#this is why he's forgiven for doing green book. on thin ice but forgiven. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fletchphoenix · 4 years

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Skating On Thin Ice

Chapter 4 of the Varigo Coffee Shop AU is upon us!

Agh, I LOVE WRITING THIS SO MUCH!!! I’m so so sorry if all the content is getting annoying - I really want to get as much as I can done before school starts up again (in a week,,,,aha) so just let me know if it’s annoying y’all. Anyway! Thank you for the support!

Word Count - 3588

TW - Strong Language

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Varian tied his hair back into a ponytail as he walked downstairs to the kitchen, Ruddiger strutting after him happily. He dragged his feet across the silver carpet in his still-sleepy haze, passing awards and family pictures that were displayed proudly in the main hall of the house. A yawn escaped his mouth despite his attempts to hold it back, and he reached up to rub the tears that built in his eyes away along with the last remnants of sleep. A sleep his body desperately wanted him to return back to, judging by how sluggish he felt. The kitchen door moaned as he pushed it open, taking his time on every movement he took.

He scavenged through the kitchen for something to eat, all the while Ruddiger mewled and meowed to gain some attention and, while he was at it, some food to eat. Varian eventually gave in, lifting the bowl onto the counter and grabbing a sachet of cat food. He emptied the packet, the tabby cat jumping onto the counter and scoffing it down, causing him to chuckle while he took out the bread and butter from the refrigerator. “Toast it is, buddy.” he uttered to himself as he slid the bread into the device.

While the toast was..well, toasting, he climbed onto a counter and opened the cabinet near the stove. An assortment of cups greeted him - all with different colours and various patterns. A certain one met his eye. The corners of his lips quirked up in a smile as the memories came flooding back to him.

“Are you sure you want me to have this? After all I’ve done to you..?” his nervous voice asked. He was sixteen again in Rapunzel’s kitchen after his father had woken up from his coma. The aroma of cinnamon was in the air combined with apple, creating the illusion that it was fall in the small room as Rapunzel set aside the gift and took his hands in her own. Her expression was earnest, honest.

“Varian..I don’t care what you’ve done in the past. We’ve all forgiven you, regardless of what you may think. You’re family.” she stated with a smile that held nothing but love for the boy in front of her. Tears built in his eyes as he looked over at the silver box, wrapped in a teal bow, set on the kitchen table by the blonde only a few moments prior.

Taking a seat on the lilac cushioned chairs, he brought the box closer to him with shaky hands and unwrapped the dainty bow carefully, as though it would fall apart at even the slightest amount of force. Upon lifting the lid, he was met with the sight of some paper - matching the color of the bow. Pulling it out, he gasped as his eyes met the mug that had been placed in the box with care. He took it out and examined it in his hands.

The mug was teal (also like the bow and paper it was packed with) decorated with paintings of test tubes, beakers and a small raccoon on the side. Ruddiger. Unwillingly, his eyes started to water again, tears betraying him and rolling down his cheeks hitting the table cloth below him. “Thank you.” He uttered, his voice barely a whisper as he struggled to hold back his tears. Arms came around from behind him and pulled him into a motherly embrace, a gentle kiss being placed on the back of his head as he let himself cry freely. A swift turn allowed him to hug the blonde, his eyes squeezing shut to rid them of the last few tears that had developed in them before he moved away.

“Me, Eugene and Cass searched for hours, but couldn’t find the right one. Then I thought ‘Hey! Why don’t we paint a mug for him?’ and thus..that was created. It’s okay, right? I tried to put everything I knew you liked on it, but I wasn’t sure, so I had to get Cass to-” Her rambling was cut off as the boy clinged to her with his face buried into the fabric on her shoulder. Reluctantly, she ran her fingers through his raven locks and exchanged the hug.

“I love you, Rapunzel. You’re the best sister in the world.” he whispered as he held onto her, his hands gripping onto her shirt as he let himself be vulnerable around Rapunzel. He’d tormented and hurt her so much..but she still cared for him.

“I love you too, Varian.” She replied, moving out of the hug when he was calmer and ready. “Anyway, Cmon! We need to make you one of my infamous vanilla lattes now that you have your own cup!” She declared, clapping her hands and picking up the cup to start the drink. His eyes followed her as she moved expertly around the kitchen and prepared his drink. A smile steadily grew on his face.

He was forgiven.

He was home.

He seized the cup and hopped down from the counter, closing the ivory door of the cabinet and heading towards the coffee machine. He set the cup under it and started up the machine, leaning against the counter and checking his phone. Wednesday, 8:14am. Good - he woke up in time to get ready for his class at 11. “No messages from Hugo though.” his brain reminded him, disappointment making a heavy weight in his stomach. Maybe he wasn’t up yet? Probably, he reasoned as he took the toast from the toaster and buttered it before grabbing his coffee and sitting at the table.

Ever the greediest cat on earth, Ruddiger settled at Varian’s feet and swatted at them with his paw. “Oh my god, you’ve just had your breakfast! No!” he shook his foot to scare the cat away, but he didn’t let up. The evil little bastard continued swatting at his foot until, eventually, Varian let up. “Okay!” he yelled, accepting his defeat as he opened another package of cat food, emptied it into the burgundy food bowl and threw it away. That seemed to do the trick - the stubborn feline finally moving away from the table and leaving his owner in peace.

“I swear..all you do is eat and sleep all day, every day.” he muttered to himself as he took a prolonged sip of his coffee. It hit the mark - him feeling way more energised as the caffeine kicked in. Taking a bite from his toast, he smiled to himself and looked around the kitchen at the wallpaper that had been wearing away for quite some time, at the window just above the sink that looked out on the garden (that they honestly never used enough now) he used to play in as a kid with his mom, at the small frames across the wall holding precious memories of his childhood from before the incident. It wasn’t much by any means, but it was his home.

He glanced at his phone screen again. 8:30am. “Okay, time for me to get ready.” he proclaimed to no one in particular, moving to his feet and scraping the chair back across the kitchen floor. Cringing at the noise, he cast a glance to Ruddiger, who was sleeping contently on the windowsill. He could be so cute sometimes. Only sometimes though. He picked up his plate and cup, placing them in the sink underneath the cat. He reached his now-free hand out and ran it down the cat’s fur gently before heading back upstairs to his room.

Once he was dressed, opting for a black sweater and navy trousers along with some sneakers, he picked up his bag. Packing in his laptop and chemistry books, he moved downstairs for the final time to head outside. He glanced at the coat rack, pulling on an ink-like coat and a knitted emerald scarf Rapunzel had given him as a Christmas present one year - him silently noting that it matched the color of Hugo’s eyes. (This thought made him feel bubbly - knowing full well Hugo would love it if he saw it. He made a mental note to wear it next time Hugo offered for them to go on a date.) He unlocked the door, scooping up his keys and heading out the door.

The first thing that he noticed was just how cold the temperature was - the chill travelling down his spine. Nonetheless, he shoved his hands into his pockets and began his journey to the campus, eyes focusing on the floor in silence. It wasn’t long, only 20 minutes, but the chill got to him fast and by the time he’d stepped into the labs, he was shivering intensely. Giving a nod to his professor, he took his seat (second to last row, three seats from the aisle) and took out his equipment, ready to start the lesson.

He couldn’t focus - all lesson he subtly scrolled through his phone as he prayed Hugo would send him a text or something to let him know he was okay. He gazed down at the phone screen. Surely he would be awake by now, so why wasn’t Hugo texting him. He huffed and slid back in his chair, desperately trying to keep his focus on the lesson.

The professor kept them late. Again. Varian hurriedly shoved his stuff into his bag and began rushing down to the library. Wind whistled past his ears and his scarf blew frantically around his neck from just how fierce it was. His cheeks went a deep shade of scarlet, dusting his nose and ears. Freckles sat defined over his face as he made his way past the nameless students and over to Nuru and Yong - who, by the looks of it, had started astronomy without him.

“Sorry guys, I was just-” he cut himself off at the sight of Hugo, leaning over Yong and explaining part of the physics work set out in front of him. God, he looked breathtaking. His hair was tied back in its usual small ponytail, with a moss green winter coat around his shoulders and goggles hanging round his neck. He glanced up at Varian and immediately straightened, pushing his glasses up his nose with a broad smile on his face. Fuck. Why did he have to look so good in green?

“Varian! Hey, I’ve been waiting for you!” he commented, making his way around the table to put his arm round the other boy’s shoulders. The mere action made Varian’s face flush in embarrassment, Hugo not helping whatsoever as he pulled the younger closer to him. He seemed to be revelling in the way he was making Varian a flustered, stuttering mess. “Well then. I know this may be extremely heartbreaking for you, Nuru, but we must be taking our leave now. I bid thee farewell!” he declared, ushering Varian towards the door as Nuru rolled her eyes and muttered ‘Yeah, you wish.’ under her breath.

“Hold on-what do you mean? Where are we going?” Varian queried, looking up at the taller boy who had just swept him away from his friends with absolutely no explanation. His mood became disheartened as a wicked grin grew on Hugo’s face, him stepping back and raising his eyebrow. “What are you planning, Hugo Atkinson?” he implored.

“Welllll….” Hugo began as he took Varian’s hand in his own and interlaced their fingers, moving to stand in front of him. “I promised you another date! So I came to pick you up and remembered ‘Shit, it’s Wednesday!’ so I drove to the library and waited! Your friends showed up and you hadn’t yet, so I just..sat down with them and decided to offer my extensive knowledge on literally everything to them. And managed to convince Nuru to give you up for a day so I could take you out. Also off topic but..I’m ninety-eight percent sure she hates me, but as if I care!” he rambled, looking down at the confusion on the raven haired boy’s beautiful face. A smile tugged at his lips. “Long story short, I’m taking you on a date. Surprise!”

Varian stood dumbfounded before a breathy laugh left his lips, bringing Hugo down to his level and placing a fleeting kiss on his cheek. “That’s adorable. Go on then, take me away, Casanova.”

He relished in the blush that flooded over Hugo’s cheek and the stuttering that followed as he held Varian’s hand tight and led him along the cobbled streets of Corona. They walked and walked until Hugo gestured to a small ice-skating rink in the town centre. “And our date is ice-skating!” he remarked, squeezing Varian’s hand. “I hope that’s okay. I just thought we needed a little switch up from the coffee shop.”

Varian gasped in excitement and gave a frantic nod. “Hugo, this is perfect! Thank you so much!” he cried as he dragged the blonde along to go and get some skates so they could go onto the ice. The taller boy merely laughed and looked down at the childish excitement on his face. God, he loved this boy so much. It didn’t seem real.

As soon as they got their skates on and headed onto the ice, Varian’s mood soured.

He must’ve slipped a billion times as soon as they got on, finally relenting and heading to grip onto the barrier. His mom took him thousands of times when he was little. Why was he forgetting how to do it now? He let out a groan of frustration and rubbed his face with his hand. Why was this so hard? Now he was embarrassing himself in front of Hugo and Hugo would never want to see him again and-

“Hairstripe?” a voice came from behind him, a hand resting on his waist. “Hey, no. Let me show you, okay?” Hugo gestured and trailed his hand down, linking it with Varian’s and beginning to glide, moving further and further away from the barrier.

It felt like time had frozen, or the universe had fallen away and left only him and Hugo as the travelled in continuous circles round the rink. Hugo squeezed his hand in reassurance whenever he thought he might fall and caught him when he stumbled. It was perfect - just them with no interference from anyone else. It was perfect.

After a while, they exited the rink laughing and high on a cloud of pure euphoria with their hands still interlaced and warm. Varian let out a happy sigh and turned his head to look at Hugo, who’s free hand snaked around his waist. “It’s been fun today. I wanna do this again. All the time.” He muttered, moving his hand to cup Hugo’s cheek and rub it with his thumb absentmindedly, his eyes focusing on the way Hugo’s sparkled in the soft light of the lanterns outside.

“Varian.” Hugo whispered his name in response, letting go of his hand to rest under the boy’s chin. He tilted his head and began to lean in. Varian’s eyes fluttered shut as they were only centimetres- no. Millimetres apart. He could feel Hugo’s breath on his lips. Just a little more-

He was tugged back by a hand grasping his collar to see Eugene in front of him. “Varian what the fuck are you doing?! Why the hell are you out here with him?” he yelled and turned to face his little brother. Varian took a mental note on the fury painted over Eugene’s usually relaxed demeanour. “Y’know what? Tell me in the car. We’re leaving.” He grabbed the boy’s wrist and forcefully tugged him towards the car, despite Varian’s struggling and protests.

Hugo stood dumbfounded and watched as Varian was pulled away from him, tears building in his eyes as he looked at the sidewalk he was left on as the car drove away. He pulled out his phone to make a call.

“What.” Donella’s voice dripped with annoyance.

“I won’t be coming in tonight, sorry.” he declared as he hung up the phone. Quietly, he pulled up the hood of his coat and picked Varian’s emerald scarf off the floor before silently putting it on and beginning his journey home. He knew full well he’d suffer tomorrow for that, but it didn’t matter anymore. He pushed his glasses into his hair and wiped away the tears they were hiding, continuing to walk away from the town centre and to his apartment.

