The Logistics of Good Living (ASOIAF, Brandon Stark SI)

[Karmic Acumen]

And a record of who was what in canon:

Maester of Shadow Tower, at the Night Watch	Mullin
Maester of the Eyrie	Colemon
Follows Jaime Lannister in AFFC to Riverrun Siege	Gulian
Maester of Stokeworth	Frenken
Maester of Hornwood	Medrick
Maester of the Dreadfort	Tybald Snow
Maester of Winterfell	Luwin
Castellan of Last Hearth	Hother
Maester only mentioned in Fire and Blood (same age as Mullin?)	Ryben
Archmaester, wrote Watchers on the Wall	Harmune
Maester of Highgarden	Lomys
Maester of Pyke	Wendamyr Pike
Maester of Cerwyn	Rhodry
Robert Strong	Qyburn
Archmaester of Magic	Marwyn

Presumably Walys has at least 1 silver and 1 black iron and 1 brass, but lacks antimony.

======================
Credit goes to JenniferWilson over at AlternateHistory, who took the time to compile a record of all the maesters, acolytes and their links. The colors don't exactly reflect the metals, but I'm told this is the most painless representation she could think of.

 

[Karmic Acumen]

BAELOR

“-. 274 AC .-“​

Climbing to the summit of the Hightower on foot instead of taking the lift wasn’t his favorite pastime, but he chose it nevertheless. Gave him time to think. About little sisters feeling caged, a young brother that understood too much, and the simmering rage at his increasing failure to dig up the holes of child-buggering shitstains. He stewed in it, that anger. Stewed more and more with every murdered scribe and dead acolyte and maester’s carcass that showed up in a ditch. What had started out as an investigation against old men too big for their britches had turned into a bloodbath, then into a frayed web of thinly veiled grudge killings that even the full mobilization of House Hightower’s garrison hadn’t managed to suppress.

Ser Baelor Brightsmile they called him. Baelor Breakwind too, by the Dornish. He’d have a different name entirely soon enough, he was sure of it.

Baelor had started out helping oversee the investigation, outright refused to play a part in the travesty his father unleashed when Stark showed up out of nowhere, then nearly refused the peace offering to be spokesman for their house, after his Lord Father’s first and only face-to-face meeting with the Lord Warden. Baelor never imagined he’d turn around and outright demand to be brought back into things when Stark left. But he did. And his father, to more surprise than he should have had cause to feel, agreed. Gave him full command of the guard when Stark’s private tip-off about child-buggering shitstains began turning up its own trails of skittish scribes, catamites and corpses.

That had to be why he was being summoned to his father’s high seat that morning. He’d been called back from the guard barracks he’d been switching between for sleep, down in the city. Just a day after he’d begun tracing certain skeletons to the closets of certain worthies not associated with the Citadel or its books and maesters. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

How swiftly times change, Baelor Hightower thought bitterly. Just a moonturn ago he’d not have thought twice about his father’s respect for the rule of law. Now he was assuming the worst of the one who’d raised him on the values of justice and chivalry. Oh, how the Seven Hells liked to mock the righteous!

The last stretch of stairs to the Summit lacked railings. His father had once told him that it was meant to remind them of the dangers of looking too far down upon others. Baelor wondered when Lord Leyton Hightower had stopped taking his own advice.

The Summit of the Hightower was not so much a Solar as it was a great hall unto itself. It was wide, tall and supported by many load-bearing columns done in Ghozaian style. They tapered up into strong archways from whose vaults hung great chandeliers. Most of them were just for show though. During the day, the Summit was lit by the myriad of arched windows lining the single, circular wall. And at night, light cascaded from the great Beacon above them through the many panels of stained glass incrusted into the ceiling.

There were no walls inside the Summit, but there were plenty of spaces and daises set apart. Some high, some low, some large, some small, many even afforded a certain measure of privacy by YiTish dividers. Dining tables, game tables, playpens, reading areas, living rooms and more. Highest of all, though, was the Lord’s Office. The largest and highest platform, from where the Lord of the Tower could rule all he surveyed. It was accessible by four staircases and sat in the very center, atop the summit’s private amenities – privy, bathhouse and kitchen. There were four bridges too, aligned with the cardinal points. They connected to the mezzanine running along the walls, from which one could exit into the open-air terraces beyond.

In older days, House Hightower was of such numbers that the Summit fully deserved its role as private common room just for their family. Leyton Hightower’s admittedly prolific seed seemed to be making a good bid of restoring that state of affairs. Or, at least, setting down the foundation for it. Baelor wondered how many women he’d be calling ‘step mother’ by the time his father was finished. He was at three at the moment. Probably going on four, seeing as it had been almost two years since the passing of Lady Druella. Alerie had once joked that Lynesse had to have sucked her mother dry before she even burst out of her belly. How else would such a lively, plump, big-boned Manderly not live past her birthing bed? Which wasn’t entirely unfair, seeing how high-maintenance Lynesse was turning out to be. Not that it stopped any of them from spoiling her rotten.

Baelor had, briefly, wondered if maybe something more sinister had been at work. If maybe their House had been undermined by their maesters like who knew how many others. Fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. Archmaester Ebrose was an old friend of the family, a genuinely kind old man, and the sole reason Baelor had a full five siblings instead of half. The Healer had been horrified by the purge, but that only made him seem less suspicious in Baelor’s eyes. More tellingly, Ebrose had strongly advised their father to lock down the Citadel and kick over the whole hornet’s nest the moment Stark’s raven arrived. Use a stick and carrot approach to encourage internal dissent instead of attempting any sort of secrecy. Compel someone to come forward. If it truly existed, no conspiracy so large could be entirely free of dissent or detractors, and trying to out-subtle the maesters was a fool’s errand. So Ebrose had argued.

Rightly, as it turned out. Baelor didn’t even know who was killing who at this point. It wasn’t because people didn’t come forward – they came in great number just on the worth of his chivalrous reputation. It wasn’t because they didn’t have evidence either, there was too much evidence for everyone and everything. There was seldom a way to know if it was true or planted too. It was galling. Hundreds of guards deployed through the whole Citadel, hundreds more all over Oldtown, yet still no rhyme, reason or end to the murders happening right under their noses. The initial purge had been entirely on his father’s orders and at the hands of Hightower soldiery, but it wasn’t long before that stopped being the case. Over two thirds of the maesters and archmaesters whose heads were now on spikes had already been dead when the guards went to seize them, conveniently surrounded with confessions or proof of their wrongdoings. And Stranger take whoever expected him to buy into the various ‘suicides’ that beset the Citadel the day after Stark left. There had been one fool who tried to blame it on the Lord of the North. He turned out to be one of the handful of people in the know about certain child-buggering shitstains.

Baelor had never dreamed Citadel politics could be so bloody. Hells, he’d not heard of there even being dissent in the Citadel before. The Conclave was supposed to run things with a very firm hand. Then again, that assumed it really was all maesters killing maesters, instead of certain worthies having a hand in it.

The number of bodies in drains and ditches seemed to have tapered off the past few days at least, but Baelor wasn’t ready to feel optimistic just yet.

He was glad Ebrose hadn’t complained when father ordered him to remain under the protection of their house until further notice. Losing him to the madness would have been a tragedy. At least the Holy Mother still had some mercy to dole out, even if that wasn’t what Baelor really needed.

Father grant me justice and Chrone your insight in the coming days, Baelor prayed as he approached the High Office. I am preciously starved for both.

The Lord’s Office was a perfect circle with four fannable dividers made of alternating oak and weirwood, framed in brass enamelled in Hightower smoke grey. The panels were each as wide as a man’s arm was long, and the hinge rods were fitted with wheels on the top and bottom, enabling them to slide and roll on the rails built into the ceiling and floor. Usually they were folded away behind the lord’s chair, both for practicality and protection. Today, though, they enclosed the high rise completely.

Baelor climbed the stairs with a feeling of trepidation but didn’t hesitate to push open the way.

Ebrose was seated on a couch to the right, anxiously wringing his hands. Leyton Hightower was at his desk, writing a scroll. And to the left, sitting at the small carrel where usually worked one of his father’s many scribes, was Malora. Baelor’s elder sister. She sat still in her seat, her long white hair hanging limply over her back and shoulders as she kept intent, blood-red eyes on the only object in that place that Baelor had never seen before.

A glass candle. Tall, twisting, sharp at the edges and colored gleaming jade, all except for the flame. It was an unpleasant brightness that gave off no color of its own. Instead, it seemed to be a patchwork of all the colors around and behind it, only stranger. The yellow of the desk’s wood shone like gold, shadows looked like holes in the world, Malora’s white hair looked like fresh snow, and her red eyes looked less like blood and more like glowing embers.

“Did you know the only difference between black and green glass candles is that black ones are broken?” his father asked idly. “I didn’t, until a no-name scribe delivered that one today. Along with an unsigned letter telling us that the Citadel has finished settling its internal matters.”

Baelor blinked and mentally readjusted himself.

“It was unsigned but written in fifteen different hands, four of which Ebrose recognised. I’m still not sure if it was a misstep or peace offering.”

Baelor stood half-way to the candle.

“They included a warning that other people and things may be watching through the flames when used, also as peace offering.”

Baelor stood half-way to the candle he didn’t remember approaching.

“Please don’t interrupt your sister though, as I’ve also been told that the flame will not last overlong.”

The knight shook his head and took a wary step back. There was a long list of something next to the candle, he now saw. Malora briefly looked away from the flame to underline something on it. Names, Baelor though through wooly thoughts.

“Take a seat, son.”

Disturbed, he did as told and quietly took the chair opposite the desk from his father.

The other man didn’t look up but slid a thick scroll in his direction, already open. It looked to be no more than one generation old, if that. “Read that aloud to me. Just the first paragraph for now.”

Baelor suppressed the impulse to shake himself out of whatever that had been. He took up the scroll and did as bid. Boons of the Andals, the title said, by Septon Cozbi. “When the Andals came, the Hightowers were amongst the first lords of Westeros to welcome them. ‘Wars are bad for trade,’ said Lord Dorian Hightower, when he set aside his wife of twenty years, the mother of his children, to take an Andal princess as his bride. His grandson Lord Damon (the Devout) was the first to accept the Faith. To honor the new gods, he built the first sept in Oldtown and six more elsewhere in his realm. When he died prematurely of a bad belly, Septon Robeson became regent for his newborn son, ruling Oldtown in all but name for the next twenty years and ultimately becoming the first High Septon. The boy he raised and trained, Lord Triston Hightower, raised the Starry Sept in his honor after his passing.”

His father hummed, but still didn’t look up from the scroll he was writing. Whatever it was, it had to be important. It was the best quality parchment they had, framed in gold ink. “Does any of it strike you as strange?”

Baelor thought over the words a few times before it came to him. “His wife of twenty years,” The knight frowned. “The mother of his children. As in more than one.”

“Go on.”

“What in the hells? Were did they go? Where did all the other grandchildren go for that matter? All our other relatives?”

“Where do you think?” Layton Hightower still wouldn’t look up from the increasingly wordy document he was writing.

“…. Father,” Baelor said slowly, his mind going over and over the same three words. Raised and trained. Raised and trained. Raised and trained. “Why the hells did we let some Septon take up regency of our lands and our family?”

“I don’t really need to answer that, do I?”

There were none of us left to gainsay them, Baelor thought. A great maw opened up in his belly, black and simmering.

“Read the next section,” Leyton said.

