I looked at this tall but still childishly plump boy and thought that here was yet another person with whom I would have to find some common ground.
Tommen was a quiet, calm, and kind boy. If I could earn his respect and, in time, build a relationship similar to the one Tywin had with Kevan, it would benefit both of us.
"Good to see you, brother," I greeted him, and Tommen's eyes widened in surprise. "Will you join us?"
"Yeah," he smiled shyly.
"Take your swords, my lords," Herald coughed. He looked a little embarrassed and somewhat out of place. I understood: his fate had taken a sharp turn. Not long ago he had been a modest, little-known knight, and now he was part of the king's retinue, training the king himself and his younger brother.
"This is Ser Herald Orm," I introduced the knight. "I don't think you've met before."
"And I am Prince Tommen," my brother replied somewhat childishly, and I struggled to suppress a smile. In that moment, I realized everything with Tommen might turn out wonderfully.
"It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness," the knight coughed again, then continued firmly: "Sword in your right hand. Your grip should be light but firm, so the weapon is hard to knock from your fingers. Right foot forward, most of your weight on your left." Ser Gerold Orm began his first lesson.
I understood that being a good warrior was not the most important skill in the world for a king. Examples were not far to seek — Robert Baratheon had been a fierce, skilled fighter, a competent commander… and a completely useless king.
The truth was, Westeros was bound to a traditional feudal system. Here, kings and lords who proved themselves strong and skilled warriors were respected. In my opinion, there was a certain human short-sightedness in this, but one had to match what people expected. And I had to train, even though far more important matters demanded my attention and control.
How happy I was to discover that Joffrey had at least devoted some time to the sword, the spear, and other martial skills. Of course, he had never been a star in any of it (where was he a star at all?), but he did possess certain basics. His coordination and agility were quite good, and his muscle memory hasn't gone anywhere either. Now I was delighted to help it awaken. I behaved in much the same way at the wedding, during the dancing.
And my my previous experience with historical reenactments also gave me a small but pleasant advantage.
***
Royal time is a very peculiar thing. It seems to exist and belong only to you, but it is also true that if you start doing serious things, it begins to disappear in the most mysterious way.
In any case, I constantly lacked it. Meetings of the Small Council, lessons with Margaery in High Valyrian, studying poisons and antidotes under Qyburn, joint sword-training sessions with Tommen under Orm's supervision, long and painful hours spent with Tyrion over the financial books while trying to grasp Littlefinger's machinations — all of this simply burned through my days.
And besides that, I had to find time to make love to my wife, go for occasional horse rides, read books, attend meals of one importance or another — always in the company of far too many people. And I had to sleep sometime, after all!
There were also decrees to sign — documents the Hand could not approve on his own. This usually happened in the presence of Tywin and Kevan.
Kevan took another document from the folder and laid it on the table, while Tywin answered my questions.
At first, my role had been unenviable — to sign whatever smart, authoritative men placed before me. But I did not "rock the boat" and silently did my work, trying to quickly figure out all these "underwater currents" as best I could.
One decree I signed concerned Ramsay Snow — he was granted the title of official heir and ceased to be a bastard, becoming the legitimate son of Lord Roose Bolton. After the fall of the Starks, it was the Boltons who became the great house and Wardens of the North. And only a king could legitimize the bastards of great houses; the Hand's approval alone was not enough.
While signing, I found myself involuntarily surprised: in the canon, he was also legitimized — so why, then, did Ramsay kill his own father, his wife, and their child if the Dreadfort and all its lands would in time have become his anyway? Did the man lack patience to wait two or three years? After all, a lot can happen in that time, especially in the middle of a war!
Another document concerned the marriage permission between Arya Stark and Ramsay Bolton. As it turned out, the girl is not just anywhere, but in the Red Castle, and now she is preparing for a journey to the North, to her fiancé. What wonders there are!
"Didn't we lose Arya?" I set down my pen, leaned back in the chair, and looked at Tywin.
"What are you talking about?" my grandfather asked impassively.
"Arya Stark. Where did she come from if we don't have her?"
Silence fell. I wasn't offended that I wasn't privy to many plans — nor did I expect to be. Such trust had to be earned, and I understood that well. But I was curious why they had placed this document before me; after all, the Hand could have signed it himself.
Tywin thought for a long moment, his attentive eyes fixed on mine. I tried to compose myself and not avert my gaze. When my discomfort finally reached its peak, Tywin looked at Kevan and gave the slightest nod.
"The fact is, Your Majesty, that this is not the real Arya," Kevan said calmly.
"Then who is she?"
"She is Jeyne Poole, the daughter of the steward of Winterfell," the Master of Laws replied politely.
"So it's a deception? Are Roose Bolton and his son in agreement with this arrangement?"
"Do you think a man like Roose could be easily persuaded to forget his vows?" Tywin asked evenly. "He demanded a generous payment for betraying Robb Stark: the North, the legitimization of his own bastard, and a Stark bride for his heir."