Unlocking the door, he leaned back to shut it before sliding to the floor and letting himself cry unabashedly. Why? Why did it have to be like this? Did life really hate him that much? Now he’d never be allowed to see Varian again-or Varian would find out about everything he’s done and decide he didn’t want someone like that in his life and leave him. Just like everyone else.

He felt like he’d cried for hours when he finally went upstairs and lay on his bed, letting Olivia out of her cage to sit on the bed beside him as he stared numbly at the ceiling. Maybe that's how it was meant to be. Maybe him and Varian weren’t meant to be together. Someone as perfect as Varian deserved better than him...he let out a pained sigh and turned to face Olivia. “Well Liv..it was fun while it lasted, huh?”

As soon as they were in the car, Eugene’s tangent had begun. “What happened to texting, huh? To letting your family know you weren’t gonna be there because you were busy with something else? Jesus Christ, Varian, we’ve all been terrified! I have been waiting outside the library since 5! Now it's 8pm! And what’s worse is you were with a criminal! A goddamn CRIMINAL!” he ranted on and on, Varian turning his head and glaring at Eugene.

“What do you mean ‘criminal’? Weren’t you one before? Never mind that, I was a criminal before too!” he snarled, his head whipping back around to glare out of the car window. He didn’t even recognise where they were driving anymore - the surroundings too dark to see anything.

“That little shit has been committing petty theft in the area - pickpocketing and all that. And so what if we were like that? People like him never change. I would know!”

“But we’ve changed, Eugene!”

“We’re different to him, Varian-” “How the fuck are we different to him?!”

“Varian-” “NO! Tell me how the fuck we are different to him!-”

“THAT'S ENOUGH, VARIAN!” Eugene’s voice boomed through the car, stunning Varian into silence as he flinched away from the brunette in shock. His bottom lip trembled and his shoulders shook as he desperately attempted to hold back his tears. “Shit-Varian, I-”

“Pull over. Now.” Varian stated, his voice oozing with hurt and anger as he kept staring at his feet. Eugene obliged sadly and pulled the car over, watching the younger boy get out and start sprinting into the night. He rested his head against the steering wheel, tears building in his eyes. Well, now he’d fucked up. He hadn’t meant to yell so loud at Varian...fuck. He sighed and began the drive home, praying to himself that Varian would get back safe.

Once he knew he was far away from the car, he stopped running. He sat on the floor and pressed his head against his knees. In 7, hold 7, out 7, he told himself and kept repeating multiple times. His chest eventually stopped heaving and his limbs stopped aching. He leaned back and stared at the stars in the sky, deep in thought.

Everything was perfect. He was happy, Hugo was happy..so why did it all have to end so badly? He bit the inside of his cheek as he thought of Hugo. He had to see him again. He couldn’t just leave him. His hands shook as he unlocked his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He took one final deep breath and called Hugo.

“Hello? Varian?” Oh god. His voice sounded so broken. He must’ve been crying this whole time. It was so much different from how it usually sounded. Varian felt his heart shatter a little bit more as he listened to the boy on the other end of the phone. “Varian, whats up?”

“What’s your address? I’m coming over. Now.” He bluntly stated, more of a request than a question. He definitely needed to see the other boy now, desperately.

Confusion laced Hugo’s voice as he replied to Varian, a light creaking sounding in the background as he presumably moved to sit up. “Are you sure, Varian? What’s going on-”

“Just tell me, Hugo!” He yelled, his desperation clear. “Please. I need to see you.” He added the last part, lowering his voice significantly and brushing his tears away at the other boy’s barely audible ‘okay’ in response.

Hugo shut himself up, sending through the address and hanging up on the distraught boy. He lay back on his bed, a frown on his face before heading down the hall to sit in the living room. 20 minutes later, a knock rang through the tiny building and he sprinted to unlock the door, his eyes meeting the tearful boy that he loved so dearly. Silently, he stepped out of the way to let the boy in before closing the door and pulling him into an embrace. The younger gripped onto his shirt and cried, each sob wracking his whole, thin frame. Hugo bit his lip and let out an exasperated sigh.

This really was going to be a long night.

#varigo #varian and the seven kingdoms #varian x hugo #varian tangled #tangled varian #hugo tangled #tangled hugo #alchemy boyfriends #varigo coffee shop au

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mytwilightimagines13 · 4 years

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Amnesia (Book one, part seven)(Alec Volturi)

A week had passed, and Maeryn busted herself to being excited and hopefull to see Alec again. She had even dressed up slightly but wore her long, goldenbrown hair neatly loose. But throughout the day, no Alec. She got ready to close the doors when the bell above the door rang, announcing someone entering. Maeryn turned around and was greeted by the gentle smile of Alec's lips. Maeryn smiled back, trying to not look too happy because he returned. "I hope you don't mind me barging in at closing time?" he asked. Maeyrn blinked her eyes a few times to get out of her dreaming state. "N-no. Ofcourse not." she said quickly, affraid he would dissapear again. Gosh, she sounded like a love sick fool. Alec smiled and walked closer to her, a hand behind his back. "I honestly hope you can forgive my absence this week. I had some errands to run." he said as he pulled his hand from behind his back and showed her a beautifull white rose. Maeryn smiled and took the rose from him. "You are forgiven. Though, I have to admit it has been quiet this past week." she said as she placed the white rose into the vase with the red rose. Alec couldn't help but to smile as she said this. "Daemon has told me you've wanted to see the castle ever since arriving here." he said as he watched her turn around. "Eh, yes. But sadly the tours are for invited guests only. Believe me, I asked Heidi before but no luck." Maeryn said as she played with her fingers slightly. "Well, how about a private tour? Tonight? Just you and me, I promise." Alec said as he held out his hand for her to take. Maeryn bit her lip and debated it. Daemon and Mauno had warned her many times that the castle was dangerous, and they should know since they worked there, but her curiosity and the fact that she could spend a few hours alone with Alec tempted her to take his hand and accept his offer. And so she did. She gently placed her hand into his, which was cold as ice. Maeryn gasped slightly at the coldness but didn't dare to pull back, as she could feel small sparks travel up her arm making her heartbeat speed up slightly. Alec smiled and gently pulled her out of the cafe and towards the castle. Palazzo dei Priori.

Instead of going to the entrance, Alec led her into an alley. "Do you trust me?" he whispered softly to her, making her knees feel weak. "Yes." she whispered back, unsure if he had heard her. But he had and he gently scooped her into his hard arms and jumped down a small gap at the end of the alley. Maeryn had burried her face into his neck while they fell down and it ended with Alec landing perfectly onto his feet. He gently placed her back down onto her own feet and grabbed her hand once more, making sure that she wouldn't trip on the uneven stone surface. It was quite dark, due it being night and no light was coming through the gap they had just jumped down from. The path beneath their feet continued to slant downward, taking them deeper into the ground. Slowly the hallway turned dark gray instead of black. Maeryn and Alec were in a low, arched tunnel. Long trails of ebony moisture seeped down the gray stones, like they were bleeding ink. Maeryn felt mesmerized by the old castle walls and couldn’t wat to explore even more, but she had trouble concentrating as Alec’s cold hand firmly held onto hers, as if being afraid to lose her. Slowly the temperature got colder and Maeryn had been unaware that she had been shaking slightly until Alec had stopped and turned around. “Are you alright?” he asked gently. “Yeah, I am fine. Let’s continue walking. I am sure that will keep me warm.” She explained which was true, but she was afraid that if she admitted she was cold he would take her back to the café, and that was the last thing she would want. She was finally in the mysterious castle and more importantly she was int the castle with Alec. Alec nodded his head and continued leading her through the tunnel into the castle. At the end of the tunnel was a grate—the iron bars were rusting, but thick as a human arm. A small door made of thinner, interlaced bars was standing open. Alec ducked through and hurried on to a larger, brighter stone room. The grille slammed shut with a clang, followed by the snap of a lock. On the other side of the long room was a low, heavy wooden door. It was very thick because it, too, stood open. Alec and Maeryn stepped through the door, and Maeryn glanced around in surprise. They were in a brightly lit, unremarkable hallway. The walls were off-white, thefloor carpeted in industrial gray. Common rectangular fluorescent lights were spaced evenly along theceiling. It was warmer here, for which Maeryn was grateful. This hall seemed very benign after the gloom of the ghoulish stone sewers. Alec pulled Maeryn along and the heavy door creaked shut behind them, followed by a bolt sliding home. Maeryn jumped slightly but Alec gave her a reassuring squeeze in her hand. “It’s alright, amore mio. Come on.” He said as he pulled her towards and elevator. Once inside the elevator, Maeryn took a quick glance into the mirror and tried to fix her hair slightly without him noticing. Maeryn looked at him quickly but was surprised by his eyes. Instead of their usual violet colour, they where now a bright burgundy. It slightly frightened her, but they also suited him much better than the violet ones. But to be honest, Maeryn couldn’t care less about his eye colour. The elevator ride was short; Alec and Maeryn stepped out into what looked like a posh office reception area. The walls were paneled in wood, the floors carpeted in thick, deep green. There were no windows, but large,brightly lit paintings of the Tuscan countryside hung everywhere as replacements. Pale leather coucheswere arranged in cozy groupings, and the glossy tables held crystal vases full of vibrantly colored bouquets. The flowers' smell reminded Maeryn of a funeral home. In the middle of the room was a high, polished mahogany counter. Maeryn looked at the woman behind the desk. She was tall, with dark skin and green eyes. Maeryn was sure she had known everyone who lived and worked in Volterra, but she had never met this woman before. Maeryn was afraid that they where busted and that this woman would most likely call the police, but to Maeryn’s surprise the woman behind the desk smiled politely in welcome. "Good evening, Alec," she said. Alec nodded his head. “Gianna.” He said politely as he showed Maeryn some of the many paintings. Alec explained most of the paintings and by whom they where painted, but Maeryn felt like something was off. He was defiantly hiding something. But Alec treated her to another sweet smile and Maeryn's worries where soon soothed as they continued through a set of double doors in the back of the room. Alec showed her all of the castle, almost as if he walked the corridors every single day and knew them very well. Their little tour ended in the garden, where two bushes with roses, one white and one red, where blooming and shining in the moonlight. "These roses look just like the ones you gave me." Maeryn said as she examined the roses. "Well, maybe they are from the exact same bushed." he told her. "It's not polite to steal from a castle garden." Maeryn said playfully while turning to look at him. Alec took a step closer to her and took her hand into his cold one. "Maybe I am not that polite." he said while kissing her hand gently. Maeryn blushed deeply and was gratefull that there wasn't alot of light for him to see her blush. But Alec had seen it. He gently placed a hand onto her cheek to feel her blood rushing through her thin, fragile skin. Skin he could easily pierce with his teeth while her sweet nectar would flow into his mouth and sooth the burning in his throat whenever he was so close to her. But he restrained himself, not wanting to harm this little flower. "May I ask you something, even though it might be impolite?" Maeryn asked softly. Alec smiled gently. "Of course you can, amore mio." he said softly as he lead her towards a bench and took a seat, Maeryn sitting next to him, her hand still in his. "What happened to your eyes? I mean they where violet before and now they are red." she asked bluntly but quickly looked away in shame. It where probably just contacts and she was worrying about nothing. But, to her surprise, Alec sighed and gently stroked her hand with his thumb. "I will tell you, but you have to promise to not tell anyone, not even Agnella or Adolfo." he said softly. Maeryn bit her lip but nodded her head in agreement. "I promise." she said, anxious to his answer. "Do you believe in myths about vampires?" he asked. Maeryn frowned. "Not really. That is why they are called myths, right? Because it doesn't excist?" Maeryn said as she watched her hand in his while his thumb circled on the back of her hand. Alec chuckled softly. "I guess so, in a human's book. But I am affraid some of those myths are true, seeing as I am a living one." Alec explained and looked at her. Maeryn frowned and looked up into his burgundy eyes. She felt like laughing. Him? A vampire? Yeah right. But when she saw the serious look in his eyes, Maeryn knew he spoke the truth. She wasn't sure what to do or, more importantly, what he will do to her. "Hey, it's alright. I promise I won't hurt you. Believe me, if I wanted too I would have done it the first day when I saw you in the cafe." Alec said trying to sooth her as he could hear her heartbeat quicken. Maeryn nodded her head and her heart calmed down slightly. Alec smiled once more and gently kissed the back of her hand. "Honestly, I don't know what has gotten into me lately. But when I first saw you I knew I wanted you for more than just your blood, which smells delicious to be honest." he said as he gave her a playfull smirk. Maeryn blushed slightly and Alec gently pulled her closer to him, resting his other arm around her waist. "I have told you how I feel, now I think it is only fair you tell me what you feel for me. I do hope I haven't misread any signs?" he whispered softly and his cool breath hit her face leaving the smell of his sweet breath on her face. Maeryn but her lip and shook her head. "You haven't." she whispered back. Alec smiled. "Good." he said and his eyes trailed down to her full lips. "May I?" his voice sounded husk and seductive at the same time. Maeryn could no longer anwser so she nodded her head. Alec slowly leand foreward and closed the gap between them by claiming her lips with his own. Maeryn had forgotten how to breath for a moment as his lips guided hers gently into a loving kiss, but he pulled away too soon for her liking. "My appoligies. I am sure you have alot of questions that I need to answer before we continue." he whispered softly as he pulled her hair gently behind her ear. Maeryn nodded her head as air and oxigen filled her lungs and brains and she could think quite straight again. "So, you're a vampire?" Maeryn asked. Alec chuckled. "Yeah. Or so I have been told." Maeryn blushed in shame and looked down. Alec gently made her look up again. "I am sorry. That was rude of me. Go on. I promise I won't laugh." he said, sorrow in his eyes. Maeryn nodded her head. "Alright. So what can you do? As a vampire ofcourse." she added softly and watched as Alec took her hand into his once more.

