Chapter Text
The Men of the Small Council
400 AC
“Your Grace” the men greet all at once. Lyonel waves one arm off to keep them from standing in his honor, to no avail. Sighing, he slowly makes his way to his seat at the head of the Small Council table, his limbs screaming and creaking at each step. He can feel watchful eyes follow him, and can feel the waves of curiosity coming from each pair. It has been several weeks since he attended his last Small Council Meeting. This level of scrutiny is one of the many things he does not miss.
“My lords.” The king greets once he is finally seated. The faces around him do not betray anything. They never do. Lyonel smiles bitterly. “As you can likely tell, it seems that I have taken ill and will not be with the realm much longer.”
To their credit, the men of the small council managed to look stricken at the pronouncement. Someone gasped – King Lyonel thinks it may be Lord Lannister, bless the man and his kind heart. Lord Redwyne’s eyes were wide with shock, as were Lord Peake’s. The arrogant Prince of Dorne even looked stunned, before he schooled his face back into his usual impassive mask. The Master of Whisperers nodded somberly, as though the news was expected but unwelcome nonetheless. Beside him, the Hand of the King breathes a heavy sigh. Lyonel likes to think it’s because he is finally rid of the burden of secrecy.
The six men seated around the small council was a perfect picture of grief and melancholy but King Lyonel Baratheon, First of his Name, holds no illusion about these esteemed men. They would grieve for him, as is proper. They would mourn him and the stability he stood for. But beyond that, a king is no more than a body to be buried and sad songs to sing for before being replaced by another one.
The death of a monarch is an ambitious man’s friend and the words ring true, from the thoughtful look on Prince Malcolm Martell’s face and the grim, guarded countenance on Lord Hobert Tyrell’s. A king’s death would bring forth changes – tidings that are more of a bane than a boon to Lord Tyrell, the King’s Hand for twenty years. The Rose Lord never quite liked a threat to the status quo.
King Lyonel understands that better than anyone. With changes comes chaos. And chaos is most oft, his undoing, if his reign as king for fifteen years is anything to go by.
“Is that what the Grandmaester said, Your Grace?” Lord Titus Lannister, the Seven bless his heart, is the first one who asks. The sigil on his chest may bear the image of a Golden Lion but King Lyonel would sooner liken the kindly man to a tame, house cat. Lord Lannister is the kind of man who would greet him and ask about his day when every single Lord in the small council would rather count coppers.
His affable nature wasn’t the only thing that set Lord Lannister apart as well – his skin is darker than even that of the Prince of Dorne, owing to when his Lord Father married a Summer Islander half a century ago. There hadn’t been golden-haired Lannisters in the main line for several decades. Nowadays, the Royal House Baratheon of the Crownlands looks more like the House Lannister of old, with their blonde hair and fair skin.
“I’m afraid so, my lord.” The King responds, managing a weak smile. Speaking exhausts him these days and it takes a lot out of him to say more than a few words. Oh, he would very much like it if this council meeting proceeds as many others did – with him sitting idly, while his Hand and the others squabble over the matters of note. Small matters, he always said. King Lyonel never had patience in lording over small matters.
Look where it got him now. “I fear my days of hunting, drinking and whoring have caught up to me, my good lords.” The king continues. “The maesters could do nothing, they say. And I believe them, You are too kind to say it, I’m certain but I do reek of death. I have started dreaming of the Stranger. It would only be a matter of time.”
And it could not have come any sooner. Kingship did not do Lyonel Baratheon any favors nor did he particularly enjoy it. The Smallfolk call him Lyonel the Late, he knows, no matter how much his Hand tried to stop the bards from singing this moniker. Exile them from King’s Landing and the damn singers just go to the next castle, telling people of the king’s follies.
The songs said he was slow to respond when the Riverlands flooded. That he was indecisive when the Manderlys demanded lower taxes for their ports. That he was hesitant when talking terms with Lord Brandon Greyjoy, leading to the deadliest Ironborn rebellion in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.
He was no Robert, who slew Rhaegar Targaryen in a decisive battle and took the throne by conquest a century ago. Nor is Lyonel like his father, who was quick to realize the growing rift between the Crown and Dorne, brought the first Dornish lord to the small council and lessened the skirmishes in the Dornish marshes. He was just poor, indecisive Lyonel who struggled to choose between two types of mares as a child. He was never really meant to be King.
“Enough talk about my health, my lords.” Lyonel waves one weak hand, dismissing whatever consoling words that he knows would come from Lord Lannister’s mouth. He finds that he has no patience for flattery these days. His time is up. In the shadows, the Stranger awaits. “I called this small council meeting not to talk about my funeral. The Gods know, the pain reminds me enough of that, lest I forget. I am here to bid you, all of you, to help me prepare my son, my heir, to the throne.”
They say a dead man walking is granted clarity like no other. The epiphany came late, as did most things to do with Lyonel. He had thought he had more time to be King, more time to prepare his son to rule. Jeffrey is barely eighteen, merely a green boy who saw no battles yet and in truth, not the sharpest blade in the armory.
