Chapter 30: Interlude - Steel

The Bastard of Driftmark found the Princess of Dorne in her pavilion, reclined on her loveseat with sandsilk pillows. The captain of Prince Doran's guard, Ser Gascoyne, stood behind her in heavily enameled platemail, inlaid with burnished, sandy copper. Gascoyne nodded to them, the shells of his rondels gleaming as it caught light.

Myriah Nymeros Martell smiled. "Lord Lelouch, Ser Donnall," —Donnall felt a flush of warmth course through his chest— "please make yourselves comfortable."

"Thank you for having us, Princess Myriah," Lelouch said, seating himself across her.

Donnall remained standing behind him, facing off against Ser Gascoyne Shells.

"Congratulations are in order," Myriah said, looking right at Donnall.

"I didn't even win the melee," Donnall said.

"Making it to the final three is still a fine showing, more than worthy of a knighthood," Lelouch said. "In truth, I should have done that after the Battle of Three Armies, but there was always too little time and too much to do. This is merely what you're owed for valiant service."

He could still feel the sword's heavy taps on his shoulders; his ears still rang from the cheers of the crowd. "I am ever your sword," Donnall said. And no one else's.

"Your loyalty to family is commendable," Ser Gascoyne said.

"Would you like something to drink?" Myriah asked. A servant garbed in silks that showed plenty of skin set down a few bottles of wine, alongside a curious orange drink topped with mint and ice.

"I'm not familiar with this drink," Lelouch said, accepting a glass and letting its scent waft in the air.

"Tamarindo, a traditional Rhoynish beverage," Myriah said. "It sustained Nymeria when she sailed from Sothoryos to Dorne."

Lelouch took a sip, savoring the flavor, before setting down his cup. "Sweet and sour, an interesting taste," he said, turning his eyes to the minor event of the day—a mummer's show portraying an inaccurate and exaggerated sword fight between Prince Aerys and Maelys Blackfyre. "Will you be returning to Sunspear when Princess Rhaella departs?"

"After the King's Tourney ends. I've been gone from home for far too long," Myriah said. "I miss my Elia and Oberyn dearly."

"We would invite you to join us down in Dorne, Nephew mine," Gascoyne said to Donnall with a small smile. "My sister Dorea would never forgive me if I didn't extend you an offer."

Donnall shifted his weight between his feet. "This is all on short notice."

"Sleep on it at least," Gascoyne said. "We've a few more days here."

"You'd be welcome at Sunspear at a later time, if that's more to your liking," Myriah added.

"Thank you for the offer," Donnall said, casting his gaze towards the outside where the mummers were replaced by preening coursers and smaller sand steeds. "I'll give it some thought."

There was a soft rustling of silk on silk, and when Donnall looked again, Princess Myriah had pushed herself into an upright position, and pointed at a slender boy making a lap before the raucous Dornish. "Do you know my son and heir, Doran?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of being formally introduced, but Prince Lewyn says he's a fine horseman."

"The finest," Myriah said. "He's a young man, with a young man's wanderlust. Normally, we'd send him to Essos, but that's become a dangerous proposition of late."

"I might have heard something about that," Lelouch japed, turning to face her once more with a hint of a smile. His back was a little straighter, eyes a little sharper. Anyone else would have missed it, but Donnall had grown up with Lelouch. "He squires for Lord Gargalen, does he not?"

"You're well-informed," Myriah said.

Lelouch steepled his fingers. "The gold cloaks are in dire need of a new Lord Commander who will discipline them, and soon the Iron Throne must send a delegate to represent their interests before the Greater Assembly of Lys."

"The Lyseni have lovely tapestries," Myriah said, faint amusement making her dark eyes sparkle, "but after you stripped that city clean during the Slave Spring, I'm not certain there's much left to quench my son's thirst."

King's Landing would be closer too, and much easier for her to visit, Donnall thought. No doubt that played some part in Princess Myriah's preference.

"Rebuilding will take time," Lelouch said with a nod.

"Has His Grace made it known who he wishes to appoint?" Myriah asked.

Lelouch stole a glance at Donnall. "Other matters have taken up his attention in the meantime, such as the upcoming summit and to whom the last white cloak should be awarded. It may very well be left to Lord Neleus Royce."

The master of laws was now sworn to Ronnel Arryn, who was on the best of days indifferent to Lelouch as far as Donnall knew. Still, with his injuries and his shaky hold on power, the Lord of the Vale had to attend to his succession.

"He's no friend of yours," Myriah said. "If I recall correctly, he questioned your ability at sea at court."

