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Dany remained silent as Ser Jorah told his tale, but as the older man looked down in clear shame, Dany pressed him to continue. "And your act was discovered?"
"Aye, Princess," Ser Jorah nodded. "The laws of the North are not lenient, to the nobles or even the Starks. When Lord Stark learned of what I'd done, he demanded I present myself to him in Winterfell and explain my actions. But I knew going would have only one of two outcomes. My head on a spike. Or being exiled to the Wall. So…to my shame, I ran. My wife and I collected what little possessions we had, though I had to physically stop her from taking so much that it would leave my family in complete ruin. And we boarded a boat belonging to a sympathetic captain and left."
Part of her couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. But at the same time, instead of standing up and facing the consequences of his actions, he ran. "And where is your wife now, Ser Jorah?"
At this, there was clear anguish across the older man's face. "After we fled, we ended up in Lys. I ended up selling my services as a sellsword, and while I was off fighting to bring her coin to keep her well, my wife took a merchant prince as a lover and moved into his manse. I returned after over a moon's turn of fighting expecting to find my lovely wife waiting for me, instead I found her in the arms of the merchant prince, who proclaimed that unless I gave up my wife and left Lys, that he would have me enslaved for my debts. I…I tried to talk to my wife, but she pointedly ignored me, going so far as to even begin the process of…copulating with the merchant prince in front of me. Unable to take the sight of the woman I loved doing such an act…I agreed to his request, gave up all rights I had to my wife and left Lys behind."
Now Dany truly did feel sorry for the man. He'd given up everything for a woman he loved, his wealth, his home, his family, and his honor. And in the end, she jumped into the arms of the first man she ran across that could offer her a better life. "I am sorry for what you have had to go through, Ser Jorah."
"I appreciate your sympathy, Princess," Ser Jorah nodded, his eyes still downcast and his tone heavy.
Shifting in her seat, Dany turned and cast a glance towards her handmaidens, who were walking just a few paces behind her. She could tell that her three handmaidens were all growing tired, as were many of the others who were on foot behind her. "Jhiqui," she said, calling out to the larger of her handmaidens. While her skill with the Dothraki tongue was coming along, she was still far from proficient in the tongue and still required Jhiqui's help to translate. "Tell the column to stop."
Jhiqui immediately nodded and turned to relay her command.
"For how long, Princess?" Ser Jorah asked.
Dany didn't hesitate. "Till I command them to continue."
There was the slightest of upturning to Ser Jorah's lips. "Now you're sounding like a Queen."
"Not a Queen, Ser Jorah," Dany countered as she began leading her horse away from the column and her people that were starting to unpack for a quick respite. "A Khaleesi."
Ser Jorah just nodded and moved aside as Dany led her horse into the tall grass and away from the column with her handmaidens following quickly behind her. They were not alone in their wandering as Dany noted Rakharo, a member of her khas, or bodyguards, that her husband had assigned to her quickly made to follow her off into the grass. 'Good,' she thought as she kept her head held high, riding out a fair distance until she could just barely make out the column. Pulling her mare to a stop, she quickly dismounted and handed her reins off to Irri before watching Rakharo effortlessly slide down off of his own horse and join her. Despite being younger than many of the others in her husband's riders, the young Dothraki was extremely skilled in both riding and fighting. The latter of which, was the reason Drogo had ordered him explicitly to be amongst her khas.
Turning towards Dorea, Dany felt a familiar rush run through her as the blond woman held out the hilt of arakh for her. The rush only intensified as she drew the blade and faced off against Rakharo, who had his own blade drawn and held at the ready.
Normally, women within the khalassar, even the Khaleesi, did not wield weapons. But, as Dany was quickly learning, her husband Drogo was far from a 'normal' Khal. A few days after their wedding, he had happened upon her early in the morning while she was going through a few of the exercises and sword forms that Nox and Jon had taught her. When she realized that Drogo was watching her, and had apparently been watching for some time, she'd at first been fearful at having been caught. But then he surprised her by picking up a thick stick from the ground and motioning for her to raise her training blade. There had been, and still was, a language barrier between the two of them, but his intent was clear. He wanted to see what she could do.
