The three houses of Westeros: Chapter 4 (Patreon)

Chapter 4:

Dimitri:

The Hand of the King was dead.

When a member of the royal family, and by extension, the Hand of the King, died, it was customary to alert the realm and, most importantly, allow time for condolences or other nobility to arrive and pay their respects if they were so able.

Historically; this grace period to make one’s way to King's Landing only lasted ten days; though records had shown that particularly beloved or despised members could have those periods extended or reduced depending on sentiment.

Baelor, who’d starved himself to death with ‘piety’ had all but decomposed and disintegrated on the altar before he was finally moved. 

Maegor the Cruel on the other hand barely found his body cold before he was stuffed in a stone box and shoved into a burial chamber. 

Jon Arryn was not particularly loved or hated by the realm; or more accurately, Dimitri found that you fell on one side of the coin or the other, with very little in the way of an ‘in between’ or neutral field.

So, ten days- the standard length of time seemed appropriate. But it was extended because the Royce’s of the Vale requested time to make their way down to King’s landing. Dimitri was unsure if the entire Royce household would arrive or if Bronze Royce would find it a good opportunity to entrust Sylvain Royce with authority for a relatively safe and minor trip while he was gone.

But beyond that, Dimitri himself didn’t expect much in the way of distant visitors.

He’d been wrong.

In hindsight; he should have expected this. He’d been an idiot not to.

Jon Arryn was the Hand of the King.

That office was now open.

His father famously did not get on well with his Uncle Stannis; who Dimitri had to admit had many of the makings of an excellent Hand.

No. Uncle Stannis did not inspire love. But that was not the Hand’s job. That was the King’s job. The hand was merely the iron will of the King made manifest.

And no one embodied “Iron Will” quite like Uncle Stannis. 

But- father would never have him as hand.

The Realm knew this.

It was like they were just waiting in the wings. Crawling out of the woodwork the instant Jon died.

The Crownland houses all arrived if they hadn’t been here already. The Emmons, the Brunes, Bruckwell, Celtigar, Cressy, Hayford, Rykker, Mallery, Stokeworth. 

The Stormlanders had arrived in absolute force as if they wanted to remind the Realm that they were the King’s closest vassals, not the Crownlanders. So, Brownhill, Staedmon, Estermont, Fell, Grandison, Mertyns, Penrose, Gower, Horpe, Lonmouth. 

And the Reach Lords. By all the seven gods the Reachlords. Dimitri was half convinced they were actually hiding within the walls. Ambrose, Ashford, Meadows, Merryweather, Oakhearts, Peaks, Redwynes, Risley, Rowan, The Brightwater Tyrells, Varner, Vyrwel, Webber, Willum Fossoways, Costayne’s Cuy’s, Standfasts, Norridge, Graves, Appleton, Westbrooks. 

Even the Blackwoods and Brackens from the Riverlands.

The only Kingdom that hadn’t driven down here it seems was the North, likely due to sheer distance, the Westerlands because half of them were here anyway as part of his mother and siblings respective retinues. The Greyjoys and the Dornish because they both hated the crown, more and less overtly but comparatively fiercely. 

His father was in mourning; his mother would have sooner had half of these houses flogged before seeing to them sincerely, and two of his siblings were far too young for this.

So it fell to him.

He did not particularly mind… in a way. Jon Arryn was an ally, perhaps even a friend. But he had never been as close to the old Falcon as his father was and if it helped his father, and his friends, Bernadetta and Ashe have a moment’s peace because he was seeing to these affairs in their place then he could and would do it.

But by all the Gods and all the Hells there should not have been so many of these people.

Even with uncle Renly volunteering to help take on the lion’s share of the arrivals by seeing to the Reach lords; his morning had barely gotten started before he was exhausted and all but willing the next nobles to arrive would spontaneously fall off a cliff that would sprout fully formed in the middle of Blackwater bay.

Or the sewers. Yes. The sewers would do. The more nobles fell into the sewers, the faster they’d see the accursed things needed to be completely overhauled so it could do its job properly and the city wouldn’t stink of shit and piss. 

Hmmmmm…

“You’re thinking of the sewers again aren’t you?”

Dimitri startled, balking at his uncle Jamie. “I- what? How did-”

“You get this very peculiar, murderous look on your face. It's quite unique.”

“I do not!” He protested. 

His uncle did not look very impressed. 

The Kingsguard shook his head. “Honestly, you could entrust these duties to a clerk.”

“I will deal with the sewers.” He swore with a snarl. “Not some clerk.” They’d been the bane of his existence as long as he was alive. No one would take the satisfaction from him!

