Stannis XII
The short dagger was black glass, the hilt wrapped in leather. Stannis gripped it and mimed a thrust, then a cut. The balance was adequate, he supposed.
"I've been reading the tales of the heroes who once manned the Wall," Robert explained, holding a second dagger. "Several of them speak of weapons made of dragonglass. These were made on Dragonstone."
"Steel would be better."
"As weapons, yes. But as a tradition?" The king grinned broadly. "Every man who serves on the wall will receive a dagger of dragonglass, linking them back to the heroes of old."
"That'll require more than nine thousand of these. How long will it take to make so many?"
"About two years, so they should have enough done in six months or so."
Stannis glared at his brother. "You started planning this a while ago then."
"I wasn't entirely sure it would come together like this, but yes. Ultimately the entire situation on the Wall wasn't acceptable so I had to do something."
"Were you ever planning to tell anyone about this?"
"I just did tell you," Robert said, the smile slipping of his face. "What did you think I was doing with the taxes from Dragonstone?"
Making my life difficult. The king taking personal charge of those taxes instead of having them paid into the royal purse was something of a hole in the Master of Coin's paperwork for the whole time Stannis had held the office. "I thought it was personal expenses - maintaining a mistress or something."
"What!?" Robert's face went red.
"It's not as if you don't have a reputation for..."
"Stannis." There was considerable anger in Robert's voice. "Would you keep a mistress? Would you do that to Aemma?"
"Of course not!"
His brother's eyes were blazing. "I was a fool as a boy. I grew up. Are we clear?"
For a moment, Stannis felt as if he was a child again, about to get strapped by their father. "Yes," he ground out.
Grudgingly Robert leant back. "Actually," he said in tones of forced calm, "Dragonstone has been paying its taxes in dragonglass for a while now. As I said, I knew I was going to do something along those lines. We also have barrels full of obsidian arrowheads, just in case things moved fast enough that I didn't have the daggers ready in time. Probably for the best I did though - arrowheads aren't quite as impressive."
"I agree."
Both brothers looked up sharply as there was a knock on the door of the chamber. There was no regular business this morning which meant this probably wasn't good news.
"Enter!" called Robert.
The door opened to reveal Ser Richard Horpe, one of the newest of the Royal Guards. "Your grace, Prince Stannis." He dipped his head. "Lord Lannister has passed away. There's a terrible row going on in the Lion Tower."
"By the gods." Robert rose so sharply that his chair fell over backwards and made for the door. Stannis followed and they descended the stairs to the upper gallery in haste, joined by Ser Mandon Moore - the other member of the Royal Guards assigned to the King today.
"Make way for the King," demanded Moore, pushing aside servants and the various lords on the gallery, which circled the entire great inner chamber of the Crown, looking out on the floor far below. It was broad enough for two horses to ride astride, so fortunately there was plenty of room for those Moore shoved to step aside.
The Lion's Tower was slightly north of true west, forcing the four of them to circle almost the full length of the Crown. It was still faster than going down to the floor and climbing up the stairs though. Stannis could hear indistinct shouting well before they reached the entrance to the tower.
"It is poison, I tell you," snapped Pycelle at Coleman. "And we both know who is to blame. Get out of my way, you fool. I will go right to the King and then we will see who is Grand Maester!"
"You won't have to go far, but there's a time and a place." Robert brushed both Maesters aside and went further inside the tower, Royal Guards accompanying him.
Stannis stopped and looked at the servants, then shook his head. The accusation made had been too loud and too public. Whether it was true or not, the rumour would spread. "Grand Maester," he nodded to Coleman and then after a deliberate pause. "Maester Pycelle."
"Prince Stannis," Coleman greeted him. "A sad occurrance."
"Sad, this is assassination."
"I heard you, Pycelle." He gestured sharply. "Lord Tywin has passed away?" It was always worth checking.
Coleman drew himself up. "He has."
"I see. And Maester Pycelle believes poison was the cause?"
"Of course, it's the cause."
"Maester." Stannis glared at the white-bearded Pycelle. "I am addressing the Grand Maester."
The man glared poisonously at Coleman who ignored him.
"He does." Somewhat reluctantly the Grand Maester added: "Which I cannot confirm at this point."
"I see." Stannis lowered his head thoughtfully and then snapped his fingers at the nearest page. "You. Fetch Sandor Clegane. He'll be in the Master of Laws offices."
"Why do you want the Hound?" asked Pycelle.
Stannis glared. "You say someone poisoned Lord Tywin? Don't you want to know who did it? Clegane's like a bloodhound. If anyone can work out who it was, it's him."
"Isn't it obvious, it must be the Red Viper of Dorne."
"You can't know that!" protested Coleman.
Robert returned to the room, one arm around Jaime Lannister's shoulder. "What's all this shouting?" he said. "Don't you know there's a dead lord in the bedchamber up there? Show some respect."
"I should write to Uncle Kevan," Jaime muttered. "And I suppose Cersei must be told."
"It's as plain as day this is a Dornish plot," Pycelle snapped. "Don't try to hide it."
The Lannister's head snapped up sharply.
"It's too early to say," Stannis corrected the old Maester. "We don't know for sure yet he was even poisoned." He held up his hand. "But we will find out. I'm calling in Clegane."
That didn't stop the young lion's head from fixing due south towards the Tower of the Sun.