And while she was more than willing to show her husband that she was no mere weakling, her desire to prove herself quickly turned to mortification as her husband repeatedly humiliated her, besting her with nothing but a stick. But to her surprise he didn't seem to gloat, he merely pointed with his stick or used his body to show what she'd done wrong. And each time he did, she corrected herself, which seem to draw a look of approval from her husband. But despite being happy with her improvements, it didn't stop her humiliation as Drogo again and again bested her no matter what she did, often ending the bout with a quick smack to her backside accompanied by a grin.
Eventually her humiliation overrode her desire to learn and her anger at not being taken seriously boiled over. Receiving one last smack to her backside, Dany let go of her sword with her right hand, threw her palm out and screamed her rage. The Force responded to her call, rushing through her, and seemingly feeding off her anger and humiliation as the dust, leaves, and whatever else was in the immediate are flew as if pushed forward by a strong gust of wind. But to her utmost surprise, her husband just crossed his arms before his face, leaned forward and…took her attack head on. His feet dug into the ground, leaving a trail embedded into the ground as he was pushed away from her. But then her anger was quickly dispersed as Drogo dropped his arms and moved faster than she had ever seen anyone move in her entire life. One moment he was a good twenty paces away from her, and the next he was sweeping her legs out from underneath her and tossing her training blade aside.
Before she could even raise her face out of the ground, she felt his rough hands grab her waist and tear her pants away while forcing her up onto her hands and knees. Knowing what was coming, Dany braced herself as she felt her husband enter her swiftly, taking her fast and harder than she could ever remember him doing before. Gritting her teeth, and not willing to admit that a small part of her was thrilled at what was happening, Dany waited for Drogo to slow before making her move. The moment he showed signs of slowing, Dany threw her back into his chest, surprising him just enough to knock him off balance. Taking advantage of the distraction, Dany turned and pushed him onto his back before straddling his hips and mounting him, keeping her eyes locked firmly on his.
Dany had no idea just how long the two of them continued their fight for dominance, but eventually Drogo's experience and endurance won out and she was left as little more than a quivering and exhausted mess on the ground. But instead of just walking off, as she expected him to, her husband instead wrapped her up in a blanket and gathered her up in his arms before walking back to the column. She'd been…surprised by his tenderness. And the surprises kept mounting as, after he'd brought her back to their tent, he called in the young rider Rakharo. She'd needed Jhiqui the full exchange later, but Drogo had claimed that his 'true dragon wife had claws and needed to learn how to use them properly'. And hence, Rakharo had not only been assigned to her as part of her khas, but also as her teacher in the ways of the blade.
Back in the present Dany narrowed her eyes as Rakharo began bouncing on the balls of his feet before rushing forward in a flurry of movement. Dany was by no means an expert in sword combat, or any combat for that matter, but she was not a complete novice. Her brief time under Nox's tutelage, not to mention Jon's few lessons, had given her the starting point for her. Though the sword 'styles', which she honestly hadn't realized was a thing, between the Dothraki and Lord Nox were vastly different, there was a similarity between the two. Especially between the Dothraki way of fighting and the style that Lord Nox referred to as 'Ataru'.
While Dany did find the form amazing to watch and useful, it was not her. She was not as fast as others, and the form required a great deal of stamina, something she did not have. Instead, she found herself favoring the defensive form that Nox referred to as 'Soresu', which prioritized defensive parrying and deflection over speed and brute force. The first time she'd used the form against Rakharo he'd made a comment about her being too stiff and not moving around enough, but after holding him back long enough to make him take her seriously, he didn't comment on his apparent dislike of the form again.
After a few tentative probes at her defense, Rakharo began his attack in earnest, his arakh moving almost faster than her eyes could track. If it wasn't for her lessons under Nox with the using the Force to help predict where her enemy would attack, she knew for a fact that she wouldn't have even lasted five moves against the young rider. Yet with the Force acting as her guide and eyes, she was able to deflect, dodge, or straight up counter every attack that was sent against her. After perhaps a few dozen attacks on his part, Rakharo seemed to think she'd advanced enough for him to go even faster than before. Which was something he'd been doing more and more with each lesson he gave her. He would start out slow, then slowly speed up his attacks and the strength behind said attacks until she faltered. She was lasting longer this bout than any before, and she was starting to get her hopes up that perhaps she would finally claim a victory against her khas. But just as that hope came, so too did a sensation from the Force that was so sudden that she couldn't help but take a step back and raise her hand in a signal for Rakharo to stop, which the young rider did immediately.
