Game Of Thrones : As Tommen Baratheon

Tyrion watched Tommen test the drawstring of the crossbow, "And how is that?"

"He has the makings of a good King, wouldn't you agree? Patient, diligent, humble, pious, just-"

"Clever."

...

Varys nodded in agreement, "Yes, my lord. Clever. At least for his age. Though that may not be my choice of words, I would agree."

Tyrion quirked an eyebrow, "And what word would you use, then?"

Varys rubbed his silky chin, pondering his choice of words, "Gifted, perhaps?"

"Gifted? Seems an even stranger choice of words." Varys had an odd look on his face, and Tyrion caught on, "What do you know?"

"A secret."

Tyrion snorted, "So many secrets, these days. Why, even Oberyn seemed to be giving me an earful."

"Queen Myrcella, I'm aware. Apparently, His Grace is as well."

"Oh? How did he react?"

"He appears to have largely dismissed it. He's confident that his sister could never betray him in such a manner, at least not willingly."

"He's lucky, to be so confident."

"Indeed. His relationship with his sister is far warmer than yours. The Queen doesn't seem best pleased with you, my lord."

Tyrion shrugged his shoulders, "When is she ever?" He looked back up at Varys, "Did you tell him?"

Varys smiled, "No, my lord, and that's the secret."

Tyrion remembered the non-answer Tommen had given him, back when he had spoken to him in his cell. Tyrion watched as Tommen loaded a bolt into the crossbow, fascination written across his features, "Oh? Then who did?"

"That's the very thing, my lord. Far as I can gather: nobody did."

Tyrion looked up at Varys to see his expression as serious as it had ever been, and then scoffed, "What, are you telling me the boy is magic? Blessed by the gods, is that it? Should I go to the High Septon?"

Varys crinkled his nose in distaste, "I wouldn't say blessed, my lord. But something is definitely... off, about him."

"I didn't take you for a very superstitious man."

"You know how I became a eunuch, my lord. Can you blame me for my caution?"

Tyrion watched as Tommen aimed one of his bolts at the target at the edge of the sparring yard. Though the target was obscured from his angle, it was apparent to Tyrion that Tommen had missed, shook his head, and loaded another bolt. Tyrion spoke with amusement and a certain degree of incredulity lacing his tone, "Are you telling me my nephew is a blood mage?"

Varys shook his head, "No, my lord."

"Then what?"

"He isn't a mage, my lord, he's a dreamer."

Tyrion scoffed, "A dreamer? What, like the Targaryens? Like Denys?"

"The Baratheons do have some Targaryen blood in them," Varys insisted. "And the Lannisters are an old house. It is not impossible."

But wasn't Tommen a bastard? Jaime's son? Or had Robert gotten lucky? Tyrion looked down into the yard, and observed Tommen's features more closely. Green eyes, blonde hair, a slim build - though that didn't mean much, given his age. He looked every bit the spitting image of a Lannister. Tommen's eyes met his from across the yard, and the boy offered him a kind smile and friendly wave, and then turned back to his crossbow. Nothing like Joffrey, Tyrion mused.

Tyrion remembered the old phrase, every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. Could Tommen be the opposite side of Joffrey's coin? Tyrion shook his head, "Do you have any proof? Or have you simply gone mad?"

Varys shifted uncomfortably, though it felt to Tyrion to perhaps be feigned discomfort, "Well, my lord, Tommen knows things he cannot possibly know."

Tyrion was curious now, "Like what?"

"Well-"

Varys was cut off by the nearby sound of wood clattering on stone above him, and then a brief flash of brown crossed his eyes as the spent bolt fell to the floor. Tyrion bent down, and saw a crossbow bolt lying near his feet. Looking across the yard, he saw Tommen sport a sheepish look, and shrug apologetically at him from a distance. Tyrion shrugged back in what he hoped was forgiving manner, and turned back to Varys-

-only to find him keeling over with a huff, his face paler than it had ever been before. There was what looked to be a crossbow bolt protruding from his back, the quarrel sunken deep, right to the fletching. Blood began to seep out onto Varys's robes, staining the yellow fabric as it spread. Tyrion looked frantically around for the attacker, only to sight a boot-shaped blur slip around a corner at the end of the hallway in which they were stood and disappear.

Helpless to give chase, Tyrion turned Varys's slumped form over to it's side, his eyes glassy with shock, blood seeping from between his lips. Suddenly, with the strength of a man possessed, Varys grasped Tyrion's shoulder in a grip so tight he feared it might leave bruises. "It was him," Varys whispered. "He... knows..."

Tyrion felt panic bubbling in his chest, "Knows what?! Who?!"