"It was prudent of him to do so. I had no great victories to my name yet, at that time," Lelouch said. "And it is partially thanks to him that I am now known as the Seafyre. He was a hasty appointment by King Jaehaerys, and with the death of Lord Arryn, he'll find few friends from the Vale lingering in King's Landing. We can work with him, or in spite of him."

"I would be grateful for your help, Lord Lelouch," Myriah said.

Lelouch savored his drink, swallowed, and tilted his head towards the hanging Lyseni tapestry. "Dorne needs friends beyond Dorne, and I've not forgotten. Still, I would hope to turn the City Watch into more than what it currently is, sorry lot that they are."

"You'll find Lord Gargalen a disciplined man, and willing to see things through."

"Good," Lelouch said, "but there are dangers to this city I'm keen to contain. We cannot afford another Summerhall."

"You speak of wildfire?" Myriah asked.

Lelouch nodded. "The wisdoms need certain reagents to make that fickle substance, ingredients they can only obtain from outside."

And the gold cloaks controlled the gates, and what was allowed inside the city, Donnall thought. He has not forgiven or forgotten the sins against Alarra.

Myriah considered Lelouch's words. "If His Grace orders it though…"

"If the king commands wildfire be made, there is little we can do," Lelouch said. "But in the absence of a royal edict, we need not give the alchemists a free hand. They've shown themselves irresponsible when left to their own devices. It is time they are reined in."

"I see no reason why that can't be arranged," Myriah said, lifting her goblet up in toast. "To friends."

"To Dorne," Lelouch said, before knocking back his drink.

They stayed until the end of the race, which Doran won by a mile. His lithe form helped with that, for if it were a contest in armor, a sand steed would fare poorly against a destrier.

"You should go with them," Lelouch said as they left the pavilion.

"My place is by your side," Donnall said.

"We won't be in another war anytime soon. Think it through," Lelouch said, seeming almost sad. "No child should be ripped away from their mother, and you've never even met yours."

"Fathers shouldn't sire bastards either, so the High Septon preaches," Donnall said. Bastards were born from lust and lies, Lady Eunice liked to say; their blood was tainted and treacherous. Why else would Daemon Blackfyre think to steal a crown otherwise? Donnall meant to prove them wrong, and had vowed to be his trueborn cousin's sword against any and all things. "Lady Eunice—"

"Will you never cease trying to earn her affection?" Lelouch asked.

"Much as she hated me, she raised me, even as my father sailed and wenched across Essos," Donnall said quietly. "I am not an ingrate."

Lelouch frowned. "I do not say this to hurt you, but… you will never find a mother in Aunt Eunice. You are your father's failings to her."

It stung to hear those words, though Donnall had known them to be true for years now. "I know."

"Sleep on it at least," Lelouch said. "You've lost your father, but now you might know your mother. You're family to me, but I cannot fill that void in your heart where Lady Dorea ought to be."

How can she be family if I've never even met her? Donnall thought. "You seem quite insistent I meet her."

"You have questions; all children do. Meeting her will let you put some of them to rest," Lelouch said, a distant look crossing his face, like he was in another world altogether. "It's what I would do in your position. You have your future to think of too now. You acquitted yourself admirably during the war, and there are opportunities available to you that weren't otherwise. Even the white cloak you've dreamed of since we were children is not beyond your reach now."

Is there any king worthier than you? Donnall thought. "I've changed my mind since."

Lelouch paused in his stride to raise a brow at him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm certain," he said, and the weight of debt and duty both felt lighter on his shoulders.

-ZeroRequiem-

"Out," Tywin ordered.

He waited for the last servant to leave and for the door to slam shut, before reaching for the leather cup. It was lined with sheepskin on the inside to make it more comfortable to his tender stump of a leg. The maesters had taken a knife to just below his left knee to save his life.

Tywin's leg throbbed, and when he closed his eyes, he could feel that missing part of his leg crushed under the weight of that elephant's foot again. It was all in his head, he knew, but that did not make the pain any more tolerable.

With a belabored breath, Tywin fitted the cup over his stump. It fit well—but that did not stop Tywin from gritting his teeth as a coal-hot lance stabbed him.

"It will dull with time," Grandmaester Pycelle had said.

How much longer? It had been eight whole weeks since he'd lost his leg, and each day that passed, his father ran the Lannister legacy further aground.

Tywin's hands pressed tightly against the wall as he stood on his good leg, before slowly putting more weight on his new leg crafted from pine. He had asked for gilded steel, but the maesters said it would hamper his growth. The first step he took made him stumble, but he was a Lannister, damn it all!

Tywin forced himself to stand, much as his leg screamed in protest.

He could not, would not fail, now when the House of Lannister rested on his shoulders. Who else was there?