“Vampires are one of the four known supernatural species in the world, with the others being vampire-human hybrids, true werewolves, also called Children of the Moon, and shapeshifters. Vampires and Children of the Moon are transformed humans (by venom and infection, respectively); shapeshifters are a human population with gifts of their own; and, occasionally, humans show gifts of their own. The origin of the vampire race remains a mystery. Contrary to popular belief, vampires deviate from those of traditional myth. For example, all vampires have refined and perfected physical features including their scent and voice, allowing us to lure in prey. Our skin is flawless and textured with a marble-like substance much harder and stronger than granite. Due to the crystalline properties of our cells, when a vampire is exposed to sunlight, our body will sparkle like diamonds.” Maeryn giggled softly at the idea of a sparkling Alec. “What is so funny?” he asked curiously. “No nothing. I am sorry for interrupting. Please continue.” Maeryn said as soon as she got her small giggle fit under control. Alec looked at her curiously but continued anyway. “For vampires who feed on human blood, their eyes reflect a deep red, as opposed to those who drink animal blood, whose eyes will reflect a medium gold color. Vampires also possess superhuman powers, such as speed and strength. They also have incredibly keen senses and are able to hear for miles and see in total darkness.” Maeryn was lightly shaken by the fact that Alec’s eyes where read, meaning he feeds on human blood. But she was also very intrested to the rest of his story. “Vampires are indeed immortal unless destroyed. Unable to sleep, we spend all days and nights awake. After transformation, a few vampires show special abilities. I for example have the gift of sensory deprivation. But my sister Jane, the small girl you met in the cafe three weeks ago, has the gift of pain. Usually a prominent personality or physical trait magnified from our human life. Most of us, however, do not have a special gift. Vampires are unharmed by garlic, holy items, or wooden stakes; we have reflections and shadows, and we are able to walk freely in the sunlight without being physically damaged by it.” Alec finished his story.

"I guess that explains alot. Are there many vampires?" Maeryn asked. "There are quite a few, some live in covens and are stationed in one area, and others live in small groups traveling around the globe." Alec explained. "And you?" "I live with the largest coven there is. We are the Volturi, and we actually have been living in this castle for many centuries." he explained. Maeryn was curious to know more about his coven and he could see her curiosity in her eyes. Alec smiled softly and continued explaining.

“The Volturi act as the unofficial royalty in the world of vampires, and we are an incredibly influential coven. We are also considered 'nighttime patrons of the arts' as, because of our inability to sleep, we study the arts at night. The Volturi act as guardians, keeping the secret society of vampires hidden from the human world as needed. My masters often send their agents to travel from Volterra to prevent overzealous covens from exposing vampires through mass eradication of every vampire and any humans present. The coven has existed for over 3000 years, and is the largest coven in existence, followed by the Olympic, the Denali and the Mexican coven. Throughout the centuries, the Volturi have established and enforced a number of laws that all vampires are expected to obey on pain of death. There aren't many of these laws, and they mainly concern the secrecy surrounding the existence of vampires. The laws are not written down; to write them would in itself be an infraction. Instead, the laws are passed by word of mouth from vampire to vampire.”

Maeryn frowned. "Will we get killed now? Because you told me your secret?" Alec gently caressed her cheek. "No, amore mio. My family and I would actually like to invite you to live with us for a while. And after that we can always decide what we will do." Alec said and he kissed her cheek gently. Maeryn nodded her head and smiled gently. "Come on. My family would like to meet you. I promise no harm will come to you." he said as he stood up and held out his hand for her to take. Maeryn smiled and placed her hand into his as he gently pulled her to her feet and led her back into the castle.

Alec and Maeryn returned to the reception where Gianna had been and they went through a set of double doors in the back of the room. On the other side of the wooden doors was a different kind of reception, and at the end of the room the short girl was waiting for them. "I see she hasn't fled yet?" Jane said jokingly as she kissed her brother on both cheeks. "Thankfully, no." Alec said as he pulled Maeryn closer to his body. Jane smiled gently. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you properly. My name is Jane. I am Alec's twin sister." she said as she held out a small hand. Maeryn slowly shook it. "Nice to meet you. My name is Maeryn." she replied. Jane turned her attention back to Alec. "The masters, wives and high guard are awaiting. Aro wanted to make sure not too many people would be in the throneroom as it might give Maeryn an unpleasant feeling." Jane murmered softly to Alec. Alec nodded his head and followed his sister, gently pulling Maeryn along with him.

They ignored the doors at the end of the hall—doors entirely sheathed in gold—stopping halfway down the hall and sliding aside a piece of the paneling to expose a plain wooden door. It wasn't locked. Alec held it open for Jane and Maeryn. It was the same ancient stone as the square, the alley, and the sewers. And it was dark and cold again. The stone antechamber was not large. It opened quickly into a brighter, cavernous room, perfectly round like a huge castle turret, which was probably exactly what it was. Two stories up, long window slits threw thin rectangles of bright sunlight onto the stone floor below. There were no artificial lights. The only furniture in the room were several massive wooden chairs, like thrones, that were spaced unevenly, flush with the curving stone walls. In the very center of the circle, in a slight depression, was another drain. The room was not empty. A handful of people were convened in seemingly relaxed conversation. The murmur of low, smooth voices was a gentle hum in the air. The exquisite faces all turned toward the two vampires and one human as they entered the room. Most of the immortals were dressed in inconspicuous pants and shirts—things that wouldn't stick out at all on the streets below. But the man who spoke first wore one of the long robes. It was pitch-black, and brushed against the floor. For a moment, Maeryn thought his long, jet-black hair was the hood of his cloak. "Jane, Alec, dear ones, you've returned! And you have brought Maeryn. It is so good to properly meet you, my dear." he cried in evident delight. His voice was just a soft sighing. “Master Aro.” Alec said while Jane made her way towards the man and he lightly pecked her lips. Then he returned his attention towards Maeryn and he gave her a reassuring smile, one that a father would give to his daughter and Maeryn immediately relaxed. "My appologies. I am being very rude. My name is Aro and these are my brothers Marcus and Caius." he said pointing to the sad looking man on the left throne and the man with snow white hair on the right. "And the rest of my family. We are so delighted to meet you." he said and smiled like a child in the candyshop. Maeryn felt slightly out of place in this room where every last creature but her was absolutely gorgeous in their own way. "Thank you sir. It is nice to meet you." Maeryn said, trying to be as polite as possible. "Now I am sure Alec has told you all about us. But I am affraid he left out some pieces that I specifically had asked to not tell you. You see my dear, we have met before you came here. I believe you where on a camping trip in the forests of Forks. And a small accident happened and I had my dear Munin take those memories away. No I know you have wondered for a while what has happened that specific evening and as what hopefully will be a small welcome gift to our family, I would like to hand you your memory back. Now if you accept I do hope you consider spending some more time here with us, as a human ofcourse. We will not rush into things that need to rushing." Aro explained. Maeryn's head felt heavy. They knew what had happened that night that she had lost and one of her campsupervisors had dissapeared. She couldn't let this oppertunity slip away. "Thank you. I will glady accept your offer and gift." Maeryn replied. Aro laughed loudly and clapped his hands together as if he was praying. "Munin, if you'd please." Aro asked a man with brown hair, olive skin and red eyes. The man approached Maeryn carefully, affraid that if he moved too fast he would frighten the girl. "This may hurt alittle and I appoligise in advance." he said in his deep voice. Maeryn nodded her head and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain and the memory she so long longed to remember once more. Munin placed his fingers on her temples and gave her her memory of that specific night back. Mearyn screamed as she felt like her head was being burned. Alec helt her gently in his arms as darkness took over and the memory of that night played in her head.

#alec volturi #imagine #volturi imagine #twilight imagine #twilight #volturi

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empressofmankind · 4 years

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The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 05. Jon

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire

Major Character/s: Jon Arryn, Stannis Baratheon, Robert Baratheon

Minor Somebodies: Renly Baratheon, Loren Lannister, Pycelle, Barristan Selmy, Petyr Baelish

Location/s: King's Landing, the Red Keep

Premises: But what if we had a PoV chapter for Jon Arryn?

Mood: If you're glad you're not Jon and don't have to deal with all this utter bullshit, raise your hand raises hand

Warnings: Robert being rude (PG-13)

Word Count: 13.681

NOTE: Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister and their family set out for Winterfell. It therefore takes place a little bit before the start of the first book, ‘A Game of Thrones’.

The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I // 03. Jaime I // 04. Tywin I //

O O O

Lord Jon Arryn descended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, light spearing into the dark stairwell through narrow lancet windows every other turn. The steps were scuffed and tapered, their height made uneven by the feet of uncounted Hands, travelling up and down, day after day, council after council. Even the engraved handholds hammered into the ashlar had long since been reduced to formless knobs with the dark, fatty sheen of metal polished by incessant handling. Today was one of those days on which the steps seemed endless. Jon had once been a large man, wide of chest and thick of waist, but time had worn him thin as surely as it had the tower steps. He was robust for his considerable age, but the seven hells take those stairs. A few short years and I am twice-forty, Jon thought as he reached the bottom, his breath laboured and sweat beading on his forehead. Preposterous.

Jon crossed the inner bailey, towards Maegor’s Holdfast. To his surprise, he saw Lady Loren standing by the lone, stone archway into the godswood, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers entwined. Jon wondered if she’d come from the enclosed acre of alder and black cottonwood. He didn’t think any other women of the court frequented it.

Lady Loren wore an elegant, sable cotehardie, edged with bands of red velvet and goldwork. Belted high and reaching past her knees, it gave the impression of skirts. However, when she shifted her posture, Jon saw she wore dark chausses underneath and long riding boots to match. Her braids were held in scrolls on either side of her head, like ramshorns, evoking the steadfast determination of that creature. Gone were the voluminous sleeves and lengthy skirts of red damask, the sumptuous ermine mantelet, the jewelled crespinette and elegantly veiled circlet. In the days since Tywin had left, she had changed her appearance, gradually, one garment at a time, until the subtle resemblance became unmistakable. In essence, she had adopted her Lord Husband’s severe style. Few at court would look at her now and forget with whose authority she spoke. Jon smiled. She was an incisive woman. No doubt, a quality Tywin appreciated in his Lady Wife.

Lady Loren spoke to a man who stood with his back towards Jon. He was tall, bald and sinewy. Dressed in storm grey damask that shrouded his broad shoulders and fell down to the heels of his well-made boots, Jon thought for an instant that Tywin had returned. But no, on glimpsing the man’s stern profile he recognised Ser Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s equally surly brother.

“Shireen is a sweet girl,” Lady Loren said as Jon passed them. Her green eyes moved to him.

Jon inclined his head but didn’t slow his pace. “Good morning, my Lady.”

“Lord Jon.” Her gaze flicked down in acknowledgement before returning to Stannis. “How old is she now, seven, eight?”

“Nine.” Stannis’ tone was curt, his lips pursed. Those unfamiliar with him would be forgiven to think it a reprimand, a rebuke to an error the Lady of Casterly Rock had made. It wasn’t. He always spoke this way.

Lady Loren smiled, Jon glimpsed it as he moved away from them. It softened her sharp features and dimpled her freckled cheeks. “A little lady already.”

Jon had hoped to speak to Stannis in private, regarding the matter they were investigating, but it would seem that would have to wait till after the small council. He dreaded telling Robert, even though he knew they must. A man, even a King, might father a dozen bastards and few would care. A woman? Unbidden, he thought of Eddard and his Lady Catelyn, and all their little ones with their red, red hair and soft, summer faces. And the bastard girl that resembled Eddard like a younger sibling. They had to be sure. Queen Cersei deserved that much.

“Kevan will stay here, in King’s Landing.” Lady Loren’s voice floated to him on a warm breeze. “Have you thought on where Shireen might ward?”

Jon snapped out of his pensive thoughts. Shireen? Warding? The day before, he had seen her speak to Lord Yohn Royce. Shireen and Ysilla, he thought. Daughters your son’s age. And he realised why the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had come to court after all these years.

