of those monsters your parents used to tell you about to scare you.

"Eat your vegetables," they might say, "or Tywin Lannister will come and burn your kingdom to the ground."

To others, he was a warlord and a tyrant.

"Tread carefully," they might say, "or Tywin Lannister will come and burn your kingdom to the ground."

And to a few, he was the master of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Obey," they might say, "or Tywin Lannister will come and burn your kingdom to the ground."

To me, though, he was turning out to be a right pain in the backside.

I sat in my chambers, angrily tapping my temple with my forefinger.¨

"I don't know what I expected."

Sansa set a goblet of wine on the table next to me.

"We expected it to be difficult."

"Difficult, yes, but not infantile. The last time I checked, my grandfather was an adult, yet his methods can be so childish; hiding Small Council meetings away like my best breeches before an important occasion."

She put a hand on my arm.

"He treats you that way because he thinks of you as a child. All you can do is prove him wrong."

I relaxed at her touch and turned toward her.

"Yes, but how to do it?"

"Revenge is your area of expertise, not mine."

I smirked.

"Of course. You prefer love."

Sansa raised an eyebrow.

"Would it be better if I didn't?"

"Of course not. What you're doing in the city is just as important as what I'm doing in the palace."

"Still, I can't help but feel a little sorry for Margaery. She is sweet, and her family are helping us win the war, yet here we are cutting her family's plans to pieces one by one."

"You know what the wits say about that: war is politics without the bloodshed. I have no doubt that the Lady Margaery is agreeable, but she must be kept at arm's length. Besides, the smallfolk will never object to another beautiful and kind queen in their midst."

She grinned and leaned in to whisper,

"'Another?' Who's the other one?"

I'd courted Sansa for over two years and loved her for almost as long, yet even I was pleasantly surprised by her transformation once I gave her an important role in my plans. No longer was she simply there to warm my heart and my bed, and to provide me with heirs. Now she was tasked with resisting the Tyrell charm offensive on the poor and she had taken to the role with gusto, cunning, and a confidence I'd only caught glimpses of beforehand.

I returned the grin and kissed her.

"A slip of the tongue, my love."

She giggled and bit her lip.

"So what are you going to do about Lord Tywin?"

I puffed out my cheeks.

"I'm not sure if there's anything I can realistically do that would help. Any suggestions?"

"Well, I used to argue and fight with my sister all the time, but because we were both children nobody ever got seriously hurt. Tywin coming down to our level means that whatever damage we do to him won't be fatal. You just need to put some dung in his bed, and it'll get the message across."

I nodded.

"You're right, and I think I have an idea."

Very few men have ever maintained so impressive a statuesque visage of stony indifference quite so well as Tywin Lannister. The downside of such practised stoicism is that breaking it becomes a tantalising goal.

I suspected that I might have begun to succeed in this once the doors of the Great Hall opened and the Lord of Casterly Rock stalked through like a lion whose tail had been stomped on.

He approached the Iron Throne, where I sat flanked by Ser Barristan and Ser Preston.

The Kingsguard knights stepped down to face him. Ser Barristan held out a hand.

"No further, My Lord Hand."

If looks could kill, Ser Barristan would have evaporated into thin air.

Tywin glared back at me.

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he snapped.

"Your Grace, the Tower of--"

"Yes, we'll get to that in a second," I interrupted, "but first I want to talk about the Small Council. You moved the meeting today. Why?"

"The Hand of the King presides over the Small Council in the King's absence, and the Tower of the Hand is where I work. The time it takes to travel between there and the Small Council Chamber could be used more productively."

"I note the key phrase there: in the King's absence. I am no longer absent, and I alone preside over the Small Council, yet today's meeting was still held in the Tower of the Hand. Am I to infer from that that my time and the time of my councillors is less valuable than yours?"

Disappointingly, there was no mumbling, but he did take a fraction of a second longer to respond than usual.

"No, Your Grace."

"Then we are agreed: the Small Council meetings will be held in the Small Council chamber and that is the end of the matter."

I could practically see the fury radiate from Tywin and he tightened his jaw momentarily before speaking up.

"And what am I to infer from the fact that the locks in the Tower of the Hand have been changed?"

"You may infer whatever you like because I'm going to tell you why I ordered them to be changed."

I could have sworn I saw his eye twitch.

"And why, pray tell did you do that?"

"Because I want you to understand how we will co-operate." I stood up. "I am the king. I preside over the Small Council, I rule this kingdom and I command you. You are the Hand of the King, and I will look to you for guidance and defer to your judgement where I feel it is appropriate. I have no doubt in my mind that we will have disagreements but when we do, let us confront each other on the field of battle, not the field of child's play. Accept those terms, and I'll give you your key."

Tywin clenched his jaw.

"Since Your Grace means to look to me for guidance, allow me to impart some now: any man who must say 'I am the King' is no true king."

I inclined my head.

"I disagree. I prefer to say it once and see who remembers." I dug my hand into my pocket and produced a key. "I'm curious to see the results."

I held out the key to him. His emerald eyes stayed fixed on mine as we stared at each other, waiting for one of us to break.

He took the key.

Chapter Text

Tyrion filled his cup generously and set the jug down.

“I hear you gave my father a royal rap over the knuckles.”

“I assume he took it well?”

“Oh, yes. He hardly spent more than ten minutes venting his spleen about you.”

I smiled to myself as I sat down.

"I think I can be forgiven a little practical joke every so often, especially after that ingenious bit of farce with the Small Council. What did you think of that particular performance?"

"I'm sure that he was simply unused to the King paying such keen attention to the governance of his kingdom."

"Very funny. We both know what that was really about."

"Proximity equals power. Although, from what I hear, it wasn't nearly as good as the trick you pulled on the Tyrells. Placing Ser Loras in the Kingsguard, depriving them of an heir..."

"Where are you going with this?"

Tyrion declined to speak, and instead took a swig of wine.

"You asked for your inheritance, didn't you?"

He nodded.

"No wonder he was in such a foul mood."

"His mood should be unimportant."

"Right now, it is important."

"Jaime is a Kingsguard, and might I add that we have heard nothing of him for weeks now. I am the heir to Casterly Rock, but my father chooses to ignore that fact."

"That is his prerogative."

Tyrion slapped the table.

"The law is clear!"

I fixed him with a glare.

"The law sits opposite you."

He grunted.

"Fat lot of good it does me."

"It does more than you realise. I already intervened to get you these apartments."

"That was you?"

"Yes. I've done what I can do for you right now. You've not been forgotten and you will have your place on the Small Council because of me. I can't do much more than that."

"And what of the future?"

"As a reward for your services up to this point, so long as you remain loyal, I will come down on your side in any dispute that arises around the succession of Casterly Rock."

"So the law is on my side after all."

I rolled my eyes.

At that moment, a knock sounded upon the door.

"Come," Tyrion called.

A servant poked his head through.

"Beg pardon for the interruption, my lord, Your Grace, but the Hand of the King requests your presence in the Tower of the Hand."

Tyrion made to move, but I stopped him.

"Tell the Hand that if he wishes to speak, he can come to me. We will wait for him in my audience chamber."

The poor servant paled at the thought of bringing Tywin Lannister a refusal, nodded, and vanished.

Tyrion raised his eyebrow.

"You think that'll improve his mood?"

"I'd rather face an angry lion in the open field than stick my head in his den."

"I'd rather not face the angry lion at all."

I frowned at him.

"Perhaps that is the problem."

I stood, and left him staring at his cup.

Disappointingly, my grandfather did not seem overly displeased as he entered the chamber. Perhaps he'd been expecting my response all along.

He bowed before me.

"Your Grace."

"You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes. I wished to discuss your mother's role in our plans."

This should be interesting.

I inclined my head.

"I had assumed that she was to return here. You seemed intent on reversing all of my other plans so I thought this would be no different."

He did not rise to the jibe.

"That was to be so in the short-term. However, she was eventually to be married to Ser Loras Tyrell, so as to bind those up-jumped gardeners more directly to us."

He was really hiding his contempt well today, it would seem.

I shrugged.

"Well, I'm not a mind-reader. If you don't want me to sink your plans in the future, you will have to tell me what they are."

He clenched his jaw.

"Quite. That is no longer a possibility, so now we must decide what is to be done. It was prudent of you to remove her from the capitol, and removed she should remain, but I am loath to leave her festering at Casterly Rock when she could be working for the good of the House."

I almost laughed. Fat chance of that happening.

Tyrion scratched his scar.

"Cersei could still be wed."

"To whom? She is a Lannister and a dowager queen; I will not just hand her over like chattel."

Not because she was his daughter, though.

"You can bang that drum all you like, but I will not have my mother back in this city. She is too unstable to be controlled."

"I concur, Father."

"If a vassal cannot be brought to heel, the fault lies with their liege." Tywin retorted.

"When have you ever exercised a modicum of control over Cersei? When she had that poor Hetherspoon girl cast into the well? Or when she started sneak--"

"Enough!" I snapped at Tyrion and turned my back on the two of them for a second to collect myself. I took a deep breath, "My mother will remain at Casterly Rock. If we find a suitable match for her, we will act on it, and if she loses her fertility before then, we shall pack her off to the Silent Sisters. That is my final decision on the matter."

The two Lannisters shared a glance.

Tywin bowed.

"Your Grace."

He turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.

Tyrion watched him leave with a baleful expression.

"You need to be careful. Now that you've established your control, he's going to start trying to manipulate you. You'll be convinced that what he wants is what you want."

I ground my teeth.

"I know what is in my interest, and that is how I will act. That will be all."

His flinty eyes peered up at me, then he turned and followed his father.

I sniffed the pot of ointment and cursed Pycelle for giving me something so foul. Reluctantly, I dipped a finger in and spread the stuff across my bruised torso.

At that moment, Sansa practically skipped into the room.

"How's your day been?" I asked grumpily.

"Quite successful, thank you." She smiled as she approached my chair. "You?"

I held up the pot.

"This is the highlight so far."

She giggled quietly into her hand and took the pot.

"Oh, that does smell bad. I think Pycelle's playing a trick on you."

I snorted.

"The thought of Pycelle plotting is like that of a dog walking on its hind legs. It’s not done well but it is surprising to think that it is even possible."

She shook her head, and knelt to apply it for me.

"You know what I think of that."

I sighed.

"I know, I know. I should be kinder to him."

"He is your chief physician."

"You see, this is why I keep you around. You're much better at caring than I am."

She pouted.

"Is there no other reason?"

Biting her lip, she pressed a hand against me through my breeches, drawing a sharp breath.

I shrugged teasingly.

"I may need reminding."

Sansa rolled her eyes and finished applying the ointment, allowing her hands to creep a little lower than was strictly necessary.

While she worked on that, I slipped a hand down between her arms and picked at the laces on her dress. After a few awkward misses, I loosened them enough that she should roll her dress from her shoulders.

She wiped her hands of the smelly paste, and undid the laces on my breeches with far more grace than I had managed.

I lifted my hips slightly as she pulled them away and wrapped her hand around my cock.

She raised her eyebrows.

"Do you remember now?" She asked sweetly, squeezing and stroking gently up and down.

"It's coming to me, don't worry."

"Maybe this will help." She dipped her head down and took me in her mouth.

I swallowed and closed my eyes, struggling to maintain my aloofness in the face of the vision before me and the shockwaves it sent up my spine.

Just as I thought I might completely lose my composure, she drew my now-hardened cock slowly from her mouth with a slurping sound and stood. Biting her lip, she tugged what remained of her dress off.

Since arriving in King's Landing, her body had changed just as much as her mind. She was now taller, more womanly; her hips had grown wider, her breasts larger. I hadn't imagined on my wedding night that I could ever want her more than I did then, but now I felt an even deeper satisfaction that she was mine.

Her hand crept down her body and she started touching herself lightly as she approached me, placing one knee either side of me and sitting in my lap.

"I look forward to this, you know." She whispered in my ear, "All day, every day, I wait for the time when I can lie with you, kiss you, fuck you."

Unable to form a coherent answer, I buried my face in her fiery hair and let my hands settle on her hips.

We gasped in unison as she sank down onto me.

She lifted my head so we could gaze into each other eyes as she started to move her hips gently, and leaned in.

As she began to move faster, our kiss deepened, until we were barely able to breathe. Fortunately, yet agonisingly, I didn't last long enough for us to suffocate.

As I spilled my seed inside her, she quietly, haltingly, cried out and settled into me, breathless.

Chapter Text

Tyrion slammed an enormous ledger down on the desk with an almighty thud, dust blowing out like smoke from a bellows.

"Look at this."

I almost rolled my eyes.

"I know about our debts. Six million gold dragons, half to Grandfather. A problem for another time, preferably after I'm dead."

Tyrion sniffed without smiling, which was a bad sign. He opened the book to one page and tapped it with a finger.

"Read it."

I bent over the desk and read the figures, all written in Littlefinger's annoyingly neat and tiny script.

As I did so, a strange cold came over me. It was anger, yes, but not the kind of anger that makes one shout or break things. It was almost a sort of embarrassment: I felt silly, like I should have expected this.

"How much?"

Tyrion shook his head.

"I'm not sure, but my best guess is ten million, all to the Iron Bank."

I closed my eyes and lent on the desk with my head down.

"Fuck."

"There is good news in all of this."

I laughed hollowly.

"Is there?"

"Yes. There's an old saying, 'If you owe the bank a tonne of gold, you have a problem; if you owe the bank a thousand tonnes, the bank has a problem.' We owe them ten million golden dragons. The Iron Bank now has to back us; if we don't survive, they don't get their investment back. Our liability to them exceeds whatever anyone else would pay."

"I'm not sure that's enough. What if Stannis convinces them that he's a better bet?"

"Stannis does not hold King's Landing. He doesn't sit the Iron Throne. He doesn't have the combined might of House Lannister and House Tyrell behind him. He barely has a fleet anymore, you're welcome by the way. His days are numbered."

"As are Littlefinger's."

"He must have known we would find this, so why leave it?"

My knuckles whitened.

"Borrowing money without the King's permission in peacetime would be treason. In war, it's doing your job. The worst I could have done is dismiss him, maybe arrest him. I can't dismiss someone who doesn't work for me, and I can't arrest someone I just created Lord of Harrenhal. He knew exactly what he was doing."

I tapped the table with a finger, briefly wondering how long it would take for my anger to wear through it. How many seconds in eternity?

"I'm going to kill him, Tyrion. I don't know when or where, or what with, but I am going to kill him."

"A great many men have said that about a great many men, nephew."

"How many of those men were kings?"

Tyrion snorted.

"Most of them, actually."

I couldn't help but smile a little.

"Were many of them also bankrupt?"

Before he could answer, the door opened and Sansa stuck her head through.

"It's time."

Tyrion frowned.

"Time for what?"

I got to my feet.

"We're having lunch with Lady Olenna Tyrell."

Tyrion gawked at us for a second, then reached for the wine again.

"You'll need this."

Sansa shook her head.

"I don't think that's necessary."

"You're right; if you're meeting the Queen of Thorns, you'll need something a great deal stronger than wine."

"Do you really think it's wise to greet her while drunk?"

Tyrion poured two goblets to the brim.

"Oh, yes. The experience will be far less painful."

He pushed them toward us.

Sansa and I exchanged a glance and picked up the wine.

"You're being quite pessimistic about this."

"Takes one to know one. Now drink, both of you."

We knocked our goblets together, and did as he told us.

Sansa and I walked through the gardens of the Red Keep, arm in arm.

"You won't be jealous if we run into Ser Loras, will you?"

"Why would I be?"

"He gave me a favour at the tourney of the Hand."

"He's probably given out hundreds of favours; it's what knights do in peacetime. Besides, I know for a fact that of the two of us, he's far more likely to be interested in me."

I smirked as she discreetly elbowed me.

At that moment, Lady Margaery seemed to emerge from a hedge in front of us, armed with a blinding smile.

"Your Graces, I'm so happy you could join us. Please, this way."

We followed her through an oversized rose arch into the garden that the Tyrells had commandeered for themselves, walking up the path to a small pavilion overlooking the sea.

A small table had been laid out for us, and sat at its head was Olenna Tyrell, the infamous Queen of Thorns.

"Your Graces, may I introduce my grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell."

The old woman smiled at us.

"Your Graces, how kind of you to visit me and my foolish flock of hens."

She gestured to a group of girls sat out on the grass chattering.

Sansa returned the smile.

"And it was kind of you to invite us for lunch, my lady. I have heard plenty about you."

"As have I of the pair of you. Please, sit."

She snapped her fingers loudly as we did so, and a servant rushed in to fill our goblets.

"The finest Arbor gold, straight from our vineyards in the Reach." She explained, taking a healthy swig from her own cup. "A token of our new cooperation."

Sansa and I sipped carefully.

Olenna placed her cup firmly on the table and gazed her beady gaze at us once more.

"I was saddened to hear of your father's death, my Queen."

But not of mine, it would seem. I was going to have to get used to that sort of thing.

Sansa nodded and turned to Margaery.

"And I was sorry to hear of Lord Renly's death, Lady Margaery. He was very gallant."

Olenna waved her hand.

"Gallant, yes. And charming and very clean. He knew how to dress and smile, and somehow this gave him the notion he was fit to be king."

I couldn't help but grin slightly.

Margaery frowned disapprovingly.

"Renly was brave and gentle, Grandmother. Father liked him, and so did Loras."

Not at the same time, one would hope.

"Loras is young and very good at knocking men off their horses with his stick. That does not make him wise." Olenna faced me then. "And what does the King have to say about this?"

I sighed.

"Renly was a good uncle. He could tell a funny joke and organise a hearty feast. Naming him Lord of Storm's End suited his talents perfectly, naming him Master of Laws was testing the limits of his capacity to take anything seriously, and naming him king was just foolish."

The Queen of Thorns nodded.

"I said all of that and more to my son, but the Lord Oaf of Highgarden wouldn't listen to me."

"Grandmother!" Margaery admonished, "What will the King and Queen think of us?"

"They might think we have some wits about us." She shifted in her seat. "It was treason, I warned them. Robert has two sons, so how could Renly possibly have a claim to that ugly iron chair?"

Margaery looked at me balefully.

"My grandmother means no offence, Your Grace."

I laughed.

"None taken. Believe me, Lady Margaery, the Iron Throne is as uncomfortable to sit on as it is unpleasant to look at. It serves a purpose, but it's not enjoyable."

She smiled at me shyly.

"I imagine one could say that about many things that kings must do."

Olenna sniffed.

"Quite right." She suddenly slapped the table and yelled at her servants, "Are you going to bring the food or do you mean to starve us to death?" As the servants jumped to action, she shook her head and looked at Sansa. "Would you like some lemon cakes, Your Grace?"

Sansa nodded eagerly, "I love lemon cakes."

"So we've been told." Olenna's eyes flicked toward me as she said that.

The Tyrells had their own spies in place already, it would seem. Clearly, she meant to test me: if I did not catch the message, I would be easy to deal with; if I did, I would know to tread carefully, and of course, I could not take action because she had not made any explicit threat.

"My son will be arriving in the city in the next few days."

I nodded.

"I look forward to making his acquaintance."

"Yes, but you won't cherish the memory, I promise you. A ponderous oaf, just like his father. My husband, the late Lord Luthor..." She shook her head, "He managed to ride his horse off a cliff whilst hawking. They say that he was too busy looking at the sky to pay any mind to where his horse was taking him, and I am concerned that my son is doing the same, only this time he is riding a lion rather than a horse."

Finally, we'd arrived at the point.

"You have reservations about our alliance, my lady?"

"Not about our alliance necessarily. After all, whomever we chose to lend our support would have a far greater chance of prevailing in this war. We could take our pick of Great Houses, and we chose to ally with yours. No, Your Grace, it is you I have reservations about. Even before this war started, your grandfather had a reputation, a reputation he has spent decades carefully crafting. In that cause, he has sold his eldest son as the finest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms and his daughter as the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Even the Imp, for whom he apparently feels little but contempt, is known for being silver-tongued and sly, and with a formidable record in drinking and whoring so he isn't too dull."

She paused and turned her beady eyes on me.

"Yet you had no reputation. All that was known of you was that you were a handsome boy and a clever one too, but I've met many handsome, clever boys like you, and like Renly, and not one of them was fit to be king. Then I heard that this handsome, clever boy had seized the throne from under Eddard Stark's nose, chopped his head off and married his daughter, blackmailed the High Septon, and exiled his own mother, all in the space of a few days. This is a tale that sounds awfully familiar to those of us with long memories. Several months pass, and this boy has taken control of the Small Council, shipped his sister to the Dornish in exchange for their support, and led soldiers into battle and bled in the defence of his city. Finally, I arrive in the capital and find that you have condemned my grandson and the future of our house to the Kingsguard. To be blunt, Your Grace, I am still unsure if you are mad or not."

To be fair, that was a familiar uncertainty to me as well.

She wasn't finished. Now Sansa came under her glare.

"And you, my dear, are equally hard to put a finger on. Your father declared the King a bastard and a scoundrel and the King beheaded him for it, and yet you married him. Why, I wonder, would you do that?"

I had to admire her for asking the question in front of me.

I discreetly touched Sansa's hand under the table, while keeping my expression impassive.

She got the message and put on a solemn face.

"My father broke the law, and the law is clear what should happen to traitors. I mourned his death, but I do not blame Joffrey; I blame Stannis for deceiving my father, and manipulating him into following a lost cause."

It was safer for the Tyrells to dismiss Sansa as a threat, for now at least.

Olenna did not quite roll her eyes, but came damn close. She turned back to me.

"I see you have her well-trained, Your Grace, but my question remains."

I thought for a moment, then smiled and leaned forward in my chair.

"Madness shouldn't be an obstacle to our partnership, Lady Olenna. Your son supported the Mad King against my father, after all. As for Loras, I have merely offered him a place on the Kingsguard. Whether he chooses to accept it or not is his decision."

"To reject a call to the Kingsguard is a dereliction of duty; you mean for Loras to shame himself before the realm."

"I mean to have a skilled, honourable warrior in my service. He distinguished himself on the battlefield, and he has taken solemn vows before." I glanced at Margaery. "I can think of no man more qualified."

"What do you want?"

I blinked and inclined my head.

"I beg your pardon?"

"There are many skilled, honourable warriors about, even in these times, but you chose my grandson, and you issued your summons in public with that little bit of pantomime in the Great Hall. I can only presume that you want something from us, to persuade you to withdraw this offer."

Well, since you ask.

I pretended to think for a second.

"As it happens, I do have a problem that Loras could help me with; if he were to refuse my offer, he would be free to marry, and I have a relation on my hands whom I would see wed."

Olenna's eyes widened momentarily, and her hands tightened around the armrests of her chair.

"No."

I pouted.

"My lady, you haven't heard what I was going to say."

"I can well enough imagine, Your Grace, and I will not have my grandson married to your mother."

"Why not? She is rich, from a highborn family, the queen dowager, and as you said, is reputedly the most beautiful woman in the world, all of which makes her a thoroughly prestigious match. I fail to see a disadvantage from your perspective."

"Your mother may be all of those things and more, but she is old."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Old, Lady Olenna?"

"Old. The change will be upon her before long, as it is with all women. I'll spare you the details but you should remember that the sun sets on every shore, and Cersei's time is coming, make no mistake. It is a change you will have to deal with in time too."

I failed to contain a chuckle.

"Is something funny, Your Grace?"

I smirked.

"My lady, forgive such a delicate question, but is Loras capable of procreation?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Since you mean to cast aspersions on my mother's fertility, I am curious as to how confident you are in Loras' ability to perform his marital duties."

"Do you have a problem with Loras' persuasion?"

"Not at all, but if that persuasion renders a man incapable of consummation, as it apparently did for Renly, I fail to see how my mother's fertility is of any relevance to this matter. On the other hand, if you seriously believe that Loras can produce children, I invite you to believe with an equal zeal that my mother will provide them for him."

Olenna shook her head.

"You don't last as long as I have by being a zealot. It is a chance we simply cannot take."

I nodded slowly in understanding.

"You don't like the uncertainty." I rapped on the table, mulling it over. "That's fine; I will simply give the command for Loras to be drafted to the Kingsguard with or without his consent. He will take his vows this afternoon, and move into the White Sword Tower tonight, and that will be the end of the matter. If he refuses, he will not simply have abandoned his duty but committed treason and will be sentenced to death, and you will have lost your prize flower anyway. In years to come, Highgarden will pass to my brother's children, and House Tyrell will cease to be. Does that satisfy your need for clarity, Lady Olenna, or am I wasting my time here?"

Olenna did not outwardly show any anger, but I sensed that I had won.

Sure enough, she nodded slowly.

"It's a rare thing for a man to live up to his reputation. It's rarer still for one to surpass all expectation. Whatever the rumours about your blood, Your Grace, there can be no doubt that you are Tywin Lannister's grandson."

I decided not to take the bait, and simply smiled pleasantly.

"I will take that as a compliment."

I wasn't exactly sure it was, though.

Chapter Text

It hadn't escaped my notice that Grandfather always happened to be writing an important letter whenever someone went to him for something.

Sure enough, there he was, nose pointed firmly down at the parchment.

My mother often used the technique too, but she wasn't half as good at it so I'd soon worked out how to counteract it.

The first thing to do was to lean over the letter like you meant to read it. That usually worked on my mother because she never had anything important to write letters about and she just pretended to do it, so the moment you leaned over the parchment and saw that it was blank, the game was up.

When Grandfather did it, the solution was quite simple: you started talking and you kept talking until he looked up.

I leaned over the chair.

"I had lunch with Olenna Tyrell today; she's a formidable woman, I think you'll find her stimulating."

He remained stubbornly engrossed in his work.

"We talked about many subjects: the war, Lord Mace, his father, my father, Sansa's father... It was all very interesting."

My mother would have cracked by now.

"We also discussed marriages; Lady Olenna had a particularly good story about her husband, the Late Lord Luthor. He sounds like a funny man. Rode his horse off a cliff, apparently."

Still nothing.

I decided I'd had my fun.

"I've solved your problem for you."

Finally, he placed his quill down and looked up.

"What problem might that be?"

"Ser Loras will marry my mother after all."

He blinked in suppressed surprise.

"How did you achieve this?"

"The Tyrells were hesitant about him joining the Kingsguard so I made the decision for them. Their breeches are now nailed firmly to our mast."

"I see."

He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "Sit down, Joffrey."

I tilted my head.

"Is that how a Hand should address his King?"

"No, but I speak to you now not as your Hand but as your grandfather, and I would have you listen as my grandson. Sit, please."

I wondered if I was the only person to whom Tywin Lannister had ever said please.

I complied.

"I was not being disingenuous when I said that you had done well in my absence; your grasp on the Small Council is to be commended, as is your manner of dealing with the Faith, but you cannot spend your time as King continuously fighting fires when you have others who will do so in your stead. You are clever enough to realise that a wise king knows what he does not know, and appoints advisors to compensate."

"'The King shits, the Hand wipes?'"

"Quite. You would have made an excellent Hand, perhaps even better than me, but you are not the Hand, nor will you ever be. Do you think the Old King ruled for so long by assuming that he knew better than everyone else, or did he appoint good advisors to his council and listen to them before making a decision?"

"If I remember my history correctly, he did both."

"Yes, but most importantly, he did not allow the former to obstruct the latter. You must use the minds of those around you as you would use your own."

"Forgive me, but I don't trust other people's minds. I trust my mind while letting other people change it if they are able to do so."

He nodded.

"That is good, but remember that you are young. Clever, but young. I was young and clever once, and the King called upon me to run his Kingdom. I did so to the best of my abilities, and I encountered jealousy and resistance with every step. You will do the same, only it will not be a king that wishes to spite you, but those of lower birth than you. Use that advantage well, and take care not to cut off your nose to spite your face as Aerys did. The Small Council will serve you, but it will also frustrate you at every turn. You have already experienced this, which is a marked improvement on your father's efforts."

"You don't have to tell me not to be like my father. I know what he was; I could smell it a mile away."

"Yet your father did well to listen. After the Rebellion, he wanted to eradicate every house that had supported the Mad King, root and branch. Jon Arryn counselled mercy, Robert listened, and for 17 years the realm was at peace."

I inclined my head.

"Aerys also listened. When you arrived at King's Landing, swearing loyalty to House Targaryen, it wasn't the Mad King who decided to open the gates. It was Pycelle who told him to let you in, and Aerys listened well."

"If you know that, then you also know that the Grand Maester was right to do so, just as Jaime was right to put his sword through the Mad King's back."

"That doesn't change the fact that Pycelle poured poison into his ear, even before the steel pierced his heart. How do I know I won't get the same?"

"You cannot. There will always be those who smile to your face and sharpen their knives behind your back, but if you rule well, there will be fewer knives. The Mad King made more enemies than he did friends because he was not a good king. Good kings defeat their enemies and avoid making new ones, but even the best are not truly immune to danger. Even if they were, they only have so much time in this world. I am old, Joffrey, and I will die before long. So will your mother and your uncles, your sister and your brother, and you. It is the family line that lives on, and it is the first duty of any king to ensure that it does so."

Ah, this old chestnut.

"I am not Aegon the Unworthy, I can't rule the Seven Kingdoms from my own bed, as lovely as that would be. I can either take an interest in affairs of state as you say I should, or I can spend more time trying to make an heir as you say I should, but I can't do both."

"You overstate the problem. You have many capable subordinates who will handle your affairs while you do your duty. Otherwise, there is little point in having them."

And there it was, just as Tyrion had said. Tywin had a talent for making the unacceptable impossible to argue against. What he wanted was also good for me, at least in theory.

I frowned.

"I'm confused. Are you speaking as my grandfather or my Hand?"

"That is for you to decide: I would give you the same counsel either way. It does not matter if you are a king, or a lord, or a farmer; your family cannot continue unless your wife bears you children. From what I understand, you did not even try for a number of months."

"I felt that the risk was too great. She was too young to carry children; she was not even flowered when we married. You of all people should understand the risks of childbirth."

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, but I could not take it back.

Tywin did not outwardly appear any angrier than usual, but he responded curtly.

"I have a son. You do not."

I tilted my head.

"Are you talking about Jaime or Tyrion?"

He clenched his jaw and stood abruptly.

"If Your Grace will excuse me, I must attend a meeting of the Small Council."

Evidently, he meant for me to go running back to my chambers.

"As must I," I stood, meeting his gaze. "You can't avoid that question forever, and we both know it only has one answer."

We remained in a momentary standoff, neither of us willing to blink first.

I strode briskly into the Small Council chamber, where the newly assembled council was waiting, and took my place in the king's seat.

Tywin followed shortly after and sat to my right.

"My lords, I apologise for keeping you waiting for so long. My recovery took longer than anticipated and my wife was unwilling to let me leave my bed."

A chuckle went around the room.

Varys leaned forward.

"Your Grace's health is paramount, and it is good to have you back."

I smiled and nodded.

"To business, then. First, a point of order: as I'm sure you are aware, the posts of Master of Laws and Master of Ships will be filled by Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Paxter Redwyne respectively. I've been assured that they will arrive within the fortnight. Furthermore, the post of Master of Coin, in light of Lord Baelish's elevation to Lord of Harrenhal, has passed to Tyrion Lannister."

The Imp raised his goblet.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"How are our resources?"

"The Crown's finances are still, shall we say, in a less than satisfactory condition, but with the support of House Tyrell and other Southern houses, I believe that our situation will improve dramatically with time. Our new allies will be of great help in that respect: they have already committed significant quantities of grain, oats and rye, and with all the men coming into the capital with those goods, there should be plenty of gold moving around soon enough. I have also spoken to Lady Olenna about the wedding between Prince Tommen and Lady Margaery and she has agreed that the family of the bride shall cover half the costs of the Royal Wedding. All of these things, as well as the cost-cutting measures which Your Grace ordered prior to the Battle of Blackwater Bay, leave us with room for optimism."

"And the Iron Bank?"

Tywin sniffed.

"The Iron Bank will have its due, and it is prepared to wait for it. We have other priorities right now."

"Nevertheless, I think it prudent for us to avoid making any more enemies, wouldn't you say, Grandfather?" I gave him a sideways glance. When he did not retort, I continued, "For every ten sacks the Tyrells bring to the city, store five for use now, two for winter, and sell the remaining three so that we can pay off our debts."

Tyrion swallowed.

"Your Grace, I don't think the Tyrells would approve of us requisitioning their goods for our own debts."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Why do you think I'm telling you to do this now, before Lord Tyrell takes his place on this council? We've paid through our noses for that grain, so we'll use it as we damn well please. If they complain, we'll remind them what they sold us and we sold them. They've made their bed, just as we have." Wishing to change the subject, I turned to Varys. "Lord Varys, what news of Stannis?"

"He is alive, Your Grace, and has fled to Dragonstone with the meagre remnants of his army. That island is the only territory he holds with any certainty; the vast majority of the houses that backed him have surrendered, and their lands have returned to the fold. The others, such as House Florent, have abandoned their keeps and sailed to join him. Stannis no longer has a foothold in the South."

"It appears your Spider has forgotten his history, Your Grace." For the first time, Princess Arianne addressed the room. "It was from Dragonstone that Aegon launched his Conquest. That island is as good a foothold as any."

Varys smiled politely at her.

"I forget nothing, Princess, especially not history. Stannis is not Aegon the Conqueror; there are stark differences. He has no dragons, for a start. Nor does he have a fleet, nor a powerful enough ally to lend him support were he to attempt another assault on the mainland. Perhaps he believes that his Red Witch can fly him ashore, but the reality is quite different."

Arianne turned to me.

"Why not go to Dragonstone, then? Squash Stannis and end this war for certain."

I sank back into my seat, thinking.

"Lord Tywin?"

"Attacking Dragonstone is pointless. It is, by design, a superlative stronghold. It would take far more than we could muster to reach the keep, let alone take it. The Princess is right, however, to say that Stannis is far from beaten. He will fight to the bitter end, and then some, but at this time he lacks the means to do so and we lack the means to kill him. The North must take priority now."

Arianne did not back down.

"Your Grace, allow me to send word to my lord father. A hundred Dornishmen will do what the entire Lannister army cannot."

"Dragonstone has only ever been taken once without a long siege, and Aegon II had a dragon and several turncoats on his side. The remainder of Stannis' followers are not just loyal to him personally; they are religious zealots who believe him to be a saviour. If they have not abandoned him by now, there is little chance that they will open the gates for anyone."

"Dornishmen do not need to be let into a city to sack it, Lord Tywin."

Sensing where this was going, I stood.

"Princess, your enthusiasm is encouraging, but I will not waste good men, Dornish or otherwise, trying to take a castle I do not need unless I am certain that it will cost nothing. Dragonstone is not a target that can be taken easily. Surely you can understand this."

"Taking Dragonstone is not the objective; Stannis is the objective. If you will not send soldiers, send a Faceless Man to kill him and end this war."

Tyrion snorted.

"If we scrounge around a bit, we might be able to find enough gold to hire a Faceless Man's big toe. The rebuilding of the city's defences and the Royal Wedding take precedence right now."

I tilted my head back at Arianne.

"We have no need to take Dragonstone, and Stannis will not be much of a threat if he stays there. If he leaves, we will act. Before that happens, though, the benefits of attacking him now are outweighed by the cost, and as Lord Tywin says, the Northern front is our priority. That is my last word on the matter."

I sat back down, ignoring the Dornishwoman's glare.

"Varys?"

"It appears that Robb Stark has married a bride."

I shrugged.

"We knew that would happen anyway. Which Frey did he pick, in the end?"

Varys swallowed and opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"He did not marry a Frey."

I frowned.

"So who did he marry? The daughter of a Riverlord?"

"We... don't know."

"You don't know if she's the daughter of a Riverlord or you don't know who she is?"

"We know that her name is Talisa, and we know that she is not from the Riverlands, or at least that she is not from a noble house. There is a suggestion that she is the daughter of a great family in Volantis but I have not been able to confirm that this is so."

"So she might just be a camp follower?"

"Possibly."

"Why did he marry her, then?"

"That's a question only Robb Stark can answer, Your Grace."

"What about the Freys?"

"They have marched home."

"How many men?"

"Four thousand."

I winced.

"There's more."

I started.

"What else?"

"Robb Stark has executed Rickard Karstark for murdering two prisoners under his care. The Karstark forces have also abandoned the Northern cause."

I blinked at him like a simpleton as I absorbed the information.

"This isn't a joke?"

"No, Your Grace."

I let out a short chuckle.

Tyrion smiled morosely.

"It appears that Your Grace's instincts were correct."

"I never expected it to be quite so spectacular. Who were the prisoners?"

Varys glanced at Tywin.

"Willen and Martyn Lannister, Your Grace."

Tyrion sighed.

"Kevan's boys."

I turned to Tywin.

"Send him my condolences."

He nodded.

"Still, at least some good has come of it, and now we must decide how to drive home this advantage. The Northerners are divided; I would have us further those divisions. I suggest that I sign a royal order legitimising Jon Snow. He is a man of the Night's Watch and cannot take lands, but there will be lords in the North who will take any excuse to abandon Robb Stark now."

Tywin looked doubtful.

"You would topple one King in the North by crowning another?"

"I have it on good authority that Jon Snow would not accept the crown if it were offered to him, but the mere suggestion will cause doubts among the Northmen, especially now. Even if the North were to unify behind him, and he were to accept the crown, the Riverlands would not. He represents Eddard Stark's betrayal of his wife, and that is a slight they will not forgive. At the very least, it would tear House Stark apart.”

“You would risk surrendering any power over the North that we hold. As it stands, your wife is the last Stark child, and your son will be the heir to Winterfell should Robb Stark die without issue. Anointing Jon Snow, even if you are correct, complicates the succession. This will only create problems further down the line.”

“As opposed to now, where the problem is that we can’t defeat him in the field. I am trying to find a political answer to this problem because you have thus far failed to find a military one.”

Tywin stared at me for a few seconds, then looked around at the other councillors.

“The King and I will speak alone.”

Each of them looked as though they might argue, but I nodded quietly. They grudgingly stood and made to leave.

Tyrion waited, as though he expected to be called back, but neither my grandfather nor I said anything.

Once they had all left, Tywin turned back to me.

“You are right to say that the Young Wolf has us beaten in the field. You are also right to say that his support is fracturing and that we must take advantage, but creating new rivals is not a sound method of doing so. I know you desire a political solution to this problem, but there is no way to keep the North in the Seven Kingdoms while Robb Stark is alive.”

I sighed.

I had always wanted to spare Sansa the pain of losing any more of her family, but the opportunity to do so had never arisen. Ned Stark's death had torn the realm to shreds in a manner that I had not thought possible, and those wounds were impossible to heal now. Robb Stark would never come to the table with a Lannister again.

“So what do you suggest?”

“I recently received a raven from Roose Bolton. He too has lost faith in the Northern cause, and wishes to rectify his initial misstep in joining it.”

I raised my eyebrow skeptically.

“House Bolton have loathed the Starks for the better part of eternity, yet they never did anything about it. Why should this be any different?"

"Lord Bolton has been in contact with Walder Frey. He and a group of other lords, including the Karstarks, feel that the King in the North has broken his trust with them, and wish for his removal."