Kevan would soon be named the Knight of Scarwood, and his new role would keep him from coming home. For all his prowess, Tygett was not yet a man, and the even younger Gerion was too quick to laugh, much like their father. Genna and Joanna would each have a part to play, but they were women. It was not their place to take up the sword.

So it fell to him, as he'd always known it would, only Tywin had never expected the gods to be so cruel. To leave him with but one leg, subject to the mockery of other men… better he had died at the Battle of Three Armies. Then it would be Kevan facing the nadir of our fortunes, instead of a broken thing like me, Tywin thought bitterly. For a cripple to bear the burdens of their house, even the gods must be laughing at them.

Tywin staggered towards the door, taking a deep breath as he rested one hand on the door handle. Then, he entered the private audience chamber adjacent to his bedchamber.

His sister and cousin were already seated and waiting, a pitcher of water with sage soaking in it between them. Genna wore a low-cut dress of red satin and blue velvet, with Myrish lace just below the bodice to draw one's eyes to it, and Joanna was dressed in a fine gowl of red silk, the black pearls sewn into the sleeves rattling whenever her arms moved.

Targaryen colors, Tywin thought with a pang of regret. He quashed the feeling—a royal marriage would do wonders for House Lannister's position. The king would not announce the twin betrothals of his children til the end of the festivities, but it was no secret who he had in mind for them.

"We know who the third Kingsguard appointee will be," Joanna said as Tywin sat down.

"Who?" he asked through gritted teeth, his leg throbbing from the brief exertion. Pathetic.

"Oswell Whent," answered Genna with a smirk.

The man was a formidable warrior, having felled the Butcher, Tomas Santagar, and half a dozen men in the Battle of Three Armies. He'd also been one of Princess Rhaella's suitors, banking on his skill at arms to earn her favor, though his swift defeat at the hands of Baelor Hightower had put an end to that.

"The Blackfish wore a lady's favor during the tilts—yellow and black, Whent colors," Tywin recalled. "Oswell's sister?"

"Minisa," Genna said.

"That's good," Tywin said. He was ill at ease leaving Joanna to champion their cause while Reyne wore a white cloak. He couldn't trust the other members of the Kingsguards, but soon the Whents would be distant kin to them through the Tully brothers. "Hoster was the right choice then."

"He'll be Lord Paramount soon enough, I suppose," Genna said. "Though we might come to regret this choice in years to come. Lelouch's star has only just begun to rise."

"Your efforts would've been wasted," Tywin said.

"I could have convinced him," Genna said, pouting.

Tywin snorted. "He might have dalliances with that foreign woman, but Lelouch knows the meaning of duty."

"He would have put his family's interests above his wants," Joanna added.

Besides, Tywin thought, there's every risk he would keep his whore around. That dishonor I will not abide by. "I've received word from Maester Creylen. Jast and Falwell are at it again." It was a senseless dispute from before the war, and rather than seek a ruling from Casterly Rock the two fools had decided to settle the matter with a melee. Nine men dead, twenty-seven maimed, and still the fighting continued.

"The war just ended!" Genna said.

"We ought to be thankful for the respite the war provided," Joanna said. "It will only get worse by the time you return to Casterly Rock. Outlaws, broken men, and robber knights always plague the land after a war."

"That," Tywin said, "will be the first thing that must be rectified. Grandfather Alyn has promised to support me in rooting out the bandits, while Marthew Crakehall has been hard at work gathering men to my name."

If every peasant with a weapon in hand could get away with such crimes, how could they ever expect the westerlords to respect House Lannister's rule? There were many hedge knights whose employment ended with the war, and men who'd acquired a taste for violence. His future good-brother was proving himself useful now, having gathered five hundred men under his banner. Those same men might not have answered if a cripple led them on the field, but Marthew was a stout and broad-shouldered man. Tywin would borrow the strength of his body.

"After the outlaws are dealt with will come the hard part: reining in the lords," Tywin said. "The Farmans continue to build a navy of their own, while Lord Stackspear has hired mercenaries to collect ruinous taxes from his own people." In open defiance of Father's wishes, no less.

And then there was the score of private wars that had broken out among their vassals after the blatant murder of Ser Denys Marbrand, and Father's pardoning the Reynes over it. If even a loyal subject of Casterly Rock could not expect protection, what point was there to listen to a Lord Paramount? No less than three landed knights nominally swearing fealty to Casterly Rock had sought the protection of the Tullys in recent years. Genna's marriage would see those knights returned and ensure a peaceful border, while the Crakehalls would ward against any Tyrell encroachment.

