And then, just when I finally found the time to sit down and finish up the chapter, inspiration struck!
I wound up rewriting almost the whole thing from scratch, nearly doubling the word count of this chapter.
Ah well, enough rambling. Enjoy the chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"People always say that things will get worse before they get better. I've personally found that it's the other way around; Things usually get better before they get worse."
-King Aegon III, the Stern
111 AC, Skies above Westerlands,
Everyone had a signature trick. Be it in sports, interpersonal relationships, video games, cooking, etc. We all had that one trick we all loved to use. That one tactic we always defaulted to when faced with a certain situation. That one fallback. That one ploy or play.
I remember back in boarding school, my clique and I loved to play Civilisation VI in our free time. In our very first game together, Yuuki rushed in the early game and devoured no less than 3 AI players before the 50th turn, swiftly achieving hegemony on her continent. Pamela pushed science and colonised three quarters of our continent, eliminating the last AI player at some point. Stuck in between these two superpowers, and knowing that I was hilariously outmatched by both of them, I instead dug in and played one against the other and pushed culture and religion to try win.
Meanwhile Alice got savaged by Yuuki and lost nearly all of her cities, being unceremoniously evicted from their continent and forced to resettle in the polar regions in a tiny land with even fewer resources.
In the end, Pamela, annoyed at my missionaries, sent a dozen tanks into my lands and conquered me quickly, knocking me out of the game. In retaliation, Yuuki declared war, and got brutalised by Pamela's considerably more technologically advanced army. But Pamela's attempt at conquering Yuuki ended in her losing most of her army, for while Pamela was able to take cities, she was unable to hold them.
In the end, Pamela retreated back across the ocean to her home continent, and dug in, aiming for a science victory instead. Meanwhile, Yuuki began war preparations, raising a massive army to send across the ocean.
And then Alice won a diplomatic victory because Yuuki and Pamela were too busy warring to realise just how many diplomatic victory points she'd been accumulating on the sly.
That set the tone for the rest of our games.
Yuuki would rush and try devour as many civilisations as possible, before building up her army and trying for a domination victory. Pamela would push science and try for a technological victory, unless one of us came close to victory. At which point she'd use her considerably more advanced army to wipe us out. I'd dig in and try play one side against another, aiming for a cultural or religious victory. And Alice would make friends with everyone and try pull a diplomatic victory on the sly.
We'd do those exact same tactics without fail, no matter which leader we picked and no matter how impractical the notion was.
After all, why would we change our strategy when it worked so well for ourselves?
The notion of changing was as foreign as the idea of us three tone-deaf numbskulls trying to rival Alice in singing. Or trying to match Pamela in grades, or Yuuki in sports or me in scheming.
Signatures were signature for a reason, after all.
And this matter was no different. The rock and the hard place was Otto's default tactic. He'd pulled it on me with Borros, and was trying to pull it on me once again.
I could already feel the shape of it.
There was the rock and the hard place, with a narrow gap in between. A way that, if I was fast and clever enough, I could thread the needle and escape the trap. But that too, was another trap, for Otto had catspaws and agents waiting. Waiting for me to commit to threading the needle before pushing the rock and the hard place together, closing off my escape route.
And in desperation, I'd hastily pick either the rock or the hard place, and wind up crushed anyway.
Borros, for all that I won, was a situation that I'd lost. It was hard to enunciate. Lost the battle, won the war? No. I won most of the battles anyway. The victory was pyrrhic? No. The losses, while starker than I'd like, were not crippling. I'd tipped too much of my hand? No. I'd slapped down none of the truly important aces up my sleeve. I was a hammer, and treated everything like a nail? Closer, but the connotations were wrong.
English was a rather limited language in that sense.
Perhaps it was the fact that I even had to fight battles that was the problem. It didn't matter even if I won flawlessly, because the fact that I'd been forced onto the battlefield was a defeat in itself.
I'd rolled the dice on not just my reign, but my life, on multiple occasions during that whole fiasco. Sure I won the rolls, but how many more could I win? I was lucky. That was a fact of life. But even my luck wasn't unlimited.
My old army friends, when playing Monopoly, had a habit of allying and forming cartels before systematically bankrupting anyone outside their alliance. And for various reasons, I'd always be stuck outside the cartel. My luck meant that I could mitigate my way through the game, and would last the longest of the unallied, but eventually, they'd bury me through sheer dint of impossible odds.
It didn't matter how lucky I was, when defeat was inevitable.
My five-year-plans would preempt Otto, and hamper him for the foreseeable future. Oh, I had no doubt that he'd still able to stir up trouble, but that was fine as long as it was manageable trouble. The Lannister succession should be the last big problem I had for a while.
"Three years." I told myself, spurring Silverwing on. "Three more years, and I will win."
———
111 AC, Casterly Rock, Rhaenyra's Quarters
The Lannisters liked to boast that Casterly Rock was so impregnable and invincible, that Queen Visenya had been relieved that Loren the Last rode out to meet the Targaryens on the field of battle, as she was unsure that even dragonfire could bring down the Rock.