Varys's speech gradually became more and more unintelligible as he slowly died, coughing up more and more blood till his chin was covered by it, "Tommen... He... called me here... for Dragons..."

Tyrion shook him the by shoulders, "What do you mean?"

Varys spoke with a bloody rasp, and with his last breath, said, "Long live... Aegon... The one true King..."

Tyrion shook his shoulder again, but to no avail. He was dead. Well and truly gone. Aegon? Tyrion observed the blood on his hands with a morbid fascination, and looked over the ledge once again, his gaze swiftly meeting Tommen's from across the yard. As he saw him, Tyrion felt his blood suddenly run cold.

Tommen was looking at him, straight in the eyes. It was apparent to Tyrion that he had watched Varys die, even if nobody else appeared to have done so.

Tyrion shuddered.

He's smiling.

...

The capital was in a furor.

The Master of Whispers - a member of the Small Council - killed! And in broad daylight, no less!

Honestly, leading these people about by the nose was almost hilariously easy. A few careful words here, a suggestion there, and out of nowhere materialised this grand conspiracy against the crown. The suspects were endless. Stannis, Daenerys, the Ironborn, the Vale, the North, the Dornish, anyone.

There were spies in the walls.

Not that much of this bore any fruit, of course. Initially, many people laid accusation against one another, keen to be seen as loyal defenders of the crown. After this, as per my instructions, no accusation could be laid against anyone till anything in the way of substantial evidence could be provided to indicate the identity of Varys's killer.

Naturally, the King was above suspicion.

Well, apart from in Tyrion's mind, anyway. But I wasn't too worried. He knew better than to trust Varys.

Still, this was all a convenient enough excuse to launch a purge. With the Master of Whispers dead, and a mysterious assassin supposedly wandering the Keep at night, an effort would have to be made to force this mysterious figure into the light. As such, at my behest, and with the approval of the rest of the Small Council, the process of locating and opening up almost every secret passageway within the Keep could begin.

I made sure to keep some hidden, just for emergencies, of course. The inhabitants of the passageways, however - Varys's little birds - were all rounded up and locked away till I could figure what to do with them.

No more listening for the pattering of little feet.

It was a glorious feeling.

Not to say I wasn't still going to be cautious, but I was much safer today than I had been just a few days ago. And I would be safer tomorrow than I was today. And that was, as far as I was concerned, a step in the right direction.

And so it was that I enjoyed a nice, quiet dinner with my family - and my soon-to-be family - in this world. Cersei sat at the opposite end of the table to me and Jaime stood guard by the door. Kevan, Tywin and Tyrion were all regrettably absent. On my left was sat Margaery Tyrell, and her father, the Lord Mace Tyrell. The room was dark, with only flickering candles for light and a small hearth in the corner for warmth.

It was comfortable enough for me. With the cut of Margaery's dress, however...

"Are you not cold, Lady Margaery? Wouldn't you like a cloak?"

"I am touched by your concern, Your Grace, but luckily for us Tyrells our blood runs quite warm."

"Indeed," chimed in Lord Mace.

Cersei gave a stiff smile, and I resisted the urge to break out laughing at the almost palpable tension hanging in the air. Instead, I focused on cutting my meat into small chunks, hiding my smile as I did so, and eating them slowly and deliberately. Ser Boros may have tasted the food, but some poisons worked by accumulation, and I was not one to take a risk.

Margaery made an attempt at peace-making, likely well-aware of my mother's reputation for vitriol, "Father, isn't the Queen's gown magnificent? The fabric, the embroidery, the metalwork - I've never seen anything like it."

"You might find a bit of armour quite useful, once you become Queen - perhaps even before." Margaery looked up at Cersei at her not-so-veiled threats, "I hear you stopped your carriage in Flea Bottom on your way back to the Sept this morning."

Margaery nodded, "Yes." She turned to face me, "I payed a visit to an orphanage the High Septon told me about."

"Margaery does a great deal of work with the poor, back in Highgarden," boasted Mace.

"The lowest among us are no different than the highest, if you give them a chance, and approach them with an open heart."

"An open heart is what you'll get in Flea Bottom if you're not careful, my dear," said Cersei. "Not long ago, we were attacked by a mob there. We had a full compliment of guards, and it still didn't stop them. We barely escaped with our lives."

I nodded, "It is not the healthy man that one should fear, but rather the lean and hungry-looking. Desperate men so rarely have anything to lose, and death by the headsman's axe for treason appears a far better prospect than a slow death by starvation."

Cersei looked indignant, "Joffrey-"

...

If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.

you can join my p atreon :

[email protected]/Nolma