Those marriages would keep the other kingdoms at bay for some time, but it was not the end of it. If stability could not be restored, it would be the end of House Lannister.

Land, gold, and power were being fought over indiscriminately—a war of all against all, as the septons called it between their open rebukes against "the Lord of Misrule". Even the damned apprentices were rioting in Lannisport every few months.

"What about the Reynes?" Genna asked, sipping at her drink.

"They must be dealt with carefully," Tywin said, clenching his fists. He'd thought at first to bait the Reynes into rebellion by enforcing repayment of loans and taxes unlawfully withheld. While Father lived and refused to act, those actions would be unlawful in themselves and resisted—allowing him an excuse to take revenge.

Yet, with a man so close to the king now, the Reynes had the means to quickly petition for royal intervention. Tywin counted Aerys his closest friend, but Aerys was not yet the king and he could not be sure of what outcome such interference would result in.

And though they might decide in our favor, the lords would not respect us. I would not have it be said that we owe our position to others.

"Acting against them directly now would be too risky," Tywin continued, "but letting them continue as is would also be a mistake."

The Reynes and Tarbecks had expanded their domains considerably, but more troubling were the building of roads, sponsoring of septs, and raising new keeps. They were carving out a kingdom within a kingdom, and were close to eclipsing House Lannister in strength. Tywin could count on some seventy-five hundred men who would fight on his behalf, while the Reynes were thought to have eight thousand men altogether once their friends were gathered and sellswords hired.

"You cannot act with one hand tied behind your back," Genna said. "Father must be confined and contained."

"His whore will keep him preoccupied," Tywin said. He'd abide by her presence for a while longer, but her days would be numbered. "As for the Reynes, we must chip away at their strength through subtler means. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link."

"We'll leave it to you then," Genna said.

"It will be some time before we can return to Casterly Rock," Joanna said.

Tywin jerked his head. They would be needed here to combat Reynard's silver tongue and manage their interests at court. "Other than Genna and your sister Lelia, who else will you be taking in as your ladies in waiting?" Joanna was the soon to be future queen and Lelia, Tywin knew, would soon be betrothed to Kevan. After all, his brother had been granted an island to rule over in part because of Uncle Jason's death. It only made sense.

"Malora Hightower, Kiren Velaryon..." Joanna continued to list names from the Reach, crownlands, and riverlands as candidates.

"You will make a great queen," Tywin blurted out. You will make Aerys happy.

Joanna blinked. "Thank you."

"This might be the last time we speak to each face to face," Tywin said.

"You weren't this solemn riding off to war," Joanna japed.

In many ways, this war would be harder than the last. "More is at stake," he said instead. "Take care of yourself, Joanna."

"Of course," she said, dazzling him with a smile and his heart ached.

Tywin forced himself to his feet. The Lannisters will suffer mockery no longer, he vowed. And if even the gods think to laugh at us, then there will be no gods left in the end.

-ZeroRequiem-

The cheering crowd, the stomping of feet, the sound of shattered lances… it all sounded so hollow to Steffon now.

False glory, Steffon thought, as he wheeled his horse around.

"You ought to use this tourney as an opportunity to get the measure of your competition," Father had said. "Corwyn Velaryon, Ryam Redwyne, and Erik Yronwood to name a few."

With a sigh, Steffon dismounted, walking up to where Corwyn Velaryon had fallen in the dirt after they had gone through six bouts. "Well met," Steffon said honestly, offering him a hand. The older boy was well-trained, that he could not deny.

"Best of luck in the finals tomorrow, Lord Steffon," Corwyn said as Steffon pulled him up. A lady's favor knotted round his arm: grey and crowned with flames.

"I'll do my best," Steffon said. With this, he would advance to the finals of the Squire's Tourney against Tywin's younger brother, Tygett. A formidable warrior who hadn't been knighted due to age instead of deeds.

As they walked off of the lists, the crowd chanted, "Steffon! Steffon! STEFFON!"

For a moment, he was tempted to bask in it, before his better sense caught up to him. False glory, Steffon repeated to himself. He could not shake the images from his head of what the truth looked like: victory snatched from the jaws of defeat against all odds and doubts, and the fanatical loyalty that inspired. Again and again and again he was made to bear witness—Bloodstone, Naqes, Tyrosh, Lys…

How could a tourney for boys compare to such feats? Steffon thought bitterly.

A troupe of singers took the field, warbling out songs Steffon did not recognize. There were a few hours to kill before the axe-throwing contest began, so he set out for the royal box where Aerys would be—only to find Lelouch Velaryon already there, sharing words with his cousin.

Steffon clenched his fists, and turned away, seeking out his father.