Seeing it in person almost made me believe that old boast, for Casterly Rock was not a castle built on a mountain, but a castle built from a mountain. The peak itself had been flattened into a plateau, walls and towers and other buildings crowning the mountain. But those were but the tip of the iceberg, for the entire mountain itself was their castle. Everywhere I looked, I could see watchtowers carved from spires, murderholes carved on sheer mountain faces, platforms laden with siege engines topping every plateau and clifftop.
Hidden tunnels allowing deployment of men and horse surrounded the Rock and the surrounding lands, all designed to be collapsed on any enemy that found them. And rumour was it that the Lannisters had cleverly engineered the outer layers of the mountain, such that they could trigger avalanches on command, allowing them to crush besiegers beneath tonnes of rock.
So large was the footprint of the mountain and so high it's peak, that any besieging army would be spread thin trying to surround the Rock and no siege tower was tall enough to surmount it. This was a fortress that could break any army fool enough to assault it.
Starving the Rock out was also nearly impossible, for it jutted straight out of the sea, and where sea met land, caves, both manmade and natural, had been converted into docks and wharves. To surround the Rock, one needed both an armada of ships and a massive army of men.
And that wasn't even counting the dozens of secret passages connecting the castle to Lannisport, allowing for food to be smuggled in for the defenders. Narrow and thin, without cover and filled with murderholes that could spew boiling oil, five knights could hold the line against five thousand enemies until the end of time.
Casterly Rock wasn't impregnable. Nothing was. But it'd take even me a considerable amount of effort to bring it down. It'd be more trouble than it was worth.
I'd timed it such that Silverwing and I arrived late in the evening, after dinnertime, which gave me the excuse to put off meeting my hosts properly until the morrow, claiming that I was weary from the journey, and just wanted a quick bath and supper before sleeping.
My requests were granted, and before long I was ushered into comfortable chambers new the top of the mountain, and a hot meal brought out for me.
"Alright, lay it on me." I instructed the two Dragonseeds sitting beside me on the table, the air around us shivering slightly as my privacy ward rippled out. "Tell me what I am walking into."
The two cousin-siblings looked at each other before speaking.
"The Westerlands are on the verge of civil war." Rhaegar informed me. "Lord Jason's consolidation of authority is disliked, and sending the Fourth Legion in to back him up was seen as heavy-handed foreign intervention. The Lords and Ladies of the Westerlands aren't happy. They're all flocking to Lady Cerelle now, as she's promised to undo all of Lord Jason's policies and evict the Fourth Legion."
Neither of them mentioned that deploying the Fourth Legion was a mistake, for it wasn't. Complaints about foreign intervention aside, if they weren't there, this relatively civil succession dispute would be a rather uncivil civil war.
I mean, I was pretty sure that I could win such a war, and win it handily, allowing me install a puppet ruler in the Westerlands, but that was the sort of thing that Daddy Dearest would take notice of. And the lynchpin of my strategy for Handship was keeping Viserys ignorant of the Realm's troubles, lest he start getting ideas about actually taking an interest in rule.
"The Fourth Legion makes everyone reluctant to head onto the battlefield, so instead they've taken the war to the court. And there, the Westerlands are split." Daenys piped up. "The court has split into two major factions, one under Lord Jason, the other under Lady Cerelle."
"Lord Jason holds the flatlands of the Kingdom." Rhaegar continued, spreading a map of the Westerlands on the table and placing down wooden blocks painted gold to mark out the battle lines. "Every lord from Sarsfield to Crakehall kneels before his authority."
"Lady Cerelle, on the other hand, holds the other two-thirds of the Westerlands." Daenys told me. Down went the red wooden blocks, one after another. Castermere, the Crag, Ashermark, Fair Isle, Tarbeck Hall, the Golden Tooth and more. "Not only does she outnumber Lord Jason, but her support is considerably stronger and richer."
I was among family, so didn't bother hide my wince. While the Reynes were the second strongest after House Lannister, the Westerlings, the Marbrands and Tarbecks were respectively the third, fourth and fifth strongest Houses in the Westerlands. And with all four standing against Casterly Rock, no wonder why Jason Lannister was panicking. And that wasn't even getting into the fact that Otto was subtly propping up Cerelle's position.
"Lord Serrett?" I asked, noting the absence of any block atop Silverhill.
"Hedging." Rhaegar informed me. "Lord Lucius is unsure of whom to back, given the situation."
"Good." I muttered to myself. Lord Lucius Serrett was the finest commander in the Westerlands, and the General-to-be of the Sixth Legion. It would have been inconvenient if we stood opposed.
"Frankly, I'm not sure whom we are backing." Daenys admitted. "Quite a few Houses whom are theoretically in the Prince's Party are backing Cerelle, because they think that you would back a fellow woman."
"Yes, the battle lines are rather muddled, aren't they." I muttered. "I came into this room expecting to back Jason, but now I'm genuinely reconsidering. Cerelle looks like she's got overwhelming support."
