Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 06: The Hand is Dead
It took four more days before the news about the Hand of the King became common knowledge in the Red Keep. By then, Jon Arryn's body had greatly deteriorated, and he could no longer leave the bed.
Supper in the Great Hall felt like having a meal in a tomb. The vast space was big enough to seat five hundred, and it echoed with the hollow sounds of four people eating.
Torches guttered in sconces, throwing long, dancing shadows on tapestries of forgotten battles. Harry pushed a piece of roasted capon around his plate, the greasy smell suddenly cloying.
"Dont we have a smaller place to eat?. This seems too obstentacious for four people." Harry decided to speak out about his vexation.
Cersei Lannister looked up from her wine, her green eyes sharp. "And where would you have us eat, my love? With the scullery maids? We are the royal family. This hall is our place."
"I... I wouldn't mind a smaller room," Tommen ventured to say, his voice a mouse's squeak. He flinched as soon as he spoke.
"You have much to learn about being a prince," Cersei said, her tone freezing the boy into silence.
"Sorry, Mother."
"Mother," Myrcella asked, her voice softer, more careful. "Will Lord Arryn be alright?"
Harry watched the Queen's face. At the name, a shadow passed over her perfect features...a flicker of anger, of fear, quickly buried under a mask of calm. "I do not know, child," she said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes, as usual. "But we have the best maesters in the realm here. If he can be saved, he will be."
Tommen swallowed hard. "W-what happens if he... if the Hand..."
"If the Hand dies," Cersei cut in, her voice brittle, "then your father and his council must find a new one. But enough of such gloomy talk." She turned her gaze to Harry. "Let us speak of your new... passion. This obsession with swords. I thought you would had your fill by now."
Harry saw the fear in Tommen and Myrcella's eyes. To them, a brother who knew how to hurt people was bad enough. A brother who could do it with a sharp piece of steel was a nightmare.
Before he could answer, the great oak doors groaned open. A man slipped inside, his footsteps quiet on the stone. He was lean, with dark hair and a pointed beard, dressed in fine but modest clothes. Lord Petyr Baelish. Master of Coin. The memory surfaced from the archives in Harry's mind...a man of numbers and whispers, who Joffrey had largely ignored.
"My Queen. Your Highnesses." Baelish offered a shallow bow, his eyes lingering on Cersei. "Forgive the intrusion. The King sends word from the Tower of the Hand."
Cersei's lips thinned. "What now?"
Baelish's glance flickered to the children. "The Lord Hand's condition worsens. The King requests your presence."
A muscle twitched in Cersei's jaw. Refusal was not an option, not with death hovering so close to the throne. "Very well." She stood, smoothing her gown. She pointed a slender finger at her children. "You three will finish your meal. Then you will go directly to your chambers with the servants. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mother," the younger two chimed. Harry gave a single, slow nod.
He watched them leave, the Queen and the Spider, along with the Queen's guardmen, their departure sucking what little warmth remained from the hall. The death of the Hand meant chaos. But chaos was not his concern. Not yet.
"J-Joffrey?" Tommen's whisper was barely audible.
Harry looked at him. "What is it?"
"Are you really learning the sword?"
"I supose I am." After all, he had been practicing for over a week now, and he was starting to show some progress. He had to admit that he was even enjoying it a bit. The exercise in the morning made him feel good.
Tommen's face paled. "Please," he begged, his voice trembling. "Don't kill my cats."
It took Harry a moment to process what the little boy said. Then the memory surfaced, ugly and vivid: a small, tortoiseshell cat, its belly slit open, tiny, blind kittens spilling onto the marble floor. Tommen's tears. Robert's roaring rage, the back of his hand.
He pushed the image away, a cold disgust settling in his stomach. "I have no interest in your cats," he said, his voice flat. "That is not why I train."
Tommen didn't believe him. The distrust was plain in his wide, fearful eyes.
"I think he's telling the truth," Myrcella said softly.
"What?, but…" Tommen stared at his sister with shock. Tommen stared at his sister with wide eyes.
"You look... different, brother," Myrcella continued, studying his face. "Your eyes are... kinder."
What she meant was the cruel, mocking light was gone. Replaced by something older, harder to read.
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Jon Arryn died with the moon. They would bury him in two days' time.
Harry saw Robert the next morning. The King's face was red, his eyes puffy and raw. He moved like a man carrying a mountain on his back. Harry felt nothing. Jon Arryn was a stranger to him, a name in a book stored inside the library of his mind.
