Episode 2: A Spider Come to Court
2.1 EXT: DOCKS OF KING’S LANDING – MORNING
Standing at the end of the dock, arms crossed and tucked inside the pendulous sleeves of his luxurious robes, VARYS smiles up at the enormous merchant ship flying Pentoshi colours drawing alongside. A cadre of customs agents pushes brusquely by in its haste to descend upon the new arrival. The Master of Whispers watches as the gangplank is lowered and ILYRIO MOPATIS ambles his prodigious girth down the wooden decline and onto the dock. Handing over his papers at the lead agent’s command, the Magister opens his arms wide and greets VARYS with a hearty embrace.
ILLYRIO
Has it really been nine months since you left me in Pentos?
VARYS
Eight, in fact.
ILLYRIO
I offered you twelve.
VARYS
And I only needed six.
ILYRIO
Four, six, eight, or twelve: any time at all in this malodorous dung-heap of a city must pass slow as a lifetime sentence.
VARYS
I’ve actually grown rather fond of my new home. Its charms are discrete, I grant you, but they are many if you know where to find them.
Come, your carriage awaits. Aegon the Conqueror was no fool when he built his fort: you’ll find the air much sweeter atop the High Hill.
ILYRIO
Of that I have little doubt, but I’ve set my heart on far humbler board. Never forget, old friend: no matter how high you rise in the world, it always pays to keep one foot firmly in the gutter.
The Magister turns to inspect the progress of his attendants in unloading his cargo. Satisfied, he takes VARYS’ arm in his own, and the pair stroll in step towards the Mud Gate and the bustling city waiting beyond.
2.2 EXT: FLEA BOTTOM STREET - MORNING
VARYS and ILYRIO stand before the last door on a dilapidated terrace. Hands on haunches, ILYRIO leans back and admires with proud appraisal the weather-worn signage mounted below the wrap-around windows of the first-floor. The paint is so faded that a passing pedestrian may well require a second glance to distinguish the design from the dull mud colouring of the edifice itself. An unimpressed VARYS furrows his brow.
VARYS
It looks more like a merman to me.
ILYRO
Hush your tone, my good fellow, for we are in the presence of legend. The Mermaid was once the finest pleasure house in all the world, catering only to most refined of perversions.
ILYRIO’s rhapsodies are interrupted by a knobble-kneed old man staggering at pace through The Mermaid’s doors. Wearing a battered steel chest-plate on his top half and nothing at all on his bottom, the man lurches forward and projects a heavy spray of vomit across the trodden dirt of the street.
VARYS
It seems to attract a somewhat lower class of pervert these days.
ILYRIO
The first of many changes we shall have to make if we mean to restore the old girl to her former glory.
VARYS’ mouth gawps like a landed fish, confounded at his friend’s intentions, but ILYRIO has already left him behind. Navigating a wide path around the now-prostrate patron and his puddle of sick, the Magister marches through the door with undiminished purpose. With a defeated sigh, VARYS follows in his wake.
Within, they find a squalid sight: though the ornate fixtures and finely-moulded fittings of years past remain, today their detail is disguised beneath layers of dust and grease and grime. The paintwork is peeling, the draperies damp and mildewed, the exposed wooden flooring buckled and stained. A score of drunken and dishevelled men lout about the open foyer, ogling with idle lust a coterie of gaudily-dressed and garishly made-up women touting fruitlessly for custom. Tangles of semi-stripped bodies tumble into and out the line of doors that stretch along the length of mezzanine that overlooks the foyer below. A pair of topless working girls, their aged breasts sagging and deflated, trudge resignedly up the winding staircase that connects the two floors, three Gold Cloaks barely sober enough to stand stumbling haphazardly behind. They pass a diminutive, ferret-faced man descending in hurried steps. A quick once-over of his new custom transforms his ingratiating smile into a wolfish leer as he catches sight of the thick bands of bejewelled gold wrapped about ILYRIO’s fat fingers.
ARDREW
My lords, welcome to our humble establishment. How may Ardrew be of service?
In the time it takes VARYS to puzzle out that ARDEW is a man given to referring to himself in the first-person, the panderer has snapped his fingers and summoned a trio of women from across the room. The first drapes herself upon ILYRIO’s arm, while the second and third circle VARYS, running their hands over his body and the smooth, powdered dome of his hairless head. VARYS shoos them away, but his admirers remain undeterred, prompting the Master of Whispers to draw himself protectively into the voluminous folds of his robe like a retreating turtle.
ILYRIO
Don’t put yourself to any trouble, my good man, we can find our own quarters, thank you.
Without a backward glance, ILYRIO drifts across the foyer and starts up the stairs at a pace of gait and lightness of step that belies his gargantuan heft.
ARDREW
There must be some misunderstanding, my lord. We do have rooms available, but we only rent by the hour, if you take my meaning.
VARYS gratefully frees himself from his admirers’ affections and hurries after the Magister, the befuddled ARDREW scurrying to overtake him and catch ILYRIO as he reaches the mezzanine.
ARDREW [CONT’D]
Apologies, my lord, but if you would only allow me to escort you back to the foyer, I’d gladly point you towards –
ILYRIO [INTERRUPTING]
What do we have here?
ILYRIO flings open the first door he reaches, disturbing a scene of rhythmically uninspired carnality unfolding within. With a quick wave of apology, ILYRIO closes the door and moves on to the next.
ARDREW
My lord, please!
Finding ILYRIO persistently unresponsive, ARDREW turns his appeals towards VARYS.
ARDREW {CONT’D]
Please, my lord, this simply won’t do! Our business depends upon discretion!
VARYS has made the error of laying a hand upon the banister; when he raises it again, he finds his palm wet and sticky.
VARYS
I for one shall never breathe a word of my being here.
A similar tableau greets ILYRIO on the other side of the second door as he discovered behind the first. Skipping a few doors down the line, the Magister exclaims in delight at his discovery.
ILYRIO
Ah, here we are! These shall serve quite well, I believe. Quite well indeed.
Although the fittings and fixtures suffer beneath the same lacquer of neglect as all the rest, this room at least is well-cleaned and handsomely furnished. By the long, latticed windows, varnished floorboards, and plump leather furniture it’s almost possible to envision the room as it was when the high lords of Westeros last indulged their most wanton proclivities beneath the exposed timbers of its high-vaulted ceiling.
ARDREW
Forgive me, my lord, but these are my own personal quarters.
ILYRIO
Yes, I suspected as much. If you leave a forwarding address with my servants, I’ll see that your belongings are sent along after you.
ARDREW
Excuse me, my lord, I’m not sure what game you’re playing here, but I really have reached the end of my patience.
ILYRIO
And of your employment, if that weren’t already plain.
ARDREW
Do you know who I am? I am the son of the late Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Laws -
ILYRIO [INTERRUPTING]
Bastard son, so let’s dispense with the airs and graces, shall we?
Surprised at this stranger’s familiarity with his family history, ARDREW is ready to riposte when an enormous Pentoshi manservant fills the doorway, a heavy wooden crate in his arms. He raises an enquiring eyebrow at ILYRIO.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Just set it down anywhere, Jodo. We’ll sort through them all once I’m settled in.
ARDREW gapes at ILYRIO, caught between the competing impulses to remonstrate with this intruder’s presumption or flee from his evident madness. A steady stream of Pentoshi servants follow JODO into the room, each one bearing another crate.
ARDREW
Settled in?! I don’t know who you think you are, or what you think you know about me, but I’m quite sure it’s past time you and your…
ILYRIO [INTERRUPTING]
Not that one, Gyllys. That one’s for our friend here.