"And how do they plan to do that? Killing Robb Stark in broad daylight will just bring the rest of the North down on them."

"The Young Wolf will need to pass through the Twins in order to return to Winterfell, as he inevitably will. He will have to make amends to Lord Walder somehow, and will have to do so personally, which will place him in the jaws of a trap."

I could not believe my ears.

"Walder Frey is willing to violate guest right?"

"He feels most slighted by the Starks' betrayal."

I frowned.

"It sounds as though Lord Bolton and Lord Frey have this planned out for themselves. Why do we need to get involved?"

"Lord Walder will not act without assurances."

In other words, we were to protect him from his reckoning.

"And if we provide those assurances?"

"Then the war will be won. Renly Baratheon and Robb Stark will be dead, and Stannis and Balon Greyjoy will be irrelevant. The realm will be at peace, and you can get around to changing the world."

I shook my head.

"It's never that simple. What does Roose Bolton want in return for his services?"

"He will be named Warden of the North until your son by Sansa Stark comes of age. Then the North will be reunified with the rest of the Kingdoms by more than just steel."

"The North will never accept it."

"The North will accept a peace that frees them from an unwinnable war in the middle of the longest winter in living memory. If it takes Roose Bolton to help swallow the pill, so be it."

"And what about us? What will happen if it gets out that we sponsored this atrocity?"

He sniffed.

"Your Grace, if we want to win this war, Robb Stark must die. If he dies in the field, he will be slaughtered among thousands of others. How is that better than cutting the snake's head off at dinner?"

"The lords will not see it that way. To break guest right is a crime that cannot be wiped away."

"And it is Walder Frey who will commit this crime, and Walder Frey who will bear the stain of it, not that he will care. There is nothing that will tie us to it."

I rapped on the arms of my chair and looked across at my grandfather.

He was so satisfied with himself, I could almost see the smile threatening to break out, if he was indeed capable of smiling.

I wondered how one became like Tywin Lannister. Had he always been like this, or had the insults and slights that everyone referred to done it instead?

Or maybe it was just because he had no skin in the game. Nobody he cared about would be hurt by this scheme.

Sansa would be, though, and that meant that I had to care, or at least to be sure about how this was going to play out. It was my brother-in-law who was going to die, my son who would succeed him, and my wife who would suffer for it.

Then again, he was right: thousands more would die if the war continued, and there was no chance of reconciling with the Starks; whoever killed Ned Stark had seen to that. Perhaps I'd made a mistake taking responsibility for it.

Now was not the time to think about that, though.

"No one can know. If I give you my assent to do this, I want your word that nobody will know that we were involved."

Some would suspect, of course, but that was not enough, as I knew all too well.

"You have my word."

I swallowed thickly, and nodded.

"Very well."

Tywin nodded back, and stood.

"Yes, Your Grace."

As he left, I sank further into my chair, and watched him go.

Chapter Text

My hands tightened around the armrests of my chair.

"What were his exact words?"

"I offered my comiserations for missing out on his first choice. He said 'It's early days.'"

"And you believe that he was referring to Sansa, not her mother?"

Varys nodded.

"I do."

I sighed.

"Did you really have to goad him, Varys? I never took you for a gloater."

"If you're concerned about my incurring Littlefinger's wrath, I wouldn't worry; he enjoys our little sparring sessions."

"People are rarely killed in sparring sessions, yet your source was discovered and is probably dead. How did he find out?"

He shrugged.

"Littlefinger moves in mysterious ways."

I rubbed my eye.

"He isn't a god, Varys."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Will you tell him or shall I?"

Despite myself, I chuckled.

"Very clever, but you've still made a mess of this. Employing one of his own whores is unimaginative at best."

"And at worst?"

"Sloppy, and I use the word advisedly. You underestimated Littlefinger."

"I did, I accept it. The girl's death is on my conscience, but she still managed to inform me of certain interesting details of his activities before she was discovered."

"Such as?"

"He apparently commissioned two featherbeds for his cabin."

I froze.

There was only one reason why he would do such a thing, and there was one person I knew he wished to take.

I clenched my fists.

"Has he definitely left King's Landing?"

"A ship flying his sigil has left the docks for the Eyrie. To my knowledge, he was aboard at the time. It is equally possible that he was not."

"Watch the docks. If there's even a sight of him in this city again, I want to know."

"And what of the Queen?"

"Sansa has the Kingsguard to protect her, and I do not believe she will go with Littlefinger willingly. She knows what he is."

"Will that calculation change after you have destroyed her family?"

I breathed out slowly through my nose.

Of course, he knew. Even this secret he had somehow uncovered, even though it wasn't really a secret yet.

"If you have something to say, say it."

"I swore that I would serve you honestly, Your Grace. Within that remit is the possibility that I might one day have to pass judgement on you, or tell you that you are wrong."

I looked up into his eyes.

"If I am indeed wrong, Varys, kill me now. Don't waste my time trying to stop the inevitable, or torture me with the consequences of my mistakes."

Varys shook his head.

"Even if you were wrong, I would sooner let you suffer the consequences, for I am not an executioner," He took a seat opposite me. "But you are not wrong. This war serves nobody, and killing Robb Stark is the easiest way to end it. In that, I believe you are right."

"So you condone the killing of men who claim guest right?"

"If a man must die, as all men must, let him die at the cost of as little innocent blood as possible. Your father made the same calculation when he killed the Mad King."

I clenched my jaw at the mention of my heritage. It was a painful reminder of the power he held over me.

"You told the Mad King not to open the gates. You supported him to the last."

"I only advised him not to open the gates because I knew what would happen once the Lannister army entered the city, not because I wanted Aerys to remain on the Iron Throne. In truth, once Rhaegar fell, I saw that I had a choice between two unsuitable rulers, so I chose not to choose. I would serve whichever king emerged victorious until one worthy of the title revealed himself."

"So am I worthy, or am I just the king that happens to be on the throne right now?"

"At this moment, you are both. I am not blind, Your Grace, and I will not serve blindly; I will keep my eyes open and tell you what I see."

"And what do you see?"

"You take for granted Sansa's strength and intelligence yet you fail to imagine a scenario in which she turns those assets against you."

"I can imagine such a scenario just fine."

"Then you refuse to accept the possibility, which is just as foolish."

"Nobody is perfect, Varys. If I am in denial, leave me to deny it."

He got to his feet.

"Very well, but know this: there are many ways to rule wisely, but denying reality is not one of them. If you allow yourself that comfort, you will find it inescapable until the day it suffocates you."

I remained silent.

As a boy, whenever Robert had seen fit to chastise me for my perceived misdemeanours, I would respond by finding solace in my books. Since maesters got their knowledge from books, I reasoned that it was necessarily true that books contained, at the very least, the sum of all maesters' knowledge. I thought it best to cut out the middleman in those circumstances.

Books still held an escape for me after all these years, but exactly what I was escaping from had changed.

"Joffrey?"

I glanced up to see that Sansa had returned from her daily duties. She stood a few feet away from me, wringing her hands.

"Is something wrong?"

For a second, I felt panic rise in my gut. Had Varys betrayed me? Had someone let slip?

She shook her head, and I calmed immediately.

"No, not wrong. It's something right. So very right."

I frowned slightly and then saw her hands. She was holding them close to her stomach, closer than normal, almost like she was holding a...

"Sansa, are you...?"

Barely holding back tears, she nodded furiously and rushed into my arms.

It's a good thing I was already sat down because my legs would have given out.

I stared in stunned silence for a while, trying to absorb the news.

"Ho-how far along are you?"

"About a month, according to Shae. She was the one who noticed it first."

I nodded.

"Does anyone else know?"

"I asked her to keep it quiet for now. I wanted us to be in control of when we tell people."

"That's good:" I touched her belly. "This is our child, and nobody else's."

She grasped my hand and placed it firmly against her, and leaned in to press her forehead against mine.

"I love you."

"And I love you."

With that, I allowed myself to slip further into the comfort of denial.

Chapter Text

"I have a request to make of you."

I chuckled.

"Did your mother never teach you that it's rude to ask something of a man who hasn't even left his own bed?"

Sansa smiled.

"I'm sure she did, but you've taught me otherwise, especially given what we do in your bed."

Smart. Knowing when others are at their most vulnerable.

"Alright, I suppose I only have myself to blame."

She hesitated for a second, then took my hand placed it on her stomach. Her skin was still warm from our exertions, and even though there was no visible sign that she was with child, she seemed much more full of life than normal.

"I want our child to be able to go to Winterfell."

I frowned and sat up.

"They will. Once the war is over, we will all be able to go to Winterfell."

"And how long will that take? The war has been going on for nearly two years now and neither side is any closer to winning it."

"It will take as long as it takes. Wars don't stop just because people don't like them. In fact, the opposite is true."

"Most people don't have the power to stop it. We do."

I shook my head.

"We don't."

"What's the point of being the king if you can't stop a war from breaking out?"

"The war had already started when I took the throne. I can't just roll it up like a carpet and stuff it away."

"That's not what I'm asking you to do. I'm asking you to sit down with Robb and try to stop this."

"Negotiations only work when both sides have strong bargaining positions. If I go to the table now, I will do so at a disadvantage, which means that he has no reason to negotiate."

"Even for me?"

"Robb believes that both you and your sister are in this city and has done since the beginning, yet he still marched from Winterfell when I could have killed you for it."

"You wouldn't kill me."

"I know I wouldn't, and you know I wouldn't. Did Robb know that?"

She looked away, unable to answer for a moment, then turned back.

"Then don't negotiate yet. Meet with him. Let him see me happy and healthy at your side, and convince him that you are as good as I know you are."

"That wouldn't be enough, even if Robb was convinced."

"But he's the King in the North."

"He is the King in the North only by virtue of having the support of the Northern lords. The North doesn't have an Iron Throne to bind those lords to him, so he has to listen to them. They want the North to be independent, and nothing Robb can say will change the fact that they hate me."

"They all loved my father; they will listen to his daughter."

I sighed.

"Sansa, this may not be what you want to hear, but if your father truly believed that he was universally loved, he was a fool. If you believe that too, here in this city of all places, you're an even greater fool. If you think everyone loves you, you're blind."

"Yet the North rallied unanimously behind my brother. They will be loyal to him."

"The North rallied behind Robb because they saw a future with him as their king. You might have been part of that future once, but Robb is now married and he'll have a child on the way just like we do. You're no longer the future of the North and nor is our child, not to the Umbers or the Manderlys or the Mormonts. To them, you're the future of House Lannister."

"All the more reason to try! If Robb is going to have a child, do you think he will want to be fighting while his wife sits in a faraway castle raising his son, or will he want to be with them? My mother knows what it's like to raise a baby for a man who might not ever come home; she would not wish that on any of her children, and Robb knows that."

I thought about it.

She was right. There was no reason not to appeal to the newborn parent in Robb Stark just as Sansa was appealing to the newborn parent in me. If it didn't work, the war would continue, and if it did, the war would end.

Except, of course, it would end before any of that, but Sansa couldn't know that, and she might begin to suspect if I pushed back against what was otherwise a relatively risk-free idea.

I nodded.

"I suppose it can't hurt to try."

She wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Thank you."

Sansa handed me her letter, already sealed with the sigil of House Stark.

I didn't question it. Whatever she had written was between her and her brother. It was highly unlikely that it would be read anyway.

I bound it together with the letter than I had written so that the Stark seal showed first, and nodded at her as she left the chamber.

I stood and glanced at the fire crackling in the wall. For a moment, I was tempted to scrunch up the letters and throw them in so that I could watch them burn to ash.

No one would know.

I stared for a time.

Eventually, it came down to a simple question: was I capable of lying to Sansa?

I realised what the answer was, and walked out of the royal apartments.

After making sure that she was not following me, I turned away from the rookery and instead headed for the lower levels of the Red Keep.

I knocked on Varys' door.

"Enter."

He stood and bowed as he saw it was me.

"Your Grace, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

I held out the bundle.

He glanced at the sigil and then back at me.

"Have you changed your mind?"

I shook my head.

"No, I'm... hedging my bets. Sansa suggested sending a letter to her family and I couldn't say no without arousing her suspicions."

He nodded.

"What did she write?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to. You can open it if you feel the need to but I won't."

"You do not wish to read it because you are worried about what she wrote."

"Yes and no."

He shrugged.

"A fair response. What would you have me do with it?"

I sighed.

"Have it delivered to Riverrun. I am not supposed to know that the Starks are returning to the Twins, but Riverrun is the seat of House Tully and it's a reasonable destination for any message. If the Starks have their affairs in order, it will be forwarded to the Twins and it might just save their lives. If not, it's hardly my fault that their channels of communication aren't good enough."

"Do you wish for it to be misplaced?"

"No. I want to be able to look Sansa in the eye and tell her that I tried to stop this madness."

"And, of course, if the message is not delivered, you will be able to place the blame on me."

A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth.

"Think of it as extra motivation."

Varys reciprocated and took the letters from me.

"It is a peculiar state of affairs that we find ourselves in, isn't it? You have just handed me the power to destroy you."

"I have, but I also believe that you are a man of your word. You would do me the courtesy of telling me before you destroy me."

"So that you, in turn, could destroy me."

"I wonder which one of us would destroy the other first."

"I hope it never comes to that, truly, but I must ask what happens if your message does indeed reach Robb Stark."

"Then he will know that I saved his life. I hope that will count for something someday."

"It already does; it must, or you would not be taking this risk."

"It's only a risk if I can't trust you. That's hardly the height of altruism."

"You don't know that you can trust me, so it is still a risk, and we both know there is no such thing as altruism."

"It counts for love, then. If that's the case, I can certainly live with it."

"The things we do for love."

Chapter Text

I felt a familiar sense of dread wash over me as I entered the Small Council chamber.

Tywin Lannister was smiling.

I glanced at Varys.

The Spider shook his head minutely.

The news was not good, then.

Although I already knew the answer, I had to ask as I took my place.

"Why have you convened this meeting, Lord Tywin?"

Pycelle produced a small scroll and placed it before me.

Unable to show my trepidation, I picked it up swiftly and unfurled it.

"Roslin caught a fine, fat trout. Her brothers gave her a pair of wolf pelts for her wedding. Signed Walder Frey."

Tyrion sniffed derisively.

"Is that bad poetry or is it supposed to mean something?"

Tywin looked at him with disdain.

"It means that the war is over."

I placed the scroll down.

"Robb Stark is dead, along with his mother and his wife."

Tyrion glanced at Tywin and back.

"You mean Walder Frey murdered them at a wedding."

Arianne laughed haughtily from her perch.

"Come, Lord Tyrion. We here in this room all know who really killed them." She stood. "Now the whole world knows the meaning of the phrase, "A Lannister always pays his debts."

With that, she left.

"Grand Maester," I murmured quietly. "Would you be so kind as to write to Lord Frey and Lord Bolton, thanking them for their service?"

Pycelle nodded and wobbled from the room.

Tyrion rounded on me.

"The raven made no reference to Roose Bolton. You knew about this."

"I did."

"How could you do this to Sansa? To your wife?"

"Robb Stark was going to die at some point. Why should it matter how?"

That was my excuse, anyway.

"At a wedding, Joffrey! If he had died on the battlefield, it might have been explainable but a wedding? How could you do something so monstrous?!"

I breathed in through my nose, seething.

"Before you get on your high horse, Tyrion, I suggest you look at your reflection; not a single one of us has escaped this war without blood on our hands. We are all monsters in our own ways."

"Perhaps you should speak more softly, then. Monsters are dangerous, and just now Kings are dying like flies."

Silence fell, deafening, all-consuming, as I clenched my jaw and stood over him.

"I'm afraid I didn't hear that remark. Would you care to repeat it?"

Tyrion swallowed and shook his head.

"No, Your Grace. It wasn't important."

"I thought not."

I sat back down.

"That does not change the fact that Walder Frey is hardly known for his loyalty or his initiative, much less his bravery. He would not have done this without assurances."

Tywin stirred himself from his stupor of self-satisfaction.

"Which he got from me, with the King's permission."

"So Walder Frey gets all the credit, or the blame, depending on your point of view. What does Roose Bolton get out of it?"

"He managed what his ancestors could not and vanquished House Stark; he will also serve as Warden of the North until Joffrey's second son by Sansa Stark comes of age. Then the Realm will be united once more."

"That is but a temporary reward."

"All things are temporary, except family, and while I still breathe I will act to protect this family. Do you disapprove?"

"I'm all for cheating, this is war, but to slaughter them at a wedding..."

Unable to stomach any further discussion, I slammed my hands down on the table and stood.

"We can go around in circles forever if you want, but what's done is done. Crying about how it happened won't help Robb Stark in whichever hell he's in, and it won't help us in whichever hell we end up in ourselves."

I stormed from the room, stalking through the corridors for a few seconds before stopping at a window.

King's Landing stretched as far as the eye could see. It seemed as though, for now at least, the only smoke on the horizon would be that which billowed from the Street of Steel.

That was, surely, a victory.

It did not feel like one.

"Your Grace."

Varys appeared at my shoulder.

"Did you deliver the message, or did you tear it to shreds the moment I gave it to you?"

"The message was delivered to Riverrun, but it never reached the Twins."

I nodded, tapping my fingers against the wall.

"So it's still somewhere to be found?"

"Yes. I can rectify that if you wish."

"No, let it become another one of those slanders that slither into people's ears. Let it grow and fester until it bursts from them stronger than ever. Either they will believe it or they won't, it makes no difference."

"Even if it catches the attention of Lord Bolton?"

"He will only rule the North with my blessing. If he wants to spurn me, on his head be it."

"And what of Lord Tywin? He will not be pleased if he discovers that you attempted to scupper his masterstroke."

I grinned.

"I can always deny the rumour."

Varys returned the grin.

He knew, as I did, that you should never believe a rumour about someone until they say it isn't true.

The grin was fleeting, though, and he sobered up quickly.

"How will you tell her?"

I sighed and looked back outside.

"I will... twist the truth as much I dare. She need not know everything."

He regarded me with poorly concealed doubt.

"She may not need to either."

I glanced at him for a second, and he left my side.

I paused briefly as I reached the door, clenching and unclenching my fist as I rehearsed what I had to say. Drawing in a final, deep breath, I entered our chambers.

"Sansa?"

No response.

Unnerved, I moved through the rooms.

Sansa sat in a chair at our dining table, her hands folded in her lap.

I stopped in my tracks as I saw what she was wearing.

Grey and white. The Stark colours.

I looked at her face. Impassive though it was, there was no question what she was concealing.

Rage.

I noticed for the first time a goblet beside her on the table.

"What is that?"

She glanced at it.

"Moon tea."

My heart crawled up and curled around my throat.

"What have you done, Sansa?"

"Nothing yet."

"Why?"

"It seems like a fitting revenge: your future torn to shreds by the one you love the most.”

"Revenge for what?"

Her nostrils flared.

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know, not to me. My brother is dead because of you.”

“Robb was murdered by Walder Frey.”

“'The Late Lord' Walder Frey’s cowardice is legendary. Do you seriously expect me to believe that he would have done this without outside encouragement?

“And you think I was that encouragement?”

“I think you knew. At the very least, you knew and you failed to stop it, which makes you weak. At the very worst, you gave the order yourself; that makes you evil. Which is it, Joffrey?”

I sighed, knowing the game was up.

"I knew, but I did not give the order."

"Then who did?"

"You know who."

"And you didn't overrule him?"

"No, I did not. It would not have stopped it."

"Then what is the point of you having that crown? You can't stop wars, you can't protect people, and you can't overrule your own subjects. What is the point of it, Joffrey?"

My silence was all the answer she needed.

"Did you know before I asked you to make peace?"

"I did."

"And what did you do with the letter I gave you?"

"I sent it, along with another letter warning Robb of what was going to happen, but it arrived too late. You're right, Sansa: I tried and I failed."

She shook her head.

"I don't believe you."

"You think I would bother lying to you now? That I would be stupid enough to try?"

"I think that you will say anything to stop me from drinking this potion."

I ground my teeth together.

"Do you know what will happen if you do?"

"You'll kill me."

"No. I still need you, but you won't be my wife anymore. You'll just be the woman who murdered my child."

I stepped forward and loomed over her.

"Imagine all the things you’ve ever wanted to do to your enemies, the things you want to do to me now; they pale in comparison to what I would do to the woman who killed my child.”

As brilliant as she was, as well as I had taught her, Sansa still wasn't the politician she imagined herself to be.

She still hadn't quite worked out how to lie to me.

She swallowed, withdrawing slightly under my gaze, but still tried to maintain her poise.

"I don't believe you." She repeated.

"I don't believe you either. You are capable of so much, but not of this. I might be wrong, of course, but if I am, you have to accept the possibility that you are too. Is that a risk you want to take?"

Sansa stared up at me, trembling, then looked down at the goblet for a moment. With a cry of pain and frustration, she lashed out and knocked it over, sending its contents splashing over the table.

I rushed forward and took her in my arms as her body heaved with sobs.

I held her there for what felt like an eternity, until the worst had passed.

Sansa placed her fists against me and pushed.

"Don't touch me."

I obliged, and let go.

She untangled herself from me.

"I hate you. I don't think I can even stand the sight of you."

I bowed my head, unable to argue with her.

She placed her hands on her stomach.

"You've forfeited your rights to my heart, to my bed, and especially to my baby. I don't want you anywhere near us."

I shook my head.

"We both know that's not going to happen, Sansa."

"You don't have a choice." She spat.

"I do. You are the Queen and I am the King."

She sneered at me.

"What was it that your grandfather said? 'Any man who must say 'I am the King' is no true king.'"

Before I could respond, she turned on her heel and walked out.

Grinding my teeth, I rotated on the spot while I got my temper under control, then went outside my chambers to find Ser Barristan.

"I want Sansa under constant watch, just in case she gets it into her head to do something stupid. Make sure she eats, drinks, takes care of herself and the baby."

Ser Barristan regarded me impassively.

"I will have Ser Preston fetch Shae, Your Grace."

"No, not Shae. She's too unpredictable. Find someone else."

"As you wish."

The old knight was clearly none too happy about Robb Stark's dishonourable end.

I didn't have the energy to fight another losing battle so I let it go. Instead, I trudged back into my chambers and lay down in my bed.

It was difficult to see how this could have turned out worse, yet in her fury, Sansa had asked a very pertinent question:

What was the point of being King, if all I did was let the tide sweep me up and into black whirlpools like this?

Chapter Text

"Your Grace?"

"Who's dead now?"

The servant frowned.

"No one, Your Grace."

I put down my quill and leaned back in my chair.

"That's an improvement, at least. What is it?"

"A man has been stopped trying to enter Maegor's Holdfast. He claims to be Ser Jaime Lannister."

Father.

I stood.

"Take me to him."

It took me a moment to recognise the haggard, hunched, handless figure that stood before me. This shadow better resembled a wet dog than a knight of the Kingsguard.

And yet, shadow or not, those piercing green eyes, eyes much like mine, still glinted.

"Ser Jaime. I see that your journey has been... difficult."

Jaime glanced down at his stump.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that. Nonetheless, I am here to return to your service, Your Grace."

I nodded slowly, and sniffed the air.

"After a bath, I hope."

Jaime smiled sardonically.

"I wouldn't object to a good meal either."

I nodded and turned to go back across the drawbridge.

"Where is the Queen?"

I paused.

"Sansa is attending to her duties."

"And your mother?"

Before I could answer that, Tyrion rushed into the room.

"Jaime."

The two brothers embraced.

"What has happened to you?"

"It's a long story, brother, and I'd rather tell it with a fresh pair of breeches." He turned back to me. "One other thing, Your Grace. My companions-"

I nodded.

"I'll have arrangements made for them."

"Actually, they would like to speak to you."

I blinked.

"It would be rude of me to refuse."

As Tyrion escorted Jaime into Maegor's Holdfast, I crossed over the drawbridge and was greeted by one of the strangest sights I had ever seen.

One of them looked very much like a septon or a maester, but the other, who I now realised was a woman, was taller than any woman I'd ever seen. Even the Mountain might have had trouble peeking over her head.

What an odd pair.

They both bowed deeply.

"Your Grace." The tall one murmured nervously. "My name is Brienne of Tarth. I was in the service of Lady Catelyn Stark, and was tasked with escorting Ser Jaime to King's Landing."

"Then we are in your debt, Lady Brienne, and I thank you. However, it appears that you failed to bring him back in one piece."

She hung her head.

"Yes, Your Grace. We were apprehended, and Ser Jaime lost his hand trying to stop our captors from forcing themselves on me."

"Apprehended by whom?"

"Bannermen of Lord Bolton. He gave us an escort back to King's Landing as restitution for Ser Jaime's maiming. He was keen that Lord Tywin should know that."

Small wonder.

"So these bannermen acted alone?"

"They did, and they would have done far worse had it not been for Ser Jaime. I owe him my life."

I nodded. I would have to bring that up with Lord Bolton another time.

"He always did have more bravery than sense, so perhaps this experience has matured him somewhat. As for you, Lady Brienne, it is as I said; I am in your debt. If there is anything you would ask that is within my power, I will provide it for you and send you on your way."

"Like I said, I was in the service of Lady Catelyn Stark. She released Ser Jaime on the condition that he return her daughters to her. I am to uphold that bargain by escorting them back to Riverrun."

My expression hardened.

"Catelyn Stark is dead."

"She is, but I remain true to my vows."

"Riverrun is besieged, Winterfell is in ruins, and Sansa is my wife. I will not allow you to leave here with her, and even if I were to do so, there is nowhere you could go."

"And Arya?"

"Arya Stark has not been seen since her father's arrest. She is presumed dead."

"Then I will find her."

I sighed.

I recognised that stubborn stance. It was one I'd seen all too often on people who insisted on having stupid ideas.

"Your Grace, if I might make a suggestion."

For the first time, the man spoke up, softly.

"Yes?"

"As I understand it, Lady Brienne swore an oath of fealty to Lady Stark. As Lady Stark has sadly been killed, that promise should now pass to her children."

I mulled it over. It occurred to me that Sansa might feel more comfortable with a woman as her bodyguard.

Of course, she might well instruct Brienne to kill me, or to help spirit her from the Red Keep, but that seemed a remote possibility, given her condition, and even then it seemed unlikely that she would succeed in either.

I nodded.

"Very well." I turned to Brienne. "Go to Sansa, renew your oath to her. If she instructs you to find her sister, I will give you arms and armour, and if she wishes for you to remain here, I will have lodging found for you in Maegor's Holdfast."

Brienne bowed.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

As she went to Sansa, I turned back to the old man.

"What is your name, ser?"

He smiled

"Not a ser, Your Grace. My name is simply Qyburn."

"You dress like a maester, Qyburn, and yet I see no chain."

"Your Grace is perceptive. I was indeed a maester once, until the Citadel saw fit to strip me of my chain."

"For what crime?"

"My experiments were bold, my methods unorthodox, and there are few things more reviled at the Citadel than boldness and unorthodoxy."

I nodded, suspecting that there was a bit more to this, but not willing to push it.

"In that case, you'll be pleased to know that I don't mind going against convention, and just like Lady Brienne, I owe you a debt. If you wish for your chain to be returned, I will see it done."

"Your Grace honours me, but I do not believe that the Citadel would welcome me back even if you did compel them to do so. It is an old institution, and like all old institutions, its ways are set in stone. I would likely find myself in a place far worse than Harrenhal."

I was starting to like this one.

"Then what can I offer you instead?"

"While I wandered the Seven Kingdoms, I helped people, using the fruits of my earlier labour to enhance my technique, and it was in that capacity that I served at Harrenhal. If Your Grace will have me, I would serve you as I did Lord Bolton, and continue my research alongside my service. I would require only a laboratory and... subjects on which to perform experiments."

I raised my eyebrow.

"By subjects, you mean the prisoners who would otherwise be destined for the Wall?"

"If Your Grace would be so kind."

'Kind' seemed an odd word to use.

Still, those condemned to the Wall were often of the worst sort. A fate worse than death was still too good for them.

And it would be good not to have to rely on Pycelle, given his loyalty to my grandfather.

"I will think about it. In the meantime, please attend to Ser Jaime."

Qyburn bowed and smiled again.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

There's something deeply unsettling about an amputated limb. Beyond the obvious bodily discomfort, there's a simple, sharp finality. Your eye follows the arm from the shoulder, across the skin, over the muscles and through the joints, and at the end, nothing.

Qyburn poked the absence with a finger.

"The skin has formed a seal over the wound. There should be no more physical symptoms."

Jaime frowned.

"As opposed to what?"

"Those who have lost limbs often report feeling pain in their severed appendages. It appears that we all have a deeply ingrained internal map of ourselves; when something is missing, we search for it, even though it can never be found."

"Pain I can handle. Will it itch?"

"It might."

I grimaced.

Imagine constantly feeling an itch but never being able to scratch it.

"We're going to have to find a replacement for your hand. I don't want to be staring at a stump all day."

Tyrion stroked his chin.

"We could have a replacement forged for you. Gilded steel, embossed lions, the works."

"I'd prefer a hook, personally. More practical."

I sighed.

"Whatever suits your needs."

Qyburn unfurled a string.

"I will take the necessary measurements and consult with the blacksmiths if you wish."

At that moment, the door to the room opened and Sansa walked in.

She peered around the room and tilted her head.

"So, it's true. The Kingslayer is back in King's Landing." She looked at me. "Perhaps you should be careful, husband."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"Did you meet with Lady Brienne?"

"I did. She seems an honourable woman."

"What have you decided?"

"She will stay here as my sworn shield, for now."

I nodded.

"Alright. I'll see to it that she gets lodging near your quarters."

An awkward silence fell between us. The back-and-forth, the wit, that was all gone.

We were just two strangers again.

Qyburn glanced up from his work.

"I see that congratulations are in order, Your Grace."

Sansa frowned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are with child, are you not?"

Nobody said anything.

He turned to me. "I apologise if this has come as a shock to you, Your Grace."

"Don't worry about it, Qyburn. Sansa and I knew."

"How could you tell?"

Qyburn looked her up and down.

"Even in the early stages, a woman who is with child exhibits certain changes to her body language, gait, and stance. There is also a distinctive scent, which only pregnant women have."

Sansa and I cringed simultaneously.

Tyrion sat forward.

"Hold on a moment. You're pregnant?"

Sansa nodded.

"I am."

"It's the first I've heard of it."

She smirked.

"Lord Tyrion, as you may have noticed, our King has a habit of keeping secrets from his family."

I clenched my fist. I could have pointed out that she had also been party to that decision, but what good would that do?

Sensing that she'd won this battle, Sansa walked out with her head held high.

Qyburn finished his measurements and stood.

"With your permission, Your Grace, I will take these to an armourer and see what can be done for Ser Jaime."

I nodded.

"I'll see to it that you get your laboratory, so long as you keep quiet about this conversation."

He bowed.

"I understand, Your Grace, and thank you. My lords."

Once he was gone, Jaime turned to me.

"That was Sansa Stark? The silly little girl who clung to your leg all the way back from Winterfell?"

"It was."

"What in the Seven Hells have you done to her?"

"I married her. Then I gave my permission for her family to be killed."

"I suppose that would do it. Families are troublesome things sometimes."

I laughed humourlessly.

"I've become very acutely aware of that, Father"

The blood drained from Jaime's face. He glanced at Tyrion and back at me.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't, or at least I wasn't certain before you asked."

Jaime sighed.

"You always were too clever."

I sat back.

"Well?"

"Your mother was thrilled when your hair turned out like ours. Robert... disappointed her."

"He disappointed me too, but I managed to refrain from bedding Myrcella."

"Joffrey, you can't choose who you love any more than you can choose your family."

"I can test that theory, if you like."

Evidently, Jaime's patience had worn thin. He couldn't handle the suspense anymore.

"Where is your mother, Joffrey?"

"Casterly Rock."

His eyes widened.

"What?!"

"I couldn't trust her to stay out of my way, so I made sure. In any case, it doesn't matter: she will soon be moving to Highgarden with her new husband."

He leapt to his feet.

"I walked halfway across this godsforsaken country; I killed my own cousin; I lost my hand to get back to this damned city, and you're telling me it was for nothing."

I met his gaze unblinkingly.

"That depends on your reason for coming back. If you come back for duty, to serve your King and your Lord Commander, then I welcome you back with open arms, but if you come back for love, and you intend to pursue that purpose further, then I will have no choice but to remove you from the Kingsguard."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tyrion stiffen.

"The Kingsguard's vows are for life."

I blinked.

"Do you know what happened the last time a Kingsguard tried that argument with me?"

"What?"

"The Kingsguard died. In any case, it isn't true. You serve at my pleasure and I can dismiss you at my pleasure. If that's what you want, pack your things, depart for Lannisport and enjoy managing a gold mine for the rest of your life."

The wind taken from his sails, Jaime sat back down. He stewed for a few seconds before opening his mouth again.

"What about Tommen and Myrcella? Do they know?"

"Tommen almost certainly doesn't, and he's not smart enough to work it out himself. Myrcella... Myrcella might have pieced it together; I don't know that she hasn't and we never discussed it before she left for Dorne."

"So who does know?"

"You, me, Mother, Tyrion, Sansa, and Varys."

"And you trust Varys?"

"I trust him to do what he thinks is right. He does not want another war."

"And Sansa? Doesn't she want revenge for what you've done to her family?"

I shifted uncomfortably.

"She is... exacting her revenge in a different way. She knows that letting slip now will not benefit her either."

He nodded.

"So what now?"

I shrugged.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"You're a Kingsguard, so you'll stay here, protecting me just as you did before."

"And nothing changes?"

"Why should it?"

"I am your father."

I gritted my teeth.

"I may only have known about that detail for a little while, but you have always known. You knew from the moment I entered this world that I was yours, yet you did nothing to help me or Myrcella or Tommen. Not when Robert beat us, or when Mother tried to turn us against everyone else, or when this war started. You stood by and watched, just as you did when Aerys was burning men alive, or you ran away, so no, Ser Jaime, things have not changed between us. I may be your son, but you are not my father."

Jaime bowed his head for a moment, and stood.

"If Your Grace has no further use for me, I must report to Ser Barristan in the White Tower."

I sat in stony silence as he left.

Tyrion fiddled with the armrest on his chair.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not breaking your word. If Jaime left the Kingsguard, I would have no case for the succession."

I sighed.

"He doesn't want Casterly Rock. He doesn't want anything apart from my mother; that's part of the problem."

"Nothing for you to sink your claws into."

"If you like."

"Jaime's a Kingsguard; you don't have to appease him."

"I don't want to appease him. If he were anyone else, I'd have his head for desertion. He should never have left King's Landing in the first place, running to Grandfather at the first sign of trouble. He should have been here, protecting his children."

"And he has paid for that mistake with his hand. That is a far worse punishment than anything else you could do to him."

"Else?"

"Jaime only joined the Kingsguard because your mother was expected to marry Rhaegar Targaryen. It was so they could be together, even when they were out of reach. When Cersei married Robert, I imagine he thought they would be together forever, watching over you, and you've torn that future from both of them. Cersei is without power, and Jaime is without Cersei. Believe me, Joffrey, there's nothing more you can do to hurt them."

I chuckled morosely.

"It's funny, you know. Some nights, I'd lie awake wishing I wasn't Robert's son because I didn't want to accept that drunken swine into my history. Instead, I looked around, and I wanted to be Tywin Lannister's son or Jon Arryn's. Even at Winterfell, I looked at Eddard Stark and I saw that he loved his children in ways that Robert didn't. Now my wish has come true, and yet my father is no different from Robert; an old soldier trapped in peacetime, wasting his days away wallowing in the memory of a woman long gone."

Tyrion licked his lips.

"My uncle once told me an old Mantari proverb: wishes are like manticores; they always come with a sting in the tail, and for what it's worth, I can tell you from experience that being Tywin Lannister's son is highly overrated."

I nodded slowly.

"I will be a better father than them, Tyrion. Both of them."

Tyrion reached out and put a hand on my arm.

"I know you will."

Chapter Text

"Grand Maester Pycelle to see you, Your Grace."

Oh, joy.

I sighed and nodded.

My hackles were already up by the time he clinked his way into the room.

"Yes, Grand Maester?"

Pycelle wobbled before me.

"Your Grace, I must protest in the strongest possible terms against the presence of this... Qyburn figure in the city."

"Qyburn is none of your concern."

"He was expelled from the Citadel for his unnatural experimentation. Such a man should not be allowed to practice medicine, leave alone attend to the King."

"He has not attended to me or anyone in my family apart from Ser Jaime, and he saved his life."

"And such service should be rewarded with a sack of gold and a good horse, not a laboratory in the Red Keep."

I clicked my tongue.

"Qyburn will stay. That is my decision."

Pycelle started to turn beet-red.

"Y-your Grace, I-I-I must say that this i-is most--"

I slammed my hand down on the table.

He started with a fearful yelp.

"Do you really think I am stupid enough to fall for this charade, Pycelle? Do you think I am like the others?" I shook my head, "How is it possible for so many to be so blind?"

Pycelle straightened his back and brought his shoulders up. When he spoke, he did so clearly, without waver.

"I must admit that even I have trouble believing it myself at times."

I smiled. It is so satisfying to see a hunch proved right.

"I always knew that you were cleverer than you let on. I couldn't believe that you would have made it this far otherwise."

He bowed lightly.

"I will take that as a compliment."

"Might I ask why the performance? What do you gain?"

"So many flowers, Your Grace, each wanting to grow the tallest, bloom the brightest, and one by one, sooner or later, they all get plucked. I don't want to be the tallest or the brightest, I only want to remain in the garden until my time comes to return to the dirt."

I chuckled.

"How poetic. You certainly have a flair for the arts."

"There is much wisdom in poetry, I find."

"That's because poetry is chiefly written by people who have the means and the time to do nothing but think."

"True enough, but a maester's life is built upon the principle of using the knowledge of those who have come before you, so that those who come after may, in turn, use yours. In such circumstances, even poetry has some value."

"Such flowery words from the flower that does not wish to bloom."

"You may mock, Your Grace, but it has worked for over forty years. I have outlived every king I have served."

"Do you think you will outlive me?"

"I do not. I have seen enough to know that you will live a very long time, Your Grace, and I am satisfied with that."

I nodded.

"So who are you loyal to, then? To the crown or to House Lannister?"

"As long as you sit on the throne, those two will be one and the same."

"Yet you betrayed House Lannister when you told me about Tyrion's plan for Myrcella."

"I felt that Lord Tyrion was not acting in you or your family's interest. I acted to protect that same interest."

"And if House Lannister's interests should ever conflict with mine, what will you do?"

"I will choose whichever side is stronger, as I did at the end of Robert's Rebellion."

"What if I decided to return you to the dirt now? Suppose I don't want someone of your changeable loyalty on my council."

"My loyalty to you has always been steadfast, Your Grace, even at a grave personal cost."

"Tyrion had your beard cut off. I'd hardly call that a grave cost."

"He would have done far worse had the Queen not intervened, and I am under no illusions about who sent her. I have no desire to betray you, so long as I believe that you will protect me from errant flower-pickers."

"An interesting proposition. What do I gain from granting you that protection? You say you won't betray me, but, frankly, I'm not worried about you betraying me."