His uncle stared at him.

…

…

“You meant the nobles didn’t yo-”

“Yes nephew I meant the nobles.” 

“... If you continue to smile I can declare it treason.”

“You can.”

…

His uncle did not seem very afraid of future treason charges.

Dimitri sighed 

Then- 

“I must say cousin you are the picture of elegant nobility regardless of what Ser Lannister thinks.”

The crown prince perked up, sitting straighter at his chosen desk, The Hand’s desk as Lorenz Baratheon, his cousin made his way through the door.

Uncle Jamie bowed. “My lord Baratheon.”

“Ser Lannister, my prince.” His cousin bowed.

“Lorenz please.” He laughed, standing up and marching around the desk to greet his cousin properly. “We’re family.” He said, offering the half florent a firm handshake and a quick hug. “It’s been too long!”

“Almost a year now, if I recall-”

“I didn’t hear you coming with the Reach lords.”

“Because I was not in the Reach.” His cousin answered easily. “I was, in fact, touring the Stormlands.”

Ahhh…

It was no secret his father was constantly… teasing uncle Stannis with the idea of giving Renly the Stormlands. Something not helped by what little love Stannis inspired in the Stormlords themselves.

Too many memories of the siege of Storm's End. Too many bitter resentments held by men who had been there, or who lost family there.

Stannis had held the castle it was true, probably saved the Rebellion entirely by keeping Mace Tyrell tied down there for so long. 

But he’d lost the hearts of what subjects he may have once ruled over.

Uncle Stannis would not go and ‘make nice’.

Frankly, Dimitri doubted the idea had ever even crossed his mind. 

They were Baratheon subjects and it was their duty to die for house Baratheon.

The fact that they did so merited no apology… or word of thanks. 

At least in Stannis’ mind.

But cousin Lorenz was a different sort of man.

Yes he was duty bound. Yes he held a strong code in his own right.

But he knew how to make friends.

Let uncle Renly have the reach. So long as I can wield the Storm; his cousin had said once, very poetically, but very pointedly.

He would not involve himself in the internal squabbles of his family, not unless he had to. 

“Still-” He changed the subject. “The picture of elegant nobility? I think you’re exaggerating cousin.”

“Not at all. A Noble who diligently sees to his duties, regardless of his personal enthusiasm can never be anything but elegant in the pursuit of that task.”

By all the gods he sounded absolutely sincere-

“Well I-”

“PRINCE BARATHEON! PRINCE BARATHEON!”

The shout carried, not only urgency but almost an edge of hysteria. There was real fear in the inflection; to the point that Uncle Jamie immediately put his hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it as all three of them turned towards the door.

The man who rushed at them was panting, utterly out of breath as though he’d run a full sprint across the whole of the red keep-

He was a guard of house Aryyn. 

—

He hadn’t been far off in his assessment. 

The man practically had run clear across the bloody red keep. 

Dimitri was grateful that he was in simple dress clothes. If he were armored like Uncle Jamie, and the Arryn guard was, he might be genuinely out of breath.

Hell he might not make it in time.

Uncle Jamie was valiantly chasing after him, but armored in full plate he was trailing behind, Dimitri could hear him, certainly but the only one keeping up with him right now was cousin Lorenz, who was armed with only his personal arming sword. 

Still, he didn’t slow down, he wouldn’t dare; judging by the sounds up ahead, if he cut it any closer he ran the risk of arriving in time to just hear the clattering of horse hooves. 

Grief did strange things to people but this was the first time he genuinely considered the possibility that Lysa was indeed mad. 

He burst into the courtyard, cousin Lorenz at his side, few had noticed him yet, likely because all eyes were on the carriages, laden with luggage, the guards shoving a prisoner down onto his knees while another held a second man by the wall, a spear haft to his throat- Lysa Arryn screeching and berating her daughter at the top of her lungs-

And one very very dead horse, with an arrow through its eye.

The guards, the serfs and certainly Lysa had not noticed him; and so when his voice roared out of him with a furious bellow everyone in that courtyard seemed to go still as stone, the blood draining from their faces.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?”

He wouldn’t be surprised if the thunder of his voice was heard down in blasted Flea-bottom with how he was feeling right now.

He stalked forward, Cousin Lorenz at his back with his hand firmly on his sword.

None of the guards dared do anything more than hastily step aside, the royal blue and white of his clothes and cloak made him look like a rolling thunderstorm bearing down on the scene of the proverbial crime. Dimitry’s blue eyes lanced towards the pair of guards restraining Ashe- the silver haired boy had his face pressed into the cobblestones, a bruise forming where someone had apparently hit him with the shaft of a spear, or a halberd.