Baelor did, not trusting his own thoughts at the moment. “In the centuries that followed, Oldtown became the unquestioned center of the Faith for all of Westeros. From the dark marble halls of the Starry Sept, a succession of High Septons donned the crystal crown (the first of which was given to the Faith by the Lord Triston’s son Lord Barris) to become the voice of the Seven on earth, commanding the swords of the Faith Militant and the hearts of all the faithful from Dorne to the Neck. Oldtown became their holy city, and many devout men and women traveled there to pray at its septs and shrines and other holy places. Doubtless it was in part due to these ties to the Seven that the Hightowers were so often able to keep themselves separate from House Gardener’s countless wars.”

“Skip the next one. Read me the other two.”

“By the time of Aegon’s Conquest, Oldtown was beyond question the greatest city in all of Westeros—the largest, richest, and most populous, and a center of both learning and faith. Even so, it might well have suffered the same fate as Harrenhal if not for the close ties between the Hightower and the Starry Sept, for it was the High Septon who persuaded Lord Manfred Hightower to offer no resistance to Aegon Targaryen and his dragons but instead to open his gates at the conqueror’s approach and do him homage.

“The conflict thus averted flared up again a generation later, however, during the bloody struggle between the Faith and the Conqueror’s second son, the aptly named King Maegor the Cruel. The High Septon during the first years of Maegor’s reign was kin by marriage to the Hightowers. His sudden death in 44 AC—shortly after King Maegor had threatened to incinerate the Starry Sept with dragonfire in his fury over His High Holiness’s condemnation of his later marriages—is considered quite fortuitous, as it allowed Lord Martyn Hightower to open his gates before Balerion and Vhagar unleashed their flames.”

“Did you know there were six high septons during the Conqueror’s reign?” Leyton Hightower asked blandly. The man then slid forth an open tome. “Read me the addendum at the bottom.”

The black pit broiled. “The unexpected nature of the High Septon’s death in 44 AC aroused much suspicion, and whispers of murder persist to this day. Some believe His High Holiness was removed by his own brother, Ser Morgan Hightower, commander of the Warrior’s Sons in Oldtown (and it is undeniably true that Ser Morgan was the sole Warrior’s Son pardoned by King Maegor). Others suspect Lord Martyn’s maiden aunt, the Lady Patrice Hightower, though their argument seems to rest upon the belief that poison is a woman’s weapon. It has even been suggested that the Citadel might have played a role in the removal of the High Septon, though this seems far-fetched at best.”

“I don’t need to spell it out for you, do I son?”

Baelor stared down at the words, speechless. Times before he’d read the same histories, but after the past week they seemed to have a completely different meaning.

“Now read this,” his father pushed forth a raven message. “Quietly if you please.”

Baelor took the small scroll, read the tiny script of the royal proclamation and blanched.

Lord Leyton Hightower put down his quill, sealed the gold-framed scroll in wax with his signet ring, pushed it across the desk and rose to start packing various effects from the rear counters and bookshelves.

Ser Baelor Hightower took it with a deep feeling of dread. He read it. Then he read it again, desperately wishing the words said something other than what he’d craved for since New Year. The words stuck out to him. Some stabbed at him outright. I hereby do declare. Witnessed and signed by. In full possession of my faculties.

A House Head’s High Warrant.

The closest thing to abdication you could get.

Baelor looked up at his father, horrified. “Father, what…”

“I am summoned to account to the King,” the older man said as he loaded a satchel with records, writs and confessions. “I need also ascertain the fate of my uncle. You have full authority to do whatever you please with me gone. Depending on who gets to whisper in our good King’s ear before I get there, it may be some time before I return. If I return.”

“Father!” Baelor shot out of his seat. It nearly toppled, and in the aftermath the knight found himself not knowing what else to say.

“I’ve no time to discuss or argue with you if I’m to catch the high tide.” Leyton donned his satchel and walked around the desk to lay his hands on his son’s shoulders “But I don’t need to. Do I?”

“Father…” Baelor’s heart seemed to be bursting at the seams and salt stung at the edges of his eyes suddenly. “You can’t be serious. One would have to be mad to think…”

Leyton smiled grimly at the way he trailed off. “Yes. One would have to be mad, wouldn’t he?” The man embraced his son then. Briefly but tightly for all that.

Baelor returned it fiercely. This was nothing like what he expected this meeting to be. How he wished it was.

“Sharks are attracted to blood, my son.” Lord Hightower pulled away, cupping his son’s face what might well be the last time. “Remind them of our house words.”

“We Light the Way,” Baelor said bleakly.

“Yes,” Layton said darkly, pushing a small coin into his hand. “We Light the Way. The reach of the Faith is wide, but their foresight is poor. It took us generations to avenge ourselves on the fanatics that took us, but we had our victory in the end. We changed the faith itself to suit our purpose. Eventually, ever so naturally, it was once again the name Hightower that went to light the way. You understand, now, why I did upon the Citadel what I did. Don’t you, son? You, who now want to do the same unto others.”

Baelor didn’t agree. Didn’t approve either. But his father was right on one thing. He did understand him now, if just a little.

The other man nodded, not needing or expecting more than that. “Strike hard, son. Strike fast. Strike first.”

Lord Leyton of House Hightower ordered Archmaester Ebrose to sign as witness to the High Warrant and then left.

Baelor watched him until he disappeared down the lift, then looked around at the vast and opulent emptiness he was now Lord of in all but name.

He left. He couldn’t stand to be there right then. He strode away, across the southern gangway towards the mezzanine and then beyond even that. The doors creaked as they gave way to the howling winds of winter. The cold bit at him despite the waves of heat that came down from the great beacon above and behind him. He ignored it. Went and leaned over the railing to watch the city. The roads. The bridges. The harbour beyond. He waited there for his father to emerge from the grand entrance below. Watched his procession all the way to the docks. Watched him get on the ship. Watched the ship pull away. Followed it until it disappeared beyond the horizon.

His father didn’t look behind even once.

Baelor stood there for hours, thinking of trade, war, murder and the small coin that kept turning between his fingers, cast in the shape of a green hand. A thought came to him then, of what he’d thought was an unrelated piece of history. Of an ancient House that shared their features and interests. A house that used to be sworn to the same line of kings before being cast out. For growing too powerful, the histories taught. Their exile from the Reach had been around the same time that bad bellies started to determine succession, wasn’t it?

What a coincidence.

When he went back inside, Ebrose was fussing over Malora while said sister was ignoring him in favour of reading the list of names. The glass candle was no longer lit.

Baelor hesitated, then sat down at his father’s desk. It didn’t feel like anything.

Malora quietly gave him the scroll. That list of names. It was written in fifteen different hands and detailed the helpers, abetters, identities, occupations and addresses of the child-buggering shitstains. All but two of the worthies he’d been suspecting were on it.

“Archmaester,” Baelor asked, not looking up. “How much should we trust this?”

“I will never presume to make such decisions for you, My Lord.”

Such decisions. Not ‘any’ or ‘all’ decisions. “How much do you trust this then?”

“More than I trusted the prior Conclave, that’s for certain.”

He looked up in surprise. “That was beyond blunt.”

The Healer wrung his hands somberly. “Do you know how I was able to rise to my rank?”

“By being the best?” But he already knew it wouldn’t be so simple.

“I told the archmaesters how wise and good they are. I told them that my liege and my parents commanded me to put myself into their hands. I told them that I had always dreamed that one day I might be allowed to wear the chain and serve the greater good, that service is the highest honor, and obedience the highest virtue. And when one of my fellow scribes died of a bad belly a day after he openly vowed to crack the higher mysteries, I made sure to say nothing of magic or prophecies or dragons. I never planned to delve such matters regardless, but I made doubly sure not to say anything indiscreet.”

Baelor felt the broiling chasm in his belly burn with a poison flame. “That sounds like slavery.”

“It does.”

Baelor decided not to ask how much of that his father had been aware of. “How much should I trust this ‘peace offering’?”

“That only you can decide,” Ebrose told him. “I am not thinking clearly. I am still processing the possibility that I might be able to teach my students to speak freely without expecting poison in their porridge.”

Baelor clenched his fist. “They call themselves the ‘Twisted.’”

“Yes,” Ebrose smiled. “A fine homage, don’t you think? The origins of the Citadel are almost as mysterious as those of the Hightower itself, but most credit its founding to the same person: the second son of Uthor of the High Tower, Prince Peremore the Twisted. A sickly boy, born with a withered arm and twisted back, Peremore was bedridden for much of his short life but had an insatiable curiosity about the world beyond his window. So he turned to wise men, teachers, priests, healers, and singers, along with a certain number of wizards, alchemists, and sorcerers. It is said the prince had no greater pleasure in life than listening to these scholars argue with one another. When Peremore died, his brother King Urrigon bequeathed a large tract of land beside the Honeywine to ‘Peremore’s pets,’ that they might establish themselves and continue teaching, learning, and questing after truth. And so they did.”

Wise men. Priests. Teachers. Maegi. Argument and debate. It sounded so different from what the Citadel was like today. Or maybe had been. “Leave me.”

Ebrose bowed and took the lift down to his chambers, though not before seeing Malora to the sleeping area she’d set aside for herself. It had been years since the Mad Maid had descended from the Summit. She wasn’t changing her routine today, it seemed.

Baelor spent the day thinking. Of conspiracies, mysteries, crimes and options. He thought about the people of Oldtown who were living in fear. He thought about his reputation as a chivalrous knight and the damage it had been taking. Damage he could not suffer now that he couldn’t just spend it like coin to get his way. Like he’d been planning, even if it got him banished or exiled to soothe fears and tempers. He thought of his father, who surely must hate to be indebted to the Citadel, especially after he’d tried to clamp down on it only to weaken his hold even further. And he thought that his father probably still preferred it over being indebted to Rickard Stark.

He had a plan by noon, sent a runner out before supper, and town criers were spreading word by mid-afternoon, of his plan to hold a great speech in front of the Citadel. He spent the rest of his day with his brother and sisters.

And the next morning, upon confirmation that the guards had followed his orders to concentrate around the Mansions of the Pious instead of the Citadel, Baelor Hightower climbed the pulpit and gave a speech. A brief apology, a read of the King’s royal decree, full disclosure about the events at the Citadel, and his personal reassurance that things will go back to normal. As soon as he’s finished excising the canker represented by child-buggering shitstains like Septon Utt, matron Cozbi, Septon Dolion, Septon Donahue, merchant Enyo, Septa Deianira, Septon Aridam, Septon Bronach, Septon Ubel, and every other worthy on the far too long list he had with him.

The thing about purges was that they scared the mob. The thing about mobs was that they were led easily by the right people. And the thing about people was that there was always someone smart enough to notice when a group outnumbered all others combined thrice over.

He was not discreet. He didn’t need to feign his outrage at their supposed spiritual leaders. He didn’t need to mix rabble-rousers in the crowd. He didn’t even need to bring forth any witnesses. So many days of people living in fear combined with his impeccable reputation did all the work by themselves.

When the Sea Lion docked at Oldtown, he only spared whatever time was needed on the basic courtesies. When people told him the Lannisters were poaching their learned men, he told them the Citadel could mind its own business. And when the second decree came to Oldtown and unceremoniously requisitioned all the present Lannisters and their resources for the establishment of a new Citadel on the opposite coast of Westeros, Baelor Hightower only scanned it to make sure there wasn’t a mention of his father getting burned at the stake. Then he went back to his own business.

Keeping up with all the lynching going on was hard work.

It turned out that people could feel rather betrayed and angry on learning the things their spiritual guides got up to with their young. More than even public executions could appease. Those all too few he had proof enough to justify.

He could almost see the ripples as they burst from Oldtown and stretched to the very ends of the lands where the Faith held sway. The end wouldn’t be cut and dry, he knew. No matter. Whatever happened next, he and his would be right there to light the way.

Strike hard. Strike fast. Strike first.

Ser Baelor the Bloody smiled grimly as the streets ran red with the blood of priests.