Lyonel had hoped that intelligence befitting a King had only skipped a generation and that Prince Jeff would grow some brains in him. But alas, all the wits went to his daughter, his oldest child. And be that as it may but Lyonel knew his history and the last time a woman tried to sit on the Iron Throne, the realm bled and the dragons died.
“The Prince must marry. Your Grace” Lord Tyrell, the Hand of the King, says. The murmurs start, as it always does. “The sooner it is, the better too. Because if the Seven forbid, Your Grace passes soon, the lineage must be secured. Prince Jeff must have an heir” Lord Tyrell pauses, as though gauging the faces of the rest of the council before continuing.”I cannot think of anyone else more fit to be queen than my own daughter, the Lady Jacqueline Tyrell.”
“A fine choice, indeed.” King Lyonel agrees, as though this is the first time he’s hearing of it. In truth, the Hand had decided this for him quite a while ago, as he had done so for the Realm for the entire time he was King. Lyonel finds that it is better to let others decide for him, so it is not only himself that could be blamed when things go south.
King Lyonel the Late, they call him. Like any of these unwashed peasants know what it takes to run the Seven Kingdoms. King Lyonel is a king who knows his limits. Most times, it is best to leave the governing to men more capable than him.
He sees Lord Lannister nod in solemn agreement. Lord Redwyne and Lord Peake both make noises of approval, understandably pleased that a Lady of the Reach is chosen again. Lyonel’s mother was a Redwyne, after all. Lord Snow, the Maester of Whisperers, remains stoic. Prince Martell is frowning.
This , Lyonel thinks, watching the Prince of Dorne lean forward from his seat. This is why King Lyonel is always late.
The men he chose to surround himself with just can’t seem to agree about anything. Not on the amount for the tourney’s champion purse. Not on the kind of meat to be served for the feast. Not on how to deal with the rebelling Ironborn.
“Pardon, my lords. But I wasn’t aware that an agreement has been reached about the prince’s betrothal”
The Prince of Dorne is a tall, lithe, handsome man with skin fairer than most men that hail from his land. King Lyonel has met many Dornishmen in his lifetime, including the previous Sword of the Morning, Martin Dayne. But Malcolm Martell is unlike most Dornishman. His Lady Mother had been from the Riverlands and must have impressed more of the traditional Rivermen values to his son than Rhoynar. Prince Malcolm looks and acts like every other Andal lord at court, with a thousand times more ambition.
Lord Tyrell has always disliked the man. The intense rivalry between the two was never a secret but it was never as obvious as it was today. “The king and I have spoken at length about this, Prince Malcolm.” His Hand responds sternly. Lord Tyrell was a handsome man in his youth – dark haired, lean and dashing. There are still a lot of it left now, even as he served two kings as Hand. “As you have heard from His Grace himself, I have his most enthused approval.”
The frown on Prince Martell’s face deepens. He leans back, staring squarely at the Hand of the King. They say nothing scares the Dornishmen. King Lyonel finds that this is particularly true for Malcolm Martell. “Wouldn’t you think it is grossly presumptuous to discuss this without the council’s leave, my Lord Hand?” he asks Lord Tyrell but something in his tone implies that he is speaking to everyone else as well. “Especially with your vested interest in the matter. Surely, something as important as the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,-- the bearer of our future generation of Kings!-- needs to be discussed with the other learned men from the Small Council?”
“I couldn’t help but agree, my lords.” The Master of Whisperers, Lord Snow concurs. The Bastard of Dreadfort has come to the Crown’s service at Prince Martell’s suggestion, who he has met and befriended when they fought together during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Lord Snow seems to have never forgotten that. If Prince Malcolm disagrees on something, it is sure that Lord Snow would follow. “The Queen’s role in the matters of the realm is not to be trifled with. Especially on account of ambition.”
The proximity of death truly gives a man a heightened power of observation. On any other day, King Lyonel would never have noticed that vein that popped from his Lord Hand’s forehead or his barely suppressed grunt. When Lord Tyrell speaks again, he is the very picture of the calm Mander river. “Careful now, my lords. It is almost like… you are accusing me of something.”
Murmurs. A prelude to what would erupt into a heated disagreement. It is all too familiar, the King notes. Every single matter brought to the small council ends like this. On particularly bad days, the Small Council rows would feel as ferocious as the Field of Fire. The King has never quite figured out how to meddle and could never quite decide who to side with in an argument. So he would normally just wait to have an excuse to dismiss the men and retreat back to his rooms where he can be with his tea and peace.
But he does not have time for that now. He is dying. And sooner or later, his son would take the throne. His extremely unprepared son who thought of nothing now but winning tourneys and bedding women.
He wishes he had that boy sit with the council sooner. Perhaps, Lyonel should have made Jeffrey a scribe or even the Royal Cupbearer. In time, he would have learned how to control these eternally, squabbling men, given enough time with them. The thoughts do not go further than that though. His son is never one to easily sit still during meetings. Lyonel would have failed.
