(Red Keep, King's Landing, Blackwater Bay, The Crownlands, Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, Westeros, Planetos)
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(Crown Prince Lyonel Baratheon POV)
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The remaining trip back to the Red Keep from the Trident had been largely uneventful. Lyonel had informed Sandor of his reassignment to the Antlers and Claws, and instructed him to stick close to him.
The dismissal of Sandor as Joffrey's Sworn Shield had been unexpected, bur Lyonel wasn't about to not seize the chance to have Clegane reassigned to the Antlers and Claws. Of course elevating him to a Leadership position now required him to assign him something to oversee. Greer commanded the Cavalry, Aurane led the Archer's, and Lyle the Infantry. Mayhaps Sandor should lead the special missions regiment?
Food for thought.
As for Joffrey? Well, Lyonel had placed a dozen guardsman in his brother and Lady Sansa. More to keep Joffrey in line, than anything else.
Hopefully the destination proved more eventful and less stupid than the trip had.
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(POV Shift: Lady Margaery Tyrell)
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They'd beaten the Royal Caravan to King's Landing by about two days. Which gave her plenty of time to ingratiate herself to the servants, and also learn more about her competition.
As she'd understood it, her betrothed had met Daeneria Velaryon through the girls Uncle, Aurane Waters. Aurane being a close personal friend of the Crown Prince. Which made displacing the woman dificult. Lady Velaryon was exceptionally beautiful, with dark skin, lilac eyes, golden blonde hair, and a curvaceous figure despite her youth.
Margaery might lack her curves, but she made up for it elsewhere.
But now came the moment of truth.
It was finally time to meet her betrothed.
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(POV Shift: Crown Prince Lyonel Baratheon)
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''Vylarr, who answered my summons?'' Lyonel asked the Lannister Guards Captain.
''Ser Brynden Tully, Ser Lyn Corbray, and Ser Loras have arrived. However, most of House Tyrell has joined Ser Loras. Ser Robar Royce informs Mr his father has been delayed. Lady Arryn is wearing on his nerves and he's begged a few days to make matters clear to Lord Arryn's Widow.'' Informs Vylarr.
''Granted. Inform Lord Robar he's to hand deliver this letter to his father. It's a confirmation. Tell Robar, he's to inform his father that until Robin Arryn has reached his age of majority and proved himself able to carry the weight, that Bronze Yohn is the King's Warden of the East. Now, as for House Tyrell, who's come with Ser Loras?'' He instructs before asking the question.
''Lady Olenna, Lord Mace, Ser Garlan, and of course Lady Margaery. Young Lord Willas is remaining at Highgarden to ensure the Reach is well maintained.'' Vylarr informed.
''Ask Ser Brynden and Ser Lyn to join me at the in the Throne Room at the Hour of the Lion. We'll present them and Ser Loras to my father. As for the rest of the Tyrells. Notify them that a Small Council meeting has been called, and that as a member of the Small Council, I have to participate. However, please ask for them to join me for a Lunch afterwards.'' Says Lyonel.
''Yes, my prince.'' Vylarr responded dutifully.
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(POV Shift: Lord Eddard ''Ned'' Stark)
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The capital had changed little in the time since he was last there. The smell was different.
It stank worse than ever.
After having instructed Jory to get Bran and the girls squared away, he made his way to the Small Council chamber after mildly intimidating the Small Council Steward.
He'd like nothing more than to have this meeting in the morning, but according to the steward, it was called by the royal family. Hopefully Robert wouldn't delay the conversation too much. There was little about this city he liked, if there was one good thing about it though… it had to be the Mince pies that were made in the quarter of the city that Crown Prince Lyonel's residence sat in. The Prince had had some with him, and they'd tasted them during the last day of the trip to the capital. He didn't normally eat that sort of thing, but he wouldn't hesitate to admit the pies were delicious.
And so Ned had come striding into the council chambers, bone-tired and dressed in his riding clothing, to find five members of the small council waiting for him and Crown Prince Lyonel.
The chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the floor instead of rushes, and in one corner a hundred fabulous beasts cavorted in bright paints on a carved screen from the Summer Isles. The walls were hung with tapestries from Norvos and Qohor and Lys, and a pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanked the door, eyes of polished garnet smoldering in black marble faces.
The councillor Ned liked the least, the eunuch Varys, accosted him the moment he entered. ''Lord Stark, I was grievously sad to hear about your troubles on the kingsroad. We have all been visiting the sept to light candles for your daughters hearts. I pray bond remains strong.'' Ned looked at him strangely.
''Your gods have heard you.'' Ned replied, cool yet polite. ''Though, I'm curious how you knew about it?'' He muttered that low as he disentangled himself from the eunuch's grip and crossed the room to where Lord Renly stood by the screen, talking quietly with a short man who could only be Littlefinger. Renly had been a boy of eight when Robert won the throne, but he had grown into a man so like his brother that Ned found it disconcerting. Whenever he saw him, it was as if the years had slipped away and Robert stood before him, fresh from his victory on the Trident.