Both men looked deathly afraid as the crown prince’s withering glare did not leave them.

“What. Are you doing. To my Squire?”

The words were clipped and pointed. They came hastily; because Ashe was no such thing. But honestly, he felt like making a point. Ashe was his friend, and a good man, and he had little doubt whatever this was, these fools felt able to do it because he was a commoner. Assured that there would be no repercussions. 

Because there never had been before.

Enough was enough.

The two guards paled, and one let go of Ashe like the boy was suddenly on fire. Ashe himself was staring wide eyed at Dimitri’s feet, as though not quite understanding what the hell he’d just heard himself.

“A-apologies, My prince.” The guard that had let go stammered out. “W-we had no idea he was-”

“Well now you know. And you will remove your hands from him or I will remove them for you.”

This time, the second guard moved, jerking his hands away and backing off as quickly as he could, both men falling onto their knees and practically kissing the floor as Lorenz took the opportunity to reach down and help Ashe to his feet.

As far as Dimitri knew, his cousin barely knew Ashe- but he understood what was needed right now.

Dimitri himself took the opportunity to gather his patience; pushing his fury down down down- somewhere it could not readily reach him, influence him as he turned his attention towards Lysa Arryn who stared at him with an open contrast. Her posture was submissive, hands clasped in front of her, head lowered, but her glare was heated, resentful even as she stared at Dimitri’s feet. 

“Lady Arryn-” He began. “Would you be kind enough to explain what exactly is happening in my Courtyard?”

“I wish to leave.” The woman sneered. “I wish to leave this wretched city and this stupid girl is causing a scene!” She all but hissed at Bernadetta  rounding on her with all the venom Dimitri had ever heard in her voice directed towards her daughter who whimpered under the withering fury.

“Lord Arryn-” He began. “-has not even been buried yet.”

What kind of woman would simply leave before her Lord Husband’s funeral.

“I am aware!” Her voice rose, turning back to Dimitri. “But I will not allow my Sweet Robin to stay here where what happened to his father will happen to him with all the… vipers in this city! I will return him to the Eyrie where he will be safe! Where no one can get to him.- Now if you will kindly excuse me-”

“You forget yourself- lady Aryn.” Lorenz cut in behind him, Dimitri could hear uncle Jamie finally arrive a cavalcade of Gold Cloaks rushing in behind them. “You are addressing the crown prince! You will not dismiss him like your household servant again.”

The woman stiffened, freezing mid turn.

“You may leave.” Dimitri began slowly, staring past the woman. “If that is your wish. And take lord Arynn with you. He is a boy who knows no better-” Even now the… coddled child was sleeping inside his carriage, no doubt drugged on Milk of the Poppy and whatever other concoctions the mad woman had stuffed him with in her over-protective lunacy. “But the lady Bernadetta will be allowed to stay for her father’s funeral.”

“You would have me leave a hostag-”

“You insult his majesty’s honor.” Lorenz interrupted, stepping forward, almost ready to draw his steel before Dimitri held up his hand, ordering him to back down. 

“She is no hostage.” He declared. Not that she even could serve in that role… Lysa Arynn seemed on most days, to love only one of her children. “All here can hear and bear witness to my oath as Prince of the realm. Once the funeral is concluded and a new Hand is in place, the lady Bernadetta may return to the vale freely.”

“She will be returned to the vale.” Lysa screeched- it looks like she’d spotted his linguistic loophole.

“She will be.” He promised.

He’d bought his friend a reprieve… but it seems that’s all he could do for now.

Not unless he wished to make more of an enemy of the Vale.

Something, politically, the Baratheons could scarcely afford.

Lysa did not look pleased, staring at Dimitri with open mistrust as he schooled his expression to show absolutely nothing.

Then-

“Fine.” She spat before turning away. “Remove her things. She will be staying for now.”

The guards and the serfs hastily removed Bernadetta’s trunk from the carriage, another group replacing the very very dead horse at the front of the carriage as they did.

It was likely; that was the delay that had allowed him to arrive at all.

“What happened to the horse?” He demanded as the Arryn carriage began to rush out of the postern gate. 

“This one My Prince.” An Arryn guard, one of the few left behind, bowed, as best he could, still holding the haft of his spear to a young man’s neck. “He attacked the Caravan before they could leave.”

“I’ll have you know I did no such thing-” The young man said with an easy smile. He had a Dornish coloring. Dark skin, dark hair. But his features were stormlander. Odd.. “I’m just a total klutz, it was totally accidental!” He wiggled the bow still in his left hand. “I was just showing off for a pretty girl I met. Didn’t work out as intended.”