They had shown off their young children at Joffrey’s name day tourney as surely as Tywin had his twins all those years ago at Lannisport. Though that event had taken an unfortunate turn. The memory of Tywin stalking from the royal pavilion with his crying daughter in his arms hadn’t seen fit to leave Jon yet. Fortunately, Joffrey’s tourney had been a joyous event. Young Kevan had near won the children’s tilting at the quintain. Helaina had sewn a beautiful favour as she sat on her Lord Father’s lap, watching her brother ride. Even Tion, an unbreeched boy barely able to sit his sister’s pony, had participated. However, his heart laid elsewhere, Jon could tell. In hindsight, Tywin’s interest in the performance of other children - youths and maidens alike - had been telling. He had mingled, and much more so than you might expect of a Lord Paramount as unpersonable as Tywin Lannister.

“Do visit to the Westerlands, someday. The tourney season is ahead of us, and I dare say Helaina would be thrilled to have a friend to visit the fairs with.” There was a smile in Lady Loren’s tone. A smile and a fishhook.

Jon thought of the little girl with her blonde curls, tiny goldwork slippers and lion-embroidered petticoats. She had carried her older sister and Queen’s train as if the smallest of ladies-in-waiting. His son Robert she’d greeted with courtly grace and a gentle curtsy. They had played a while. Though, she’d given her small favour to Prince Tommen.

By then, Jon had reached the serpentine steps up to the inner bailey and Maegor’s Holdfast. Seven hells take all these stairs, he thought, and with a resigned sigh, he climbed them. The sun beat down on him despite the early hour and by the time he reached the penultimate landing, sweat beaded on his forehead once more.

Jon paused and glanced across his shoulder, down into the courtyard below. Lady Loren and Stannis still stood by the godswood. Jon had recalled something, as he’d been making his way up the thrice-damned stairs: Eddard had a daughter around Kevan’s age. Was it Sansa or Arya? Jon wasn’t sure. It had been years since Eddard had come south. Perhaps, it was time that he did. There was no way to avoid Tywin feeling slighted by the whole sorry affair when they revealed their evidence regarding the matter they had been investigating. However, they must, somehow, forestall him raising his banners in reprisal. It wouldn’t be the first time a son and maiden had mellowed fraying loyalties. You must come to court, Eddard, Jon thought. Robert will need you before the end.

Jon sighed, climbed the last flight of stairs and made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal chambers. Tywin’s eldest son stood guard by the door to Robert’s solar, his white cloak crisp and clean even at the bottom trim. Jon wondered if the young man resented his duty. The lions were proud.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon greeted as he approached.

Ser Jaime inclined his head but didn’t speak.

“Your Grace?” Jon called.

“Ah, Jon! Come in, come in!” Robert boomed from beyond the doors.

Jon entered, but he didn’t see the King. The morning sun came in through the latticed courtside windows, and fresh thresh with herbs woven in saturated the air with the scents of summer. A bird tweeted clear notes, just outside one of the windows. A lark, Jon thought, when he heard the trill that followed the melodious tones. In front of ornate chamber screens carved with tourney scenes, stood a low solar table, its mahogany tabletop resting on the shoulders of a carved stag. Two comfortable, upholstered chairs with a faded forest-motif on their ochre damask stood beside it. Jon frowned at the half-full goblet that stood upon the table. It wasn’t even noon.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Robert bellowed from beyond the mahogany partitions. It was abruptly followed by cussing. “Seven-be-pissed-upon, mind the goods, lad.”

“Apologies, Your Grace.” One of the Lannister boys. Lancel, judging by his timid voice. Tyrek was an assured youth with a tongue to match. Jon suspected that Robert liked him better than his cousin, for most of the same reasons as he did young Kevan.

“No rush, son,” Jon said. He had anticipated the usual argument to convince the King to attend his small council. However, it would seem Robert was already changing into his court finery. Pleasantly surprised, Jon clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

When Robert appeared from behind the chamber screens, Lancel at his heels, Jon’s expression fell for Robert was wearing his most polished hunting attire.

“Find your cousin Tyrek and have him ready the horses and hawks.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The nervous youth made a bow his King ignored. “Lord Jon.”

“Lancel.” Jon inclined his head then turned to Robert. “The small council, Your Grace—.”

Robert interrupted him with a wave of his large hand. “I’m going hawking with Loren and, after that, her lad’s fete.”

“I am certain young Kevan will enjoy it,” Jon said tactfully. In quintessential Robert Baratheon fashion, the King had insisted they throw the ten-year-old a celebratory fete when he had heard of his squiring. Unfortunately, that had been scant three days ago. That they had managed to organise it at all was a small miracle. And how precisely they were going to pay for the last minute festivities was a point on Jon’s agenda still to be resolved.

“Oh, I bet he’s a right little party lion, if he takes after his feisty mother or that witty uncle of his,” Robert guffawed. He snapped his fingers. “Golly, what’s his name. Garon? Gerold? No. Gerion, that’s right. He knew how to have fun.”

“Your Grace, I must insist. Your small council has need of you.” Robert and Loren were peers in age, and he knew they had been friends in their youth. The two of them, together with Eddard and his sister Lyanna, had oft gone hunting or hawking in those heady, heedless days before Harrenhal. For a while, it had been apparent that Loren and Eddard would wed.

Robert strode around to the table, picked up the goblet and drained the last of the wine with a deep gulp. “The rabbits have changed their fur: thick and soft as sin for winter. Those mottled pelts will look handsome about her freckled shoulders.” He squinted, imagining it, and added: “those delightful spots run down across her teats, you reckon?”

Jon closed his eyes and pretended he hadn’t heard that. His King and former ward had never been shy with his opinions, especially not when it concerned ladies. However, Jon wished he’d exercise restraint when speaking of other men’s wives.

“I’d bed her on them if she’d let me, I tell you,” Robert chuckled. It occurred to Jon he may have drunk more than the one goblet, found he hoped so because then his egregious comment might be overlooked if not forgotten.

“Your Grace, may I request you refrain from such observations, they are ill-advised.”

“That’d be a right fright if Tywin can hear all the way from that cliff of his,” Robert scoffed.

Maybe not, but his son certainly can, Jon thought, glancing at the door from the corner of his eyes.

Robert shook his head, his jowls quivering under his bushy beard. “Mad Aerys spend half a decade taking potshots at the old lion, and he got away with it.”

Jon pursed his lips. “He got away with nothing, Your Grace, in the end.”

Robert’s expression fell, no doubt remembering precisely why the sack of King’s Landing was a thing that happened. As well as who ran a sword through the Mad King’s back. With a measure of grim satisfaction, Jon saw Robert’s gaze jump to the door. He let the uncomfortable silence sit for a moment before he spoke again.

“Lady Loren will be here for a few more days,” Jon said, his tone not unkind. He raised his hands in an open gesture. “Why not go on the morrow? Invite the Lords and Ladies of the court, make a day of it.”

Robert shook his head. “I made a promise, Jon, and I mean to keep it.”

“Your small council has need of you, Your Grace,” Jon repeated. As he had feared, Robert laughed at that.

“I loath counting coppers. If I had known then how boring it would be, I would have never taken that crown.”

It was no news to Jon that Robert detested his lot in life. Well, the ‘tedious nonsense’ of it, as he put it. It reminded Jon of the time, now seeming so long ago, when Robert had been but a young lad and joined his father Steffon to court. He had met the boy then and had overheard him and his brother Stannis speak breathlessly about the King holding court and how noble and wise he’d been. Jon smiled. That day, King Aerys had not sat the Iron Throne, it had been his Hand, Tywin Lannister.

Robert smiled ruefully. “I should have let Tywin have it, the old lion would enjoy this tedious nonsense.”

Jon didn’t believe Tywin would have accepted the crown. He was fond of the Westerlands, was unable to give them to Jaime and unwilling to give them to Tyrion. No, Tywin was a career courtier, he wouldn’t have taken it. They might have had a King Eddard and though, outwardly, he may have done it to the best of his abilities, he would have been as miserable as his friend. In hindsight, all they’d had were poor choices.

“Loren would have been a proper Queen,” Robert asserted. “Always pleasant and supportive.”

Tywin would have sooner returned as Hand, the position Jon knew he craved more than any crown. A duty that had been his for over twenty years. Twenty stable years. Despite a King’s ever more rapid slide into madness. Early into their victory, Tywin had made a casual pass at being willing to return as Hand. Robert had responded without an inch of decorum he’d rather have Eddard. That, of course, hadn’t gone down well. And so, Tywin had left. As had Eddard, for that matter.

Jon had stepped up to council his erstwhile foster son. In the end, it had been for the best that Tywin had returned to the Westerlands for he hadn’t been particularly popular with the gentry and commonfolk of King’s Landing alike at the time. Jon had arranged the marriage between Robert and Cersei in the hopes of mollifying the rankled Lord Paramount and smoothing the slight of the preceding reign with the promise of change. They couldn’t afford to alienate one of the most powerful Lords of Westeros. Still couldn’t. Tywin was a poor enemy to have, and their impending accusation would surely make him one. Unless they could sustain his support.

“She never so much as raises a peep against him.” The wistful tone of Robert’s words struck an uncomfortable chord with Jon, jerking his wandering thoughts back to the unfortunate present.

Perhaps not in public, Jon thought. He’d never enjoyed the company of the man Tywin had become but had known the child he had been: a serious, long-limbed boy that had been a dutiful page to King Aegon, and a calculating youth who had outperformed his elders during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Even as a child, Tywin had not suffered fools, and so Jon highly doubted he’d wed a woman who had nought but rose water and fairytales between her ears. No matter how obedient and pleasant she may seem.

“Perhaps, it is because he doesn’t give her cause to,” Jon said mildly. Queen Cersei was no kitten, but one could avoid many scratches by not wilfully yanking the tail.

“She stacks the court with incompetent sycophants. She wanted her uncle to be master-at-arms!” A hint of youthful petulance crept into Robert’s baritone, and it reminded Jon how young they all still were. What is thrice-ten, really? He had decades ahead of him yet.

“If you came to the small council together with your Queen, we might all speak on the appointing of certain offices.”

Robert crossed his arms with gruff finality. He looked away from Jon. “Loren doesn’t drown Tywin in cronies.”

Jon smiled, but it was a sad smile. * That’s because she trusts him to have her back, son,* he thought, but said: “I am certain Queen Cersei would appreciate it if you requested her to support you at council.” It would be good to have them both where he could see them. Queen Cersei desired a ruling crown with the same intensity her Lord Father did the Hand’s seat. Jon might as well try and make her wiles work for him, for surely her presence would prod Robert to engage too.

“My Queen doesn’t care to support me in anything.” Robert shrugged, though then changed the topic and added: “Jon. There is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

“Your Grace?”

“It’s about your boy, my namesake.” Robert sat down, and the chair groaned ominously as he settled in it. He motioned at Jon to do the same.

Jon did as he was bid, dread coiling in his gut. A year ago, perhaps more already, certainly before Stannis had approached him, he’d spoken to the King regarding a promise of betrothal between his son Robert and Princess Myrcella. Nothing had come of that, and he’d forgotten about it. Until now.

“Have you decided where he will foster?”

Jon swallowed his relief. “No, not yet, Your Grace.”

“I see.” Robert frowned and reached for the goblet, but he had already emptied it earlier and sat it back down after casting a reproachful look at its wine-stained bottom.

“May I ask why, Your Grace?” Jon didn’t like the brooding mood that had settled over Robert.

“Young Robert is a sensitive lad. Gentle. Delicate, I’d say if he were a maid.” Robert’s careful choice of words brought Jon’s apprehension right back. “But his Lady Mother...” Robert gave Jon a near apologetic look. “Lady Lysa is soft with him, careful. I fear she may smother his manliness, and so hamper him as a youth.”

The thought had crossed Jon’s mind, but he didn’t begrudge his young wife her doting care for the boy. It had been trying for her. Robert was their only child, and his needs were different than most. He trusted her to know what was best for their son.

“Do you have someone in mind where he might foster?” Jon said, meeting the King half-way on the question he was beating around the bush about.

The dour clouds of Robert’s expression broke with a beaming smile. “Yes. And before you protest, I assure you that I have given it some thought.”

Jon forced a calm, and hopefully encouraging, smile.

“I believe, strongly believe,” Robert continued. “That it will be best for the boy if he wards at Casterly Rock.”

It may have been good for his son, once. Jon didn’t disagree with that. There would be young peers for him to spend time with - Kevan, Helaina, their friends among their Lord Father’s banners’ children. The bracing climate and sea air might have done his health good. However, there was the matter he’d been investigating.

“Your Grace—.”

Robert raised his hand. “I know, I know. The lion doth not deign to ward.”

Does she suspect us? Jon thought. Are the betrothals a convenient ruse for an investigation of her own? If she knew or suspected, she would undoubtedly share her suspicions with Tywin. Could she have found out? They had been careful. She was a shrewd one, her meticulous image politics during the tourney had shown that. She may have.

“Not to worry,” Robert continued quite unperturbed. “I have it on good authority that his dear Lady Wife can hector him into it.”

Jon doubted anyone could hector Tywin into much of anything. People had said the very same thing when he had wed Lady Joanna. He thought it more likely that it had to do with peoples’ wish to lessen Tywin’s looming presence, rather than the reality of his relationship to either his current or late Lady Wife. Once again, the immediacy of guaranteeing Tywin’s continued support clamoured in his mind. If they knew, this could mean they were moving into a position where they could keep his only son and heir hostage. But did they know?