"You have my knowledge, my years of hard-won experience and wisdom. These are tools a king should know to wield."

I smirked.

"You know, I get that a lot. It appears that this city has a surplus of wisdom and a shortage of imagination. I don't know if any of the links on your chain cover the basics of economics, but one of those things is becoming far more valuable than the other. I need something more from you, Pycelle."

"What else do I have? A maester's life is an austere one, Your Grace."

"My grandfather was able to construct a conspiracy between three major houses, with the intention of murdering a ruling monarch, the Lord of Winterfell, the son of Eddard Stark and the brother of the Queen, along with his wife and mother, and a large portion of his standing army. He did this without anyone knowing about it. I find that intolerable."

"That sounds like a matter you should take up with the Spider. Perhaps he is not as sincere as you had hoped."

"I choose to believe that Varys is sincere, and so far I have seen no reason to change that view. That doesn't mean that he has no blind spots, which is where you come in."

Pycelle went very pale.

"You do not mean to say..."

You are in charge of the ravens here. If any message with his seal comes to you that isn't for the main rookery, pass it to one of Varys' little birds, or simply let them steal them from you. You don't have to look at them yourself."

Pycelle leapt to his knees before me.

"No, I beg of you, Your Grace. I-I-I cannot betray the Hand, he would kill me if I was discovered!"

"I see an easy solution to that: don't get caught."

I stood and made for the door.

"Your Grace, you do not understa-"

"The only thing that either of us needs to understand, Pycelle, is that I'm not averse to a little gardening myself."

I opened my door and held it open for him.

"Good day, Grand Maester."

Pycelle stood to his feet, shaking. As he trembled his way past me, I stopped him.

"Obviously, I don't want anyone to know of our conversation here. I would hate to have to do any weeding before the spring."

He nodded, and went back to his act.

Doors are complicated things, I realised belatedly. Not mechanically speaking, of course, but metaphorically speaking? An open door can be inspiring, yes, but intimidating too. A closed door is frustrating, yet comforting, and also somehow terrifying, all at the same time.

When you take something like love and put a door in front of it, well, that just makes things ten times worse.

It was strange to feel the same emotions in a different room, in a different part of the castle, in a different life, even. Before the war, before all the death and suffering.

That was ever so long ago, though.

I sighed and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

I stepped inside Sansa's room.

"What is it, Your Grace?"

She stood by a table with her back to me, examining some clothes before they were distributed to orphans and poor families around the city.

"How did you know it was me?"

"You have a very distinctive knock."

A smile played at the corner of my mouth.

"Is that good or bad?"

"That depends on why you're here."

I clasped my hands behind my back.

"There is to be a feast tonight to celebrate the end of the war."

Sansa paused.

"I see."

"If you feel able, I would like you to be there."

She didn't respond for a second.

"What is the feast for again?"

I blinked.

Her hearing was obviously working, so why ask?

"To celebrate the end of the war."

"Ah, so Stannis is dead too, is he?"

She glanced over her shoulder at me.

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then the war isn't over. He still wants the throne and he still has an army. I'd hardly consider that a victory for you."

"He is holed up on Dragonstone and we are constructing a blockade as we speak. It's only a matter of time."

"You still haven't won yet."

I rolled my eyes.

"Is there a point to this newfound pedantry of yours?"

She shrugged, picking up a tunic and holding it up to the light.

"No, I'm just surprised you would risk jinxing it, that's all."

I shook my head.

"I'm not superstitious, Sansa, and you know that. What else is this about?"

She sighed and threw down the tunic.

"Fine."

She turned to face me, crossing her arms.

"Since I have to spell it out for you, I want you to admit that this feast isn't about the war and you don't want me there just to be a pretty face at the festivities. You want me there because this feast is being held specifically to celebrate the end of my brother's insurrection, and my attendance would be a tacit endorsement of his murder. Oh, and while we're on the subject, I'd like to know whose idea it was to celebrate by holding a great feast because the irony certainly isn't lost on me and even your sense of humour isn't that despicable."

I raised my eyebrow.

"What's wrong with my sense of humour?"

Sansa frowned.

Clearly, she hadn't expected me to pick up on that bit.

I looked her in the eye, pulling a slightly offended face.

She cracked, a grin flashing across the corners of her lips.

"I'm sorry, I'm just lashing out at you."

I smiled gently.

"I understand... and you're right, you being at the feast would be helpful but that's not really why I'm here. I just wanted to see how you were; and in defence of my sense of humour, the Small Council ganged up on me about the feast. Even Tyrion agreed that we need to have one. If you don't want to come, I'll make excuses for you. It's the least I can do."

"Thank you. I don't think I'm ready just yet."

I nodded.

"How are you? Both of you, if you don't mind me asking."

Despite everything, she still beamed at me as she touched her stomach.

"We're fine. The baby's doing well, according to Shae."

"Have you seen anyone else about it? I can ask Qyburn or Pycelle to come down and check."

"Pycelle is... Pycelle; I'd rather not see him. Qyburn is nice enough but he makes me feel uncomfortable. Shae was a whore, she knows what pregnant women go through and she doesn't spare me the details. I'd rather that than an old man speaking in riddles about vomiting into a bucket every morning."

"And what about you?"

She looked absent for a moment, and sighed.

"It varies day by day. Some mornings, I feel fine. Others, I don't even want to get out of bed. Some nights I sleep well, and others I wake up screaming every hour. Sometimes, I want to run back to you, and other times, I hate you more than anything in the world."

"And how do you feel about me right now?"

She shrugged.

"Ambivalent. You're here, and I know you won't leave without having the last word, so I might as well talk to you."

I cocked my head to one side.

"That doesn't sound very ambivalent."

She rolled her eyes.

"See what I mean? You just can't help yourself, can you?"

Silently, I held up my hands in surrender.

Sansa licked her lips and approached me, reaching out to take my hand. Interlacing our fingers, she stared down at them.

It was the first time in weeks that we'd touched each other, so neither of us knew exactly what to do. In the end, we just sat there until Sansa broke the silence.

"I know you want me back, and there's a large part of me that wants you back, but I can't do it until I've forgiven you."

"What will it take for you to forgive me?"

She shook her head.

"You know it's not that simple. I was always under the impression that forgiveness required some level of contrition on the part of the guilty, and I know you aren't sorry."

"That's not entirely true. I don't regret giving the order, but I am truly sorry for hurting you."

Her brow furrowed.

"I don't see how the two are separate. You knew what your order meant, and yet you gave it anyway."

"Sometimes the course I need to take as King is different from the one I want to take as your husband. This was one of those times."

She shook her head.

"No. That's not how it works. I am Sansa Stark, I am your wife and I am the Queen, and those three are one and the same. You are my husband and you are the King, and if you can't see how those two affect each other, then I can't come back."

"Would that have applied to Robb as well?"

She recoiled from me.

"What?"

I sighed and pulled my hand away from hers.

"Indulge me for a moment." I stood, "Imagine that Robb had won, that he'd made it to King's Landing and had successfully taken the Red Keep. What then? What would he have done? What would his demands have been?"

"He was fighting for Northern independence. That would have been first on the list."

I leaned on a chair.

"If he had been fighting solely for that, he could have closed the Neck and waited for us to march into the bogs. Instead, he started fighting in the Riverlands, trying to push south. He sought alliances with Stannis and Renly, men who wanted to cast me out and kill me. There's only one reason why he would consider that."

"He believed that you were responsible for our father's death."

"So he fought for revenge. What would have happened if that revenge was within his grasp? If he had held me captive in the Black Cells?"

"I would have stopped him from doing anything to you."

"How? He believed that I am responsible for every ill that has befallen your family in the last three years. He would have believed that I imprisoned you against your will, forced you to marry me, raped you and got you with child. I doubt anything would have stopped him from killing me."

"I would have told him the truth."

"And that would have washed everything away. Is that what you think?"

"No, obviously not, but-"

"And what about you?"

She stopped dead.

"Me? I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're pregnant with my child. Do you think they would have allowed you to give birth to a Lannister bastard?"

"You don't think they would have...?"

"I don't know. I only know the stories."

"What stories?"

I sighed.

"Supposedly one of Hoster Tully's daughters got herself pregnant with the child of a family ward. The Tullys covered it up, banished the ward, and forced the girl to drink moon tea. Apparently, they have a track record of ridding themselves of inconvenient babies."

"My grandfather only had two daughters. If you're suggesting that my mother-"

"I'm not. It's just a story, but it has stuck around."

She shook her head.

"I refuse to believe it."

I nodded.

"Fine, but our child would still be a bastard. I was at Winterfell, Sansa, I saw how your family treated Jon Snow. Is that the life you would want for our baby?"

Nostrils flared, she stood up and squared up to me.

"Jon is our brother!"

"A brother with no name, no lands, and no family! Answer the question, Sansa: is that what you would have wanted?"

She looked up at me for a moment, with something almost approaching sympathy, then brought her hands up to my face.

"You proud fool."

I frowned.

"What?"

"Don't you see? This is what Tyrion warned us about. Your grandfather cast out his net and you took the bait. You came back to me because you're trying to convince yourself that he's right."

I touched her hands.

"I tried to stop it, Sansa. I swear to you, I did."

"Then you failed, and I think you always knew you would fail. That's why you need me to answer the question, that's why you need to be right. He did this to both of us."

I swallowed, staring into her eyes, unable to argue.

She smiled sadly at me.

"You know me better than anyone, and I know you better than anyone. You might be able to lie to yourself but you'll never fool me."

And with that, she retreated.

As soon as her touch was gone, I wanted so desperately to feel it again.

Alas, she went back to her work.

I sat in my seat at the centre of the dais that had been erected in the Great Hall, staring at the cup of wine in front of me. The seat to my left was conspicuous to everyone in its emptiness and the seat to my right long since vacated by my grandfather as he'd begun his victory procession around the hall.

The speeches had been made, the food had been served, and the war had been won.

Bloody--

Tyrion slammed a jug down on the table, startling me out of my spiral.

"You look like you're about to be sick. Too much wine?"

"Not enough."

"Well," he took my goblet and took a big gulp. "More for the rest of us."

He burped and put it back down.

"Anyway, it's probably for the best. Margaery Tyrell is looking at you."

I sighed, but didn't look up.

"You think she's going to make a move?"

"It would make sense. It's obvious that your relationship with Sansa is damaged, her absence is proof of that. I imagine that they want to see if Margaery can get you to cast her aside before her betrothal to Tommen is announced."

"I'm not interested in Margaery Tyrell."

"I know, but they'll try anyway. Did you speak to Sansa?"

I nodded.

"And?"

"She needs time, but I'm cautiously optimistic."

"You realise that you will never be able to take such a risk again? You understand that?"

"I do."

"Good," He clambered into a slightly more upright position, "but be careful with Margaery anyway. She's more than a match for you."

I picked up the wine jug and filled his cup for him.

"That's not going to be enough, I assure you."

The rest of the feast went by easily enough, the evening spent having uninteresting conversations with uninteresting people about uninteresting things.

Finally, everyone had either fallen asleep in the hall or scuttled back to their own chambers, and I found myself wandering in the vague direction of the royal apartments, not going so quickly that it would be hard to catch up with me.

"Your Grace?"

I'd always been a decent angler.

I turned, and there was the beaming figure of Margaery Tyrell.

"Lady Margaery," I smiled pleasantly, "what may I do for you?"

She shook her head.

"Your Grace seemed distracted at the feast, I wondered if I might provide you with some company and, dare I say, comfort."

"You are too kind."

I held out my arm and she wrapped her hand around it shyly.

Or at least with the illusion of shyness.

As we walked in step through the halls, I realised that she was subtly leading me in the direction that I had already been going: back to my chambers.

She was either being touchingly chivalrous, or...

"I never got the chance to apologise for the way that my grandmother spoke to you and the Queen during your visit."

I scoffed.

"She speaks her mind, which I frankly prefer to the kind of waste that I usually get from people who want something from me. At least she has the wherewithal to speak to me as something approaching an equal."

"Nevertheless, she was discourteous and I apologise. She did, after all, imply that you were mad."

I raised my eyebrows.

"When she listed all the things I've done, it didn't seem impossible that I might have been. I still might be."

She laughed.

"I don't think so. You don't strike me as the type."

"Well, I thank you for the vote of confidence."

She laughed again.

I'd never realised I was so funny.

"In any case, I like to think I gave as good as I got, so since you feel compelled to apologise to me, I should feel compelled to apologise for the way I spoke about Renly and your brother, if you truly value courtesy so highly."

"I hesitate to speak ill of the dead, but in all honesty, you said nothing that wasn't true."

I blinked, surprised by her sudden candour.

"Really? Truthfully, I was being vulgar somewhat on purpose."

She shrugged.

"Renly was a good man, but he could never fully complete his duties. Whenever I wanted to try, he found some excuse. He had too many war councils, too many hunts. Except, on one occasion, after he'd had far too much to drink, he suggested something that sounded... very painful and which couldn't possibly result in children."

I nodded.

"I see. Men have stupid ideas when they drink; for that, I can only apologise on their behalf."

She touched my arm with her free hand.

"That's as maybe, you have nothing to apologise for, Your Grace. I have found you to be nothing but the most generous host, and even my grandmother will begrudgingly admit that you are deeply impressive."

She edged ever so slightly closer to me.

I sighed.

It was obvious what she was doing; establishing herself opposite Renly and beside me, trying to form a bond between us. While a bond of some sort would certainly be helpful, I could imagine that she wanted something rather more than that.

"My lady, I am not willing to waste my time here. I know you want me to take you back to my chambers, and I will not do that."

She raised an eyebrow and turned to face me, looking up at me with slightly hooded eyelids.

"Why, Your Grace, aren't you at least a little bit curious about what I can do for you?"

She parted her lips and swayed her hips subtly.

There was a small part of me (I'm sure you can guess which part) that might have been curious, but the rest of me screamed one simple fact in response:

She wasn't Sansa.

I shook my head.

"No, not even a little bit."

And just like that, as quickly as it had started, her act ended. Instead, she wore that mixture of surprise and bashfulness, the trademark look of someone clever who's just realised that they were wrong about something.

"You really love her."

"I do."

"I never... I didn't think there was anything between you and Sansa, especially after what happened to her father and brother. I assumed that you went through with the marriage for no other reason than to keep the North bound to you. Even when you came to visit us, I thought that she was just trying to survive by doing as you said."

"Not everybody has to bind their emotions to ulterior motives, Lady Margaery."

Harsh, I know, but she had just tried to seduce a married man.

She glared at me.

"What else would you have me do, Your Grace? I am a woman, with nothing but what I am married to, what I can scrape for myself. You were born to be the king; you've never had to climb a ladder to get to where you are, so who are you to judge me?"

I snorted.

"Please, spare me the false outrage. You should know as well as I do that that mishappen lump of iron in the Great Hall isn't a throne, it's a target on your back. Remember that the next time you try wriggling into bed with a king."

"What, like Sansa did?"

I stopped dead.

"My lady," I growled, "I suggest you choose your next words very carefully."

Emboldened, she held her head high.

"How do you that Sansa isn't doing exactly the same as me?"

Not very careful.

"I know."

"Do you? It seems to me like she has you wrapped around her little finger. Tell me, what would have happened to her if she hadn't married you when the war started?"

"She would have stayed here, as our guest."

"You mean as your prisoner and hostage, which seems far more fitting for the daughter and sister of avowed traitors to the crown. Instead, she has power, status, and you."

"Do you really think I'm going to fall for this?"

She smirked at me.

"That's the beauty of it: you don't have to. You just have to think."

I put my hand on her shoulder and shoved her up against the wall, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"While we're finally being candid with each other, I'll let you in on a little secret: since we've been together, Sansa and I have had each other in every way it's possible for a man and a woman to have each other; she knows things about me that only she will ever know, and I know things about her that I will never tell; and most importantly, I love her more than anyone in this world. So, in a way, it doesn't matter if she loves me or not. I will not cast her aside, not for you, not for anyone, and that's enough for me."

I let go.

"Tommen's a good boy and he'll be kind to you. Maybe, in time, he'll even fall in love with you and you'll find some measure of affection for him, but I don't think it will ever be quite enough, and Sansa and I will enjoy that little victory together."

Her glare remained defiant, but just as she looked like she might be about to open her mouth, I moved on and left her smouldering in the corridor.

I stretched my arms back in a most unkingly fashion and yawned.

Hopefully, nobody saw that.

I wanted to go to bed, obviously, but something was stopping me.

I glanced over at Sansa's door.

I couldn't just go without her for another night, especially now that, thanks to Margaery, I knew that she loved me.

I knocked, trying to vary the pattern a little bit so that she wasn't immediately tipped off.

It didn't work, as she opened the door with a slight smirk.

"You don't have to change your knock just to get me to speak to you, you know."

"I know, I just don't want to be all that predictable."

"And yet I knew that you would say that."

I smiled and shook my head.

"What have I unleashed on myself?"

"I don't think I know yet. I'll make sure to tell you when I do."

"Fair enough."

"Now, what do you want?"

I took a deep breath.

"Margaery Tyrell approached me earlier. She wanted to entice me into bed with her."

She didn't look overly surprised.

"I heard. Words travel faster than people in this place. I also know you refused her, which is why I haven't slammed this door in your face."

"That's not all she did. She tried to convince me that you were just like her, only you succeeded."

"You evidently don't believe her, so why are you telling me this?"

"She forced me to confront a question I've been avoiding: how do I know you love me?" I stepped forward, "I've just taken you for granted up until now, so how do I actually know?"

Sansa stood her ground.

"I can't read your mind, Joffrey. You are going to have to answer your own question in your own time."

She turned, about to shut the door.

I stepped forward again and grabbed her hand to stop her.

"I can answer it now. When you confronted me about the Red Wedding, you weren't just angry with me like you would be if I'd only been the one who gave the order, because I'd done something far worse than that; I betrayed you, and I could see that betrayal in your eyes. You can't fake that."

She looked down at our hands.

"No, you can't," she murmured absently.

I pulled her gently into my embrace.

"I promise you I will never make you feel that way again. I will never take you for granted again."

She nodded and wrapped her arms around me.

"I will hold you to that."

I kissed her cheek.

"I know."

After a few minutes of enjoying the feeling of being in each other's arms again, she pulled back a little.

"I don't want to come across as though we're just going to go back to normal as if nothing happened, but would you stay with me tonight?"

I touched her face gently.

"Of course I will."

Chapter Text

I woke up, feeling as well-rested as I had for a long time.

A strange feeling, in truth. Especially as this was most definitely not my bed.

I sat up, shielding my eyes from the sunlight, remembering where I'd slept.

I frowned as an odd sound caught my ear from the privy, and moved to look inside.

Sansa knelt next to her chamberpot, retching.

"Sansa?" I grabbed a robe and rushed to place it around her shoulders.

She pulled her head out, gasping.

"I'm... fine. It's... just... morning sickness"

I softly brushed her hair back from her face.

"Is it normally this bad?"

She shook her head, gulping in air.

"This... is the worst... so far."

"I'm sorry I have that effect on you."

She chuckled thickly, which turned out not to be the best idea, as she ducked her head back down and heaved again.

"Please... don't make... me laugh."

I stroked her back gently while she recovered her breath.

"Ugh," she finally sat up and leaned back into me, "I was hoping I could get through that without you seeing."

I frowned.

"Why?"

"It feels ugly."

"Sansa Baratheon," I chided, "you are carrying our child. That is the furthest thing from ugly."

She craned her neck up at me. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but I could have sworn that she glanced at my lips.

She said nothing, though she did nestle back into me.

That, at least, was progress.

She yelped as I hooked my arm under her legs and picked her up.

"Well done," she murmured dryly, "you've swept me off my feet."

I carried her back out and placed her on the bed, before sitting down beside her.

"How did you sleep? Before this, obviously."

"Quite well, actually. Better than I have for a long time."

"Me too."

"Must be a coincidence."

I rolled my eyes.

"Clearly."

She smirked up at me. Then, she sobered a little and touched my hand.

"I may be a Stark, but I'm not stubborn to a fault. I know that this standoff we're in doesn't benefit either of us. Not really."

I raised an eyebrow.

"As I recall, that was sort of the point."

"It was, and it was actually a little fun to make you squirm a bit," I scrunched up my nose at her, getting a giggle for my trouble, "but the novelty has worn off. Now we're both squirming parallel to each other."

"How much more squirming do you think we'll need before one of us admits we're wrong?"

"A little more yet. We both hate to be wrong; we need time to come to terms with it."

I nodded.

"Seems fair."

Silence again blanketed the space between us.

"Do you want to know something odd?" Sansa asked, "I have nightmares about that wedding every time I try to sleep. Each one is different and I've managed to get used to most of them, except one. After the Freys had killed my mother and brother, they found Grey Wind chained up outside the Twins. They shot him full of arrows, and I cannot bear the thought of reliving that moment."

I lay down next to her, so our faces were level.

"Do you have any idea why?"

"The direwolves... They're more than just pets to us. There's a part of us that lives in them, I truly believe that; even Jon had one. I suppose it's just that that last ember of my brother's life being stamped out means I have to truly accept that he's gone."

"And Lady? There's a part of you in her too?"

"Yes. Even now, I know she's out there still. I can't explain it, but I know."

"I don't doubt you. The Targaryens had their dragons, so I suppose it makes some poetic sense for the Starks to have their direwolves."

She smiled.

"That was the day I fell in love with you, you know? When you let Lady go."

I sighed with resurfacing embarrassment.

"That whole shambles was my fault. I shouldn't have provoked Arya, and I should have known my mother was looking for any excuse to get rid of them."

This had happened while on the road back from Winterfell. I'd taken Sansa for a walk by a nearby river when we came across Arya and some serving boy fighting with wooden swords. The younger Stark sister had never liked me, to put it mildly, and I'd never been keen on her either. She especially didn't like me when I was wooing her sister.

"And Arya shouldn't have set Nymeria on you, no matter what you said. She paid for that, and besides, it was probably the right thing to do in hindsight; this city is no place for one direwolf, let alone two."

I can't remember exactly what I said but it was obviously offensive enough that she set Nymeria on me. The wound hadn't been serious, but it did need attention and I wasn't able to hide it.

My mother quickly put two and two together to get the answer she wanted, and demanded that the direwolves be destroyed. Arya must have driven Nymeria off because she was nowhere to be found, so my mother had turned her attention to the next best thing.

"Still, it was my fault, and I tried to make up for it, just as I am trying to do now."

I had realised what she wanted when I overheard Sansa crying to her father about it. By that point, I had already come to the conclusion that my mother did far more harm than good, and decided that if I was going to do one good thing in my life, it might as well be for my future bride.

I demanded to do the deed myself, which certainly got Robert's approval if nothing else, despite my mother's protestations, and took Sansa with me to see Lady for the last time.

While she said her goodbyes, I covered my sword with raven's blood - the raven was already dead, thank you very much - to make it look convincing, and we released Lady from her tether.

I knew immediately that I'd done the right thing, because the direwolf looked at me with something approaching gratitude and understood immediately what Sansa was saying. Clearly, direwolves have a bit more to them than teeth.

Once we'd seen Lady off, I swore Sansa to secrecy because I knew that if my mother caught wind of this defiance, she would try to exert her authority over the Starks in some other, needlessly bloody way.

I had wondered on a couple of occasions whether I should have told Ned Stark about it, whether that might have persuaded him to give me a chance on the Iron Throne. I decided that he was so mindlessly honourable that it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference.

She reached out and stroked my cheek.

"I know. I know because, as much as you try to hide it, you are a good person."

I turned my head slightly and kissed the palm of her hand.

"If that's your impression of me, then I'll take it."

"Well, you're not getting a better one right now, and you have done a very good job of hiding it. From me in particular."

"And yet you still see it. What should I take from that?"

"Like I said, I'm not stubborn enough to let this go on any longer than it needs to. I also know that there is nowhere I could go even if I wanted to leave you - I'm sure you thought of that when you let Brienne come to me instead of just sending her away."

"I did, yes."

"Are you worried about her?"

"Not particularly. She's exactly the kind of person you want protecting you: loyal, stupid enough to be brave, and cunning enough to be good at what she does."

"If she proves her loyalty, she might even make a good Kingsguard one day."

"She was a Kingsguard to Renly, and supposedly, she killed him."

"If she did kill him, we'll have to watch her more closely, but I want her side of the story. We owe her that, at least. Besides, it would be somewhat hypocritical of you to bar her on that basis alone, given Ser Jaime's history."

True.

"I wouldn't even need that. No woman has ever served on the Kingsguard, not even under Visenya Targaryen."

"You yourself have said more times than I can count that the Kingsguard needs to change. What better way to start than breaking a 300-year-old convention?"

Also true.

I had always wanted Sansa to rule beside me as an equal, as a confidant and an advisor as much as a lover and a wife. As she spoke, I realised that perhaps, in the crucible of King's Landing, with the fires of rage and grief, I'd finally forged her into the ruthless, irreverent political creature I needed.

I smiled slightly.

"I like the sound of that."

She sat up.

"I'll speak to her and find out what really happened to Renly. She doesn't seem the type to break an oath like that."

I frowned, unable to meet her gaze properly.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because last night was the best night's sleep either of us has had for weeks. Because we need each other, now more than ever, both for ourselves and for our baby. Because I've seen enough to know that what happened wasn't really your fault. Because I love you, and love makes people far more forgiving than they should be. And because I've made my point; you're willing to accept your mistake, so I am willing to at least help you now."

I touched her shoulder.

"Thank you."

She glanced back at me but said nothing.

"Yunkai and Astapor?"

Varys shrugged.

"She also left a considerable impression on the Qartheen, especially on their self-appointed king."

I hummed, taking a sip of wine.

"You don't seem appropriately concerned for me."

"She has taken Astapor and Yunkai, true, but those cities are only two parts of a triumvirate. She will turn her attention towards Meereen, the last of the Three Cities of Slaver's Bay, before anything else. Danaerys has made it her mission to bring an end to the slave trade."

Impressive. Slavery was an abominable practice, but a widespread one east of Pentos. It had been outlawed in Westeros, at least officially, for generations. I suppose we had to stop short of something.

"A noble calling, and an ambitious one. I can find no fault with it, but with what means does she pursue it?"

"She leads the remainder of her husband's khalasar, which consists mostly of widows or small children, as well as the Unsullied, who have joined her of their own volition alongside the slaves she has so far freed, who number in the thousands."

"And dragons."

"And dragons."

"Are they real?"

"As real as you or I, Your Grace, as the Wise Masters of Yunkai and the Good Masters of Astapor have learned to their cost, and as the Great Masters of Meereen shall no doubt soon learn."

Varys sounded pleased to relay this tale to me. Whether that was out of affection for Danaerys Targaryen or merely hatred of the slavers I could not tell.

I sat back, absorbing this news.

Dragons roamed the earth again.

I had seen the bones of the Targaryen mounts of old, I had stood in the jaws of Balerion the Black Dread, and just like every little boy or girl for the last hundred years or more, I had dreamed of what it might be like to ride one myself. Only a dream, of course, because our maesters would tut and scold and remind us that the dragons were dead, and we would lock that dream away, never to be felt again, forever.

But they were alive.

They were coming.

"What will you do?"

I sighed.

"I'm not sure there's anything I can do. Aegon came to Westeros with a meagre army and three dragons, and Danaerys means to do the same."

"Her dragons are not yet fully grown, and certainly not a match for Vhagar and Meraxes, let alone the Black Dread, as they were during the Conquest."

"True, but the realm is divided, possibly even more so than before. When Aegon landed, the kingdoms went to war with each other, but that was just what happened, and when the time came to make alliances, they did. Can you imagine the Northern houses making common cause with us now?"

"The North did not attempt to resist Aegon the first time."

I sucked my teeth.

"Don't be pedantic, Varys, that's my job. It seems unlikely that she would not find allies in Westeros when the time comes."

"Danaerys and her brother grew up on tales of secret toasts to their father and brother's memory, of the people awaiting their rightful ruler. Viserys believed it right to the end. Danaerys is more circumspect, and she is right to be. House Targaryen has never been held in lower regard than it is now."

Even lower than House Lannister?

I dared not ask. Instead, I glared at him.

"Am I to seriously believe that you had no hand in their escape, my dear Spider?"

For a moment, Varys' genial mask slipped, and he spoke with a notable edge to his voice.

"Perhaps Your Grace would rather believe that I would condone the murder of innocent children. For all her father's sins, many and grievous as they were, she does not deserve to answer for them."

"Does she share your merciful attitude, or am I to answer for my fathers' treasons or Sansa for Ned Stark's? Is my child to answer for my sins, many and grievous as they are?"

"I have seen nothing to suggest that she holds any enmity for your children, nor anyone else's for that matter. You, on the other hand, might have some difficulty convincing her of your innocence while you sit the Iron Throne."

I frowned.

"Are you suggesting that I should just give up?"

"That depends on what you want, Your Grace. If you want to try to face down three dragons, by all means, try."

My eyes narrowed.

"Whose side are you on, Varys?"

"The people's side, as I always have been."

"I was rather hoping you were on my side, especially as you promised me your service."

Varys spread his hands amicably.

"Your Grace, you should know I hold you in the highest possible regard, and what I am telling you does not change that. However, sometimes the greatest service one can render is to simply tell the truth. I swore to serve you, true, but I also swore to tell you what I see as I see it."

"So what do you see?"

"What I fail to see is how a conflict between you and Danaerys Targaryen benefits the people, especially so soon after this last war, in the middle of a savage winter, with the wounds of all that has happened still open and weeping." He leaned in as if to tell me a secret, "If, on the other hand, you and Danaerys were to make common cause... Well, that would be a very different matter."

I stared at him.

"Are you seriously suggesting that I should take her to wife?"

He snorted.

"I fear that Danaerys would be about as willing to marry you as you would be to marry her, even if you were not already wed. "

"What, then?"

Varys shrugged.

"Danaerys wants the Iron Throne. It is all she has ever wanted, all she has ever thought of wanting. You, on the other hand, have the mind to stop and think. What do you want?"

The Iron Throne.

It should have been easy to say it, yet as I opened my mouth, I simply could not.

What did I want? I had never seriously thought about it before. Not in any meaningful way. I just... started. I started to read, to learn, to scheme, to rule...

To fall in love.

I had wanted Sansa, of course, but there's a big difference between knowing what you want and knowing who you want it with.

Finally, I came up with an answer.

"Security."

He nodded.

"A reasonable desire. Do you believe that sitting on the Iron Throne helps you toward that goal?"

"Would I have a Kingsguard if I were not the King? Would I have the combined strength of House Lannister and Hosue Tyrell at my back? What is security, if not an army at your beck and call?"

"Would Danaerys Targaryen and her dragons have a quarrel with you if you were not the King? Would a war that shook the very foundations of this continent have been fought on the issue of your legitimacy? Would you have taken that arrow on the sand of Blackwater Bay? What is security, if not the absence of jeopardy?"

"We can quibble about definitions all we like, but that's not going to solve our argument. What if I were diseased? I would have a far greater chance of surviving as King, seeing as I would get the best care."

"One does not require a crown to hire an endless stream of good physicians, only a great deal of coin. Does the Iron Throne confer on you any more coin than a scion of a Great House?"

"No," I admitted, "far less, in fact."

"Power, then?"

"In theory, a great deal. In practice, I am coming round to the view that it is those behind the throne who truly wield its power, but I will never occupy that kind of position."

Varys looked at me mysteriously.

"Won't you?"

I frowned.

"What?"

"Your Grace, I was not being entirely hypothetical when I suggested that you and Danaerys Targaryen would make a formidable combination, though obviously not a wedded one."

My eyes narrowed.

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"I don't know what you think I'm suggesting."

"By the gods, you are. You would have me bend the knee to Danaerys Targaryen."

"I can see how it would benefit all parties involved, yes. Danaerys wants the Iron Throne, you want power and security, and I want to avoid another war."

"And what about the rest of my family? I have a feeling they might object, given that she is more likely to burn all of us alive for our various crimes against her house. Or the rest of the realm for that matter? Now is the time to try to mend the Seven Kingdoms, and you want to tear open all those scars?"

"Danaerys will come, Your Grace, make no mistake. I am simply trying to present a solution that doesn't involve you, your wife and your children being burned to ashes." He stood. "You have time to think on it. Months, maybe even years, but she will come, and on that day we will all have a choice to make."

He swept away, leaving me with a taste like ash.

Chapter Text

"Ghastly, isn't it?"

I examined the newly-unveiled statue queasily.

The likeness was mine, posed in heroic stance, my foot planted on the head of a dead wolf. I didn't recognise the belligerent, bloodstained expression on "my" face as one that I would ever wear, a sort of pastiche of Robert Baratheon transplanted onto my frame.

Truthfully, it was difficult to work out whether it was meant to be flattering or satirical.

"Revolting. Do we know who commissioned it?"

Tyrion shrugged.

"I have no clue, but I gather it's a gift from the realm to you."

"Would the realm be awfully offended if I had it dumped in the Blackwater?"

"Possibly. The fish might object too."

"Then the fish have good taste. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"We received a raven from Dorne. Prince Doran regretfully informs Your Grace that his health forbids him from paying homage to you personally."

"That's fine. His daughter can do it."

"Ah, but Prince Doran felt that he would be remiss if he did not send another envoy, so he has sent his brother, Oberyn."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

"The Red Viper. This should be interesting. When does he get here?"

"He's already here."

I had to laugh at the irony. Well, irony and pettiness.

The Martells enjoyed their small vengeances, it would seem.

"I suppose I can't object to that, really, can I?"

"No, you can't. I'm going to find him now. I promise not to say 'I told you so.'" He took a few steps and paused, "Not too loudly, anyway."

As he waddled away, out of the corner of my eye, I spied Sansa walking with the Lady Brienne.

A smile played at the edge of my lips.

Jaime grunted as Qyburn twisted his arm to place his new hand upon his stump.

"I must say, the design is ingenious, and its execution most impressive," The chainless maester mused as he tied it more securely.

"If you like it so much, you're welcome to chop off your own hand and take it," Jaime responded testily.

I rolled my eyes.

"There," Qyburn finished his work, "how does it feel?"

Jaime lifted his hand and waved it around.

It was indeed a beautiful object, forged in gilded steel but also enamelled in white to show a closer allegiance to the Kingsguard than to House Lannister. Small details such as these could make a difference in the right circumstances.

"A hook would be more practical."

"Ah, yes, His Grace thought you might say that, so he commissioned something rather special for you."

Qyburn gripped the hand tightly and twisted it around a few times, revealing a threaded spike.

"The hand can be removed and replaced with a small blade where necessary, and you might even commission other implements with the same function should you so wish."

Jaime raised his eyebrows.

"That is... quite impressive."

I nodded.

"You're welcome."

Qyburn moved away from Jaime and faced me.

"If Your Grace has no further need of me...?"

I smiled and nodded.

"Thank you, Qyburn. You may go."

He bowed and took his leave, but not before Jaime waved at him again.

"What a strange little man," he muttered as the door closed.

I sat down with a quiet grunt.

"He has his qualities."

"Such as not being Pycelle?"

I nodded.

"That is his main attraction, yes. He also doesn't shy away from bending the rules occasionally. That could come in handy."

Jaime glanced down.

Sorry," I winced.

He shrugged.

"I suppose I will just have to get used to it."

"Just make sure you don't get another epithet."

"What could be worse than the one I already have?"

"Let's not tempt fate, shall we?"

He smiled ruefully.

"I'm afraid that horse has bolted."

He examined his new hand once again. As Qyburn had done, he twisted it open.

"Qybrun was right; this is truly exquisite work. It must have taken ages."

"It did. The threading alone took the better part of a week."

"Has anything like this been done before?"

"Not to my knowledge. It was my idea."

Jaime looked up at me, perhaps surprised by that admission.

"Thank you."

I shrugged.

"Better than staring at that stump for the rest of my life."

"I take it that means that I am to remain in the Kingsguard?"

"Yes."

"May I ask why?"

"Are you reluctant?"

"I'm surprised. I expected our esteemed Hand to twist your arm into releasing me from my vows."

I laughed morosely.

"The wits would have a field day with that: 'the Hand twists the arm.' Well, I am no longer in the mood to have my arm twisted by anyone, let alone a man responsible for the biggest scandal the realm has seen since the deaths of poor Rickard and Brandon Stark."

"So this is just a matter of defying authority?"

"Not entirely. You and Ser Barristan are the only Kingsguard I consider to be even remotely worthy of the title, and I mean to keep you both around. You'll serve as an example to the rest of your Sworn Brothers, and hopefully, in time, the Kingsguard will stand for something again."

"And Casterly Rock?"

"Will go to Tyrion. He is the heir by all the laws and precedents of succession, and there are no grounds to exclude him, much as some people would like to think otherwise."

Jaime nodded.

"He deserves it."

He seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"And your mother?"

I tugged semi-compulsively at a hangnail on my finger, which seemed particularly apt for the moment.

"She will go to Highgarden, I presume. Then she will be the responsibility of House Tyrell."

Jaime looked more than a little crestfallen at that.

I thought for a moment, then decided to get it over with.

"If it makes you feel any better, I gather that she didn't miss you anywhere near as much as you missed her."

"What do you mean?"

"You took too long."

I watched keenly as his face slackened.

It wasn't that I took satisfaction from the pain that the realisations crashing through his mind were causing him, but it was good to drive a wedge between him and my mother.

Besides, it was difficult to argue that he didn't deserve it.

"Naturally, all of the Kingsguard will be on duty, Your Grace."

Ser Barristan pointed at a floor plan for the feast like a general preparing to repel a siege, which I suppose in a sense he was. I felt a pang of sympathy for him, the great old warrior left with nothing to do but plan seating arrangements.

"Ser Boros will be stationed here, Ser Preston will be stationed by the dais, Ser Jaime will guard Lady Margaery and Prince Tommen--"

"No."

He looked up at me.

"Your Grace?"

"Put Ser Jaime somewhere else. That is an order."

Used to obedience, he simply nodded without outwardly questioning it.

"As you wish, Your Grace."

I sighed heavily.

"Your Grace?"

"Oh, forgive me, Ser. This isn't really my area of expertise; I'm content to leave it to you unless you expect there to be trouble?"

"Well, one can never be too careful, Your Grace, but Ser Addam Marbrand reports that the smallfolk are content and that Your Grace is spoken of reasonably well, so I don't anticipate any riots, for example. Rest assured, the Kingsguard will always be vigilant."

I nodded, my eyes wandering to the large book splayed open on the table.

"I'm sure."

I approached the White Book with a sense of reverence.

How many young boys would kill to possess this book, perhaps the greatest compendium of knightly deeds chivalrous, chauvinistic, and chumpish ever assembled?

I turned the pages with a wry smile.

"Duncan the Tall," I read aloud, turning to another page, glancing up as Ser Barristan's face kaleidoscoped into a different emotion for each new name, "Arthur Dayne, Aemon Targaryen, Lucamore Strong, Corlys Velaryon, Criston Cole, Gerold Hightower, Barristan Selmy.

I turned the pages once more, "Jaime Lannister," and the pride on the old knight's face washed off immediately.

