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Long Live The King
🕑 Added 2022-03-06 13:40:04 +0000 UTCThe Targaryen delegation was late that morning, leaving what some had called the STAB alliance to cool their heels in the pavilion that had been set up outside the city walls, picking at small hors d'oeuvres and sipping at what wine the army could find. In time though, the gates opened and the royal party rode out, armour glittering under the sun as usual. Steve was growing tired from all the pageantry, but the high lords with him seemed to take it in stride. The usual posturing took place as the score of men arrived, guards sizing each other up as their lords shared barbs hidden by a mask of manners.
Finally, Rhaegar took his seat across the table, Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington at each hand and the High Septon with them, while Rickard Stark, Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, and Robert Baratheon faced them. Some few other lords and courtiers stood behind each side, numbers limited by agreement, neither party trusting the other. It was a change to the royal side, opposed to the day prior.
“Tempers were high yesterday,” Rhaegar said. “I hope the night has allowed us to master ourselves.”
“No agreement will be made until my daughter is returned,” Rickard said. “You have shown the value of your word.”
“I’ll have the slut stripped and driven through the city, and then burned piece by piece for your insolence,” Aerys hissed. “Do you value my word now?”
Robert roared and tried to lunge across the table at the king, and Steve was forced to put him in a headlock to stop him. Rickard was held back by Ned and Brynden, no less furious.
“Even a king’s words must be chosen with care,” Jon said. “Especially a king’s.”
“That is true,” Rhaegar said, expression deliberately neutral. “I understand and agree.”
“I hope you do, King Rhaegar,” Rickard said.
“I - excuse me?” Rhaegar said.
“Actions have consequences,” Hoster said. “Even words.”
“Fuck the negotiations!” Robert snarled, pacing back and forth in the command tent. “We have the numbers to take the city. A band of us could ride ahead after we take the walls and save Lyanna!”
“If the walls fall, Aerys will take it out on Lyanna before we can reach her,” Rickard said. “I won’t risk my daughter.”
“Aerys is the problem here, right?” Steve asked. He was the odd man out in a room full of the most noble of lords, but his presence was far past being questioned. “What if he wasn’t?”
A considering silence fell over the room, lords exchanging looks.
“You can’t negotiate with a man you can’t trust to keep his word,” Robert said. His fury had boiled on and off through the war, but now it was firmly leashed, satisfaction a great salve. “But now we’re lucky enough to negotiate with you, Your Grace.” He raised a goblet in toast.
Dayne and Connington shared a look behind Rhaegar’s head, understanding and alarm all in one. Their hands went to the swords at their hips, but the lack of aggression from the other side of the table made them hesitate.
“Assassination is…not an unnaceptable choice, in a situation like this,” Jon said, “but Aerys’ paranoia has been good for one thing, and that is securing the Red Keep against such things.”
“Not to mention the time it would take to make contact with some Essosi, strike a deal, and have them carry it out,” Hoster added.
“I’m not talking about paying someone,” Steve said. “If the alternative is a bloody sack, I’ll go and kill him myself.”
Many lords were sceptical, but Jon, Hoster, and Rickard shared a look, remembering the occasion they had found Steve waiting for them in what should have been the secure heart of their camp.
“Take your hands off those swords, boys,” Rickard said, speaking with the tact Northmen were so renowned for. “You’re in the presence of a King, you know.”
“Until my father passes on, I am only a Prince,” Rhaegar said firmly. “He was unwell this morning, but that is all.”
“What cause would you have to believe otherwise?” Connington demanded. “Need I remind you, we are in the midst of negotiations.”
“It is a faithless man who would attempt harm against their King during such a time,” the High Septon said, voice quavering.
Rickard laughed at the old man. “I can show you the depths of my faith, if you’d like.”
Steve was becoming more familiar with the cliffs of King’s Landing than he might like, but at least practice made perfect. The walls of the Keep were no barrier to him, and the godswood held a comforting isolation. No one thought to patrol a garden protected by such strong walls, after all.
“My father may not be the most hale of men, but the only death he needs fear within the Red Keep is one of natural causes,” Rhaegar said.
The halls were much as he remembered them, but the silence was different now. Where before they were draped in the quietness of the night, now it was the quietness of the grave that shrouded them. There was not a servant or guard to be seen as he crept his way towards the Maidenvault.
“I don’t know,” Robert said. “There’s plenty natural about dying to a broken neck or a dagger in the back.”
Rhaegar relaxed minutely. “That may be so, but such things have not befallen my father. Though I may choose to do things differently when I am King, I am still here in his name.”
The sight of the royal chambers, unguarded by any Kingsguard, was enough to make him pause, wary. It was only his keen hearing, picking up the slight scraping of footsteps beyond the door and fevered mutterings, that persuaded him to go onwards.
“Then what does ‘King Aerys’ demand from us this day?” Hoster asked. “Does he still demand our heads, or just those of our heirs?”
The door opened soundlessly on well oiled hinges, and Steve stepped into the royal apartments. The muttering was louder now, a man’s voice, and he padded silently towards them.
“The King’s passions were perhaps overly inflamed,” Rhaegar said. “I can offer you my personal guarantee as to the safety of your daughter, Lord Stark.”
“How can I take your word for Lyanna’s safety when you cannot even protect your own mother?” Rickard said.
A complicated expression crossed Rhaegar’s face too quickly to decipher, before polite puzzlement took its place. “I’m sorry?”
“The whores in our baggage train are better protected than the Queen,” Robert said.
Minutely, Dayne flinched.
“You will hold your tongue!” Connington spat.
It was in the bedchambers that Steve found his target, the man building into a rant at his audience, a woman who shared his looks. She lay on the bed clad only in a delicate shift, and it did little to hide the bruises and scratches she bore from the neck down. Steve felt a familiar frisson of hate. Bullies were always the same.
The man, standing at the end of the bed and gesturing as he ranted, did not see him as he entered the chambers.
The woman did.
Robert snarled at Connington, but Jon laid his hand on his foster son’s shoulder.
“Enough!” Jon said. “This has gone on long enough. King Rhaegar, you have spoken of doing things differently. What demands would you make of us, with your capital besieged and your armies far away?”
“I am here under my father’s authority,” Rhaegar stressed, “and what he wishes for is peace, and the acknowledgement and renewal of certain oaths. Further blood need not be shed, not when our divides might be healed by patience and forbearance.”
The woman said nothing as Steve approached her husband. She said nothing as he grabbed the raving man by the back of the skull and pushed him down face first into the soft, goose down bed. She said nothing as he began to flail, pinned in place by Steve’s knee on his back, his screams muffled by fabric. She only watched as his struggles weakened, her husband unable to draw in a breath.
“Patience and forbearance,” Rickard said. “Lord America.”
Across the table, gazes flicked to the imposing foreigner, silent all this time.
Rather than speak, Steve retrieved a small item from his pocket and placed it on the table with a dull clink.
The Queen watched as Steve released the corpse of her once husband. A tightly wound anxiety in her very being visibly eased.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said.
“Do not be sorry,” the Queen said. “You have given me freedom.”
“Not for that,” Steve said, glancing down. “For what you went through.”
She made a soft noise. “What will you do now?” she asked.
“Return the way I came,” Steve said, “and hope the alarm isn’t raised before I make my escape.” There was a heavy metal ring on the King’s finger, and Steve reached down to retrieve it.
“I will pray for your safety,” the Queen said.
All eyes present focused on the ring that sat on the table, and the three-headed dragon seal embossed upon it.
“The King is dead,” Steve said. “Long live the King.”
Comments
Richard Whereat
Fuck yes, and long live the House of Lords.
