Snippet #1484597

Lionel's arm was burning. Since he was young, his right arm had been injured more often than not, but the bones and muscles had hardened from the constant blows, and he'd built up a resistance. But bruises were different from gashes, and Maester Syrus's poultices were not the cool, pleasant kind. No, the Maester believed in fire, burning the wound and infection away until the limb emerged new, healed. Granted, it was effective. Lionel's numerous injuries over the last seventeen years, all healed without scars, could attest to that. But well as it worked, it still hurt like hell. Lionel was running his fingers through his hair, trying to think of something to take his mind off the pain, when his father walked into the tent.

Maester Syrus shot him a glance and departed without another word. It was no small secret that the King disapproved of Lionel spending much time with the old man. Unlike Father, Maester Syrus allowed Lionel to act his age, to be vulnerable. Father couldn't stand that. But there was no wiser man in the Citadel than the Grand Maester, and it was solely for that reason he had barely avoided exile on numerous occasions.

"You were magnificent, Lionel."

Lionel raised an eyebrow, doubting what had just come out of his father's mouth. Praise? From King Damian? It was unheard of. But Lionel suspected it was only a trivial formality, and it was. The words were barely in the air before the King launched into his political plans and strategies. Lionel's brief glimmer of hope disappeared. Heaving an inward sigh, he sat back and listened to his father talk, adding in a brief eye-roll here and there to prove that he was still paying attention. They hadn't had a civil conversation in years; it was always Henry speaking or scolding, and Lionel attempting to be disrespectful in every way possible. For now, though, Lionel was too exhausted to put up much of a fight. He absorbed his father's plans, contemplating them. They were frighteningly similar to what was going on in his own mind, particularly the part about Adelaide. It's true, we really can use my sweet sister to divide the Winslers by marrying her off to Kervall… It sounded like a plan made in heaven. Adelaide would never refuse Kervall, or vice versa. And they were so adamant in their love that they would wed in spite of Lord Winsler's disapproval. Jamie Winsler would throw a fit, but that would just divide the House even more.

It was brilliant.

The skies were darkening rapidly. The tourney had lasted for nearly the entire day. The Houses had lunched outside under the tents earlier, but at night, the Red Keep would offer much more comfort, especially with the heavy clouds forming overhead. It was as if Lionel's victory had scared away the sun and summoned the rain. In the event of a thunderstorm, it would not do to let the lords and ladies soak their precious gowns, although most had so many anyways that it probably wouldn't make a difference.

Nevertheless, upon Maester Syrus's insistence, the entire company was moved indoors to the great hall, where the servants were already serving the first course of pork and leek soup, followed by freshly baked venison pie. This feast had been planned for months, and would be even more extravagant than the last; it was, after all, the feast of Lionel's engagement and the alliance of the two strongest Houses in the Seven Kingdoms. Behind the kitchen doors, a full twenty courses was being prepared, each more delectable than the last. Outside, the Maester's prediction proved true; a light patter of rain could be heard within the Red Keep, a shower which quickly turned into a fierce storm. In his seat, Lionel fidgeted and glared at the wreath of blue roses in his hand.

"Maester?" Lionel stood in the doorway of the study, dripping with water. Lightning crackled behind him, the thunder drowned out by the pouring of the rain.

Maester Syrus looked up from his scroll. "Come in and shut the door. And ohh! Keep your damp feet clear of those tomes, you wretched child! That's a fifty-year-old original, if you've gotten water on it I'll flay you alive…"

"Sorry," Lionel said hastily, skirting away from the bookshelf. Maester Syrus whisked out a chair for him before he could do any more damage. "Must we have lessons today? It's raining."

"That didn't stop you from training with the arms master," Maester Syrus retorted, raising an eyebrow at Lionel's sopping tunic.

Lionel wasn't fazed. "But that's actually interesting."

"Your words are daggers to my heart."

"Good."

Shaking his head, Maester Syrus riffled through the stack of scrolls on his table before pulling one out, setting it down in front of Lionel. Upon seeing the tiny text, Lionel began to protest, but the Maester put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "That's merely a record of Robert's Rebellion, also known as the War of the Usurper. An accounting of soldiers and resources. Very boring stuff, but just skim it over to get a basic idea of what happened. Since you seem unable to concentrate during a storm as you are any other day, I thought that perhaps a tale of a bloody battle would pique your interest."