Smoothing out the page, I read aloud, "'Ser Jaime of House Lannister. Firstborn son of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Served against the Kingswood Brotherhood as squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall. Knighted in his 15th year by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, for valour in the field. Chosen for the Kingsguard in his 16th year by King Aerys II Targaryen. During the Sack of King's Landing, slew King Aerys II at the foot of the Iron Throne. Thereafter known as the "Kingslayer." Pardoned for his crime by King Robert I Baratheon. Served in the honour guard that brought his sister the Lady Cersei Lannister to King's Landing to wed King Robert. Champion in the tourney held at King's Landing on the occasion of their wedding.'"

I finished reading and straightened up.

"Ser Barristan, who is responsible for updating the entries in the White Book?"

"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Your Grace."

I raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"And who is the Lord Commander, Lord Commander?"

"I am, Your Grace."

I pointed at the bottom of Jaime's entry.

"This ink was dry before I drew my very first breath. Am I to infer that Ser Jaime has done nothing for seventeen years?"

"Nothing of note, Your Grace."

"He stormed Pyke alongside my father and Eddard Stark during the Greyjoy Rebellion; he participated in the Tourney at Lannisport and, if I remember right, broke nine lances against Jorah Mormont; he fought in the recent Riverlands campaign; he was captured, held by the Starks and his hand was chopped off. I would say those are at least notable events in the life of a Kingsguard."

He bowed his head sullenly.

"As you say, Your Grace."

I slammed the book shut.

"Ser Barristan, this book is a record, and as the present writer of this book, you are the record-maker. The bookkeeper does not fail to record a bet that he disagrees with, a port comptroller does not ignore a ship full of Dornish red simply because he prefers Arbor gold, the inspector general of an army accounts for all of his soldiers even if he has a healthy distaste for rape and plunder. So too are Ser Criston the Kingmaker, Ser Terrence the Traitor, and Ser Lucamore the Lusty recorded, for all their faults, just as exhaustively as Ser Duncan the Tall, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and Ser Barristan the Bold."

I picked up the large white quill that was used to fill the large White Book.

"And so too, the Kingslayer," I turned the quill over in my fingers, "if you would prefer, I can have a scribe fill the White Book in your stead?"

Predictably, he shook his head.

"The White Book has always been the responsibility of the Lord Commander, Your Grace."

I held the quill out to him.

"Then you must grasp the implications of that responsibility, ser."

Ser Barristan took the quill.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Chapter Text

The first day of the three hundredth year after Aegon's Conquest. A new year, a new century, a new era for House Lannister.

Of course, it never feels like a new year, does it? Your nameday approaches, comes and goes, but you still feel the same after it as you did before. You haven't grown any taller, you haven't got better at swordfighting, your spots haven't cleared up.

Nothing has ever been changed solely by the passing of a day.

I finished buttoning up my tunic. I could have had a servant help me with it but I never liked having people so close, not before Sansa anyway. It wasn't that hard, just a few fiddly gold buttons that, while annoying, did complete the set quite nicely. It was black, of course, with yet more gold in the stitching, which depicted antlers if you looked at it from the right angle and were a bit drunk.

Clothes matter, you see. Why else would the rich waste money on the most expensive silks and velvets? Why else would we choose to have our sigils stitched into those silks, just as they are stitched into our own fabrics?

I smiled a little to myself. And there was the one thing I could look forward to, having Sansa back.

Just for that, I could bear far worse than a few hours of self-satisfied Lannister ostentation. Paid for by the Tyrells, of course.

Perhaps I was one to talk, though, as I picked up my crown.

A Baratheon crown made of Lannister gold. How apt.

Even before that, if you wanted to be a real smart aleck, the Targaryen conquest arguably wouldn't have succeeded without the first Hand of the King, Orys Baratheon.

Who, I wondered, did the Tyrells think would prop them up? Who would prop up Danaerys Targaryen?

That was a problem for another time, though; the dragons could wait for the feast to finish.

I closed the door to my chamber behind me and as I did so, another opened and out stepped Sansa.

She saw me standing there and smiled at me.

Like me, she was wearing Baratheon black, but the gold was notably muted, almost as though she were in mourning for someone. A subtle show of defiance amid what might otherwise have looked like surrender.

Around her neck, a string of purple crystals caught the sun.

I reached out and took her hand, bringing it to my lips.

"My Queen."

She breathed in deeply and sighed.

"Your Grace."

I offered her my arm.

"Come, the world awaits."

She took it and, light as a shadow, kissed my lips.

"Then I suppose we must oblige it."

The world had at least chosen to present to us a beautiful day.

I suppose that was to be expected. Not even the gods themselves would be so unwise as to rain on Tywin Lannister's parade.

I did have to admit that it was a splendid occasion, with singers and dancers to entertain the fools, fine wine in fine quantities, row upon row of benches culminating in an ostentatiously decorated dais overlooking the proceedings and beyond.

I tried to simply enjoy having Sansa on my arm again as we made our way through the throng, smiling politely at everyone who bowed their heads at us.

Before we could reach the dais, however, Princess Arianne appeared.

"Your Graces," she beckoned, smiling pleasantly, "if I might borrow you for a moment."

We followed her to one side, and both of us took a stealthy yet sharp intake of breath.

"Your Grace, may I introduce my uncle, Prince Oberyn Martell."

I have never felt any attraction toward my fellow man - truthfully, I struggle to understand how anyone could - but it was impossible to deny that he was magnificent to behold. He could have been fashioned from bronze and he would have looked no more illustrious.

The Red Viper of Dorne bowed.

"Your Grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you," he glanced up at both of us individually, "I have heard much about you."

"Likewise, Prince Oberyn. I hope that our hospitality has lived up to your expectations."

"You know as well as I, Your Grace, how Lannister hospitality is renowned throughout the world," his eyes flicked over to Sansa, "I could not miss the opportunity to experience it for myself."

Where previously she might have been disarmed by the doublespeak of court, Sansa regarded him coolly.

"Is that the only reason why you came?"

"As Your Grace must know, I am here to represent my brother. He has been struck down with the rich man's disease."

"Prince Doran's condition is not new, and he has a representative already in this city, his daughter, who already sits on my husband's Small Council. Why did he feel the need to send you as well, or did you decide to come yourself?"

Oberyn's mouth stretched slowly into a sly grin.

"I had heard that Sansa Stark was a princess in an ivory tower like Baelor's imprisoned maidens, a wronged wife, a traitor's daughter with no agency of her own, yet here I find that you speak for your husband, the King."

"I speak for myself, Prince Oberyn, but I'm sure His Grace would like to hear your answer too."

"I am surprised that the Imp has not already told you."

"He has," I shrugged, "I'd rather hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

"Then you know of Gregor Clegane's crimes, what he did to my sister and her children."

"I do, and I have already promised you Gregor Clegane, as well as all the men who were under his command during the Sack of King's Landing."

"You have promised me a pack of dogs, but a dog must be let off the leash before it does its work. I would have the houndsman."

Sansa and I exchanged a glance. Her expression, worryingly, was impenetrable to me.

"I see. And do you have any other strays that you might wish to collect?"

Oberyn shook his head.

"I do not believe that a child is responsible for the sins of his father... or grandfather."

His appetite for subtlety had waned, apparently.

I took a deep breath and sighed.

"Prince Oberyn, for obvious reasons, I cannot help you achieve your purpose here, so I will simply have to wish you a pleasant stay in King's Landing."

"I did not expect you to help me," he picked a morsel from a passing servant's platter, "I hope you will not hinder me either."

He popped the morsel into his mouth, regarding me in the fashion of his moniker. It was as though he was considering whether I would fit down his throat.

As impassively as I could, I moved away, pulling Sansa with me.

"We will have to keep an eye on that one."

She didn't say anything as we finally climbed onto the dais.

I turned to face the crowd, waiting for the hush to fall.

"Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne, my lords, my ladies, " I nodded at our Dornish guests and paused for a moment, "The war is over."

A cheer erupted from the crowd.

I allowed it to build and build before raising my arms to quiet them.

"This does not mean our work is done, however. The realm is bleeding, wounded by treason and sedition and lies, scarred by the horrors committed in the name of Stannis Baratheon, Balon Greyjoy and Robb Stark. We must seek to heal these injuries, lest they fester and endanger all that we have worked so hard to build."

A hum of approval went around the garden.

"This we shall do with the help of our friends, the Tyrells, who have agreed to consecrate our friendship in the way the Gods love best; the wedding of my beloved brother Tommen to the Lady Margaery."

I turned with the rest of the crowd to applaud the happy couple, who blushed and giggled to each other, before turning back.

"Make no mistake, my lords, my ladies, the coming years will not be easy. Winter approaches without mercy or compassion, and we must be prepared to meet her cold embrace, but today I ask only one favour of you,"

On cue, a servant raised a tray with a goblet of wine to me. I took it and held it aloft.

"Drink well, and eat heartily."

The crowd roared and set about granting my request.

"A coat of gold," the minstrel crooned, "a coat of red, a lion still has claws..."

I sighed. They'd been singing that bloody tune all day.

Surely even Tywin must get bored of hearing it sometimes, leave alone the rest of us.

I laced my fingers through Sansa's.

"Are you alright, my love?"

"Yes," she glanced across the dais, "but Tyrion's drinking more than usual."

I followed her line of sight and what a pitiable sight it was.

I sighed, "I'd better talk to him."

"It's not your responsibility."

"No," I stood up, "but if I don't, our esteemed Hand will."

I moved swiftly around to where Tyrion was sat by his lonesome and pushed his cup down as he made to lift it to his lips once more.

"That's enough."

He belched and wiped his chin on his sleeve.

"No, nephew, it is not nearly enough."

"Well, can you at least save it for after the feast?"

He perked up a little.

"Yes, I could. After all, I am the god of tits and wine," he spread his little arms wide, "I shall build a shrine to myself at the next brothel I see."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

"Oh, don't despair, nephew. I am a drunken little lustful beast; this is what I was made for. Besides, you told us to drink well."

I cocked my head to one side.

"She's gone, isn't she?"

Tyrion was very good at feigning nonchalance when he was sober (relatively speaking). When he was drunk on the other hand...

He took a beat too long to respond.

"Who?"

"The handmaiden."

He sighed.

"Is it really so obvious?"

"People don't drink like that just to drink. I know what heartbreak looks like, Tyrion, I've had to sit next to it at the banquet table for most of my life."

He blew a raspberry.

"Damn you, boy."

I patted him on the shoulder.

"I'll leave you to it. Just try not to draw prying eyes."

I turned away and, speaking of prying eyes, saw Sansa talking to Lady Olenna.

Olenna noticed that I was coming, "You must excuse me; it's time I ate some of this food I paid for," she remarked to Sansa as I entered earshot.

Sansa smirked as I rolled my eyes at Olenna's back.

"What did she want?"

She flapped a hand dismissively, "Oh, just something about how horrid my brother's murder was. Everyone says something like that as if it's going to make me feel better about it."

"It's all part of the game, another step in the dance."

"I used to love dancing, especially at weddings."

"So did I."

She sighed.

"Those were good days. Sweet, innocent days."

She blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek.

I reached out and wiped it away gently.

She smiled gratefully and touched my hand.

"Tyrion?"

I grunted.

"He'll be fine. His armour is thicker than anyone else's, it just weighs more."

"Well, we would know, wouldn't we?

I turned my head to look at her with my eyebrow raised.

"I suppose we would."

"The difference is that we have someone to share a suit with."

She cupped my face and kissed me gently.

I moved my hand up to hold her neck and accidentally knocked her necklace.

A stone broke off and fell into her lap.

I frowned and picked it up.

"Shoddy craftsmanship," I muttered, rolling it around in my palm, The purple crystal gleaned in the light, and I could see that there was some sort of liquid inside. I stared down at it for a second before it hit me. I had seen one of these crystals before. "Where did you get that necklace from?"

"It was a gift."

"From whom?"

She shifted in her seat.

"Ser Dontos Hollard."

My expression was all the questioning she needed.

"He would keep me company in the gardens when I refused to see you. He was... kind to me."

"Did he approach you?"

Her expression hardened.

"If you're going to reproach me for needing a friend when my world was empty..."

I raised my eyebrows at her and she trailed off.

"Sansa, I am not reproaching you for anything, I am trying to work out why Dontos Hollard gave you a necklace filled with poison."

She paled.

"What?!"

"These crystals are on every maester's chain. They call it the Strangler."

She put her hand on my arm.

"Joffrey, I swear to you by the child growing inside me, I didn't know!"

I put my finger to my lips, quieting her before she caused a scene.

"Answer the question, Sansa, or we could both die."

She nodded.

"He did approach me, yes."

"Did he ever ask anything of you?"

"Only that I wear this necklace to the feast. He said it was a family heirloom that he smuggled out of Duskendale."

"Nothing else?"

She shook her head.

"He just said he wanted to take me away from here."

I screwed my eyes shut.

"You didn't think anything of that?"

"I thought it was just the ramblings of yet another sad, drunk man making promises he won't keep. Did you think anything of anything that Robert used to say to you?"

Fair enough.

"Let me see it."

She unhooked the necklace and passed it to me.¨

As soon as I had it in my hand, I splayed it out and we both noticed that another stone was missing.

Sansa paled and recoiled.

"Joffrey..."

I grabbed her arm and held her down.

"Stay calm," I murmured under my breath.

"We have to go."

"We can't go."

"You're the fucking King," she hissed, "of course we can go!"

"Sansa, if somebody is trying to kill me, they will try again if they do not succeed today. We know that there is danger here and now, and we can use that to our advantage."

"Danger is not an advantage to a woman with child."

"Think, Sansa. What do we know about this poison?"

"That it was in the necklace given to me by Dontos."

"Yes, and Dontos is a cowardly, drunken fool, which makes him unlikely to be our true enemy, and more to the point, it makes him unreliable. How did whoever gave it to him know that he would give it to you? How did they know you would wear it?"

"They couldn't have done. Either they didn't think it through or... they're desperate."

I frowned.

"Why would they be desperate?"

"What if they realise that they've made a mistake agreeing to something..." she murmured, "and want to rectify that mistake?"

I followed her eyeline and she was looking at Margaery and Tommen.

"The Tyrells."

She shrugged.

"I could be wrong, but if they have spies around us, they know about our child, and they know that they don't have a lot of time to knock you off the throne so Tommen can take your place."

"And Margaery by his side."

"They're using poison, so they'll put you in a position where you have to drink something."

As if on cue, Mace Tyrell pranced into the centre of the dais.

"Your Grace, I fear I must humbly beg for your attention," he demanded pompously.

I drew on my smile again.

"Of course, Lord Tyrell."

“Your Grace, it is my honour to present you with this gift."

A group of servants draped in Tyrell livery carried an enormous wooden goblet to the dais.

"In celebration of the newfound unity of the Seven Kingdoms, a true representation of your dominion, and a gesture of friendship.”

Sansa squeezed my hand.

A goblet could only mean one thing.

I stood and made my way around the dais. As I passed Ser Barristan, I muttered to him, "Close the entrances and wait for my signal."

The old knight blinked and, as I reached the dais, moved to obey.

The gift was an exquisite piece; seven-sided with each of the seven kingdoms represented in beautiful artwork carved into wooden panels. Fine Arbor Gold sloshed around the inside.

I smiled.

“Lord Tyrell, I fear this is too fine a gift." Cue laughter. I paused, as if coming to a sobering realisation, while considering my next move. "I have not treated you with the respect your service and station require, and for that I am sorry. I will gladly accept your gesture.”

Margaery, however, decided for me, picking up my goblet from the table and bringing it to us. She filled it, and offered it to me with a curtsy.

"Your Grace."

It appeared that the trap had been sprung, and now the only way out was to draw the trappers into it as well.

But as clever and ruthless as she was, Margaery didn't strike me as the kind of person with the stomach for murder.

I glanced over her shoulder, and Olenna stared back.

I smiled.

"Come now, Lady Margaery, Lord Tyrell, surely you must also drink."

I took the proffered goblet and set it down, picking up two new ones.

Once they were filled, I handed one to Mace, then retrieved my cup and held it out to Margaery.

The Rose of Highgarden seemed frozen for a moment, and then cleared her throat.

“That will not be necessary, Your Grace, I am your humble servant. In any case, I try not to drink too much wine. I find that it dulls the senses.”

I laughed. It hid my tension as my heart pounded in my chest like I was going back through the Mud Gate.

“My uncle always tells me that that is the point of wine, my lady!"

More laughter.

I stared her down.

"Come, my lady, I insist.”

Defeated, she took it.

I turned to face the crowd and held my goblet aloft. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Kingsguard reposition themselves around the dais, and discreetly nodded to Ser Barristan.

“To a new page.”

The crowd and Lord Tyrell lifted their cups in echo, and Margaery dropped hers with a loud clang.

The goblet rolled away, bleeding purple wine into the stone.

"Margaery!" Lord Tyrell barked, "What in the name of the Seven is wrong with you?"

"Ser Barristan," I called, "Arrest Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna."

Lord Tyrell rounded on me, his face turning a bright red as the Kingsguard closed in.

"On what charge?!"

I stared him down as calmly as I could.

"High treason and attempted regicide."

He opened his mouth, only for the biting tones of Olenna Tyrell to rasp through the air.

"Curb your tongue, Mace, before you get yourself thrown into a cell."

Lord Tyrell began to froth at the mouth and sputter.

"Will somebody please explain to me what is happening?!"

The Queen of Thorns appeared at her son's side.

"He's beaten us. That's what's happening."

With that, two Kingsguard appeared and led her away.

Lord Tyrell fell to his knees.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry, my lord," I consoled him gently, "I know you had no part in this madness. Would you please go to your chambers, and await my summons?"

Pale and shaking, he nodded, and stumbled away.

At this point, like a spectre, Tywin appeared at my shoulder.

"Are you alright, Joffrey?"

If I had burned any less emotion in the last five minutes, I might have been paralyzed by shock at Tywin Lannister expressing concern for another person.

As it was, I simply nodded, and went to sit back down.

Chapter Text

"Your Grace," the Gold Cloak bowed his head at me. "We've found Ser Dontos."

I leaned forward on the Iron Throne.

In my fist, I held the necklace that had so very nearly killed me.

Qyburn and Pycelle had both confirmed my suspicions: I had escaped the clutches of the Strangler by sheer, dumb luck.

"Have him brought to the Black Cells."

The Gold Cloak hesitated.

"I, I'm sorry, Your Grace, but he's dead. We found him floating in the Blackwater with three bolts in his chest."

I hissed through my teeth.

"Was there anything on his person that might tell us who he worked for?"

The Gold Cloak shook his head.

"Nothing, Your Grace."

I clenched my jaw and waved him away silently.

Once the Gold Cloak was gone, I hung my head low, threshing my hands through my hair.

Soft footsteps echoed around the columns and off the walls and into my ears.

Warm, kind hands took hold of mine.

"What are you still doing awake?"

I looked up at Sansa and sighed.

"They haven't found anything else."

"Then they probably won't. Come with me."

I shook my head.

"We need to--"

"You need to rest. I am not going to watch you survive an assassination attempt only for you to drive yourself mad straight after."

She tugged at me.

"Come. Now."

I relented with a grunt.

She led me out of the Great Hall and all the way back to the royal apartments, but instead of leaving me there, she opened the door to our chamber and went inside.

We reached our bed and she turned back to me.

"I almost lost you today," she whispered, tearing up a little. She took my hand and pressed it against her stomach, looking up into my eyes.

"We almost lost you."

I swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head.

"You were the one who stopped it."

"It wasn't just me; you helped too, but that's not what I mean."

I paused and brought my hands up to her face.

"I was wrong. I thought that I couldn’t let you become a weakness, but now I realise that you are my weakness and my strength. You always have been and you always will be, because I need you.”

She nodded.

“I was wrong too. I don’t hate you. What you did was vile and nothing can change that, but I know that in your position I would have done the same as you. It’s just like you said: you either do the unspeakable or have the unspeakable done to you.”

She took my hands away and held them in front of her.

"But," she stared up at me with a kind of steel I hadn't seen in her before, "I will not come back to you as a little girl or a prisoner, but as your equal. As your Queen."

I felt a smile spread across my face almost of its own volition.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

We closed the gap between us and groaned in unison as our lips met.

After an agonisingly short period of time, she pulled back.

"I have just one question."

I raised an eyebrow.

"When you... when I was holding that moon tea, you told me to imagine what I would do to you at that moment, and you said that it would pale in comparison to what you would do to me if I drank the tea. Did you mean it?"

I didn't hesitate.

"I meant every word."

She inhaled deeply and nodded.

"Good, because now I know how far you’d go to protect our family. If you were willing to do that to me when you thought I would destroy us, I shudder to think what you would do to anyone else.”

I leaned in and kissed her again.

"You're about to find out."

She kissed me back.

"Tomorrow."

"Yes," I whispered, "tomorrow."

She raised her eyebrows at me.

"Joffrey, I know you. Your head never stops moving in one direction or another. Tell me what you're thinking."

I touched a strand of her hair.

"I have an idea."

The first thing that strikes you when you walk into an expensive brothel is the smell.

When you're so used to the stench of shit and death, lavender can be quite the shock to the system. Of course, the lavender isn't there to cover up the smell outside, but the equally disturbing smell inside, and it can never quite manage that.

After I insisted that I didn't want any of the girls or boys, for that matter, who were on offer, an oddly smooth man who had introduced himself as Olyvar showed me into a round, red chamber dominated by a large bed, itself dominated by Oberyn Martell and his paramour enjoying the services of a few writhing forms.

"Your Grace," the Dornishman drawled, "would you care to join us?"

I smiled and shook my head.

"Much as the offer flatters me, Prince Oberyn, one woman is enough for me."

He shrugged.

"Suit yourself. I presume that you would like to speak alone?"

"If you would."

Ellaria Sand pulled her paramour down for a kiss that looked a little obscene even in a brothel, before sweeping from the room, taking their companions with her.

Oberyn watched them go like a predator until the door closed, then he rolled over the bed and poured himself a cup of wine.

"Would it be in poor taste for me to offer you a drink?"

"Possibly, but poor taste has never hurt anyone."

"That depends on the poison," he looked over his shoulder at me. "That is what you came here to discuss, after all."

I shrugged.

"An expert in poisons with a famous grudge against the royal family arrives in King's Landing on short notice days before an attempted poisoning of the King."

"It is suspicious, yes, yet I am not being dragged by my hair to the Black Cells by Ser Illyn Payne."

"Because I know low-hanging fruit when I see it."

"So if I am not a suspect, why are you here?"

"Because I see an opportunity for us both to get what we want."

Oberyn took a sip of his wine.

"I am listening."

"Your Grace," Varys appeared at my shoulder as I reentered the Red Keep with my assortment of guards. "Lord Tyrell is readying a small group of soldiers to break his mother and daughter out of the Black Cells."

I raised my eyebrows.

"The Oaf of Highgarden has found his spine. This is truly a strange day."

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan interjected, "if what Lord Varys says is true, we must secure you in Maegor's Holdfast."

"You will do no such thing, Ser Barristan."

Really, the old knight shouldn't have been so surprised.

"Your Grace, I must protest."

"You may protest, ser, but I have nothing to fear from Mace Tyrell."

"It is not Mace Tyrell that I am concerned with, Your Grace, but the steel he bears with him."

I rounded on him.

"Steel will do him little good, ser. Just ask Eddard Stark."

He did not have a reply.

I gestured for the Kingsguard to follow me and headed for the throne room.

"Summon Lord Tyrell," I climbed the steps of the Iron Throne. "Let him come to us."

"Your Grace, should you not don your armour?"

I sat down on the throne.

"No, I will not. I know better than most that armour is not always the most effective means of protection. I will hear no more, ser. Take your positions, and wait."

The Kingsguard obeyed and we all waited in silence.

The sound of armoured feet marching in step rattled into the hall long before anyone actually appeared at the door.

It was difficult not to think of poor Eddard Stark as the Tyrell party filed in, except somehow Mace Tyrell looked even less intimidating than the crippled Northman had.

The fat flower had stuffed himself into a suit of armour that better resembled a gilded bottle of wine than a seasoned warrior. I could have sworn I heard at least one of the Kingsguard suppress a snort.

Ser Loras stood behind him, his armour no less extravagant, but at least it looked vaguely functional. He hadn't donned Renly's helm this time, much to my disappointment.

"Lord Tyrell," I leaned forward on the throne. "I understand that you have a request to make of me."

Lord Tyrell lingered in stunned silence for a second, and then found his wind.

"Your Grace," he drew himself up to his full, not wholly impressive height. "You have taken my mother and daughter on false charges of treason. I demand that you release them at once!"

"The charges are as yet untried. Your mother and daughter will be tried in accordance with their station. If they are found innocent, they will be released to you unharmed, you have my word."

Ser Loras stepped forward.

"There will be no--"

"Silence!"

Mace Tyrell visibly jumped and my shout echoed down the hall.

I stood up from the throne and stared down at them with my hands clasped behind my back.

"My lord," I began calmly. "Do you remember the story of Harlan Tyrell?"

Still a little startled, Mace spluttered.

"Of course I remember the story of my own ancestor! The story of how he raised our--"

"Then you know of the man that he replaced, of the family that yours supplanted."

"We were granted our station as a rewa--"

"Yes," I took one step down. "You were granted the Reach, and that which has been granted can be taken away."

The colour drained from the Lord of Highgarden's face.

"Your Grace would do well not to underestimate us," Ser Loras sneered like the cocky shit he was.

I turned my head toward him slowly.

"Underestimate you?" I smiled my most frightening smile, "Ser Loras, I couldn't possibly."

I took another step down and leaned forward, so I loomed over Lord Tyrell.

"Now, my lord, I am not a forgiving person, but lately my memory has been failing me. I'm sure I shall forget that you meant to bear arms against me in my own hall, provided that I receive no further reminders of it."

The flower's jowls wobbled as he nodded frantically.

"Ladies Olenna and Margaery will receive a fair trial, you have my word. I would advise you to spend your energies constructing their defence."

More nodding. More wobbling.

I smiled again.

"Wonderful. I will see you at the next Small Council meeting."

Cowed, Lord Tyrell turned and retreated.

I descended the final few steps and took a moment to glance over the Kingsguard.

To my right, Ser Jaime sported his new golden hand, but that wasn't the only gold that caught my eye. A new sword stood to attention in its scabbard, with a golden lion on the pommel.

I approached him and pulled the sword out, holding it up to the light.

It was a thing of beauty, the blade thin and shimmering, swirling even, perfectly balanced.

Even though I was far from an expert in metalwork, I could recognise Valyrian steel when I saw it. A material so rare even Tywin Lannister couldn't buy it. In fact, there was only one source of it that I knew of, and it was in King's Landing.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Jaime nodded.

I ground my teeth together.

Just another problem I didn't need.

I gave it back to him.

"Do not let Sansa see that."

I walked out of the hall, shaking my head in annoyance.

"Was Your Grace being truthful to Lord Tyrell when you told him the trial would be a fair one?"

I chuckled hollowly without bothering to break step or look over my shoulder.

"Of course not, Varys. I'm not a fool."

"You play a dangerous game, Your Grace."

I rolled my eyes and grumbled to myself.

"When has it ever been any different?"

Olenna Tyrell sat at a table in the centre of the small chamber she was imprisoned in. The Black Cells have their uses, but sometimes comfort can be just as much torture as hardship.

The Queen of Thorns watched me hawkishly as I set down a jug and two goblets on the table.

"Would you like some wine, my lady?"

She snorted.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, my lady," I poured myself a goblet. "I thought a drink might help our conversation flow."

"You spend far too much time with the Imp."

"Maybe," I sat down and took a sip. "Though I believe you called him 'a browbeaten bookkeeper.'"

"Why, did I sting him with that remark?"

"Yes, it might just be the rudest thing anyone's ever said to him."

Olenna chuckled.

"I think I will have that drink after all."

I smiled and obliged her.

She took one look at it and gulped it down.

I raised an eyebrow.

"I will leave the jug."

She smacked her lips and placed the goblet down.

"Do. I would hate to die without wine." She took one look at my expression and rolled her eyes.

"What, did you think I expected to survive this?"

I shrugged.

"I expected a degree of defiance. Belligerence, perhaps, given that your son and grandson just tried to threaten me."

Olenna visibly cringed.

"I was worried those two boneheads would do something embarrassing."

"Not to worry, my lady. The embarrassment was swift and private."

"That is a relief, certainly, though I have to say that yet again, you are a surprise to me. Any other king, any other man, would have had my head off the second we were out of sight, yet you pour me wine as though you mean to seduce me."

"Regrettably, detached heads do not speak."

"No, indeed, and you would like me to speak, I suppose."

"I would, yes."

"Then I want it known that Margaery knew nothing of the poison. She was instructed not to drink from the gift under any circumstances and nothing more."

"I have yet to decide on Margaery's fate, though you can help me with that if you like."

She sighed.

"Is that your offer? That I give up my co-conspirators - assuming they exist, of course - in exchange for my granddaughter's safety? How utterly dull."

"No, I think you will tell me who your co-conspirators are regardless."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you have no reason not to. They will not come for you and you don't care one bit about them. You have no reason to protect anyone except your granddaughter, whom you will defend at any cost. So what I want from you and Margaery is a performance. Play your part, and I will ensure that she emerges untarnished from this debacle."

"So that is why I am still alive. To play my part."

"The world is a stage, my lady, and we all play our parts in the end."

"And this trial is to be my exit."

I nodded.

"Confess, and Margaery will be safe."

"How can I trust you to keep your word?"

I shrugged.

"I don't care whether you trust me. I care that you keep to the script."

"And what does that script hold for Margaery?"

"A trial by combat, and total exoneration."

Olenna's eyes narrowed.

"Who will fight for her?"

"Whomever she nominates; provided that they consent, of course."

She looked at me, and I could see her start to understand.

"And who will you nominate to fight on behalf of the crown?"

She already knew the answer.

I smiled.

"The Mountain."

She leaned back in her chair silently.

I like to think that I achieved a few notable things in my time, but silencing the Queen of Thorns, even only momentarily, marked one of my finest accomplishments.

"Littlefinger. It was Littlefinger."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I'm not surprised."

"Nor was I when he suggested it. He supplied the poison and that fool Dontos Hollard, and all he asked in return was that we spare your wife. He's always had an unnatural obsession with Catelyn Stark's family."

"I see. Where is he?"

"I don't know. He did not say where he would take her and I didn't ask."

"There was nobody else?"

"Not to my knowledge."

I nodded.

"Then we are finished."

She nodded in return.

"How will it happen?"

"That depends. If you see our bargain through, it will be clean and painless."

She looked at me pensively, then picked up her goblet again.

"I've played the game long enough to know all of the pieces, all the morons and charlatans. It's comforting to know that I haven't lost to one of them."

I bowed my head in acknowledgement.

Coming from Olenna Tyrell, there was no higher compliment.

Chapter Text

"What in the Seven Hells is he doing here?"

I sat with my legs crossed on the wall looking out at the sea.

"It's nice to see you too, Ser Jaime."

Jaime glared at Bronn, who snorted from his wineskin.

"Don't look at me, Goldenballs. It's His Grace that asked to be here. Well, I say asked, more told me that he was going to turn up. Didn't want my tuppence, gods know why."

Jaime turned back to me.

"Why do you want to train here?"

"I haven't sparred with anyone since the Blackwater. I'm getting rusty."

"I'm sure Ser Barristan would be more than happy to polish you up."

"I've been learning from Ser Barristan, and from you, for more than ten years now. If I haven't learned what I should know, then I never will."

"Then I am sure you can find a new master-at-arms. Why spar with this one?"

"I could ask you the same question." I shrugged and unfolded myself into a standing position. "Don't worry, uncle, I'm not here to embarrass you. My reason is quite simple: Ser Barristan taught me how to fight, but Bronn here will teach me how to survive. ”

Jaime clenched his jaw and looked away sullenly.

"You Lannisters and your pride," Bronn shook his head, twirling what I really hoped was a practice sword in his hand. "Good thing there's cunts like me to knock a bit of stuffing out."

Jaime grumbled at me, "You do realise he gets off on this sort of thing?"

"Yes," I muttered back, "He even accepted a reduced price."

Bronn whistled loudly.

"Alright, ladies, let's warm you up. Get to work on each other and I'll join when you're good and ready."

I sighed and took up my usual stance.

Jaime advanced and struck swiftly at me.

I remembered what it had been like to train with him before, how the blows felt like they were suffocating, interminable, inescapable.

Not anymore.

I met his strike and shaped up to respond with a downward cut, only to bring my sword around and hit him full force in the side.

"And that's why we have the fucking kiddie swords." Bronn sniped as my uncle fell to one knee, winded. He threw his wineskin away and stood, brandishing his sword.

"Alright then, Your Grace, come to papa."

"Just leave it."

I waved Sansa away as she tried to touch the bruise already creeping up my neck.

She sighed.

"Why did you have to go to Bronn? I know you like him but..."

"Bronn's a vicious, remorseless killer. More importantly, he's a survivor."

"He's a sellsword and you are the king. His mode of survival is very different to yours."

"That doesn't mean I can't learn from him."

"No," she shook her head, "I don't think that's what it is. You're punishing yourself."

I sighed.

"I should have had Littlefinger killed the moment I took power in King's Landing."

"You aren't the first to make that mistake, I should know, but you now have the chance to correct it."

"It's done. If he sets foot in Westeros again, it will be the last mistake he ever makes. We've already seized all of his holdings, lands, everything. Tyrion was especially pleased with the brothels, they'll be a great source of revenue for the Crown going forward."

"I'm sure he was, but I was thinking that perhaps this could be a chance to make them better. To protect girls from being sold into them against their will, for example."

"Maybe. You could speak to Lord Tyrell about it, given that he is Master of Laws."

She snorted.

"I don't think Lord Tyrell is the master of anything at the moment, and I don't think he would want to see me."

"So? You're the Queen. He sits on the Small Council; he answers to us, no matter how many of his children end up in the dungeon."

"I don't think we should antagonise the Tyrells any further for now. After the trial, however, he will be on his best behaviour. I'm sure he'll be more cooperative then."

I nodded.

"Good idea."

"Littlefinger will still be a threat. He hasn't come this far to give in now."

"I know. Varys will keep looking for him, and if the chance arises, he will die. I promise you that much."

"Good."

She leaned in and kissed me.

"I have some things to attend to."

"Me too. Grandfather wants to see me about something."

"In the Tower of the Hand? In your condition?"

"He doesn't know about my condition, nor should he."

"Alright, but later tonight I am drawing you a bath and you will lie in it while I tend to you."

"You make that sound like a chore."

"Only because you seem to think it is one."

I touched her hand.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to imply that."

"Just try and get used to spending time with your family," She brought my hand to her stomach, "I'm not raising this one alone."

I felt her belly, unable to help but marvel at it a little even though the swelling was barely perceptible.

"You won't. I promise."

Not for the first time, I cursed the man who built the Tower of the Hand as I climbed gingerly to the top of the stupidly endless spiral staircase.

"Your Grace."

Tywin stood from his desk and bowed.

"Grandfather." I greeted him. "You have something to discuss?"

"I do."

He went to a locked cabinet and opened it.

"I had intended to present this to you at the feast. Of course, the Queen of Thorns provided the day's diversion instead."

He produced a rolled-up bundle of fabric and placed it on the desk before me.

I had a horrible feeling that I didn't need to unwrap it to know what it contained.

Still swallowing my trepidation, I pulled on the bindings and spread the fabric aside.

There lay a sword, with a golden pommel in the shape of a lion, encrusted lavishly with rubies, just like the one that Jaime bore.

I drew it from the scabbard, and my fears were confirmed.

The blade, though a little shorter, had the same distinctive pattern as Jaime’s sword, that which only weapons crafted from Valyrian steel possessed, and there was only one piece of Valyrian steel in Westeros that had been big enough to produce two swords.

The ancestral greatsword of House Stark.

"Exquisite.” I mused aloud, examining the blade in the light.

“You know what it is.”

“Of course I do. It’s your final victory over Robb Stark.”

The horrific spectre of a smile appeared on Tywin’s face and he nodded.

I sheathed the sword.

“You pulled me all this way to give me a sword?”

“Do you disapprove of it?”

“I neither approve nor disapprove of it. I do, however, recognise that giving it to me is hardly an act of altruism on your part.”

“There were some practical considerations. You are the King, and your weapon should reflect that fact.”

“Yes, but last time I checked, my name was Baratheon, not Lannister, and my sigil was a stag, not a lion. It’s almost as though you are trying to send a message about where my loyalties should lie.”

“Do you think I disapprove of your stage-managing of the Tyrell trials?”

“I expected a stern lecture about consulting my advisors, at the very least.”

“On the contrary, yours is exactly the correct course of action. We still require the Tyrells to access the resources of the Reach, but an attempt on the King's life must be met with the utmost severity. While I would of course prefer that you consult your counsellors before you act, I am not here to frustrate your plans. If you make a mistake, I will intervene to mitigate the consequences where necessary, but my ultimate purpose is to lay the foundations of your rule. This I do with prejudice, not simply because it is my duty as Hand of the King, but because you are my grandson.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.

“Before long, I will join your grandmother in the crypt of Casterly Rock, and it will fall to you to continue furthering the interests of our family, to keep our line strong. Tyrion and Jaime will play their parts, but you will rule. You will establish our dynasty for generations to come, because no matter your name, you are a Lannister.”

The bitter irony was that he didn’t know how horribly true his words really were.

He pointed at the sword.

“One day, you will take up that sword in defence of your kingdom and your family, as you did once before. Let it serve as a constant reminder of the folly of others and of the responsibility on your shoulders, and one day, you will teach your sons and grandsons the same lessons I have taught you.”

I nodded silently.

"You will of course have to actually produce some sons and grandsons."

I sighed. It wouldn't be possible to conceal Sansa's condition for much longer anyway. Better rip the bandage off now.

“Sansa is with child.”

He patted me on the back.

“Good man.”

At least now he'd stop pestering me about it.

I reentered mine and Sansa's chambers, holding the new sword gingerly.

"They're just heating the water now." Sansa chirped as she saw me enter.

She noticed the sword immediately and frowned.

"He gave you a sword?"

"Yes."

She could obviously sense that something wasn't right.

"May I see it?"

I hesitated.

"I am not sure you will like what you see."

Nonetheless, I held out the hilt.

Sansa pulled it out halfway and stared down at the blade.

"This looks like my father's sword. What have they done?" She asked, her voice rising. "What have they done to my father's sword?!"

"It's been reforged into two smaller swords. This is one of them."

"Where is the other one?"

"It is in Ser Jaime's possession."

Her knuckles whitened.

"The Kingslayer?"

Mindful of the fact that she was still holding the sword, I reached out to her slowly.

"Sansa, I'm so sorry."

She shook her head, still not looking at me.

"It's not your fault. It's your family, it's Tywin, that monster. Of course, it's him. He's destroyed so much, why should Ice be spared?"

My fingers closed around her wrist and I laid my other hand over hers on the hilt.

"Sansa, look at me."

She complied, tears already growing in her eyes.

"Give me the sword."

She gripped it tighter.

"You use it to protect us. Promise me that you will use it to protect us."

I pressed my forehead against hers.

"I promise you, I swear it by the old gods and the new."