“I will take it under advisement if you consider it wise, Your Grace,” Jon said tactfully. He couldn’t precisely tell Robert why he was less than thrilled about this prospect.

“Excellent.” Robert slapped his knees and rose. “If that is all? I have a hunt to attend, and I will not have it said I made a Lady wait.”

Jon sighed and nodded, he’d be remiss to say he wasn’t glad the conversation was over. “May I suggest that, in the future, you could plan these events around the meetings of your small council, Your Grace?”

“I will try,” Robert said with good humour. “This one couldn’t be helped. The lady requested it, not I.”

Jon frowned. It had been plain as a plucked cockerel that neither Tywin nor Lady Loren herself had appreciated their King’s overfamiliarity during Joffrey’s name day feast. She and he had been friends, once, but that was a long time ago. And things had changed. Why would she ask him to hawk? It was no secret that hunting was the second-best thing their King liked to do, and the best-thing assuredly wasn’t on the list of acts she was willing to commit to.

“Your Grace.” Ser Jaime saluted as Robert left his chambers.

“Run along, Kingslayer.” Robert made a dismissive gesture. “Go report to your winsome sister that I am going hawking with your good-mother and save her flunkies the effort.”

Jon wished Robert wouldn’t antagonise the knight at every opportunity, lest they find out if he’d care to be a kingslayer twice over.

“As you will it, Your Grace,” Ser Jaime said, his expression impassive as the Wall. With some sorrow, Jon supposed he was used to it. He hoped against his better judgement that Ser Jaime wasn’t keeping a tally.

Jon watched Robert go, his hunting leathers creaking about him in discontent as he walked. The weather was good, at least. The hawks could soar. Sudden realisation snatched him like a falcon: Myrcella was eight. And young Kevan’s… cousin? Niece? He rubbed his forehead. The Lannisters certainly made everything complicated. Wait. He snapped up. If that is the reason—.

“Your Grace, a final word?”

Robert turned to Jon. He smiled amiably as if he’d expected the words. “Quickly, then.”

“Has Lady Loren perchance spoken to you regarding betrothals for her son?”

Robert grinned, seemingly pleased. “Not with so many words, no, but she was rather curious about my plans regarding Myrcella’s future.”

She doesn’t know. Jon blinked. Does Tywin know? No, clearly not. He may be proud, but he was absolutely not stupid. He wouldn’t stake his pre-eminence on a false claim. And he definitely wouldn’t tolerate his son be wed to… to… Jon’s thoughts baulked at thinking the foul words. None of this was the little princess her fault, but it would cost her most, all the same. Jon pushed himself to smile. “That is all, Your Grace. Enjoy your hunt.”

“I shall,” Robert said with a fat wink.

Jon watched him stride away, a swagger to his gait. He shook his head. It really would be better if their King wasn’t so transparent about his appreciation of other men’s wives.

Robert halted abruptly, some ways down the hall. “Oh, and I shall tell her about young Robert!” he bellowed as he gave Jon the thumbs up. “Loren will be pleased, I tell you!” He swore heartily then. “Seven-take-her, even my precious Queen, will be pleased!”

Jon started terribly.

“Can you believe it? I am convinced those two haven’t agreed on a thing ever.” Robert snorted derisively. “She’s twice as quarrelsome with her good-mother as with me, even.”

Cersei desired his son be fostered at Casterly Rock? That, surely, was a move to hold him hostage. Did she know of—.

“Lucky she got her practice in with Tywin, eh?” Robert chortled and waved a hand in their direction. “King slayer, tell your sister it is a done deal, while you’re at it!”

Jon marshalled his reeling nerves. He could not let on any of this alarmed him, particularly not with Ser Jaime right beside him. If they didn’t suspect him yet then seeing his reaction would assuredly make it so.

“It seems you have been relieved of your duty for the day,” Jon said to Ser Jaime as they watched the King truly leave now. His light tone sounded forced, even to his own ears.

Ser Jaime pursed his lips sideways, and it reminded Jon of Lady Joanna, who’d do it just so when irritated. How long since she’d passed, now? Twice-ten years? More? Ser Jaime resembled his Lady Mother with his delicate, alabaster features, mild cat-green eyes and hair like beaten gold.

“I will see to my young brother, then.”

“Ah yes, a squire soon. A great leap for every growing boy,” Jon said with a gentle nod. “Give him my compliment.”

Jaime smiled, and it made him look more like the late Lady Lannister still. “I will.”

Jon made his way back out of Maegor’s Holdfast, down the serpentine steps and to the small council’s chambers. By the time he passed the Valyrian sphinxes guarding the entrance to the modest hall, sweat beaded on his forehead once more. Perhaps he ought to move the small council to his solar.

The Baratheon brothers, Ser Stannis and Renly, sat on either side of the King’s seat at the head of the massive, polished trestle table. Ser Stannis, serious and prim, sat with his back straighter than the chair he sat on. Renly, his brown hair in a fashionably unkempt ponytail, reclined sideways with an elbow on the table, already bored. Grand maester Pycelle hunched, shuffling his papers. Correspondence from the ravens, no doubt. Only Ser Barristan Selmy rose when Jon entered.

“Lord Hand.” Ser Barristan inclined his head.

“Lord Commander,” Jon returned as he walked around the table to the King’s vacant seat. Two more places were empty. Lord Petyr Baelish, the master of coin, was missing. As was Master Varys. However, Jon suspected the clever eunuch only attended when he needed to verify information from his ‘little birds’. Or when he had seeds of his own to plant.

“A good afternoon, my Lord,” Pycelle was quick to say on the knight’s heels, his voice feeble.

“Grand Maester,” Jon acknowledged. For the briefest of moments, he entertained relieving Lord Baelish from his duties the minute he arrived. Not that his lateness was such a grievous offence or a regular occurrence, but it was a reason. Jon didn’t like the man and never had, and yet he could not point to any one thing. Lysa spoke highly of him, but then he was her childhood friend. He wasn’t inadequate at his responsibility, either. Still, Jon rather saw the back of him.

Jon seated himself at the head of the table. They had several pressing matters to discuss: the state of the fleet, repairs on the seaward defences, the laying of stores for the coming winter and, not least among his worries, how they were to settle the bill for Robert’s latest fete. Even though nominally, it was not in his own but young Kevan’s honour. Best they start light with the ships.

“Lord Stannis, if you will,” Jon said.

Stannis pursed his lips as everyone turned to regard him. “The construction of three carracks is well underway. It may be possible to add a fourth graving dock if we dam the eastern wharf.”

“And thin trade even more?” his brother scoffed. “It’s already impossible to get Penthosian wine.”

Though a decade hence, the royal fleet was only now recovering from the Greyjoy rebellion. It had taken years to rebuild King’s Landing after the Sack, and that had eaten into their reserves. In those early days, Tywin had refused loans, citing the need to fortify Lannisport and the whole of the Westerlands in anticipation of Ironborn activity in the regnal power vacuum. He had not been wrong. Yet a man could be right and serve his agenda - a fortune of confluence. Not for the first time in all these long years, Jon wondered if there had been more to the refusal than wounded pride.

“If trouble stirs in the east and we are caught with our braies untucked, there will never be fine wines again, brother.” Stannis’ tone was terse. He put his hands on the table, palms pressed against the dark wood.

The Greyjoy rebellion had come and gone, leaving the royal fleet limping on the quayside as surely as it had the Lannister ships. And they’d been burned at anchor. Yet the Lannisters had the means to rebuild their fleet despite Lannisport laying in ashes and had done so swift as their coastal winds while the crown tottered on its last coppers. Tywin had agreed to extend loans then and on his terms as they had been in no position to make demands.

Renly had sat up now, his attention on Stannis. “And what good will fine ships do us when the loyal subjects of our dear brother rise up against us?”

“Over wine?” Stannis crooked an eyebrow.

Now, the lion’s share - Jon smiled, amused at his word choice despite himself - of their debt was to the Lion of the Westerlands. And the Iron Bank of Braavos, which wasn’t much better. What if it was by design?

“They’ve revolted over less.” Renly turned to the Grand Maester. “Isn’t that so?”

Jon didn’t doubt Tywin would use the debt when it served him. His thoughts strayed to Robert’s words regarding Myrcella. They could definitely force that betrothal if they wished to. Didn’t they know what Cersei and her twin brother had done? Or was it all feints? Meant to give the illusion of legitimacy where there was none?

Pycelle flinched as if he’d been dozing, but Jon caught the keen look in his green eyes. “The sumptuary law of 278 AC was ill-received.” Jon leaned forward, straining to understand the Grand Maester’s stuttering account. “It restricted the wearing of Lysian silk to the landed nobility. Before, it had been available to any who could afford it. Which were not many, to be sure! But it is the idea, you see. Many a merchant or trader may see it as their future, robbed prematurely. Some of our powerful but, say, not quite pedigreed, Lords, took great offence and harnessed this ambitious smallfolk to their side to—.”

“The point, Grand Maester,” Jon said, not unkindly.

Pycelle huffed, stacking his papers. “The point—.”

“The point is: a bunch of up-shot merchants blockaded the city over whether or not their fine ladies might wear silken smallclothes between the sheets,” Renly interjected. “Hardly a life essential, though I am sure our King would disagree.”

“It has been too long the fleet has been below strength.” A vessel started to pulse at Stannis’ neck as he spoke.

“And whose fault is that?” Renly crooked a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “You’re the Master of Ships. Is it not your duty to find a way?”

“I found a way,” Stannis said through gritted teeth.

Renly waved his hand. “A poor way. Lord Brokken Lannister of Lannisport ought to take your seat. The Lannister fleet has been bobbing at the port at strength for several years now. And it was burnt to the last plank a crispy black, I believe.”

Pycelle bobbed his venerable head. “Yes, precisely so. All fifty-and-three vessels—.”

“No.” Stannis glared at his sibling. “There is enough lions at court as it is.”

Renly shrugged. “At least they know their ships.”

As Stannis looked about ready to explode, Jon quickly raised his hands in a placating manner. “We can find a middle ground,” he said. “And Lord Stannis is not wrong. The Lannisters are not well-loved in our capital. If these tensions around imported luxury goods are as you say, then their further involvement may only fuel the fire.”

“ ‘The Lannisters are not well-loved’, ” Renly repeated, his tone nasal and overacted. “People keep telling me this, and yet all I saw was crowds cheering loudest every time that little lion rode his pony at the quintain.”

“Smallfolk are fond of the children’s games.” Pycelle had folded his bony hands atop his parchments.

Renly flicked his hand and eyes in perfected unison. “Evidently, even when its the ickle-wickle whelp of the Lord they purportedly hate? Sure.”

Stannis pursed his lips. “Young Lord Kevan is a gallant little fellow and charming as they come at that age.”

Jon frowned. The Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had been on their best behaviour for Prince Joffrey’s name day tourney, even Tywin had been near pleasant. He realised then that it had been an intelligent ploy to garner a favourable image. They had not come to court in years. For many, court peers and smallfolk alike, it would be the first they ever saw of the lions. He glanced at Renly, who had slouched once more. Might there be more who shared his blase attitude towards the Sack and the House that had permitted it?

“The Lannisters host some of the most prestigious fetes on Westeros, and they do not overlook their middling class and smallfolk,” Ser Barristan said. He had not spoken up before though Jon was not surprised he did now. Ser Barristan had been a famous tourney knight in his younger days, and he still enjoyed riding down the lists. “Lady Loren conforms to the common people their expectations of a pre-eminent peeress and the Grand Lady of a Great House. She is well-loved in the Westerlands. And it is that way, precisely, because of how she conducted herself, her Lord Husband and her children, such as she did at the Crown Prince’s tourney.”

Renly snorted. “You mean, unlike our beloved Queen?”

“Don’t let Her Grace hear you, her toes are as long as they are fair.” Lord Petyr Baelish swept into the room with a flutter of his silk capelet, striking down on the empty seat like the bird on his sigil as the fine cloth settled about his narrow shoulders.

“Someone ought to cut them down to size.” Renly shifted to lean on his other elbow, away from Lord Baelish.

“Lord Baelish, I am pleased you were able to join us after all,” Jon said before the topic of Queen Cersei’s vanity could be discussed further.

Lord Baelish smiled that soft, insipid smile. “And how I wish it was with good tidings for you, Lord Jon.”

“Out with it, Baelish,” Stannis demanded. “You’re already late, don’t insult us further.”

“You wound me, Ser Stannis. I would never delay the realm’s vital matters.” Lord Baelish’ grieved expression was as fake as the shimmering black of his short hair.

Jon had a bad feeling about the petty Lord’s good mood. They rarely turned out well for anyone but Petyr Baelish himself. “Lord Baelish, how are our coffers?”

“As empty as his promises, I am sure,” Renly scoffed. The Baratheon brothers shared their first agreeing look in weeks. They are a good team, Jon thought, when they can get over themselves long enough to work for a common goal.