Dany's heart hammered in her chest as anxiety quickly built within her as her brother charged headlong out of the tall grass and into the small clearing she'd claimed for her training session. "What in the hells do you think you're doing!?" Her brother shouted, clumsily sliding from his horse, barely managing to get his feet beneath him before charging straight for her. "How dare you command me! Me! The king of the Seven Kingdoms to halt just so that you can play with a blade! I am the King! You do not command me, sister! And now…now you have woken the – the – akk!"
Throughout his rant and charge, Dany stood her ground, even going as far to wave off Rakharo who was ready to step between them. But she did not need her khas's protection from her brother. Not anymore. Just before he was within arm's reach of her, Dany calmly held her hand at level with her own neck, and when he was close enough, she curled her fingers inwards ever so slightly. The Force reacted immediately to her call, feeding on her anger and lashing out, bringing her brother to a complete stop so quickly his feet almost left trails of dust as he began clawing frantically at his throat, his eyes bulging as he tried desperately to gasp in breaths of air.
"D–Da–Dan–?!"
"Quiet, brother," Dany hissed, twisting her hand, making her brother's body contort slightly as she applied more pressure to his neck. Just as she felt he was about to faint, she released him, letting him fall face first into the ground gasping for air.
Stepping close to her kneeling and coughing brother, Dany slowly squatted down so that she was looking directly into Viserys's eyes. "You are my brother, Viserys, and I can forgive much regarding your transgressions. But remember, I am now Khaleesi to Khal Drogo. His people are my people, and they are not as forgiving as I. Continue abusing your privilege as a guest amongst my people, brother, and not even I will be able to save you from the repercussions of your actions."
Rising, Dany cast a quick glance towards her handmaidens and Rakharo. Each of whom were wearing identical looks of respect and pride as they observed how she'd handled her brother. "Irri," she called to her handmaiden who'd been teaching her how to ride like the Dothraki. "Take my brother's horse. Perhaps some time on foot will teach my brother some manners."
Irri nodded as she led Dany's mare over towards her so that she could mount the beast. "For how long, Khaleesi?"
Putting her foot into the stirrup and hoisting herself up into her saddle, she glanced towards her brother. Viserys was still kneeling on the ground, one hand clutching at his throat as he stared up at her in fear. "Until I feel that he has learned his lesson," she replied, touching her heels to her horse's flanks and urging her horse to move back towards where she knew the column to be.
The office of Triarchs was one that was held in the highest of esteems in the city of Volantis. The people choose those amongst the ones eligible to rule over them. And of the three Triarchs, Malaquo Maegyr had held the position longer than either of his counterparts. In fact, he had held the seat for longer than any other from the Tigers before him. It was a distinction he held with pride. Even if he was not proud of the fact that he'd had to play the Elephant's game to ensure that he maintained his seat of power. As he sat at his desk with various reports scattered before him regarding the state of the Tiger Guards in the city and beyond, he found himself reflecting, and even slightly mourning what it'd cost him to maintain his power.
His daughter, his first born, his lovely little Talisa, gone from his sight for the gods only knew how long. He knew that sending her away was for the best, both for herself and for their family given her mindset on one of the primary cores of their culture. But still, he missed her. Missed arguing merits with her. Missed her keen mind and caring heart.
He hungered for any scrap of information he could glean from the North regarding her. The few letters she sent were read time and time again like they were the coldest cup of water presented to a man dying of thirst in the middle of the desert. But from her letters, and from what he'd heard, his daughter had not only found a place amongst the Northerners, but she'd grown. Grown to heights not even he had thought possible. From the little bits he had managed to hear, the Sorcerer had taken her under his wing. Not to teach her magic, but rather to just teach her what he knew outside of magic. And with their two minds combined, they managed to find a cure for Greyscale! A cure that, while the primary component needed to be procured from the North, was relatively easy to utilize. That one feat alone, with her name attached to it, had helped him secure nearly half of his votes the last time his seat was to be voted upon.
