Chapter 42
Two fingers ran down the faint mortar line in the wall. I kept them flush against the stone until I hit the floor, then moved on methodically up the next line, feeling for any gap in the stonework, any minute draft bleeding through from a passage behind.
Nothing. Not on this side or the one opposite as well.
I'd already checked behind the hanging Targaryen banner, an all black and red silk piece showing Aegon's conquest, and the elaborately carved wooden dresser that probably cost more than most smallfolk earned in their lifetimes. The frame of the four-poster bed. The seams where the floor met the walls. Even behind the partitions of the privy, which had been an unpleasant experience I'd rather not repeat.
Half of me had just been curious to see if I'd been put into one of the medievally bugged rooms in the Red Keep. The other half was simply the intensely paranoid part of my brain that usually lay silent and dormant. Except it had been activated like a sleeping agent upon arrival in this city.
King's Landing did that to you. Made you see threats in every shadow, listeners behind every wall.
I sighed, sitting back on my heels. This was becoming embarrassing. I wondered what the nobles at court would say if they saw me on all fours pushing my fingers against solid stone walls and mortar joints like some architectural pervert.
"That Tarth lad has finally lost his mind. Spent too long with the Dornish, he did. Or maybe it was the fire at the Weeping Town. Breathed in too much smoke."
Rising, I brushed my hands free of the light coating of dust from the stone and fixed up my clothes, smoothing out any creases. I was going fancy tonight and had chosen to wear the best outfit I'd brought to the city. Dark lambswool breeches that fit well without being ostentatious. An azure velvet doublet embroidered with the moon and sun of House Tarth, the stitching fine enough that it had probably taken some poor woman weeks to complete.
And that wasn't all.
My boots were of supple leather, broken in enough to be comfortable but still presentable. My hair was slicked back with some kind of beeswax paste a servant had provided. And around my neck hung a silver chain that fell to my upper chest, not quite reaching the doublet's first button.
That's how you had to roll when the big wigs invited you to dinner. If I'd had a good mirror to look at myself in, I'd have finger-gunned it.
In reality, this whole thing had brought me more headache than anything else.
After speaking with the king—and wasn't that just a spine-tingling experience that would in no way make me all the more susceptible to paranoia—I was soon informed after passing through court that Lord Tywin Lannister requested the pleasure of my company at supper.
The pleasure. As if Tywin Lannister had ever in his life experienced pleasure in the conventional sense.
Though I was grateful for an opportunity to rub shoulders with the most powerful non-royal man in the kingdoms, especially when that man had a habit of paying debts and I'd recently had a hand in saving his younger brother, I still had to hide a wince when the messenger delivered the invite within hearing of some courtiers and servants.
Granted, for the heir of a middling house, any opportunity to further befriend a Lord Paramount was a significant boon. Especially when that Lord Paramount held sway over not just his own lands but the entire kingdom as Hand of the King.
One flick of Tywin's pen could see House Tarth getting favorable trade agreements in King's Landing. Tax breaks. Preferential treatment at court. These were not nothing. These were the levers that moved houses from middling to significant.
The problem was that I had spent an hour earlier that day kneeling in front of a man who had asked me to describe burning a town as if it were a sensual experience. A man who was half-mad and getting worse, and who was known to regard Tywin Lannister with a suspicion that had been curdling for years into something genuinely dangerous. Dining with the Lion at the first available opportunity was not the kind of behavior that read as uncomplicated loyalty to a paranoid king.
I'd known it would be like this eventually. Playing friendly with all sides in the complex and labyrinthine mess that was the pre-rebellion political climate would become impossible. I just hadn't expected the first domino to appear before me quite so soon, already tethering in its spot.
If things went as they did in the books, my family would end up siding with the rebel lords by simple inertia. Lord Selwyn wouldn't betray the Baratheons unless something catastrophic happened. I knew that for a fact. The man was loyal to his bones, honorable in ways that would probably get him killed if the world turned dark enough.