Lord Baelish’ expression was pained as he folded his hands, one palm across the other. “It is the matter of little Lord Kevan’s squiring fete—.”

Apprehension settled in Jon’s stomach like spoilt supper as Lord Baelish caught his gaze. Had Ser Jaime refused? Had Robert changed his mind? Jon glanced at Ser Barristan. Have you stood by the old tradition that none but future Kingsguard may squire with its current members? For one, horrible, moment, Jon feared he had unwittingly supported the induction of a ten-year-old.

“—the King’s feast for the young squire has a tidy bill that will need paying.”

Jon stifled his sigh of relief. Monetary problems they had plenty, to be sure, but it beat having to inform Tywin another son would take up the white, any day.

“How much will it cost us?” Stannis had clenched his jaw. He wanted to fund for the fleet and, Jon suspected, the Stormlands. They had ever sat in the shadow of the Crownlands and had never recovered from the wars with Dorne.

“372 500 dragons and 8 stags, precisely,” Lord Baelish answered with a mathematician’s satisfaction.

“Three-hundred—.” Jon could all but see the calculations fly by behind Stannis’ grey eyes, which widened a fraction in shock. * “How.”*

“There’s the banquet, of course, and the tokens for guests. The honour guard and the minstrels and mummers,” Lord Baelish enumerated as he struck a finger for each item. “The throne room has been decorated, and then there’s the King’s gift—.”

“If only our brother cared to spend as much on us, eh?” Renly remarked as he tossed Stannis a look. He’d slouched again.

“Can we afford it?” Jon may not like Lord Baelish, but he was decent at his job.

Lord Baelish steepled his fingers and pursed his lips, drawing out the moment as he looked at each of them in turn before catching Jon’s gaze once more.

“Sadly, no,” he said as he folded his hands in defeat.

“Then we must call it off,” Stannis said, ever pragmatic and unable to empathise.

“We are not calling off a child’s name day party.” Renly sat up an blew a stray bang out of his face. “And certainly not mere hours before it starts!”

Stannis opened his mouth and closed it again. The muscle in his jaw flexed. “It’s not his name day.”

“Like the difference will matter to the lad,” Renly pointed out. “Besides, will you escort Lord Tywin’s sobbing child to him? Because I plan to be out of town for that one.”

“Have you been successful in your negotiations with the Iron Bank of Braavos, Lord Baelish?” Jon interrupted, steering the conversation back to the fact of the bill rather than its potential consequences.

At his words, Lord Baelish’ insipid smile became positively self-satisfied. “Yes, they have extended our credit and agreed not to charge returns for the coming two years.”

“Good, very good.” Jon chose not to wonder on how, precisely, Lord Baelish had managed to wheedle the infamous institution into wholly meeting their demands.

“However, it would be prudent to save those for, let us say, greater matters that require deeper pockets,” Lord Baelish added.

“Agreed,” Jon said with a nod.

“We have some levies that we can cover the little fete’s expenses with,” Lord Baelish said. “We can raise import taxes for the coming quarter to make up for it.”

“No.” Stannis made a cutting motion with his hand. “Traders will skip our port and make straight for White Harbour and Lannisport instead.”

“So?” Renly drawled. “I bet Lord Tywin taxes the daylight out of anyone making port in his Lady Wife’s humble town. All we need to do is stay a margin under him.”

“If we do that the Starks will have a good year.” Stannis’ lips had become a thin line as his palms pressed against the wood of the table.

“It doesn’t matter.” Renly shook his head, his tousled locks bouncing about his shoulders in such a dramatic fashion that Jon could all but hear the youths and maidens sighing. “The lions and wolves can’t stand each other. Our brother placated Lord Stark, and they may be willing to discuss import agreements to cut Lannisport.”

Robert had been cheerful the other day, when Jon had asked, in passing, after his renewed correspondence with Eddard. Jon had good hopes his foster sons had bridged the chasm that had grown between them. However, Renly wasn’t wholly correct. It was the wolf who couldn’t stand the lion. Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same.

Lord Baelish smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps we should ask the wolves, then, if we might lend their tail? It’s not like they have need of it for wagging.”

“Surely, there are reserves left to us, to pay for the fete?” Ser Barristan said, a frown creasing his lined brow. Everyone looked at Lord Baelish, who pointedly turned to Stannis.

Stannis ground his teeth. “There are fleet reserves.”

“We shall use those,” Lord Baelish said amiably. “And we can entreat the Iron Bank to finance further expansion of the fleet.”

Stannis looked pleasantly surprised, but Jon shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

The fleet reserves had come from Casterly Rock, together with Lannisport shipwrights and Westerland hardwood and steel. In essence, generous ‘gifts’ that Jon was acutely aware of, as well as the stream of gold trickling back to Casterly Rock through the pay and keep of these shipbuilding crews. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though, and Tywin had spared no ink to use it. Not that Jon was naive enough to think another Lord wouldn’t have, given the same opportunity. Charity was for the Silent Sisters, as the proverb went.

“Why not? They will easily suffice.” Lord Baelish smiled still, but the mirth had left his eyes.

Jon looked at him, gauging his intent. “Those reserves come from Lord Tywin and are intended for the fleet. If we change how we spend them, we must inform him.”

“The party is a gift from our King to the boy, Baelish,” Renly said with a look as if he considered the petty Lord both dimwitted and beneath him. “Are you volunteering to tell Lord Tywin he’s footing the bill?”

“Oh, that is very true, how silly of me, that might certainly ruffle his mane,” Lord Baelish said, and while his tone was flippant, there was venom in the look he threw Renly.

Renly snorted. “You think? A choice gift indeed if you have to pay for it yourself.”

“No doubt, Lord Tywin has spent more on the boy than most of us do in a lifetime,” Stannis said. He’d managed to unclench his jaw, for now. Although his palms still pressed on the wood, the tension not having left them just yet.

“As is his duty as Father,” Pycelle’s reedy stutter added with a disapproving frown at the King’s brothers. Pycelle was ever servile, but today his sycophantic comments made Jon frown. He resolved to be mindful around the old Maester, incase he whispered to leonine ears. Maesters were supposed to swear off all bonds of loyalty except to the Lord they served, but old allegiances died hard.

Renly slouched, his expression bored. “I am putting myself up for warding with the lions. I wouldn’t mind a few gifts like that.”

Stannis looked at his brother with open disgust.

Renly grinned. “What’s that, Stannis? Afraid they’ll forge me a dandy antlered crown?”

Stannis jaw worked.

Jon raised his hands in a placating manner. “My Lords.”

The last thing Jon needed was the two brothers trying to entice the Lannisters to either of their sides. The Tyrells were already behind Renly. They were the traditional enemies of the Lannisters. The two Great Houses bickered over their shared border like fishmongers over a cod cut. An alliance was unlikely, but Jon was wholly unwilling to chance it.

Ser Barristan crossed his arms. “If Lord Tywin puts a crown on anyone’s head, it’ll be his Lady Wife, and an exquisite Queen she’d be.”

A Tyrell-Lannister alliance would have a stranglehold on Westeros’ economy. Olenna and Tywin’s mother, the late Lady Jeyne Lannister, had been ladies-in-waiting together at King Jaehaerys Targaryen’s court. And at Joffrey’s name day tourney, Olenna and Tywin had yet been on speaking terms.

“As fine as our beloved Queen.” Pycelle bobbed his ancient head sagely. Jon curbed the urge to tell him to cut it out.

If Renly, or more likely, Olenna herself, was attempting to forge this alliance, he must reinforce Tywin’s support to Robert sooner rather than later. Twice so, in light of the matter they were investigating. However, if Robert and Eddard had reconciled, a further tightening of bonds might prove troublesome on account of the latter’s dislike of the Lannisters in general, and Tywin in particular. Eddard had never forgiven him for allowing his banners to tarnish their justified rebellion with the blood of the Targaryen children.

“Doesn’t he do so already, on her name day?” The disapproval was obvious in Stannis’ tone.

And yet, though the wolf couldn’t stand the lion, Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same. Again, he thought of Eddard’s daughters. All it would take was one wolf, one young wolf, and that one-sided feud might be gone.

“Indeed,” Ser Barristan said.

“When is the tourney, half a year, thereabouts?” Renly straightened, leaning both elbows on the table.

“Eight months,” Ser Barristan said. “You mean to attend?”

“Loras mentioned it.” Renly’s tone was thoughtful.

Jon hadn’t yet forgotten his earlier comment. Few would think twice of the sons of Great Houses attending such an event, certainly one as eminent as a fete in honour of a Grand Lady of peer Great House. A chance meeting, an exchange of thoughts, a sharing of drinks together that would attract attention in any other setting. Indeed, Jon had once used the very same tactic, many years ago. He frowned. He must secure Tywin’s continued support of Robert. More so than ever, it would seem.

Ser Barristan nodded. “I will ride. The Lady Loren asked that I preside the squire’s tourney.”

“Ah, the first occasion young Lord Kevan will enter the lists as a young man, is it?” Pycelle wheezed as he stroke his beard.

Ser Barristan inclined his head. “Just so.”

“My Lords. I understand the importance of jousts to the realm, but might we continue with the matter at hand?” Lord Baelish suggested smoothly. “Whether Lord Tywin would like a crown is perchance better saved for the solar and a glass of fine Penthosian wine.”

“Good luck finding that,” Renly scoffed as he threw his brother a look. Lord Baelish’ perfect eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask.

“His daughter is Queen,” Stannis said, the scowl contorting his mouth. “What more does he want.”

His son to be Hand, Jon thought but kept that notion to himself.

“The debts owed paid, I imagine,” Ser Barristan frowned also. “Baelish, it is your task to see to these things - and without loan upon loan.”

Lord Baelish raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Unlike Lord Tywin, I cannot sift a bucket of gold from our sewage, Ser.”

“My Lords, the matter at hand,” Jon interjected before it could escalate. What was it today with everyone regarding the Lannisters? This was no use. Jon decided they’d settle the matter of the fete and then adjourn. He wished to speak to Stannis, regarding the matter they were investigating, but now, also, regarding his younger brother’s seemingly casual remarks. They could not afford a Tyrell-Lannister alliance as a result of Tywin choosing Renly’s side. And Stannis jilting him regarding his daughter’s offspring might do just that.

“I have modest private funds,” Lord Baelish said. He laced his fingers, smiling amicably.

“Another loan, but this time from you.” The distaste in Stannis’ tone was impossible to miss.

“Well, the funds must come from somewhere,” Lord Baelish bristled. “I suppose it is easy enough when one’s Hand sits on gold mines, apologies Lord Jon, but alas we do not have such luxury.”

“We could, perhaps, invade the Westerlands?” Varys glided from the shadows, the voluminous sleeves and skirts of his sumptuous houppelande whispering in his wake.

“Are you out of your mind?” Stannis demanded. The palms of his hands tapped against the wood.

Varys smiled softly as he folded his on his ample stomach. “Invasion by marriage, I apologise for my unclear word choice.”

No, you don’t, Jon thought. No one made comments such as that idly, certainly not someone as crafty as the eunuch. A way to gauge the room on Lannister support, he decided. The disquieting feeling of brewing unrest swam somewhere in the vicinity of Jon’s stomach. Had Varys found out? He may have. Did his comment imply he wanted a change of King? Or only Queen?

“Quit speaking riddles.” Stannis scowled.

“A marriage could bring us the funds we seek.” Varys’ puffy, powdered face tempered with a gentle smile. “Myrcella and little Lord Kevan.”

Jon flinched. If he knew, he was intentionally steering for a scandal.

“They are related.”

Jon flinched all over again. This time, it was Ser Barristan who had spoken up in distaste. How had he—.

“Cousins.” Varys unctuous smile never wavering. “As are Lady Loren and Lord Tywin.”

“Technically, the boy is her uncle.” Lord Baelish glanced up from inspecting his nails. “The Queen is his big sister, after all.”

Right. Jon let his breath slip. For a moment he’d thought—.

“Half sister,” Pycelle amended promptly.

“Lord Gerald and Lord Tywin are cousins, and maternal ones at that.” Ser Barristan shook his head. “Lady Loren’s relation to her Lord Husband is more distant.”

Baratheon, Arryn, Starks, Tully and Lannisters had once seen eye to eye. If he could reforge those old alliances, Robert’s reign would be secure. Betrothals, as they’d done then - Kevan to a Stark girl and his little sister, Helaina, to his Robbie. Jon pursed his lips. It could work. And if he committed to tutoring young Kevan, taking him with as he went about his duties as Hand, Tywin might yet stay with them when they brought their evidence before Robert and the whole of the royal court.

“Let us settle the matter of the fete,” Renly said. “I grow tired and have more interesting occasions to attend to.”

Jon gave the youngest Baratheon brother a look, but Renly ignored it. Jon sighed. In truth, he was growing tired too. “Very well.”

“Lord Baelish, you said you had some funds.” Ser Barristan had crossed his arms once more. Despite his age, they were thick with muscle. It reminded Jon how winded he’d been, coming down the stairs. He’d never been a soldier, but he knew perfectly well that he could do more for his health.