Then there was the glass trade, or at least the threat of the glass trade, with the North. With word reaching Myr that his daughter was residing in northern Westeros, the only other region known to create high quality glass, Myr had been quick to secure their trade through Volantis and further south. But even with the new favorable trade deals, that did not halt the expansion of the Northern glass trade. And now Myr was doing everything they could to try and protect their primary trade resource, lest they get overrun by their neighbors, who were both just waiting for the slightest show of weakness to pounce.
"Honorable Triarch, I have a missive for you."
"Come," Malaquo said, not bothering to face the door as the slave walked into his study, "leave the missive on the desk and leave."
The slave didn't say a word as he silently set the rolled missive down in front of him before making a quick retreat. Passing a glance at the rolled missive, Malaquo felt his heart quicken as he noticed the seal imprinted on the wax. A wolf's head. The sigil of House Stark of the North.
Immediately cracking the wax sealing and unfurling the missive, Malaquo expected the worst as no one from House Stark had ever written him directly, but instead he was met with confusion as he saw his daughter's neat script on the missive. 'Why would Talisa write a missive under the seal of House Stark?' He pondered, starting in on the letter.
But as he finished the letter, his confusion over why she'd used the sigil of House Stark was set to rest. Replaced instead with an influx of conflicting emotions. Pride. Joy. Rage. And frustration. His daughter, his first born…was set to be married. To the Heir of House Stark and future Warden of northern Westeros, Robb Stark. And yet…that was all there was. Just Talisa informing him that she was getting married and that, if it did not impose too much of a difficulty on him, that she would appreciate his and her family's attendance at the ceremony.
He was proud of his daughter for finding such a match on her own, and joy that she was finding happiness. But at the same time, he felt a deep rage. This…boy…was taking his daughter from him. A boy he had never even met yet. A boy who had not asked for his permission to marry his daughter! And frustration born out of the actions of his daughter. He knew his daughter well enough to know that there would be no stopping this union, even if he wanted to. This was clearly her decision. And as she'd demonstrated to him time and time again, once she'd made up her mind regarding something there was no changing it.
But even as frustrated and proud of Talisa as he was, he knew that this union was going to cause just as many problems for him as it would opportunities. But those could wait for another day. Right now, he had something far more important to worry about. Writing down a series of instructions, he picked up a bell on his desk and gave it a single hard ring before setting it back down.
Almost immediately, the doors to his rooms opened once more, revealing the same slave that'd given him the letter from his daughter only moments earlier. "How may this one be of service, Honored Triarch?"
"Inform my second that I have need to speak with him immediately," he said, not bothering to look up at the slave as he took out a fresh piece of paper so that he could begin writing down his instructions to be passed on. "Then go to my estate and inform my wife and son that we will be travelling. At the same time, I must find us a ship captain to take us to northern Westeros."
The slave didn't question the orders as he immediately bowed and departed, leaving Malaquo alone once more. Pulling out several more sheets of paper, Malaquo went about writing down multiple instructions. The last thing he wanted, or needed, was for some fool to try and take advantage of his absence to undo what he'd accomplished.
Walking to the chambers of the King, Jon wasn't surprised when he saw Ser Barristan and Ser Oakheart standing guard outside the king's rooms. What did surprise him however was the fact that he could not hear the sounds of a whore applying her trade from within the chambers. And his surprise was increased ten-fold when Barristan held out his hand and stopped him from even knocking on the chamber doors, something the Commander of the Kingsgaurd had not done since early in Robert's reign.
"The King has a visitor," Barristan explained before he could ask. "And he has commanded that he not be disturbed until his 'guest' has left."
Frowning, Jon was just about to ask who this visitor was when his question was answered as the doors to the king's chambers opened, revealing Grand Maester Jeorge. "Grand Maester," Jon said, clearly surprising the man who jumped at his voice, making his multiple chains and large stomach bounce.
"Lord Hand," the Grand Maester bowed in greeting. "Forgive me, I was not expecting to see you waiting for the King."
"I just arrived," Jon answered, frowning at the Maester. There were only a few reasons why the Grand Maester would be summoned to the King's chambers, and none of them were good. "What did the king wish to discuss with you, Grand Maester?"