“I doubt that.” Lorenz deadpanned beside him, glaring at the young man. “One does not kill a horse with a single arrow on accident.

The young man offered a shrug, seemingly uncaring as the guard shoved him harder into the wall with his spear. “Quiet you.”

The movement shifted the young man’s cloak, and Dimitri’s eyes widened as he recognized the crest emblazoned on his tunic.

He racked his memory of recent happenings- it didn’t take him very long to remember.

After all, it's not every day nearly an entire house is wiped out by disease and leaves everything to a legitimized bastard born boy.

“You’re Claude Connington.”

The young man gave an easy confident smirk. “Ding Ding! You win a prize, my Prince.”

“You will speak to the Prince with the respect he is due Connington.” Lorenz sneered, almost balking at the tone of what would one day be his Bannerman. 

The now named, Claude, turned, his smile not dimming in the slightest. “I apologize my lord Baratheon, I seem to have hit my head a bit against the wall, courtesy of our big burly friend here.” He reached over, tapping the Arryn guard on his armored shoulder. “I promise, I won’t forget my manners again.”

Dimitri could almost feel Lorenz grinding his teeth down to powder, but right now he really didn’t have the time or energy for… whatever this was turning into. “Release him.” He urged the guard. 

“My Prince.” The Arryn man hesitated. “He attacked a Lord Paramount.”

“Pure accident.” Connington repeated. “Really. I swear.”

That smile, and everything else said otherwise.

But again, Dimitri did not have the energy for this right now.

He had other priorities.

And if killing that horse had been deliberate, it was still probably the only reason he’d made it here at all. 

Connington had taken a massive risk doing so.

Why- he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t have really known Dimitri was on his way. As a noble he would be given some leeway, but the Conningtons were a house very much in disgrace; with all its members dead, its fortunes all but destroyed, its political situation in shambles.

Attacking a Lord Paramount for- as uncle Renly would say -shits and giggles; made no sense.

And yet- he’d done it.

In gratitude, Dimitri was willing to let the matter die here and now.

He sighed, turning away. “Release him please.” He asked again, marching away and the guard obeyed.

Drawing closer to Bernadetta, Dimitri could feel his heart break just a bit within his chest. 

The Arynn girl had her face cast downward, her tangle of hair obscuring her features as she picked up several of her fallen things. Some of the guards and servants were helping her- but somehow, it made the sight all the more pitiable.

Say what you will about his own parents, but neither of them were Lysa Arynn. 

He reached forward and stopped cold as Bernadetta physically recoiled. 

“Can I go back to my room now?”

Her voice cracked and the cruelest thought slipped into his mind.

It wasn’t her room… anymore.

The tower of the hand was for the hand of the King. 

Which… her father no longer was.

But he quashed that voice of his down, strangling it with all the fury his Baratheon blood gave him and made sure his voice was as soft as he could make it. 

“Of course Bernadetta.” He answered. “Cousin, Uncle-” He called. “Could you please go and make certain she arrives at her room safely and no one is to disturb her under any circumstances.

Lorenz bowed, one hand over his heart. “It would be my honor.” Even uncle Jamie didn’t complain.

As they turned and left, Dimitri turned to his other friend, Ashe; Jon Arynn’s page was favoring his left side, clearly more hurt than Dimitri had initially thought. 

“Come on Ashe. Lets get you to a Maester.” He said.

“Oh… I’ll. That’s not-”

“A prince’s squire must be seen to.” He interrupted, and Ashe clamped his mouth shut, his eyes going wide. 

It had come out during the heat of the moment. But he had meant the words. Ashe was his squire now.

He smiled gently; easing the “bite” his words would otherwise carry.  “Don’t make me order the Gold Cloaks to drag you.”

—

“I heard you had an exciting evening.”

Dimitri allowed himself a small, gentle smile. “That’s certainly one word for it mother” he said, placing a cut of the steak in his mouth as he chewed.

They were having dinner privately tonight. It wasn’t exactly unusual per se. His long tours across the various Kingdoms that took him away for weeks if not months at a time meant that whenever he did return to the Red Keep, his mother made a point of having dinner with him at least once a week, to spend time with him.

They were even pleasant things, moments where his mother could shed away the armor and pretense needed for court life and simply be with him as her son.

He had little doubt that it made Joffrey terribly jealous, and even affected Tommen and Myrcella on some level. Mother did this only with him as far as he knew. But he did not have the heart to ask her after so many years to invite his siblings.

Because even with Myrcella and Tommen, she felt she needed that armor, that pretense. To give them an example on how to behave. To show Myrcella what a Queen looked like let Tommen see and how a ‘Lioness of the Rock’ acted.