“Private funds from a lucrative venture,” the petty Lord said. He’d clasped his hands, and Jon entertained the notion he resisted the longing to rub them together. No, Jon thought. No, we shall not be indebted to you, Petyr.

Ser Barristan’s bushy eyebrows rose. “‘Venture’?”

Lord Baelish smiled, almost apologetically. “Modest funds, certainly, from an establishment I invested in.”

“Establishment?” Stannis scoffed. “You mean that whorehouse on the street of silks.”

“Well. The ladies—.” Lord Baelish stacked his fingers.

“Whores.” Stannis glared.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Varys said smoothly, his tone as slick as the silks pandered on that street.

Jon flinched as what Stannis had threatened ever since he’d put his hands on the table finally happened. The Lord of Dragonstone slammed his open palms on the wood, rising in anger. “We are NOT paying for a * child’s* fete with whore pennies!”

Varys inclined his head demurely.

Certainly not for Tywin’s child’s fete, Jon thought. Tywin had never quite softened to the plight of those women. Not after his Lord Father had squandered their gold on them and taken one to mistress right under the Lady Jeyne’s nose. Jon hadn’t forgotten what had happened to that woman when Lord Tytos had passed.

Lord Baelish pursed his lips, his feathers ruffled. “It’s a trade, like any other.”

Renly let out a snort of laughter, Stannis merely glared. Ser Barristan had straightened in his seat, disapproval on his lined face.

“A dangerous one, too, those poor women.” Varys smiled softly. “They are lucky to have you watch over them, Lord Baelish.”

The master of coin smiled, inclining his head.

Are they? Jon thought. Are they, truly?

“We will use funds from the Eyrie,” Jon said. Everyone looked at him. His House wasn’t quite as prosperous as the Lannisters - he smiled to himself, not in any meaning of that word - but neither were they poor. They could use part of the funds he’d set aside for repairs on the Gates of the Moon. Those were necessary, yes, but had been for a decade. They could wait a while longer still.

“Lord Jon, if I have given offence regarding your capacities as Hand, I dearly apologise,” Lord Baelish said, sweet and servile.

Spare me, Jon thought. That jest of Tywin shitting gold was old when you were born. He wanted the matter done with, he needed to speak with Stannis. “None taken, Lord Baelish. I will send word to my treasurer, Eryn Wyles.”

“It’s most gracious of you to provide private funds, Lord Jon.” Varys hands folded into the unimaginable depths of his voluminous sleeves. “If that is all, my Lords? I must attend to other matters.”

“Your little ‘birds’ have ‘need’ of you?” Renly scoffed. He slouched in his chair, kicking a leg idly. He flashed a wicked grin at Varys.

“I only ever tweet to my flitter-flatters, Lord Renly,” Varys cast his gaze down with a demure nod. “My… late employer left me little choice, as it were.”

Renly laughed heartily at that.

Stannis pursed his lips. “What ‘bird’ might tweet matters of equal import to this council?”

Varys looked up and right at Jon. A soft smile curving his painted lips. “Why, the fairest bird in all the realm.” Before Jon could respond, the eunuch turned and swept away with the rustle of great lengths of exceedingly expensive samite.

“Indeed, this is all,” Jon said and rose. “Let us meet on further matters on the morrow, at noon.” There were agreeing noises from around the room. Only Renly looked displeased. No doubt, he must reschedule some outing or the other. He might complain about it but what mattered is that he did it. Jon sighed. If only Robert would.

“Stannis, a word,” Jon said as the Lords filed out. He caught Renly’s suspicious look and added: “you wanted my thoughts on the fleet composition?”

Stannis halted, frowned. Jon caught his gaze and tried to signal him with his eyes. It felt as if eternity passed before Stannis gave a curt nod. “I did.”

“Let us walk, then.”

Jon meant to return to the tower of the Hand but thought better of it. Instead, he conducted Stannis to the eastern court gardens. There may be ‘birds’ there, too, but the open architecture made him feel it would be harder on them to eavesdrop. Not impossible, no, but harder, at least.

They walked in silence, each to their own thoughts. Jon tried to decide how to start the discussion. There were several things he meant to address. On at least two of the three matters, he anticipated resistance from the younger man.

“Fairest bird in all the realm,” Stannis pursed his lips. “He meant Cersei. She knows, then.”

Perhaps. Varys was tricky. He’d certainly meant the Queen. But, had he intended to let on she - he - knew of their clandestine investigation, or did he merely wish for them to believe so? “I wouldn’t go on the word of a spider alone,” Jon said. “But it is not unthinkable. The lions are not altogether clueless.”

Stannis’ lips twitched, and for a moment Jon thought he might smile. “The little lion is sharp as a dirk.”

“I imagine his Lord Father made sure the best whetstones are applied to his young mind.” Jon clasped his hands behind his back as they ambled through the lavish gardens, pebbles crunching underfoot. Kevan was a good topic to start on. He suspected Stannis was enamoured with the boy. Jon smiled to himself. Four short weeks ago none in King’s Landing knew Casterly Rock’s pint-sized heir. Now, he dared guess those who didn’t were scarce.

“He assisted me with fleet inventory calculations. He had asked to, said he wanted to impress his uncle when he came home.” Stannis pursed his lips but Jon could tell he was pleased.

“Not his grandfather?” Jon asked, surprised. Lord Gerald Lannister was Lord of Lannisport and fleet master, last he’d heard.

“He said uncle,” Stannis scowled.

“I believe you,” Jon said, not wanting to irk the younger Lord already.

“He meant his mother’s older brother, I believe.”

Ser Brokken, then, Jon thought. He wondered why the boy favoured his uncle. “He did well, I take it?”

They had halted at a fountain, water instead of fire spewing from its three marble dragons. The water clattered cheerfully, the morning sun glinting on the splashing water. Its sound would obscure their voices from any but the keenest ears.

Stannis turned to Jon. “He is serviceable with his numbers, but that was not what he excelled on.”

Jon smiled despite himself. “Don’t let Lord Tywin hear, I dare say ‘servicable’ isn’t what he’d like.”

Stannis gave a curt nod. Jon sighed. So much for striving to keep a light mood. “What did he do well at?”

“Plotting coastal patrol routes,” Stannis said. “He took one long look at the map and adjusted the current routes to overlap more efficiently, as well as using fewer ships.”

“No small feat for an adult, nevermind a ten-year-old. He must have spent a good amount of hours being drilled on similar tasks, perhaps optimising guard patrols or area canvassing.” It was an essential skill for a field commander. Again, Jon had the unnerving feeling unrest was brewing. He was positive Tywin would have his young son instructed in these matters even if they were in the middle of the greatest peace of their age. And yet, here was a ten-year-old performing a task an adult commander might be troubled with. Maybe, it was merely a boy with a knack for the same skills as his father. Or, it was another incongruity. Another leaf falling spelling the change in seasons, the end of summer.

Stannis looked him up and down, his frown wrinkling deeper. “What is it you wanted to speak about? Not ships, I think.”

There it was. Jon took a deep breath. “The matter we’ve been investigating.”

Revulsion delineated Stannis’ already resolute features harder still. “It is true, I know it.”

“It very likely is,” Jon said, his tone diplomatic. They had calculated the years, tracked Ser Jaime’s whereabouts, even visited a near dozen of Robert’s bastards. And while it was true a wife’s children might look like her, even three, four; none of the bastards did. None.

“We must tell Robert, and soon.” Stannis’ tone was firm. He was sure, had been from the start. So confident, in fact, that it had given Jon pause at the onset. Robert and his younger brother were scarce a year apart, and with no legitimate son, Stannis was his natural heir.

“There is one more avenue I wish to explore. I have been able to acquire a copy of Grand Maester Maelleon’s work on the lineage of the Great Houses, including Baratheon and Lannister.”

“A maester one-hundred years dead and buried.” Stannis’ temper turned impatient. “What possibly can ancient history tell us on this matter?”

Now it was Jon’s turn to frown. “A great deal if we have the wits to hear and wish our accusation to be wildfireproof.”

“Your wish,” Stannis pointed out.

Jon let it slide. He’d always had a cautious nature, he knew this. He also knew young Kevan wasn’t the only Lannister that didn’t lack for wits. If they couldn’t ascertain Tywin’s continued support and if there was even the smallest of cracks in their claim. He’d turn it into a gaping hole. If he could be won to their side… Lady Loren would surely side with him, Ser Kevan as well. Even the Imp might, on account of his apparent affection for his good-mother if not his father. Besides, there was absolutely no love lost between him and his sister. Even Jon could tell. Jaime would undoubtedly side with Cersei, but he’d never had the sharpest claws of their pride, and he was only one knight - one sworn white cloak: no name, no lands, no funds. And no longer vital to his father’s grand ambitions.

“Lord Jon?” Stannis’ voice cut through his thoughts, then repeated his question: “How do you mean to use this book?”

“It’s a genealogical record, famous for both its accuracy and meticulous recording. It should corroborate our theory - Baratheons’ dark as winter wood, Lannisters fair as the summer sun.” Jon sat down on one of the elegantly carved marble benches near the fountain. His back ached, and sitting afforded some small relief.

“That is all?”

Jon glanced up at Stannis’ dismayed words. “Lady Loren said she thought there may have been a Baratheon maid wed into her side of the family around the time the record was made. I mean to see if that’s true, for it could provide the ironclad proof we need.”

“You told Lady Loren?” Stannis said sharply. That boded ill for one of the other points he meant to discuss. As he had feared.

“No.” Jon shook his head. “We came to speak of lineages after I complimented her boy’s performance at the tourney and remarked on his striking similarity to his father.”

Stannis made a noise that could have been derision. “The lions all resemble each other. Kevan looks just like Lord Tywin. His sister Helaina is the Queen in miniature. Even the little fat one—.”

“Tion,” Jon corrected mildly.

“—Tion, looks like the old lion.”

Like his grandfather Tytos, actually Jon thought but he didn’t say it out loud. Poor boy. His grandfather was not well-loved by his father.

Lady Loren had told Jon her Lady Mother was dark of hair, as was her older brother, who in turn had a raven-haired daughter himself. She had confided, moreover, fear for a dark-haired child of her own. In light of Robert’s appalling behaviour ever since they’d come to court, Jon understood her concern all too well. If such a child were born, there would be talk no matter the truth.

“After you have pursued this avenue…?”

Their investigation indicated she need not fear - all her children with Tywin would be golden as the sun, like their parents. Jon had wanted to reassure her but knew he couldn’t do so without revealing what they had discovered. And so, he’d said nothing. He felt poorly about that. It had been evident that the possibility gave her much concern.

“If it confirms our suspicions we can bring our case before Robert,” Jon agreed. Then he shook his head. “We must mitigate the odds of Lord Tywin calling his banners and bringing war to our doorstep.”

“His daughter committed treason.” Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Indeed, it seems she has.” Jon sighed. “However—.”

“Treason,” Stannis repeated. “And shielding her will be tantamount to the same.”

Stannis certainly wasn’t wrong, but that was not the point Jon wished to make, and so he said: “would you not do the same for Shireen?”

Stannis’ scowl darkened. “Shireen is a child.”

Jon nodded. “That she is, but if she weren’t? If she was a woman grown and someone brought a claim of treason to your threshold?”

Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Wouldn’t it be a father’s duty to protect her?” Jon pressed. He needed Stannis to see the necessity of meeting Tywin halfway - three quarters if need be.

“It would be his duty to get to the bottom of it.” Stannis’ tone was reluctant. It was as much of an agreement as Jon would have dared wish for. After a moment of thought, Stannis added: “I would hold myself to the verdict.”

Jon’s expression turned sad. You would, wouldn’t you? he thought. He hoped no one would ever speak of the disfigured girl with convincing ill-will to her father.

“You aren’t Lord Tywin, however,” Jon said diplomatically.

Stannis gave a curt nod.

“He’s a pragmatic man when it comes down to it, and House Lannister’s honour no longer rests solely on the twins’ shoulders.” And not for the first time that day, Jon thought how fortunate they were in that. If they could ensure the futures Tywin likely coveted for his younger children, he just might be willing to cut his losses.

Stannis rubbed his chin, his brow furrowing. “You think he could be persuaded to stand aside? The Queen won’t like that.”

“He might. And no, she most assuredly won’t.” Without the tangible threat of Tywin’s swift and sharp retribution, Queen Cersei had very little; indeed, Jon thought. And no doubt, she knew it as well.

“If we can ensure certain prospects more worthwhile to retain than a disgraced daughter...” Stannis mused as he pursed his lips.

“Son and daughter,” Jon corrected mildly. It wasn’t merely Cersei who had committed treason. And they ought not to forget it cost Tywin two children, not just the one. His two eldest children, at that, the son and daughter traditionally most valuable to a noble House’s future.

“But not his heir.”

“Therein lies our gain,” Jon said. It will be a scandal, no doubt. A blemish on the Lannisters’ golden history that they will have a tough chore polishing away, to be sure. But it wouldn’t be the end of the House. * Needn’t be,* Jon corrected himself. Not the way it would have been if Tywin hadn’t wed again, hadn’t had additional sons he was willing to leave land and title to.