The Grand Maester frowned and met Jon's eyes without blinking. "Forgive me, Lord Hand, but such information is privileged and will remain between myself and his grace. Should the King wish to divulge the nature of my visit, then that is his choice. But my oaths will not permit me to speak."
Jon was impressed, and annoyed, with the man's response. "Then you have already proven yourself a far better Grand Maester than your predecessor."
Jeorge's face twisted as if he'd just smelled something foul. "Not that I enjoy speaking ill of the dead, Lord Hand, but that is hardly a complement. The former Grand Maester was a well-known rat who would sell out his own mother if it meant that he would gain even the slightest bit of advancement. Honestly, his appointment to the position of Grand Maester was a shock to almost all within the tower who knew him. Though given the exposure of the Order of the Guiding Hand and Pycelle's involvement with the foul Order, I suppose it is no great mystery as to how and why he was offered the position over the others who were far more qualified. Now, if you will excuse me, Lord Hand, I have inquiries that I need to make on behalf of the Crown."
"Then I will not keep you any longer, Grand Maester," Jon said, stepping aside and letting the Grand Maester waddle past him in the direction of the Maester's chambers.
After watching the man leave, Jon turned and walked into the King's chambers without even a second glance towards Barristan or Oakheart. Within the king's chambers, Jon was further surprised and confused to find the king sitting on the edge of the royal bed in only a loose-fitting shirt while he stared silently out towards his balcony and the city of King's Landing below. Closing and latching the chamber doors, Jon slowly approached Robert, who didn't even turn or seem to acknowledge Jon's presence in the room.
"Robert?"
The King didn't move, or even acknowledge him. He just stayed silent, staring out at the city below. "I can't remember the faces of my parents." Robert said suddenly, giving Jon a fright at the sudden and unexpected words from the King. "I can barely even remember what Storm's End looks like. And with the gods as my witness…I can't even remember what Lyanna looked like. But what I can remember is that day on the Trident. That day I buried my hammer into that dragon fucker's chest. I felt like a god amongst men that day. No, I was a god amongst men that day. Even with the wound Rhaeger had given me in return, I felt unkillable. Like I could take on the entire army and they would be able to do nothing but cower in fear, waiting for my hammer to end them. And it was on that day, perhaps one of the greatest days of my life, that I realized that that moment was the type of moment I wanted to die in. But…as you're so fond of reminding me Jon…we rarely get what we want in life. Or even death for that matter."
Jon took a step forward to comfort Robert out of whatever brought on this strange brooding upon him, but he stopped as the King began coughing almost violently. Robert covered his mouth with a cloth until the fit passed. And when it did, Jon felt his heart drop as Robert removed the cloth from his mouth. A cloth that was now covered in the King's blood.
"Sickness of the lungs," Robert said, holding the cloth aloft. "My death. Not the death of a warrior…but the death of an old sickly man. No offense intended, Jon."
Jon felt his stomach plummet to his feet as he stared at the bloody cloth. "How…How long?"
Robert shrugged. "The Maester isn't sure. Says it depends on how…aggressive it is. And it's still apparently in the early stages, so it's hard to say. He's given me five years. Maybe ten at best before this sickness claims me. And that's if I follow the Maester's treatment exactly. And even then, it's not a guarantee."
Despair began creeping in on Jon as he stared at his foster son and King. He was losing his son in all but name. But perhaps worse, the realm was losing its first non-Targaryen King. And Joffrey was nowhere near ready to take up the throne…if he would ever be. He hated having to resort to this option, but it appeared that he had no choice. The Realm needed Robert. Jon needed Robert. "Has…Has word been sent to the North? Perhaps this…Nox might know something."
Robert waved him off. "Jeorge is already heading to send word to the North and ask for the Sorcerer's insight. He believes that the elixir that Nox and that foreign girl created to cure Greyscale might help. But the shit hasn't been…how did he put it…tested against sickness of the lungs. So, he doesn't even know if it'll even work. So, for now, there is nothing I can do besides sit back and watch as a fucking sickness brings me low. Not some mighty warrior or during a battle…but a fucking sickness I can't even see. What a way for the 'Demon of the Trident' to finally meet his end."