That… would simply destroy half the enjoyment of these private dinners. Her half of it. 

And Joffrey was… Joffrey.

He would likely destroy Dimitry’s half of the enjoyment.

Or at least give it a gamely effort.

His mother huffed out a breath, sipping from her wine goblet. “That Tully was always madder than a fish in the dornish deserts”.

He didn’t disagree but still, courtesy demanded that he at least try. 

“She is grieving…” He said, sipping a bit of his own wine. “And the Red Keep is a vicious place.” He conceded. 

“Still, to not even remain for the funeral proper.” She snorted. “What will the realms say of that cowardice?”

He took note of her choice of words, eating a bit more. 

“I imagine…” He said after a moment’s thought. “-many of the Lords will not care beyond the Vale.” He answered, almost thinking aloud now. “Lysa is not loved by many in the realm. And the loyalty of the valemen is to the Arryns “

“True;” She nodded. “It was smart of you to keep the girl.”

Dimitri looked at her. His voice was… neutral. 

But firm. 

“She is my friend. Not a hostage… I couldn’t stomach letting her go with Lysa. Not in the state the woman was in…” He drank a bit more heavily from his goblet. “She deserves to grieve and send off her father as any daughter should.”

His mother did not comment, but he knew her well enough to know that she thought him overly sentimental right now. 

Mercifully; she changed the subject.

Unfortunately it was bound to be an exhausting subject. 

“What’s this I’m hearing of you taking on a peasant?”

Dimitri sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Ashe was Jon Aryn’s page for years. He’s more than proven his work ethic.”

“You are the prince of the realm” She didn’t sneer with her lips; it was rather impressive how she could achieve it with her voice. “Associating with peasants is not only beneath you, it reflects poorly on our family. Jon Arryn’s… pet is not worth your consideration.”

“He’s a good man.” Dimitri defended. 

His mother rolled her eyes. “When will you learn there’s no such thing?”

“Oh?” He smiled, just a bit teasingly. “Am I not a good man.”

She scowled, having walked into the classic trap she’d set herself up for- and pivoted away from needing to conceded the point.

“Why not one of your cousins? Or our Bannermen? Lancel for instance?”

His mother, he knew, had a tendency to surround herself with those who were obedient, not necessarily those who had genuine merit.

No offense to his cousin; but he’d take a man with half of Ashe’s integrity over a dozen Lancels who would never have the courage to speak their minds.

People like him… they needed those who would tell them they were wrong. Who would stop them from going too far.

Who would prevent them from becoming Monsters?

He knew that last part above all else. Beyond the shadow of even the faintest doubt.

Because he also knew, he had what it took to be a monster of the worst kind.

He smiled, shaking his head, pushing the thoughts away. “No mother- Ashe was a good page for lord Arryn and he will be a good squire.” He said. “Besides, would it not reflect poorly on me as a Lannister to go back on my word?”

His mother’s eyes narrowed, detecting the manipulation on referring to himself as a Lannister but after a moment she rolled her eyes, leaning forward to offer him a kiss atop his head, which he accepted. “I will never know how you can be both my pride and joy and be the stupidest boy in all of Westeros.”

“A mother’s love?” He teased.

“And her tolerance.” She shot back.

—

Just two days later, it was time for the final prayers in the Great Sept of Baelor.

The Silent Sisters had done a remarkable job preserving the body for so long. Yes, it was stiff, it was… withered. But it was still recognizably Jon Arryn laying there even all these days later. 

His father was here; he’d been here all night, tending to the last vigil alongside Ser Barristan and a few of the Kingsguard. He looked tired, but he was dressed more finely than Dimitri had ever seen him before, sparing no expense to seeing off the man he considered his father. 

The Nobles gathered, a procession through the Great sept, kneeling before the body, praying and then politely taking their leave.

A daring few… imbeciles tried to approach his father. But Robert’s glower and wrathful glare told each of them it was neither the time or place, and it really wasn’t. 

Bernadetta cried, sitting by her father’s body, alone. He could not leave his father’s side, so he ‘ordered’ Ashe and asked Lorenz to go and help the poor girl however they could. A request both men readily accepted; there was even a very dutiful servant girl with the strangest shade of pale hair quietly seeing to her needs. Dimitri didn’t recognize her, perhaps she was one of the Church’s lay sisters.

Still, once the morning ceremony in the sept was done; they were scheduled to gather in the throne room.

Nobility had come to visit. And they needed to be ‘hosted’ of course.

Five minutes into it Dimitri genuinely felt the urge to punch something. Namely faces. Several faces. 