GYLLYS redirects his steps and deposits a squat wooden chest on the table before the befuddled ARDREW.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Do you have some manner of jimmying device? A crowbar, or perhaps a –
Before ILYRIO can finish, the muscle-bound Pentoshi steadies the chest with one enormous calloused paw and rips the lid off with the other.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Much obliged, Gyllys.
ARDREW’s eyes flare with greed at the trove of silver and gold coins filling the crate almost to the brim.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Now listen closely, dear fellow: this here is the price your father and I agreed for these premises before his untimely passing.
ARDREW
It’s not his to sell anymore. My father left everything to me when he died.
ILYRIO
Including all his debts, I’m given to understand. Awful thing, gambling. Some say it’s a sign of spiritual weakness. I say it’s a sign of rank stupidity. The question now is whether the son means to hold to his father’s word, or continue in his father’s folly…
ARDREW considers a moment, then snatches up the chest and turns to depart. He pauses on the threshold, struck by inspiration.
ARDREW
The girls will cost you extra.
ILYRIO
That won’t be necessary, thank you.
JODO returns, poking his slab-like head into the room and nodding at the Magister.
ILYRIO
Ah, wonderful, the last of my cargo has arrived!
ILYRIO claps his hands in delight and bustles past ARDREW onto the mezzanine.
ARDREW
You can’t run a brothel without girls.
ILYRIO
I mean to run a pillow house, not a brothel.
ARDREW
What’s the difference?
As though in answer, ILYRIO rests his hands atop the balustrade and watches with satisfaction as a dozen young women file into the lobby below. The patrons and working girls alike stand stricken at the splendid flock suddenly in their midst, their plumage made of the finest silks and sheerest lace. The women draw back their veils to reveal a gallery of unnatural beauty, each face more arresting in the ethereal delicacy of its contours than the last. Above, ILYRIO waves a hand in dismissal at the captivated ARDREW.
ILYRIO
Off you trot, there’s a good man.
Woken from his entrancement, ARDREW takes no second telling and scuttles down the stairs and out the door, clutching his chest of coins as though afraid ILYRIO may change his mind if he lingers another minute.
Picking an errant cup from a nearby table, ILYRIO sniffs its contents, takes the smallest of sips, then immediately spits it back into the cup. He addresses the crowd below, though only half their number manage to tear their eyes away from The Mermaid’s new roster.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Gentlemen! This establishment shall be shuttering its doors at the close of business today for some much-needed refurbishments. I would be most grateful if you could all save me the trouble of hauling barrels to the nearest gutter by drinking our stores dry before nightfall. In return, everyone drinks for free. Ladies, please allow Jodo to show you to your accommodation.
Returning to his new chambers, ILYRIO crosses to the windows and opens a pane to admit the outside air. The chair set behind the broad mahogany desk complains disconcertingly as it receives the Magisters girth.
ILYRIO [CONT’]
Gyllus, be a good man and go salvage a barrel or two of that swill before they’re all gone. We shall need something to strip this hideous green paint from the walls. And close the door behind you, if you would, please.
The Master of Whispers studies his old friend, waiting for some word of explanation as to the cause and purpose of all that has passed in the preceding moments. Instead, ILYRIO only smiles broadly and leans back to assume a more comfortable repose.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
So. Where shall we begin?
INTRO.
2.3 INT: KING’S CHAMBERS – NIGHT
S.E: fire, dragons, screaming
S.E: knocking
AERYS TARGARYEN, second of his name, king of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, bolts upright in his chair, suddenly awoken from a restless slumber of fire and blood.
S.E: heavy footsteps,
AERYS
Damned white cloaks! How many times must I tell you I’m not to be disturbed!
S.E: door swings open
JONOTHOR
A Lord “Varys” to see you, Your Grace.
VARYS
A thousand apologies, Your Grace, but I was given instruction to present myself as soon as I arrived.
AERYS
Yes, yes, in you come, in you come.
AERYS closes the door on JONOTHOR, leaving him with an ill-tempered scowl to let the Kingsguard know his transgression has not been forgiven, however justified its reason.
S.E: closing door
VARYS
If now is a bad time, Your Grace, I can always come back at a more convenient hour.
AERYS
Sit.
AERYS points VARYS to an empty chair across the hearth, and slumps wearily back into his own.
AERYS [CONT’D]
I trust your passage was uneventful?
VARYS
Thankfully so, Your Grace. We did suffer a day or two of rough seas, but –
AERYS [INTERRUPTING]
And your accommodations are to your liking?
VARYS, ever the fast learner, understands this is not a conversation, and a thorough reply neither expected nor appreciated.
VARYS
Very much so, Your Grace. Thank you.
AERYS
The next council meeting is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. You’ll find yourself outnumbered by Tywin’s lickspittles; I have sent for reinforcements but it seems my son intends to complete his current galivant before complying with my summons.
VARYS
I’m certain I shall survive until then, Your Grace.
AERYS
You wouldn’t be so certain if you knew the loathsome curs with whom you’ll share the council table. Tywin’s creatures, every one of them, and each more grasping and perfidious than the last. The four claws of the lion’s paw, I call them…
2.4 INT: COUNCIL CHAMBERS, TOWER OF THE HAND - DAY
In a cramped and sparsely-dressed chamber adjoining the offices of the King’s Hand, the Small Council sits in awkward silence awaiting Lord Tywin’s presence.
PYCELLE
How are you adjusting to life in the capitol, Lord…do you know I’m not quite clear: is VARYS your given name or your family name?
AERYS [V.O.]
Grandmaester Pycelle has been at court since my grandfather sat the Iron Throne, despite never once demonstrating any discernible purpose. He has a preternatural instinct for self-preservation, always wheedling his way into the favour of powerful men and clinging on like a limpet to a rock.
VARYS
Simply “Varys” will suffice, if it please you, my Lord. And thus far I’ve found King’s Landing most amenable, thank you, though I’m sure I shall appreciate your country even more once this awful winter has passed.
LUCERYS
From your lips to the gods’ ears, let us hope.
AERYS [CON’T]
Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships. The bastard-born dregs of a once great house, reduced to plundering trading routes across the Narrow Sea until Tywin took an interest. Now he commands the royal fleet, though his patron hasn’t permitted him to hoist an actual sail in years.
PYCELLE
One must expect a period of adjustment to new surroundings, particularly coming all the way from...
PYCELLE lets the invitation hang tantalisingly in the air, but the eunuch refuses to bite.
PYCELLE
*polite cough*
Where was it you said you're from?
VARYS
Oh, I’ve called many places home over the years, but I’m loathe to name any one above the others.
QARLTON
Even flotsam carried on the evening tide has its provenance, my lord…Your people must come from somewhere.
AERYS [CONT’D]
Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin. His own father disowned him in his youth for some untold transgressions. Gods only know how he was earning his coppers when Tywin found him and raised him back up to a lordship, though I’ve heard whispers it makes Velaryon’s pirate days seem positively wholesome by comparison.
VARYS
Most people do, in my experience, Lord Chelsted, though I prefer to present myself as something of a blank slate, as it were. I find men have an unfortunate tendency to place entirely too much stock in one’s provenance.
SYMOND
Not a sentiment you will hear voiced with any regularity among the lords and ladies of court, I suspect.
Except, perhaps, from our Master of Ships.