For the first time in a long time, Jon felt lost. This was not some ploy he could overcome or an enemy he could outmaneuver. This was a sickness. The true assassin of Kings. "Robert…We need to discuss—"
"Not today, Jon," Robert countered, rising from his bed for the first time since Jon had entered the room and making his way over to where his normal clothes laid in a neat pile. Normally a King's groom would aid in dressing the King, but Robert was never truly one for formality or the ways of court. "I just learned I'm dying…and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. The last thing I want to deal with today is counting coppers or playing that fucking game."
"Then when, Robert?" Jon asked as Robert dressed himself. "Now, of all times, you must—"
"I know what you think I must do, Jon!" Robert all but yelled. "But right now…There is something else that I truly must do instead of whatever horse shit you'd have me do."
Just as Jon was about to ask what that was, whores he'd bet, a set of knuckles rapped on the king's doors. "Your grace," Barristan's voice came from outside the doors. "Your children are here."
Jon's argument died on his tongue as Robert gave him a glare that said that Robert knew exactly what, or rather who, Jon thought he was about to do. "Send them in, the Lord Hand is done with me for the day." Robert called out, walking past Jon with nary a look as the doors to the king's chambers were opened, allowing Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella to enter.
"Lord Hand," Myrcella instantly curtseyed to him, the young Princess wearing a dress made of black and yellow silk in honor of House Baratheon, much to the ire of the Queen no doubt. "We can come back if you are busy with father."
"No, no, kids," Robert cut in before Jon could answer, stepping past Jon. "I promised you two a walk through the city so that you can look at the merchants without having your mother constantly shooing you away from them. And that's what I intend to do today. Jon, whatever you want to discuss, we can do that later. Today I promised to my children…and speaking of, where is your brother, you two?"
Both children's faces fell as they shared a look with one another. "We don't know, father," Myrcella answered with Tommen nodding along. "We saw him when we broke our fast and told him that you intended to take us out into the city today. But he said that he had better things to do today than walk with a couple of children."
Jon had known Robert long enough to tell that he was not pleased, though he hid it well in front of the children. "Well, it's his loss then," Robert sighed before leaning over so that he was eye level with the two younger royal children, "I guess that just means that the coin I intended to spend on him can be split between you two then."
Both Myrcella and Tommen smiled widely as Robert stood back up. Taking both children by the hands, Robert walked out of the royal chambers with the two. Silently, Barristan and Oakheart fell into step just behind the king and the children as they made their way down the hall. Watching them go, Jon was struck once more by the stark contrast between the King and the children. The king was a large man, not just with fat, but just large with pitch black hair that had only a few wisps of grey starting to show. The two children however, with their slender frames and golden hair, were all their mother. And as he watched them walk, the same nagging doubt that something was very wrong began eating away at him once more.
Once they were out of sight, Jon turned and made his way towards the Maester's chambers. Nodding at the odd guard as he walked, he began to truly notice just how lopsided the rotation of the guards were within the Red Keep. For every one man of House Baratheon or House Arryn, there were easily two to three of House Lannister. And while it wasn't unheard of for the Queen to have men of her own House in the Red Keep, the numbers were…not of the norm. 'No doubt Tywin Lannister fully intends on influencing the Royal children once myself and Robert are…out of the way,' he thought to himself as he continued onwards, his mind racing on how to try and mitigate House Lannister's influence in the Red Keep. 'Not an easy task. I've been so busy trying to keep the realm together I hadn't even realized the amount of influence Tywin has slowly been slipping into the Red Keep. Both King's squires are of House Lannister. Nearly half the guards that are not Goldcloaks…and who knows who else is under Tywin's influence. The only place he hasn't managed to gain an ear is the Small Council. But even then, I fear that it is only a matter of time before Tywin places one of his own amongst the council in one capacity or another.'
Reaching the Maester's chambers, Jon forced the thoughts of the Lannisters and their influence on the side as he knocked on the heavy wooden door. Almost immediately, the door opened to reveal the Grand Maester with a rolled scroll in his hand. "Lord Hand," Jeorge greeted him politely, bowing as much as his girth allowed him too. "If this is regarding the King, then I—"
"The King has informed me of what you two spoke about. And of the timing," Jon said, trying to tell the man that he knew the King was dying without saying it. If those words were ever to be spoken aloud in the Red Keep outside of the King's chambers, then by the end of the day word of the King's demise would reach every corner of King's Landing.