 

[The Whispering Monk]

The Vault of Knowledge is now broken and pilfered.

The House of Faith defiled by its own and sanguinated by its followers.

Nature does abore a vacuum.

It's sure gonna get messy!

 

[Argent]

See, this is what I expect to read from Self Insert stories were the SI is not some wimpy little shit hiding for some nebulous "keeping canon true" excuse

Keeping canon true is death for any SI. If I wanted to retread canon I can watch or read the original work.


I am not sure about some of the advances that the SI has pushed but I do like that they have farmed out some of the development.

I do like seeing the North get some delvolment. It has so much untapped potential compared to the other regions. The new tax exemptions will definitely help the North even more then others think. It is also nice to see that even if the other high lords don't really believe the Master's conspiracy they are still mercenary enough to take advantage of the chaos.

 

[ATP]

So,Hightowers tried used Faith for own benefits,screwed it,get used by septons and now they are taking venegance ?
Plausible.
And who is killing maesters ? i would like to belive in good,or at least not bad maesters cleaning their nest,but that could be real culprists killing their pawns.It is for author to decide.

P.S i hope,that poor Malora would get good husband.maybe from North?

 

[Argent]

So,Hightowers tried used Faith for own benefits,screwed it,get used by septons and now they are taking venegance ?
Plausible.
And who is killing maesters ? i would like to belive in good,or at least not bad maesters cleaning their nest,but that could be real culprists killing their pawns.It is for author to decide.

P.S i hope,that p[oor Malora would get good husband.maybe from North?

I can see it. Basically a small version of the Game of Thrones in a city. Old Town has the Masters, the Faith, and a Lord as powerful as a Lord Paramount. Not to mention being a major trade hub between two continents. This is going to cause back stabbing and political games on every level.

So over generations I could see the Hightowers losing to the Faith or Masters and at other time both groups being Hightower pawns. It only takes one moron in charge for the balance of power to change.


As for who is killing the Masters. A bit of everyone. Some Masters are using the chaos to gain power or settle grudges. While other other power brokers like the Faith to Merchants are using this to grab valuables or weaken a rival group.

 

[Wiwerse]

karmic, I've got a question. Is the SI any good at the actual using of skiis? Is he aware of the technique of skating on skiis? Becasue if not, there could be some rewards doled out for that.

 

[Karmic Acumen]

karmic, I've got a question. Is the SI any good at the actual using of skiis? Is he aware of the technique of skating on skiis? Becasue if not, there could be some rewards doled out for that.

Cross-country skiing is pretty much synonymous with it, so yes.

 

[Wiwerse]

Cross-country skiing is pretty much synonymous with it, so yes.

I wouldn't say cross country skiing is synonymous with skating, skating itself has only been a thing since the 90s, and crosscountry a lot longer.

 

[Karmic Acumen]

I wouldn't say cross country skiing is synonymous with skating, skating itself has only been a thing since the 90s, and crosscountry a lot longer.

Huh. Another bit of trivia acquired.

But yeah, ski skating is exactly what I was envisioning for the recent trip south. There were plenty of flat stretches of land, and it was essential for going uphill too (Marwyn mentioned some of it in the dream, paraphrasing Mullin who'd mastered and taught it to the other nerds off-screen).

 

[Karmic Acumen]

DENYS

“-. 274 AC .-“​

“All hear!” thundered the voice of Harlan Grandison, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. “All hear Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, by the grace of the Old Gods and New Gods, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

All eyes were on the king as he rose from his seat of fanged steel. The red and black royal robes caught and tore in three different places as he descended from the top of the asymmetric monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges that was the Iron Throne. It was quite the feat for Denys to not let his face betray what he thought of it, let alone the king’s bedraggled appearance. The man had already looked a sight on his arrival to the City of Shit, but now he looked even worse. One wondered when the man had last combed his hair. Or trimmed his beard. Cut his fingernails even. Weeks, at least. They were looking rather long and uneven even from a distance. Made it easy to believe all the gossip, about how Aerys had never been particularly adept at outshining his own Hand. Maybe that was why he’d started to publically undermine, mock and humiliate the High Butcher. And the less said about how the king compared to his pale shadows, the better.

The grace of the gods is looking mighty unkempt, he thought with disdain. Stinks like a putrid cunt too, now that the late Grand Maester’s smell of pork has properly mixed with the capital’s native ‘fragrances.’

Still, he withheld his sneer. He’d stay in step with the pageantry. Pretend the truest loyalty, convey all the right affectations and don every false smile. The suspicion, the contempt, the moodswings that almost saw him arrested, the condescension of this failed son of an upstart dynasty of sister-fucking abominations, soon he could put them all behind him along with the rest of the filth.

“The King’s Justice has been dispensed, with Fire and Blood!” said Aerys Targaryen over the awkward silence of the court. “But that was merely the first step in redressing the wrongs inflicted upon the Realm by the order of traitors. Lord Darklyn! Step forward.”

Lord Denys of the House Darklyn emerged from amidst the other courtiers, strode upon the smooth marble of the great hall and bent the knee at the foot of the Iron Throne.

“Having verified the veracity of the ghastly assassination, subornation, line theft, and line extinction conspiracies perpetrated by the Order of Maesters, as confirmed beyond doubt by two Wardens of the Realm, the Iron Throne hereby issues the following proclamation.” Which Aerys should have done before calling Denys forward, but an upstart wouldn’t be an upstart if he didn’t like to see you kneel. “From this moment forth, allowing any one institution to control all knowledge and communication in the Seven Kingdoms will no more be borne!”

A stir went through the court.

“The matter of House Hightower’s potential sedition remains to be settled.” Denys couldn’t find anything ‘potential’ about his tone, nor about the conspicuous absence of Ser Gerold Hightower who used to lead the Whitecloaks until a moon ago. “But the Iron Throne is of firm and immutable view on this point. Therefore, the Crown hereby calls for the establishment of a new order of learned men, one removed from the reach and influence of whichsoever forces may or may not still be entrenched in House Hightower’s pets.”

It spoke to how deeply entrenched the Citadel was in the day to day reality of Westeros that over half the court was still surprised at the decree.

“Nevertheless, the Crown is neither blind nor lacking informed counsel with regards to the enormous endeavour that is establishing a new order of learned men.” Counsel which Denys had been prompt to sail down from Duskendale to volunteer. Immediately. The same day the first proclamation reached him. “Backing. Coin. The traffic of men and goods that only a harbour can supply. The patronage of a prestigious House. Closeness to the Crown, yet not so much that a similar conspiracy would be even better positioned to strike against the Realm, should this folly prove intrinsic to those who fancy themselves wise. Lord Darklyn. Please rise.”

It took you bloody long enough. He stood and faced the king, making sure not to look at the fake lion lest he truly go blind from vainglory. Denys had never shied from drinking full from the cup of envy. After all, the envy of your enemies always tasted so very sweet. This was neither the time nor place to revel in it though.

“Lord Darklyn. The Crown is of the mind that your House Seat more than fulfils all the conditions for establishing a new Citadel. Do you accept this honor?”

“If that is the will of Your Grace, I will humbly accept.”

“Receive, then, the Crown’s decree.” Aerys Targaryen motioned to his Hand, who handed a gilded scroll over to Ser Jonnothor Darry to deliver. “A new title, Keeper of the Wise, to be held by you and your heirs after you. A new Royal Charter for the City of Duskendale, lifting all boundaries of expansion and affirming the right to set and change all aspects of governance as House Darklyn sees fit. Furthermore, the burden of taxation is hereby lifted from the city and its dependencies. These boons shall last until such a time as the new Citadel, in whatever name is decided on by its founders, has achieved parity with the Citadel of Oldtown in representation among the landed nobility of the realm.”

Still amazed he’d managed to cajole such open-ended terms from himself, Denys took the scroll from Darry and opened it for a quick perusal. This, too, was part of the pageantry, as no one could be expected to read this grand a document for the first time in such a setting. Denys gave it a quick skim anyway. Speed-reading was among his more useful skills, and reading a given contract was just good sense, even if terms had been agreed beforehand down... to the… wording…

His eyes flew over the writing and abruptly stopped at the terms of taxation.

“Ahem.”

Denys slowly lifted his eyes to meet those of Tywin ‘Lannister,’ in whose stone-cold mien he could nonetheless see the spark of petty vindication as clearly as he’d come to recognise the spark of madness in the king.

“Lord Darklyn,” Aerys impatiently called. “Do you or do you not accept this honor?”

“… I accept with my most humble thanks, Your Grace,” Denys replied, acutely aware of the time, the place, the wholly red and gold livery of the troops ensuring his ‘safety’ since the Hand’s return to King’s Landing, and the vivid memory of the king’s reaction to Pycelle’s tortured screams. “Though I would like to extend my appreciation to the Lord Hand as well.”

Aerys seemed to be taken by a sudden fury, but Denys couldn’t help but appreciate even more the way Tywin ‘Lannister’s’ well hidden satisfaction faltered.

“Is that so?” Aerys Targaryen mused with thinly veiled outrage. “Do go on, then. Express your appreciation for my dear and old friend.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” He was more determined than ever to not associate the word ‘Targaryen’ with ‘my’ and ‘king’ even in his head. “I am confident that all rumors and gossip about a rift between you and your Hand will die a final death within the week. Why, the moment I learned of Lord Tywin’s delegation in Oldtown, I was convinced that they are, and always have been, but empty words spread by despicable malcontents.”

Utter silence filled the Great Hall.

“I confess to once having some small measure of pride in my quickness of action and forthrightness,” Denys added humbly. “But now I see how paltry such feelings were. I admit I wanted to disbelieve when I first heard it, this morning while checking on my ship down in the harbour. But now I see truly that even my most well informed counsel is nothing next to Your Grace’s foresight. Truly, Your Grace is blessed to have found a Hand capable of so thoroughly predicting and acting out your will. If not by your command, why else would your Hand’s own brothers have been collecting Maesters and books in Oldtown all this time?”

Lord Tywin’s face turned so dark that for half a heartbeat Denys wondered if someone had beaten him to poisoning his wine.

“Why else indeed,” murmured Aerys Targaryen, the spark of madness now turned towards away from Denys entirely.

Does your envy taste sweet now, Lydden? This is why you’re not supposed to drink from your own cup. “By your leave, your Grace, I will set out to do your will.”

“… Granted.” The King allowed at length, still staring at his Hand. “Fair winds, Lord Keeper.”

Denys bowed low one last time, but his last glance as he turned away was for Tywin alone.

It must kill you that I got here first.

He made it to the docks without getting attacked, assassinated or mobbed. Only the last wasn’t surprising after the ‘show’ of the day. How many other people wondered about the way the King had looked and breathed by the time the late Grand Maester’s screams finally ended? Because if he didn’t know better, Denys could swear Aerys Targaryen had almost looked aroused.

He missed the tide, but he’d expected it. It was why he’d come in the morning, before the burning, to order the captain to lift anchor if he should be delayed. He requisitioned a boat, making sure to pick an oarsman he remembered working the docks since before Tywin’s return from the Westerlands. He made it to his ship without issue and sent the man back with a silver moon for his troubles.

Once aboard, they cast off immediately, just as a small flotilla arrived from the south led by a galley larger than anything Denys had ever been on, bearing the Hightower beacon on its sails. For a moment, he regretted missing whatever drama would ensue next, but ultimately decided leaving was best. He was already losing his grip on the real emotions he was feeling.

Absolutely murderous.

He spent some time on the top deck. Watched his captain and the crew as they moved around him. Listened to their voices. Traced the banners on the sails of the ships coming and going. Waved back at the large, jolly man that hollered greetings at them from the top mast of the Baratheon flagship as it went the opposite way. He stared after it for a time, watching the ship and the steadily shrinking image of King’s Landing in the distance. Tried to imagine that the fading smell of shit took his murderous rage down with it.