AERYS [CONT’D]
Symond Staunton, Master of Laws. The one true noble among the lot; he even boasts a brother of the Kingsguard in his line, which I’ve no doubt he’ll be certain to tell you. Noble by birth, perhaps, but not by nature. He and his Gold Cloaks have fingers in half-a-hundred pies all across the city, and he owes it all to Tywin’s good favour. The others will strive to outdo one another in their sycophancy, but Staunton would hollow out his own mother’s skull if Tywin needed a convenient receptable in which to shit. He’s missed as many councils as he’s attended of late, claiming a touch of Winter Fever.
S.E: coughing fit.
LUCERYS
I’ve always held to the belief that what matters most is where a man is going, not where he came from.
SYMOND
Always, you say?
LUCERYS
A man should not be expected to carry his pedigree on display like a peacock does its feathers.
SYMOND
How else are we to know it truly is a peacock, and not some beggar bird wearing the raiment of its betters?
The muscle’s in LUCERYS’s jaws flex as he grinds his teeth.
VELARYON
I’m not sure I like your meaning, Staunton.
SYMOND
I was speaking no offence, my lord, only of the tendency for reputations to endure beyond their proper applications. Take our dear Master of Coin, for example. The sigil of House Chelsted is a mace and dagger, is it not?
A rich pink blush colours QARLTON CHELSTED’s cheeks at the mere mention of his lineage.
QARLTON
Over per bend green and white, yes. What of it?
SYMOND
Only that, at some point in the history of House Chelsted, your name was associated more with the tools of hedge knights and cutthroats than those of civil bureaucracy. Or perhaps I’m mistaken, and what I’ve always taken for a dagger and mace are actually a letter-opener and an especially grisly-looking paperweight.
QARLTON
Much can change over the centuries. You cannot judge a man by the manner of his forebears’ ascent.
SYMOND
Not our forebears by the manner of their descendant’s fall.
VARYS watches with keen interest as QARLTON shoots daggers at the smirking SYMOND.
PYCELLE
And what, might I ask, decorates your own banners, Lord Varys?
VARYS
As much as it pains me to admit, Grandmaester, I have none. I wonder if I shouldn’t design my own? Observe the customs of my new countrymen, as it were. A pointer finger, pressed to a pair of sealed lips, perhaps? Just as other houses adopt a dagger and mace as a warning to their enemies, it would remind mine own that secrets can be every bit as deadly as conventional weaponry when wielded by a Master.
PYCELLE gives an unimpressed snort and casts his eyes about the table in invitation for others to share in his derision.
VARYS [CONT’D]
Forgive me, I seem to have missed the joke, Grandmaester…
VARYS trails off, his brow furrowed.
VARYS [CONT’D]
Do you know, I just realised I’m not entirely certain if “Pycelle” is your given name, or your family name.
PYCELLE
I don’t know how they do things where you come from - wherever that may be - but here in Westeros a man sets aside both his name and his house when he first dons his maester’s chain. It’s a common practice among many such venerable institutions here in the Seven Kingdoms.
VARYS
Is that so? Well, it seems, Lord Staunton, that you’ve rather overstated your case.
SYMOND
How so?
VARYS
Contrary to your holding, it appears here in the Seven Kingdoms a man need not be burdened by the inheritance of his House after all: he need only make himself a maester and his past just melts away forever like a snowflake come the spring.
SYMOND joins PYCELLE in harumphing his displeasure, but LUCERYS and QARLTON each look at VARYS as though weighing him anew. Refusing to concede the field, SYMOND turns to address the only man yet to contribute.
SYMOND
And what say you, Lord Commander Hightower? How else might we best judge a man’s worth if not by the measure of his breeding?
VARYS peers anxiously at the armed and armoured knight looming just over his shoulder, in but not of the politics of table.
AERYS [CONT’D]
The White Bull they call him, though looking at him today you’d be forgiven for wondering why. When Ormund Baratheon fell on the Stepstones my father gave command of his forces to Hightower, and not a single voice was raised in opposition. But that was twenty years ago. He’s an old man now, and wields his honour like a shield to deflect any effort at provoking an opinion from him. He sees his presence in council as merely ceremonial; I say it’s entirely ornamental.
HIGHTOWER shifts his weight, like a statue suddenly conjured to life.
GEROLD
I believe a man should be judged on his words, and how closely they align with his actions. Everything else is little more than noise and bluster and bolts of coloured cloth.
VARYS considers the White Bull closely, somewhat taken aback at the sudden intrusion of plain and earnest speaking.
VARYS
A noble sentiment indeed, ser.
HIGHTOWER returns VARYS’s appreciation with a curt nod of acknowledgement
AERYS [V.O.O]
Velaryon, Chelsted, Staunton, Pycelle…everything they have they owe to Tywin’s patronage; compelling them to break that faith will be no easy, I warn you now. I don’t care who you start with, or how you go about it, but those four wretches are the means by which we’ll cut Tywin’s legs out from under him and send him toppling back down into his fit and proper place.
S.E: footsteps.
The Small Council rises as one at the entrance of LORD TYWIN LANNISTER, Hand of the King. He brushes a dusting of snow from the shoulders of his crimson doublet and casts his gold-green eyes over his counsellors.
TYWIN
Lord Varys. I see you’ve wasted no time making new acquaintances.
VARYS
Oh, yes, everyone has been most welcoming, my lord hand.
TYWIN
Marvellous. Then we shall forgo the formal introductions and proceed to the day’s agenda.
TYWIN assumes his place at the head of the table. and the council take their chairs.
TYWIN [CONT’D]
Lord Staunton, perhaps you’d care to explain why I have a letter on my desk from Lord Rosby enquiring if His Grace has remitted the Crownlands’s taxes permanently, or only temporarily?
SYMOND
A veiled sleight against Lord Rosby’s closest neighbour, I fear. It would appear Duskendale has entered into modest arrears in its dues to the crown.
TYWIN
Have we brought these arrears to Lord Darklyn’s attention?
QARLTON
We have, my lord hand. Lord Staunton sent a raven to the Dun Fort several days ago, at my instruction.
QARLTON smiles to himself as SYMOND squirms beneath TYWIN’s baleful glare.
TYWIN
You are Master of Laws are you not?
SYMOND
By your good grace, my lord hand.
TYWIN
Then perhaps you ought to send a second raven, reminding Lord Darklyn of the law regarding full and prompt payment of taxes due.
SYMOND
At once, my lord Hand.
TYWIN [CONT’D]
Lord Chelsted, I understand you have completed your survey of our granaries?
QARLTON
I have, my lord Hand. The numbers make for dispiriting reading. Given the citadel’s expectations –
VARYS [INTERRUPTING]
Pardon me, Lord Chelsted. I do apologise for the interruption…
VARYS inclines his head towards TYWIN.
Forgive me, but I was given to understand it is customary for the king to be in attendance for meetings of the King’s Small Council?
TYWIN
Customary, but not compulsory. His grace has many important matters demanding his attention, which is why he charged us with maintaining his kingdom while he is otherwise occupied.
SYMOND
King Aerys trusts in his small council completely, and in his Hand most of all.
VARYS
Forgive me, Your Grace, but if you want Lord Tywin removed from power, why not simply –
AERYS
Did I say “removed”?!
VARYS
Not in so many words, perhaps, but it seems to me –
AERYS
Then why did you say “removed”? Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to find another cog of precisely Tywin’s shape? The wheel must always be turning, Lord Varys; if it grinds to a halt, if it stops for even a single revolution, we’ll be plunged right back into the belly of the great black beast of chaos that came so close to devouring all Seven Kingdoms twenty years ago, before I buried my sword into its breast upon the Stepstones and threw its rotten spawn back into the sea.