"I see," Jeorge nodded, wisely not elaborating further on the subject. "Per the King's request, I am sending word to the North to see if he has any insight on the matter."
Jon again had to grit his teeth to keep himself from saying what he truly wanted to say. The man was useful, but in his mind the Sorcerer had far outlived his usefulness and was reaching the point where he was a danger instead of an asset. And that was without even considering his magic, which went against the Faith of the Seven in more ways than Jon cared to count. "Perhaps he will have something. But I have not come to discuss the King's private matters. Rather, I have a request of my own for you."
Jeorge nodded. "Of course, Lord Hand. I am at your disposal. Perhaps we can talk while we walk? I fear far too many years in the Citadel has slowed me down considerably, and the ravens tower is a fair distance from here, and I must send this missive out as soon as possible."
"This won't take long," Jon countered, "I just need you to locate a book, and have it delivered to the Tower of the Hand…discreetly."
Jeorge tilted his head curiously, but he didn't ask questions. "Discretion of the King, Hand, and Royal Family is paramount to the Grand Maester, Lord Hand. Just let me know what book you want and I will see it delivered."
"Good," Jon nodded, handing the Maester a small slip of paper with the book he wanted written on it. "See to it that this stays between us."
Glancing down at the paper in his hand, the Maester's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "Of course, Lord Hand. It will be delivered to you immediately. I will see to it personally after I send the raven to the North."
Sipping slowly at the glass of fine Arbor Gold in his hand, Petyr Baelish did his utmost to ignore the almost deafening sounds of cheering going on around him as perhaps a hundred or more unwashed and loud men and women watched, cheered, jeered, and laughed at the spectacle taking place before them. It'd taken Petyr more time and gold than he cared to admit, especially after having to cut ties with the slavers from Slaver's Bay after the accursed sorcerer stumbled upon him, but eventually he'd managed to clean out a large underground area amongst the maze of sewers and tunnels beneath King's Landing to create this arena. An arena that he'd paid good coin and services to the Gold Cloaks to make sure it was kept secret, or as secret as it could be. An arena where the men and women of King's Landing, both smallfolk and noble alike, could come and sate their appetite. An appetite for blood.
Hearing another loud cheer, Baelish glanced down at the ring that'd been set up in the center of the chamber he'd found. A ring that had surrounding iron bars to prevent any fighter from leaving until one or the other was dead. The premise was simple. Baelish had acquired a small number of gladiators from the slavers during their brief partnership. Each night the desperate or foolish of King's Landing could put themselves forward to challenge one of them. The prize? A small chest of nearly a hundred gold coins to any man who could best one of his champions. And despite being in operation for over a moon's turn, the prize had yet to be claimed.
A cry of agony sounded as the current fool cried out in pain as the night's Champion broke his knee, then his arm with the club in his hand. In any other circumstance, such an injury would end the fight. But unfortunately for the fool, there were two factors that prevented the fight from being ended. The first was that the only weapons that were to be used in the ring were not quick and effective like swords, spears, axes, or even daggers. No, instead the only weapons available were clubs, maces, mauls, flails, and spiked gauntlets. Weapons designed to maim and cause injury and pain instead of a quick death. And the second factor was just whom the chosen champion for the night was, a particularly vicious gladiator under his employ that simply went by the name 'Face-Taker'. A name he'd earned seeing as how he always took the face of his victim, before he killed them, and then wore it over his own face during his next fight.
Watching as Face-Taker grabbed a dagger that was being offered to him through the bars, Baelish turned his head away from what he knew was about to happen and towards the only other occupant in the small private seating area normally reserved for the high born who wished to watch the festivities in secret. Sitting on the edge of his seat, the young Crown Prince Joffrey was almost giddy with excitement as he watched with rapt attention as Face-Taker held the screaming and begging fool to the ground and proceeded to collect his…trophy for the night. Behind the Crown Prince stood the two men of House Lannister that were in his pocket completely. Normally the Hound would be guarding the young Prince. But Baelish knew that that man's loyalty could not be bought so easily, and that he would report what he saw to the King, or worse to Tywin Lannister. So, he had to wait until the Hound's watch was over for a time and these two were assigned to the young Crown Prince before bringing him down to his little show.