"Though the amount of men that she can field is roughly equal anyway." Rhaegar hedged. "While Lady Cerelle has the bulk of the Kingdom behind her, Lord Jason holds the heartlands."
Yeah, I could see why this situation came into being. The flatlands were where the farms were, as such they were the more populated area of the Westerlands, and their proximity to Casterly Rock meant that Lord Jason could make his displeasure felt far more keenly and quickly. But the mountains were where the mines were, and even without the farms, they were rich enough to afford to import food in from the Riverlands.
"An unimportant detail, at the moment. We're not marching to war unless the situation really falls apart." I waved away. "But what of Casterly Rock and Lannisport? Whom holds their loyalty?"
"Lord Jason." Rhaegar informed me. "Lannisport backs Lord Jason, as his reforms promise much profit and trade to the city, and he's managed to ensure that the overwhelming majority of the Lannister cousins within the Rock are backing him."
"But that isn't to say that Cerelle holds no sway in either." Daenys cautioned. "She has loyalists in both. Not the majority, but still enough to make a coup feasible."
"Not that she plans to." I noted. "She's trying to seize the high seat through words, not swords."
"Yes, that's probably why neither Jason nor Cerelle have assassinated the other." Rhaegar muttered. "They know that if they kill the other, it will damage their own legitimacy irreparably and cause the situation to escalate needlessly."
"It's a polite form of usurpation." I noted. "They want the law behind them."
I shook my head.
"Well, no matter." I shrugged. "I now know what to do."
"Oh, do tell." Daenys smiled, leaning forwards eagerly.
"I am going to follow my father's advice." I grinned, my mouth all teeth and malice. "When you cannot defend, attack."
I wonder how Otto would feel, when I began setting a few fires of my own.
———
111 AC, Casterly Rock, Throne Room
The throne room of Casterly Rock was a truly impressive piece of masonry. While it wasn't the largest throne room I'd ever been in, this cavern in the bowels of the Rock was easily the most impressive. The walls and ceiling were bare rock, veined with gold. The floor was polished white marble, so polished that it could be used as a mirror. Golden chandeliers dipped down from the ceiling, while the solid stone pillars rising up on either side of the red carpet dividing the room nestled braziers and oil lanterns within them, in alcoves carved into the shape of lion heads, the fires burning within their eyes and maw.
And there, at the back of the room, on a stone dais rising up from the floor, sat the Gilded Chair, throne of the former Kings of the Rock. Made out of a hunk of solid gold, it was ornate and a masterwork of goldsmithing. The four legs were knurled, rising up to support a chair of gold, with cushions of red velvet on the back and seat. The back was a masterwork of scrollwork, all pretty whorls and swirls that rose higher than a tall man's head. The arms of the chair ended in the heads of lions, the King of Beasts glaring down at the lesser animals that made up its court.
A grand tapestry was hung behind the Gilded Throne. So long and large that it covered the entire back wall of the throne room. On it was depicted the view from the summit of Casterly Rock at sunset. And as I approached, I realised that it wasn't golden thread, but cloth-of-gold itself that made up the bulk of the tapestry. Hundreds of hues of every colour of gold from red to white, woven with silk and linen to form a view so lifelike and breathtaking that I almost believe it.
But for all that this room was a masterpiece of art, the people within were no less impressive. They stood in ranks, hundreds of them, the nobility of the Westerlands. Every Lord and Lady whom was anyone stood within this room.
The Westerlands were the richest region of Westeros, and this showed in the way they dressed. Men came bedecked in ceremonial suits of armour, made completely out of precious metals. Or doublets and coats of elaborate print-patterns, with sashes of purple or cloth-of-gold. The women were no less impressive, with bejewelled bodices and coutures of gold and silver, inlaid with beautiful enamelling or scrollwork, dresses of silk or velour in brightly coloured dyes.
Today, for the occasion, I too had donned a Westerlands style dress. The cut wasn't anything too special, as instead of having a unique cut, the Westerlands preferred to flaunt their wealth through wearing expensive materials. And though I disdained spending taxpayer coin on needlessly expensive clothing, I wouldn't complain when said clothing was given to me.
The dress I wore today was a gift from Jason Lannister, and was easily more ornate than anything I'd ever worn before. Black velour had been woven with cloth-of-gold to produce a dress that glittered with every step I took, like I was wearing a piece of black marble, veined with gold. On the collar, wrist and hem of the dress were embroideries of golden dragons, with eyes of rubies. Paired with it was an intricate bodice of gold, with elaborate filigree and engravings that suggested dragons. On my shoulders and arms were matching paudrons and vambraces of the same gold, and no less decorative.
And awaiting me before the throne were the two people I'd come for.
The first, Lord Jason Lannister was someone I was most familiar with. Sixteen years old, with hair like spun gold, eyes like emerald and a sharp, bladelike smile, the boy was dashing and handsome, and was known to be highly chivalrous. He, and his twin Tyland, were amongst my most ardent suitors, and bent over backwards in an attempt to curry my favour.