It didn’t work.

He turned away from the aft, went to exchange some quick words with the captain, then headed for the sailor tying rigging near the front on the starboard side and stabbed him through the kidney.

“URGK!”

His sword wrenched through flesh, came out the other side with a wet squelch and sunk dully into the taffrail.

“Do you know what else I remember besides faces?” Denys asked idly, pulling the gurgling man by the hair. “Voices. And your Westerlander accent is not as buried in trade tongue as you think, my friend.” He viciously twisted his sword.

The man screamed in agony.

“I also tend to mind timing.” Denys pulled his sword out and stabbed the man through the arse, cutting his cock in half on the way out.

The shriek this time was of considerably higher pitch.

“Truly, Lydden is a fool if he thinks I’d not wonder at my man’s death to ‘mugging’ just days after his arrival to the city, leaving a spot conveniently free for an interloper to insinuate himself into my crew.”

Denys yanked his sword out, pushed the screaming man overboard, reassured his crew that he didn’t hold this one slip against them, and spent the next hour cleaning, sharpening and oiling his sword. Then he took over the would be spy’s job.

His captain wouldn’t have hired someone unless it was strictly necessary and the ship wasn’t going to man itself.

They didn’t find anything blatantly incriminating among the new hire’s things, save for a tad too many silvers. Not that he expected anything else. He didn’t actually think Tywin expected such a transparent ploy to work, because it didn’t need to work if all you wanted to send was a warning. Such a shame he played that piece so early.

Denys Darklyn spent the trip home plying his well-honed mariner skills by day, and too often failing to rest at night. He was too angry. And too angry to stop being angry, lest the rage give way to something else.

He didn’t take his time appreciating the view of his home the evening when it finally came into view. Didn’t emerge from his cabin until they were docked. Didn’t linger to smile, wave and talk to his people, who always appreciated their lord remembering their names and faces and asking after their families, and treated him like a thoughtful patriarch in return.

Instead, he secured a horse, rode swiftly out of the harbour and up the cobbled streets, sped through and past the market, and did the same for the rest of the way to the Dun Fort, the squat, square stone castle with round drum towers where his line had lived since time immemorial, unbroken and never usurped.

Unlike some other lines he could name.

It was in the privacy of the quarters he shared with his lovely wife that Denys, Lord of the House Darklyn of Duskendale, finally loosed the grip on his emotions.

“The Seven Hells take every man, woman and child spawned by the name Lydden!” He roared, throwing the charter scroll onto the bed in disgust. “And may the Stranger devour the fake lion alive for a thousand years!”

“Well now!” Serala exclaimed in surprise. “You’re mighty angry for someone whose last raven said everything went as well as we’d hoped. Better even. Care to share what ails you, husband?”

“The mad lion that calls himself Lannister is no better than a child throwing a tantrum over losing his toy! He took Aerys’ decree and changed the wording. Instead of sparing House Darklyn from paying taxes, it also spares the city and everyone in it form paying taxes to us!”

“He did what?”

“He’s beggared us!”

The last rays of daylight passed in a whirlwind of curses, rage and recriminations hurled against the walls along with papers, tables and bottles of firewine. The night passed too, in a fervor of lowly voiced rage, talks and planning. Serala tried no end of ways to calm and soothe him, and incite him to passionate hatemaking when that didn’t work. He rebuffed her. He couldn’t stomach the thought of thinking of that man while bedding his own wife. Not any man and especially not that usurper bastard.

He’d always known that line theft never led to anything but miscreants that never knew their place, but that bastard line… it truly was the worst. May the gods curse the soul of Joffrey Lydden, no matter how much poetic justice there was in the line of Lann the Usurper being in turn usurped by lesser blood.

It was well past the Hour of the Wolf when his rage finally began to exhaust itself. His thoughts were starting to clear again, though their paths were no less dark than they’d been since the throne room. He found that he didn’t regret playing his own piece when he did.

You should have used some of those guards to kill rumors coming from the docks instead of minding me, usurper dog.

Not that it would have worked. The report about Tywin’s little poaching operation had actually come via a Merchant’s Guild raven, conveyed to him by a man from a business he had stake in. Actual rumors wouldn’t make it for another week most likely, if not longer. Especially if the Hightower ship had left before Lannister’s brothers arrived at Oldtown, which it must have, to reach King’s Landing when it did. Notwithstanding all the ravens and their maesters that every Guild employed.

The Faith too. Denys wondered what chaos would occur back in the capital when the High Septon inevitably came in screaming about that other nasty business that seemed to have taken place back west. Assuming it wasn’t just a poor jape, or the ramblings of a man too far into his cups.

“What are you thinking, husband?”

“Stupidity.” The Citadel’s. The king’s. Tywin Lydden’s. His own. “And the chaos it brings.”

“My family back in Myr would tell you that chaos is a ladder.”

“Aye, a mighty fine ladder it is when the chaos strikes at its own foundation and your ladder falls down faster than you can climb it.” Denys scoffed. “When a ship springs a leak, the lions roar. If no-one heeds them, they jump to swim ashore with powerful strokes of big paws. When the holds fill with water, the rats that have been squeaking silently about it abandon ship in droves to seek the closest tower to gnaw at its foundation until it topples. Only the monkey continues to climb the mast of the sinking ship, proclaiming to be the highest of all."

His words settled eerily in the near total darkness of the winter night.

The quiet sat poorly on his mind. “What do you think, dear wife?”

“I think, dear husband…” Serala said from where she sat on the bed, thoughtfully biting on her lower lip while running light fingers over the charter. Seen in the reflected light from the moon and distant snow outside, the silks of the Lace Serpent were undone in just the right way to entice his imagination. He cursed Tywin Lydden all over again. “I think Tywin Lannister might not be as clever as he thinks he is.”

“Clever or not, he’s gone too far.” Denys turned away from the window. “And I promise you now, that man will die screaming.”

The walls of Duskendale shimmered palely in the predawn as the Keeper of the Wise plotted murder.

 

[Abhishekm]

Ok, so if I am reading this right Tywin is the bastard but still a Magnificent one because changing the wording so a city is exempt from taxes instead of the lord? Thats some true meme territory right there.

 

[ATP]

So,Denys would not rebel,but kill Tywin instead ?

 

[Wargamer08]

Ok, so if I am reading this right Typing is the basted but still a Magnificent one because changing the wording so a city is exempt from taxes instead of the lord? Thats some true meme territory right there.

The city was meant to be tax exempt so it could pour that money into the crown’s university project. Tywin fucked with the wording, making the city exempt from paying taxes both to the crown AND to the lord who’s landhold and fief it was. This leaves the lord in a fucking mess, he’s committed to building this university but the city doesn’t have to give him a dime back. He’s locked in a development program and had his tax base stolen.

 

[sandmanwake]

The city was meant to be tax exempt so it could pour that money into the crown’s university project. Tywin fucked with the wording, making the city exempt from paying taxes both to the crown AND to the lord who’s landhold and fief it was. This leaves the lord in a fucking mess, he’s committed to building this university but the city doesn’t have to give him a dime back. He’s locked in a development program and had his tax base stolen.

Seems like a rather careless and dangerous play by Tywin. Darklyn can just go to the king with the re-worded decree and accuse Tywin of treason since his rewording of the king's decree in essence fraud. If he's willing to do this once, how many other times has he done something similar and gotten away with it?

 

[ATP]

Seems like a rather careless and dangerous play by Tywin. Darklyn can just go to the king with the re-worded decree and accuse Tywin of treason since his rewording of the king's decree in essence fraud. If he's willing to do this once, how many other times has he done something similar and gotten away with it?

He could.Problem is,depending on Aerys mood, he could get:
1.Tywin burned.
2.Himself burned
3.Both.

So,it would be risky.

 

[sandmanwake]

He could.Problem is,depending on Aerys mood, he could get:
1.Tywin burned.
2.Himself burned
3.Both.

So,it would be risky.

Yeah, but Tywin has essentially ruined his family. You don't put people in that sort of position without finishing them off because now Darklyn has very little to lose. This is the guy who had the balls to kidnap the king in canon and thought he could force everyone to give him what he wants. Compared to that, going to Aerys with proof of Twyin's treachery at the risk of being killed himself is nothing.

 

[ATP]

Yeah, but Tywin has essentially ruined his family. You don't put people in that sort of position without finishing them off because now Darklyn has very little to lose. This is the guy who had the balls to kidnap the king in canon and thought he could force everyone to give him what he wants. Compared to that, going to Aerys with proof of Twyin's treachery at the risk of being killed himself is nothing.

You are right.And this time,if Westeros get lucky,Tywin would burn.Becouse his actions do not helped anybody in long turn,even his own Hause.

 

[Karmic Acumen]

THE STORM

“-. 274 AC .-“​

Gods below, King’s Landing smelled like shit! Even after his prior visits, the stench was so overpowering that he nearly fell over as soon as they entered the harbour. Which would have been an embarrassing end to the glorious epic of his life, seeing as he was standing atop the Windproud’s highest spar at the time! Fortunately, he was able to climb down the rigging without suffering anything more serious than rope burn. Not that Cressen fussed over him any less, but that was par for the course with the good maester. Honestly, that man! And he didn’t have the decency to even pretend at having the same problem. Goes to show what sort of iron stomach tasting piss every morning gets you.

They arrived half-way through low tide while the bigger quays were already occupied, so the Windproud couldn’t dock outright, having to instead lay anchor out in the shallows. That was all to the good though! It let him send a few men ahead of their own boat to ready horses and scout out the situation, as it were. Which they did most gallantly!

If only he could say the same about the news, but he couldn’t! It wasn’t gallant! It wasn’t gallant at all!

One frantic dash to their new mounts and a positively unheroic charge to the Red Keep later, Steffon Baratheon barged into the Great Hall just in time to hear the tail-ends of the verdict.

“-the gall to present yourself now, after all is said and done, and claim no part! You, whose forebears all but dispossessed House Targaryen during the Dance of Dragons! You sit there professing innocence as if we should be unaware that Hightower has always played both sides whenever others sought to usurp the Seven Kingdoms and its way of life! The streets of Oldtown are red with the blood of those you silenced, and still you’d have me believe you and yours were wholly nonbelligerent! Even though your actions are the singular reason why none may make any account of the truth! And now you dare mock the Gods as well, throwing my offer of Trial by Battle in my face! But then you would, wouldn’t you? You Hightowers never fight a battle you don’t stack, why would you start here? I wonder, is there even anyone left that would speak for you now?”

“Forsooth!” Steffon bellowed, pushing past the last gawkers into the open. “Who cares about speaking for him, I’ve a mind to speak at him a spell! You!”

Lord Leyton Hightower stared at him from where he was kneeling at the foot of the throne, two Kingsguard swords crossed at his neck.

“Yes, you! What’s wrong with you? Stop gawking, man! So what if everyone’s a pussy and won’t fight for you? Who cares if it’s a Kingsguard pulling the other sword? So what if you don’t think you’ll win, you should still try! Oh, it’s hopeless so there’s no point in trying, is that it? You want to preserve some last shred of glory instead of dying ignobly, is that it? Who cares if it steals your last shred of glory!? Glory is for the soldier! For the levy, the warrior, for the writer of songs! A paltry comfort for those who need it, barely any reward at all! The shiny liquor to numb the pain of atrocity! We’re high lords, we don’t get to indulge this fantasy! There’s just two things we get to rely on: duty and sense! Your duty to your people and your duty to the cause, whatever it is! Will you just sit there quietly, not doing your part? Your people did their duty, didn’t they? They sacrificed for the cause, and then were sacrificed when they strayed from it, isn’t that right? It’s your turn now! If your duty is to know when that sacrifice must come, then you’ve already failed once, haven’t you? Are you going to fail again? So much for sense! Sense isn’t just about seeing all paths to victory, it’s about sacrifice with clarity! Don’t fall so hard for one path that you ignore the others! Or will you reject the way forward because the things that drove you to this point happen to suck balls? Only a fool is ruled by pain or emotion! Only the weak try to cut themselves off these feelings instead of controlling them! Don’t numb yourself to survival or death, whether yours or anyone else’s, or you’re as good as dead! The dead do no good for anyone!”

