Game Of Thrones : As Tommen Baratheon

"War is coming, Uncle. War. What you have fought, what you have experienced... it is nothing compared to what lurks around the horizon. Nothing, you hear me? Denys dreamed of the Doom of Old Valyria, and I dream of the Doom of Westeros." I looked out the window, speaking in a low, desperate whisper, the two of them listening with rapt attention.

"Sometimes... sometimes the urge strikes me, to give up. To climb to the tallest tower in the keep, open the window, and to just... fly, like Bran did."

...

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, as if plagued by some great burden, "I've seen your corpses, did you know that? All of you. They haunt me in my dreams. It all seems so utterly, hopelessly inevitable." I clenched my fist till the knuckles turned white, my face drawn in determination, "And yet if I chart the right course, tread the right path, I know I will be able to prevent it. To save my kingdom, my people, my... my family."

A lone tear slipped from reddened eyes, and internally I could hear the imaginary audience applaud at my masterful performance. If nothing else, it seemed sufficient to get the two of them to believe in, which is all I really needed.

Jaime gulped, "I... I see."

I sighed, letting all tension slip from my form, "But that is all in the future. We have more immediate problems. Baelish wasn't the only traitor, and as it is, I will need to conduct a purge of the Small Council to stand any chance of keeping the peace.

The Kingsguard too. When the politically opportune moment comes for the blood to flow, we need to present a united front. The King needs to be seen to have the full support of his family. Do I have that support?"

Cersei gave me a tight nod after only a moment of thought, and said, "Always, Tommen. Always."

Jaime looked at me with something that approached reverence in his eyes, "Of course, Your Grace."

I turned my gaze to my uncle, "Jaime, could you please go and have one of the maids fetch Tyrion for me?" Just as he was making to leave, I interrupted him, "Oh, and Jaime?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Needless to say that you will speak to nobody about the things you have heard today. Nobody." I turned to look at Cersei, injecting some steel into my tone, "I am trusting you two with this, and only you two. Nobody else is to know."

He nodded and left the chambers, and Cersei said, "Why are you having him summoned here?"

I looked her in the eyes, my gaze unfaltering, "To settle the matter of this petty rivalry between the two of you. You were so distracted with your hatred of each other, that you failed to spot the real danger, sat just a few scant seats away from you the entire time. That rivalry was ultimately what got Joffrey killed, by allowing a plotter like Baelish to escape notice. I will not allow the same kind of infighting to undermine my reign, and to endanger my person. As such, I expect you to apologise to him when he arrives."

Cersei looked outraged, "To that Imp!" She spat the word as though it were poison, "Never!"

I met her fiery gaze head-on, speaking in a cool monotone deliberately reminiscent of Tywin, "You will apologize, or you will be shipped off to Casterly Rock, do you hear me? Those are the only choices you have. You are my mother, and I love you, but my very life hangs in the balance, and I'll not risk it for the sake of your pride. I won't end up like Joffrey."

I kept my gaze focused on hers till she eventually quailed, leaving the air still with a stubborn silence. When Tyrion arrived a few minutes later, he came in with a grin, one which quickly fell off his face as he saw Cersei, "Your Grace?"

I turned and looked at Cersei, and then back at Tyrion, "My mother has something to say to you, Uncle." Cersei stayed silent, and I allowed a threatening quality to bleed into my tone, "Don't you, Mother?"

She gave a sort of strangled growl, and then bowed her head, her speech emerging from her lips stiff and stilted, "Yes, I..." she shot me a look, "apologise. I shouldn't have tried to have you executed."

Tyrion looked legitimately stunned. He looked at Cersei as though she had grown a second head, and then back at me, and then back at Cersei again. Eventually he overcame his shock, clumsily accepting the apology, "Ah... I see."

"And Tyrion, don't you have an apology to make to my mother?" He looked at me quizzically, and I clarified my words, "For threatening her."