But I was here now. The butterflies had flown, and the world would never be the same. Perhaps the rebellion wouldn't even happen. Perhaps Aerys would slip and impale himself upon his pointy throne and Rhaegar Targaryen would rule wisely, forgetting all about northern ladies and prophecies and the doom he'd bring down on his house.
Yet if it did happen… could siding with the Targaryens see more benefit to myself and my family?
It was something I'd thought about, of course. Couldn't help it. The future was a burden as much as a boon. A weight that pressed down on every decision, making me second-guess actions that should have been simple.
Even then, making that choice was more complicated than it seemed. The Targaryen cause was fractured. Aerys and Rhaegar both commanded different, embattled factions that wouldn't easily accept dual loyalty. Eventually, even if you put down the rebellion, you would have to side with either the Mad King or with the Prince. No middle ground.
Clearly, I'd already attracted the former's attention. And though it was risky, it had its benefits. It was said that in the final years of his reign, King Aerys had showered his most fervent supporters with rewards. Lands and honors and offices and anything within his power. A most enticing proposition, to be sure.
But knowing what he would become, tying myself too closely to Aerys was as mad as burning men alive before going on to rape your sister-wife. He was as likely to turn on allies who stepped a foot out of line as he was to murder would-be rebels and usurpers. And I didn't have it in me to spend years shaking my tail like a loyal dog to such a vile man, even if he promised me the Iron Throne itself.
I also couldn't lie and say I'd come out unscathed after sixteen years of Westerosi education and a fully fleshed out life. Like my father, and like all the men I'd grown to admire in these lands, I couldn't easily break my word, my vows, and betray my liege lord—a man I respected—on a whim. Certainly not for such a futile thing as the favor of a mercurial king.
Rhaegar, however, was a different matter. I knew what the histories told of him, and what biased men and women thought of the prince, good or bad. But I didn't know his true heart and mind. Didn't know if he was the tragic hero some had painted him as, or the self-absorbed prophecy-obsessed fool who'd doomed his family.
Would I raise banners in rebellion if I found out the whole Lyanna thing was a lie? A willing elopement rather than an abduction?
If I didn't, would I then go against my Baratheon lords? Against my own father?
The idea was unthinkable. But it churned around in my brain all the same, an unwelcome guest that wouldn't leave.
For a few hours after the meeting with Aerys and receiving the invite, I'd roamed aimlessly around the enormous complex that was the Red Keep. Since I hadn't been here since I was a boy—and hadn't been granted the freedom to explore then—I'd hoped for some quiet moments playing the tourist around the famed Targaryen castle.
Yet by the time I made it back to my assigned rooms, I could barely remember anything beyond red walls and an unnecessary amount of stairs. Too much thinking. Too much looking over my shoulder when I realized I was contemplating treason and rebellion in the heart of the Red Keep. A place so full of spies it was said the walls themselves could pluck a stray thought straight from between your ears.
The apartment itself was as well-appointed as the king had promised. Bedroom, waiting room, even a small solar with a desk and chairs. I was being treated like a visiting dignitary, which did not help stem my paranoia.
Weren't foreign dignitaries exactly the kind of people one would spy on?
I had only stopped sniffing at the walls momentarily. First when Targaryen livery-wearing servants came with a copper tub, steaming water, and everything I needed for a proper bath. The heat had been glorious, washing away the grime of the road. Then later when a man in Baratheon colors arrived to let me know Lord Steffon would also be joining myself and Lord Tywin for dinner.
That had helped some with the paranoia, even if it hadn't stopped me from checking for tunnels and eyeholes afterward. Lord Baratheon's presence meant the dinner would be framed as a meeting between two great lords of the realm. Old friends at that. My own joining would be more of an eventuality since I'd come to the capital under the banner of my liege lord.
Not a suspicious private audience between the Hand and some random young knight. Just dinner with friends, nothing to look at too deeply.