The Great Hall of the Red Keep fairly shook as if beset by gale winds, as well it should! Then everyone everywhere looked at the Lord of Storm’s End and Paramount of the Stormlands as if they couldn’t even begin to comprehend his great wisdom, as usual. Even Tywin from up next to the throne. He even had the nerve to close his eyes as if in pain, the goldilocked shite! Never mind that he was only speaking common sense!

“…Lord Baratheon.”

“My king!” Steffon beamed. “Thank the gods these pressures are not imposing on you unduly, you almost look self-possessed! I wouldn’t look half as kept if I were beset by so many rats, let alone if I’d suffered so many ‘losses’ in my family.” He took a pause after air quoting to inspect Aerys’ appearance properly. When he was done, he let his public smile be replaced by his other, warmer one. “I’m glad.”

Aerys seemed taken aback. By his warmth? Or maybe his honesty? Maybe he was just shocked to see him at all. He could never tell with him, Targaryens were always so dramatic!

“Steffon,” Aerys sighed, slumping back on the Iron Throne only to jerk in place with a hiss as he cut himself on some blade or other. Something ugly overtook his face. “Lord Baratheon. You were not called to speak.”

“I wasn’t summoned to Court either, Your Grace, yet here I am.”

“Yes, as my own eyes inform me.” The king’s tone sounded beset by some dark something Steffon didn’t bother dwelling on. “And as my ears just informed me that you interrupted the King’s Justice to indulge a rant in the middle of my hall. Of all the gall you’ve ever shown, this one overshadows them all. You’d better have a very good explanation!”

“I beg forgiveness, your grace, even if I can’t promise not to do it again, this cannot be borne! Seeing a man strive for the lowest of the low is like watching people try for the middle ground, it’s just silly! Nobody ever knows how to be entirely good or entirely bad, how the hell are you supposed to know what balance even is? The only thing you should ever strive towards is your best! This is nobody’s best!”

For a moment the court seemed to be acting as a single being, unified in its disbelief at the balls it took to come out and say that with a straight face. Tywin in particular was looking down at him as if he doubted his sanity. Shows what they know! Long as you believe what you’re saying, there’s nothing easier than keeping a straight face! Now to see if Aerys took that as an attack on him, in which case he might need to-

“Treachery!” Came hollering from behind. “Treachery! Despoiler! Heresy!”

The High Septon barged into the throne room via the main entrance instead of a side door like Steffon had. His High Holiness looked windswept, dishevelled and frothing at the mouth, almost.

“Heresy! Blasphemy! Murder!”

“Oh ford Gods’ sake!” Aerys slammed a fist against his armrest. Steffon was relieved when he didn’t cut himself on anything. “What now?”

Right then and there, in the midst of a lord’s trial in the Great Hall of the Red Keep in King’s Landing, the High Septon went on a long, shrieking rant about Oldtown, House Hightower, septons being killed in the streets, and how Lord Leyton being a breath away from being burned alive could only be part of some master plan to distract from this atrocity being inflicted on the Faith of the Seven. Obviously.

Wait a second… “Septons are being killed in the streets!?”

The King’s Court almost erupted in a riot if not for Ser Guayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard grabbing the spear from one of the sentries and slamming it against the marble floor. Several times.

Loudly.

“You must answer this vile butchery immediately!” The High Septon screamed at the King, proving that his ability to read the room was as skewed as the crystal crown wobbling on his head. “When King Jaehaerys the Conciliator refused to repeal Maegor the Cruel’s decree that the Faith Militant be disbanded, he did so with the promise that House Targaryen take up defense of the Faith in its stead! Never has the Iron Throne failed in this charge so utterly! I demand that-!”

“YOU DO NOT MAKE DEMANDS OF YOUR KING!”

Aerys Targaryen’s screech was like the scratchy bellow of a dragon having its wings torn out.

His High Holiness reared back as if struck and the crystal crown clattered to the floor. When it came to a halt at Steffon’s feet, it was cracked straight through.

When the chamber was once more settled, insofar as it could after such ‘excitement,’ King Aerys Targaryen the Second sat back down on the monstrosity of swords, rubbed his temple and glared down at the kneeling man.

“Well? What have you to say on all this, Lord Hightower?”

“My son moves even faster than I expected,” the man replied with all the fatalism of one secure in the knowledge that his end had arrived one way or another. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, given the strong emotion that youth and idealism tends to engender against child-buggering shitstains.”

… What.

A black cloud gathered in Steffon’s stomach as the court erupted into uproar anew. He batted it away. Later. He’d deal with this new revelation later, when his current task was done.

The High Septon went to speak again, but Ser Gaunt had approached by then, sword hilt held in warning.

Lord Hightower continued with that same parody of composure. “Perhaps I was wrong to keep the knowledge from my heir for so long, but I still hoped my investigation of the Citadel’s rot might turn out sufficient information to deal with this other matter more delicately. The Starry Sept couldn’t be in on such things, I told myself. The Mansions of the Pious could not be entrenched with child buggering shitstains, I told myself.” Four ladies of the more delicate persuasion fainted in the background. “Unfortunately, in my disbelief I disregarded the truth until it was too late. Perhaps I chose not to believe, lest other, darker suspicions prove true as well. After all, if the maesters and septons could work in lockstep to prey on the young in the Scribe’s Hearth, what else might they be collaborating on?”

The High Septon’s apoplectic state suddenly shifted into something closer to horror.

“Whether or not my inaction emboldened the grey rats into committing to their insane agenda, I know not. But that it allowed them the time to overstep so soundly is undeniable. And so here I am come to account for my inaction. Only for my inaction.” Leyton Hightower looked up at the king with all the self-assurance of a man who’d just made it sound like his inaction was the only reason the grey rats had been exposed at all, and therefore he had done them all a favour. “If I am to get a last request, it is merely that my heir’s actions receive fair judgment. In the words spoken just now by the High Septon himself, the King is the Shield of the Faith. As my son is but striving to cut out the canker eating at the foundation of our people’s spiritual pillar, he is only carrying out Your Grace’s will and the will of the Seven.”

“You will not claim to be doing the Seven’s will!” The High Septon screamed. “You-you… you butcher! Do not make claims of virtue, when your own spawn does nothing but sit back and watch the sheep set themselves upon their own shepherds!”

“Wait, what?” Steffon asked when everyone else proved too much of a pussy to speak up. “I thought you said he was the one doing the purging?”

“There is nothing to purge!” The High Septon roared before Steffon had a chance to realise how his choice of words could be taken. His High Holiness then went on a second, even longer rant about heresy, butchery, septons being lynched in the streets not by knights or guards but by smallfolk, and how House Hightower had no right to claim any moral high standing in the whole mess. “You have no right to claim to be doing the Seven’s will!” The High Septon’s spittle flew everywhere as he proved once and for all his determination to go down in history as House Hightower’s greatest asset. “Your son does nothing but play at trying to contain the madness! All the ravens are clear!”

There was a brief moment of stillness, then the revelation sunk and the Court went in an uproar again, because of course it did. This time, though, Steffon couldn’t fault them for it. It was one thing for a member of the nobility to seek retribution in blood against the Faith for whatever reason. Even for House Hightower and their ancestral ties with the Starry Sept, the common word for that was ‘folly.’ But for the smallfolk to be the ones lynching their spiritual shepherds in the streets… well, that spoke of vastly different things.

Steffon Baratheon watched Leyton Hightower for signs that his surprise at the sudden news was feigned. He couldn’t find any. Then he watched the High Septon, wondering how such an imprudent man even got the post. Maybe he should look into the septs and septries in his own demesne too, he thought with dismay, and how their holy priests got appointed. If something so disgusting was happening in the heart of the Faith itself, how much worse would it be outside the sight of the great beacon?

When Steffon looked up at the throne, it was to see Aerys one word away from calling for everybody’s heads and letting the Seven sort the mess out themselves.

“My king,” Steffon called before sense lost its grip on the eye of the storm entirely. He stepped forward and put a friendly hand on the High Septon’s shoulder. “Before we were interrupted, you asked me for an explanation.”

“You-“ His High Holiness choked off as Steffon’s grip on his shoulder turned tighter. Just a tad.

“…I did indeed,” Aerys ground out at length, his voice turned raspy and his fists tight on the sides of the Iron Throne. “Go ahead then. Tell me. Why are you here?”

“Because a dear friend is here and he needs me. Word reached me by wind and wave of plots most foul and grim done upon him and his by the most despicable, dastardly miscreants! I waited for word from him. I wrote him. Sent runners even. All to no avail! I know not if it was treachery or if he’s decided he only deserves my friendship when things are bright and well. Either way, I could not bear it! So here I am! I’ve brought stout men to stand guard against further insult and injury. I’ve brought my healer, a man loyal and true. And I’ve brought myself, because with all respect to Your Grace, fair-weather friendship can go fuck itself! If my King permits, I would attend to my friend as soon as can be.”

What followed was a very long something like the quiet in Storm’s End’s Hall of Legacy, except without the pleasant chill of the underearth. The looks had nothing on the dignified seemings of the Durrandon statues and carvings there either. The court, the High Septon, Lord Hightower, even Tywin looked upon him with nothing but incredulity. To say the absolute least. The Others bugger them all very much.

“I…” And above them all, King Aerys of House Targaryen looked like he didn’t know if he should feel disbelieving or stricken. “… I-I’ll allow it.”

Steffon Baratheon made no mystery of his joy. If only Aerys could bear it!

He couldn’t. Instead, the king stood from his throne and looked anywhere but at him. “Lord Hightower’s trial will be deferred until these newest… developments can be taken into proper consideration. Court is adjourned.”

“All rise!” Thundered the voice of Lord Commander Harlan Grandison. “All rise for Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, by the grace of the Old Gods and New Gods, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

“-. .-“​

Court that day ended to the fatalistic bemusement of the condemned, the sputtering apoplexy of the holy, and a general state of bewilderment from all other ends.

A fine day’s work!

Now, first thing’s first: annoy Tywin!

“Tywin!” Steffon crowed on entering the solar of the Hand of the King. “Old friend! You old mouser!”

“Steffon. What are you doing.”

“I am hugging my friend!” Steffon bellowed in Tywin’s ear because the uptight arse always cringed so beautifully. “Don’t think I missed those looks, you cantankerous shite!” He rubbed his cheek into the man’s goldilocks a few times just to tangle them in his beard. Then he snuck a kiss to the man’s crown before pulling away, because Tywin’s mama didn’t live long enough to do that job and, by all the Gods, he’d either fill that void or the look on goldilocks’ face will kill him. One way or the other, he always had his way!

Ah, friendship! The duty that never ends!

Tywin beat a most dignified retreat behind his massive mahogany desk.

What a sad day! You should never retreat in the face of true love!

“You are far too jolly after what all transpired.”

“And you’re still a fucking dandy.” Steffon needed only glance around the office to prove his point. Gods, his green livery clashed with Tywin’s décor something fierce. Even the gold stag embroidered on his tunic didn’t fit the rest of the gold and red. With how fancy everything was in the Red Keep, you could almost forget the city just outside was an utter cesspool of disease where more people died than were born because they only ate bread and cheese.

