Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast — The Queen's Chambers
Jaime stood by the bedside, gazing down at Cersei as she slept. Unconsciously, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
The soft silk blanket traced her sleeping form, emphasizing every graceful curve beneath.
His throat moved as he swallowed. Slowly, he reached out and lightly brushed her bare foot with his fingertips.
"Good morning, Your Grace."
Cersei's lashes fluttered. Her long, shapely legs stretched languidly beneath the covers, her toes curling, then uncurling one by one.
After a brief haze of drowsiness, she opened her eyes, a smile already playing at the corners of her mouth. "Good morning, Ser Jaime. Come help your queen rise."
Cersei took the robe Jaime offered and wrapped it around her body. Settling at the vanity, she eyed him through the mirror.
"Ser Jaime, you seem… different today. Or is it just my imagination?"
For a heartbeat, something stirred in Jaime's usually steady heart—but he kept his composure. "Perhaps it's your good mood."
She shot him a knowing look. "Tell me. What's really going on?"
Jaime stepped behind her and placed his broad hands gently upon her shoulders. "Princess Myrcella has been asking you to teach her how to braid hair. I thought today might be just the right time."
Cersei lifted her chin slightly, meeting his gaze in the mirror. Her smile softened. "Very well, ser. For your sake, we'll go to her shortly."
Red Keep — The Tower of the Hand
Tap, tap.
Grenn ascended the stairs at a steady, composed pace—but inwardly, his thoughts raced, analyzing every word exchanged with Varys.
The Spider was no idle courtier. His thoughts were sharp, his words sharper still, and his "little birds" heard whispers in every corner of the realm.
From his life before crossing into this world, Grenn remembered Varys as one of the most enigmatic power-brokers in the game—his alliance with Illyrio hinted at larger designs, far beyond the walls of King's Landing.
Now that Grenn had stepped into the realm of political players, he too was developing a position of his own.
Though Varys had spoken with warmth and courtesy, Grenn had heard enough sweet lies in his life to know how deadly they could be. Every word from a man like the Master of Whisperers came with weight—and with purpose.
What did Varys want?
Was he seeking to gather loyal remnants of House Targaryen's old vassals? Preparing the way for Daenerys's return?
Grenn dismissed the notion. Without dragons, Daenerys would never command the kind of backing she needed—not from anyone with real power.
He had hoped to quietly gather strength before the true conflict began. But from the moment he'd stepped into King's Landing, the game had forced him into motion. Every gesture from the great lords and courtiers pulled at his time, his focus, his resolve.
It was time to stop reacting—and start playing his own hand.
He reached the second floor.
Scanning the corridor, he spotted a goldcloak approaching.
"Good day, Lord Baron. Please follow me."
Grenn raised an eyebrow, but nodded.
The outer defenses seemed relaxed—but they weren't. While each floor of the Tower of the Hand looked distinct, Grenn could tell the tower operated with its own quiet, interconnected precision.
The goldcloak led him to a door with no markings, then stopped.
Without a word, he opened it and stepped aside.
"Please enter, my lord."
Inside the Study
Grenn stepped in.
Behind the desk, buried in papers, sat an aging man.
Grenn walked forward and stopped a respectful distance from the table. He placed a hand to his chest and bowed.
"Good morning, Lord Jon."
Jon Arryn looked up from his writing. His faded eyes glanced at Grenn, then returned to the parchment.
"I've still a few matters to finish. I dislike having my work interrupted—even by stewards. Make yourself comfortable. Find a chair. There's wine in the cabinet."
He spoke like an aging uncle addressing a young nephew. The tone was warm, familiar.
Then, just as quickly, the old man returned to his work.
Grenn, never one to drink wine casually, simply pulled a chair forward, sat down, and closed his eyes in quiet meditation.
Time passed.
Finally, Jon set his documents aside. With a thump, he sealed one with a stamp and pushed it to the edge of the desk.
At the sound, Grenn opened his eyes—and met the old man's gaze.
"I've grown slow in my old age… Apologies for the wait, young baron. But you're patient. That speaks well of you."
Jon's voice remained cordial—but Grenn, behind his courteous nod, stayed cautious.
Leaning back, the Lord of the Vale spoke again. "As Warden of the East, I deeply regret what happened to your cousin. A terrible wrong."
He sighed.
"As a gesture of goodwill, I could help her find a worthy young man. Someone to give her a fresh start."
Grenn responded in a measured tone. "I'm grateful for your kindness, my lord. But she wishes to rest for now."
"Fair enough. She's still young. When she's ready, let me know. There are fine young men still to be found in the Vale."
Grenn bowed again, hand to heart.
Jon's expression grew heavier. "I can feel your anger. A mere merchant of Gulltown—bold enough to insult a noble lady…"
He paused.
"Did the blood of that merchant's family satisfy your wrath?"
Grenn's eyes flickered with surprise. "Whose blood, my lord?"
"The Morsel-Mekar family," Jon said, voice lowering. "Must I remind you further?"
The kindly old lord was gone.
.
.
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