QARLTON
As I was saying, if the Citadel’s forecast of four more turns of the moon before we see the Spring is correct, I fear we shall find our stores exhausted long before the next yield of winter wheat can be harvested. A further reduction in rations could perhaps –
SYMOND
Another reduction? The cells are still full to bursting from the riots that greeted your last reduction. The Gold Cloaks have taken to requisitioning stables to house the overflow.
QARLTON glances at TYWIN, but the Hand shows no sign of speaking up.
QARLTON
I reduced the rations as a matter of necessity, acting on the prerogative of my office as Master of Coin. As to the overcrowding in the city’s holding cells, unless I’m very much mistaken, the various logistical concerns attendant to public order fall squarely within the purview of the Master of Laws.
LUCERYS
If I may Lord Staunton, I had occasion to witness the protests with which the last reduction was greeted, and counted less than a hundred men seized by the Gold Cloaks.
Like a spectator following the flight of a ball in a racket sport, TYWIN returns his attention to SYMOND, the Old Lion evidently finding some peculiar satisfaction in his counsellor’s efforts to undermine one another in his regard.
SYMOND
If only that were the extent of the unrest abroad among the smallfolk, my lord, I would not have Captain Ilyn knocking at my door every other day. Instead, it would seem we are experiencing an epidemic of mischief: children stealing his men’s helmets from atop their head; women pelting passing nobility with horse dung; the elderly and infirm trespassing within the inner sanctum of Baelor’s Great Sept.
LUCERYS
I’m not sure I follow.
SYMOND
It seems word has been making its way about the city that those imprisoned at His Majesty’s pleasure enjoy an exemption from Lord Chelsted’s reduction in rations for the duration of their remand.
QARLTON
I can assure you that is not the case.
STAUNTON
And yet the rumour persists nonetheless. The more desperate among the city’s smallfolk have evidently decided that a moon’s turn in captivity is an acceptable price to pay for the guarantee of twice daily servings of bread and broth.
LUCERYS
If we needs must source fresh stores to see us through to Spring, I say again: let us look to the Free Cities.
Give me leave to sail the royal fleet to Braavos, to Pentos, to Tyrosh if need be, and I will return with half-a-hundred holds packed forward to stern with bounty enough to see us through forty moons.
TYWIN
And bankrupt the royal treasury in the process. Those money-grubbing thieves wield the winter ice like a knife against our throat: we’d find a fairer price from your old pirate friends than we would the spice soldiers and cheeselords of the Free Cities.
LUCERYS visibly flinches at mention of his chequered past.
LUCERYS
To Dorne, then. I could have the fleet upon the water –
TYWIN [INTERRUPTING]
In time to pass the Dornish fleet sailing in the other direction. Prince Doran has already sold his surplus to the Northern houses. Regardless, you are Master of Ships, not some common merchant sailor. Your place is here, where your expertise and experience can best serve His Grace.
LUCERYS’s shoulders sag in defeat and he slumps petulantly low in his seat.
LUCERYS
As you say, my lord Hand.
TYWIN
Lord Symond: instruct Captain Ilyn to empty his cells and march their occupants two leagues outside the city walls. Whether the cold or the wolves get to them first, their example should deter any future efforts to take advantage of the crown’s largesse.
Lord Chelsted: you have my leave to cut the commonfolk’s rations as our stores demand, and then to cut them again to ensure that the Gold Cloaks remain at their current apportionment. Hungry peasants are no great concern, so long as we have well-fed soldiers to keep them in order.
2.5 INT: KING’S CHAMBERS – NIGHT
S.E: wine pouring.
AERYS
I am not so petty as to deny the finer qualities of a man’s character: Tywin Lannister is an able servant, possessed of a keener mind for the tedium of governance than any bureaucrat in recent memory. He has performed in his role as Hand of the King with greater competency than any man might reasonably have hoped. I afford myself no little credit for persevering in my stewardship of his career at court when all around me were counselling the contrary.
AERYS throws back his cup and drains his first pour. He looks to the window with a contemplative frown.
AERYS [CONT’D]
Perhaps that’s it: perhaps I’m to blame for not listening when they told me how proud he was, how ambitious. I saw the bitterness, the envy, the cold-hearted calculation always weighing everyone up behind those beady little eyes like piss-holes in the snow. But a man like that, I thought, a man so ruthless, so full of deceit and low cunning…that’s the sort of man you’ll need beside you restore the Iron Throne to its former strength.
And so I chose to excuse that pride, overlook that ambition. By the time he presumed to offer his daughter for my son and heir, I could no longer deny the ugly truth no matter how generous and magnanimous my nature.
VARYS
If I may, Your Grace…why now? What has changed to make you so eager to clip Lord Tywin’s wings after all these years?
AERYS considers VARYS for a moment. He refills his cup and returns to the fire.
AERYS
Do you dream, Varys?
VARYS
No more than any other man, Your Grace.
AERYS
Then you should count yourself fortunate.
AERYS watches the flames dancing in the hearth; VARYS holds his tongue, expecting the king to continue. Instead, AERYS takes a drink of wine and flicks a dismissive hand in the eunuch’s direction.
AERYS [CONT’D]
That will be all for this evening. On your way out, tell Ser Jonothor I wish to speak with him.
2.6 INT: ILYRIO’S CHAMBERS, THE MERMAID - DAY
VARYS stands before ILYRIO’s desk, the Magister leaned back in his chair listening to his friend’s recounting.
VARYS
Now would be the time I surprise you with the news that Symond Staunton is recently deceased, but I gathered from that business with his bastard that you somehow know that already.
But what you cannot know, lost in transit these past weeks as you were, is that his replacement is also dead, Steffon Baratheon’s passage across the Narrow Sea proving rather less successful than your own.
ILYRIO
Well now, that is an unexpected turn. I confess my suspicions were aroused when I learned of Staunton’s passing, but now I hear the king hand-picked his successor those same suspicions are positively tumescent. No doubt Tywin has cast similar aspersions?
VARYS
Surprisingly not. As far as I’m aware, Tywin blames naught but winter fever for Lord Staunton’s passing.
ILYRIO
Is that a fact? The king must be flattered that Tywin still bears him such regard.
VARYS
He’s offended that Tywin bears him so little, actually. The fact that Tywin immediately dismissed any notion of Aerys’ acting against him in such a determined and decisive manner spoke volumes as to just how impotent Tywin believes him to be.
ILYRIO
And not without good cause, no? Surely you have asked yourself why the most powerful man in the realm needs our assistance to reassert his royal prerogative? Cold-blooded murder may well be beyond his capabilities, but why indulge in these cloak-and-dagger intrigues when he could simply dismiss Tywin Lannister as Hand and replace the Small Council with true Targaryen loyalists?
VARYS
Does Aerys possess the authority to dismiss Tywin and his Council? Certainly. Would it please him to do so? Undoubtedly. But power alone counts for little and less if one lacks the requisite will to wield it, my friend, and the only thing our king fears more than Tywin Lannister is the prospect of just how precipitously his realm would come apart at the seams without him.
ILYRIO
And Lord Tywin?
VARYS
For Tywin, the reverse holds true: gladly would he dispense with the inconvenient of operating under the king’s nominal authority, were it not for the unpalatable yet inescapable fact that as Hand his power to operate depends entirely upon that same authority.
In short, neither can make overt move against the other without upsetting the terms of the finely-balanced equilibrium that sustains them. Both are too powerless to move, too powerful to move against. And so it devolves to men like the Masters and I to serve as their proxies, chipping away at one pillar or the other without ever carving too deeply lest the ceiling come crashing down upon all our heads.