She relinquished her grasp.

I threw the sword to the ground and pulled her into me, holding her as she buried her face in my shoulder.

Chapter Text

"Let me."

Sansa slapped my hands away from my collar and set about buttoning it up herself.

"Honestly, if you start complaining about your shoulder again, I'll kick you out of our bed."

I snorted.

"Which of us loses out more in that eventuality, I wonder?"

She put her hand down between my legs and felt me, biting her lip.

"Would you like me to put that to the test?"

I raised my eyebrow.

"Given that you'd have to dress me again, are you sure you want to do that now?"

She shrugged.

"I could just leave you to it and you'd be late to the meeting. Maybe that was my plan all along: wait until you're out of the way and take over the Seven Kingdoms."

I grinned and pulled her in for a kiss.

"A masterstroke, my love."

She giggled.

"Later, perhaps. I still need you to make the boring things interesting."

I took her hand.

"It's time, though. We're finally going to start ruling together."

She nodded.

"Yes, finally."

I sat in the King's seat in the Small Council chamber, with Sansa sitting to my left.

The other councillors filed in one by one.

It was quite amusing watching each of them do a double-take when they saw Sansa smiling pleasantly at them from her chair. Varys bowed and Pycelle grumbled, Lord Tyrell kept his head down and Tywin looked like she'd spat on his boots.

Arianne reached over the table and offered Sansa her hand.

"Welcome, Your Grace."

Sansa took her hand and shook it with a grin.

Once they were all sat, I began.

"My lords, Princess, before we begin, we have two announcements to make: first, as you have all seen, I have decided that Queen Sansa shall now sit on the Small Council."

"About time, if you ask me." Arianne piped up.

"Your Grace is most welcome." Varys smiled.

Sansa nodded.

"Thank you, my lords."

We exchanged glances and she continued.

"The second announcement is that I am with child."

I found her hand under the table and squeezed.

"Congratulations, Your Grace." Tywin turned to me, "With your permission, we will make a formal announcement later this week."

"Naturally, Lord Tywin."

Pycelle frowned.

"Your Grace, while this is certainly joyous news, I must confess to this being unknown to me. As Grand Maester, I--"

"Your expertise is greatly valued, Grand Maester," Sansa interrupted, "but His Grace and I decided to break with normal protocol, and share the joy of our first child privately."

The old maester bobbled his head unhappily, but shut up.

I clapped my hands.

"Now, let us begin. The trial begins this afternoon, so we will only have this morning for matters of state."

I turned to Varys.

"What news of Littlefinger?"

He shook his head.

"None, Your Grace. He has not appeared in the Vale, nor have my little birds been able to find him elsewhere in Westeros. It would seem that he has already fled."

"Have them watch the ports of all the Free Cities. I want him found."

The Spider bowed his head.

"What else?" Tywin asked.

"Sandor Clegane has been spotted in the Riverlands, my lord."

I raised an eyebrow.

So he could find the Hound but not the Mockingbird.

"Do you know that it was him?"

"My little birds tell me that a large man with a burned face slaughtered five of our soldiers. I believe the phrase, 'Fuck the King' was uttered."

"Disgraceful," muttered Pycelle.

I nodded.

"That does sound like Clegane. What possessed those idiots to think they could take on the Hound and win?"

"I believe the dispute was over a chicken, Your Grace."

Oh, of course it was!

Tywin sniffed.

"What would it take to make the common soldier stupid enough to try his own luck with him?"

Apart from a chicken?

"Ten silver stags seems a generous bounty."

Tywin and I looked at each other in agreement and he nodded.

"Make it a hundred. What else?"

"More whispers from the east."

"Danaerys Targaryen?" I asked.

Varys nodded.

Joy of joys.

"She has taken up residence in Meereen, Your Grace. She has conquered the city and rules as its queen."

I sighed.

"What is her strength?"

"Some eight thousand Unsullied, as before, but she has enlisted the services of the Second Sons to augment that army; she is advised by Ser Jorah Mormont, a seasoned veteran in his own right, and she has three dragons."

Sansa frowned.

"I know that Ser Jorah was exiled by my father for slavery, but his family have always been the most loyal bannermen. How did he come to be in the service of House Targaryen?"

"He was sent to spy on her in return for a pardon." I looked over at Varys, "I presume this is no longer the case?"

"Regrettably, Your Grace, it appears that Ser Jorah is fully devoted to his new queen."

I tapped my fingers on the desk.

"Is Danaerys Targaryen aware of his previous loyalty? My father ordered several attempts on her life based on his information."

"Apparently not, Your Grace. If she were, I imagine that Ser Jorah would have tasted fire and blood long ago."

I leaned back in my chair.

"That is something that we might exploit, then."

Tywin picked up my baton quickly.

"Can your little birds find their way into Meereen?"

"Most certainly, my Lord Hand."

Tywin hummed.

"Lord Tyrell."

The Lord of Highgarden jumped, as though startled.

"Be a good man, fetch my quill and parchment."

Lord Tyrell puffed himself up as he stood up to do a page's job.

I turned to Arianne.

"Princess, Dorne has a history of staving off dragon attacks. Do you still possess the weapons used to battle Aegon the Conqueror and his queens, or better still, the schematics?"

"Of course, Your Grace, we kept everything."

"Have those designs brought to King's Landing for study. Any advantage we can muster will be important if those dragons appear in our skies."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Lord Tyrell placed the parchment and quill before Tywin.

Sansa and I looked at it grimly.

There were few forces in the Known World more destructive than Tywin Lannister with a quill in his hand.

Even the Mother of Dragons would learn that lesson.

Varys and Prince Oberyn stood before the Iron Throne. They were both looking at it as I entered the hall.

I rolled my eyes as I walked around the stand that had been erected in the centre of the room.

"If you're imagining yourselves sitting on that throne, my lords, remember to imagine the spikes digging into your backside as you try to look dignified."

Oberyn turned to me, eyebrows raised.

"I would never have thought it was so uncomfortable, Your Grace. You make sitting on it look effortless."

"I can't tell whether you're being sarcastic, Prince Oberyn."

The Red Viper shrugged, smirking.

"Aegon the Conqueror famously said that no king should ever sit easy." Varys pointed out. "One can hardly accuse him of not living by his words."

"Yes, but I think he was too busy being proud of himself for coming up with that to realise that if all a king can focus on is how uncomfortable he is, his ability to rule might be somewhat impaired."

Oberyn gave me a foreboding look.

"Have you ever cut yourself?"

That was a dangerous question. Maegor the Cruel had died on the Iron Throne, its spikes piercing his throat. Even to this day, some believe that the Throne itself had killed him and that a king who cuts himself upon it is marked by history for an ignominious end.

Of course, that was probably nonsense, but the question was dangerous, bordering on treasonous, just the same.

"No."

"Then you are doing better than most. The Mad King used to cut himself every time he sat on it. You could see the blood dripping down his robes if you looked close enough."

Varys smiled.

"Poetic. It is odd how life imitates art at times."

"Art reflects life. It makes sense that the reverse should be true as well. We actors must play our parts."

"Indeed we must, Your Grace. I have read what you have written, and now we shall see how you direct it."

Varys bowed to both of us and exited right just as the courtiers began to file in for the start of the trial.

Prince Oberyn and I watched him go before turning to each other.

"Shall we begin?"

A hush fell over the hall as the doors opened and the Queen of Thorns was led into the hall.

Despite the heavy chains around her wrists, she held herself as high as anyone gawking at her as she stepped into the stand.

I stood up from the Iron Throne, and so the performance began.

"I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, hereby announce the opening of the trial of the ladies Olenna and Margaery of House Tyrell, on the charges of high treason and attempted regicide. Assisting me in this matter will be Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, and Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne. May the Gods grant us mercy, justice, and wisdom, and if found guilty, may they punish the accused."

I sat.

"Lady Olenna of House Tyrell, you stand accused of high treason and attempted regicide. How do you plead?"

Olenna straightened her back as far as it would go and spoke clearly.

"Guilty. Of all charges."

The crowd gasped loudly.

Lord Tyrell leapt out of his chair.

"Mother! What madness is this?!"

"Order!" I roared. "Lord Tyrell, resume your seat or you will be removed from this hall!"

Cowed, he sat back down.

I turned my attention back to Olenna.

"My lady, do you have anything further to say?"

"Only that my foolish son had no part in this, nor did anyone else from House Tyrell."

Oberyn leaned forward.

"But there were others involved, yes?"

Olenna nodded.

"The poison was supplied by Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal. It was contained in a necklace, which was given to the Queen. Once at the feast, I retrieved the poison and placed it in your cup."

At this, the crowd grew almost feral, shouting and stamping their feet on the wooden structures they stood atop.

"Silence!" I called, waiting for the noise to die down. "Have you anyone who might corroborate this version of events?"

This was a trap, of course. If Olenna named Margaery, she would implicate her granddaughter. Naturally, she didn't take the bait.

"Ser Dontos Hollard was the one who delivered the poison to the Queen."

"Ser Dontos Hollard is dead."

"Ah," she sighed, "that is regrettable, though I suppose it doesn't really matter. I have lost the game, Your Grace. I see no reason to prolong it further."

"You say that the necklace was given to the Queen," Tywin spoke for the first time, "why would you do such a thing?"

"Why, Lord Tywin, isn't it obvious? You and the King are responsible for the eradication of House Stark. If anyone here has a reason to kill either of you, it's her. If she were to disappear with Ser Dontos in the immediate aftermath of the King's death, suspicion would naturally fall upon her."

Tywin turned his gaze toward Sansa, as I had feared he might.

"Does the Queen have any comment to make on this?"

Sansa stood.

"Only to say that I had no knowledge of this plot, my Lord Hand, and that if necessary, I will take Lady Olenna's place in the dock to defend myself against any implication that I might attempt to murder my beloved husband, the King."

A murmur of approval went around the hall. Whether that was in support of Sansa's speech or the idea that she should be in the dock was not clear.

I held up my hand.

"That will not be necessary, my Queen, I am quite assured of your innocence in this crime. It is the Lady Olenna alone who stands accused in this hall."

Sansa curtsied and sat down again, having played her role to perfection.

I gave her an appreciative look across the hall, before returning my attention to Olenna.

"Lady Olenna, as you have confessed to the charges against you, we shall dispense with the cross-examination of witnesses. Have you anything to say in your defence before sentencing?"

She stood tall again.

"Only that what I did, I did for the future of my house; that is all I have ever worked for. It will be good to finally rest. I ask only that you spare me the Silent Sisters; I couldn't stand that fate."

I nodded and stood.

"Lady Olenna of House Tyrell, you are hereby found guilty of high treason and attempted regicide, and I sentence you to death."

The crowd began to jeer. Lord Tyrell crumpled forwards with his head in his hands. Still, the Queen of Thorns stood as dignified as ever.

"Petyr Baelish is hereby summoned to King's Landing to answer these charges on pain of death. Any man, woman or child who conceals, aids or abets him will be branded an enemy of the Crown. The court will adjourn for one hour. We shall hear the case of Lady Margaery thereafter. Remove Lady Olenna to the Black Cells."

Lady Olenna looked up at me as the guards took hold of her chains.

I nodded respectfully to her as she was led away.

One down.

"You seem quite relaxed."

Sansa eyed me up as I picked on a piece of apple.

"I am. Everything is going to plan." I popped the fruit into my mouth.

"How do you know Margaery will cooperate?"

"She knows what will happen if she doesn't."

Sansa sighed.

"She shouldn't be allowed to walk free."

"If she is found not guilty, which she will be, we will have to reluctantly acquiesce, no matter our personal feelings."

She didn't seem satisfied, so I took her hand.

"Look, for what it's worth, I agree with you. If it were up to me, those scheming harlots wouldn't see the light of day again, but we need the Tyrells so we need to do this the proper way. If we can finally secure Dorne's loyalty in the process, it will be well worth the anti-climax."

"Is what you're doing not quite obvious?"

"Oh, yes. Some might even call it blatant. Nobody will care, though, as long as everyone gets what they want."

"And if they want justice?"

I fixed her in my gaze.

"If you want justice, you've come to the wrong place."

She clenched her jaw and looked away.

"I know."

I sighed.

"An eye for an eye is not a favourable exchange."

"No, but it is fair."

"You don't win by being fair," I picked up the last piece of fruit. "and I intend for us to win."

"Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, you stand accused of high treason and attempted regicide. How do you plead?"

Like her grandmother, Margaery held her head high as she spoke.

"Not guilty, Your Grace."

"Your grandmother has already been found guilty of these charges. Do you mean to tell the court that you had no knowledge of her crimes?"

"None whatsoever, Your Grace."

I nodded, pretending to be annoyed by this.

"Very well. The prosecution may call its first witness."

"That will not be necessary, Your Grace." Margaery looked dramatically around at the assembled courtiers, "This trial is nothing but a farce, a humiliation I will not suffer. There is no substance to the charges against me, yet here I stand, chained like an animal. I will stand it no longer. I entrust my fate not to this court, but to the Gods. Your Grace, I demand a trial by combat."

A murmur spread through the court.

I nodded slowly.

"As you wish, my lady. Have you a champion to fight on your behalf?"

"I do, Your Grace. I name Prince Oberyn as my champion."

I raised my more thespian eyebrow and turned with the rest of the court to look at the slouching Red Viper.

Oberyn shrugged.

"I have never been able to refuse a beautiful woman. I will gladly fight on the behalf of the Lady Margaery."

"Your Grace!" Ser Loras Tyrell rushed to the middle of the hall. "I must protest! Margaery is my sister, I should be her champion."

"Ser Loras," I held up a pacifying hand. "the decision is Lady Margaery's, not mine. If she has asked Prince Oberyn to fight for her and he has accepted, then even I cannot compel her to choose you."

At this, at least, the court raised itself from stunned silence to hum with agreement.

Defeated, Ser Loras gave one last forlorn look at his sister, who quietly shook her head.

Probably for the best, frankly. I remembered the last time Ser Loras had fought the Mountain. Well, fought was a generous description. If it hadn't been for the Hound, Loras Tyrell would have been a bloody pulp long ago.

"Who does the prosecution name as its champion?"

Sansa stood.

"The prosecution names Ser Gregor Clegane, Your Grace."

The court erupted in excitement.

I sat back in the Iron Throne and stroked my chin, as though I were worriedly contemplating the implications of this explosion.

In reality, I was concealing a triumphant smile.

Chapter Text

I read the scroll in my hands several times over, not quite able to compute its contents.

"Are you serious?"

Tywin, Tyrion and Varys sat around the table with me.

Varys nodded.

"Lysa Arryn has called her banners and declared the Vale to be in open revolt against the Crown."

"Do we know why?"

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the table.

"Lysa is a mad cow, make no mistake, but this is not her doing. This is Littlefinger."

"It matters not who is responsible," Tywin sniffed, "what matters is what we do next. We must put down this insurrection at once."

"That may not be necessary, my Lord Hand," Varys replied. "My little birds tell me that the lords of the Vale have little regard for Lysa's commands: while they make a show of obeying, they are stalling at every turn. They express fealty to her out of love for the late Jon Arryn, but they are not blind. They see Littlefinger's influence on Lysa, and they felt nothing but contempt for him even before he was named a traitor. The Vale remains loyal to you, Your Grace."

"Nevertheless, Lysa Arryn must be punished."

"The Eyrie is impregnable. There is only one way in and no force large enough to take it could even get up the mountain."

I raised an eyebrow.

"If there is only one way in, there is also only one way out." I turned to Varys. "How involved is Lysa Arryn in the day-to-day running of the Vale?"

"She spends most of her time tending to her son, Your Grace."

"That's one way of putting it." Tyrion muttered. "You believe that the Valelords would just lock her in and leave her?"

"If Lysa will not come out, and we cannot go in, we can at least make sure she stays where she is. We can trap her there and let the Valelords keep to themselves until she comes to her senses."

"The Valelords are passionately loyal to House Arryn." Tywin stated simply. "If Lysa Arryn will not come to heel, we will have to replace her."

"With whom, father? You said it yourself, the Valelords are loyal to Jon Arryn's legacy."

"Your Grace, normally I would not bring up idle tavern gossip," Varys interjected with an entirely straight face, "but it has been remarked upon that the Arryn boy bears little resemblance to his father in character, constitution or appearance."

Three generations of House Lannister were momentarily speechless as we realised what the Spider's words might mean.

"He's a bastard?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not."

Tyrion frowned.

"Varys is right. The boy looks nothing like Jon Arryn."

I felt a sense of unease creep up my ribs.

Poking the question of legitimacy is a dangerous gambit for an alleged bastard.

Of course, that wasn't a problem for Tywin.

One could hear the cogs meshing and moving in his head as a plan started to form.

"Who is Robin Arryn's heir?"

"Harrold Hardyng, my Lord Hand, Jon Arryn's great-nephew via his sister. He is currently the ward of Anya Waynwood."

"Send a raven to Ironoaks. The boy is to come to King's Landing to swear fealty at once. Once we have him in our hands, we will give Lysa Arryn a choice: bend the knee or her son will be denounced as a bastard."

"Will Anya Waynwood give Harrold Hardyng up so easily?" Tyrion asked Varys.

"I cannot say, my lord." He shrugged. "Through him, she wields considerable influence in the Vale, and the other Valelords are quite content for Lysa to remain in charge precisely because she is so weak. I suspect that, if compelled to do so, they would happily swear fealty to the Crown and carry on as normal with or without Lysa's approval."

I thought for a moment, then leaned forward.

"One solution does not preclude the other. We need not descend into unsubstantiated rumours and hearsay. Harrold Hardyng can serve on the Small Council as representative of the Vale, through him the Valelords will renew their fealty, and Lysa Arryn can spend her days wandering the Eyrie until she starves or gives in. Either way, I will not suffer her hysterics any longer. We should never have rewarded her disloyalty with Littlefinger, and we should never have rewarded Littlefinger's audacity with Harrenhal."

The other three heads in the room nodded in agreement.

"Good," I placed my hands down on the table and pushed myself up. "now, if my lords will excuse me, I have an execution to carry out."

And if I had to think about Petyr Baelish any longer I might well be sick.

"Here is the poison you requested, Your Grace." Qyburn held the bottle back as I reached out. "Do be careful with it. I advise you to scrub your hands before eating anything, just to be safe. It is not a merciful substance."

I took the bottle carefully and put it in my pocket.

"You know its characteristics?"

"Intimately."

Qyburn had impressed me to no end. His knowledge of the absurd and the marvellous was extraordinary.

I looked around his laboratory. Strange things were depicted in his drawings and scribbles, stranger things still floated in his many jars. Some of them looked vaguely like body parts, while others were simply unrecognisable. Despite this, the room didn't smell too bad, and while it could have been lit a little better, it was almost homely. If you ignored the bloodstains on the table.

"You have made yourself at home, I see."

The former maester smiled serenely.

"Yes, Your Grace. This room suits my needs perfectly. I hope I will be able to repay your generosity a thousandfold in the future."

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Your discretion is its own service, Qyburn, but while we're on the subject, I have a challenge for you."

His eyes positively lit up.

"What does Your Grace require?"

Sansa stared absently at the bottle of poison.

I watched her.

"Are you sure you need to see this?"

"My father always said, 'The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.' It's only right."

"In the North, yes, but not here."

She stood and picked up the bottle.

"I'm not arguing about this. This is for us. We are doing this together."

I nodded.

"Fair enough."

I followed her from the room and we walked in silence.

The guards stood to attention as we entered the chamber.

Olenna sat at her table. Rather than the rich gowns she normally wore, she was clad in a much more ordinary gown, one befitting a prisoner awaiting death.

She looked at us with her trademark hawkishness, but this time it was tempered with a tired acceptance.

"Your Graces." She said calmly.

"My lady. Have you said your goodbyes?"

"Yes, I have, and I thank you for your kindness."

I nodded.

Of course, it hadn't been for her sake, but for the others'.

"How will it happen?"

"We discussed it and came up with a few ideas. In the end, we decided that our personal feelings shouldn't get in the way of practicality."

Sansa placed the poison in front of her.

Olenna nodded approvingly.

"Good."

She looked at the bottle for a moment, then back at us.

"I did unspeakable things to protect my family, or watched them being done on my orders. I never lost a night's sleep over them. They were necessary, and whatever I imagined necessary for the safety of House Tyrell, I did." She fixed her glare on me with a sly smile. "Of course, I don't have to tell you about the unspeakable, do I?"

I clenched my jaw.

"Hardly."

She now turned to Sansa.

"You know, I envy you, child. I loved my Luthor dearly, but he never had much of a brain, and my son has less still. It's only my granddaughter who really understands this game we play. But you and your King, you have something to be admired between you. I wish I had had something like that."

Sansa blinked, surprised by the compliment.

"That is kind of you to say, my lady."

Olenna turned back to me.

"Will there be pain?"

"No." I lied.

I often wonder if she knew and didn't care, or whether I actually was that good a liar.

She nodded and picked up the bottle.

"Always remember: do what is necessary, no matter how appalling it may be."

She tipped her head back and drained the contents quickly.

"Thank you, my lady," I responded, "you were a worthy opponent."

Olenna put the bottle down and swallowed.

She opened her mouth to speak again.

And then she coughed. Clearing her throat, she tried to take a breath but found that she could not.

Sansa and I watched her slowly turn purple and start clawing at her closing throat. Bile spilled from her lips as she convulsed and gagged, blood flowed from her nose as the vessels beneath her skin broke one by one, staining her both inside and out, and horrible retching sounds filled the room.

Neither of us flinched. Neither of us looked away. Neither of us even blinked.

Olenna tried to stand but fell back into her chair, and with the last ounce of her strength, she looked at us. She looked at us with bloodshot, accusing eyes.

The Queen of Thorns let out a final death rattle, and then was still.

We stood in silence, staring at her.

Finally, I opened my mouth.

"Now we know."

Sansa nodded.

"Now we know."

I pounded on the door and two Silent Sisters came in to collect the body. If there is one thing one can reasonably expect from a holy order dedicated to silence, it is discretion.

The veiled women set about their work with the efficiency of someone who had seen thousands of corpses.

Sansa and I left them to their work, and walked out as silently as the sisters had entered.

The silence followed us back to our chambers. Once we were through the door, I went straight to the sideboard and found a jug of wine.

"No." Sansa finally spoke. She came up behind me. "Come to bed."

I shook my head.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I didn't say anything about talking." She stated matter-of-factly.

I turned to see her. She looked as tired as I felt.

Still, she took my hand and brought it to her lips.

Staring at me with those blue Tully eyes of hers, those eyes that I could never resist, she first kissed my knuckles softly, then drew my forefinger into her mouth, sucking gently.

I groaned quietly, feeling everything both inside and outside of me begin to stir at her touches.

She led me into our bedchamber, her eyes never leaving mine. When she reached our bed, she sank down onto it and guided my hand to her chest, letting me slip under the layers of fabric that made up her gown and feel her breast.

"Do you like that, my love?" She purred, "How soft my tits feel in your hands?"

Any response I might have had shrivelled in my throat as she passed a hand over the front of my breeches.

"Almost as much as I like how hard your cock feels in mine." She answered her own question. Biting her lip, she tugged at my laces and pulled my breeches down.

My cock flicked out at her, making her giggle.

"And I know how much you like it too." She whispered, wrapping her fingers around me, stroking painfully slowly, agonisingly gently.

Glancing down, she saw how much precum was already dripping out of me and made to take me in her mouth, but at the last minute, she stopped.

I grunted, my cock twitching violently as her warm breath washed torturously over me.

She giggled again. "So much self-restraint." She leaned back and uncinched her belt, and shrugged her shoulders so that her dress fell away, to leave her exposed to me, her tits heaving, a blush colouring her neck and chest red. "I mean to do something about that tonight."

She pulled me forward and pushed my cock against her chest, massaging it into her breasts.

I groaned again, louder this time, and screwed my eyes shut.

"Careful," I muttered, "if you keep this up, I'm going to spill my seed all over you."

"Is that what you want, my love?" She whispered, continuing her ministrations while simultaneously stroking the inside of my thigh. "My King?"

I bit down on the inside of my cheek as hard as I could. It was a minor miracle that I somehow did not find my mouth flooding with blood. It was all I could do to realise that I did want to see what that would look like, and nod.

Sansa grinned up at me, still tormenting me with her touches both light and heavy.

"Not yet, though. I want you inside me first, even if it's just for a few seconds."

Unable to stand it a second longer, I put my hands on her shoulders and shoved her back into the bed. Without even bothering to remove my own garments, I tore her clothes away from her until she lay naked and panting in front of me.

Her hair splayed out around her, her lips were parted and wet, her entire body was delectably warm to the touch and the sight of her ever-so-slightly swollen belly only added to my arousal. I pulled her toward me and such was her own arousal that I didn't even need to use my hands to enter her.

Her mouth fell open and she let out a guttural cry as my cock rushed into her warm, wet, welcoming cunt. Holding her legs upright against me, I thrust forward until her arse was pressed right up against my thighs, and then withdrew just as quickly.

"Yes, fuck me. Fuc--ah!" Her cries grew less intelligible by the second as I obeyed her command to the letter.

Spurred on by my pace and by just how filthy the whole scenario was, it wasn't long before I felt my finish approaching like a charging aurochs.

"Sansa," I moaned to alert her.

"Let it out, my love," She begged. "let it out!"

I pulled out of her and climbed forward.

She reached out and moaned loudly as, without her even needing to fully take me in her hand, I exploded harder, faster and further than I had ever done, spilling my seed all over her stomach, her tits, her neck, and even her face.

"Oh, my love." She hummed in surprise but didn't flinch, and her tongue crept out to lick up a drop that lingered near her mouth. "I love your taste."

Her words, combined with the fact that my Queen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, now looked as though she were in a scene out of the lewdest of obscene books, sent me back to attention.

Sansa gasped as I reentered her, this time slowly rocking back and forth, just having my way with her gently. She slipped a hand between her legs and began to stroke herself, still covered in my seed. She bit down on her lip and blushed as I felt her pulse around me.

Careful not to put any weight on her stomach, I leaned down to kiss her full on the lips.

"You are amazing."

"I'm filthy," she laughed, "in every sense of the word."

Carding her hands through my hair, she looked up at me with a hint of seriousness. "You needed this, though. You needed to let go of something, even if it makes a mess. You can't contain everything, trust me when I say that."

I glanced between her eyes, nodded slowly, and buried my nose in her hair.

Chapter Text

"Trial by combat," Tyrion mused over a glass of wine. "determining a man's guilt or innocence in the eyes of the Gods by having two other men hack each other to death. Tells you something about the Gods."

I shrugged.

"It tells me more about the two idiots in the middle. As long as I get what I want, I couldn't care less about the Gods. May they strike me down if that displeases them."

I looked up at the ceiling with mock fear, causing Tyrion to snort into his wine.

"The Gods are vicious, they wouldn't give you the mercy of a quick death."

"Why is a quick death better than a slow one? Surely it's a painful death you don't want."

"Some people want a painful death, some want a quick one, some even want to die on the battlefield. I want to die in my own bed, at the age of eighty, with a bellyful of wine and a girl's mouth around my cock."

I grimaced.

"Thank you for that image."

Tyrion looked at me ponderously.

"How do you want to die?"

Not like Olenna Tyrell.

"I haven't thought about it."

Tyrion snorted again.

"Yes, you have. Everybody, everywhere, doing everything you can ever think of, has thought about it. If the Seven Kingdoms' cleverest worrywart hasn't pondered the issue of his own mortality, I swear to all the Gods, old and new, that I will never lift a cup of wine for the rest of my days."

"That's not much of a vow." I pointed out. "You'd just get a whore to lift it for you."

"Of course, what kind of fool do you take me for? Now, answer the question."

I sighed, thinking for a moment.

"With the quiet satisfaction of a job well done."

Tyrion seemed impressed, and he nodded.

"That's a good answer. Inoffensive, vague, achievable."

I smirked.

"Precisely the traits I strive to embody."

Tyrion snorted, taking another gulp of wine.

"Yet I suspect it's also an honest one."

I looked out of the window wistfully.

"Sometimes I wonder why I am here. Why do I stay in a position where so many want me dead? Why don't I just take Sansa and leave? Pilfer some gold from the treasury and build a house somewhere?"

Tyrion chuckled.

"Because you would be bored out of your mind."

"I don't know that for sure. Maybe I'd like it. I could build a library, fill it with all the books that the Citadel wants to burn for no other reason than to spite them. I could collect them, curate them, lend them to those curious enough to seek them out. I could be happy doing that."

"Well, come on then, what's the answer? Why are you still here?"

"Because it doesn't matter whether the Gods put me here or whether it was just one of the world's absurd coincidences: I have a task to perform."

"Pah!" Tyrion spat. "You have many faces, Joffrey, but self-pity is ill-fitting on you."

I simply raised an eyebrow.

"You love the game too much. Fooling Pycelle, tormenting my father, rigging the trial. You don't do those things unless you have a talent for living in this city, unless you love the game. I know this because we are the same, and even though we know that it's a dangerous game, we keep playing."

I stayed quiet.

"And Sansa is starting to play it as well."

I sighed.

"I know."

"I'd have thought you'd be happier about that."

I swallowed.

"I thought so too."

"Here, Your Grace." Qyburn gestured to a flask on his table. "Difficult though it was, I believe I have been able to meet your requirements."

I clapped my hands.

"Qyburn, you excel yourself."

The chainless maester shook his head modestly.

"In truth, I exaggerate slightly, Your Grace. The main challenge was sheer volume. The substance itself is relatively straightforward to produce in moderate quantities, but Ser Gregor is not a small man."

"Truly, Maester Qyburn," Varys smirked from behind me, "I wonder if your greatest talent is your facility for understatement."

"I would have thought that the Master of Whisperers would appreciate the value of understatement, Lord Varys," Qyburn retorted, "and I am no maester, as you well know."

"And I am no lord, yet I am frequently addressed like one."

"Those who call you 'lord' do so due to a misunderstanding of your proper titles, Lord Varys, whereas I was stripped of my chain by the Citadel and cast out of the Order of Maesters, so there can be no mistake. Although, perhaps I should count myself more fortunate, given that your losses have been rather more... fundamental than mine."

"Alright," I intervened, biting the inside of my cheek to suppress a smile out of sheer entertainment, "my friends, if we could return to the matter at hand."

Qyburn bowed his head.

"As I was saying, Your Grace, Ser Gregor's size did present a challenge, as did his apparent tendency to consume large quantities of milk of the poppy, as those who drink the milk regularly exhibit greater tolerance for its effects. As I have no means of determining how much more Ser Gregor can take without killing him, I opted for sweetsleep instead."

Varys looked doubtful.

"Sweetsleep is extremely lethal."

"Everything is lethal in excess, but Lord Varys is correct. The advantage of sweetsleep is that, in my experience, it does not matter what else the drinker has taken. Unless they already have it in their flesh, provided they do not take more than a few drops, they will be quite sedated but quite safe. For Your Grace's other requirements, a draught of my own devising was necessary. It will reduce his tolerance for pain, and in doing so, loosen his tongue. Combined with the sweetsleep, I believe that it will render the Mountain a far easier kill for Prince Oberyn."

"And the mixture itself is not lethal?"

"My experimentation suggests not. I tested the substance on prisoners who were certainly guilty based on evidence but nonetheless denied the charges against them most stringently. The results were satisfactorily consistent. As I said, the challenge was ensuring that the mixture will work on a man of Ser Gregor's stature without killing him. I believe that simple quantity ought to provide the solution, hence the size of the dose."

I nodded, impressed.

"You are certainly methodical."

"I find that thoroughness pays dividends. I must also give due credit to Ser Illyn: he was most obliging when I asked him for subjects."

"Yes, I find Ser Illyn to be quietly acquiescent nowadays," Varys muttered, eyebrows raised. "Queer as it may seem."

I ignored the eunuch and turned to Qyburn.

"Excellent work, Qyburn. I believe that Lord Varys can take it from here."

Varys gestured at the table.

Two small children appeared from the shadows, lifted the flask from the table, and disappeared the way they came, carrying it between them.

Qyburn and I both looked at the Spider, who held up his powdered hands.

"I am not in the habit of handling poisons when I can avoid it."

Well, that was obviously bollocks, frankly.

"As long as they get it to where it needs to go, I don't care."

I turned back to Qyburn.

"Thank you, Qyburn. Your skills have once again proven most valuable."

He bowed.

"You are too kind, Your Grace." I was about to walk out when he piped up again, "If I might ask a small boon for my efforts?"

"Of course."

"Ser Gregor's corpse, Your Grace. A specimen of his size would be a remarkable opportunity for study."

I paused.

"I have promised Ser Gregor's head to the Martells, but the rest of him is yours if they do not ask for it. Is that satisfactory?"

Qyburn smiled.

"Yes, Your Grace. Quite satisfactory, thank you."

Now that was done, I left him to his work.

Varys followed me out of the laboratory.

"A curious man," he commented.

"I find him endearing, in a strange way." I glanced over my shoulder as we walked. "Do you feel jilted, my dear Spider?"

"I merely question his motives, Your Grace. Jealousy is not an emotion I waste time with."

"His motives are of interest to me too, but so far he has proven useful."

"How far will his usefulness carry him?"

"An interesting question. If his concoction proves effective on Ser Gregor, I had the thought to name him Lord Confessor. Ser Illyn is not a strong interrogator and I suspect that if he wished to, Qyburn could inflict more suffering than a thousand Illyn Paynes. If nothing else, it will keep him happy."

"A wise choice. While I am naturally in favour of social mobility, I do shudder to imagine what that man would do with real power."

I hummed in agreement.

"So do I."

The gods certainly were smiling on the proceedings, if the weather was anything to go by. The venue where the trial was to be held was bathed in golden sunlight as Sansa and I took our seats among the rest of the court, our heads shaded by the structure overlooking the miniature arena where the blood was to spill.

Under a separate tent, Margaery Tyrell sat with Prince Oberyn and his paramour. The Rose of Highgarden watched the Red Viper closely as he prepared for the fight. His only protection was made of leather, clearly designed for speed. A wise choice.

A hush fell over the crowd as Ser Gregor Clegane hove into view. The Mountain wore armour that closer resembled the hide of an animal than plate and mail, his face hidden by a helmet so simple yet so terrifying that it might have rendered most men mute. In his squire's hands was a greatsword so large it nearly dwarfed the squire himself.

There was not a man alive who would have envied Oberyn Martell in that moment.

I glanced over at Varys. The Spider simply nodded.

We had done all we could.

A round of bugles sounded, shushing the crowd, and Grand Maester Pycelle clinked his way to the middle of the arena.

"In the sight of gods and men," he wobbled, "we gather to ascertain the guilt of this..." losing his train of thought, he stammered for a moment, "woman, Margaery Tyrell."

I rolled my eyes as he prattled on for a few more seconds.

Mercifully, Tywin gestured to the bugle players and they spared everyone the pain of listening to Pycelle for one second more.

Ser Gregor turned to his squire and, true to form, drew his greatsword with one hand.

Oberyn kissed his paramour and held out his hand.

His squire tossed his spear cleanly to him.

Oberyn twirled and spun his spear around as he moved before the spectators. The blade caught the light as it spun so fast it appeared to be in three places at once. Oberyn finished before the crowd, facing us and flashing a smile up at Sansa.

If I'd been a jealous man, I'd have been enraged by that.

The crowd cheered and Oberyn finally turned to face his adversary.

"Have they told you who I am?"

"Some dead man." Gregor grunted as he charged forward, smashing his sword against the ground.

Oberyn danced out of the way.

They traded one or two more slices at each other.

"I am the brother of Elia Martell," Oberyn continued, "and do you know why I have come all the way to this stinking shit-pile of a city?"

The Red Viper coiled, "For you," and sprang.

The tip of his spear scraped against the Mountain's breastplate and the Mountain swung his sword wildly.

"I'm going to hear you confess," Oberyn circled Clegane slowly. "you raped my sister, you murdered her, you killed her children. Say it now and we can make this quick."

The Mountain charged again with a roar, but this time he was slower.

Oberyn met his greatsword and batted it aside, smacking the other end of his spear against Ser Gregor's helmet.

Again the Mountain roared, again he charged, and again he was too slow.

This time, he overextended himself completely, and Oberyn knocked his helmet clean off.

"Say it," Oberyn's voice was threateningly calm as he either parried or avoided the greatsword that came at him like a farmer's scythe. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

"He's toying with him," Sansa muttered.

"At least we know it's working," I responded as Oberyn landed another blow against Clegane's armour.

The Red Viper jabbed and goaded and drew the Mountain further in until he overstretched for a third time, and this time Oberyn pointed his spear down and sliced open the back of his opponent's leg.

This time, the Mountain did not roar.

He screamed.

"You raped her!" Oberyn bellowed as he circled his stricken foe, stabbing at the chinks in his armour. "You murdered her! You killed her children!"

Another blow brought the Mountain to his knees, still screaming like a madman, flailing with his greatsword.

Oberyn easily dodged the blade and, with one savage swing of his own, he brought his spear down on Clegane's wrist.

The blow did not quite sever his hand, but Clegane dropped his sword, and his screams intensified.

Oberyn kicked the sword away.

"Say it."

"Kill me," Ser Gregor moaned, "kill me!"

"Say it."

"I raped Elia Martell," the Mountain sobbed, "I murdered Elia Martell. I killed Elia Martell's children."

Oberyn exhaled, and looked up at us.

"And on whose orders did you do this?"

I rose out of my seat before Clegane could answer.

"Prince Oberyn, I command you to finish him now."

"Tywin Lann--!" Clegane's screams were finally strangled as Oberyn shoved his spear into his throat.

The Mountain was driven to the floor, the spear still protruding from his neck. A pool of blood began to grow from underneath him.

Silence fell, only disturbed by the quiet gurgle of the Mountain's dying moments.

"The gods have made their will known." I intoned gravely, "I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, find Lady Margaery Tyrell not guilty in the eyes of Gods and Men. My lady, you are free to go."

Margaery did not respond for a moment, then stood up, pale and shaking.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

I nodded, and looked back at Prince Oberyn.

The Red Viper was staring up at my grandfather.

Chapter Text

"Does Prince Oberyn know that you softened his kill up for him?"

I shrugged.

"He might have guessed, but I doubt he cares much. He got what he wanted."

Margaery nodded.

"It feels a little demeaning, honestly. Being nothing but a cog in your plans."

"You can blame your grandmother for that. She gave me an opportunity that I would have been foolish to let go by."

At the mention of her grandmother, Margaery withdrew slightly.

"Did she die well?"

My eye twitched, but fortunately, she did not see it.

"About as well as could be expected."

She fiddled with the hem of her gown, frowning.

"I still don't understand why you did it."

"Why I did what?"

"Let Gregor Clegane tell the world about Elia Martell."

"The world knew already. They just allowed themselves to believe that it wasn't true."

Her mouth fell slightly open.

"Did you want this to happen?"

"I wanted the Mountain to die screaming. The fact that he screamed a little too loudly is unfortunate, but not unexpected, and there are ways to turn this to my advantage."

"But now the Martells will want your grandfather dead, if they didn't already."

"They will have to join a very long queue."

She snorted, and began to cackle with glee.