Thankfully, Prince Martell had enough sense to dispel the heat today. “I am not accusing you of anything, Lord Tyrell. Please forgive me. I am merely suggesting that we need to think this over.” A valid opinion, Lyonel agrees. If only Martell did not say the next words. “Surely, you all remember the last time the Hand had made the King marry his daughter. Otto Hightower had been from The Reach too, if I recall.”
Lord Tyrell stands, slamming both hands on the table. Lyonel flinches: “You dare compare his grace to the weak , dragon King, Viserys?”
Martell shrugs: “Your words my lord, not mine.” Seeming to remember himself, Prince Martell directs his gaze to Lyonel, bowing his head. “My apologies, your grace. I meant no offense.” Once more, he speaks like he is addressing everyone, even as he continues to level his stare at the king. “All I am saying is that His Grace must have the chance to see for himself before choosing. There are hundreds of candidates for the Prince’s hand. If Lady Tyrell is the best among them, we will happily crown her as our Queen. ”
Still standing, Hobert Tyrell straightens, looking down at the Prince of Dorne and reigning Master of coin: “We have no time for that, my lord. The king is ill.”
The Prince Martell only looks back up at Lord Tyrell, entirely nonplussed: “Careful now, my lord.” He mocks back. “It almost sounds like you look forward to His Grace’s passing soon. I certainly am not. I’m positive the King has enough time to make a choice out of the cream of the crop the Seven Kingdoms has to offer.”
“My daughter is the most comely girl in the Seven Kingdoms.”
Prince Martell smirks. “You jest, because I heard the same thing said of mine, the Lady Lottie. You’ve met her, haven’t you, my lords? What a beauty, isn’t she? She takes after my wife.” And indeed, Lady Lottie does. She looks nothing like her fair-skinned sire, favoring the tan skin she inherited from her Lady Mother of House Fowler. She did take after father in height though. “The same is said of Lord Lannister’s daughter, his heir, Taissa. And Lady Stark’s Shauna.”
Lord Titus Lannister bows. “I am flattered by the compliments, my lord.” he calmly says. “But I fear I must excuse my Taissa from the running as I have already made arrangements with House Westerling for her betrothal.”
“A pity then. As the popular Lady Taissa may make a good queen, herself” There is a triumphant glint in the Dornishman’s eyes but it is gone by the next second. “But there are a hundred more noble ladies we can choose from. We may not be able to choose our King…” He pauses deliberately, leveling his gaze towards Lyonel once more. “But we can choose the person who rules beside him, who shares his bed, who bears his heirs…”
Insolence! Someone calls. It might have been Lord Redwyne. Or Lord Peake. Lyonel cannot tell. The King grows tired by the minute and the Prince of Dorne’s sharp tongue is neither novel nor shocking. For as much as his Hand dislikes the Dornishman, none can deny his prowess as Master of Coin. Lyonel only needed to ask and Prince Malcolm would have the money for the next tourney.
Lyonel does not know how he does it. He never asked.
And he has the unsettling skill to see through what Lyonel feels. Because he is right. Lyonel would have not made Jeffrey king, if he had another choice over that reckless, stupid boy.
The debate rages on for the next half an hour, growing heated by the second. As his wont, the King listens, unsure and undecided. If he interrupts them too early, he might have to take a side and he hasn’t decided on who is in the right just yet. If he lingers further, it may come to blows.
But he is an ailing man and every inch that he feels himself sink to his chair is every inch that he is close to flinging himself off the tower’s window. He uses the King’s voice when he speaks and when he does, everyone listens. “What is it you are proposing then, Prince Malcolm?”
He sees his Hand gape at him from the corner of his eye and it is when Lyonel realizes he may have chosen a side that diverged from the Roseroad for the first time in his reign,
The Prince Martell is beaming. There is always something unsettling with a Dornishman’s smile and even though the Master of Coin looks nothing like one, he still wears his House’s colours. When he speaks, Lyonel remembers why Dorne is the only kingdom never subjugated by the dragonlords by force.
What were their words again? Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.
“To reconsider this decision, my King. I mean to serve not only you but also your son. And I want to be sure that I do right by him by letting him have the best Lady from the Seven Kingdoms.”
Do right by him , Lyonel thinks. He thought he had more time but sooner than not, he would leave his son to the vipers of the Red Keep. He is merely a green boy, unprepared to rule, too caught with the whims of the youth to be King. Just like Lyonel was, when he became King.
“Do you mean for my son to choose his own queen?”
Lyonel realizes now that he doesn’t want his son to be like him, all his choices taken until he no longer has confidence to make any. Perhaps, this would be his first test as king. Let him choose his bride. Let him be a better king than Lyonel ever was. Let him be a king that the House Baratheon can be proud of. “What do you suggest, Prince Malcolm?”
“A royal ball, your grace.” The Dornish Prince says, gleaming like the thousand suns in his House’s sigil. “Let all the noble ladies come from all over Westeros. And let the prince choose his own queen.”
(TBC)