Robert didn't let go of Lannister's shoulder. "Not today, Prince Jaime. Let Clegane work. Whether he did it or not, you just lost your father. You're in no state to fight Oberyn Martell."
After a moment, Jaime relaxed a hair. "And if he did?"
"Your father supported me when I was new to my own throne. Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."
Olenna VII
"If we can speak of something other than the Lannisters and the Martells being at each other's throats..."
"Please do," Robert said with a sigh. The accusations and denials had derailed practically the entire Great Council. The City Watch had broken up four skirmishes inside the city walls already.
Olenna dropped a curtsey. "I must apologise for my son."
"For anything specific? Or for his being Mace?"
"Well I'm not taking any responsibility for his trying to arrange a marriage for one of my grandsons to Daenerys."
Robert nodded. "She is a beautiful and well dowered girl of a suitable age to begin discussing her marriage prospects. And your grandsons are admirable in their ways."
"Well they are your brother's friends."
"Yes..." The king scratched his chin. "I suppose I didn't set the best example for Renly at that age."
She had to mask a flinch at that cunningly backhanded remark.
"Lady Olenna, they all have a few years to grow up. I don't particularly favour a Tyrell match for my cousin but I'm not going to actively deny it as an option either. Who knows what may happen in that time? At least it's distracting the Reach from exacerbating our other problems."
There was a knock on the door. "Prince Tyrion and Ser Gerion Lannister, your grace."
Robert looked around the chamber. "Very well," he confirmed, raising his voice. "Bid them enter."
The door to the Small Council chamber was flung open and Olenna heard strange sounds - almost like heavy breathing, but echoing and reverberating.
Two men entered the chamber. One, by height, could only be Tyrion Lannister but that deduction took her a moment to process, so bizarre was their appearance. They both wore waxed leather coats, gloves and boots. Their heads were entirely encased in helmets and bird-beaked face masks with thick glass lens for eyes.
Prince Stark was hardly the only man at the table who reached for a weapon as the duo marched in and then dropped to one knee.
Only the King seemed unalarmed. His eyes were wide but a smile played upon his face. The first, Olenna thought, since Tywin's death. He held out his hand, palm up, and then raised it slightly. "Rise, Prince Tyrion and Ser Gerion."
The two obeyed and unbuckled their helms and masks, revealing indeed Prince Tyrion Lannister and his uncle, Ser Gerion.
"Most impressive."
"What in the world was that in aid of?" asked Ned Stark. "How can you even breathe in that get-up?"
"It takes some practise," Tyrion admitted, wiping sweaty hair back from his face.
"Why would you wear such things?"
The Crowslayer bowed to Lady Olenna. "As to that, you may blame his grace."
Robert raised one coal-black eyebrow.
"But I won't," Tyrion added hastily.
"When I discussed our expedition with his grace, at the end of my service in the Royal Guard, he shared an interesting idea about the Doom of Valyria and why expeditions there have failed ever since."
"And that would be?" asked Stannis.
His brother shrugged his shoulders. "Valyria was surrounded by fire-mountains and it's said that they still blaze beneath the waves."
"Indeed!" Tyrion pulled off his gauntlets and threw them on the table. "Not to mention that the seas are said to smoke and boil... exactly as they would if something as hot as a fire mountain was below the surface. Fire mountains are little known here in Westeros, but accounts I've read show that in addition to fire and ice, they can also blast out clouds of noxious poisons - not so unlike mine gas."
"Mine gas?"
"Something we Lannisters know much of. If such a gas was still being vented and bubbling out the sea then it's no surprise that no one returns: likely they all choke to death, poisoned without even knowing it."
"And these suits protect you?" Stannis sounded understandably sceptical.
"Well the caged mice we took died, while we did not. What does that tell you?"
"Never mind that!" demanded Stafford Lannister. "What about Brightroar? Did you find it?"
Gerion and Tyrion exchanged looks.
"We did not," admitted the elder. "But we found... quite enough to be worth returning. Nephew?"
"Are you sure?"
"This is your moment, I wouldn't deny you."
Tyrion whistled shrilly and two men in sailor's slops carried a long, low and clearly weighty chest between them and placed it before the table. Producing a key from around his neck, the dwarf unlocked it. "Something for the King, something for the Queen... something for father!" He paused. "Well. For Jaime now."
"Well?"
Tyrion lifted a scabbarded greatsword from the chest and laid it on the table, hilt first. Gripping the scabbard he pushed against the guard and the weapon slid easily out, sliding across the table until its pommel rested directly before Prince Stark.
Olenna stared at the blade and its dark and smokey metal. "Valyrian steel."
"A new Brightroar," murmured Stafford, reverently.
"Ned, is that..." The King's voice was grave.
The Prince drew his own sword and laid it alongside Tyrion's prize. The likeness was obvious even to someone with little knowledge of blades. Indeed, until she had looked carefully at the runes near the hilt, Olenna thought they might be identical. One was the same, but the second was different.
"Sister blades," Ned concluded reverently.
"Aye." Tyrion touched the runes on both swords. "Unless I'm mistaken they share the maker's mark here. Only the names are different. Which is why this isn't a new Brightroar, cousin Stafford. The sword has a name already."
"And what is it?"
Gerion nodded respectfully to the Prince of the North. "The blade is named Fire."