''Renly, you're looking well.'' He nodded at the young Lord of Storm's End.
''And you look road weary, I told my nephew this could wait another day, but alas…'' Says Renly.
''We can ill-afford to wait, when Robert seeks to beggar himself.'' Turning, Ned was greeted by Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Dragonstone and Renly's older brother.
''Lord Stannis.'' Ned inclined his head to the Master of Ships, who sat beside the Crown Prince.
''Welcome Lord Stark, hopefully you can control my brother's spending more ably than Jon Arryn ever did.'' Lord Stannis says, and Ned feels his brow furrow. That's twice now Stannis had brought up coin, an uncommon thing from his encounters with the man over the years.
Ned's attention falls to the Master of Coin, as the valeman approaches ''I have hoped to meet you for some years, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me to you.''
''Indeed, she has, Lord Varys.'' Ned replied with a chill in his voice. The sly arrogance of the comment rankled him. ''I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well.''
Renly Baratheon laughed. Varys shuffled over to listen.
''A little rather too well, I fear.'' Littlefinger said. ''I still carry a token of his esteem. Did Brandon speak of me too?''
''Often, and with some heat.'' Ned said, hoping that would end it. He had no patience with this game they played, this dueling with words.
''Enough, we have matters to attend to, and Lord Stark has yet to meet us all.'' Crown Prince Lyonel interrupted sharply.
Nodding his head, Ned moved to the council table and said, ''Grand Maester Pycelle, I trust you are well?''
The Grand Maester smiled gently from his tall chair at the foot of the table. ''Well enough for a man of my years, my lord.'' He replied, an edge of tiredness in his voice yet I do tire easily, I fear.'' Wispy strands of white hair fringed the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. His maester's collar was no simple metal choker such as Luwin wore, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metal necklace that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorned the metalwork, and here and there an emerald or ruby. ''Perhaps we might begin soon?'' The Grand Maester said, hands knitting together atop his broad stomach. ''I fear I shall fall asleep if we wait much longer.''
''As you will.'' The king's seat sat empty at the head of the table, the crowned stag of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows. Ned took the chair beside it, as the right hand of his king. ''My lords.'' He began formally. ''I am sorry to have kept you waiting.''
''You are the King's Hand.'' Varys said. ''We serve at your pleasure, Lord Stark.''
As the others took their accustomed seats, it struck Eddard Stark forcefully that he did not belong here, in this room, with these men. He remembered what Robert had told him in the crypts below Winterfell. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools, the king had insisted. Ned looked down the council table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knew already. ''We are but seven.'' He pointed out.
''Our gallant Ser Barristan no doubt rides beside the king as he makes his way through the city, as befits the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.''
''Perhaps we had best wait for Ser Barristan and the king to join us, then?'' Ned suggested.
Renly Baratheon laughed aloud. ''If we wait for my brother to grace us with his royal presence, it could be a long sit.''
''Our good King Robert has many cares.'' Varys said. ''He entrusts some small matters to us, to lighten his load.''
''What Lord Varys means is that all this business of coin and crops and justice bores my royal brother to tears.'' Lord Renly said. ''So it falls to us to govern the realm. He does send us a command from time to time.'' He drew a tightly rolled paper from his sleeve and laid it on the table. ''This morning he commanded Aurane Waters to ride ahead with all haste and ask Grand Maester Pycelle to convene this council at once. He has an urgent task for us.''
Littlefinger smiled and handed the paper to Ned. It bore the royal seal. Ned broke the wax with his thumb and flattened the letter to consider the king's urgent command, reading the words with mounting disbelief. Was there no end to Robert's folly? And to do this in his name, that was salt in the wound. ''Gods be good.'' He swore.
''What Lord Eddard means to say…'' Lord Renly announced, ''...Is that His Grace instructs us to stage a great tournament in honor of his appointment as the Hand of the King, and in celebration of the betrothal of my nephew with lady Margaery of the House Tyrell.''
''How much?'' Asked Littlefinger, mildly.
Ned read the answer off the letter. ''Forty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Twenty thousand to the man who comes second, another twenty to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition.''
''Ninety thousand gold pieces.'' Littlefinger sighed. ''And we must not neglect the other costs. Robert will want a prodigious feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, jugglers, fools . . . ''
''Fools we have in plenty.'' Lord Renly said.
Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Littlefinger and asked, ''Will the treasury be able to bear the expense?''
''What treasury is that?'' Littlefinger replied with a twist of his mouth. ''Spare me the foolishness, Grand Maester. You know as well as I that the treasury has been empty for years. I shall have to borrow the money. No doubt the Lannisters will be accommodating. We owe Lord Tywin some three million dragons at present, what would it matter for another hundred thousand?''
Ned was stunned. ''Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?''
''The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are the biggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi trading cartels. Of late I've had to turn to the Faith. The High Septon haggles worse than a Dornish fishmonger.''
Ned was aghast and now understood Lord Stannis's words. ''Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?''
Littlefinger gave a shrug. ''The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it.''
''I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm.'' Ned said hotly.
Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, his chains clinking softly. ''Lord Arryn was a prudent man, but I fear that His Grace does not always listen to wise counsel.''
''My royal brother loves tournaments and feasts…'' Renly Baratheon said. ''...and he loathes what he calls 'counting coppers.' ''
''I will speak with His Grace.'' Ned said. ''This tourney is an extravagance the realm cannot afford.''
''Speak to him as you will, it won't change much.'' Lord Stannis said.
''Still, we had best make our plans.''
''Another day.'' Ned said. Perhaps too sharply, from the looks they gave him. He would have to remember that he was no longer in Winterfell, where only the king stood higher; here, he was but first among equals. ''Forgive me, my lords…'' He said in a softer tone. ''I am tired. Let us call a halt for today and resume when we are fresher.'' He did not ask for their consent, but stood abruptly, nodded at them all, and made for the door.
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(POV Shift: Crown Prince Lyonel Baratheon)
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Watching Lord Eddard depart, Lyonel turned to the Small Council.
''You all may leave, my father has instructed me to pass on an important demand to my uncles.'' He dismisses the others.
Once he's sure they're gone, he turns to Renly.
''By order of his grace, Robert of the House Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and first men. Renly Baratheon is commanded marry a woman of noble birth or find himself dispossessed of Storm's End and handed Dragonstone. In which Case, Lord Stannis Baratheon, will inherit his rightful Lordship.'' Uncle Renly was positively shocked.
''W-what? But?''
''He's aware you've been fucking Ser Loras. And he's instructed me to find you a suitable bride. So if you want your relationship with Ser Loras to survive my father's reign and well into mine, you'll do as bid.'' Lyonel says sharply.
''H-how? Who?''
''Does it really matter? All that matters is my father knows, and demands you find yourself a wife and a child quickly, before it becomes less unknown. Now then, onto another matter…'' Lyonel says, turning to face Stannis, his favored uncle.
''I investigated those leads you provided me. Though should we really bring Renly into this?'' He offered, before casting a side eye to Renly, who - to his credit - recovered quickly, swallowed whatever he really wanted to say, and looked at them both.
''What now?'' He questioned.
''We suspect that Robin Arryn is no true Arryn at all. We suspect his real father… is our Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish of the House of Baelish of the Vale of Arryn…
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(POV Shift: Prince Joffrey Baratheon POV)
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He was furious.
As if the indignation of the scar across his cheek weren't bad enough, nor the public humiliation. But cleaning out the fucking stables!?! Like a mere servant!?
If that shit for brains guardsmen had done his fucking job and killed Lyonel, none of this would be happening.
The faith could call him kinslayer all they liked. But Lyonel didn't have what it took to be King. Joffrey had known this for years. If Lyonel had, he wouldn't have punched him in the face for toughening up Tommen and Myrcella years ago.
The crown should go to him regardless of the succession, he was the better choice.
''More shit to shovel little cat.'' With an angry yell, he swung the pitchfork at the lowborn peasant who thought he was better than him. The Metal slammed into the side of the idiots head.
''Shovel it yourself.'' Joffrey said, leaving. He needed a fucking bath. The smell was so bad, it made the city's own stench tolerable by comparison.
As Joffrey stormed off towards his chambers, the weight of his fury clung to him like a suffocating cloak. The bitter taste of injustice lingered in his mouth, fueling the flames of his anger. How dare they reduce him to such menial tasks? The stench of the stables still clung to his clothes, a constant reminder of his undeserved humiliation.
As he entered his chambers, he threw off his soiled garments with disdain, the fabric landing in a heap on the floor. The water in the bath was lukewarm, but he submerged himself in it nonetheless, letting the heat seep into his tense muscles. The grime and filth of the stables washed away, leaving behind a sense of temporary respite.
Yet, beneath the facade of calmness, a storm raged within him. Thoughts of revenge and retribution swirled in his mind, a burning desire to reclaim his rightful place. The crown was his by birthright, and he would not let anyone, not even the gods themselves, stand in his way.
As he lay in the bath, a plan began to form in his mind, a plan to assert his dominance and show the world that he was not to be trifled with. Joffrey emerged from the water, a newfound determination gleaming in his eyes. The time for games was over. It was time to show everyone who and what he was and begin to take what was rightfully his, by any means necessary.
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(Author's Note:)
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Joffrey is such a hard character to write. It's not even funny. Some of that is because I absolutely fucking hate him, and the other part is because he's such a little shit. I wanted more from that conversation, honestly, I might just resort to an Ai write of Joffrey's POV's in the future, that way it let's me just have to do editing tweaks instead of the headache that is the blonde twat. Also, how was that curveball with Stannis, Lyonel, and Renly?
With Bran not having fallen from the tower, I had to change a few things. Still, there are certain fixed points I like to adhere to, so even if Bran didn't fall from that broken tower, it doesn't mean he won't fall from somewhere else.
Will see more of Daenerys Targaryen in the Next Chapter as well as the awaited meeting of Margaery and Lyonel. Looking forward to writing both to be perfectly honest. At any rate, I have a dinner to cook, so see you all next chapter…
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