"I do believe that you won our little wager, your grace," Baelish smiled, while ignoring the pleas and cries of the loser and handing over a small pouch of gold coins over towards the young prince and motioning towards the small sand dial next to them. "The fool didn't last until the last grain dropped. Just as you predicted, your grace."
"Of course, he didn't," Joffrey replied, grinning like a mad fool as Face-Taker shot to his feet, his new bloody trophy held in his raised hand much to the delight of the prince. "When I'm King, I'm going to make that one a Kingsguard."
Frowning, Baelish swirled his wine around in his cup as Face-Taker picked up his flail and proceeded to end his victim by crushing the man's chest with multiple strikes. "While I can agree that the champions here are all good at fighting, they are little more than beasts by this point, your grace. Rabid beasts at that. Should you wish to claim them when you rightfully ascend to your throne, then it is your right to do so. But I suggest you place them in roles more suited to their disposition. Perhaps the King's Justice? Or perhaps your King's Enforcer or Questioner? But they are not suitable as guards."
Joffrey frowned as Face-Taker left the arena, leaving the small group Baelish kept employed to clean up the corpse and spread-out dirt and sawdust to soak up the blood. "Perhaps you're right, Baelish. Something I'm discovering is common when I speak with you," Joffrey commented, making Petyr smile inside as he realized his work was paying off as he'd started to gain the boy's trust. "I just don't understand why my father hasn't made this, what did you call it? Fighting pit? Why he hasn't decreed it to be out in the open."
Bealish knew he had to be careful with his next words. "Forgive my saying so, your grace, but I fear that your father has lost much of his strength in recent years. To be sure, your father is a man to be idolized. He did bring down the Targaryen dynasty, after all. But victory has defeated your father. That and the whispering of the likes of Jon Arryn and Ned Stark have weakened him to the point where he would no longer allow something like the fighting pit to be practiced out in the open."
Joffrey frowned. "When I am King that will change. I will not allow the crown to defeat me!" Joffrey said with as much conviction as one who truly didn't understand what they were saying could. "I will surpass my father's legacy! I will become a King that is remembered not just as Robert Baratheon's son…but as King Joffrey Baratheon! The strongest and greatest King the Seven Kingdoms have ever known! And I will start by opening a fighting pit in the ruins of the dragon pit. Put that pile of rumble to good use for a change, and erase some of the last remnants of the dragons from this land."
Setting his glass down, Petyr eyed Joffrey. "I do believe your father intends to have the Dragon Pit restored and gifted to the Sorcerer when he finally comes to King's Landing and takes up the position of Master of the Arcane."
Joffrey's eyes flashed with anger. "That will not happen!" the boy snarled. "The Sorcerer is an abomination! He hordes magic away from the crown, where it belongs! And you're right Baelish…the man is far too Valyrian in appearance not to be a dragon sympathizer. When I'm king, his appointment to the Small Council will end with the removal of his head!"
Picking up his wine, Baelish used his cup, and Joffrey's sudden renewed interest in the fighting pit below to hide his smirk. Everything was starting to fall into place. A few more pieces, and he would be ready. And then…chaos. Sweet chaos. His ladder to ascension. "I see we have a new volunteer," he commented, nodding towards the entrance to the pit where some of his men were half-leading, half-forcing a new volunteer into the pit. "One thing about the small folk, there are plenty who are desperate enough that they will do anything—anything, your grace—for even the hint of coin."
"It seems so," Joffrey smiled as the foolish smallfolk began begging to be let out as Face-Taker, now wearing the still bleeding face of his last opponent, walked back into the pit. "Let us put another wager on this fight, Baelish! Ten dragons says that he dies before the last grain of sand falls."
Smirking, Baelish nodded and flipped over the sand glass as Face-Taker picked up his favored flail while his newest victim shakily picked up a bloodied club and awkwardly held it in front of himself. "I will see your bet, my Prince."