ILYRIO
A curious sort of friendship, that. I hope you and I never grow so close.
VARYS
There is undoubtedly a bond there still, a queer interdependence entirely apart from the commands of court, though I think naming Aerys and Tywin “friends” rather stretches the bounds of poetic licence at this point.
ILYRIO
And yet here you are, summoned by Aerys to sever that bond and humble his overproud Hand. Is it known at court just what precisely brought them to this present point of mutual acrimony?
VARYS
On that question the lords and ladies of court remain in near constant discussion, though to little agreement. Some will blame Aerys for lacking the aptitude for rule, while others will point the finger at Tywin for never permitting him the opportunity to learn. The first man will praise Tywin’s diligence and mock Aerys’ complacency, the second will celebrate Aerys for his latitude and castigate Tywin for his ambition.
Many cite Aerys’s refusal of Tywin’s offer of his daughter for Prince Rhaegar as the moment the breach began, while others insist that was only the breaking point of a relationship that had been fracturing for years. I’ve heard whispers of insults given by Aerys against Tywin’s late wife Joanna, and of great public projects of the king’s thwarted by Tywin’s parsimonious control of the royal purse. For all the claims and conjectures, however, only Aerys and Tywin know for certain the truth of their estrangement.
ILYRIO strokes his chins, deep in thought.
ILYRIO
But if Tywin is truly in command of the Seven Kingdoms, why suffer the pretence of ruling through Council? Why go to the trouble of packing his table with these false lords?
VARYS
When the rations were halved, then halved again, the people cursed “Lord Chelsted’s Crumbs”. When the gold cloaks took to seizing any man that so much as glanced in their direction, the people blamed Lord Staunton’s heavy hand. “The king’s lickspittle lords” is how the commonfolk refer to the Small Council: each one an agent of Aerys frustrating Lord Tywin’s masterful governance at every turn.
ILYRIO
Despite the fact that they all received their appointment from Tywin, and march obediently in time to the tune of his own devising.
VARYS
It’s a wonderful arrangement, is it not? Tywin receives all of the credit, while Aerys takes all of the blame. The Lannister coin Tywin’s men have been slipping into the pockets of barkeeps and fishwives for years only compounds the credulity with which the smallfolk accept whatever narrative Tywin cares to spread.
The whispers regarding Aerys Targaryen’s deteriorating faculties that have so animated King’s Landing of late all trace back to wagging tongues in Tywin Lannister’s employ.
ILYRIO
They do say every slander sprouts from a kernel of truth. Does Aerys strike you as man of hail heart and healthy mind?
VARYS
I’ve yet to see him streaking naked through the throne room, or whatever other eccentricities the more imaginative among the city’s rumourmongers may have conjured.
ILYRIO
Madness can take many forms, my friend, and among Targaryens its typically speckled, like blight across the trunk of the family tree.
VARYS
Aerys is undoubtedly a man compromised by his own paranoia, his bitterness and jealousy as all-consuming as the insecurities and self-doubt from which they were borne. But mad? If madmen were capable of spinning schemes as Aerys does, fish would fly and trawler’s nets would overflow with seagulls.
ILYRIO
The qualities you cite seem to me prerequisites for rule: if such failings are not preeminent in princehood, they inevitably come to the fore in kingship. The crucible of court has a tendency to melt away whatever softer qualities to which a man might still somehow adhere on the day he comes into his crown.
ILYRIO ponders the wisdom of his own words for a moment, but finds himself distracted. He scowls at VARYS and waves a hand at the empty chair set before the desk.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Are you going to sit down at some point, or do you intend for me to use you to hang my cloaks upon?
ILYRIO watches with amusement as VARYS conjures a handkerchief from the folds of his robe and fashions the fabric into a makeshift glove with which to grip the chair and pull it back from the desk. He lays the handkerchief out on the seat of the chair, adjusts its position to his satisfaction once, then again, then finally lowers himself down slowly.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
When you’re quite ready.
VARYS
The mind positively sweats at the thought of what this furniture might have seen…or been made accomplice to.
ILYRIO
There were days in our youth when you and I would have looked upon this place as a veritable palace. It’s warm, it has a roof to keep the rain out, and now our friend Ardrew has departed, its entirely free of vermin.
VARYS
Yes, well, as you said: we’ve come a long way since those days.
ILYRIO
In point of fact, I said you have come a long way. I may have left the poverty of my youth far behind me, but relative to how much farther I intend to go, I’ve barely reached beyond the garden path.
VARYS
And do you intend to share these grand ambitions with your old friend and partner?
ILYRIO
In time, in time. Better you keep the scope of your endeavours focused on our dear Lord of Lannister and these lickspittles of the Small Council. King Aerys did not go to all the effort and expense of calling you across the Narrow Sea without good purpose, and it’s in both our interests that he see a return upon his investment.
VARYS
Speaking of investments, I shall need my reserves replenished before too long.
ILYRIO
You’re been bedding and boarding at the Red Keep for eight months; how can you possibly have spent so much?
VARYS
Although I left you eight months ago, I have only been at court a little over three. The first five I spent touring the ream, visiting every House of note throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Or, more exactly, the towns and villages built within their shadows.
ILYRIO
Well I’m glad to hear my coin has been put to good use. I trust you ate well? Slept in only the finest of hostelries?
VARYS
This was no mere sight-seeing tour, I can assure you. King’s Landing may be the heart of Westeros, but the other organs are no less vital to the body politic.
Although the ice and snow made every journey twice as long and thrice as laborious as the same roads in spring, by the day I turned my mount towards the capitol, I had eyes and ears placed in almost every Great House in Westeros.
2.7 EXT: STORM’S END – DAY
Standing sentry upon the battlements of Storm’s End, a young guardsman in the employ of House Baratheon watches the small company of riders approaching down the snaking Kingsroad. Straining his squinting eyes, he is just about able to discern the twin standards of stag and direwolf cracking in the icy coastal winds. With a quick, furtive glance along the ramparts, he slips quietly away in the direction of the maester’s rookery.
At the procession’s head, ROBERT and NED sit hunched forward in their saddles, their cloaks drawn up against the biting coastal winds. As they come in sight of the castle gates, Robert breaks away from the others and steers his mount towards the cliff-edge to peer out across Shipbreaker’s Bay. NED holds up a hand to stop the train, then trots his horse to ROBERT’s side.
ROBERT
Bloody fool.
NED
Robert?
ROBERT looks up as though surprised at NED’s presence. He shakes his head.
ROBERT
I thought…there’d be something. Signs of the wreck, maybe.
NED
It’s been days. Even riding as hard as we have…
ROBERT
Do you think the boy...Do you think Renly saw anything?
NED
It was late, well past dark…even if he’d been awake, even if he’d been looking for it, I can’t imagine he would have seen their ship.
ROBERT gives a slight nod, comforted but not convinced by his friend’s assurances. He sighs and turns away from the bay.
ROBERT
I need some wine in my belly before I face this.
NED
It’s hardly the time, Robert.
ROBERT
I don’t think I’ve ever known a better time. Come, keep me company in my cups.
NED
We shouldn’t keep your brother waiting.
ROBERT
We made good time on the road; they won’t be expecting us for hours yet.
NED turns to consider the dozen men at their backs awaiting the order to continue their grim procession. When he turns back, he discovers ROBERT already riding away.
NED
Robert!
ROBERT turns his head and calls back even as he spurs his horse to a gallop.
ROBERT
You’ll be fine, Ned! You and Stannis are both dour cunts; you’ll have more in common than he and I ever have.