He had no illusions that many of the assembled nobles were here to curry favor. This was Westerosi politics after all.

But the body wasn’t even in the ground yet. The man’s daughter was right here. His father was still garbed in mournful black. Jon Arryn had given the realm good, leal service.

This… pack of vultures and political creatures who had nothing but naked ambition oozing from their leering eyes, were genuinely sickening to watch. 

They weren’t even pretending.

While Westerosi mourning practices dictated that only a deceased lord's household wear official mourning colors, it was still considered extremely distasteful for others to wear very bright colors while in attendance at the wake or funeral. Yet everyone here was dressed, as Father would say, ‘like prancing peacocks’. Even Mother’s dress was more tasteful, forgoing any elaborate golden embroidery or expensive jewelry in favor of a black silk cut in one of her preferred styles paired with a favored necklace.

He stood apart from the crowd, near his father who was already in his cups, miserable and sobbing. A handful of lords with whom father had fought alongside during the rebellion elicited chuckles with their stories, others listened to Robert’s nostalgia; but that was the extent of those who came here looking to ease the King’s troubles.

For everyone else… well…

“I am so sorry for your loss, My Prince,” A young woman said in a false, simpering voice that he’d heard more times that day than he’d cared to count. She was pretty; and if he did not mistake her house she was an Ashford from the Reach. No doubt if Mace Tyrell were present it would be Margery here instead. “If there is anything I might do to relieve your pain and grief please, just ask.” A blind man could have seen the suggestion. “Let me know and I will gladly assist you.”

Still… better him than his father right now. To take his mind off of the recent passing, Dimitri had little doubt Robert might accept.

That’s why he was standing here; right here. So that most girls would spy him first, not his father.

His uncle Jamie joked under his breath about all the many “stray arrows” he was catching.

Dimitri smiled his most charming court smile and said “A kind offer, my lady, but I am alright. However, I am sure Lady Arryn would appreciate knowing she has your support in her time of need,” and watched with equal parts annoyance and satisfaction as the smile slipped off her face before being quickly pasted back on. The curtsey she bobbed this time, he noted, was quick, perfunctory, and shallow, but she took his advice and headed to the area of the throne room where Bernadetta Arryn was seated next to his ‘squire’ Ashe.

Not that he’d left his genuinely grieving friend to field these things. He’d asked several of his friends to genuinely help; and he’d even caught a few volunteers.

Before the girl had even closed half the distance, Connington came swooping out of wherever he’d been hiding, his half dornish, exotic features allowing him to charm the girl quite readily as he distracted her and slipped his arm with hers for a little chat, ‘rescuing’ Bernadetta yet again this time very much deliberately..  

Even so… this was… distasteful.

He… no one should be playing politics right now.

A good, honest man was dead.

And the realm did not care beyond how it might favor their ambitions. 

As he took in the sight his hands clenched into fists behind his back, and he had to force them to relax. 

He had to remind herself that there were at least a few good people who were genuine with their condolences. Uncle Stannis had come of course; and with him his presence had allowed him to give the benefit of the doubt to the Bannerman at his side, Davos Seaworth, whose sons and daughter were helping with Bernadetta. The sons being men helping by charming the girls he sent their way, like Claude, and. His daughter, a very beautiful woman named Dorothea Seaworth with pale skin and brown hair was even now gently sitting by Bernadetta, coaxing shy smiles and easing anxieties like she’d been doing it for years. 

It was a sight better than how bernie had been before, sitting alone, sobbing her eyes out for the death of the only parent who cared about her.

He wished he could have helped more directly.

But he was the crown prince, heir to the iron throne; he had to stand here in uncomfortably hot silks gritting his teeth and accepting false well-wishes, keeping his distance and overseeing the hall to make sure nothing went wrong. Because heaven forbid people act humane during this time of mourning.

He glanced at his father–who wasn’t even trying to hide his annoyance as a sycophant lord marched up to him –and realized, perhaps for the first time, just why his father loathed being King.

—

His father made the declaration the day of the funeral.

They would go North. 

It didn’t take a genius to recognize what that meant.

The lords grumbled and snarled in private, and wished them all the good fortune and safe travels in public. Preparations were underway almost immediately and the day they were finally meant to begin their long journey north, the Red Keep was a suffocating hive of activity. Much more so than even the funeral had been.

His father was heading north with seemingly the whole court trailing behind him.

Even though the Noble houses all knew he was heading to Winterfell to get the warden of the North to be his Hand they almost seemed doubly determined to seek out his favor. 