“I’d almost believe that was a deflection if I hadn’t just seen you exhibit the same lack of subtlety as ever. Your skill in double speak is even more atrocious than before.”

“I’m deferring judgment!” Steffon ignored the barb. Maesters being cunts? Hightower being Hightower? Child buggering septons that he’d murder with his bare hands wherever he found them? Bah! “I didn’t come here for any of that.”

“You should be ashamed of that display in the hall.”

“Never.”

There was silence between them, and not entirely of the comfortable kind. Not that silences involving Tywin Lannister could ever be comfortable, the man was as prickly as an eldmother’s tongue on a good day. This was pricklier than usual though. But wait, that was a good sign! If the man hadn’t grown new barbs after finding out his maester was a traitorous cunt that might or might not have done despicable things to his wife and children, now that would be a problem!

Steffon inspected the other man. “You’ve been working yourself to distraction, haven’t you? That’s not right! You should let yourself grieve first! Otherwise you’ll just make shit decisions!”

“Do I look grief-stricken to you?”

“No, that’s my point!”

“My ability to make decisions is unimpaired, I assure you.”

“I’d take you at your word if you hadn’t told me yourself to never do that. Constantly. For the entirety of the Ninepenny war.”

Tywin said nothing, pulling a parchment to read instead.

“You’re determined to make this awkward, aren’t you?” Steffon did not hide his amusement. “You really think you can do me one better? Really?”

Tywin sighed in his chair and pinched his nosebridge. “Must you be so exhausting?”

“That you tire of me so quickly only shows how exhausting everything is in the rest of your life! That’s my point!”

“That’s not a point, it’s an opinion.” The other man affected his well-honed impression of a stone. “Are you done?”

“Of course not!”

“I thought as much. As per usual, you will not be satisfied until you’ve driven me to wonder why I even suffer you.”

“Oh please. If you didn’t have me, you’d have no joy in your life at all!”

Tywin’s return look could easily be described in words, but Steffon decided to be gracious and spare him the humbling. This once. “Don’t give me that look,” Steffon said instead. “You know you love me.”

“What I am is approaching the point where I wonder why I still haven’t had you assassinated.”

“Because you love me.”

“Steffon…” Tywin Lannister sighed in that condescending way of Tywin Lannister when he was being condescending without wanting to admit to himself he was being condescending because he didn’t want to acknowledge he wasn’t allowed to be condescending to his peers lest he face the reality that there were such things as peers instead of everyone else in the world being mere sheep to be lorded over. The cunt.

Unfortunately for the prickly lion, he didn’t get to vent his misaimed condescension because that was when Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard arrived. Came with orders to lead Steffon to a private audience with the king at his pleasure.

That was always double speak for ‘right now’ so of course Steffon disregarded it entirely and bid Darry to wait while he sent his former castellan to fetch Maester Cressen. The proud Ser Harbert looked like he wanted to protest being made a dogsbody but held his tongue. As well he should! Ser Arsehole was still in the kennels for being such a shit to his boy. Honestly, that poor bird had barely healed! Of course a few weeks wouldn’t be enough to train it!

Gods, with uncles like this, who needs in-laws?

“So, my Lord Hand! Any advice?”

“… King Aerys is his father’s son,” Tywin reluctantly deigned to enlighten him. “And his father was his father’s son before him.”

“Why thank you, Lord Lannister, that tells me a whole lot of dog shit. Now pull the other one.”

“Don’t try to force his Grace to love you.”

“What!?” Steffon roared. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’d never do that!”

“You’ve been trying just that this whole time,” Tywin said, reaching for his wine goblet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it’s probably just crap anyway!”

Bugger didn’t spittake, the uptight arse. All these years and still not one success. Oh well, one day.

One day!

The walk to the King’s chambers was long and solemn. Very long and solemn. They had to leave the Tower of the Hand, cross over to the far end of Maegor’s Holdfast, and navigate around and up several staircases and corridors before they reached their destination. Once there, the other Kingsguard on watch denied Cressen entry. Oh well, nothing to it then!

He put his hands on the maester’s small, bony shoulders and smiled. “Wait here. It’ll be alright.”

Cressen didn’t look reassured.

As usual, no one believed him when it counted. It was like people up to his most trusted were incapable of understanding the simple truth that that he’d never said a lie in his life.

Lord Steffon of the House Baratheon was ushered into the sight of Aerys Targaryen standing near a desk and staring at a candle flame in what he knew weren’t his normal apartments. Both because he’d been in them before, and because the present ones had no windows.

There, finally, was the king. Tall, haggard, platinum-haired, and wearing the fakest look of scorn as if it could hide that he was more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

When the door closed with the solid thunk of freshly oiled hinges, Steffon struck.

He stormed towards the man, pulled his dagger –

“Wha-GUARDS!”

- went to his knees, laid the blade at the king’s feet and raised his folded hands just as the door slammed open.

Steffon kept his head bowed and waited.

“… Guard,” Aerys finally rasped, sounding shook. “… A chair for my guest.”

There was a brief pause, then the sound of armored feet and the closing of the door. Steffon stayed as he was until the man returned with the seat and left again.

Aerys took Steffon’s hands in his own. Slowly. Hesitatingly. “… Rise, my lord.”

Steffon stood and loomed over the king in the dimness. It seemed as though it was closer to midnight than midday, such was the sparseness of the light in that well-appointed, awful place. Neither of them remarked on the room being already furnished with a lounge and four different chairs.

Aerys had his eyes averted and made to back away, so Steffon took his hands in his own instead, stopping him in his tracks. “Stark’s raven and then nothing. Hours going up and down Storm’s End asking questions of my son and my household. Days spent verifying my maester’s loyalty. Weeks of ravens flying between Storm’s End and every childless lord and widower that could serve as interim castellan, and who had a maester that could be spared in Cressen’s stead. And yet I’d have dropped it all instantly if you’d just called for me. Instead, I had to learn of things from hearsay. From rumors. Sailors at the docks, Aerys, why didn’t you call for me?”

“I needn’t explain myself to you!” The king hissed, pulling away. “You have no claim to the thoughts of your king. You are but the Crown’s servant. Remember that!”

“As you say,” Steffon nodded. “I’ll spare you my mind and see to my friend’s wellbeing instead, if my king’s leave still stands?”

Aerys bit back several things he wanted to say, looked away with something that could have been either spite or shame, and backed away until he fell in the nearest, biggest chair.

Steffon stood in the near-darkness and waited.

“… It stands.”

“I’m glad.” Steffon walked forward and forewent any seating, going instead to one knee before the other man. He watched him for a while. Waited for the man to grow comfortable with him so close. Even with how tall Aerys was, Steffon still stood as tall as his chin and twice as broad. When Aerys didn’t look like he was about to bolt anymore, he reached into a belt pouch and began pulling out grooming tools one after another, setting them on the ground over his handkerchief. He was no fucking dandy, thank you very much, but that didn’t change the fact that looking as good as he did was hard work!

Steffon picked up the comb and began working on the end of Aerys’ long beard. “My friend seems to have suffered some small injuries to his person due to the nature of his work. I would bring in my healer to tend to him. Will my king allow it?”

The beard felt almost like silk. Figured that even the longest and thickest Targaryen beard would feel smoother than a woman’s hair.

“…Do you vouch for him?”

“With my life.”

“… Why?”

Steffon snorted. “Because dear old dad was too optimistic, that’s why!” Silky or not, that there beard was right tangled. “Turns out old Cressen was suspicious of certain Citadel rats since before he even made it out of there. Going to my father with his concerns was the first thing he did. Unfortunately, he didn’t really have any real evidence and my father dismissed his worries. Can’t even blame the old man, ancestors hold him, who would have ever believed the maesters were up to no good?”

“Who indeed?” Aerys asked bitterly.

Steffon continued grooming the king, knowing that forgetfulness was the last thing he should worry about when it came to Aerys Targaryen.

“If your maester proves treacherous, your head will roll right along his.”

“As you say.”

Cressen was ushered in. The old maester looked rather harassed and a tad less well kept than earlier, but he mastered himself quickly and went to inspect the king as fastidiously as always.

Steffon worked with Cressen to help the king bare himself down to the waist. Then he resumed combing the royal beard while Cressen poked, prodded and wiped at the royal arms and back with his cloths and tinctures.

“The old cuts have scabbed and I’ve cleaned the latest wounds, your Grace,” Cressen said when Steffon was just about done smoothing out the royal whiskers. “But I can see some signs of potential infection. I can apply boiled wine or Myrish Fire, but it works best on skin freshly washed.”

“We’ll have a bath drawn up,” Steffon said blithely. “That is, if my king approves?”

“… I’ll allow it.”

Steffon smiled gladly and squeezed the king’s hands in thanks, then stood, went to retrieve his knife, came back and began to inspect the royal nails. A murder weapon wasn’t what he’d usually use for this, but this time it might be warranted. Them dragons grew some right gnarly claws when they let themselves go.

He spent the time it took the servants to draw a bath cutting back the nails, cutting them even further with his small field shears, then polishing them with his nail file. Aerys was looking at him fairly strangely by the end. Steffon beamed. “Never leave home without it!”

“… You are ridiculous.”

“And handsome! I would like to get my friend cleaned up now, if my king allows?”

The look Aerys gave him… Steffon couldn’t see it well in the darkness, but his raw voice made it unnecessary regardless. “… I’ll allow it.”

He helped the king undress and get into the bath, then sat on a chair next to him to wash his hair while Cressen bathed him and fussed over the man’s arms and back, keeping a running tally of every nick and scrape and what he was doing to each. Steffon let the maester’s words wash over him as he cleaned the royal scalp, making sure to go slow and steady to give the good maester all the time he needed to carefully clean and treat all the cuts, new and old.

When he was done, Steffon helped the king out of the tub, led him to the lounge and held his hands while Cressen applied his treatments and bandages. Aerys closed his eyes and grit his teeth when the Myrish Fire had its turn, but said nothing. Only gripped Steffon’s hands tight while waiting for the pain to go away.

“I believe we are done,” Cressen said finally, wiping his hands with a cloth and beginning to pack his supplies back in the kit. Normally he’d have them spread in pockets all over his person, but Steffon had made him dress like a regular servant until things died down. Fortunately, winter meant the man was able to wear a scarf on the ride over, so that no one need see the chain around his neck. “I will need to check on the gauze and bandages every morning and evening for the next two or three days, but the chance of infection is as remote as it can be now.”

“I’ll decide that. Leave us.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Cressen nodded to the king, then to Steffon and left.

Steffon helped Aerys dress in fresh clothing and went to work on combing the royal hair. He made a show of doing one last inspection of the royal beard and hands as well. He manfully refrained from criticising the king’s dainty fingers. No proper warrior’s hands, these. He bent the knee and took the king’s hands in his own again instead, watching his face in the deepening darkness. “When did you last rest? Truly rest?”

What could be seen of the king’s face in that gloom was like a sneer of disgust twisted upon itself. The light cast by the lone candle played sinisterly over it. His shadow on the wall looked like a beasts biting its own neck.

When the silence broke again, it was Aerys that did it, though he spoke so lowly that Steffon didn’t understand a word.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“…I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Oh.” Oh. “Alright then.”

“Nothing is alright!” Aerys barked before gritting his teeth against whatever else was about to come out. “You asked me earlier why I didn’t call for you.” Even that whispered admission seemed to pain the man. “That’s why.”

“Begging Your Grace’s pardon, that’s a shit reason.”

The noise that churned its way out of Aerys’ throat was so bizarre that Steffon only belatedly recognized it as laughter.

“How easily you judge!” The king pushed his hands away, stood and retreated from him. “How easily you judge your king. But then why wouldn’t you? Why wouldn’t it come easily to you? You, who never failed when it counted?”