Shaking my head, I took a final look around the room, trying not to stare too long at the walls. I did take a moment to recheck the lock on my trunk as well, just to be safe.
I hadn't brought much gold with me. What coin I had I left in a purse right on top of my clothes on the inside of the locked trunk. No need to look further if you were some enterprising thief looking for a score.
But I had taken the glass candle with me when I left Tarth for Storm's End. Had decided the risk of bringing it to King's Landing was not as great as the risk of leaving it anywhere near Arianne's grubby, addict hands.
It was all the girl talked about these days. Bothered me day and night to glimpse it once again, even as she begged me not to tell our parents about it. She had the zeal of a junkie, a single-minded obsession that made my skin crawl.
I would have sewn it to my very flesh before I left it anywhere close to her.
The candle might be a powerful focus that allowed her to see all kinds of things. But she had enough magic on her own that I feared she'd find it no matter how well I hid it. Better to keep it with me. Under my control.
The trunk was locked, as expected, and hidden in a false bottom beneath all the coin and the clothes. I had no further excuse to keep me in my fancy rooms in the Red Keep.
Stepping into the corridor, I pulled the door shut behind me, the sound echoing down the empty hallway before being quickly swallowed by the stone.
The route to the Tower of the Hand took me through the eastern wing of the castle, past chambers reserved for visiting lords and their retinues. Most of the doors were closed, but I could hear voices behind some of them. Laughter from one room. An argument in hushed tones from another.
I was rounding a corner when I nearly collided with a man coming the other direction.
"Pardon me, my lord," I said, stepping back.
He was a tall man, slender, with the unmistakable features of Old Valyria. Silver-gold hair worn long, pale skin, eyes the color of lilac. His doublet was sea-green silk embroidered with a silver seahorse. House Velaryon.
Which meant this was likely Lord Lucerys Velaryon himself. Master of Ships on the Small Council.
Great. Just what I needed.
He spoke before I could. "Ser Galladon Tarth." Not a question. His voice was cultured and precise. In another world, I would’ve called it posh. "I thought I recognized you from court earlier."
I'd barely been at court. Just long enough to be presented and dismissed. Without neither the king nor the Hand there, not many nobles hung around. But he must have been paying attention. Or had people that did.
"Lord Velaryon," I said, offering a respectful nod. "An honor."
"Is it?" A faint smile played at his lips. "It is fortunate that we meet, however. See, I've heard that House Tarth is becoming more active in trading these days. Acquiring ships. Establishing routes. Quite the enterprising venture for a house of your... stature."
The pause before "stature" was deliberate. Not quite an insult, but close enough to sting. Didn’t bother me much, at this point. The less they thought of me, the more they’d be caught with their pants down when I came for them.
"I'm surprised but honored that a man of your station would notice such a thing, my lord," I said carefully.
Lucerys' smile widened a smidgen. "I know much, Ser Galladon. As Master of Ships, any naval matter is my prerogative. I look into everything in the interest of the realm." He let that hang in the air for a moment. "Trade routes. Port tariffs. Which houses are expanding their fleets and why. These are dangerous days, you understand. Dangers the crown must keep a firm grip on."
There it was. The subtle threat wrapped in pleasantries. He was letting me know he could make my life very difficult if he chose to. A word from him could see our ships inspected at every port, our cargoes delayed, our captains questioned endlessly by harbor officials.
"I wasn't aware our modest ventures warranted such attention," I said.
"Everything warrants attention, ser. Especially when it involves a young knight who has apparently caught the king's interest." His eyes studied me, searching for something. "His Grace spoke quite highly of you after your audience. That's rare these days."
I kept my expression neutral. "I'm honored by His Grace's regard."
"As you should be." Lucerys stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. "Tell me, what inspired this sudden interest in maritime commerce? Most knights of the realm concern themselves with swords and tourneys."
An opportunity presented itself and I would be foolish if I didn’t seize it.