In fact, I highly suspected that a good deal of his progressive, Black-leaning policies were an extension of his attempts to woo me.
The second was someone I was less familiar with, but her resemblance to her brother was obvious. Lady Cerelle Lannister was the firstborn child of the late Lord Tymond Lannister by his first wife, Ellyn Tarbeck. Twenty-six and ambitious, she'd been offered to my father as a bride not even six months after Queen Aemma kicked the bucket, and had taken it as a slight that he didn't take her hand.
Cerelle despised me, Mayin Blacktyde informed me. Apparently Cerelle blamed me for manipulating my father into naming me heir, as otherwise she believed that Viserys would never have denied her, making her Queen and her son Prince of Dragonstone.
Regardless of the past, it was the present that troubled me.
When Lord Tymond had died, his firstborn son Jason Lannister had ascended as Warden of the West. That should have been the be all and end all of the matter, but Cerelle Lannister had decided to throw her hat into the ring.
Lord Tymond hadn't left behind a will, Lady Cerelle told me. A statement that was repeated by his widow, the rest of his family, his closest advisors and even the maester. Dubious, I'd sent Rhaegar out snooping, but he only confirmed the truth of the matter. Lord Tymond was so cocksure that his succession would be a smooth and done thing that he hadn't bothered to put it down in writing.
And there went my other excuse to crush Cerelle like a bug.
Complicating matters was the fact that Cerelle genuinely had overwhelming support among the highborn. The Reynes were the second strongest after House Lannister, and the Tarbecks were fourth or fifth strongest, after the Westerlings and possibly the Marbrands. Between her husband and late mother's family, Lady Cerelle had a significant power bloc behind herself. And that wasn't even getting into the fact that Otto was subtly propping up Cerelle's position.
Oh House Lannister itself opposed Cerelle, none of the cousins wanted Robert Reyne in charge of Casterly Rock, but alas that opinion wasn't shared by the rest of the Westerlands.
But still, I could see the writing on the wall.
Otto wanted to bait me into opposing Cerelle, which would have been a very costly move, given her overwhelming support. Oh sure, I could call her to heel through force of arms, but that would not have allowed me to disperse the assembled coalition behind her. There were many ways for bannermen to be unruly without outright rebelling. Dragging feet, stonewalling in court, petitioning against reforms, allowing banditry to run rampant, that sort of thing.
Even if Jason actually got the high seat, he'd spend much of his lordship trying to call his many vassals to heel, effectively neutering him as a political entity for the bulk of the future.
I'd have to burn a truly ruinous amount of political capital in order to prop my Warden of the West up, which would severely hamper my ability to project power into the rest of the Realm.
Which was why, before the eyes of every single noble of the Westerlands, Lord Jason Lannister and his twin Tyland Lannister publicly knelt before their older sister and publicly recognised her claim as the Warden of the West, swearing eternal fealty and loyalty.
———
111 AC, Casterly Rock, Rhaenyra's Quarters,
"Just like that?" Rhaegar incredulously asked. "You're just going to throw in the towel? Surrender the Westerlands to the Queen's Party?"
"Oh no." I softly denied, folding fan coming up to hide my grin. "Mark my words. Before the year is over, I will quite literally own Cerelle Lannister body and soul."
"We will be going on the offensive then?" Daenys asked. She spoke in her usual calm and unruffled manner, but I caught the hints of girlish excitement in her tone.
I nodded, snapping my fan shut.
"You see, while it's true Otto has forced me to tip my hand, the same can be said for him." I drawled, lazily throwing my fan into the air. The thin piece of lacquered wood and linen spun around, end over end, spinning through the air before gravity's merciless grasp pulled it back down. My fingers shot out, viper quick, snatching it out of the air before it could fall. A twist of my grip, and a flick of my wrist, and up the fan went once again, twirling end over end, so high it almost reached the ceiling.
"Now, Otto is a schemer in the same league as me, at the very least." I informed my cousins. "But just because he's as skilled a player doesn't mean that he'll win the game. There are other factors involved, like the quality of the cards in each our hands."
"Ah. We do have one advantage that he does not have." Daenys smiled, drumming her fingers on the table. I felt her magic ripple, not outright casting a spell, but something akin to stretching before exercise.
"Bingo." I agreed, tossing and catching my fan without even paying attention. "Berefit of magic, Otto will be relying on ravens to carry his messages to his catspaws in the Westerlands. Which means that we have a few days before he finds out about Cerelle's ascension as Warden, which gives us a window of opportunity."
It was a bad habit of mine, to idly toss and catch an object repeatedly as I thought, but I felt that the movement and dexterity involved helped ground and center me, allowing me to turn greater focus into tackling a problem.
"My predecessor has taught me many things—including how to destabilize the reign of a female regnant." Getting the hang of the feel of the fan, I idly used telekinesis to pull an apple from the fruit platter in the center of our table to my left hand. A heartbeat later, and the green fruit joined the fan in the air, spinning on itself like a top.