Lelouch had been naught but the minor lordling of a house past its prime, while Steffon was Aerys' cousin and closest friend. A little over a year… that was how long it took for Lelouch to supplant him. Now, the way Aerys seemed to hang onto every word Lelouch said—one would think he was a prophet!

Even Tywin, who Steffon thought would have scorned befriending a lesser lord, had warmed up to him. They spoke constantly, scheming all sorts of things together during the war. Rhaella too seemed smitten with her future husband, his boorish attitude towards her when they first met forgotten.

Everywhere Steffon looked, Lelouch had somehow wormed his way into people's affections.

He found his father speaking with an aged man in plain brown robes.

"Ah Steffon," Father said, interrupting himself mid-sentence. "Well done out there."

He nodded. "I've heard Corwyn Velaryon will be knighted soon," Steffon said with a hint of jealousy. Aerys and Tywin both had already earned their spurs, and it stung that despite his best efforts, he hadn't been deemed worthy of that honor during the war.

"Most likely," Father said, "though for good reason."

"He's only a year older than I am," Steffon said.

A sigh left Father's lips. "It's not a matter of age or deeds. There's more at play here than you know." He turned to the old man once more. "It will take a while for the maesters to train the new ravens, but once they're ready, it should make communication with Lys and Tyrosh much quicker."

"That's good to hear, Lord Hand," the man said. "My septons are eager to preach the good word to the Essosi, and I've heard the Archon of Tyrosh boast that the Sept of Many Colors will be one to rival Baelor's Sept."

My septons? Steffon though, taking a long, hard look at the man's face. Without his crown, the High Septon looked like one of the smallfolk, and it didn't help that the robes he wore were always so plain and tattered, one would think the Faith had nothing left in their coffers.

"Mayhaps," Father said. "I'm personally more interested in seeing the Sept of Spring. If there's one upside to the Slave Spring, it's that it left plenty of space for us to build in Lys."

The High Septon tilted his head. "I've heard that a vote is being held. If it passes, the Greater Assembly will invite King Jaehaerys to station a permanent delegate in their city in the hopes of fostering closer ties between our two peoples."

Voting, Steffon thought derisively. As if the smallfolk were capable of deciding on matters important to their state.

"We expect the vote to pass without a problem," Father said.

"That is good to hear," the High Septon said. "Has the king decided on who to send?"

"Not yet, but rest assured you will be introduced as soon as it is decided. As part of his duties, the master of words will also ensure that your septons are treated with the dignity they deserve."

"My thanks, Lord Hand," he said, nodding. A kindly smile graced his face. "I believe your son might be getting impatient, so I shall leave the matter here."

"My door is open to you at any time, Your High Holiness," Father said.

Steffon waited for the High Septon to leave earshot, before saying, "Why can't I be knighted?"

"You are only four and ten. There's no need to rush these things."

It took Lelouch Velaryon a year to replace me in Aerys' confidence. If I were knighted… mayhaps they'd see me as their equal again. "If not now then when?" Steffon asked. "I must earn my spurs, and there won't be an abundance of wars anytime soon."

"We ought to be thankful for that," Father said. "The realm might not survive the butcher's bill of another war like the one we just won."

Steffon kept his father's gaze.

Father sighed. "Very well, I shall tell you a secret. You will have an opportunity soon enough. Aerys and Rhaella will be wed to their betrothed within a year's time. We expect leading men from Braavos to Volantis will be attending."

Steffon bit his lip, considering the implications of it. After a long while, he answered, "It's to double as a summit?"

"A Targaryen Summit," Father said, "which will decide the fate of the Stepstones."

"But we've already seized those islands. What more is there to speak of?" Steffon asked.

"We hold it for now, but if we're to keep it for long, we cannot fight all the Free Cities over them," Father said. "Better they come to accept our legitimate rule over these islands. But for that to happen, bargains must be struck. What are the Stepstones known for?"

"They're hives of scum and piracy," Steffon said. Everyone knew that. "We've to show the value of having the Stepstones be within our domain…. the pirates then?"

"Aye. Not all of them—those that fought with us will be given the opportunity to become landed knights sworn to the various members of the Order. The ones that refuse we will drive off," Father said. "The king has asked me to lead this campaign."

In order to atone for our failures in the last war? Steffon thought.

"Furthermore," Father continued, "it will be the Order who will be our principal commanders in this. Lelouch Velaryon will not be involved, beyond lending some men to his brother's cause."

"A chance to prove myself!" Steffon said.

Father nodded. "I thought to leave you in the care of Lord Estermont's nephew at Felstrong. If you acquit yourself well, you can earn your knighthood."

I will make you proud, Father, Steffon vowed. I will not fail.