"Your own ancestor, actually. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake." I let admiration color my voice. "His voyages to the east, the wealth he brought to his house—it's the stuff of legend. I'd be lying if I said I didn't dream of following in such footsteps, even in a small way."
Lucerys preened visibly at the flattery. "Ah yes, the Sea Snake. A great man indeed."
A poor copy stands before me, I thought. The Velaryons weren't what they once were. They commanded the royal fleet, true, but mostly through nepotism and tradition. It was said that so many men of the same family had occupied the office that, by now, only the arse of a Velaryon could sit easily upon the chair of the Master of Ships in the Small Council chambers.
Their own holdings on Driftmark, however, had shrunk over the generations. They couldn't field a fraction of what the Redwynes could, or even what the ironborn raiders sailed.
"You know," Lucerys said, "my son Monford was at Lannisport and saw your victory in the lists. Quite impressive for one so young." He paused. "But it was the business with the pirates near the Stepstones that truly captured his imagination. He speaks of little else these days. You're quite the hero to him."
"I'm flattered, my lord."
"You should visit Driftmark sometime. Speak with the boy. He'd be thrilled." Lucerys' expression turned calculating. "I have sisters as well. Cousins of age. All bearing the blood of Old Valyria, as you can see." He gestured to himself, to his silver hair and pale features. "Superior stock, ser. The kind of matches that elevate a house."
Ah. There it was. The real purpose of this conversation.
He wanted to bind me to House Velaryon. Either through his influence as Master of Ships—making House Tarth dependent on his goodwill for our trading ventures—or through marriage. Probably both.
"That's very generous of you to suggest, my lord," I said. Noncommittal.
"Something to consider." Lucerys stepped back, straightening his doublet. "Enjoy your dinner with Lord Tywin, Ser Galladon. I'm sure you'll find it... educational."
He knew where I was going. Because of course he did. This damned city. The gods could strike the whole place down after I left and I’d be glad for it.
Then Lucerys Velaryon was moving past me, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I stood there for a moment, processing the encounter. Should I expect other members of the small council to possibly fabricate encounters with me? I supposed there was a price to pay for having the king take such a keen interest in me. I was fresh meat, and the flies were already buzzing around.
Outside, the sun was setting. The city below was bathed in shades of red and orange that reminded me too much of the flames in the Weeping Town. Well then…
I kept that particular set of upsetting thoughts away as I made my way toward the Tower of the Hand.
It was early enough that the castle was still well alive. I ran across more servants in five minutes of walking then had worked for the past three generations at Evenfall Hall. Guards also stood at every corner, eyes forward, hands resting on sword hilts, while courtiers in fine clothes moved in small groups, whispering behind their hands. More than a few glanced at me as I passed.
I kept my pace steady. Not too fast, like I was fleeing something. Not too slow, like I was skulking. Then I felt so awkward that I just abandoned it all after a few seconds. I couldn’t let the eyes of the busybodies around here get to my head.
The Tower of the Hand rose from the western bailey, connected to the main keep by a covered walkway. As I approached, two Lannister guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested breastplates straightened at attention.
"Ser Galladon Tarth," one of them said.
"That's right," I said.
"Welcome, ser." The other guard pulled open the heavy door. "You're expected."
Inside, the entrance hall was well-lit with torches and had that particular smell of beeswax and polish that spoke of wealth. Tapestries showing Lannister victories lined the walls. The floor was spotless.
And standing there, waiting, was a knight I recognized.
"Ser Sarek," I said, unable to hide my surprise. "I did not expect to see you here."
Ser Sarek Hill turned at the sound of my voice, and his face broke into a wide smile. Broad-shouldered like I remembered, with distinctive straw-colored hair and enough of a noble-bearing to mark him as some bastard of a random Lantell or a Lanny or a Lannett.
"Lord Galladon." He caught himself, shook his head. "Ser Galladon! An honor to see you again, ser."
He gave me a deeper bow than propriety demanded, almost excessive.