As part of my attempts to make something productive out of my bad habit, I'd learnt how to juggle. Mostly in order to amuse my family— my daughter in particular— but also partially to have something decent if I ever had to perform a 'hidden talent show'.
But these days it wasn't balls or rods I juggled, but plots and schemes, and the consequences for dropping something was far more severe than mere embarrassment.
"So that's what we'll do, I presume." Rhaegar said, and it was not a question.
"Here's the thing about being a female ruler in this world." I grinned, a blood orange joining the fan and apple. "Our castles are always built on quicksand."
I caught my apple and fan, leaving only the orange flipping through the air.
"One misstep and…" My fist came down, smashing the orange to pulp on the table, juice like blood spilling everywhere.
None of us were splattered, for the three of us were the three best mages of House Targaryen. Orange juice dripping off our shielding spells, leaving us completely unmarred.
"What's the plan, Rhae?" Daenys zealously asked. Her pink eyes coldly burning with determination and conviction, all hesitation snuffed out like a candle without air. "Otto has catspaws throughout the Westerlands, ready to move against us."
"I've identified quite a few suspects, but it's far from a complete list." Rhaegar added, leaning forwards. "It's a closely kept secret."
"My dear cousins." I lovingly drawled, the Dragonseeds shuddering at my husky voice. "Do you know how to find out about a secret?"
"We either see it for ourselves, or be told about it by someone whom knows it." Daenys obediently replied.
"That's right." I nodded approvingly. "So let's go ask someone who does know whom the catspaws are."
I tapped my fingers on the table, and disabled my privacy ward, elegantly picking up the golden bell on the table and ringing it. Within five seconds, a maidservant entered the room, obediently awaiting my orders.
"Would you please find Lord Robert Reyne and invite him to my solar for a cup of wine after dinner?" I asked the woman in Lannister livery. "I have business to discuss with the Lord of Castamere, and the Lord of Castamere only."
———
Daenys elegantly poured the Lord of Castamere a goblet of wine, retreating once she was done and melting back into the walls. As soon as my cousin stepped back, I raised my own glass—warm milk, for I wanted my wits with me tonight.
"To your good health." I toasted the Red Lion.
"And to yours." Lord Robert Reyne replied, clinking our glasses together before we drank.
"Now then." My glass landed on the table, and I leaned forward intently, steeping my fingers. "Onto business."
"Lady Hand, if this is about business, then my wife should—" The Red Lion began.
"Come now." I chided, beadily eyeing the man in front of me. "We both know that it is not Cerelle Lannister, but you that is the real ruler of the Westerlands."
"Ah, so it is to be that sort of conversation." Lord Robert dryly noted. "Very well then, let us dispense with the pretenses."
He leaned forwards.
"What do you want, and what are you offering me in return for it?" The Lord of Castamere bluntly asked.
"I offer nothing. I take everything." I drawled, leaning back in my seat. "You will tell me everything you know about Otto Hightower's plans in the Westerlands, and the names of all of your conspirators."
The man barked out a laugh, amused at my bluntness and insolent audacity.
"No." The Red Lion denied, voice brooking no argument.
"I wasn't asking." I told him, my voice also brooking no argument.
A heartbeat after I spoke, Lord Robert was pulled back into his chair by tendrils of invisible sorcery, he made to shout or scream, but a tendril snaked around his mouth, gagging him. Not that anyone could have heard him, not with my privacy ward having been active this whole damn time. I reached out and poked him in the forehead, the man slumping over as I knocked him out with a touch.
Rhaegar approached, and leaned over the unconscious Lord of Castamere, checking his eyes.
"Pupils are dilated." He reported, stepping back. "The truth serum should be taking effect soon."
"Make him drink the rest of his wine." I ordered. "I want to be absolutely sure."
Rhaegar didn't say anything, but his eyes rolled back in their sockets, presenting only the whites to the world. Immediately, Lord Robert jerked in his seat, picking up his wineglass and drinking the rest in a single gulp. Once done, the man slumped over once more, Rhaegar returning to himself once again.
"Give it another five minutes or so to fully settle." Rhaegar told me. "Then the work can begin."
I nodded and Daenys approached, glass candle in hand. I found my trunk and pulled a storybook out of it. A mere twist of will dispelling the glamour on the binding and revealing it as a grimoire. The Secrets of the Mind embossed on its cover in High Valyrian glyphs.
"Now then, let's try again shall we." I said, pulling over my chair such that I was right beside the Red Lion. "Only this time, it's your memories whom I'll be asking."
With Daenys and Rhaegar's help I was able to pull a list of names from Lord Robert Reyne's mind within half an hour, Daenys casually wiping his memory of our encounter tonight before withdrawing.
"There." My cousin said, removing her hand from his forehead. "He won't remember anything from tonight."
"Hmm." I noncommittally grunted. "Best to make absolutely sure."