“Well, you got me there.” Steffon stood as well.

Aerys seemed taken aback by his easy answer.

“What?” The Storm Lord felt a tad peeved himself now. “Self-deprecation isn’t a virtue and self-awareness isn’t a sin.”

“Why are you here, Steffon?”

“Because you’re my friend and I love you.”

The twisted noise that scratched its way from the king’s throat was no laughter at all.

Not for the first time, Steffon Baratheon wondered at the backwards thinking of most of mankind. If you know you’re good, morally consistent and at least moderately intelligent, didn’t it naturally follow that you’re probably better suited to speak sense than most everyone else? Who the hell decided that the right answer couldn’t also be the easy one?

“What do you know of love?” Aerys rasped, biting at his fist. “What can you know of love? You, who never had to work for it. You, who finds it so easy to love everyone before you even meet.” Aerys covered his eyes with a hand. “You, who are so terribly easy to love.”

“Ah!” Steffon realized. “You’re jealous of me!”

The words rung lugubriously in the ensuing stillness of the air.

“… Am I?”

“I guess so,” Steffon shrugged, ambling closer. “I forgive you.”

Aerys’ breath hitched.

“I forgive you for disregarding my feelings too. Leaving me to wait and worry for so long, honestly!”

“AND WHO ARE YOU TO FORGIVE ME!?” Aerys suddenly roared, turning and lashing out only to hit his hand on Steffon’s shoulder. The king grunted in pain and stumbled away but for Steffon’s firm hands catching him, but the gates to whatever inner hell this was were already open wide. “Who are you to forgive me? Do you even know what you’re saying? You think what I want is forgiveness!? You speak to me like I’m the one with sin!? How dare you!? What of the wrongs done upon me!? My father is dead! My daughter, dead! My sons, dead! Murdered, every one of them! Murdered for no reason than envy! And you have the gall to come here, professing forgiveness for some imagined slights of mine! Think yourself exempt from punishment!? My own Grand Maester poisoned my children and I burned him! That bitch that last presumed to share my bed, I had her tortured! Tortured and killed like she deserved, her and all her wretched blood! I burned them! I burned them all! Don’t you dare claim to be beyond reproach! You think you’re the first so deluded? You think Tywin didn’t claim the same? He came professing loyalty when he was already off trying his best to take advantage of all these crimes against me! I’ll-“

“Do you really fuck your kingsguard?”

The noise trying to squirm its way out of the king was like a hare being eaten alive.

“Because there’s this rumor that I just made up, see, that the real reason you keep them around is ‘cuz you like them bent over with their round, muscular arses up in the air so you can have your way with their strong, firm buttocks in all their hairy glory when your member goes and-“

King Aerys Targaryen burst into the harshest, loudest, most hysterical laughter to ever come out of the throat of a king. Then he lost all strength and collapsed where he stood, falling to his knees in Steffon’s arms who let himself fall too, gathering the king close as the laughter gave way to fat, ugly sobs that rose and fell and burst like pus from a wound, spilling out into the dark like poison without end.

The last candle burned low, then lower and then didn’t burn anymore at all.

The poison flowed and flowed for long after, spilling out into the world until the only madness left was of grief, tattered and hollow.

“-. .-“​

Noon passed in darkness.

But when it was done, Steffon Baratheon led the king out of the dark into the day, where finally Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, laid down to truly rest for the first time since the white raven came, falling asleep with the light of the sun shining down upon him.

Steffon emerged from the royal apartments with a relieved heart, a sheet of paper in his hand, his head stuffed full with royal confessions sad and terrible, and a storm in his soul made of wind and fury. He looked at the two whitecloaks watching him with almost wholly hidden amazement and held out the paper for them to read.

It is by my order and for the good of the Realm that the bearer of this has done what he has done. – Aerys, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

He inquired as to their schedules and rotations, then worked with them to assign men from his retinue in place of the Goldcloaks normally watching the royal quarters. It was an unfair slight to the watchmen, but Aerys had seemed to draw strength from the offer no matter how off-handed.

“If this is supposed to be a test,” Steffon had said when Aerys gave him the Great Warrant. “I won’t treat it as one. I’ll do whatever I think is right, not waste my time trying to guess what you want me to do.”

Returning to the Tower of the Hand, he caught Tywin just as he was leaving his solar to retire. Steffon contained himself for only as long as it took to get some privacy before he gave him the what for he clearly needed. “Listen to me, Tywin, and listen well! From this point on you get no more excuses! The king listened to me and heeded me, so you will listen and heed me as well.” Steffon took a long, deep breath through his nose but did not relent his grip on Tywin’s shoulders. He leaned forward, looming over the scowling man with all his bulk behind him. “If you need to talk, talk to me. If you need a shoulder to cry on, cry on me. And if you can’t find it in you to suffer the presence of Joanna’s children, any of Joanna’s children for any reason, foster them with me. Do you understand?”

Tywin actually glared at him for that, but didn’t reply. Whether because he was too outraged at his presumption, or shocked that Aerys had actually come out and admitted that ‘Tywin looks at me like I fucked his wife and sired his children’ (never mind all the timing issues involved), Steffon didn’t have the patience to care.

“Incidentally, Aerys was always going to reimburse you for that Citadel business.”

Steffon let go, turned around and left.

“I’m not mad, Steffon, but that’s no mercy! You speak of sense? Sense tells me I can’t even be sure my kin and children fell to poison instead of the gods’ cruelty. Sense would have me feel guilt over my grief! What should I believe, Steffon? Do you have any idea what madness Pycelle spouted in his ravings? There was no difference between his lies and his truths by the end!

His next stop was the dungeons.

“Do you know who he tried to bring down with him? Do you know how long this conspiracy has to have existed? Father, grandfather, Summerhall, the dragons, the Dance Itself! You think I’m the only one now wondering what really happened to them? And now this news of the Faith! There’s your madness! If I were mad, I’d burn Oldtown to the ground, Tywin’s head would be on a spike outside my window and this place would already be ash.” Aerys had barely been able to raise his voice by the end, when Steffon tucked him into bed. “I’m not mad, Steffon.” His voice had been so weak. So frail. “I’m not mad. Not yet.”

The Black Cells were precisely as black as the name implied. But the special prisoners were being fed well, Leyton Hightower had only been there for a few hours, and Gerold Hightower had long since accustomed himself to his new environment and was doing handstand push-ups when Steffon let them out. Leyton gladly accepted relocation to Maegor’s holdfast, if still afflicted with that odd bemusement that only the condemned mustered when they were resigned to whatever came next. Gerold Hightower didn’t accept reinstatement though, not from anyone less than the king. He refused to go back to the White Sword Tower and only complied with ‘sentry’ duty for his nephew when Steffon told him flat out he’d have him escorted out of the dungeon at sword point if he didn’t show sense. A good man, that Ser Gerold, stout and true!

Way too uptight though.

Not as self-possessed as he liked to act either, once the light hit his eyes again.

The Storm Lord dithered somewhat when that was done, torn between several directions. In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands when the Master of Laws Symond Staunton descended upon him with many anxious questions. That particular meeting ended with an acknowledgment of his changes to the guard roster, and Cressen’s all but assured instatement as Grand Maester at the next meeting of the Small Council. Which would be early the next day. To which he was invited.

The sun had set almost entirely by the time he was alone again. Deciding that Tywin had had his fill of him for one day, and that it was too late in the evening to take care of a certain last bit of business, he went to tell Cressen the ‘grand’ news, had a late dinner and bedded down for the night.

Alas, the new dawn came not with a Small Council meeting! It brought instead a sudden call by the King for Court to congregate post-haste!

It was quick business. One brief announcement by the king, then the court dispersed again in a furor of gossip that left Steffon in sore need of personal time with friends and family that weren’t Ser Arsehole. Unfortunately, both his friends were the most obstinate shites imaginable and his only family nearby was his cousin the King.

The King who’d just made him Hand of the King.

“Well.” Steffon said. “Shit.”

“Yes,” Tywin said. “Quite.”

Oh well! Such was life!

“How would you like to be Master of Coin?”

Tywin scoffed derisively.

Considering how little emotion the man mustered on his worst day, that more or less confirmed everything about the relationship between Aerys and him that Steffon had been deferring judgment on.

“Well, I had to make the offer.”

As he stood in the Hand’s Solar on the other side of the desk compared to the prior day, Steffon Baratheon watched Tywin Lannister gather his personal effects. He thought to the last words his father ever told him. Endure nothing, Ormund Baratheon had said as he lay dying. Endure nothing from anyone, save the Lord Hand and the King.

Ormund Baratheon had been Hand of the King too, in his day. Steffon wondered what he endured from his King, fresh out of the tragedy at Summerhall. Possibly nothing near what Tywin had to have endured from theirs. What he no doubt thought Steffon was about to. Shows what he knows!

“So.” Steffon sat down on Tywin’s obscenely comfortable gilded chair. “Do you have any advice now?”

“Do your job, expect no honors save having your competence trusted so highly that the king won’t shy away from being every bit as rude to you in public as you are to everyone, and leave your wife at home.”

“If I go without a good fuck for much longer, I’ll go nuttier than the both of you combined. Pull the other one.”

And for the love of Gods, Aerys, you don’t insult a woman’s breasts! Especially when she’s the wife of your childhood friend. Especially not in public! And Steffon still hadn’t gotten to the bottom of whether Aerys had cuckolded Tywin or not, honestly, that man! And what role did Joanna play in all this? There’s not speaking ill of the dead and then there’s thinking the dead were perfect saints. Both were complete dog shit!

Right! Moving on! “Well?”

Tywin paused and pinched his nosebridge, then gave him a long, considering look, walked over to the desk, leaned over to dig through the bottom right drawer and pulled out two tubes made of elder wood, from which he took out great scrolls, fancy as all get with golden ink decorating the edges. The man put them both before him with a sharp gaze of consideration, then went back to his business.

Steffon read them one after another. Then he read them both side by side. Then again. Then again. Then he bowed forward and rested his brow on his clasped hands.

Tywin was speaking now, about intrigue and politics and knowing when to set, when to curb, and never bend. Teaching him. Advising him just like he’d requested. He even sounded like he meant what he was saying. Of the rule of law to crush the braying of mob and ambition. Of how there was never an end to the paltry feuds and lowly ambitions of upstarts that needed putting in their place.

“This Citadel Town Charter is the greatest snarl I’ve seen since the so-called reforms of King Aegon,” said the proud lion. “But it’s only the first of many snarls you’ll be expected to unknot. By now you will have noticed the different wording. There’s a reason I’ve yet to deposit either scroll in the Archives. The wording may be blatant to coin-counters, but to an up-jumped trader like Darklyn?”

Steffon Baratheon listened grimly as Tywin Lannister explained his great trap.

If Darklyn somehow managed to get through Tywin’s iron grip on the Red Keep, the wording was by design ambiguous enough that he could dismiss it as a small misunderstanding if brought up to the King. After all, they all worked together on the document, the Hand, the Master of Laws and Lord Denys Darklyn himself, with final reading and sealing by himself the King. It would be madness to think the Hand would ever sabotage the effort in the eleventh hour. But the Hand gets the 'honor' of doing the drudge work, so who’s to say what could have happened during the final write-up? Mistakes could easily slip by the scribe’s hand while putting down the final charter on the fancy scroll. Who would dare accuse the Hand of sabotaging the Crown itself? More like it was a moment of inattention, a brief spell of exhaustion, the scribe failed to control his penchant for flowery courtly language and he, Tywin Lannister, will certainly hasten to write up an amended paper at once!

What grand a scheme. A spark of brilliance. A masterstroke, isn’t it just so?