With the castle draped in a muted, performative grief, the yard was off-limits. Too loud, too alive. But the library was a place for quiet reflection. No one could fault a prince for seeking solace in books.
He stood before the heavy library door, then glanced back at the dark, silent shadow behind him. "I'll be some time. You could find a warmer place to wait. Or at least more comfortable than those hard chairs."
The Hound was sitting on a stone bench in the corridor, his scarred face impassive. "My job is to be where you are. That's what a shield does."
"My back is hardly in danger from dusty books," Harry said.
The Hound just grunted and settled deeper against the wall. "I'll wait."
"Suit yourself." Harry pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it on the world of steel and suspicion.
He stopped short. He was not alone.
In a pool of morning light from a high window, a man sat hunched over a massive tome. He was small, his legs too short for the chair, his head large, with a face that was both ugly and clever. A mane of pale gold and black hair framed features twisted by a life of mockery. Tyrion Lannister.
His uncle looked up, his mismatched eyes widening in genuine surprise. "Prince Joffrey?"
"Uncle Tyrion." Harry approached. The memories were very sparse. The real Joffrey had shared his mother's contempt for the dwarf and avoided contact with his uncle whenever possible. But the man before him had a sharp, watchful intelligence in his gaze.
"Can it be true?" Tyrion asked, a smile playing on his lips. "The rumors? Has my nephew decided to become a scholar as well as a warrior? The next Rhaegar Targaryen, gifted with both blade and book?" The mockery in his voice would have been evident even for the previous owner of his body.
He chose to ignore the badly hidden jest at his expense. "Wasn't Rhaegar the one my father killed?" Harry replied, leaning against a table. "If so, his gifts weren't enough."
He was still catching up in his history, but he had at least read about the revolution that put his father on the throne.
"Ah, a fair point. It simply means your father was the better fighter on the day." Tyrion's eyes never left his face, studying him like a new kind of puzzle.
"I thought you were away, Uncle." Harry approached his seat .
"I was. I meant to leave again soon. But plans change." Tyrion responded, refusing to elaborate further.
"How so?" Harry looked down at the book his uncle was reading. He was familiar with that one in particular. The massive tome had called for his attention during a previous visit.
It was a book that collected all the available information about dragons, as well as their many known riders.
Tyrion closed the huge thing with a soft thump. The title "Dragons of Old Valyria" could be seen on the cover. "The Hand is dead," His uncle added.
"So I heard." Harry responded. "And you must stay for the funeral."
"There's more to it than that. Do you know how he died?" Tyrion asked.
"He was sick."
"He was poisoned." His uncle corrected sharply.
The word hung in the dusty air. Poison. An assassin's weapon. A coward's tool. A political weapon. Harry felt a flicker of real interest. "Who did it?"
"That," Tyrion said, spreading his hands, "is the question of the hour. But think. What must the King do now?"
The answer was obvious. "Find a new Hand."
"Exactly! And who do you think he will choose?"
Harry shrugged. He hadn't cared enough to think about it. "Some lord. Stannis Baratheon? One of the Tyrells, perhaps?"
Tyrion sighed, a theatrical sound of disappointment. "And here I thought you were starting to use that head of yours. Who is your father's closest friend in all the world? The man he loves like a brother?"
The pieces clicked. The Rebellion. The three houses: Baratheon, Arryn, and... "Stark," Harry said. "Lord Eddard Stark." He was the current Lord of Winterfel and Warden of the North.
The title of Warden was nothing more than a consolation prize for the Kings who lost their crowns during Aegon's conquest. But it was an important title nonetheless.
A slow, approving smile spread across Tyrion's face. "Perhaps there is hope for the realm after all."
"So you're staying to join the King's party if he goes north?"
"It sounds like a fascinating journey, don't you think?" Tyrion's eyes gleamed. "A land of frozen mysteries. I've always wanted to see the Wall. This may be my only chance."
"The desire to see new things is natural," Harry said, nodding. "A worthy goal."
Tyrion stared at him for a long, silent moment. His smile faded, replaced by an expression of deep, genuine astonishment. "By all the gods," he whispered, his voice full of wonder. "What happened to the Prince Joffrey I knew?."
Harry met his gaze, his own green eyes calm and unreadable as a deep forest pool. "Perhaps he grew up, Uncle."
Outside the door, the Hound shifted on his hard bench, the sound of his armor a soft complaint in the silent hall.