I turned to face Daemon's secondborn son.
"Kill Lord Robert." I ordered my cousin. "Make it look like an accident."
———
111 AC, Westerlands,
The very next day, Lord Robert Reyne was thrown from his horse while out riding, the animal bringing it's hooves down on the Lord of Castamere's head immediately afterwards, pulping it like a watermelon.
———
111 AC, Casterly Rock,
As the Westerlands reeled from the loss of the Warden of the West's Lord Consort, House Targaryen went on the hunt. We'd gotten a list of names from the Lord of Castamere, but I hadn't survived this long because I took things at face value. Double and triple-checking everything was common sense in near every field under the sun.
Which was why, when Lord Elbert Tarbeck, first cousin of Lady Cerelle Lannister and one of her most trusted confidants, returned to his quarters, he found that he had visitors.
"Hello, Lord Tarbeck." I greeted, casually lounging on his own chair. "I'd like to have a private conversation with you."
"P-prince Rhaenyra!" The man stammered, caught off guard. "This is an unexpected surprise. I wasn't told that you were here."
No one had seen us enter, and no one would see us leave. Not when we had illusion magic on our side. No one would come either, not when I'd laid a privacy ward on the room, preventing any and all sound from leaving the walls.
"I apologize for the intrusion, but I have news of grave import for you." I gestured to the seat opposite me. "Approach please, the walls have ears."
The man did so, hastily approaching and expectantly looking at me. So focused was he that he didn't notice Daenys step out from behind a tapestry and rap him atop the head with a wand, Lord Tarbeck collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
"I'm out truth serum." Rhaegar reminded me, approaching the blue and silver Star Lord.
"No matter." I shrugged. "I'm unafraid of being rough."
"We might break his mind." Rhaegar warned.
"We need that list of names, Rhaegar." I informed the Dragonseed. "Losing a Kingdom is not an option."
"Very well then. You're the boss." He shrugged, stepping back as I approached, glass candle coldly shining.
Screams filled up the room, none of them mine.
It actually took me less time to rip the information out of Lord Tarbeck than Lord Reyne, for the fact that this time I was utterly concerned about collateral damage, meant that I had no problem smashing away at his mind instead of using delicate cuts into his memory. The sledgehammer, instead of the scalpel.
I got what I needed, though by the time that I withdrew, all that was left of the blue-silver Star Lord was a gibbering wreck, weeping and babbling uncontrollably.
"Nyra?" Rhaegar asked, looking warily at us.
"It is done." I replied, getting to my feet. "Dispose of the man, Rhaegar. Make it look like an accident."
"I worry though." Daenys piped up, eyeing Lady Cerelle's lieutenant, pounding his fists on the floor, mind lost to madness. "Once is a coincidence, twice is suspicious. We ought to find a way to cover our tracks, throw off our scent."
Yes, that was a good point.
"Does Lord Tarbeck have any enemies?" I asked, looking expectantly at Rhaegar. "Anyone we can frame for the murder?"
"Lord Flavius Swyft." My cousin replied without missing a beat. "They were both rivals for the hand of Lady Eileen Farman. Lord Tarbeck won, just last year, and is now married to the woman. Lord Swyft is still sulky over the loss."
The man, as I recalled, was an ally of mine. That was good. It would have been suspicious for all of these tragedies to occur solely to my enemies. Tarnishing my own allies would help make the situation look more realistic and help shift blame off me.
"Good." I nodded. "We've found our scapegoat."
I paused for a while, mulling the scenario I wanted to sell over.
"I've got a supply of brandy still in Silverwing's saddlebags." I decided, snapping my fingers. "I'll plant a few empty bottles inside Lord Tarbeck's chambers and a few unopened ones in Lord Swyft's. Make it look like he got drunk and fell off a balcony or something."
I blinked.
"On second thought, Rhaegar, actually make Lord Tarbeck drink the brandy." I ordered the boy. "Let's be thorough about this."
"I can do one better." Daenys piped up, girlishly tittering. "I can plant false memories in Lord Swyft's mind. Make him think that he genuinely did the deed."
"Daenys, did I ever mention how you're my favorite Dragonseed?" I appreciatively asked, my cousin blushing in response. I pecked her on the cheek, before stepping back. "Well we've all got our tasks, let's hop to it then."
———
111 AC, Casterly Rock,
The very next day, Lord Elbert Tarbeck was found dead. He'd fallen off a balcony while dead drunk. The maesters opened up his body and found traces of King's Landing Brandy in his stomach. A story corespondent to the empty bottles found in Lord Tarbeck's room.
A few other servants on duty noted seeing Lord Tarbeck wandering the halls before his death, dead drunk and singing with a bottle of brandy in his hands.
I testified that I'd had a supply of them brought with me as diplomatic gifts, but half of it had vanished from Silverwing's saddlebags overnight. A few other servants also testified that they saw a girl in Swyft livery—In truth me, under veil of illusion— entering and exiting the shed where Silverwing's saddle was kept, leaving with arms full of bottles.