"The War of the Usurper? What started that?"

"Ah." Maester Syrus's pale blue eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "And now we get down to the point of today's lesson. You've studied Rhaegar Targaryen, have you not? The eldest son of Aerys the Mad, the heir to the Iron Throne…get that blank look off your face, we only covered him last week."

"That was the week I got my first blade," Lionel said.

That would explain it. Maester Syrus refrained commenting and continued. "It was at a tournament at Harrenhal that Rhaegar gained the victory, and thus the privilege of naming one woman present the Queen of Love and Beauty. He had a Dornish wife, Elia Martell, with whom he had already borne two children. However, he instead crowned Lyanna Stark, who was betrothed to Robert Baratheon."

Lionel yawned. "So? Was she pretty?"

"You're missing the point," Maester Syrus snapped.

"What's the point?"

"The point is that wars are started with the smallest of actions. A wrong word, a wrong look- stealing the wrong woman, all of those will get you into a bloody mess that you'll regret for the rest of your life. Before Harrenhal, the Targaryens held everything. After Rhaegar's impulse, the Targaryens were slaughtered. It's a lesson you'd best keep in mind- especially you, since you don't seem to listen to much else I say."


Lionel got up out of his seat, aware that the eyes of everyone present were trained on him. Damian, Greyhardt, Winsler, Strake, Renlough…every House, every knight, focused on his actions. The bawdy chatter wavered and then died down completely, replaced by a silence that pressed down on Lionel's shoulders. His father and mother were absolutely still. All he had to do was walk over to the Greyhardts, put the damned thing on Isabel's head, smile and utter a few words, and the entire hall would erupt into cheers and laughter, an alliance with the Greyhardts would be forged, and Lionel's fate would be sealed.

Lionel walked slowly down the table until he stood before House Greyhardt. He nodded his head respectfully to Lord Greyhardt, Lady Greyhardt, and then turned to face the sisters. Isabel smiled demurely up at him, blissfully unaware of the events that had transpired last night.

What I do now changes everything.

Lionel swallowed.

The new hunting dogs were of a different sort, brought over from the Free Cities where the Braavosi did not train their animals to work in pairs, but rather forced them upon one another, until the dogs grew strong and cruel and lean from the constant fight for survival. When they arrived the Red Keep, the arms master had then locked up in separate crates in the stable, and they kept the entire castle awake all night with their barking and howling.

"I can't stand that noise," Lionel grumbled to Maester Syrus, unable to focus on his studies. "Why do the stupid dogs have to bark so?"

"Focus." Maester Syrus put a hand on Lionel's head and forced his face down closer to the book, until his nose was inches from the words. Getting the prince to study was not an easy task to begin with; the boy was not lacking for brains, but was easily distracted at every little commotion that came from below.

The text swam before Lionel's eyes, and he refused to comprehend. "Why?" he questioned again.

Maester Syrus sighed. "Dogs don't like crates. Now will you finish the chapter?"

From the look in the Maester's eyes, Lionel gathered that it would be wisest to obey. He reluctantly flipped the page and set his mind to it. "I'd bark too if I were in a cage," he couldn't resist saying. "I bet they wish someone would come and set them free."

Lionel stole out of bed early the next morning, slipping out of his room and dashing to the stables. The dogs had calmed down since last night. They were curled up in corners of their cages, and they looked mournfully at Lionel through clouded eyes as he peered at them through the bars. Several whimpered. Lionel stuck his hand through the nearest cage, and the dog licked his fingers. "I know," he whispered. "I know what it's like to be trapped.

When the servants finally found him, he was standing in the middle of the stable with dogs strewn all about him, the locks on the crates hacked through with a sword.

"What have you done?" Maester Syrus cried, aghast.

Lionel turned to look at him, a slightly bemused expression on his face. He lifted a hand a wiped a smear of blood, dog's blood, from his forehead, drenched from the toes up in splatters of gore. The moment they'd been set free, the dogs had set on one another, ripping each other apart in a frenzy.

"They wanted to go free. I set them free."

Lionel lifted the crown and put it firmly on Lady Greyhardt's head, feeling an enormous burden lift from his chest as he did so. He grinned and sank into a low bow before the woman of his choosing. "Lady Leliana Greyhardt, I name you Queen of Love and Beauty."