"I don't believe you, but I do pity you. Truly, I pity you. Thanks to you, I am going home. I no longer have to smile until my cheeks hurt, I no longer have to walk through puddles of shit in the street, I no longer have to whore myself around to satisfy my father's ambitions. You, on the other hand, have to clean up this mess. You will have to placate the Martells and Tywin Lannister all at the same time. You will be torn apart."

I absorbed her outburst silently, nodding along with her words.

Then I got up to leave.

"At least I won't have to lie to myself for the rest of my life to make my irrelevance palatable." I responded as I prepared to go, though I paused at the door, "I don't expect to see you for a very long time, my lady. I would say that you'll be missed, but truth be told, I doubt anyone will even notice."

With that, I left Margaery Tyrell behind.

"Fascinating."

Qyburn drew his knife out of Clegane's arm.

The Mountain's blood clung to the blade as though it were itself alive.

Even I felt a little uneasy at the sight. And that was before even thinking about the stench.

"Have you seen anything like this before?"

"It appears that Prince Oberyn coated his spear with manticore venom. Few poisons inflict such horror. Ser Gregor was fortunate to die when he did."

"That does not interfere with your experiments?"

"On the contrary, Your Grace, this is most fortuitous. It is rare to find a specimen with manticore venom still in the flesh. The only slight drawback is that removing the head will be somewhat more difficult, but I will have it prepared for you in no time."

I nodded.

"Alright, thank you, Qyburn. Have it brought to my chambers when it is ready. Prince Oberyn does not wish to be kept waiting, and I would like to present it to him personally."

Qyburn bowed and went about his work.

A knock sounded from the door and a servant popped his head in.

"Your Grace, the Hand requests your presence urgently."

Oh, good.

"The Hand may meet me in my private hall."

I nodded to Qybrun and headed out.

"Have I been wasting my days counselling a brick wall?"

Tywin began our conversation with typical rhetorical flair, his shoulders heavy with poorly-concealed ire.

"I don't know, Grandfather, have you?"

"On the current evidence, it would appear so. Your folly could have disastrous consequences."

"For whom?"

"For our House."

I shook my head angrily and stood up.

"As I recall, you supported my choice from the start, and I wasn't the one who unleashed the Mountain on King's Landing. That was your choice, now the consequences have come to roost." I squared up to him, looking him in the eye. "Tell me, Grandfather, do you feel your sins crawling on your back?"

He regarded me icily.

"After all I have said, you still have not listened. I told you that I would act to protect our family if I felt it necessary, and that time has clearly come. You need not attend Small Council meetings from now on, Your Grace. The work is clearly too much for you."

That was enough. I had had enough. The world had had enough of Tywin Lannister.

I smiled falsely.

"No."

He blinked.

"I don't recall asking you a question."

I shrugged.

"You don't have to. The answer is no. Somebody had to say it eventually, it might as well be me."

"The Seven Kingdoms require a ruler with good judgement, and you have shown your judgement to be severely lacking."

"Good judgement?" I scoffed, "Who decides what good judgement is?"

"Good judgement means making decisions that benefit the family."

I chuckled to myself, shaking my head.

"You don't know anything about the family. The house, perhaps, but not the family."

I paced around the room, and then looked at him again.

"When you look at me, do you see your own flesh and blood, or do you just see another golden lion fluttering in the wind? When you look at Sansa, do you see a woman or a Lannister baby yet to be born?"

"I see the future of our House."

I smirked.

"But that's just it. I am not the future of House Lannister. I am the present of House Baratheon, my child will be a Baratheon, and when you die, Casterly Rock will be Tyrion's. Is that the glorious future you envisage?"

Tywin visibly tensed.

"Tyrion will never inherit Casterly Rock."

"He will. One way or another, he will, and if you took one look at him, one real look at him, you would see that he is more than suited to the task."

He turned away in disgust, muttering something about not being a true Lannister.

I raised my eyebrow.

"Not a true Lannister? Do you even remember the myth House Lannister is based on? Lann the Clever didn't win Casterly Rock by butchering its occupants, he won it with his wits. Compared to Ned Stark and Jon Arryn and so many others, Tyrion has had nothing except his wits, and yet here he still is, long after the rest are gone. He is a truer Lannister than either of us."

Tywin clenched his fists, looking like he might well burst with fury, but still restrained himself.

"My father was a whore-mongering drunk, and I have not spent the last forty years restoring my house to glory only to hand it over to another whore-mongering drunk."

I shrugged.

"Tyrion isn't without his flaws, true enough, but then again neither are we. It's one of those irregular verbs, really: I'm a fussy eater, you started two wars, he drinks too much wine."

Tywin sniffed.

"Everything I have done, I have done for the good of the family."

"Sacking King's Landing was not for the good of the family, except maybe to soothe your wounded pride. Sending Gregor Clegane to kill Elia Martell has haunted the realm for a generation. The Red Wedding has turned the North against the very idea of the South. All of that pain and death, at your behest, so if I have to harm House Lannister to heal the realm, so be it, just as you have harmed so many for the sake of so little."

Tywin's face darkened. He reached for the badge on his chest.

"If you think so little of your family--"

I pulled my final card from my sleeve.

"You're going to leave?" I pointed at the door. "Fine, go, but know that by the time you reach Lannisport, you will no longer be the Warden of the West, you will no longer be Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and you will no longer be the Lord of Casterly Rock. You will take the Black for the murder of Elia Martell, your titles will pass to Tyrion, and you won't even have the mercy of death to spare you the humiliation."

Of course, this would be true no matter what happened. I now had a pretext to act against him; I had finally sunk my claws into the Old Lion, and drawn blood.

We stood, frozen in place, for a moment.

Then he put his hand down and bowed.

"Your Grace."

And with that, he walked out.

I had won.

I stood with Sansa and Arianne by my side, holding a wooden box as the Martell party finished preparing for the journey home.

Oberyn finished saddling his horse, then approached us.

He opened the box in my hands.

"It does not seem so large anymore," he observed, lifting the clean, white skull of Gregor Clegane to the light.

Qyburn had done his work quickly and effectively.

Oberyn passed it to Arianne. She tossed it in the air a few times, feeling the weight.

"Once a monster, always a monster."

She looked at me.

"The others?"

"Amory Lorch is dead, as are most of the Mountain's Men. They are rotting in a mass grave at Harrenhal, if the carrion didn't get to them first. I am afraid that this token must suffice."

Oberyn nodded.

"It doesn't matter. I have had my justice: my Elia's spirit can rest easy now."

Arianne placed the skull back into the box and closed it, before a servant came to take it away.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Oberyn bowed deeply before me, "for helping my family find that justice."

"It was long overdue, Prince Oberyn, and I hope that this, and Myrcella's marriage to your nephew, will help mend some old wounds."

"It will help, yes. When I return to Sunspear, I promise you that Dorne will know Westeros is ruled by a just king," he looked at Sansa, "and a wise queen."

I cocked my head slightly at his words, but kept my tongue for now, and simply nodded.

Oberyn climbed atop his horse, and with a yell and a kick, the Dornishmen rode into the distance.

Once they were out of sight, Arianne nodded to us and started to walk back to the castle.

Sansa made to follow her, but I held her back.

"What did he mean?" I asked quietly.

I looked at her face.

She looked back impassively for a moment, then smiled sweetly.

"I think he was just being flattering." She pecked my lips. "Nothing to worry about."

There was definitely something to worry about, then.

I watched Sansa intently as she breathed quietly, curled up into my side, while I gently stroked her face.

Aside from the blush that still peeked out from her skin following our exertions, she looked as peaceful as I had seen her in ages. For the first time in so long, her brow wasn't furrowed; she looked almost like the young girl she should still have been.

I should have been happy to see the love of my life seemingly so content, but something still gnawed at me.

Eventually, I felt myself stirring again just from looking at her, and I felt those doubts slowly melt away as I ran my hand over my wife's body, breathing her in.

She hummed quietly as my hand reached her arse and felt it a little roughly.

"Are you ready for more, my love?"

"Only if you are."

"Hush," she put a finger to my lips, pushing me flat on my back and climbing atop me.

A frantic knock on the door caused us both to groan and Sansa quickly rolled off me.

"Enter!"

A servant, who appeared to be on the brink of panic, nearly fell through the door.

"Your Graces, it's the Hand! He's dead! The Hand of the King is dead!"

I froze for a second while the information soaked into my head properly.

Then I waved the servant away and threw the covers off, rushing to get dressed.

Sansa, meanwhile, simply lay back in bed and sighed.

I pulled on some breeches and turned around to look at her, freezing again when I saw how relaxed she was.

Then it all clicked.

"Sansa," I approached the bed, "what have you done?"

She stared back at me, as bells started to ring in the distance.

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister shits gold.

Or so they said, anyway.

On the evidence of the smell that suffocated the Tower of the Hand's living quarters, that seemed unlikely.

Shit and death, without a drop of gold to be seen, smelt or touched. It was as though Flea Bottom had come to the Red Keep.

It wasn't a pleasant sight, really.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Hand of the King, was laid upon his bed, wearing nothing but a tunic that covered up far less than would have been comfortable.

Death had already deprived him of his power. Alive, he had felt like a giant among men. Dead, he looked nothing more than ordinary.

Pycelle knelt beside the bed, staring at the corpse and crying softly.

I ignored him and turned to Jaime.

"Who found him?"

"Lum." Jaime responded, "He felt nature's call, and there my father was."

"Take him to Qyburn for questioning."

Jaime frowned.

"You suspect foul play?"

For such a legendary swordsman, Jaime really could be quite a dullard sometimes.

I raised my eyebrows.

"Did Tywin Lannister ever give any indication that he intended to do us the courtesy of dying?"

And the best way to cover up something is to investigate it.

A young woman cowered in the corner of the room. I approached her carefully and saw that she was naked, except for a chain of golden hands around her neck. As she looked up at me in fright, I suddenly recognised her.

"Please, Your Grace," Shae pleaded, "I had nothing to do with this, I swear by all the gods..."

I held up a finger to silence her and turned to Jaime.

"Get her out of here before Tyrion sees."

Jaime complied, grabbing the whore by the arm and dragging her from the room.

The question of what in the Seven Hells she was doing there would have to wait.

I finally looked back at the bed and the prostrate form of Pycelle.

"Grand Maester, kindly compose yourself."

Pycelle stopped blubbering enough to nod his head.

"Is there anything to be done?"

He shook his head, still quietly weeping. It was entirely possible that he was the only person in the world who would truly mourn Tywin Lannister.

"Send for the Silent Sisters."

Pycelle scurried off, leaving me alone again, if only for a moment.

I closed my eyes, shaking my head.

My wife. My damned fool wife.

"So, it's true."

Tyrion frowned as he entered the room and saw his father's body. He shook his head.

"It doesn't seem real, somehow. I wonder if this is how people felt after the Doom of Valyria."

"I know what you mean."

"It is right that you mention the Doom, my lord." Varys appeared out of nowhere, as usual. "I fear that Lord Tywin's death will be similarly cataclysmic."

I nodded.

"We need to act quickly, starting with the appointment of a new Hand."

On the table next to the bed and the body lay the badge of the King's Hand.

I picked it up and tossed it to Tyrion.

"I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, you know the rest, name you, Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Hand of the King."

He caught it and stared down at it.

I clapped him on the shoulder.

"Take tonight to mourn, to drink, whatever you do. Tomorrow, the work begins."

Tyrion took a deep breath and pinned the badge to his tunic. He stood to his full height and bowed.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Varys and I watched him leave silently.

"Revenge, Your Grace?" Varys asked with an eyebrow raised.

I smiled to myself. There was no greater insult to Tywin than appointing Tyrion to any kind of position, let alone Casterly Rock, let alone the Handship.

"A fringe benefit, my dear Spider."

I drew my sword and turned, holding the blade to his throat.

Varys' eyes widened as the Valyrian steel came dangerously close to nicking his flesh.

"What do you know?"

"Only that the Queen and Prince Oberyn met on three separate occasions."

My grip on my sword tightened.

"And you didn't think to tell me this?"

"I was not privy to the subject of those discussions, and in any case, I reasoned that she would have told you. Evidently, that was a miscalculation on my part."

I narrowed my eyes.

"And why should I trust that you are telling me the truth?"

"Is the blade at my throat not reassurance enough? I have no desire to die on the point of a sword, not even one so fine as this. All I can say in my own defence is that I did warn you not to underestimate your wife."

I held my sword steady for a long while.

"Yes."

Anyone who says 'I told you so' with a sword pointed at their neck is either mad or telling the truth.

I just had to hope that Varys wasn't mad.

I lowered my arm.

"Yes, you did."

Varys placed a hand to his neck, checking for any cuts.

"Thank the gods, I do so hate the sight of my own blood."

I sheathed my sword.

"No more assumptions, Varys, or it's a sight you'll become accustomed to."

The eunuch bowed.

"Yes, Your Grace."

I looked back at my grandfather's corpse.

"What are we going to do now?"

I opened the door to my chamber.

Sansa sat up on the bed, humming to herself.

Her hair was up in a Northern braid.

I closed the door and sat down next to her with my hands on my knees, staring resolutely ahead.

"I'm not going to apologise."

I balled my fists.

"I know."

"Do you understand?"

"I understand that you had your reasons and that those reasons were good and honest and maybe even just, but it doesn't make what you did any less stupid. I told you, Sansa, an eye for an eye is not a favourable exchange."

"'An eye for an eye?" She scoffed, "If I wanted an eye for an eye, I wouldn't have stopped with Tywin Lannister, or started with him for that matter. I'd have torn House Lannister down brick by brick until it was just you and him ripping each other to pieces over the ruins. That would have been fair."

"So you haven't been fair and you haven't won. What did you do it for, then?"

"For us."

"For us?!" I had to laugh. "I finally had my claws in him. We finally had a way to control him, and then you kill him. Hate him all you want, he was the only man capable of holding Westeros together. How in the Seven Hells does his death benefit us?"

"It sets us free. Do you think he would have let you rule the way you want to? He wasn't even the Lord of Casterly Rock when he destroyed the Reynes and the Tarbecks, when they wrote that song, the last song my brother and my mother ever heard, and the one I have to listen to at every fucking feast!"

Instinctively, I reached out and put my hand on hers while she calmed down, in spite of everything.

She took a deep breath.

"I know that you're angry, and maybe you're right to be, but he would never have let you go no matter what leverage you had over him, and he was the one who had my family destroyed, so I saw a chance and I took it, just like you did."

She reached over and touched my cheek, pulling my head around to face her.

"What's done is done. Now we have a chance to rule together, to be better together." She put my hand on her belly, "To create a better world for our baby to live in, together."

I sighed.

"No more secrets."

She moved in close to me.

"No more lies."

We rested our foreheads together.

"I am yours, and you are mine."

Chapter Text

I wrinkled my nose at the body on the bier.

"He still stinks."

Before the great public service befitting a man of Tywin Lannister's stature, a select few of his family were to be permitted into the Sept of Baelor to pay their respects.

Of course, the public service had a very different purpose: everyone was coming to make sure that he was actually dead.

I had made my pilgrimage early in the morning, so the only one in the sept with me was Ser Jaime, who stood vigil over the corpse.

I'd always thought that to be one of our more pointless traditions. Did they worry that the corpse was going to get up and leave the sept before the service like a reluctant bride?

I looked at the knight.

His one good hand was curled around a golden sword that reflected a shard of light into the sept, as though the gods were trying to cut through the day.

"I'm told that Ser Barristan offered to relieve you, and you refused. Why?"

"He was my father."

"True, but not one worth losing sleep over."

High above us, outside the sept, a crow cawed.

I smiled grimly to myself.

"Do you hear them, Grandfather?"

I leaned on the bier and loomed over him.

The painted stones that covered his eyes stared back at me. They didn't fit the face very well. They were a little too wide, too fearful. They didn't dig into you like the real thing.

"Do you hear the crows crying, mourning their great protector? You have fed more crows than any man living, and if they have any sense, they'll worship you for it; a truer worship than any that happens in this sept. I hope that makes you proud."

I glanced over at Jaime.

"He was my grandfather, not that he had a clue what that word means. I won't mourn him, any more than the sycophants massing at the gates will, but we will all miss him in our ways, won't we?"

He said nothing for a moment.

"They are coming."

"Yes, and we will have to meet them. Starting with my mother."

"Cersei is here?"

"Alas, yes. I cannot deny her an appearance at her father's funeral."

I straightened back up and looked back at Jaime.

"Can I trust you?"

His brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

Jaime shifted uncomfortably under his armour.

I sighed.

"Just remember what I told you."

Jaime swallowed, and nodded.

Eventually, the High Septon finished droning on about how the Gods would welcome Lord Tywin into their company, and the so-called mourners were free to mourn amongst themselves.

I scanned the crowd for the two men I wished to mourn with.

However, before I could spy either of them, I felt a hand on my arm and turned.

"Hello, Mother."

Cersei Lannister smiled tearfully at me.

"Joffrey."

I allowed her to draw me into her embrace.

"When I heard about the Tyrells, I would have walked back to King's Landing just to strangle that treacherous--"

I put my hand up.

"The Tyrells have been dealt with. You need not concern yourself with them, or with anyone."

She scoffed.

"So you think you're safe? With your Northern whore waiting for the opportunity to put her whelp on the throne, with Tyrion waiting to finish the job he started with my mother--"

Her time at Casterly Rock clearly hadn't softened her opinions toward anyone, then.

"That's enough, Mother. You've made your point."

I gestured to Ser Barristan.

"I will deal with you later." I stepped away from her as one of the Kingsguard took her by the arm. "My mother is most distressed. See that she does not embarrass herself in her grief."

"Unhand me!" She hissed. "Joffrey!"

I had already turned away and resumed my search.

Eventually, a splash of red caught my eye, and I saw that it formed the shape I needed.

A huntsman, with his arm drawing back an arrow.

"Lord Tarly."

The Lord of Horn Hill turned to face me.

He was an old solider, to be sure, and he carried himself like one.

"Your Grace," he bowed, "I must offer my condolences. Lord Tywin was a great man."

"I appreciate your sentiments, my lord, but truth be told, I am much more interested in you."

"I am yours to command, Your Grace."

I smiled.

"Well, I hope that no commands will be necessary to compel you to take lunch with me?"

Lord Tarly paused, somewhat taken aback. He recovered himself quickly, though.

"No, Your Grace, I would be honoured."

"Splendid. I will see you in the Royal Appartments at midday."

Lord Tarly bowed again, and I resumed my search once more.

A man in brown, roughspun robes appeared before me, his hair shorn close, his manner upright and unbending.

I blinked.

"Lancel?!"

Lancel Lannister bowed solemnly.

"Your Grace, my deepest sympathies."

"I apologise for my son's appearance." Ser Kevan Lannister appeared at my shoulder.

I waved a hand.

"It's alright, Uncle."

We watched Lancel walk away.

"They call themselves Sparrows," Kevan muttered. "Bloody fanatics. Religion has its place, of course, but--"

"As long as he's not making a nuisance of himself, it matters little."

"That's just it, Your Grace. These Sparrows are converging on the capital. They would never have dared come here while Tywin was alive."

"Well, he's dead now, and we have to cope without him."

Keven pressed his lips together.

I sighed.

"Apologies, Uncle. He was your brother, of course you should mourn him."

"He was also your grandfather. You must allow yourself time, too."

I nodded slowly.

"Why don't you join me for dinner?"

"It would be my honour, Your Grace."

"Then it's settled." I smiled, turning away.

Two down.

"Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill, Your Grace."

I stood with Sansa at our dining table in our private rooms, and we turned together to greet our guest.

"Lord Tarly," I smiled, "thank you for joining us."

"Your Grace issued a summons. Naturally, I answered."

"You make it sound like a chore," I gestured to Sansa, "You have met the Queen?"

"Briefly, yes."

"Your reputation precedes you, my lord." Sansa said as we sat, "My lord father often spoke of you with immense respect."

Before us was a selection of meats and fruits, and we started to pick from them as we spoke.

"As did mine." I offered, "You did inflict on him his greatest defeat, and I think he actually quite liked you for that."

Randyll looked at us sternly.

"Thank you, Your Grace, for your flattery, but I must wonder if there is a purpose to this discussion."

"There is. The history of Robert's Rebellion tells us that Mace Tyrell won the Battle of Ashford, and opened the way for the Southern forces to besiege Storm's End. As we have said, that is not the truth, is it?"

"Lord Tyrell is my liege lord, and he oversaw the campaign."

"Yes, and I imagine you're happy for him to be remembered for that. He did rather botch the siege in the end, didn't he? After all, if you had been at the Trident, my father's army would have been at a grave disadvantage. How different would the world be if that were the case?"

"That is for the maesters to decide, Your Grace. I am a soldier."

"But you must have some opinions, some feelings about what happened? It would only be natural."

Sansa leaned forward and placed her hand on his arm.

"Speak freely, my lord. Nothing you say will leave this room."

Tarly regarded her suspiciously, but relented.

"Very well. If truth be told, I blame Paxter Redwyne for the failure of the Siege of Storm's End. If Davos Seaworth had not been allowed to smuggle food through the blockade, the defenders would not have held out for as long as they did, and as you say, we might have been able to intervene at the Trident."

"That is a fair conclusion, though I am of course glad that he did make such a mess of it. After all, I wouldn't exist if that hadn't happened."

"As I said, a matter for maesters, not soldiers. It does not do for the soldier to dwell on wars of the past. I fought against your father once, true, but then I fought for him against the Ironborn. Yesterday's enemy will often prove to be tomorrow's ally."

"Our sentiments exactly, which is why we have an offer for you."

Sansa smiled gently.

"Lord Tarly, His Grace and I have decided to name you Warden of the South."

Ever the hardened warrior, Tarly concealed his emotions well.

"Lord Tyrell is the Warden of the South."

"Lord Tyrell has been appointed Master of Coin, his place is here. I need my generals in the field, enforcing discipline."

"If you are concerned about offending Lord Tyrell, you needn't be." Sansa chipped in, "I spoke to him this morning; he has already given his assent."

Tarly frowned.

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"Lord Tyrell is a modest man and right now, he has much to be modest about."

Tarly did not look amused. His gaze switched between us suspiciously.

"I swore an oath."

I waved a hand.

"You know as well as I do that you would not be breaking any oaths to anyone. It is quite normal for a Warden to be appointed if, as in this case, the Lord Paramount is not available for that role."

"I am a Tarly. That name means something. We are not oathbreakers, we are not schemers, we do not stab our rivals in the back, or cut their throats at weddings."

Sansa's expression hardened.

"Do you poison them instead?"

That certainly brought him down a peg.

"No, Your Grace."

Neither of us needed to say anything further to him on that particular matter.

Tarly cleared his throat and looked at me.

"What does Your Grace require of me?"

"You are to bring order to the South. You will lay siege to Storm's End as you did all those years ago, but this time you shall have the command and you will enforce iron discipline: I will not have any more Gregor Cleganes running amok in the countryside. Once that is done, you will rebuild our coastal defences. I want Westeros to become a fortress unto itself."

Tarly frowned.

"You fear a threat from across the Narrow Sea? The Targaryen girl?"

Now was the final clincher. Randyll Tarly's hatred of all things from across the sea was legendary.

"She has made her home in Slavers' Bay with her Dothraki horde in tow, and has burned, crucified and made dragon food of her enemies without mercy or hesitation. While I naturally abhor slavery, I do not find these reports comforting."

Tarly nodded in agreement.

"The rumours are deeply disturbing, yes. Your Grace is wise to be wary, and I will proudly do my part to protect our country from these savages."

Sansa and I smiled.

"I knew we could count on you, my lord."

"Tell me more about these Sparrows."

Kevan's lip curled in disgust.

"They've started flooding into the capital from all around the realm."

"Well, why don't you stop them? Have your men suddenly lost the ability to do anything just because Lord Tywin is dead?"

Kevan looked at me reproachingly.

"Would you have them all killed?"

"Don't be absurd. The Sparrows were being turned away before, why are they suddenly being allowed in?"

"Because now there are more of them. Thousands more, all mobilised by this 'High Sparrow' figure. They've even started converting those of high birth, who should know better."

"Including Lancel?"

He nodded sullenly.

"How did he come to discover this piety?"

"When he was wounded on the Blackwater, he spent months in such a sorry state I asked the High Septon to pray for him. He sent one of the Most Devout to tend to my son, only it appears that he tended just as much to his soul as his body."

"That is the job of a septon, Uncle."

He swallowed.

"I know. I should have known better too."

I sighed.

"It is not your fault."

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is, he is my son. My last son."

"And he will always be your son. These Sparrows will not roost forever. If what you say is true, they will likely return home once order is restored to the realm."

"One can hope, Your Grace."

"To that end, I am appointing you Warden of the West."

Kevan no doubt expected the post, but he looked grateful just the same.

"Thank you, Your Grace. What are your commands?"

"You are to conclude the siege of Riverrun, then turn your attention to rebuilding the Riverlands and disciplining your men. Those who have committed crimes during the war are to be punished accordingly."

He frowned.

"Those men fought in your name."

"And some of them committed crimes against my laws."

"They were following orders, Your Grace."

"Were they ordered to rape and pillage and plunder innocent people?"

"These are the costs of war. Tywin commanded that the Riverlands should be set afire, from the God's Eye to the Red Fork."

"He also said that when a man bends the knee to you, you must help him to his feet."

"That is surely the concern of House Frey."

I laughed mockingly.

"The Freys couldn't organise a tryst in a brothel without our help, and I do not see any benefits in them doing so. No, you will have the command and you will bring your forces to heel, and if any of those slimy degenerates complain, you remind them of who they are and who we are."

Kevan gave me a queer look. Not a hostile or defiant one, more one of recognition.

"You remind me a great deal of Tywin."

I clenched my jaw a little at that.

Kevan put his hand on my shoulder.

"You should know that whatever he may have said to your face, he was always effusive about you in private. He was very proud of you, I hope you know that."

"He had an odd way of showing it."

"I know he seemed a hard man to you, but he was no harder than he had to be. Our own father was gentle and amiable, but so weak his bannermen mocked him in their cups. Some saw fit to defy him openly, while other lords borrowed our gold and never troubled to repay it. At court, they talked of toothless lions. Even his mistress stole from him: a woman scarcely one step above a whore, and she helped herself to my mother's jewels. It fell to Tywin to restore House Lannister to its proper place, just as it fell to him to rule this realm, when he was no more than twenty. He bore that heavy burden for twenty years, and all it earned him was a mad king's envy. Instead of the honour he deserved, he was made to suffer slights beyond count, yet he gave the Seven Kingdoms peace, plenty, and justice. Whatever else he might have been, he was a just man. One day, you will see that."

I stayed quiet.

There were a few words one might use to describe Kevan Lannister, but loquacious was not one of them.

We must have been talking about different people.

Chapter Text

"Stannis Baratheon has materialised at Castle Black."

I placed the message from Varys in front of Sansa, unsure of what to make of it.

She frowned.

"Why would he go to the Wall, of all places?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, though I somehow doubt he means to take the Black."

"Perhaps he means to garner support in the North."

"Would the North follow him?"

She inclined her head thoughtfully.

"If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that they wouldn't be willing to fight for Stannis even if they do tacitly support him, not with winter approaching."

I nodded slowly.

"What about Jon Snow?"

"Jon? He's a sworn brother of the Watch, his vows prevent him from getting involved."

"What if he were released from his vows?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Say Stannis offered him Winterfell in exchange for his loyalty. How would he respond?"

Sansa swallowed.

"He... would be tempted, but I don't think he would accept. He idolised our father too much to break a vow like that."

I nodded.

"I once suggested that we legitimise him to divide your brother's bannermen, and Tyrion said something similar."

"I never imagined that Theon would turn on Robb, and it's been years since I even saw Jon. I've changed much since then, so it's not impossible that he would have as well."

I smiled a little and reached for her hand.

"I trust your judgement."

She tangled our fingers together, returning the smile.

A knock on the door broke the moment, and a servant entered.

"Your Grace, a party flying the banners of House Arryn has just entered the capital."

Sansa and I sat in new, identical thrones in the royal audience chamber, awaiting the arrival of our newest guests.

"Ser Harrold Hardyng, Your Graces," the steward announced.

Ser Harrold was unmistakeably of Arryn descent. He was well-built, tall and blond, much like Jon Arryn had been. He made little secret of it either; his clothing was quartered with the falcon and the broken wheel.

"Your Graces."

He gave a dramatic bow, and he wore a cocky expression on his face.

"Ser Harrold, welcome to King's Landing."

He turned his gaze toward Sansa, and he might as well have licked his lips.

"Thank you, my Queen. I see that the tales of your beauty were, if anything, understated."

Impressive. With charm like that, it was small wonder he already had at least one bastard child.

Sansa smiled and placed a hand to her swollen belly.

"You are too kind, Ser."

Ser Harrold seemed to get the message and turned back to me.

"Your Grace, I carry this scroll," he produced a roll of the whitest parchment I had ever seen. "You will find it bears the seals of the Lords Declarant."

I reached out and he approached the throne to give it to me, stepping away as I unfurled it.

My lips twisted into an amused smirk as I read.

"How quaint." I passed it to Sansa, "It appears that the Lords of the Vale have formed a little tea party. Perhaps they mean to lure Lysa Arryn out with cake."

"If cake will suffice, let her eat it," Sansa muttered as she read.

"I would sooner take her out with steel," Ser Harrold proclaimed confidently, "if Your Grace would give the word."

I frowned.

"And how do you plan to do that, Ser? The Eyrie has never fallen."

"Where there is a will, there is a way, Your Grace."

"Enthusiasm is a poor substitute for proper preparation and planning, Ser. You must be patient for now. The Lords Declarant will maintain their siege on the Eyrie while you are here."

"The Eyrie has enough provisions to last a year," Ser Harrold protested.

"Then we shall wait a year. In the meantime, I invite you to sit on the Small Council as representative of the Vale, and bid the Lords Declarant renew fealty to the Crown."

Ser Harrold knelt stiffly, evidently not pleased.

"On behalf of the Lords Declarant and the Vale of Arryn, by the Old Gods and the New, I swear loyalty and fealty to you, Your Grace, and I humbly accept your invitation."

I nodded graciously.

In that case, Ser, I dismiss you. You will be shown to your chambers."

"Actually, Your Grace," Ser Harrold jumped in, "There is one other matter."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"Shortly after Lady Arryn called her banners, a man claiming to be the Hound appeared at the Bloody Gate, asking to speak to Lady Arryn. He had with him a girl. When it was explained to him that the Lords Declarant had closed access to the Eyrie on Your Grace's orders, he became hostile and attempted to flee. When surrounded and urged to surrender, he killed six soldiers, before being overwhelmed. Your Grace, the Hound is dead."

I did not know what to say.

"And the girl?" Sansa asked, "You said there was a girl with him?"

"Yes, Your Grace. We searched for her, but she could not be found. What Clegane meant to do with her is unclear, though perhaps we saved her from a grievous fate."

Sansa stiffened, her hands tightening around the armrests of her throne.

"You left this girl, alone and defenceless?"

"We searched for her, Your Grace."

"If you had done so, you would have found her." She shook her head, "Leave us, Ser. As His Grace said, we will expect you at the next Small Council meeting."

I waited for Ser Harrold to leave before reaching for her hand.

"How could they just leave her?" Sansa vented furiously.

"One girl against the glory of being Sandor Clegane's killer?" I asked rhetorically.

"Why would he be travelling with a girl? You don't think he shared Ser Meryn's tastes, do you?"

"Clegane never showed any interest in women, or girls, or boys. He only cared about men, and only those men he could kill."

I sat silently while Sansa calmed down.

She looked at me, and brought my hand to her lips.

"I'm sorry, my love. I know Clegane meant something to you."

I smiled sadly.

"He did once, before he abandoned us."

We sat there for a moment, thinking.

I let out a little chuckle.

"The Lords Declarant," I mocked. "I can almost hear Jon Arryn turning in his grave."

Sansa looked at me pensively.

"Is waiting for Lysa to surrender really the best way to do this? Could we not take the Eyrie somehow, like Ser Harrold said?"

I shrugged.

"I'm sure it's possible. Why, does Ser Harrold impress you?"

With remarkable nimbleness given her condition, Sansa stood up and moved to sit in my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me.

"Don't be jealous," she teased. "I couldn't have been less impressed by Harrold Hardyng, I just know when you're up to something."

I secured her in my arms and smiled.

"Well, given what I've been told about Lysa Arryn, I wonder whether she might start to panic and get careless."

Sansa nodded in understanding.

"You think she will try to contact Littlefinger."

"Or any other ally of theirs. If we tug on the right thread, we can pull down the whole tapestry."

Sansa was about to respond when she paused and frowned.

She quickly grabbed my hand and put it on her stomach.

I raised my eyebrow.

Then I felt it.

I felt our baby moving.

"Hello, little one."

Sansa beamed, and I couldn't help but copy her.

I kissed her deeply.

"I love you both so much."

"I love you, and I know this one will love you too."

We pressed our foreheads together.

"I hope so."

"They will."

Then, out in the distance, we heard bells begin to ring.

Sansa got up so I could move to the window.

I peered out and frowned.

"It's the Sept of Baelor."

A knock came from the door.

"Your Grace, Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion urgently request an audience."

I beckoned them in and sat back on my throne.

"The High Septon is dead," Tyrion informed us grimly.

Varys shook his head with false grief.

"May the Seven welcome him with open arms."

"They'll probably have to link hands," I muttered to Sansa.

She smirked, then looked at Tyrion.

"Do we know who will be the new High Septon?"

"The Most Devout will convene within the week."

I stroked my chin.

"Have we a preferred candidate?"

"I have a man who will not ask awkward questions, as His Late Holiness was wont to do on occasion."

"Do what you must to get that crystal crown on his head. I don't need the Faith causing problems now."

"It is not septons that should trouble you, Your Grace, but Sparrows." Varys warned, "They are growing restless. The City Watch are dispersing the larger groups, but my little birds do not paint a serene picture."

I nodded.

"The High Sparrow has been at work."

"Indeed. He is calling his followers to the capital, and they are coming."

"What has he been doing?"

"He spends his time with the poor, feeding them and tending to their souls."

"And does he tend to their souls in any way that might be injurious to the Crown?"

"He makes no specific reference to Your Grace in his sermons."

"Is that because he does not see us as an enemy, or because it would not play well with the crowd?"

"One suspects the latter. With your valour on the Blackwater, the end of the war, and the announcement that a royal baby is expected, you remain in the good graces of the people of King's Landing, especially in combination with Queen Sansa's efforts to clothe and feed the poor. Those who followed the High Sparrow to King's Landing already follow him devoutly, so if rabble-rousing is his aim, it makes little sense for him to speak openly against you, no matter his true feelings."

"Why not find out his intentions?" Sansa asked.

"His intentions are clear. He intends to restore the realm to piety and holiness. The question is, who does he consider to be sinners, and what does he mean to do with them?"

Chapter Text

"Jon Snow is the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Sansa turned away from me and looked out over the city.

"Does this change anything?"

"It changes nothing, and yet it changes everything. Jon can't abandon the Night's Watch now, no matter what, so there's no danger of Stannis declaring him Lord of Winterfell."

"The Boltons may not see it that way."

"You'll have to forgive me for not having sympathy for the Boltons."

I stood up from my chair and wrapped my arms around her from behind.

"I know," I whispered, pressing a kiss to her neck, "I have no love for the Boltons either, but we will need to keep an eye on the North."

She sighed with relief as I lifted her belly, taking the weight from her back.

"When Uther arrives, I am going to insist that you take over carrying duties. He's getting really quite heavy."

I chuckled.

"I will happily hold Alys until she gets sick of me. I can't wait to meet her."

Sansa leaned her head back to rest on my shoulder.

"You would be happy if we had a girl?"

"It's not something we can control, no matter what the old wives say. As long as you're both happy and healthy, I will be too."

We swayed a little in each other's arms, looking out over the city.

A knock came from our door.

"Yes?"

"Your Graces," a servant announced, "we've received word from the Sept of Baelor. The Most Devout have chosen the new High Septon."

Sansa and I turned together.

"Who have they selected?"

"Forgive me, Septon Luceon, but I am not quite sure what you expect me to do about this."

Luceon had been a Frey in his previous life, and the Gods had not seen fit to reward his piety by removing the evidence of that fact from his appearance.

He stood quivering before the Small Council, his weaselly features contorting as he trilled at us.

"Your Grace must defend the Faith! These Sparrows threaten and assault the Most Devout with impunity! This madman they have installed will bring utter ruin!"

"If this High Sparrow is indeed a madman, why did you cast your votes for him?" Arianne asked with a mocking tone.

"The Sparrows threatened us! They broke down the doors and brandished their cudgels in our faces!"

I sighed.

"Be that as it may, Septon, the Most Devout have voted for the High Sparrow. I do not see what I can do to alter this, given that the Faith has always been allowed to conduct its own affairs without oversight from the Crown."

"King Baelor appointed High Septons while sitting the Iron Throne."

"Appointing High Septons is one thing, removing them is quite another," Tyrion pointed out. "Can the Most Devout call for the High Septon's removal?"

Luceon meekly bowed his head.

"No, my lord."

I nodded slowly.

This cretin had nothing to offer.

"Thank you, Septon Luceon. You have given us much to ponder."

Luceon started.

"But what about me?! If the High Sparrow discovers that I came to you, he will seek retribution! You must protect me!"

I exchanged a look with Tyrion.

"Very well." I gestured to one of the Kingsguard, "See Septon Luceon to the Royal Sept. Provide him with bread and water, and leave him to pray. Perhaps the Crone will light his path."

Luceon looked for a moment like he might protest but kept his peace as he was led from the chamber.

Once the doors were shut once more, I leaned onto my elbows.

"What has the High Sparrow been up to since his ascension?"

"He has sentenced many of the Most Devout to penitence, hence Septon Luceon's distress, and has already sold many of the Faith's valuables. It appears that he is genuine in his criticism of the Faith's largesse. Meanwhile, the Sparrows gather in the shadow of Baelor's Sept."

"We should clear them away," Harrold Hardyng declared. "I will do the honours myself, if necessary."

I could have rolled my eyes at that. Why do knights think that every problem can be hacked to pieces with a great-axe?

"I agree with Ser Harrold," Arianne gave the blue knight a queer look, "these Sparrows must be checked."

"The Gold Cloaks don't have the numbers to contain them," Tyrion cautioned.

"I could summon more men from Highgarden..." Lord Tyrell began, before noticing my expression.

I shook my head, and thought for a moment.

"I will not have bloodshed in the streets, but I cannot ignore the Sparrows any longer, that much is clear... Perhaps it is time I met the new High Septon."

To describe the scene at the Sept of Baelor as a 'gathering' was possibly the greatest understatement in history.

Chaos would have been more appropriate. Shouts, groans, and laughs mingled with the general chatter of men and animals alike, the Sparrows dotting the streets growing in number gradually before giving way to the writhing, brown-robed mob before me.

Ser Barristan pulled his horse beside mine as our party took in the scene before us.

"We should find a way around, Your Grace, or wait for the crowd to clear."

"They are not going to clear, ser."