The same type of bottles that was found in Lord Swyft's room.
Cerelle Lannister immediately ordered the man arrested, and put on trial for murder. A trial which I won, arguing Lord Swyft's crimes down from murder to mere thievery. It was one thing if the victim was going out on a hunt at the time, where he'd be in genuine danger and needed his wits about him. But safe in his own chambers? Getting drunk there should have been safe. Not to mention that Lord Tarbeck wasn't an alcoholic by any means. How was Lord Swyft supposed to know that his gift of stolen brandy would kill Lord Elbert?
Not that Cerelle listened to my successful defence. The woman, blinded with grief, immediately demanded Lord Swyft's head and refused to heed the voice of anyone else. Not the other judges, not the jury, not the Westerman court.
My one attempt at stopping the execution ended in half a dozen Lannister guardsmen pointing their swords at me, Ser Jessamyn immediately shoving me behind her before I could get hurt. Which was enough time for Cerelle's headsman to execute Lord Swyft, making a travesty of justice.
———
111 AC, Casterly Rock, Rhaenyra's Quarters,
"Should you push so hard in so short a period?" My bodyguard Ser Jessamyn asked concernedly. "You've hardly slept."
"I have to." I frankly told my sworn sword. "My one advantage is that I'm here and Otto is in Oldtown. Which means I have to constantly keep up the dance, without giving my predecessor the opportunity to catch up."
It took an estimated four days of delay for Otto's catspaws to acquire new instructions from the man himself. That was fine for things like Borros' Trial, where there were days between the proceedings, allowing his agents enough time to receive their instructions and adjust their plans appropriately. But here and now, in a situation constantly in flux, changing every day?
Four days might as well have been four years. And that wasn't even getting into our... interference.
Now that we'd ripped the information we needed out of the minds of Lord Reyne and Lord Tarbeck, I'd unleashed Rhaegar and Daenys on the catspaws with extreme prejudice and even fewer restrictions. From what I was told, free to push the envelope of their sorcery, the two of them had gotten rather... creative in their methods of disposing of Otto's agents.
"Very well then, Lady Hand." My bodyguard surrendered. "At least try to keep my words in mind."
"I shall." I nodded, stretching and letting my shoulders pop with the most satisfying crack. "Now then, I do believe that I am due a visitor soon."
———
"Ser Raymond Reyne." I greeted as the man was ushered into my solar by Ser Jessamyn. "My condolences for the loss of your brother, the Lord Robert. It must have been difficult for you."
"Yes, it was." The knight in red and silver armour replied, taking a seat opposite me. "The loss was… painful, and I feel depressed and lost now."
Hmm, not the finest of liars, this knight. Sure the tone was passable, but the words on the other hand? Ah well, I'd met liars whom went farther on less. He would do for my purposes.
"Is that so, my dear Unruly Cub?" I drawled, enjoying the way the man opposite me stiffened at the sound of his childhood nickname.
"How?" Ser Raymond got out. "How do you know that?"
"Always assume I know." I grinned, leaning forwards. "You're a Cub no longer, but are you still Unruly?"
The nickname came about because Raymond Reyne, in his youth, had always coveted his elder brother's due. He'd wanted to become Lord of Castamere. So much so that he'd tried to arrange for 'accidents' to befall his brother, such that he may ascend as heir to Castamere. All were foiled, of course, and the man had been punished and disciplined appropriately, but still, Robert memories told me that he considered Raymond a threat, and Mysaria had explicitly highlighted out to me that Ser Raymond was a good angle, if I ever wanted to destabilise House Reyne.
"No, I have reformed and am now a true and leal knight in the service of House Reyne." The man hastily stammered, but I merely raised an elegant pale finger, and silenced him.
"Pity, because I was going to ask how much you would like to be Lord Raymond Reyne." I sighed dramatically, Raymond Reyne stiffening at my words and leaning forward, rapt with attention.
"You speak of treason." The knight slowly said.
"Is it really treason, if it is the Hand of the King speaking it?" I asked, Ser Raymond snorting in amusement at my words.
"Alright then. Mayhaps I am still rather unruly after all." The man admitted, and I grinned behind my folding fan. I had him. Hook, line and sinker.
"Yes, I thought so." I pleasantly said, leaning back on my chair. "The current heir to Castamere is your nephew Tybolt Reyne, yes?"
"Indeed. My late brother's one and only child." Ser Raymond confirmed. "Cerelle has declared herself regent until he comes of age."
"Ah, but to be heir to both Casterly Rock and Castamere is overreach." I tittered. "Should Tybolt ascend as both, House Reyne will be subsumed into House Lannister."
"Yes. Yes." The Unruly Lion nodded, licking his lips. "So the lesser title should be stripped from him, and given to another."
"Indeed, I am willing to endorse your claim to the Lordship, on one condition." I offered, leaning back in my chair.
"I am listening."
"Betray Cerelle Lannister."
