"We were counting on Arya," Kevan added. "But things didn't go according to plan."
"But this girl is not a Stark! The deception will come out sooner or later."
"So what?" Tywin snorted dismissively. "We haven't been training this girl for the last month for nothing. She knows everything a noble lady should know. She has also been taught the pleasures of the bed. And she looks very much like Arya, save for her eye color. The Bolton bastard will be in seventh heaven."
"Roose Bolton may guess the true state of affairs, but he will get what he so desires — the key to the North, which 'Arya' will give him. And he hardly needs instruction on how to silence his own vassals, banner-men, and all the discontented loudmouths. And that is no concern of ours," Kevan added.
"The key to the North…" I said thoughtfully, looking from one relative to the other. "But we have another key. And it's not fake — it's real. And Tyrion has it."
"Think about it at your leisure," Tywin allowed himself a faint smile. "We have already said too much. Your Majesty, will you sign this decree?"
"Of course, Grandfather!"
***
All these matters weighed heavily on me and caused serious headaches. The problem was worsened by the fact that I had never dealt with such things before, possessed no relevant skills, and, in general, had to start from scratch in most areas. At first it was frankly unnerving — even frightening — in its sheer scope and incomprehensibility.
Still, I managed to find time to write a letter to my own sister, Myrcella, in Dorne. As I had already learned, Joffrey had never bothered with such trifles. He considered himself a king and sincerely believed that people should show him signs of attention, and that he was not required to do "such stupid things." As a result, he was not only uninterested in other people's affairs and problems — he paid no attention whatsoever even to his closest kin.
Damn idiot! Even if he did not understand what normal family ties meant, he still failed to grasp that these people were not merely relatives — they were the ones who could help and support him in difficult times.
In my letter, I asked Myrcella how she was feeling, how she was settling in, whether she needed anything, and I asked her to convey my regards and best wishes to Princes Quentyn and Trystane and Princess Arianne.
Clever Margaery also added a few lines, writing that she would be delighted to meet Myrcella someday and would be happy to consider her a sister.
I was certain that my little sister, who is so far from home, really needs moral support and sympathy. Let her know that, aside from her mother, there are others who care for her as well.
Among other things, I managed to carve out time to speak with important — and interesting — people.
One such conversation, for which I managed to carve out a little precious royal time, was with Ser Kerg Footly.
By that time, I had already found common ground with Herald Orm. He had turned out to be a calm, balanced knight who respected his own honor and understood what duty meant. Herald recommended his brother Harald to me as another reliable and loyal man. After weighing the options and learning everything I could about this new person, I made a decision and invited him to join my retinue as well.
Nor did I let the matter of Herald himself drift. Gradually, through conversation, I learned what I needed. In particular, he confessed that he loved a girl — Olivia Footly — but her father was clearly opposed to their union.
I had long ago realized the possibilities this situation offered me, and so I invited Kerg Footley for a talk.
Now we were walking together through the park. Behind us strode Ser Loras Tyrell, guarding my humble person today, and Jacob Liddon, who carried a couple of books and a bottle of wine, in case I wanted to take a break and sit down somewhere..
"I am very pleased by your invitation," Ser Footly said. However, he did not look as pleased as he claimed. Rather, he looked intrigued — like a cunning merchant who sensed a lucrative deal approaching.
Kerg Footley was a man in his fifties, his face already furrowed with numerous wrinkles. His long, thinning hair fell to his shoulders, partially hiding his severed ear — the one he had lost on the Iron Islands when, together with Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark, all of Westeros once again beating the shit out of the Greyjoys.
"It is good to meet you as well," I replied diplomatically. "Can you guess why I invited you here?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," he said, his watery eyes scrutinizing me from head to toe.
"It concerns your daughter, Olivia."
"I am listening."
"What are your plans for her future?"
"To marry her to a worthy man," Footly answered with an imperturbable smile, already guessing what would follow.
"And do you have any candidates in mind?" I bent down, plucked a blade of grass, and held it between my teeth.
"Of course. Like any caring father, I am considering many options."
"What do you think of a union between Lady Olivia and Ser Herald Orm?"
"That is a difficult question, Your Majesty," He thought about it. Or pretended to think about it.
"As far as I know, they are mutually attracted."
"Ah, Your Majesty, attraction is a fickle thing — here today, gone tomorrow."
"Is something troubling you?" The situation was beginning to resemble haggling over a prized item in the market.
"Ser Herald is certainly a worthy young man," Footly replied cautiously. "But I am also considering other, equally suitable options. Please understand me correctly: Olivia is pure and beautiful. Many in the Seven Kingdoms dream of being her partner."
It seemed my interlocutor had begun to drive up the price.
"However, if you, Your Majesty, ask me directly, I will undoubtedly — and with great pleasure — agree to your request."
"One moment," I raised my hand. What is it with people these days? Everyone wants to get something out of the poor king. And now this Footly has realized he can try to shake something out of the head of state. "Let's agree right away that you are not doing me any favors, and I owe you nothing."