“You sound as if you have given it thought?” There was an edge of suspicion to Stannis’ tone.

Jon had given it quite a lot of thought, the past fortnight as they assembled their final pieces of evidence, but he said: “Some, yes.”

Stannis regarded him carefully. “And these thoughts entail?”

“I could tutor Kevan, take him with me as I go about my work,” Jon said as he clasped his hands in his lap. “Tywin has served this realm as Hand for over twenty years, and not inadequately, despite the increasing instability of King Aerys. I do not think it a poor guess that he might have similar ambitions for his son.”

The beginning of a scowl crept onto Stannis’ stern face. “It would also give him ears at court and right beside the King, at that.” Jon had considered this too and knew it would make the offer all the sweeter for it. Tywin hadn’t come to court in nearly ten years, and so there was no reason to assume he wanted ears here. However, a shrewd man wouldn’t decline an opportunity freely given. Small ears hear the clearest, as Varys once said regarding his little informants.

“It would, but if he wanted it, he already has it through Ser Jaime standing guard right outside Robert’s door, through Cersei and her ladies, or the nephews squiring for our King.” Not entirely true, for Kevan was a ten-year-old who loved his father as well as any young boy might. And Varys had once told him that: ‘small ears hear the clearest’. Jon didn’t think Stannis would consider this nuance, to him children were children, bless his stubborn heart.

Stannis’ expression soured. “It would be no promise, but the implication the boy be Hand after you is there.”

“It will still be six long years before the boy will be of age, but yes.”

“A son’s future for a daughter’s trial.”

Jon didn’t like to think of it that way, but it was true.

“Robert likes the boy,” Stannis added.

Jon knew it to be correct. Did he fear young Kevan might prove a rival? It was not unheard for kings without legitimate issue to adopt an heir. He couldn’t afford Stannis to be suspicious of the boy. And so he said: “He’s young yet, and we’d have some years to help him grow. You come to the council.” Jon smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Robert does not.”

Stannis seemed to consider this. “You think this will be enough to pull Lord Tywin’s support?”

Jon wished it would be, but he dared not hope. Tywin likely considered it within his own capacities to assure this future for his son. They would need more. Something he could not as quickly achieve himself. It was why he’d come up with his second assurance. “I will speak to Lady Loren and confess an interest in the promise of betrothal between her daughter Helaina and my son Robert.”

The way Stannis stiffened told Jon what he would say even before he burst. Jon sighed. And so came the first of the two anticipated arguments.

“You will hand them the Eyrie?” Stannis struggled to keep his voice low, to not raise it into an angered shout.

“It won’t come to that,” Jon said with more confidence than he felt. His son was sickly. He might not even make it to wed and become a man grown, he thought with a heavy heart.

Stannis gave him a sceptical look, and Jon heard the unspoken words as surely as if he’d spoken them.

“Robert spoke with Lady Loren, he wishes my son page with her Lord Husband, at the Rock.” Jon left out the part regarding Cersei desiring this also. It concerned him a great deal, to be sure, but it would only fan Stannis’ unease.

When Stannis spoke, he’d seemingly dropped the topic. “She spoke with Lord Royce,” he said.

Jon frowned, confused. “I imagine she spoke with a great many lords, including you, I presume, this morn?”

“That she did.” Stannis cocked his head. “You do not think it odd she spoke to him?”

Jon frown deepened. “House Royce is an ancient and respected House of the Vale—.”

“Of the Vale, indeed,” Stannis said. “The kings of old, were they not?”

“Yes?” Where was he going with this?

“A while ago, you mentioned you’d declined Lord Yohn’s offer to betroth his daughter Ysilla to your son.”

He had.

Stannis’ eyebrows rose meaningfully. “And now he’s talking to the lioness,” he added.

Could it…? Jon’d assumed Lady Loren had approached Lord Yohn, not the other way around. Lord Yohn had an infant son, too. What was his name? It had sounded similar to his sister Ysilla’s. Elijah? He’d be scarcely more than a babe, two years, three maybe, but Helaina was just five, after all. “Lord Yohn and House Royce are loyal.”

“Are they?” Stannis’ expression was grim.

If Lord Yohn had approached Lady Loren, that was the only time ever he’d noticed the old Lord toe the line. And, even then, it was hardly tantamount to treason if all they’d done was reflect on mayhaps and could-bes. Helaina was only five, his son an unbreeched boy. Jon shook his head. “House Royce has never given cause for doubt.”

Stannis regarded him silently.

“If Robert and Helaina wed, it doesn’t matt—.”

Jon’s voice trailed off as a stifling realisation settled in his chest like a wet towel across the face. If his son passed - and though he dreaded it, he knew his boy’s sickly nature would not see him grow old as he had - Helaina would certainly rewed. And who might then be the right choice, to ensure the support of the Lords of the Vale for the youngest Lady Lannister? Lord Yohn’s son.

“You might as well hand them the Eyrie straight away and save them the trouble,” Stannis said.

Jon shook his head. They were in a sorry situation, but he believed they had little choice. “Robert must set Cersei aside as a result of her actions and rewed. If we can, in any way, avoid Tywin raising his banners in rebellion, we need to try it. The quicker and quieter this whole affair goes, the better.”

“Lord Mace wishes his daughter wed my brother.”

You mean Olenna wants it, Jon thought. “All the more reason to smooth any ruffled manes. The Reach and Westerlands have bickered like hens over worms for generations. We don’t want Robert to become that worm.”

Stannis nodded. “Renly supports it too, though she’s a fair maid and cleverer than him by half.”

Jon knew Renly, Loras and his sister Margaery to be fast friends, much like Robert, Loren, Eddard and his sister Lyanna had been. He speculated the reason Renly supported this match was due to Olenna. No doubt, if he supported it, she would permit him and Loras to have what they had. As far as Jon knew, Olenna took no issue with it. However, he knew her well enough to know she’d use it when it suited her.

“Lord Tywin and the old crone seemed amiable enough, during the tourney.” Stannis pursed his lips.

“I’m sure they did,” Jon said. He’d been around a little longer than Stannis, though. Those two would flay the other alive if push came to shove. Not that it had happened. At least, not yet. “We know the gods are good because they saw fit to make sure those two did not wed each other.”

Predictably, Stannis didn’t smile, let alone laugh.

“Let us hope they only spoke about their children and grandchildren,” Jon said. He hadn’t yet forgotten Renly’s allusions during the small council. A Lannister-Tyrell alliance against them was the very last thing they needed. Renly would be a puppet the minute Tywin and Olenna found common ground in supporting him as the Baratheon of choice. No, if the lions and roses were giving each other sidelong glances, they better exploit the situation and marshal them behind Robert before they forged any cunning plans of their own.

“I believe so, Kevan was with them.” Stannis had crossed his arms, thoughtful too, now.

Jon feared Tywin and Olenna were plenty capable of talking right over the boy’s head in covered language if they so pleased. He didn’t share his concern.

“You support this too, Margaery?” Stannis asked.

Jon frowned. “Yes. Yes, I do think so.”

“The Tyrells are good allies to have, particularly if the Lannisters rebel.”

“We must prevent that at all cost.” Jon shook his head. He wouldn’t let it come to that if he could. They didn’t need another war, they needed stability. There had been stability until they had found out what Cersei and Jaime had done.

Stannis scowled, and Jon realised there was no more postponing. He had to tell him what he planned to do. Stannis’ stiff, recalcitrant demeanour reminded Jon of Tywin and reaffirmed to him the necessity of his plan. For if Stannis baulked, then assuredly Tywin would for he was every inch as contrary. Jon might throw morsels large and little at him, but if the lion was in no mood to eat, it was no use at all.

Jon took a deep breath and put his hands on his knees, steadying himself. His gaze wandered to the godswood. Had Robert and Loren yet returned from their hunt? He squinted into the middle distance, bracing himself and mustering patience: “I believe we must tell Lady Loren and have her break the ill news to Lord Tywin.”

“And give him a headstart to rally for war?” This time, Stannis’ voice rose well above the clatter of the fountain.

Jon made a placating gesture, urging Stannis to lower his voice. “If our accusation leads to him raising his banners, it doesn’t matter when he hears.”

“Of course, it matters!” Stannis objected. “It will give them the time to rally vassals ahead of us. Even mount a counter case to our accusations.”

“If our claim is solid and true, no counter save bribery will prevail and if they go that route, our case will crumble either way,” Jon said. It concerned him because most people could be bought, and few were more persuasive in the buying market than the Lannisters on account of their wealth. And Robert enjoyed the lifestyle he could assuredly not afford on his own. How much gold would it take to convince him to keep Joffrey as his heir? Jon hoped they would never find out. Hoped, he realised, that Tywin would be too proud to accept grandchildren born of incest.

“He could rally an army,” Stannis repeated through clenched teeth.

“We cannot risk open war, and if it comes to it, we are at poor odds even if he hears it only at trial. Last time he pitched his banners, there were 12.000 lances at the toss of a liripipe. And the Tyrells favour your younger brother, if the Lannisters join them, we might well have a coup on our hands.”

“Not last year, there were skirmishes in the northmarch - south of Silverhill, along the greentail.” Stannis’ jaw worked. He’d crossed his arms, and there was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” There were always skirmishes in the northmarch, except during the tourney season. Presumably, Clegane and Crane butting heads on the shores of Red Lake because they were bored. Jon smiled, for the landed knights had reminded him of something not altogether dissimilar. “Years ago - many, years ago, when I was younger - Lady Olenna and Lady Jeyne were ladies-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella.”

“Lady Jeyne, that is Lord Tywin’s late mother, correct?” Stannis’ jaw had stopped working, but his stance remained pinched.

“Correct. Those girls were vicious. Jeyne once put copper powder in Olenna’s bath, staining her grain golden hair a sickly green and necessitating its cutting. Olenna put dead mice in her clothes chest in reprisal, the odour of death never leaving the fine samite garments, and they had to be burnt.”

“How is this relevant.”

Jon raised a hand at Stannis’ impatient tone, bidding him listen. “One day, Lady Lyarra Stark came to court and choose her sides: she favoured Lady Olenna in a solar conversation with the Queen. Then, perhaps to seal the deal, she assured a spoilt egg made it into Lady Jeyne’s breakfast, giving her embarrassing flatulence all through a court ball. Do you know how Lady Olenna responded, to this?”

Stannis’ jaw worked once more. “No.”

“The Lady Lyarra woke up to find one of her braids cut, right below the ear, and a note on parchment bearing gilded roses that she’d better stayed up north.” Jon recalled it well, for Lyarra had been distraught and her father much peeved. Yet he’d seen the lioness and Queen of Thorns share tea in this very same garden that day.

Stannis was processing his story, Jon could tell from his frown. “You believe the Tyrells will support the Lannisters?”

She might, Jon thought. And, like Tywin himself, Olenna was a poor enemy to have. Nevermind those two combined. Jon pursed his lips. “This is no spoilt egg, to be sure, but not as certain an impossibility as one might think.”

“You mean to tell Lady Loren, then,” Stannis said. “You have already decided.”

Jon regarded Stannis for a long moment. Then nodded and said: “Yes. I will examine the genealogy tonight. I suspect it will confirm our theory. On the morrow, I will discretely approach Lady Loren. I will propose tutoring of Kevan and convey interest in a promise between Helaina and my son. If she is forthcoming, I will share our findings with her. And, if the gods are good, I can convince her of the necessity she be the one to bring this news to her Lord Husband. And of the assurance that these futures for her children are set in stone if they allow the twins to stand trial.”

Stannis frowned but no longer objected. “Will she return home, or send a raven?”

“I hope to convince her to go in person, such matters are better not trusted to ravens. And, I do not think such news should be given on paper,” Jon said. Least of all to Tywin, he thought. He needs to hear it from her, lest he think it a falsehood.

“She may bid him return here, rather than travel home herself.”

“If we’re fortunate, she will. It will be better for us to have him here at the capital. That way, we avoid the impression we went behind his back.” The less tinder this wildfire sees, the better.

“We went behind his back,” Stannis asserted.

Jon sighed. He felt old and tired. “You know what I mean.”

Stannis’ reluctance was apparent but he nodded. “Very well.”

They spoke a while longer, of matters of little import but great interest to them personally. The weather was exceptional, the early afternoon sun warm, the late summer skies clear. It was a pleasant while and Jon would never have thought it be his last.

When Jon finally rose to send a raven, which he had been meaning to send all morning, a chill ran down his spine as he stepped out of the sun and into the shadowed cloister surrounding the fair garden. He made his way to the Grand Maester’s tower and by the time he had climbed the steps to the rookery, sweat beaded on his forehead. But this time, the sweat was cold. As he watched the raven fly north, he bid it make haste. War was coming. He could feel it in his bones. And not for the first time, he wondered if he was to be the instigator once again.

O O O

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#jon arryn #gotfic #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #game of thrones fanfiction #a saga of bears & lions #imperial fictions #I have a lot of feelings about Jon Arryn and nobody ever addresses them #so I went for it #this chapter could also probably be titled #six people talk about tywin a whole ass lot #and I am not sorry

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