2.8 INT: ILYRIO’S CHAMBERS, THE MERMAID - DAY
ILYRIO
Almost every great house, but not all?
VARYS
There was a time when every castle in Westeros would have highborn hostages serving as cupbearers and squires, sons and daughters held against their fathers’ continued fealty. How easily they might have been induced to inform against their captors, however benevolent the captivity…
But, alas, after twenty years of peace, I found every other hall filled with naught but sons and heirs to bannermen and brothers, and simple treachery in sadly short supply. I feared the north would prove especially inhospitable to infiltration, its people being notoriously loyal to the Starks of Winterfell.
ILYRIO
I don’t expect you’re missing too much; it’s not as though anything above the Neck truly matters.
VARYS
I wonder: is that your opinion, or your hiring policy?
ILYRIO smiles good-naturedly and raises his glass in acknowledgement of his friend’s riposte.
VARYS [CONT’D]
As it was, the winter snows prevented my travelling any farther than the Twins. Now spring is almost here I mean to dispatch a veritable flock of little birds migrating northward, but for the meanwhile the kingdom of the wolf remains as distant and inscrutable as the noble Lord Stark himself.
2.9 INT: SOLAR, WINTERFELL - NIGHT
RICKARD and BRANDON sit before the fireplace with cups of wine. Across from them sits HOSTER TULLY, Lord of Riverrun. Despite being of an age with RICKARD, HOSTER carries his years with little of his friend’s salt-and-pepper ruggedness: his hair is almost entirely greyed, his hairline far retreated, his fleshy face and portly middle testimony to a dietary dissipation and lordly idleness in later life. MAESTER WALYS and MAESTER KYM, graduates of the Citadel bound to Winterfell and Riverrun respectively, stand apart from their lords, conferring together in whispers.
S.E: door opening.
LYANNA
You wanted to see me father?
RICKARD
Come in, Lyanna.
LYANNA
Lord Hoster, how nice to see you back at Winterfell so soon.
LYANNA half-bows in curtsey. HOSTER rises and kisses the back of her hand. He closes it between his own and pats it familiarly.
HOSTER
You flatter me, child. Catelyn and Lysa regret they could not come with me on this occasion, but they send their warmest regards nonetheless.
LYANNA
Please carry my own home with you. I only wish our two families didn’t live so far apart, that we all might spend more time in each other’s company.
HOSTER
And here I thought my days of granting the wishes of beautiful young maidens were over and done, though I suppose I’d best leave the honours to your brother.
They turn to BRANDON expectantly. He sets his cup aside and rises.
BRANDON
Lady Catelyn and I are to be wed, sister.
LYANNA
Oh Bran! That’s wonderful news!
LYANNA skips across the room and throws her arms about her brother. HOSTER beams at RICKARD, though the Lord of Winterfell’s own manner remains curiously subdued.
LYANNA [CONT’D]
Congratulations to you also, Lord Hoster.
HOSTER
I cannot say I shan’t mourn my little Cat’s absence, but I have no doubt she will make herself a good home here at Winterfell. I imagine you will welcome the opportunity to sew and dance and gossip and do all the things sisters do together, after so many years surrounded by naught but beastly boys. For a time, at least.
LYANNA’s excitement falters slightly, her kindled suspicion turning HOSTER’s off-hand comment into something ominous.
LYANNA
For a time? Am I going somewhere?
RICKARD shifts in his seat, glancing at BRANDON. LYANNA follows his gaze, her face slowly falling into a cast of wary unease at what she finds in her brother’s expression.
RICKARD
This wasn’t actually the news I summoned you to hear, Lyanna. There’s something else we must discuss.
LYANNA
Oh?
HOSTER
I am recently returned from the Eyrie, child. Jon Arryn and I go back almost as far as your father and I.
LYANNA
Did you see Ned? How is he, did he look well? We swap letters but I worry about him still.
HOSTER
He said very much the same about you. I can assure you he is quite well, and the separation from his family aside he seems to be positively thriving in the Vale.
RICKARD
It was at my request that Lord Tully made the journey. Mine and Lord Steffon’s.
LYANNA
Steffon Baratheon?
LYANNA tenses, like a wild animal becoming gradually aware of the hunter’s blind before which they’ve stumbled.
BRANDON
Our father is of the opinion, and Lords Arryn, Tully, and Baratheon all agree, that Steffon’s son Robert would prove an ideal husband for you, Lyanna.
S.E: fire crackling.
LYANNA
Robert Baratheon.
HOSTER
Young Robert has carried something of a torch for you ever since your brother first brought him to visit, I’m told. Big, strong, strapping young man, and the absolute double of his father. Though with rather a flatter stomach than Lord Steffon, I’ve no doubt you’ve noticed!
HOSTER looks to RICKARD to join in this ribaldry, but RICKARD grants him only a cursory smile.
RICKARD
My daughter has always been an easy girl to love.
HOSTER
She shares that in common with her betrothed, then. Robert has a gift for making new friends.
RICKARD
That she does. She has always -
LYANNA [INTERRUPTING]
Excuse me, but she knows Robert Baratheon about as well as Hugor of the Hill, and thinks talk of her being betrothed is rather premature, given that she has not agreed to anything of the sort.
RICKARD
Lyanna…
HOSTER
I’d have thought you’d be thrilled, my dear. Robert Baratheon will make you a fine husband. He’s as tall as any man in the Seven Kingdoms, square of jaw and broad of chest. All the girls are very fond of Robert, your brother tells me.
LYANNA
He tells me something similar. But what else does Robert have to recommend him, beside the stature with which you’re so clearly enamoured?
RICKARD
Lyanna, stop.
LYANNA does as bid, but RICKARD recognises in her eyes the same stubborn and combative fire he’s loved and suffered since she was a child, and so tempers his steel accordingly.
RICKARD [CONT’D]
Robert is heir to Storm’s End. This is an ideal match for both Houses.
HOSTER
The Baratheon’s are one of Westeros’s most venerable families, dating all the way back to the Conquest. Orys Baratheon was half-brother to Aegon Targaryen himself, and served him faithfully as the very first Hand of the King. Robert’s own grandmother was daughter to another Aegon, the one they named Unlikely. Robert will be quite the powerful man one day, and enormously wealthy besides. Just imagine the beautiful jewellery he will dress you in once you’re his lady.
LYANNA
Forgive me, Lord Hoster, but it is painfully apparent that your notion of what exactly is important to a woman fits me about as well as a pony saddle would an aurochs. Perhaps my family and I could discuss this matter in private.
RICKARD
My apologies, Hoster. It would appear my daughter is set upon embarrassing her father by forgetting her courtesies. Lord Hoster is a dear old friend and an honoured guest in our home, Lyanna, and he went to great trouble and travelled a long way on your behalf. You will apologise immediately.
S.e: fire crackling.
LYANNA
Forgive me Lord Hoster, my father has the truth of it: I allowed my surprise to overcome my manners, and I pray you will accept my sincerest apologies for my rudeness.
HOSTER puts a gentle hand on each of LYANNA’s shoulders, smiling at her with avuncular indulgence.
HOSTER
I understand, child. I would not insult your brother here by admitting my Cat was similarly...emotional when I told her of our intentions, but neither will I deny she was without a few tears of her own. It’s a big day in a young girl’s life, with the biggest step still to come. The shock will pass, and you will come to see how wise a match your father is making for you.
RICKARD
Perhaps my daughter's suggestion, unlike her manners, was not entirely without merit. If you would be so kind as to give me a moment alone with my daughter.
HOSTER
Of course, of course; it’s past this old man’s bedtime anyhow.