“You never meant for him to stay quiet about it. You meant it as a warning.”

“Quite so.”

“This could beggar them.”

“Don’t be a fool, Steffon. Even without leave to install whatever system of governance he can dream up, which can render moot this whole issue in a hundred different ways, that was never the point.”

The point was to make him grovel and beg. “And if he doesn’t bring it up, it gives you, or whoever next becomes Hand or King, grounds to go after their entire House in the future regardless of how Darklyn interprets it.”

“If he is enough of a fool to do that, he deserves every consequence.”

Or maybe he just believes in Tywin Lannister’s reputation, down to the most dark and gruesome parts he bought for himself in the blood of drowned children.

“I admit I didn't expect the man to catch the issue from a single skim in the throne room,” Tywin admitted. “But he is no threat. One minor lord will make no difference to the number of lesser houses that will disdain you for your high office as a matter of course, so you needn’t worry there is any greater risk of poison in your wine beyond what the position of Hand brings along. As for armed recourse, that you can safely discount. What are you doing?”

I’m thinking I shouldn’t feel so inconvenienced for wanting to enjoy the King’s Peace.

Steffon finished writing his raven message – it always surprised people to learn his big hands could write such small letters instead of relying on a maester for it – then he put the pen away, rose and headed for the door. More precisely, the men standing guard right outside. “Harbert. Take this.” He gave Ser Arsehole the charter. The real one. Because for all his cuntish ways, he was loyal and brave. “To be delivered directly into the hands of Lord Denys Darklyn at the Dun Fort in Duskendale. You leave at noon. Now get me the Grand Maester.”

Steffon closed the door. There was a storm gathering at his breast, large and clamorous.

“… I should have known.”

Steffon went to the nearby sconce and held the fake charter over the candlelight.

“I should have known,” Tywin ground from behind as the gilded scroll caught fire. “As always when faced with a knot of any kind, your first and only instinct is to cut it and damn the consequences.”

And what of the consequences of tying the knot to begin with? “Are you sure you want to discuss knots with me, Tywin?” The storm frothed wildly. “I’m more of a sailor than you are.”

“Hardly.”

The storm tossed and foamed in the depths of his lungs, but now he knew what this other friend of his needed. “Then maybe you’ll indulge in a story. Why, I just remembered one! There’s this friend of mine, see. He’s a hard man. Been a hard man doing the hard decisions for a long time now. It’s given him quite the fearsome reputation at home! Unfortunately, he’s still just a man, this good friend of mine. Alas! He’s been digging his own family's hole diplomacy-wise, what with nobody daring to talk about him. Makes it awkward when wholesale slaughter’s his only go-to when touting his own horn, if you follow me. Terrible business! Between that and all the nepotism in the capital and whatnot, methinks he’s locked himself into this pattern where all this being the hard man making the hard decisions makes him miss it when the hard decision isn’t the right one. Robs you of other options, that, especially in the long run. The real irony, though? He was this close to having all the snags in his foreign affairs done and solved. I mean sure, the Dornish are oathbreaking, guest-right-defiling cunts probably involved in the slave trade, but they were this close.”

“I am not laughing, Steffon.”

The storm whined. “Of course you’re not. If it were up to you, I’d never laugh again either and then you’d have no joy in your life at all.”

He wasn’t joking, and by how quiet it got behind him, Tywin damn well knew it. But then, Steffon wasn’t joking before either.

“…Get to the point or we’re done.”

“Your wife just died.” Steffon deliberately looked everywhere but Tywin because he knew the man wouldn’t allow himself to feel anything if there was someone watching. “But instead of doing the human thing and grieving, you pushed all your spite over her death onto your baby boy, and then your hate at your baby onto a different party entirely. The same way you pushed your hatred of your father onto the Reynes and Tarbecks, except this time it was people who had nothing to do with it. You shat all over the efforts and legacy of the beloved wife who'd arranged the windfall in the first place. Says a lot that you acted the exact same way in both cases, doesn't it? Except while Tytos Lannister was someone you looked down on and hated, Joanna was the one you most loved and respected.”

“You dare.”

“You are wracked with a perverted sentimentality. You’re as free with your contempt as your father was with his charity. Tytos Lannister spent his love and affection freely while you don’t give out any. You spend your spite and hate freely, while your father didn’t give out any. You’re the opposite sides of the same coin because you’re both insecure maids that overcompensate.”

“Enough!”

Steffon flicked the ash off his fingertips and turned around. “You are your father’s son.”

Tywin Lannister snarled, literally snarled for the first time in Steffon Baratheon’s recollection. A gruesome darkness passed over his whole face in that moment. It could have been betrayal. It could have been hate.

Steffon Baratheon watched Tywin Lannister all but throw the last of his effects into a bag, sidled just barely to the side of the door as if to get out of the way, waited until Tywin made to get past him, then he struck.

The storm bubbled over and burst out into the world like a hot summer rain.

“Steffon!” Tywin ground his teeth. Literally ground his teeth. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

“I’m hugging my friend!” Steffon burst into tears all over the prickly arse who just couldn’t bear living if he didn’t make everyone and everything fall to pieces around him, the fucking arsehole! “You told me a lord isn’t a true lord unless he can be an arse when he needs to! But this isn’t you being an arse when you need to! This is you being an arse when you don’t need to! I can’t follow you down this slope! I won’t! But you don’t have to do it! Don’t go!”

“Oh for Gods’ sakes-“

“No!”

“You-.”

“NAY!”

“Let me go.”

“I SHAN’T!”

“Let me go, Baratheon.”

“You said my name! My other name! You’re upset! That’s good! You don’t let yourself go enough! So what if you’re not perfect? Everyone makes mistakes! Even if you don’t, you’re not the first person to make no mistakes and still lose! That’s not weakness! That’s life! Why the hell won’t you live it instead of-of-of this horseshit you dumb fuck!?”

“You’ve gone mad.”

“You’re the mad one, you skittering fuckweasel! Mad with grief, you and-”

“-don’t-“

“-Aerys too!” Steffon sobbed.

“I swear by all the Gods, if you don’t-!”

“You don’t believe in gods! Dramatic shitstains the both of you, a pox on shit parents everywhere, it’s like you’re both determined to treat common sense and all of its arcane offshoots like, oh, love and kindness as if they’re something unfathomable and impossible to understand, you MORONS!” Steffon was yelling and shaking Tywin by the shoulders by the end. “What the hell is so hard to understand about being friends!?”

“Gods,” Tywin wheezed. “Why have you forsaken me?”

“Because you told them to take a hike, you decrepit omelette!”

“…Unhand me or I won’t be responsible for-“

“NO!” Steffon bawled, wrapping himself around the man even tighter. “You’ll have to kill me! Stab me with that knife why don’t you! Do me a favour, why don’t you!? Go on, do it! I dare you! What about me huh!? What about my feelings, huh? You can’t expect me to just stop loving someone! Go ahead, do it! Do it already! Why won’t you do it? You won’t do it! I knew you wouldn’t do it, you don’t just stop loving someone once you’ve started you-you… you emaciated cave goblin!”

“Of for Gods’ sakes…”

Tywin Lannister sighed gustily and settled to wait for Steffon Baratheon to finish blubbering out his hugs, tears and snot all over the man’s hair.

Once the steel pole up his arse finished giving way back to his normal one made of prickly rosewood, Steffon reluctantly disentangled himself from the smaller man, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Loudly.

Then he checked the door to see if Cressen had arrived at any point, which he had. “Here,” he held out the crumpled paper. “For the Dun Fort. Might need to transcribe it first.”

Cressen all but fled from the sight of them.

Which was fair.

Steffon blew his nose again, folded the handkerchief with the clean side out and gave Tywin a once over. The look on Tywin’s face as he rubbed him clean of all the tears and snot was like a dead-eyed zombie promising murder.

Oh well. “I’ll ride with you.”

The Lord of Casterly Rock stared at him like he was some foul beast from the Seven Hells. “… Fine.”

Steffon beamed, hugged Tywin one last time, led him out past the suspiciously straight-faced guards, dragged him deep into Maegor’s Holdfast to have the former Hand take his proper leave of the king – they were both so civil! – and then rode with Tywin and his retinue out of Red Keep all the way to the docks.

“I meant what I said before.” Steffon clasped arms with the other man at the foot of the gangplank. “Talk to me. Write to me. Send your-“

“I know,” Tywin said harshly, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I know you meant it.”

“You damn well better! I never say anything I don’t mean!”

“It will be the death of you one day.”

“And I’ll die laughing!”

Tywin glared at him, as if it was somehow impossible that someone could both laugh and take things seriously at the same time. Then again, that was Tywin’s main probl- “… I’m leaving part of my men here.”

Steffon blinked, astonished.

“At least until you bring more of yours, though you’ll have to dismiss them yourself if you want them gone.”

“You do love me!”

“Goodbye, Steffon.”

“I love you too, Tywin. Be well!”

Steffon Baratheon stood on the berth and waved until the Sea Lion disappeared from view.

Then he returned to the Red Keep and went to the Maidenvault.

It had not escaped him that none of the King’s family were at court that day, or the day prior.

The music didn’t escape him either.

The night you return, we're having a feast
The candles will burn, you've conquered the East
Get home safe, as you can't be replaced,
The honors you've earned, you fought like a beast,

The harp strings and verses reached him before he got there. They were both graceful, beautiful and a right buggering to the soul. Didn’t use any oil to ease the kick either. Damn. Guess them sister wives don’t make for much better bedding than being a right royal arse did.

So let's toast in your name, raise your glass to the moon,
Shall we dine with the gods, here's a toast, here's a toast to you!

Painting the map with the blood on your hand,
Expanding the realm, and winning new lands,
Get home safe, cause you can't be replaced,
The night you return, we're having a feast.

The night you return, we're having a feast
The candles will burn the night you return…

He waited with Darry outside the door until the last words faded, but wasted no time upon going in.

“Your Grace!” Steffon bellowed, arms opened wide. “My Queen! Cousin! Your beautifulness! Give me a hug! And a kiss or two while you’re at it! You must!”

Queen Rhaella Targaryen blinked rapidly at the sudden storm that overtook her confinement, but stood gracefully in an ethereal whorl of platinum hair and red satin. She welcomed him into her arms, kissing him daintily on both cheeks. Well, once he lifted her high enough anyway. She laughed almost gaily. Good. That pretty face was made for smiling.

Then he turned to behold the fifteen year old harper who’d stopped strumming to watch them. The tall and beautiful Silver Prince with deep purple eyes and long elegant fingers. A memory emerged unbidden at the sight of him. Him and he sheer ridiculousness of the lofty burden of sublime tragedy Steffon could read far too easily in the boy’s face. Of the earliest words that Steffon could remember from his mother, Rhaelle Targaryen of House Baratheon.

Never wrestle with pigs. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.

Such a shame he never obeyed her. He never said no to a good spot of wrestling.

“Prince Rhaegar Targaryen,” Steffon ground out, walking to loom over the young man. “Your father tells me you’re a dandy with your nose in old books and head in the clouds. Seeing as he confessed in the same breath to being a right cunt, I’ll defer judgment.” The aghast look on that far too pretty mug was delightful. “All the same though, we’ll be living together from now on. Better brace yourself, my prince, because when it comes to my boys and their potential friends, I have very exacting standards.” Steffon smiled wolfishly. “Whether or not you end up calling me father by the time we’re done, you’ll damn well be treating me like one.”

Fuck the Maesters and their snobbish horsecrap. Screw the Seven and their child-buggering death cult. The Others take every last shit parent in the world. He’d do right by these dimwits and teach them how to live even if no one else will, if only to spite them all!

​

 

[Abhishekm]

Steffan Bartheon is too good for this world! Too Bright! Too Pure!