His uncle Jamie had been a godsend truth be told; using his rarely flexed authority as a Kingsguard, the man was more than happy to glare and snarl anyone and everyone away from Dimitri to give him some peace at long last.

Normally he was more than happy to be polite and greet everyone, but the last few weeks had been… exhausting. Beyond exhausting really. 

Hopefully the open road would be better, less suffocating. Less crowded and stuck together.

Yes they’d be traveling in a long, exceedingly packed column of nobles and their retinues- but at the very least he could ride ahead with the excuse of hunting or scouting if only to get a moments’ peace. 

With that thought in mind, he was almost eager as he made his way out of the Red Keep and towards the stables., where an army of servants had gotten to work long before he himself woke up.

Some recognized him, eagerly bowing and paying their respects before he held up a single finger against his lips, urging them to be silent. The last thing he wanted was for there to be a whole hubbub about him.

Most of the servants knew him, and liked him, well enough that they simply smiled, nodding happily and restricting themselves to quick half bows for the sake of propriety in case they were spotted by someone less understanding- like his mother or some of the Kingsguard or Gold Cloaks for instance - before continuing about their duties; pretending as though they hadn’t seen him.

Which was perfect.

Making his way to the stables Dimitri was ready to saddle and brush his horse, a white destrier gifted to him by uncle Renly, courtesy of the Tyrells.

He’d named him Loog.

His father said it was a stupid name. 

But his father’s horse was named ‘Hammerhead' which was… not surprising in the least given who his father was.

Still; the point stood. His father had no room to judge his naming skills when he called his horse ‘Hammerhead’

Making his way into the royal stables; Dimitri was particularly surprised to find that the task had already been started.

“Ashe!” He balked.

The silver haired peasant boy turned royal squire startled, almost leaping off the ground before he turned, thick brush in hand.  “Oh- Prince Dimitri.”

“It’s just you and I here, Ashe, you know you can just call me Dimitri.” The Prince answered. “But what are you doing here? I thought you might still be asleep.”

Ashe blinked, staring at him as though he’d just asked a rather unbelievable question. “I’m… your squire? Readying your horse is part of my duties now.”

They were but-

“It’s been a trying few days, Ashe.” Dimitri said, not unkindly. “You can take your time before taking on your duties in full.”

The young man shrugged, smiling sadly. “I… I’d rather not simply sit around in my room all day. I can’t serve house Arynn anymore, but I can serve you- and that’s enough.” He bowed, and he sounded sincere.

Still… He felt bad for his friend. He’d lost Jon Arynn, and in one fell swoop he’d lost his homeland, and would soon lose his friend, in a way, when Bernadetta had to return home. It could only be put off for so long after all.

…

Lysa Arynn was a fool. A cruel, blind fool.

Dimitri sighed, reminding himself, not for the first, or the last time, that he couldn’t fix everything.

Stepping forward he placed his hand on Ashe’s shoulder, taking the brush from him. “I understand.” He said as kindly as he could. “Still; why don’t you go and prepare your own horse. I’ll finish up here.”

“Are you sure my prince? I can-”

“I’m sure Ashe.” He smiled. “I did come down here intending to do it after all. Besides, a squire reflects on his master. Your steed must look just as good as my own.”

His friend smiled softly, nodding. “Of course my prince, I’ll get started right away.”

—

They were supposedly leaving in the morning- but it was half past noon by the time the royal party actually set out from King’s landing.

“Not even the first day and we’re already behind schedule.” Came the haughty sniff. “It certainly does not speak well of how the rest of this journey will go.”

Honestly Dimitri agreed, but trusted his cousin Lorenz to be the one to say it out loud about as bluntly as a bludgeon while within earshot of the royal party.

Only idiots said he was nothing like uncle Stannis. Once you got past the flowery exterior Lorenz Baratheon was exactly like his father in many ways.

“Oh I don’t know. Taking in the scenery is important too, My lord Baratheon.”

Dimitri’s latest acquaintance, Claude Connington, smiled in that way of his. The one that was sincere in the way a man laughing at a private joke was sincere. Dimitri wasn’t sure why the Lord of Griffin’s roost was journeying with them; but he would hardly begrudge his presence.

After all, without him he might not have had the opportunity to reach Bernadetta before Lysa had dragged her off.

Cousin Lorenz however, did not share Dimitri’s tolerance, staring down his nose at the Connington like something to be scraped off his shoe. “Do not be absurd. This trip to Winterfell is already emptying the court unnecessarily. The affairs of the realm are practically being neglected for several weeks at a minimum and likely months with how slow this is already turning out to be. This isn’t Griffin's Roost. No King and no Hand will lead to disaster before long even with my father here to manage things. Honestly, his Grace should have simply sent a raven summoning Lord Stark. I’m certain the Warden of the North would have come, Noble and dutiful as he is.”