HOSTER turns for the door, but not before planting a quick peck on LYANNA’s cheek.
HOSTER [CON’T]
My warmest congratulations, my dear. Come along, Kym.
MAESTER KYM nods farewell to MAESTER WALYS and obediently follows at his lord’s heel.
S.E: door closing.
RICKARD
Brandon, pour me another drink.
(pause)
And one for your sister.
BRANDON moves to the table and pours two cups of wine, LYANNA and RICKARD eyeing one another like cocks across the fighting ring all the while. BRANDON delivers the cups: LYANNA throws back the contents of hers in a single draught.
BRANDON
I’ll leave you to hash this out between yourselves.
BRANDON moves to depart, but RICKARD stands and blocks his path.
RICKARD
No. I will leave. You will talk sense to your sister. Of all the duties you will inherit when you become Lord of Winterfell, this is the one I shall miss the least.
BRANDON and LYANNA each betray their surprise at their father’s sudden recusal. RICKARD stops just past LYANNA, turning his head only slightly but keeping his face to the door.
RICKARD [CONT’D]
I will not command you to do this, Lyanna. You are my daughter. My only daughter. All the alliances with all the great houses in all the Seven Kingdoms are nothing to me beside your happiness. But you’re also a Stark; you have a duty to your family and your house, and in this world, our desires and our duty are all too rarely one and the same.
RICKARD departs. Without needing to be summoned MAESTER WALYS takes his cue, pausing only to bow briefly to LYANNA.
WALYS
I have no doubt you shall make your father proud, my lady. I only wish your dear mother could be here to share in this blessed occasion.
S.E.: door opening and closing.
Once the Stark siblings are alone, LYANNA pours herself another drink.
LYANNA
Why are men always at their most poetic when they’re asking a woman to do something she has no interest in doing?
BRANDON
Father is not asking anything of you he didn’t go through himself with mother.
LYANNA
It’s not the same for a man. You don’t have to suffer the indignity of being traded away like a fattened cow at market. Did you know about this?
BRANDON
I did.
LYANNA
For how long?
BRANDON
The same day father proposed I marry the Tully girl.
LYANNA
And you didn’t care to tell me? They way gossip travels across the Seven Kingdoms I’m probably the last person to know about my own engagement.
BRANDON
Actually, Father and Lord Hoster have been very careful about keeping these matches from becoming public knowledge, at least until they are official. Something to do with saving face, I imagine, should their plans encounter any…
BRANDON’s tongue freezes in his mouth at his sister’s death-stare, his mind scrabbling for the word least likely to provoke LYANNA’s anger to even greater heights.
BRANDON
…complications.
LYANNA
I’ve been called worse. But you’ll have to forgive me if father’s face is not at the forefront of my concerns right now.
BRANDON
You were jumping for joy a moment ago when you heard I was to be wed.
LYANNA
That’s different.
BRANDON
It always was with you, wasn’t it Lyanna? Ever since we were children.
LYANNA
It’s different because you’re –
BRANDON [CONT’D]
Because I’m a man. Gods, how many times have I had to hear the same old song?!
LYANNA
Because you’re heir to Winterfell. You have to marry. All your life you’ve known this day was coming.
BRANDON
As have you, however much you may have pretended otherwise. Did you really imagine father would, what, allow you to wander the Seven Kingdoms seeking adventure as a hedge knight? Sail for the Free Cities and make a living selling your sword?
LYANNA
I imagined…
(pause)
I imagined he knew me better than this.
LYANNA drains her cup, and immediately serves herself another.
LYANNA [CONT’D]
I suppose this puts an end to your conquest of that awful Dustin girl.
BRANDON
We’re not leaving for Riverrun just yet, and Barbrey has always appreciated my poetics.
LYANNA scowls at her brother’s caddishness. BRANDON takes a step and hijacks his sister’s cup on its way to her lips, withholding it beyond her protesting reach. BRANDON [CONT’D]
Father won’t be around forever, Lyanna. He wants to know that when he’s gone, you’ll be taken care of. That you’ll be safe, whatever comes.
LYANNA
I have three brothers to keep me safe.
BRANDON
We may not always be here, either. Soon enough we’ll have families of our own to worry over, and we can’t care for you the way a husband can. Robert Baratheon is a decent man, handsome and wealthy, heir to a powerful –
LYANNA rolls her eyes in exasperation so hard they’re like to escape her head entirely. BRANDON realises his misstep and throws up his hands placatingly.
BRANDON [CONT’D]
Alright, alright, I know you don’t think those things are important. So let me put this to you instead: Ned thinks of Robert as a brother, and he was willing to have Lord Hoster pass his blessings on to father. Have you ever known our brother to act rashly? To commit himself without first thoroughly weighing both sides of the matter? You and I are the wild ones; if Ned follows a course of action, you know as well as I that he has thought long and hard and settled his mind that it’s the right choice.
BRANDON watches LYANNA for clues to her thoughts as she moves to the fire and sits, chewing her bottom lip and studying the reds and yellows dancing atop the blackened logs.
LYANNA
I’m going to kill our little brother.
BRANDON
Ned only wants what’s best for you. That’s all any of us want.
S.E: fire crackling.
LYANNA slumps back in the chair and slides down the leather until her chin meets her chest, her arms hanging over the sides in a petulant sprawl.
LYANNA
And what about what I want?
2.10 INT: ILYRIO’S CHAMBERS, THE MERMAID – DAY
VARYS
Here at home, I have my little birds busy about the castle from morning to night, cloaked in the anonymity of their station. Just the other day, in fact, my man in the kitchens swept up a clutch of hatchlings bound for Prince Rhaegar’s household and delivered them to my door.
ILYRIO
And when you need eyes and ears in sanctums into which mere servants may not trespass?
VARYS
It's commonly known that Maegor the Cruel had the masons that erected the Red Keep slaughtered as soon as their work was done, to keep the secrets of its architecture only for himself. When Maegor died he carried the castle’s mysteries to the grave, save for a scant few intimates, and in time rumours of hidden passageways and underground tunnels turned to legend, and legend into myth.
ILYRIO
Yet somehow you have disinterred Maegor’s secrets?
VARYS
For all its finery and grandeur, the Red Keep is positively riddled with rats. It seems no catcher has been permitted within the walls since the earliest days of the Dance, Queen Alicent having issued the edict for entirely understandable reasons. In my first days at court I paid particular attention to the infestation, and noticed the rats had an uncanny ability to appear and disappear as though by magic: there one moment, with no evident means of ingress, yet somehow escaped in the next. With the Hand’s consent, I hunted down the finest ratcatcher in all King’s Landing, and charged him with solving the riddle of the vermin’s passage.
ILYRIO
To great success, I can only assume?
VARYS
Oh, indeed. There must be ten leagues of tunnels hidden behind the walls of the Red Keep. Every time I believe I have walked them all, I discover some new hidden door or hatchway that reveals corners of the castle I didn’t even know existed.
ILYRIO stands, grinning broadly.
VARYS
Why are you smiling like that?
ILYRIO
Truly, great minds do think alike. Come.
ILYRIO leads VARYS through to the adjoining bedchamber, stopping before a floor-length mirror affixed to the wall. VARYS looks sour-faced at his reflection.
VARYS
Is this a riddle of some kind? Perhaps the answer to all my questions lay within me all along?
ILYRIO hooks his fingers around the mirror’s frame and pulls it towards him, revealing a narrow passageway beyond. Without a word of explanation, ILYRIO walks into the darkness, and a perplexed VARYS follows after him.