"I'd have done that for free." The Unruly Lion grinned eagerly. "I accept this deal, Lady Hand."
"Good. Good." I smiled, beckoning Rhaegar forwards. The boy placed on the table a piece of parchment, bearing on it my terms and conditions. "Would you be willing to swear a blood oath on this deal?"
He was, eagerly cutting a red line on his palm and bleeding onto the parchment, shivering as the binding took hold over his soul. He opened his mouth to voice his surprise, but no sound came out, for part of the contract he'd agreed to prevented him from communicating in any manner about my sorcery.
And now I quite literally owned the man body and soul. There would be double-crosses or unwelcome surprises from my Lord Castamere. While it was true that no binding was perfect, contracts willingly entered into were considerably harder to break. There was more power in blood willingly spilled than unwillingly, after all.
———
Selling my plot to raise Ser Raymond as Lord of Castamere was as easy as snapping my fingers. My father was enraged that Lannister guardsmen had bared their blades at me, and that Cerelle was refusing to punish them. In fact, I had to talk him down from demanding Cerelle's head, arguing that stripping the title of Lord of Castamere from her son was punishment enough.
A reminder that what the Crown gave, the Crown could take back.
I was just planning out the finer details of how I'd go about stipping the Lordship from three-year-old Tybolt when my glass candle suddenly lit up. My eyes narrowed at the specific colour it shone.
Feeling apprehension pool in my belly, I sighed and tapped the candle, a hologram of Uncle Vaegon immediately appearing in the seat opposite me.
"Uncle, what's wrong?" I concernedly asked. "You hardly call unless it's important."
"Niece, we have a problem." The Archmaester informed me. "Otto's made his move."
"Where?" I demanded.
"Highgarden. Lady Relena Tyrell is dead. Stabbed to death in broad daylight. The culprits are allegedly men in the service of House Hightower." My Uncle told me. "Ser Garth Tyrell has since killed and usurped his brother Lord Matthos Tyrell, to cheering mobs. He's declared himself Warden of the South, and called the banners before declaring war on House Hightower in your name."
"SON OF A PARTICULARLY UGLY BITCH!" I swore, mind furiously racing as the implications fell into place. This was bad. Real bad. A war in the Reach would definitely make my father take notice, especially considering that Alicent was his wife. My stepmother would melodramatically wail and weep at the war, and my father would immediately order House Targaryen to make war for House Hightower. Against my own allies no less.
I'd be forced to break the Legions against my own allies, or drown them in dragonfire, which would cost me the entire south. With my allies chargrill, Otto would devour the Reach wholesale, and likely the Stormlands as well. Worse was the fact that I was still committed in the Westerlands. If I bailed out now, Cerelle would be able to salvage her rule, costing me yet another Kingdom.
Shit, letting the war happen uninterrupted was also not in the cards, for the Hightowers were quite likely waiting and ready for the battles to come. And in the aftermath, after they'd won, they would be able to spin it as me being so inept a Hand that I'd let a war slip by under my nose.
And neither was supporting my own allies, as Viserys was certain to stand beside his wife's family, and like it or not, the man was King. To stand against him was treason. I wasn't ready to usurp my father—I wasn't sixteen yet— which meant that I had to go along with whatever he said.
This was a war that I couldn't stop, I realised with great dread. Even if I flew over to the Reach immediately and ordered my allies to stand down, Ser Garth Tyrell—Someone very likely in Otto's pocket— would declare that I was a weak and craven ruler, unwilling to go to war even for justice and righteousness. That too, would cost me the south, for I'd have to abandon the Westerlands and spend valuable time to just barely settle the Reach. Time that Otto would use to consolidate Cerelle's rule.
Fuck, Otto had outplayed me. The border disputes were meant to make me deploy my Legions down south, putting them right in harm's way for this war, while the Lannister succession was to make me commit resources elsewhere. Too many such that I couldn't redeploy quickly enough to nip the crisis in the bud. Shit, just when I thought I finally settled the south, Otto flipped the board, and all my gains had evaporated practically overnight.
With looming dread, I realised that for the first time ever since I'd reincarnated, I'd lost. Undisputedly. Absolutely. An unmitigated catastrophe of the highest magnitude.
Uncle Vaegon's voice was the only thing that snapped me out of my downwards spiral. Out of my panic and despair.
"The good news is that Shaera was one step ahead of everyone else." The Archmaester reported. "She's successfully defused the situation from outright war to a very tense standoff."
Shaera. The single best political mind among the Dragonseeds. A treasonous and power-hungry bitch whom had betrayed and nearly sunk me once. I had no such illusions that she'd move for anything other than herself, which meant that the only reason why she'd bailed me out of this mess was because it allowed her to gain even more power and rise ever higher.
My panic and despair was ripped out of me, immediately replaced by anger.
"What did she do?" I hissed, Uncle Vaegon involuntary flinching back at the intensity of words.
He told me, and it was only due to Rhaegar and Daenys' swift intervention that I'd avoided causing a cave-in due to my rage.