"Then we should return to the Red Keep. It is too dangerous to go through."

I was already dismounting my horse.

"These are my people. What kind of king would I be, if I could not walk among them?"

I stepped over a pile of bowls and headed into the crowd, expecting to have to push through.

Someone shouted, "The King!" and the crowd started to murmur, then to shift, and then to part.

I scanned their faces, and the people looked at me with curiosity. Though none looked too badly starved, they were thin and haggard. Many were holding children in their arms, some of them wearing the clothes that Sansa had been distributing.

I should have come here a long time ago.

A few reached out and called to me. I took their hands and listened to them, offering them my condolences and prayers, assurances and advice.

In the end, I reached the statue of Baelor the Blessed. At his marble feet lay a pile of skulls.

"Who were they?" I asked one of the Sparrows.

"Your Grace, these are the bones of holy men and women, murdered for their faith. Some were hanged, some disembowelled. Septs have been despoiled, maidens and mothers raped by godless men and demon worshipers. Even silent sisters have been molested. The Mother Above cries out in her anguish. We have brought their bones here from all over the realm, to bear witness to the agony of the Holy Faith."

"They deserved better, and still do. I will arrange for them to be buried."

"They are in the Mother's arms, Your Grace. It is these people here who need your help."

I nodded.

"What do you need?"

"Shelter. His Holiness houses the neediest in the Great Sept, but there are many of us who have not slept beneath a roof for several moons."

I beckoned over a man from the City Watch.

"Go to the Red Keep." I ordered the Gold Cloak, "Have them send materials and men to build temporary structures in the square. I want everyone here to be dry tonight."

I turned back to the Sparrow as the Gold Cloak ran off.

"His Holiness and I will come to a more permanent solution, and you will have my protection in this city."

The Sparrow bowed.

"Then the Gods are good to send you to us, Your Grace, and may they bless you."

"And you, brother."

Ser Barristan and his fellow knights reappeared at my side as I climbed the steps of Baelor's sept.

"That was unwise, Your Grace."

"Unwise, ser, but necessary. Necessary and overdue."

We came to those great oaken doors to find our way blocked by more brown-clad Sparrows. These held lumps of wood in their hands, which had so frightened Septon Luceon.

I addressed their leader.

"I have come to seek the grace of the Gods."

"We welcome Your Grace, and all who would enter, but your men must surrender their arms by order of his Holiness."

I held up my hand to stay any errant Kingsguard.

"That will not be necessary." I unbuckled my swordbelt and gave it to Ser Barristan. "I will speak to His Holiness alone."

The Sparrow nodded, and they parted to let me through.

The floor of the Hall of Lamps was slick with soapy water. A man in brown robes scrubbed at some invisible blemish on the marble as though his life depended on it.

I passed him and entered the Sept proper. Yet more kneeling figures worked on the floor in the shadows of the Seven looming over them.

They were all clad in those plain brown robes, so they all looked alike.

I wondered if the High Sparrow intended it to confuse people. A little power play, perhaps.

Rather than approach any of them, I moved between the statues. As I passed the Mother, I cast a prayer for Sansa's sake, and then moved on until I stood, then knelt, before the Stranger.

Where the others of the Seven were as festooned with candles and prayers as Baelor had been with bones, the Stranger was appropriately solitary. I took a wick and lit one, then bowed my head to wait.

It did not take long.

"Curious."

I turned my head.

This one wore robes just like the others, but it was clear that he was no ordinary Sparrow. He wore this look on his face, benign yet knowing, and his feet were black and hard, like tree roots.

"Most who come here worship before the Father or the Mother. Some men come before the Smith or the Warrior, and women the Maiden or the Crone. As you can see, none choose the Stranger.”

Who would?

"'Though you forget the way to the temple,'" I recited, "'There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not. You shall not deny the Stranger.'"

The High Sparrow knelt beside me.

"The Book of the Stranger. Chapter three, verse four, if I am not mistaken."

"Verse six."

"Yes, verse six. Your Grace knows the Seven-Pointed Star better than I do."

"I wouldn't say so. That verse has always stuck with me."

"Do you know why?"

“The Faith holds that all men must strive to emulate the Gods in all things, and glory them when emulation is impossible, yet there are men who are unjust, unskilled and impotent; women who are unkind, impure and unwise. So, what do they all have in common?"

I looked at him, and answered my own question.

"Valar morghulis, Your Holiness."

He chuckled.

“I am not highborn enough to understand High Valyrian, though I can guess what the words mean. It seems that Your Grace has a talent for theology.”

"And it appears that you have a talent for politics."

"No," he shook his head, "I tell people no one's special, and they think I'm special for telling them so."

"Not special," I suggested, "just different."

"It would be comforting to believe that."

The High Sparrow groaned as we stood from our praying positions.

"I confess, Your Grace," he continued as we walked through the sept, "that when I learned of your coming, I worried that the Father had cast his judgement down upon me. No doubt, Septon Luceon had much to say."

"And said it loudly. He petitioned the Small Council to intervene. Some of my councillors were of a mind to consider that request."

Bending down to pick up a pail of water, he paused for a moment.

"I would not presume to know your thoughts on the matter."

"The Faith and the Crown may be separate, but in the end, we serve the same purpose. As long as the Faith does not cause injury to the Crown, I will respect your autonomy as the law prescribes."

"The Faith requires more than mere autonomy, Your Grace."

"Yes, and I have ordered the construction of shelters for your people."

"For which we give thanks, but what of the others? The people in the square are the fortunate ones. You have seen the bones at Baelor's feet."

"If I may speak frankly, Your Holiness, it was Lord Tywin who was responsible for much of the conduct of the war. Though I hesitate to speak ill of the dead, especially in this holy place, I consider his attitude regarding the health of the common people to have been sorely lacking. I have already appointed new commanders, with orders to ensure that the people are protected and those who assault the Faith are punished accordingly, no matter whose banner they fly."

He nodded approvingly.

"'The godly will rejoice when they see injustice avenged. They will wash their feet in the blood of the wicked.' The Book of the Warrior. Chapter five, verse eighteen."

He set the pail down next to the statue of the Mother, and looked up at it.

"The Queen is with child, is she not?"

"She is."

"While the birth of a child is always a joyous occasion, there is an issue that arises."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"Her Grace is of the North, where they worship false gods carved into trees. You understand our concern."

Either this man was a committed charlatan or he was truly a pious man, to bring up such trifling points of religion.

I smiled reassuringly.

"Your Holiness need not worry. Whatever her husband and son's heresies and treasons, Lady Stark was a pious woman. Sansa and her siblings were named and baptised in the light of the Seven, just as I was and just as our children will be. We would be humbled if you would conduct the blessing yourself."

The High Sparrow nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"Lady Stark deserves our thanks, then. Of course, I would be honoured to conduct such a blessing, but I have not yet blessed you, Your Grace. It is customary for the King to seek the blessing of the new High Septon. That is why you are here, no doubt."

"I did not presume to ask but yes, I have come for your blessing, and because I have an offer for you."

He chuckled.

"If it is an offer of a material nature, I'm afraid it is wasted on me."

"Your Holiness does me a great injustice," I responded with feigned hurt. "My offer is to the Faith. Sansa has spent much time clothing and feeding the people of this city, and she has told me much of their plight. In the square outside, I saw that plight with my own eyes. As I said, I have ordered that shelters be built for the people outside, but these will not be a lasting solution. I mean to do more, which is why I am offering you the Dragonpit."

That certainly piqued his interest.

"The Dragonpit is in ruins."

"So much the better. It can be torn down, and new housing for the needy built in its place. There was once a sept on the site, as I'm sure you know. It seems fitting that it should be returned to the Faith."

There could be no gift more fitting for the Faith than a derelict, costly ruin.

The High Sparrow bowed his head.

"Your Grace humbles us with your generosity. I must admit that I had my doubts about you, but you have answered each of them several times over. The Faith will gladly accept your offer, and the Seven shall bless you and your children."

We knelt together before the Father and the Mother, and the High Septon said a prayer. Fortunately, he was far briefer than his predecessor could be.

Then he bade me follow him out of the Sept of Baelor and onto the great white steps.

The people who were still squashed into the square fell silent as they saw us emerge into the day, waiting in total rapture for their leader to speak.

"Here stands His Grace, the King," the High Sparrow took hold of my wrist and held it high in the air. "A true defender of the Faith!"

I had stood in the throne room and addressed the court, but the eruption that greeted his words was quite unlike anything I had ever experienced before.

When talking to kings, septons often quote the famous line from the Seven-Pointed Star:

"As men bow to their lords, and lords to their kings, so kings and queens must bow before the Seven Who Are One."

For the first time, I thought perhaps there was a kernel of truth to that.

Chapter Text

I looked out over the city at Rhaenys' Hill.

The sound of crashing wood and smashing bricks reached us even in the Red Keep as the Sparrows went about their work.

"The Sparrows peck quickly." Varys observed from his chair.

It had only been a matter of weeks since the Dragonpit had been given to the Faith but most of the bones had already been cleared out, and the demolition of the old structure could begin in earnest, or so the High Septon had happily informed me.

"They will be pecking for a while yet, I fear. The original structure took ten years to build."

"Destruction is always swifter than construction."

I lifted my cup of wine in toast.

"Very true."

Varys looked down into his cup.

"I fear that Danaerys Targaryen is learning that lesson as we speak."

"Oh?"

"The former slave masters have organised an underground resistance movement. They call themselves the Sons of the Harpy."

"How is she dealing with this threat?"

"Not well. In the open field, the Unsullied are the very best soldiers the world has to offer, but in the narrow streets, I fear even our Gold Cloaks could give them trouble. The Sons of the Harpy are even less accommodating. They strike from the shadows and then vanish without a trace, and it would seem that they have support inside Meereen. Yunkai and Astapor have slipped into chaos, neither truly in bondage nor truly free."

"What about her dragons?"

"Nobody has seen them for some time. There are reports that the largest of them has gone wild."

I frowned.

"I am not comforted by the idea of a large, wild dragon."

Varys took a gulp of wine.

"Danaerys retains the support of her followers; the Sons pay a grievous price if they are captured. She has also reopened the fighting pits in Meereen, as a peace offering to the former masters."

"You are clutching at straws, spider. If she cannot rule one city, how can she hope to one day rule the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Slaver's Bay is not Westeros. The Targaryen name means nothing to the masters."

"And it means fire and blood and madness to us."

Varys stayed silent for a moment.

"All I ask is that you give her a chance."

"I am giving her a chance. If I had my head screwed on properly, I would hire a Faceless Man."

He nodded.

"I suppose that is the best I can hope for."

I sat down opposite him.

"What about Stannis?"

"He will march on Winterfell within the week. House Bolton stands ready to receive him with their... customary hospitality."

I took a large gulp of my own wine.

"Then he is unlikely to be a problem for much longer."

"It would appear so, but the Northern problem remains a curious one."

"How so?"

"Lord Commander Snow has gone beyond the Wall. For what purpose, I cannot say."

I frowned.

"The wildlings have been attacking the Watch more frequently and with greater organisation in recent years, yes?"

"Yes, they rallied behind Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall, but he is dead. Stannis had him burned at the stake for refusing to bend the knee."

"What if Jon Snow has gone beyond the Wall to rally the remaining wildings and bring them to bear on House Bolton?"

"That is a possibility. He has been beyond the Wall before, and some even say he took a wildling girl as a lover. Whatever the truth of that particular allegation, he is clearly much more tolerant of the wildlings than the rest of his sworn brothers."

I tapped my goblet in thought.

"Then perhaps we have nothing to fear. History tells us that the Night's Watch does not look favourably upon Lords Commander who overstep their bounds."

Varys nodded.

"The question of House Bolton still remains."

"We have a few years yet until they must be dealt with, but perhaps this will move things forward. If there is a new war in the North, we will pick up the pieces, but with winter coming, I suspect they will stay at home. My second son, should we ever get that far, will be the Warden of the North. With a Stark back in Winterfell, and some generous grain shipments from the South, the Northerners will hopefully be assuaged. Or perhaps Danaerys Targaryen will come and burn us all to ashes, in which case it's hardly my problem."

Varys nodded and finished his wine.

As he did so, one of his little birds emerged from somewhere and started whispering in his ear Standing to get more wine, I watched as Varys spoke to the child softly and fished a sweet from his pocket. The child accepted the gift greedily and scurried away as quickly as they had come.

"Good news?"

Varys stroked his chin.

"A raven has been intercepted from the Eyrie. The Lords Declarant have dispatched a rider carrying the letters to Kings Landing. Apparently, they were of some significance, though my little birds have not discovered what this might be."

"Well," I sat back down. "We shall just have to wait and see, won't we?"

Sure enough, not long afterwards, a rider came from the Eyrie and was immediately brought before the Small Council.

"Your Grace," the rider bowed, "my lords."

He opened his bag and produced a bundle of letters.

"The Lords Declarant bade me present you with these with the utmost haste."

It wasn't just the lords of the Vale that liked to be pompous, apparently.

I nodded and gestured to the table.

The rider placed the letters before us.

"You have my thanks." I told him. "You will be given chambers for the night, and then a fresh horse and coin for the journey home."

"Thank you, Your Grace." The rider bowed again, then ran off to collect his reward.

The Small Council looked at the letters. One by one, they were separated and laid upon the table. Ominously, some were speckled with blood.

At the top was one bearing the seals of the Lords Declarant, and one whose seal was already broken.

Varys opened the first.

"These letters were intercepted from the Eyrie. Their destination is unclear, but they are in Lady Lysa's hand and their intended recipient was one Petyr Baelish."

Sansa and I stiffened in our seats.

I reached for the opened letter.

"My love," I read aloud, "My Petyr, you must come at once. There are enemies, enemies everywhere, even the Eyrie is not safe for us. You must come, come at once, my love. Come for me, your wife, your wife who has done more for you than any wife would. Your wife who would put drops in Jon's wine for you and would write to Catelyn telling her it was the Lannisters for you. It was all for you, Petyr, my love. Come quick. Come quick."

I dropped the letter as though it had burned me.

Sansa frowned in confusion.

"Jon?"

"Jon Arryn." Tyrion explained. "She's talking about Jon Arryn."

I looked at Pycelle.

"Grand Maester, how did Jon Arryn die?"

The old man gulped.

"Lord Arryn died of a disease of the bowels, Your Grace. An ignoble end for such a great man, but sadly not unusual for one of his advanced years."

Varys cocked his head.

"While the Grand Maester is right, my lords, to say that Lord Arryn's symptoms were not unusual for a man of his age, there is another possibility. There is a poison produced in Lys, odourless, tasteless, and colourless. A drop or two in a man's evening wine and he will die none the wiser. I believe that this poison is what Lysa Arryn describes here."

Arianne nodded.

"My uncle once told us about the poison of which the Spider speaks. He called it 'the Tears of Lys.'"

Tyrion stroked his chin.

"In that case, it is clear that Littlefinger was involved in Jon Arryn's death."

Harrold Hardyng snarled and stood up.

"Lysa must pay for this."

"She will, ser, but I want her brought here alive." I gestured to a servant, "Find Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. He is to come to the Red Keep immediately."

"He'll be in Chataya's brothel." Tyrion piped up helpfully.

Of course he would be.

"What place does an upjumped sellsword have here?" Harrold demanded.

"The Eyrie cannot be stormed by force, but starving the garrison into submission is clearly no longer viable. We will have to employ other means of getting Lysa out. She will be brought to King's Landing to stand trial for the murder of Jon Arryn, and any other crimes that these letters contain."

"With respect, Your Grace, this demands immediate action."

"And that is what I am doing, ser. As I have said, the Eyrie is impregnable but, as Ser Bronn eloquently put it to me, 'Give me ten good men and some climbing spikes, and I'll impregnate the bitch.' Such a force would not be able to take the Eyrie, but might be able to seize Lysa and bring her here."

"'Petyr, they are coming for us.'" Arianne had opened another of the letters, "'Robin and I will hold out for as long as necessary for you to find your way back to us. Hurry, my love. Hurry back to your wife and... your son.'"

Varys, Tyrion and I all looked at each other.

Well, then.

Ser Harrold froze in his chair.

"His son? Robin is Littlefinger's son?!"

"So it would appear."

Sansa frowned.

"Why are all of these letters together?"

I turned to her, frowning along with her.

"What do you mean?"

"These letters clearly weren't written at the same time, yet they were intercepted together. Why?"

"Perhaps there was a delay in sending them for some reason."

"Even then, it would still have been more prudent to send multiple ravens. If they had, we might only have got one of these letters or even a completely innocent one. Instead, all of these confessions have been dumped in our laps."

I shrugged.

"They might not have been very prudent, especially if Lysa sent them herself."

"Or maybe whoever sent them intended for them to be intercepted, which would indicate that at least some in the Eyrie are in a mutinous mood."

Tyrion smiled.

"Now that does make things interesting, and it means that Bronn might not have to smuggle Lysa out. If the garrison turns on Lysa, all he would have to do is take command."

"No." Ser Harrold stood. "My lords, if Her Grace is correct, there is only one individual who should go to the Eyrie, and that is me. If Robin is indeed a bastard, then I am the Lord of the Eyrie, and it is my duty to relieve the castle."

I nodded slowly, then stood to join him.

"If I allow you to go, do you swear fealty to me and mine, in the sight of the Old Gods and the New?"

"I do, Your Grace."

"Kneel, Ser Harrold."

He obeyed and I drew my sword.

"I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, name you Lord Harrold Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Lord Paramount of the Vale, and Warden of the East."

I tapped his shoulder with the flat of my blade to add a bit of ceremony to the occasion, for the benefit of his ego.

"Rise, Lord Arryn."

The new Lord of the Vale stood.

"I charge you to relieve the Eyrie in my name, and to bring Lysa Tully and her bastard son to King's Landing, to stand trial for murder."

Lord Harrold bowed.

"I will leave at once, Your Grace."

It did not take long for the new Lord Arryn to embrace his title. The banners bearing the broken wheel of House Waynwood were quietly, but pointedly, omitted as his party prepared to depart King's Landing.

"I think Lord Harrold might just grow into his responsibilities rather well," I observed as I watched him marshal his party around the square.

"Is he growing on you, my love?"

Sansa lay bedridden for the afternoon, courtesy of her swelling ankles.

"Maybe a little," I admitted. "He is proud, and a bit too eager to pull out his sword, but I see a good man in there. The Vale could do much worse."

"I agree," Sansa lifted her head. "Do you see Princess Arianne out there, by any chance?"

I raised my eyebrow.

"No, why?"

She settled back down, smiling knowingly.

"You'll see."

I nodded and looked back out.

It didn't take long for Sansa's prediction to come true, and Arianne Martell emerged into the courtyard.

She approached Harrold and they exchanged some words.

I could not hear what was said, but I could see her wrap an orange favour around his arm.

Sansa laughed as she watched my expression shift from confusion to surprise.

"I know, I was just as surprised as you are."

I shook off my momentary speechlessness and shrugged.

"I wouldn't have expected those two to naturally gravitate towards each other, certainly."

"Perhaps we aren't best placed to judge others for finding love in impossible places."

I smiled at her.

"Perhaps not."

Chapter Text

"Not long to go, I should think." Qyburn finished examining Sansa's now extremely large belly. "All appears quite well."

I nodded, satisfied, and smiled at Sansa.

She returned the smile and looked back at Qyburn.

"Is there anything that needs doing before the birth?"

"Not immediately, Your Grace, as long as there is nothing amiss. I will provide your servants with instructions for the preparation of a birthing room. A proper environment is essential in the early days, especially with winter in the air."

"Thank you, Qyburn."

The chainless maester bowed and took his leave.

"It is odd that we consult the Lord Confessor on the matter of our baby's health, and interrogate the Grand Maester on the matter of murder," Sansa observed.

"It is. Does it trouble you?"

"I would still prefer Shae over him if that's what you're asking."

I nodded.

"I can understand that."

"Has Tyrion taken any new lovers?"

"Not that I know of. Sending her away hurt him deeply, I think."

"You didn't tell him about the Tower of the Hand?"

I shook my head.

"I didn't see what good could possibly come of it. As far as he is concerned, Shae left King's Landing when he told her to. She will never be back to say otherwise."

"Do you know where she is?"

"Varys saw to it that she got safe passage to Pentos. From there, she may go wherever the Others take her."

A House’s words might tell one much about its self-perception.

Hear me roar, demands the lion from his perch, surveying all that the sun touches.

Growing strong, confides the rose, slowly but steadily rising from the grass.

Winter is coming, warns the wolf, casting an untrusting look to the grim, grey sky.

A House’s words hold power. A House’s words impart knowledge.

A sigil is even more important. The vast majority of people in Westeros wouldn’t know the words of the House on whose land they live, and the vast majority of them wouldn’t care even if they did. But a sigil?

A sigil inspires emotion, whether it be pride, anger, apathy, or horror. Emotion, like knowledge, is power.

The flayed man reminded me of that lesson as he lay splayed out on the wax seal.

Putting him out of his misery, I broke him in half.

There was something off about the parchment. It was unusually thick and did not seem to fold as readily as it should.

The message was simple.

"Stannis Baratheon has fallen in battle north of Winterfell. His host is routed. Selyse Baratheon was found hanged not far from the battlefield. No sign of Shireen Baratheon, nor of the Red Witch or the Onion Knight. We present to Your Grace a token of your victory."

I frowned and reread the message, then I realised what the 'token' really was, and threw it away as quickly as possible.

The Small Council looked at the flap of skin.

"It would seem that the war is won," Arianne noted a little queasily.

Mace Tyrell bounced a little in his chair.

"In that case, this is cause for celebration," he declared, valiantly attempting to raise the mood of the room. "I will send for the finest Arbor gold."

I nodded at him in approval, and even a little gratitude.

"The war may be won," Tyrion warned, "but it is not finished. There are still holdouts of Baratheon and Stark forces, most notably at Storm's End and Riverrun."

"Storm's End will surely capitulate now that Stannis is dead," Arianne responded.

"Perhaps, but Riverrun is a different matter entirely. The Blackfish remains as stubborn and slippery as ever."

"Ser Kevan has taken over the siege from House Frey; he will squeeze the Blackfish out in time. Our focus should be on what can be done to take Storm's End quickly and end the Baratheon revolt once and for all."

I turned to Varys.

"What news of Lord Tarly?"

"Lord Randyll has made smooth progress to his objective. He reports that there is no organised resistance between here and Storm's End, and several roving bands have been driven out and put to the sword. The siege of the keep is already well underway."

I nodded.

"Make sure that word of Stannis' end reaches the castle's defenders. Give them one day to surrender. After that, Lord Tarly may proceed as he sees fit."

"Lord Bolton mentioned that Stannis' daughter remains unaccounted for," Arianne pointed out.

"The fact that Shireen is apparently missing is a problem, but she won't be able to garner much support alone. She's a sweet, shy girl, not the kind of person to rally a war effort behind. I would be more concerned if she were to be married off and used to claim the throne on behalf of her husband. I wouldn't put it past the Boltons to try something like that."

Tyrion nodded.

"We should make sure that we have eyes and ears in every shadow of Winterfell and the Dreadfort."

Lord Tyrell returned with two servants, both carrying a great deal of wine.

Along with my councillors, I accepted a cup gladly and felt myself calm just a little as the wine did its work.

Setting my cup down, I thought for a moment.

"Perhaps we might command Lord Bolton to ensure that Shireen is sent to King's Landing if she is found. If she appears and he fails to inform us, we will know where he stands."

Tyrion bobbed his head.

"Best make it a general decree. That way Lord Bolton won't feel as though he's being singled out."

"Good point."

I picked up my cup again.

"I suppose, my lords, Princess, that this calls for a toast."

A murmur of muted assent went around the table.

Lord Tyrell cleared his throat.

"To victory!"

We echoed him, and drank.

Mercifully, the remaining matters of state were not conveyed upon scraps of skin.

I sat with my chin atop my fingers as my councillors filtered out.

"Princess," I called out to Arianne. As she turned, I gestured to the chair beside me.

"Sit with me for a moment."

She complied.

"What may I do for you, Your Grace?"

"Sansa tells me that you and Lord Arryn have been enjoying each other's company in recent times."

She gave a resigned sigh and nodded.

"I suppose we have not been especially discreet."

I shrugged.

"You were discreet enough to escape my notice until Sansa pointed it out to me."

She sucked in air through her teeth.

"She's good. Annoyingly good."

"Yes, she is. I also think she was a bit stung that you kept it from her."

"Whom I invite into my bed is my business."

I smiled and offered her some more wine.

"Of course. Neither of us actively disapprove of your choice. For my part, I am merely curious as to how it came about. Who made the first move?"

"Neither of us did, somehow. It just happened."

"Is there any more to it than a tumble in the sheets?"

"No."

I raised an eyebrow.

"The favour you put on his arm would suggest otherwise."

She looked away for a moment.

"It was much more straightforward when he was just a handsome knight."

"Well, now he is a handsome lord, and one of the most powerful in Westeros. I don't believe there are many precedents for two Small Council members sleeping with each other."

"You and Sansa seem to make it work."

"Sansa and I are married, and I haven't fathered any bastards."

"Moon tea is easy to come by. Those women did not have to birth those children if they did not want to; I don't blame Harrold for their choices, nor would I wish his children anything but happiness."

I nodded.

"An admirable stance."

"You forget that I grew up with my cousins. They may be bastards, but they are as dear to me as anyone."

I tilted my head.

"I forget nothing. My concern is that you two will get in each other's way."

"I wouldn't allow that to happen. I will rule Dorne one day, and no man will make me give up my birthright."

I stroked my chin, considering her response.

"Alright," I said finally, "but I want your word that both of you will still be able to work productively no matter what happens."

She shrugged.

"I can't speak for Harrold, but I will honour our arrangement."

I nodded.

"Good."

I drained my cup and stood from my chair.

"Lord Arryn's last report stated that he had met the Lords Declarant at the Bloody Gate. With any luck, he will be well underway by now."

Arianne nodded, thinking for a moment.

"What does love feel like?" She asked, "I have liked many men, and bedded many more, but I have never loved any of them, or at least I am fairly sure that I have not."

I smiled, a little surprised by her sudden openness, and thought about how best to answer.

"Not long ago," I looked down at her, "I had Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden, on my arm, practically begging me to bed her, and all I could think was how she wasn't Sansa. I'd say that is a good place to start."

Arianne raised an eyebrow.

"You set a very high bar, don't you?"

I chuckled.

"Yes, I suppose we do."

Chapter Text

I leant on my sparring sword, wiping sweat from my brow as I tried to get my breath back.

While I was mercifully free of the bruises that Bronn liked to paint across my back, it was hard not to feel just as undignified when the sixty-year-old Ser Barristan's forehead barely had a mild sheen to it.

"I think that should be quite sufficient for today, Your Grace," the old knight took pity on me with a wry smile.

I nodded, still panting slightly.

"Ser Bronn may not be the most honourable fighter, but he seems to have taught you some novel tricks."

"I certainly hope so," I wheezed, "We pay him rather a lot of gold for his time."

"Mercenaries have their uses, but they should never form the bulk of your army." He passed me a skin full of water, "The same might be said of Bronn's teachings; they might give you an edge in battle, but they will never replace a firm grip of the basics."

I gulped down some water greedily.

"And how firm is my grip?"

"Firm enough."

I nodded and smiled grimly.

"'Firm enough.'" I muttered to myself, "I suppose that describes quite a lot of my life."

We gathered up the various training implements and prepared to go back inside, but before we could, a servant ran out into the courtyard.

"Your Grace, the Queen has gone into the birthing room!"

I froze.

Ser Barristan put his hand on my shoulder.

"I think you had best go, Your Grace."

I needed no further encouragement to follow the servant as quickly as my legs would still move, my exhaustion briefly forgotten.

I walked through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, occasionally biting my nails as anxiety and doubt and fear began to consume me.

Sansa and I had always known that childbirth could be dangerous, for both the mother and the child, but knowing that she was in that room brought it crashing down on me all at once.

As I rounded the corner to pass the birthing room yet again, Ser Jaime spoke up from his station by the door.

"Your Grace."

I ignored him and carried on pacing.

At least Sansa had something to take her mind off of things.

I did another few circuits of the keep, passing the birthing room and rounding the corner once more.

"Joffrey."

I stopped.

"Get back to your post, Ser."

Jaime stood his ground.

"You should rest."

I shook my head.

"I should be at Sansa's side."

"You know as well as I do that you'd just get in the way."

I rounded on him.

"Have you decided to start being a father figure all of a sudden, Ser Jaime?"

He didn't rise to the challenge. Not directly, anyway.

"No, Your Grace. I just don't think the Queen would want you anywhere near her, given how you currently smell."

Laughter burst from my chest as though it had been knocked out of me.

I bent over, leaning on my knees, becoming aware of a sharp pain beneath my ribs.

Perhaps he was right.

He put a hand on my shoulder.

"I remember the day you were born. I stood guard outside the birthing room, listening to your mother curse everyone from Pycelle to Florian the Fool. Do you know what Robert was doing at the time?"

I shook my head.

"He was hunting."

Predictable.

"You will be in the next room, not the Kingswood. Go put on something more presentable, have a drink, and rest. We will stay here."

I sighed and nodded.

"If anything happens..."

"We will."

I leafed through a few bits of parchment on my desk.

A wet cloth on my skin and a fresh set of clothes had helped, but I still needed something to take my mind off things. Unfortunately, none of the problems were particularly difficult to solve. I wrote down my responses, trying not to let my nerves affect my handwriting.

Eventually, even that small distraction abated.

I threw my quill down and sighed.

My sword leaned against a cabinet by the opposite wall, the rubies encrusted in the golden hilt blinking in the sun.

I picked it up and drew it from its scabbard as I sat back down.

Valyrian steel swords supposedly never dulled, a claim I was more than a little dubious of, but it wasn't hard to see why some might attribute some magical quality to the material. It was appropriate that the smoky metal had come from the same place as the dragonlords of old.

Sansa had told me about her father's habit of taking his greatsword to the godswood at Winterfell and cleaning it beneath the weirwood tree. It was a kind of prayer, apparently.

I imagined the look on the High Sparrow's face if he were to be confronted with heresy like that.

As funny as it would be to see that, I wasn't sure that polishing swords in the forest was going to do anything to help me.

As I put the sword away, the door opened to reveal Tyrion with a scroll in one hand and a jug in the other.

The dwarf sauntered into the room, climbed into my chair and put the jug down on the desk.

"I come bearing gifts."

He held out the scroll, with the seal of House Arryn embossed in light blue wax.

I took it and broke it open while he poured wine from the jug.

"Lord Arryn has taken the Eyrie. Lysa and her son are in custody, and he is making the necessary preparations for the journey back to King's Landing."

Tyrion hummed in satisfaction and offered me a cup filled to the brim.

"Imagine, that's only the second-best thing that's going to happen to you today."

I shook my head, but still took the wine.

"Don't tempt fate."

"Fate needs no temptation. Why worry?"

I took a healthy sip.

"It's watered down. I thought Sansa might object if you got drunk while she did all the work."

I nodded and finished the cup in one go.

"I wouldn't hear the end of it."

"You also won't hear the end of it if you lose your mind before meeting your new arrival."

I sighed.

"I can't not be concerned."

"Yes, and that concern has made you take all of the precautions that you have done. Sansa is healthy, the baby is healthy, and they will be fine."

"But what if she isn't? What if something happens?"

"Are you worried about becoming like my father?"

I nodded quietly.

"My father didn't change overnight when my mother died, Joffrey. He was always harsh, he was always domineering, and he was always sorry for himself."

I raised an eyebrow.

"It sounds like you've spent a great deal of time thinking about it."

"I don't blame Kevan for making apologies for his older brother. I do the same for Jaime, as Tommen will do for you. It doesn't alter the fact that they are apologies. The truth is that my father never changed, and neither will you."

Having finished, he finished his wine and put his cup down with a small belch.

He looked around.

"You must have a cyvasse board in here somewhere."

Tyrion launched into a loud chorus of swearing as he realised that he'd walked straight into my trap.

I grinned and plucked his dragon off the board.

"Death in three."

He groaned and knocked over his king.

"All square," he grumbled.

We began to rearrange the board for another game, but then someone knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Qyburn poked his head through.

"Your Grace, the Queen is ready for you."

"And?"

"Mother and child are quite well."

I closed my eyes and blew my cheeks out with relief.

"Thank you, Qyburn."

I tried not to move too quickly as I followed him.

The Kingsguard stood to attention as I knocked on the door.

A handmaiden opened it and smiled as she stood aside.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and entered the birthing room.

Sansa lay on the bed, her brow still shiny with sweat, and swaddled in her arms lay the most beautiful bundle I had ever seen.

“My love,” she declared, “I would like to introduce you to Alys.”

I moved in next to her to look at my daughter for the first time.

Alys Baratheon stared up at us with big, round eyes flicking between mine and Sansa's faces in turn.

"Hello, princess." I offered her my finger, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Alys wrapped a chubby hand around the proffered digit and cooed softly.

"I think she recognises your voice," Sansa whispered.

"Well, she's a clever girl, like her mother."

Alys inhaled and then gave out a tiny sneeze.

We giggled with delight.

"She's perfect, Sansa," I looked down at my wife, "Thank you for bringing her into the world."

"Thank you for making her with me," she grinned and leaned up for a kiss.

Unfortunately, we didn't get long into it before Alys began to cry.

"I don't think she likes it when she's not the centre of attention," I quipped as Sansa began to gently shush and rock Alys in her arms.

A handmaiden jumped to her feet. "She's probably hungry, Your Grace. I will fetch the wet nurse."

"That won't be necessary." Sansa placed Alys in my arms and shook her gown off her shoulders.

"She is my daughter, and I want her first nursing to be with me."

I bounced with Alys to try to placate her a little, but she only really calmed down once she was at her mother's breast.

"There you are, sweetling," Sansa soothed as Alys started to feed for the first time.

There had been several occasions where I had looked at Sansa and thought that I could never love her more than I had at that exact moment.

I never had that thought again after the first time I saw her holding Alys.

Chapter Text

"May the Seven who are One claim this fragile babe, to hold in their grace, protect, and nurture."

The High Sparrow dabbed scented oil on Alys' forehead.

Whatever else he might have been, he was admittedly very good at what he did, using only the lightest touches to avoid disturbing the irritable baby in my arms. His voice, too, was impressive, somehow managing to remain soft for her benefit, while still projecting well to the few present with us in the sept.

It was not hard to see how he could persuade others to follow him in such vast droves.

"May the Crone grant her wisdom," he continued, applying a different oil in turn. "May the Smith bless her works. May the Warrior protect her from without, and the Maiden from within. May the Father judge her justly, and may the Mother show her clemency."

And may the Stranger keep its distance.

The High Sparrow stepped aside and allowed the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window behind him to light up Alys' face in the rainbow colours of the Seven.

"In the light of the Seven," I recited, "I name this child Alys, of the House Baratheon."

The High Sparrow raised his arms and gaze aloft.

"It is done. The Gods are good, and they are pleased to receive Princess Alys into their light with open arms.

There was polite applause at those closing words, though Alys seemed more interested in the colourful window than the blessings of the Gods.

I smiled and kissed the side of her head.

"She is a beautiful child, Your Grace." The High Sparrow wiped his fingers on his robe. "Please extend my congratulations to the Queen."

I nodded.

"Of course, Your Holiness, thank you."

He looked around the Royal Sept with a faint smile on his face.

"May I confess something to you, Your Grace?"

I blinked.

"Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"

He chuckled.

"Yes, but even septons must confess. My confession is that I would much rather reside in this sept than the great white monstrosity on Visenya's Hill."

I glanced around.

The Royal Sept had seen better days, truth be told, having been gutted for materials to sell. Where once there had been wooden panels and intricate artworks depicting heroes and gods alike, now lay bare the red stone that made up the rest of the Red Keep. The altar that had once been covered with fine linens was now adorned by what appeared to be a large bedsheet, the gold candlesticks and silver censers long gone.

It had actually needed a great deal of work just to make it presentable after everything valuable had been sold.

Still, the High Sparrow didn't need to know that.

"It is a little more subdued, I will grant you."

"It is pure, or at least a great deal purer than Baelor's vanity."

I smirked.

A man after my own heart.

"I fear that you wouldn't like it as much as you think."

"Why is that?"

"The people, for a start." I looked down at Alys. "Most of them, anyway."

Alys blinked ungratefully.

"Do you think the Sept of Baelor is much different? Be thankful that you need not have regular dealings with the Most Devout."

"Oh, I am. Believe me."

He chuckled.

"Luceon is a particularly difficult individual, though I don't recall seeing much of him recently...?"

He looked at me questioningly.

"Luceon is our guest. We felt that the presence of one of the Most Devout could only be beneficial for the Red Keep."

He nodded slowly, a doubtful expression creeping onto his face.

"Rest assured, Your Holiness, it has not been a luxurious redoubt. He works here in the sept, tending to those who wish to ask questions or worship. The Queen visits him often."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Really?"

I nodded earnestly.

"Yes. She has a particular interest in the field of guest rights, and questions him often and stringently on the finer theological points of that subject."

The High Sparrow understood then that Luceon Frey was not enjoying his time in the Red Keep any more than he would the gruel and soap suds that awaited him in the Sept of Baelor.

"In that case, I will leave Her Grace in his care."

Or more accurately, leave him in her claws.

We must have been particularly boring, because Alys started to cry loudly.

"I think now would be an opportune moment to take the Princess back to her mother," the High Sparrow observed.

"I think you might be right," I responded sardonically.

We nodded to each other in passing and I took Alys back to our chambers.

Sansa lay in bed, still recovering from the birth.

Her brow furrowed with concern and she held her arms out to receive Alys.

"Is she alright?"

"Yes," I placed Alys gently in her mother's arms. "Just bored and hungry, I think."

She rolled her eyes and brought Alys to her breast, which certainly cheered the little girl up.

"She is demanding, isn't she?"

"So she should be." I sat on the bed next to Sansa so she could lay her head on my shoulder while Alys fed.

"Did the High Septon say anything of note?"

"No, though he does send his congratulations."

She hummed.

"What do you think he aspires to, ultimately?"

"Power, but I sense that, uniquely, it's not for his own sake."

"That makes him dangerous. If he cared at all about himself, we could threaten him."

"Indeed. Selfishness is a great quality in an enemy, if that is what he is."

"Isn't he?"

"Not necessarily. The Faith has always been the ballast against the nobility. It makes little difference if this High Septon means what he says more than his predecessors did, so long as he gets his tokens of piety."

"He may demand more than that. The Faith is doing more for the smallfolk than ever before, and he will expect us to contribute."

"So much the better. There is much that needs doing, and if the Faith is the first to act, then the Faith is the first to pay."

"We give them the land, and they build on it for us. We lather him up by showing up to his ceremonies and giving lip service where necessary, and he does the hard bit."

"That is the general idea, yes."

"Until he works out that we are using him."

"I'd be willing to bet that he knows already. Our ambitions are mutually beneficial, so we are free to enjoy the fruits of each other's labours."

I looked down at Alys, who stared up at me while happily nursing away.

"Hopefully, one day, we'll be able to take this one down to the Sept of Baelor and see her married as we were."

Sansa laughed.