He nodded, and though the words came out of his mouth more smoothly then they came out of Cersei's, they still bore an uncomfortable quality to them, "Well... of course. I am sorry. For threatening you."

"Well, that wasn't awkward in the slightest, was it?" I clapped my hands together loudly, shattering the tension hanging in the air between the two, "Now, with that over and done with, I must leave. I have kingdoms to conquer, debts to repay, disputes to settle and a realm to rule. There is so much work to be done, and so little time to do it in!"

...

"We don't want to go in," Arya said. "There might be ghosts."

The Hound snorted as he swung off his saddle, "You know how long it's been since I had a cup of wine? Besides, we need to learn who holds the ruby ford. Stay with the horse if you want, it's no hair off my arse."

"What if they know you?" Arya questioned. "They might want to take you prisoner."

Sandor grunted, "Let them try."

He loosened his sword from it's scabbard, the dull grey steel peeking over the top, and marched into the inn like he owned it. His face was uncovered, almost challenging the world to a fight. Not that his helm would have helped much, shaped like a hound as it was. Arya looked around, to the long flat stretch of land in all direction, to a small copse of trees in the distance, and the river not too far away. The Kingsroad ran straight through here.

Arya patted Stranger, chewing her lip as she did so. I could run. Take Stranger and Craven and ride away. He'd never be able to keep up. And yet, she led the horses to the stable as he had instructed her to do, tying them to a post, and then went in after him.

They know him, she could tell. And I know them.

Not the women or the skinny innkeeper, but the soldiers. The Tickler and Polliver both. Already, Arya could tell a fight was brewing. There are only three, Arya thought. Not a hopeless battle, but certainly not a smart one.

The third one, a pudgy boy with spots on his face, likely a squire, spoke up, slurring his words slightly, drunk, "This the lost puppy Ser Gregor spoke of? The one who piddled in the rushes and ran off?" The Tickler put a warning hand on his arm, and shook his head, beckoning the boy to stop. The boy apparently did not notice, and gave the Hound a stupid mocking grin, "Said he ran off whimpering."

The Hound stayed silent, and Polliver shoved the girl he had on his lap off, and rose to his feet, "The lad's drunk. He can't hold his wine, is all."

"Then he shouldn't drink."

"Ah, is the puppy scared-" the Tickler grabbed his ear and twisted, hard, his words becoming a sharp squeal of pain.

The innkeeper arrived, arms laden heavy with flagons of wine. Sandor immediately snatched one off the platter, and gulped it down till half his flagon was all but gone. He slammed the flagon down, fished out some coppers and threw them on the table, and turned to the innkeeper, "Best pick those up. It's likely the only coins you'll see today."

Polliver frowned, "We'll pay when we're done drinking."

"When you're done drinking you'll tickle the innkeeper to see where he keeps his gold. The way you always do."

It seemed as though the innkeeper and the rest of the inhabitants of the inn had caught up. He left quickly, and the girl that had been on Polliver's lap fished a garment off the ground, using it to cover her bare breasts as she rushed off. We should leave too, Arya knew.

"If you're looking for Ser, you're too late. He was at Harrenhall, and now he's not. The Queen called for him." Polliver paused, and Arya took stock of the steel on his body. Three blades on his belt: a longsword, a dagger, and something in between. He sipped his wine, speaking very matter-of-factly, "King Joffrey's dead, you know. Poisoned at his own wedding feast."

Joffrey's dead. She felt the urge to smile, but it felt hollow when she did. Still, the news was music to her ears. Joffrey's dead!

"Who killed him?" the Hound asked.

"The Imp, it's thought. Him and his little wife."

Both Sandor and Arya were confused at that, till Polliver explained it to them. That's stupid, Arya thought when she heard. She'd never marry the Imp. Sandor gulped his wine with the ghost of a smile on his face as he heard of the Queen's suspicions of Tyrion, "She ought to dip him in wildfire and cook him."

...

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