I offered him a forearm instead, which he eagerly clasped. "Ser Gerion is in King's Landing, then?" I asked.
"Aye, ser. He'll be joining you tonight for supper."
"I see." I paused, thinking. "I'd thought he would return to Casterly Rock to recuperate, given the circumstances."
The circumstances being that he'd nearly died from poison in Sunspear. That I'd helped save his life, though the real hero had been Prince Oberyn who'd identified the toxin and done enough to remedy its effects.
"So had I, ser," Sarek said. "But Ser Gerion was strong enough to take ship again a few weeks. And he wished to see to his duties here in the capital. Didn't want to leave Lord Tywin without family in King's Landing once he arrived, he said."
"A dutiful man is to be admired." I meant it, too. Gerion could have taken months to recover. Could have used the poisoning as an excuse to return home and avoid the cesspool of court politics. "And you, ser, how go your own duties? All is well after our little adventure, I hope?"
"Aye, ser." Sarek's chest puffed up slightly. "Ser Gerion has made me the captain of his guard. And here in King's Landing, I'm second only to Lord Tywin's own captain."
"That so?" I forced a smile. "I'm glad, then. It bodes well for House Lannister to have such competent men guarding them."
The bastard knight beamed at me with his brightest smile yet. He was a good and honest fellow, I knew. Loyal, a bit brave. But not one I'd trust my life with, if I was being completely honest.
I'd already seen his work back in Sunspear and judged it… adequate at best. He'd been part of Gerion's guard when the Tyroshi pirate attacked. Had been there when that same pirate was poisoned under his nose. Hadn't prevented either incident.
Still, no reason to be rude with the man and speak my thoughts to his face.
"I am glad you are well too, m'lord," Sarek said. "We all heard about what happened to your lady mother. And how you took that Whitehead whoreson's castle by yourself."
"Oh?" I kept my tone light.
"Aye. The other lads here in the keep couldn't believe it, but me and the men who fought on the Western Will set them straight, ser, we did." His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "If there's any knight in the kingdoms I could believe took out an entire town and castle, it's Ser Galladon Tarth, I told them."
I laughed awkwardly. It seemed I wasn't completely immune to flattery, since I caught myself thinking that perhaps I'd judged him too harshly. That Ser Sarek Hill wasn't so incompetent after all.
He had the right ideas, at least.
"It wasn't single-handedly, ser, I assure you," I said. "But I'm thankful you defended my honor. It was a trying time, to be sure. But the lives and well-being of my family are all that matter to me."
Sarek nodded vigorously. "Ser Gerion lit seven candles for your mother at the Great Sept of Baelor when word came, ser. And we all said our prayers as well."
I felt my eyebrows rise. "Gerion at the Sept?"
That was certainly interesting. Fair to say I didn't know him too well, but from my time with him, I hadn't taken the man for the religious sort. He'd seemed more interested in wine and voyages and the occasional philosophical conversation.
"Aye, ser." Sarek's grin widened. "Methinks 'twas his brush with the Stranger that did it. Maybe the ser saw the Father or the Mother as he lay feverish." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or maybe 'twas the Princess coming to pray for him that had him confused with the Maiden visiting his dreams."
I did my best not to miss a step. We'd started walking toward the stairs, and I nearly stumbled.
"Princess Elia?"
My voice came out so surprised that Sarek caught himself as well. He scratched the back of his head and gave me an embarrassed look.
"Aye, well, I suppose I'm not meant to go around spreading it." He shrugged, lowered his voice further, and took a step closer. "But Ser Gerion didn't make it a secret to anyone either. He met with Princess Elia plenty after you left, m'lord. Always had the biggest smile on his face when I announced her visits." Sarek's expression turned almost fond. "It kept his spirits alive, I think. Seeing her and all."
I didn't get a coherent answer out as we climbed the stairs. All that left my mouth was a "Huh" of utter bewilderment.
My mind was racing. Elia and Gerion. Together. Repeatedly.