"Don't you start. We have a little while yet."

I watched Alys carefully from my chair by her cradle.

The gentle rocking motion had long since soothed her to sleep, but I still found it hard not to watch her constantly, partly out of worry, but also because I simply struggled to believe that something so wonderful was even there.

It was my first time alone with her, I realised, as Sansa had gone to bathe and have her health checked.

The door opened, however, and Ser Jaime entered.

"You wished to see me, Your Grace?"

I nodded.

"Come over here, Ser Jaime. Quietly, if you would." I rubbed my eye. "She takes a while to settle and I'd rather not have to do the routine again tonight."

Jaime obliged, mindful of the clinking of his armour.

"I remember when your mother..."

He trailed off as he saw my look.

I shook my head.

"No. Leave my mother out of it."

He closed his mouth.

I sighed.

"Sansa and I have been talking about you, about what role you'll have in Alys' life."

I looked to try to read him, but years of being in the Kingsguard had at least taught him something.

"We will not tell her the truth, and neither will you. When I say that, I say it not as her father, but as your king. You understand what that means."

It meant that I wouldn't hesitate to have his head clean off if he so much as breathed a word about it.

Of course, he had grown accustomed to the secret anyway.

"She will hear things."

"She will, and if Sansa and I raise her correctly, she will ask questions. We will answer them, honestly and completely, when the time is right, but she must ask us herself."

He nodded.

"That seems sensible."

Like he had a fucking clue.

"If I'd had my way, you'd just be another Kingsguard," I continued, "but Sansa convinced me that Alys needs as much family as she can get."

Another nod.

"You are her uncle, and we expect you to watch over her like one, but you do not outrank her. For all intents and purposes, you are a knight, and she is a princess."

"So, really, nothing changes," he shrugged, which made me wince as his armour rattled around.

"There is a very important difference: this time, you have a second chance. How many of those have you had?"

His face was all the answer I needed.

Chapter Text

I tapped my fingers on the Iron Throne as a way to calm down a little while I waited with the Small Council, minus Sansa.

That was one good thing about its construction: there were plenty of places to rest your hands. Each of those one thousand swords had hilts, after all. A few of them even went up your backside if you made the wrong move.

The doors opened and Harrold Arryn marched in, dragging a bedraggled woman with faded red hair along with him, followed by a maester and two guards.

"Your Grace," Lord Arryn announced, shoving the woman to her knees before the throne. "I bring you the traitor, Lysa Tully."

"The only traitors in this room," Lysa seethed, her voice already hoarse from screaming, "are the oathbreakers who dragged me from my home and took my son from me."

She raised her head to me, her face red and splotchy.

"Where is he?! Where is my son?!"

"Lady Lysa," I held up my hand diplomatically, "your son is quite safe, and you will be taken to him once we are finished."

She shook her head.

"No. I won't say another word until I see my son."

The moment's silence was only broken by my fingers tap, tap, tapping on the throne.

She relaxed a bit, as though she thought that she'd somehow hoodwinked me.

"Have it your way," I responded, my tapping finally ceasing. "Slit the boy's throat, then bring him here," I ordered nobody in particular.

The noise that Lysa produced defies proper description.

She tried to crawl forward up the stairs to the throne, but the Kingsguard flanking me both put their hands to their swords, and she quickly withdrew.

"Where is Littlefinger, Lysa?"

"Don't call him that."

She recoiled as Harrold made to strike her.

"Lord Arryn," Tyrion called, "please, not now."

Lysa stared venomous daggers at both of them as she gathered herself.

"Lady Lysa, I will not ask again."

"I don't know," she spat, "And if I did, I would never betray my husband!"

I produced the letters and leafed through them.

"I hold in my hand letters written by you, intended for Littlefinger. Are we to believe that you have no notion of where they were supposed to be going?"

"Petyr gave me the ravens, and told me to use them if I needed him to come." Her face relaxed again as she fell into a lovestruck stupor, "The fastest ravens in the world, he said, just for me."

Gods be good.

"The contents of these letters are sufficient evidence for me to have you put to death, so I would suggest that offering me something of use might be in your interest."

"My lady," Varys' silver tongue began, "we have the utmost sympathy for your position, but Lord Baelish is an avowed traitor. Aiding him is treason, and treason carries a heavy toll for you and your son."

Lysa looked between us all, shaking her head, tears starting to form in her eyes.

"He... He was right about you. Worse than the Mad King, he told me. The Imp and the Spider, yes, we had their measure long ago, but you? You would threaten the life of my son? How? How could you threaten something so good, so pure?"

My lip curled involuntarily at the mention of Aerys Targaryen, but I remained as outwardly calm as possible.

"Lord Tyrion has told me of the Eyrie's hospitality. I believe it is time for Lady Lysa to sample ours."

Lysa began to scream again as the guards seized her and dragged her kicking and shrieking to the Black Cells.

Once she was gone, Lord Arryn beckoned the maester forward.

He was a deal younger than most of the maesters I had known, though he was not really all that young either.

He wrung his hands nervously as he knelt before the Iron Throne.

"Your Grace, this is Maester Colemon. He served Lord Jon Arryn in the Eyrie and in King's Landing."

I nodded.

"I remember."

"It was Maester Colemon who ensured that the letters were intercepted."

I inclined my head.

"Is that so?"

Colemon nodded, still wringing his hands.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Might I ask why? Some might say that you technically broke your vows in betraying Lady Lysa's trust."

For the first time, Colemon looked like he had a bit of steel to him. He raised his head proudly.

"My vows are to the Order of Maesters, which charged me to serve the Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn was Lord of the Eyrie, and I served him faithfully for many years, and while I believed that Robin was his son, I served him too."

"So, you care nothing for the boy?"

"On the contrary, Your Grace, I care for Robin a great deal. I have known him since the day he was born, and I certainly have no desire to see him come to harm, but the fact remains that my vows are to Lord Arryn. I can only beseech you to show clemency to Robin, for this treason was his mother's more than his."

"You are content for him to lose his mother?"

"I... I do not believe that Lady Lysa is the most suitable person to raise somebody of Robin's constitution. His affliction, while severe, is manageable, and there is no reason why he should not be able to live like other boys his age. He certainly should not still be at his mother's breast."

I heard a few sniggers from somewhere.

I nodded, ignoring them.

"I see. Let us speak of Jon Arryn. Lady Lysa confessed that she poisoned him in her letters. Was there no evidence of this when you treated him?"

"As I'm sure Your Grace is aware, Lord Arryn's condition presented as little more than a severe stomach complaint in the hours before his death."

"How did you treat him?" Arianne asked.

"I attempted to purge him with emetics, but I was instructed to stop."

"By whom?"

Colemon wrung his hands with more fervour.

"Grand Maester Pycelle, Your Grace."

All eyes turned to the Grand Maester, who had suddenly gone very pale.

"Is this true?"

Pycelle jabbered and stammered in his chair.

"I-I-I... Yes, Your Grace, that is to say... Lord Arryn was an older man. I felt that his body would not withstand the potions that Maester Colemon was administering."

"So, what did you do instead?"

Pycelle's mouth opened and closed a few times without noise.

"Your Grace, if we could speak alone?

Pycelle's hesitation was enough to know that he had let Jon Arryn die, but why do such a thing? It seemed unlikely that he was in on the poisoning itself, given that he was my mother's lackey...

Of course.

Jon Arryn had been on her trail, so when the poor old man needed some persuasion to join the Stranger, Pycelle helped him on his way.

He had been a good man, kind to me and faithful to Robert, carrying out a thankless task with about as much integrity as you get.

He deserved better.

"Send word to the Citadel. We will require a new Grand Maester."

"No!" Pycelle leapt out of his seat with surprising agility and threw himself in front of the Iron Throne, "Mercy, Your Grace, mercy!"

"Oh, be quiet, you old fool!" I snapped.

Pycelle's lip wobbled pathetically.

"Your Grace, I have served in this very castle for more than forty years."

"And you will not serve a second more. Ser Barristan, kindly escort Pycelle to his chamber and lock him in."

Ser Barristan obeyed, pulling Pycelle to his feet firmly, though more gently than I would have done, and helped him to wobble his way out.

I watched them go and sighed.

"I apologise for that display, Maester Colemon. Please accept my invitation to remain in King's Landing and care for Robin."

Colemon nodded palely.

"Of course, Your Grace, thank you."

I got back to the Royal Apartments and rubbed my hands over my face, trying to properly process the last hour or so.

Stepping into our bedroom, I saw Sansa sitting by Alys' cot, watching our daughter play with the wooden mobile hanging above her.

When she looked up at me, I saw that her face was a little red and puffy.

I crossed over to her quickly and took her head in my hands.

"What's wrong?"

She sighed and closed her eyes.

"I wasn't prepared for that boy. He wouldn't stop screaming at me, and the shaking... What has Lysa been doing?"

I gave her a small smile.

"If it's any consolation, she wasn't much better behaved."

She returned the smile and kissed me.

"I couldn't believe that she and my mother were sisters, that they could even be from the same place, let alone the same family. It scared me that Alys could be like that--"

"Our daughter will be everything that Lysa and Robin are not. We will see to that."

She nodded.

"It also just reminded me of my mother, and how much I miss her. I wish Alys could meet her, just once."

"Ah!"

Sansa and I both blinked in surprise.

"Ah!" Alys repeated, her eyes widening as we looked over her.

"Oh, sweetling," Sansa bent down and collected her from the cot. "We're sorry for not paying you enough attention."

Alys cooed and settled happily into her mother's arms.

Sansa and I sat back on our bed together.

I ran my hand over Alys' head, feeling the soft hair starting to grow on her scalp.

Sansa smiled.

"She has a way of cheering us up, doesn't she?"

I kissed her under the ear.

"That she does."

"Do you feel like telling me everything else that happened?"

I sighed.

"So, it turns out that Lysa did poison Jon Arryn, this much we knew, but there's a wrinkle: Maester Colemon was treating him and it seemed to be working until Pycelle stepped in and ordered him to stop."

"Why did he do that?"

"He claims that he thought the treatments were too invasive, but that's obviously nonsense. I think Jon Arryn was close to finding out my mother's secret, and she had him killed for it."

Sansa stroked Alys' cheek.

"You have to kill him."

"I know."

"What will you do about your mother?"

I ran my hand through my hair.

"I don't know. I can't kill her: whatever else she is, she is my mother. I can't give her to the Silent Sisters, because then she'll be in the clutches of the High Sparrow and who knows what he'll do. Perhaps... the best thing to do is just leave her rotting at Casterly Rock. She can't do much harm from there. What do you think?"

"I think Alys lost the wrong grandmother," Sansa responded, absently stroking our daughter's forehead with her thumb.

To his eternal credit, Pycelle dropped his act in the end.

As I entered his cell, followed by Ser Jaime, he was sat upright in his chair, and when he saw me, rather than throw himself at the ground in a blubbering mess, he bowed his head.

"Your Grace."

I nodded.

"Pycelle."

I sat down opposite him.

He sighed.

"I suppose it is time for me to return to the dirt."

"I must confess that your stoicism is surprising."

"Oh," he chuckled, "I played the old fool because it suited my needs, and it worked for forty years. I survived the folly of Summerhall, the Mad King's court, and Robert's Rebellion when brighter stars faded, but I can see that my race is run. On reflection, I wish to die with the dignity I sacrificed in life."

I nodded and stood.

"You served my family well," I patted him on the shoulder as I moved behind him. "and for that, I thank you."

"I served your grandfather because he was the only man worthy of service. In another life, I might have served you just as loyally. You certainly have his stomach, if nothing else."

I drew my sword and, as quickly as I could without losing my edge alignment, sliced at his neck.

My skill was limited, and the cut was a little less than clean. Even so, Valyrian steel cut through like there was nothing there.

Pycelle immediately slumped to the side, his head severed.

With nothing left to hold it, his chain clattered to the floor, blood filling its links.

Chapter Text

"Something is happening at the Wall."

I turned away from the window, bouncing Alys gently in my arms.

"I should certainly hope so."

"Yes, but this is an unknown something. Every report is conflicting: some say that Jon Snow is dead at the hands of the wildlings, while some say that it was his own sworn brothers who killed him, and others say that he is alive, but that he has abandoned the Night's Watch and is heading south."

I hummed.

"Well, if he has deserted the Night's Watch, every lord in the North will be honour-bound to execute him."

"Do you believe that they would execute the last son of Eddard Stark?" Varys asked sceptically.

"I don't believe that they will fight for him. Jon Snow is not a hill the North is willing to die on, you know this better than I do."

"Be that as it may, he also has a large number of wildlings at his back, and there may yet be sections of the Night's Watch that remain loyal to him."

"Then I'm sure Lord Bolton will have plenty of pelts ready for winter."

I looked down at my daughter.

"What do you think, Alys?"

Alys yawned and closed her eyes.

I pouted.

"I'm not that boring, am I?"

I kissed her forehead and placed her in her cot.

"There you go, princess."

I looked up to Varys.

"Still no sign of Daenerys Targaryen?"

He shook his head.

"Neither she nor her dragon has appeared since they escaped from Meereen. The Sons of the Harpy have intensified their attacks, and the Unsullied diminish in strength every day."

"Who is in charge?"

"A council of free slaves and loyalists are trying to stay the course. They have had... limited success."

I sighed.

"Varys, I think it may be time to accept that Danaerys Targaryen is not going to be the ruler you hoped she might be."

"It won't matter what kind of ruler she is if she brings her dragons to Westeros."

"What do you think we've been preparing for?" I snapped, then winced and glanced down at Alys.

Mercifully, she had fallen soundly asleep.

"Every keep on the eastern shore has been constructing scorpions in preparation for this exact eventuality," I continued, "If Randyll Tarly takes Dragonstone before she invades, she won't have a foothold anywhere near Westeros."

"Storm's End is unlikely to fall in time for that, and Lord Tarly will not be happy to divide his forces."

"I don't think he was happy on his own wedding night," I muttered under my breath. "Didn't his own son choose the Wall rather than remain at Horn Hill?"

"Nobody knows exactly why Samwell Tarly took the Black except Samwell Tarly himself, though incidentally, I believe he is at the Citadel, training to be the new maester at the Wall."

I chuckled.

"Perhaps he could be the new Grand Maester. Speaking of which, who is the favourite? Do they plan on trying to force Gormon Tyrell on us again?"

"Archmaester Gormon has taken up a more senior position at the Citadel, but that remains a possibility. There are whispers that the Conclave may elect a more unorthodox choice, however."

"I wasn't aware that the words 'Conclave' and 'unorthodox' were permissible in the same sentence."

"To be sure, this is not a sign that the Conclave has grown any more progressive in its outlook. Rather, they view it as an opportunity to remove troublemakers from Oldtown, where they are less likely to infect vulnerable minds with dangerous things such as ideas."

I frowned.

"They would effectively surrender any influence over the Small Council for the foreseeable future. That sounds very unlike the Conclave."

"Ultimately, the Conclave values iron control over the wider Order of Maesters more than the soundness of whoever happens to be Grand Maester. While it is a prestigious office, it is perceived in some sections of the Citadel as effectively moribund."

"That is because Pycelle was effectively moribund. If they send someone interesting, that could change."

"Ah, that is another consideration."

I grinned.

"Frightened them, did I?"

"Yes. They are wary of appointing any of their true favourites, just in case you execute them, as well."

I shrugged.

"Anyone that the Conclave disapproves of is welcome at my table. I suppose we shall have to wait and see."

"Well?"

I looked at Qyburn expectantly.

"I am confident that the former Lady Arryn has no knowledge of Petyr Baelish's whereabouts, Your Grace. I have questioned her with all the means at my disposal unless, of course, you would deem it necessary to cause... more lasting damage."

I had no desire to imagine what kind of lasting damage Qyburn could do.

"And the boy?"

"I concur with Maester Colemon inasmuch as the boy's maladies are quite manageable, but he has not inherited many wits. He can live a full and happy life, certainly, but not, I think, one that would be of any use to you."

"Could he forget his mother?"

If it had been anyone else, I might have been disgusted with myself for even asking the question, but I knew better than most that mothers sometimes do more harm than good.

"Children never forget their mothers, but memory fades, just like everything else."

He sounded like he was speaking from experience.

I nodded.

"In that case, he can stay here with Colemon. It is Lysa that remains a problem."

"I believe that banishment to the Silent Sisters is the customary punishment for ladies of a certain rank."

I clicked my tongue.

"And put her in the clutches of the High Sparrow? I am wary of allowing him anything, or anyone, even slightly useful."

"True, he is a dangerous man."

"What do you know of him?"

"I know what he is, Your Grace: a believer, and belief is so often the death of reason."

I couldn't have put it better myself.

"The High Sparrow is a problem for another day. Right now, I need to work out what to do with Lysa."

"If I may, Your Grace, do you need to do anything? The Black Cells exist for a reason, after all. Nobody will mourn Lady Lysa, except perhaps her son, but he need not know that she is here."

I shook my head.

"I prefer not to leave loose ends, just in case. If I have no use for someone, better to ensure that they are completely out of the picture, one way or another. Otherwise, they appear to trip you when you least expect them."

"There is another course, Your Grace."

I raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged a little sheepishly.

"I am always in need of new subjects."

I sighed.

"I have enough Tully blood on my hands, and I will probably have more once Riverrun falls... I will discuss it with my wife."

Qyburn bowed.

"Of course, Your Grace."

I crept back into the Royal Apartments, by now fully expecting to hear Alys angrily crying at anyone with the temerity to breathe in her vicinity while she slept.

Instead, I found Sansa lying in our bed, wearing a grey shift that hung low from her neck.

"I asked the wet nurse to take care of Alys tonight. Ser Jaime and Brienne are watching over her."

I nodded and sat down beside her.

I removed my boots and turned to speak to her.

Before I could, Sansa interrupted me with a hungry kiss.

I braced myself and buried my other hand in her hair.

"Do you...?" I whispered once we broke apart.

She straddled my lap and started unbuttoning my tunic, pressing kisses to my neck.

I groaned as she started moving against me and slipped my hands down her sides, reaching for the hem of her shift.

She quickly put her hands on mine to stop me from lifting it.

"No. Leave it."

I tilted my head a little.

"Are you alright?"

"I just... don't feel the same."

"If you think you will ever be anything less than beautiful--"

She put her finger on my lips.

"It's not about you," she whispered, "I just don't want anything to distract me from the feeling of having you inside me again."

She opened my tunic and pushed me down onto the bed. Her fingers deftly undid the strings on my breeches so that she could dispose of them too before climbing on top of me.

I hummed contentedly as her hands danced lightly upon my chest, interrupted by a sharp intake of breath as she took hold of me.

"Gods," she sighed as she sank down onto me, her eyes fluttering closed.

I settled my hands back on her hips while she got used to having me inside her again, and the tiny part of my mind that wasn't completely enraptured by her noticed that they were ever so slightly thicker than they had been before.

I knew better than to give voice to that observation, and in any case, it was banished from my mind by Sansa slowly lifting herself up and then moving back down at just as agonising a pace.

I ran my hands down her thighs, rubbing my thumbs into her more sensitive spots, making her whole body twitch.

She hissed and pulled my hands away, leaning forward to pin them above my head.

"Wait," she whispered, and suffocated my response with her lips.

I pulled my arms free of her grip, and gently wrapped them around her, holding her close.

She rested her hands on my shoulders and started to rotate her hips, pressing herself against me more fully.

As much as I tried not to, I couldn't help but start bucking up into her in response.

Evidently figuring that I might as well do the work from then on in, Sansa rolled to one side and pulled me on top of her, pulling me in just as close as before.

I continued at our slow pace, kissing her neck on the spot she liked so much.

"Oh, my love," she moaned in my ear.

Her moans began to lose their definition, slowly melting into mewls as I felt her tighten around me both inside and out.

Her nails dug into my shoulder, her body wound up until she twitched a few more times and let out a satisfied groan.

She lay back, eyes closed, while I continued to gently draw in and out of her, letting her ride out her high.

Finally, she looked up at me, her eyes bright, smiling.

"How close are you?" She stroked my side gently.

"I can go on a bit longer," I kissed her forehead, "but not if you keep that up."

"What were you going to say?"

I hummed questioningly.

"You were about to say something when I jumped on you." Sansa lifted her head off my chest. "What was it?"

I sighed and rubbed my eye.

"I can't decide what to do with Lysa. Qyburn is confident that she doesn't know anything of use, but I didn't want to do anything without discussing it with you first."

Sansa nodded and placed an appreciative kiss on my collarbone.

She thought for a moment.

"It would be best to kill her," she finally answered.

"She is your family. I will only act if you are sure, especially given the Tully words."

She lifted herself up a little.

"Family comes before everything, and you and Alys are my family, not her. Not after she put our lives at risk."

"I agree."

She kissed me.

"Thank you, for not making the same mistake twice."

I nodded.

There was no need to ask which mistake.

Chapter Text

The Black Cells had not been kind to Lysa.

Even from the Iron Throne, I could see patches on her head where she had wrenched out her hair.

As she put out her hands, trying, and failing, to stop herself from falling to the floor, her fingers were bloodied from scratching at the stone, even missing a nail or two.

I made a mental note to pay the gaolers extra for the night's shift.

She lay on the floor before the Small Council.

At a gesture, two guards seized her and pulled her up so that she sat listlessly upright.

"Lysa of the House Tully," I began, "This council has determined that for your role in the death of your husband, the late Jon Arryn, and the continued flight of the traitor, Petyr Baelish, you shall be sentenced to death. If you have anything to say that might cause us to reconsider this judgement, I invite you to speak now, or hold your peace."

Lysa did not say anything.

"Your son," I continued, hoping to at least see some sign that she was alive, "will be allowed to inherit his father's keep in the Fingers when he comes of age. In the meantime, Lord Yohn Royce has graciously agreed to foster the boy at Runestone, to better prepare him for his duties."

Lysa's head twitched at that, but she remained otherwise unresponsive.

I sighed out of my nose and shook my head.

"Take her to the gallows. She may await her beloved in the Seven Hells."

Lysa suddenly leapt to life, struggling against the guards with frenzied strength.

"Curse you!" she screeched. "Curse your whore of a wife, no different from her mother, and your monstrous spawn!"

She giggled.

"No different from her mother. Cat always thought she was better than me, but she's dead now. Just like Father, just like Jon. That is what happens to people who stand between Petyr and me!"

The room fell stone silent.

I could sense the discomfort of some of the Small Council members as they looked at me anxiously.

"Take her to Qyburn," I told the guard with deadly calm, "He may do with her as he pleases, so long as I need suffer this woman no longer."

Perhaps some final flicker of awareness lingered in Lysa, allowing her to realise the terrible fate she had sealed for herself.

"No," she groaned, "my son, let me see my son! He needs his mother! Let me see him!"

She wailed pathetically all the way to the door, and even down the halls.

I hissed with pain and unclenched my fist to reveal a narrow rent in my palm where the Iron Throne had cut.

A few drops of blood rose out, filling the small details of my hand in greater relief.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?" Tyrion asked.

I closed my hand.

"Yes, I'm fine."

Sansa finished wrapping my hand and tied the bandage off.

"There," she kissed my knuckles, "now I only have to worry about one of you making a mess."

We looked down at Alys, who lay between us on the bed.

I picked up a little wooden horse with bronze and gold details, a gift from Princess Arianne, and moved it in the air above her.

Alys gurgled and tried to reach for it, her hands opening and closing keenly, but she didn't have the coordination to properly take it.

"Don't tease her," Sansa scolded. "Here, hold her head."

I placed my hand behind Alys' head to support it as Sansa pulled her gently into a sitting position.

"There you are, sweetling." Sansa held her there for a few seconds, then slowly let her down again. "You're getting strong, aren't you?"

Alys wiggled triumphantly.

I smiled at the two of them.

Sansa noticed my expression and reached for my hand.

"Better?"

I chuckled.

"Yes. Lysa just got under my skin, so to speak."

"Have you cut yourself on the throne before?"

I nodded.

"When I was a boy, my mother would make me sit on it, even though I wasn't allowed to. She heard the stories about Aerys Targaryen from Jaime, how his court sniggered and called him 'King Scab' behind his back. In her own way, she wanted to make sure that that wouldn't happen to me. For my part, I wasn't worried about being called names - even Aegon the Conqueror cut himself at least once - I was just scared that the throne would close around me and kill me. "

"Is that why you hate it so much?"

I nodded again and looked down at my hand.

Sansa leaned over and kissed me softly.

Then she returned her eyes to Alys and gasped excitedly.¨

"Look!"

Alys had been staring up at us as we spoke, but now her mouth had split into a wide, gummy smile, accompanied by shining bright eyes and even more happy wiggling.

"Oh, sweetling!" Sansa scooped her up and started raining kisses on her head. "You're smiling!"

I watched her joyously dote on our daughter, and resolved that Lysa was wrong.

"If your daughter turns out to be as fussy an eater as you are, I shall truly believe in karmic justice."

I rolled my eyes at Tyrion as I broke some white bread.

In truth, I savoured it as much as possible. I didn't like brown bread, but it had been necessary to forego many creature comforts during the war, due to the dire state of the Crown's finances. Now, there was a small window of opportunity for the belt to be ever so slightly loosened before winter arrived, and I intended to make the most of it.

"If Alys grows up to have good taste, I'm happy for her to be fussy."

I opened my mouth and popped the bread in to accentuate my point.

"Anyway," I continued, chewing slowly, "you can lecture me about raising my daughter when you have children of your own," before swallowing. "I apologise sincerely for sounding like Grandfather, but..."

"I don't think there is much point," Tyrion responded bleakly.

"Why?" I frowned.

Tyrion wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"I recently got around to reviewing the account books from Casterly Rock." He slapped it down on the table, "The mines are dry."

I took a moment to process that.

"All of them?"

He nodded gravely.

"Ten thousand years of mining, and it runs out now."

"Are there no more veins?"

"There might be, but we'd need gold to find them if they are there, and that gold we've already lent or spent."

"Then you have some debtors, at least."

"Yes, but not enough. The bottom line is that I can serve you as Hand of the King for as long as you require, but I cannot fund your rule. With time, House Lannister will fade, just like the Casterlys and the Reynes did when their mines ran dry. My children would only inherit a death trap."

I nodded.

"Fortunately, Lord Tyrell is still desperate to atone for his mother's mistake. He will do me no shortage of small favours, I should think."

"That will tide you over for the time being, and the Iron Bank appears to be content with its interest payments, but it's a fine line."

He rubbed his eye.

"The irony isn't lost on me, you know."

I tilted my head, innocently holding my tongue.

"Don't tell me you don't see it too."

"Which bit? The fact that you inherited the Lannister wealth and came out poorer?" I popped a piece of venison into my mouth and hummed. "Delicious."

"Becoming one of the great lords of Westeros hasn't exactly helped my marriage prospects either. Before, I was an ugly, drunk, whoremongering, malformed dwarf. Now, I am an ugly, malformed, drunk, whoremongering, bankrupt dwarf. I somehow doubt that I would be able to find a willing bride."

"It is deeply amusing, but I will contain my mirth for your sake."

"Your Grace is so kind."

We both knew that my sympathy was the result only of our personal relationship. For the Crown to be truly independent again, as it had been at the zenith of Targaryen power, it was necessary for House Lannister's grip to loosen.

It was of course entirely possible that new gold reserves would be found under Casterly Rock, and even if not, it would take a few generations for the tide to turn: Lannisport remained a key centre for trade, a great pie that House Lannister helped itself to several pieces of, which was an advantage that the Reynes and Tarbecks had not possessed. Perhaps the future lay not underground, but out to sea.

That wasn't my problem, though.

The clinking of chains alerted me to the approach of Maester Colemon.

"Here are your ravens, Your Grace."

He placed a bundle of letters next to my hand.

"Thank you, Colemon. How is the boy?"

"For now, he is sleeping. He was most distressed to learn of his mother's... passing, and this brought on his shaking."

"Has Tommen been introduced to him?"

"Yes, but the Prince and Robin are both shy boys. They will warm to each other, I am sure, but Robin will need time."

I nodded.

"I leave him in your hands, Maester. I have no desire to become his parent."

Gods know Alys could be enough of a handful.

"I understand, Your Grace."

He bowed and left.

"Perhaps Tommen could introduce Robin to his kittens," Tyrion suggested as I started leafing through the letters.

"Knowing Lysa, he's probably scared to death of kittens."

Most of the letters were the usual rubbish: arbitration requests, invoices, construction reports and the like. But then I found one letter sealed with a flayed man.

I put the others down and showed the seal to Tyrion, who leaned forward interestedly.

Thankfully, this time the message was not written on human skin, though the contents were no more comforting.

"Roose Bolton is dead, poisoned by his enemies apparently. His son, Ramsay, has succeeded him as Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North."

"Poison?" Tyrion frowned, "The Northmen wouldn't poison him. They think poison is a woman's weapon. You don't think it was..."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Sansa?" I shook my head. "I would hope she'd tell me if she was doing something like this."

Not that she had before, mind, but that was before.

"I don't believe the poison story. Something else is going on."

I read the message again.

"It also says that Lady Walda died in childbirth. Now that is interesting."

"Convenient. Ramsay Bolton was legitimized by my father's orders, but any trueborn child of Lord Bolton's might have been able to press a better claim to the Dreadfort."

I got out of my chair and stuck my head out of the door.

"Find Varys. Bring him here now."

"That won't be necessary, Your Grace."

Varys apparated before me.

I beckoned him in with a twitch of my head.

Once behind closed doors, I picked up the letter and held it out to him

"Explain."

Varys took one glance at the broken seal and raised his eyebrow.

"Ah, the dearly departed Lord Bolton." He shook his head sadly. "Leech merchants from the Wall to Asshai will mourn this day."

Tyrion leaned forward.

"Poison?"

Varys smiled sweetly.

"Only in the moral sense, my lord. Alas, Lord Bolton died from a knife to the heart, in the hand of his bastard son. His wife and newborn son were fed to dogs, as is the new Lord Ramsay's wont."

I sighed.

"So the North is now under the dominion of a madman?"

"Not a madman, Your Grace, merely a monster. There are plenty of madmen elsewhere."

"What do you mean?"

Varys sat down at the table.

"The reason I was not here to present you this information earlier is that I was following up on reports from the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy is dead, and as his son is unaccounted for, the Ironborn have seen fit to call a Kingsmoot. Early reports suggest that Euron Greyjoy now sits the Seastone Chair." He looked at me, his expression unusually grave. "Your Grace, if this man's reputation is to be believed, he is a madman in the truest sense of the word. He is said to have ripped the tongues of his own crew members out and dabbled in black sorceries. "

That explained his distress.

"Euron Greyjoy is not a man to be trifled with, whatever the truth." Tyrion cautioned, "I remember watching our ships burn in the Lannisport harbour the last time the Ironborn had a king."

"Then perhaps we ought to return the favour." I cracked my knuckles. "By electing a new king, the Ironborn have shown where they stand, and we have allowed them to stand for too long. If his reputation is deserved, we must stop Euron Greyjoy from rebuilding the Iron Fleet."

I plucked a piece of parchment from my desk and began to write orders.

"Get Bronn up here, would you?"

"You're insane."

Sansa paced at the foot of our bed, wringing her hands.

"You're insane." She repeated, "This is insane. I'm insane."

"If everyone is insane, can anyone be insane?" I wondered aloud.

She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Gods, sometimes..."

She collected herself quickly.

"You're creating a new enemy for us, one that we don't fully understand."

"The mere fact that Euron Greyjoy has taken the Seastone Chair makes him our enemy, no matter our intentions. That fact alone merits immediate action. There will be other opportunities to learn, as you know."

I lay back in bed.

"Now, are you going to tell me what really distresses you?"

Sansa brushed her hair behind her ear and looked at the floor.

I breathed out through my nose.

"I can't do anything about Ramsay Bolton without just cause."

"I know," she replied sullenly, and cast her eyes over to the cot that contained our sleeping daughter. "That is what frustrates me. I wish we could just sweep them all away, and go back to doting on Alys."

I smiled, eyes closed.

"You and me both, my love, but we can't, so why worry?"

I folded the covers beside me and held my arm out.

I felt her climb wordlessly under the covers and snuggle into me, then turned my head to look at the cot.

"I can't believe she smiled today."

Sansa hummed happily and kissed my shoulder.

"I wonder how long we'll have tonight."

I chuckled quietly.

"I was just thinking the same thing."

Chapter Text

"How many ships?"

"Reputedly, the Iron Fleet consists of a thousand ships. In reality, it contains, at most, a tenth of that number."

"And Yara Greyjoy stole them all?" I smiled, "I must remember to thank her."

"Most but not all, and Euron will rebuild them quickly, to be sure."

"All the more reason to ensure that doesn't happen. My orders stand."

Varys nodded, then flicked his eyes around curiously.

"I wonder what reward Ser Bronn will think commensurate with the danger of this latest assignment."

I waved a hand.

"I have some ideas about that, but let's not count our dragons before they hatch."

"Yara Greyjoy may have that lesson to learn."

Always the double-meanings with Varys.

"She plans an alliance with Danaerys Targaryen?"

"Euron argued for such a course at the Kingsmoot. Yara knows she cannot contend with dragons and she will find no allies in Westeros, so beating him to Meereen seems to be her best, last option. Danaerys will no doubt appreciate the gift when she returns. If she returns."

I rubbed my nose worriedly.

"Then it appears that there may not be long to go."

There is something deeply unsettling about standing before a dragon's skull.

It isn't so much their sheer enormity or the sense of death that they inevitably stir up, though those certainly are palpable.

Stamped on those lifeless things is the sense that they just don't like you.

I lifted the torch up to the skull of Balerion the Black Dread, the light licking across that ancient maw to give the opposite wall the appearance of an infinite cave filled with warring stalagmites.

His absent eyes bored into me.

"This feels wrong," I said, suddenly self-conscious.

Qyburn looked up from his work.

"Balerion has been dead for over two hundred years, Your Grace." He responded dryly, "I doubt he minds very much."

"This was the last survivor of old Valyria." I reached out to feel one of those great teeth, feeling somehow more like marble or glass than bone, "This is history, Qyburn."

"History is not an object, or a place, or a thing. It is a system of discovery," the chainless maester pulled back on a crank with a grunt, "like alchemy."

"True, but alchemy has ingredients, like lead and copper. Likewise, history has bones and ruins and books."

"Perhaps, but sometimes the needs of one discipline must offend the sensibilities of another."

"On that, we agree." I stepped away from the skull and moved further down the hallway.

I passed the skulls of Balerion's great companions, Vhagar and Meraxes, the latter with an iron bolt still protruding from her eye.

From here, the skulls got progressively smaller. Some also bore the marks of battle, their death-dealing blows. It was like reliving the decline of House Targaryen, as they grew smaller yet more numerous, then smaller still, but not more numerous.

Finally, I came to the last dragon, a pitiable little thing no bigger than an apple.

Arianne Martell held the skull in her hand.

"If you had told me when I came to this city that I would hold the head of Gregor Clegane, and find it heavier than a dragon's, I would not have believed you."

I half-smiled and held out my hand.

"Well, you can't say it's not been interesting."

Arianne raised an eyebrow.

"No, I cannot."

She deposited the skull in my hand.

I weighed it in my palm.

She was right: though the skull retained the marble-like quality of its magnificent forebears, and was therefore heavier than its size would suggest, it was still markedly lighter than the Mountain's overlarge summit.

"I remember a story my uncle told me once. He was asked by his uncle what he wanted for his nameday, and like any boy who grew up on a diet of history books, he wanted a dragon. 'It wouldn't even need to be a big dragon,' he said. 'It could be little, like me.'"

My fingers trapped the skull more securely.

"Alas, poor thing."

I put it back in its place.

We walked back to where Qyburn was waiting with his newest toy.

"All is prepared, Your Grace."

He stepped back from the large scorpion, true to Dornish specifications, that had been erected before Balerion's snout. A long iron bolt, like the one that had felled Meraxes three hundred years prior, was drawn and ready.

"If you would," Qyburn gestured at a lever.

I took his place and checked the aim, wary of sending a six-foot piece of death into the wall.

Satisfied, I pulled the lever firmly, and there was a loud snap! and in the blink of an eye, the bolt disappeared across the room.

I walked over to examine the damage, feeling very much like I'd just spilt wine over a priceless book.

The bolt had embedded itself deep into Balerion's head. I reached up and took hold of it, and braced myself against the skull.

After a few, futile attempts to pull it out, I turned back to Qyburn and Arianne.

"Will it do the same to scales?"

Qyburn smiled with deep satisfaction.

"If it has penetrated the bone, it will get through the scales, I can assure you."

I climbed down.

"Well done, both of you. It appears that we have our dragon-killer."

"Your Grace."

I looked up from my work.

"Brother Lancel," I greeted the former knight. "Please, sit."

"There will be no need, Your Grace. I come on behalf of His Holiness."

I spread my hands.

"If His Holiness has need of me, I shall do my utmost to oblige him."

He nodded haughtily.

"His Holiness is most disturbed by the news coming from the Iron Islands. Euron Greyjoy is a godless man."

"The Iron Islands are a godless place."

"This he sees as well. This he wishes to address."

I kept my face impassive, masking my intense discomfort.

The Faith was a dangerous beast, and if it decided to bestir itself again, it could spell trouble.

"You may tell His Holiness that the matter is well in hand. I have already taken steps to see that Euron Greyjoy will not reach the shore."

"His Holiness expected as much, for he knows that you are a man of action, but he would go further. He wishes to purify the Iron Islands, and bring the Ironborn into the light of the Seven."

Ah.

I inclined my head skeptically.

"Septons do not do well on the Iron Islands, and not for want of trying."

Lancel's face twisted into a new smile, one that was completely out of place on a face like his, and could only have been grown by a septon. It was a smile that promised blood.

"As His Holiness said in his sermons, 'when King Hugor entered the temple and found it polluted by money-changers and beasts, did he ask them to leave? Did he cry? Did he simply walk away? No. He drove them out.'"

So, the High Sparrow had steel to him, as well as wood.

"'You shall break them with a rod of iron;'" I recited, "'you shall dash them in pieces, like a potter's vessel.'"

He nodded approvingly.

I realised that this fool was not going to leave me be until I permitted this folly, or at least that was his intention.

A simple side-step would suffice for Lancel, though.

I licked my finger and pulled out a new piece of parchment.

Lancel frowned as I started to write, the thin veneer of confidence that the High Sparrow had failed to enhance starting to wear.

I looked up and gestured to the chair.

"You may as well sit down, good brother."

"Why?"

"I am writing my thoughts on this matter for His Holiness' consideration. I would rather my counsel be conveyed via parchment than through a game of Dornish whispers."

Lancel hid his anger poorly, obviously stung to have been denied his opportunity to talk down to me.

Sullenly, stiffly, he followed my suggestion.

If there was one improvement that the High Sparrow had made to him, however, it was in his ability to tolerate silence.

The sulky pout never left his face while he sat in contemplative quiet, but as I wrote and kept writing, he started to grow more uncomfortable.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him trace the sign of the seven-pointed star on his forehead.

"You seem unsettled, cousin."

Lancel jumped at that last word like he was startled by the fact that we were related.

Well, who could blame him?