“Yes.” Uncle Jamie chuckled, and Dimitri knew him well enough to know he was annoyed. “Noble, Dutiful, Honorable Lord Stark.”

Dimitri would have raised an eyebrow; but he knew that Ned Stark had been the one to ride into the throne room, seeing Jamie covered in the blood of the Mad King and had been the one to declare him Kingslayer.

Doubtlessly; his uncle had some… mixed feelings about the man.

Still- Lorenz was not wrong, in any respect; but his needling of the lord Connington seemed almost personal. Like there was a history here Dimitri wasn’t quite privy to. 

“My father wishes to pay Lord Stark his due respect.” He said in lukewarm defense to this… endeavor. “And honestly; it shows the realm that the Baratheon and Stark Alliance is still strong, even if they have not spoken in a while.”

That was probably the only political benefit to the whole affair- and it was a distant one. The Lord of Winterfell marching down from the North at his father’s summons would have been just as firm a showing and could not be interpreted as the crown kowtowing to a one of the greater houses as though they were owed obeisance of some kind. 

He had to remind himself that this was his father’s choice. Lord Stark probably didn’t even know they were marching up there and by the time he did it would be far too late to do anything other than set aside the food and gifts to welcome and host them in the great hall of Winterfell itself. Lord Stark didn’t deserve Dimitri’s ire even if the young prince was finding it so very difficult to not resent the whole trip in general.

He sighed; but soon heard the clomping of horse hooves coming closer and was reminded that there was indeed one more benefit to this.

He, Lorenz and Claude turned, and Dimitri smiled as Ashe and Bernadetta joined them.

Bernadetta was dressed in riding leathers, a bow across her back, looking more free and cautiously happy than he’d seen in a long time even with the death of her father being so recent.

She would never have been allowed this… if Lysa Arryn were still here.

“Bernie-” He smiled. “It’s good to see you.”

“I-it’s good to see you too Prince Dimitri.” She offered a hesitant, gentle smile. Still unsure. Still sad. 

But… better.

More horse clomps, and when they turned this time, it was to the sight of his father and two of the Kingsguard, Barristan and Oakheart. “Alright.” The black bearded King groaned. “Lets get on the blasted road already. Fuckin wheelhouse is gonna slow us down enough without everyone needing to stop and take a shit every other damn mile.”

His father seemed to finally take notice of Bernadetta, stumbling with a double take before raising an eyebrow. “Lady Aryn.” He greeted unsurely. He must’ve expected her to be in the wheel house.

“Your g-grace.” Bernie stuttered, practically hiding behind Dimitri.

He rushed to her ‘rescue’ quite easily. 

“Shall we ride ahead father? Get some wind in our hair?” He asked.

Robert huffed, distracted from Bernie riding along with them very easily in his excitement. “Aye boy. Lorenz, you joining us in the ride? Your father never liked riding ahead. Didn’t take after him there did you?”

“I’d be happy to, Your Grace.” His cousin smiled. 

“Hah!” Robert smiled. “Good on you lad- And it’s uncle Robert. None of that ‘Your Grace’ nonsense. I get enough of that from all the other shits.” He didn’t address anyone else. Dimitri wasn’t even sure if he even noticed Claude Connington beside him. His father often… neglected the details.

Which might be to Claude’s benefit in these circumstances all things considered.

Robert settled onto his saddle, kicking his steed into a quick canter. “On to Winterfell! It’s about time you met Ned boys. Best man I know.”

“I’m looking forward to it, father.” Dimitri answered diplomatically, genuinely wondering if the statement was true, or if it was perhaps his father’s nostalgia coloring his memory again.

Riding out of the red keep, he supposed that in just a few more weeks; they’d find out soon enough. 

(X)(X)(X)

So; fun fact- this last scene was SUPPOSED to be the start of chapter 4, and chapter 4 should have covered their journey to Winterfell which would have a few surprises in and of itself.

And then I was like "But wait we can do something with the funeral"

And I added a bit.

And added a bit.

And added a bit more...

And before I knew it we had this pretty hefty chapter in and of itself where Lorenz and Claude make a fairly earlier than expected debut xD

Good news though;

1) Angel has agreed to make a series of family trees; the first of which will be posted later today/tomorrow covering the Stormland houses :)

2) No promises but there's a strong possibility that next month will have TWO updates not just 1 (Seeing as how this chapter was kinda split in half)

Like I said, no promises, but we'll see how it goes :)

I'll catch you all in the next one :D