Discounting the fact that Ser Sarek Hill was not only a questionable sworn shield but apparently a terrible gossip as well—though I wouldn't complain so long as he gossiped to me—it struck me that I might have just caused the biggest change to the timeline yet without ever meaning to.
Elia and Gerion. My mind couldn't help but wreck itself with the possibilities.
In the original timeline, Elia had married Rhaegar. Had given him two children. Had died screaming when the Mountain crushed her skull after murdering her babies.
But what if she didn't marry Rhaegar this time? What if she married Gerion instead?
Would Rhaegar simply marry Lyanna Stark? Would the rebellion still happen? Would—
I shook my head hard enough that Sarek gave me a concerned look. I wasn't trying to go down that rabbit hole again. Not here. Not now.
Besides, it didn't mean anything would happen. Princess Elia herself had spoken of her previous fondness for Gerion during her visit to Casterly Rock years ago. But she'd also hinted to Oberyn that Prince Doran might not approve of the match.
And Doran ruled Sunspear now. Which meant any business of marriages and alliances for his siblings would have to go through him.
A Lannister was a solid match for any lady of the realm. Great house, wealthy beyond measure, powerful connections. But a fourth son with no lands or titles? To a Martell Princess?
I didn't think so. Not while the possibility of snatching up the ultimate prize, the heir to the Iron Throne, still roamed in the form of an unwed Rhaegar Targaryen.
Doran Martell was ambitious enough to aim for that match. And I had no doubt he'd had a hand in the betrothal in the original timeline.
Sarek seemed awkward at my long silence. He filled it with more talking, the way some people did when they were nervous.
"Not that you didn't have your own admirers either, m'lord. Not at all." He spoke quickly, almost tripping over his words. "The Dayne lady came to inquire more than once about you, you see."
I blinked. "Ashara?"
He nodded enthusiastically. "Aye, ser, the very same. I told her we only met briefly, but she asked all the same. Wanted to know about your disposition when there were no ladies around, you see. And about the fighting with the pirates. How you acquitted yourself." He gave me another apologetic look. "She asked twice about that. And I told it all, ser. Hard not to, I'll say. She has a pretty smile, the lady has. But she seemed happy with what I said."
Once again, Ser Sarek managed to make a mute out of me.
Heat rose to my cheeks. I could feel it, damn it. Though I'd admit to it only under torture.
Ashara had been asking about me. About my character. About how I fought. That was… that was interesting, I supposed. And a show of interest. Not just polite curiosity.
I recovered from my Dornish-induced stupor faster this time.
"Yes, yes" I said. Then shook myself. "I mean, I see. Yes, I see. I can only thank you, then, ser, for speaking well on my behalf."
He smiled widely. "Of course, m'lord. Didn't even have to lie either. 'Twas a brave and gallant deed, your fighting at the ships. Worthy of a song if I have any say over it."
Despite being my senior, Ser Sarek was looking at me like a boy staring at a superhero. Bright-eyed and eager.
Gathering myself, I awarded him with my best smile and a friendly clap on the shoulder, which seemed to be enough payment for him. He climbed up the last steps to our final destination with his shoulders squared and his chest puffed up like a rooster.
At the right landing, two more guards stepped aside as we approached a stout wooden door. Ser Sarek stopped me just before opening it.
"I believe Lord Tywin, Ser Gerion, and Lord Baratheon are still in the Hand's solar, ser," he said. "But the lady will be within."
I paused. "The lady?"
He tilted his head at me, as if I'd just asked an obvious question. "Aye, ser. The Lady Cersei Lannister."
Then the door was opening and I was stepping through the threshold.
The room beyond was well-appointed. Rich furnishings, thick carpets, tapestries showing lions in various heroic poses. A table set for dinner, laden with covered dishes that smelled incredible.
And to the side, lounging amidst an array of red and gold cushions on a window seat, an eleven-year-old girl stared at me the way a very small, very haughty cat stares at a rat who just walked into the wrong home.