ILYRIO holds a finger to his lips to caution his friend against speaking. Every few steps, he points VARYS’ attention to a pair of tiny eyeholes bored into the walls, sometimes on their left, others on their right. When they reach the end of the passage, ILYRIO invites VARYS to bow his head and inspect the final set of eyeholes. The eunuch does as he’s bid, and peers through the wall into one of the brothel’s dank, sparsely-furnished bedchambers.
ILYRIO
There’s another passageway below us, accessed through the back of the drinks cabinet in the parlour.
NARISSA
Who said that?
ILYRIO
It’s alright, Narissa, it’s only me.
NARISSA
Oh, hello Magister. I must say, I don’t think much of these accommodations.
ILYRIO
Have no fear, sweetling. We’ll have the place looking fit for a king soon enough.
Despite the darkness, VARYS is almost certain he sees the magister wink.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
If not a king, then a lord at very least. Perhaps a captain of the guard, or if the Gods are good even a Master of the Small Council.
VARYS
And you accuse me of a sordid mind.
ILYRIO
I know this is a subject about which you’re possessed of scant experience, so trust me when I say that men’s tongues are never more exercised than the moments just after they’ve taken their pleasure. I’ve heard it said that come the end of the night a working girl’s ears are often her sorest parts.
NARISSA
Not by any working girls, you haven’t.
ILYRIO
Forgive the turn of phrase, my dear, but you must concede my point: in all the world, who is more privy to a man’s secrets than the woman with whom he shares the pillow?
2.11 INT: HALLWAY, RED KEEP - DAY
GRANDMAESTER PYCELLE ambles at leisure towards his quarters in the Red Keep, fingering idly at the links of various metals he wears in a chain about his neck.
S.E: door opens.
Stepping inside, the old man is startled to discover PRINCE RHAEGAR sitting patiently in the window seat, awaiting his return.
PYCELLE
Your Grace!
RHAEGAR
I trust you don’t mind my letting myself in?
PYCELLE
You may come and go as you wish, Your Grace. The Red Keep is your home, after all. May I sit?
RHAEGAR
Please do, though I shan’t be staying long.
I know I can trust in your discretion, Grandmaester. This is a sensitive issue, and I assure you I feel no small discomfort coming to you without my wife’s knowledge.
PYCELLE’s eyes sparkle at the imminent prospect of intrigue, but he does his best to preserve his air of professional detachment.
PYCELLE
You honour me with your confidence, Your Grace. How may I be of service?
RHAEGAR stands and turns his gaze to the window for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
RHAEGAR
I understand Elia has already shared with you her feelings on our…predicament.
PYCELLE
Her Grace is much too governed by the proprieties befitting a lady of her birth and breeding to discuss such things explicitly, but there is little a man of my experience cannot readily infer. It pains me greatly to see the poor child’s heart drop each time I conclude my examination and counsel continued restraint.
RHAEGAR
So there is no doubt as to the danger? Elia would have me believe there is reason to be hopeful.
PYCELLE
Your grace, it is not my place to refute the word of a princess.
RHAEGAR
Nor deny a prince a straightforward answer to a straightforward question. I am asking for your medical opinion.
PYCELLE hesitates, clearly reluctant. He sighs and sits forward, interlocking his hands upon his desk.
PYCELLE
If only her body were as durable as her spirit, I have no doubt Her Grace could summon the strength to birth a litter of royal children. But simply wishing as much will never make it so. The Princess has never been a well women, Your Grace, and each successive labour only makes more precarious her congenitally delicate constitution.
RHAEGAR
She cannot have another child.
PYCELLE
Even if Her Grace were able to carry to term this time, the likelihood of her surviving the birth is extremely slight indeed.
RHAEGAR
If she were to return to Dorne…
PYCELLE
The more temperate climate could well aid in her recovery, but warm weather can only do so much, Your Grace. It cannot undo the damage that has already been done.
RHAEGAR holds the Grandmaester’s eye for a long moment, running a hand across his stubbled jawline. Finally, he rises to his feet, labouring as though he bore the weight of the Seven Kingdoms upon his shoulders.
RHAEGAR
Thank you for your candour, Grandmaester.
PYCELLE stands and bows his head.
PYCELLE
It is my duty to serve, Your Grace, even when I take no pleasure in it.
RHAEGAR turns to leave. With one hand on the door he stops, turns back to PYCELLE.
RHAEGAR
This conversation is to go no further than this room. This will be hard enough for Elia, I will not have court gossip made of her misery.
PYCELLE
Of course, Your Grace. I would sooner rather leap from atop this very tower than betray your faith in my discretion.
RHAEGAR nods, then hesitates, clearly weighing his parting words heavily.
RHAEGAR
Be gentle with her hopes, Gradmaester. Even the most durable spirit has a point at which it breaks.
PYCELLE bows once more, and RHAEGAR exits. The Grandmaester sits for moment longer, clearly deep in contemplation. Then, his mind decided, he springs to his feet and follows RHAEGAR out the door, turning left where the prince turned right.
S.E: scrape of feet; Varys cough.
2.12 INT: ILYRIO’S CHAMBERS, THE MERMAID - DAY
ILYRIO
So the wandering Prince has returned. But from where?
Returning to ILYRIO’s new quarters, VARYS retakes his seat upon the handkerchief-covered chair.
VARYS
The Free Cities, I believe, though where exactly and for what purpose remains as shrouded in mystery as each of his previous excursions. Rhaegar has spent the better part of the last five years wandering the world, only returning home long enough to plant another baby in the Princess Elia’s belly.
ILYRIO
But this time he lingers.
VARYS
As I understand it, Rhaegar was not so much summoned by his father as he was conscripted. Aerys has made it plain he expects Rhaegar to serve in this campaign against Tywin and his lickspittles, with the Small Council serving as the frontlines.
ILYRIO
The Old Lion has grown comfortable at the head of the table these last twenty years; I cannot imagine he will prove overly enthused at having to surrender that seat to dragon seed.
VARYS raises his eyebrows in circumspection.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
You disagree?
VARYS
While I’ve little doubt Tywin will chafe at Rhaegar’s presence in council, I’m of the mind that the prince’s return to court need not necessarily prove contrary to the interests of House Lannister. And given that Grandmaester Pycelle most assuredly shared with his master the news that Elia cannot bear her husband another child, I expect our Lord Hand has concluded very much the same, which may well explain why his daughter Cersei was suddenly called to court.
ILYRIO
Was she indeed? Well now, that certainly puts the cat among the pigeon, if you’ll permit the cliché.
VARYS
In this instance, I will not. Pigeons at least have the good sense to scatter at first sight of cats. Here, only last night, their arrival was feted with wine and canapes.
2.13 INT: GREAT HALL, RED KEEP, KING’S LANDING - NIGHT
The great hall of the Red Keep hums with the high spirits of the city’s nobility. Resplendent in their finest silks and satins, the lords and ladies of King’s Landing chat in groups over Arbor Gold and Dornish Red and all manner of sweet and savoury treats circulated by the castle’s servants. Among the crowd, JAIME and CERSEI LANNISTER politely receive a steady stream of well-wishers. The eyes of every lady linger upon JAIME, every lord’s appraising CERSEI appreciatively. JAIME leans over to whisper excitedly into his sister’s ear.
JAIME
Cersei, look! It’s the Sword of the Morning.
CERSEI
Oh?
CERSEI turns to follow JAIME’s gaze.
JAIME
Don’t look!
CERSEI
You just told me to look! Which one is he?
JAIME
What do you mean which one is he? Isn’t it obvious? The one with Dawn strapped across his back.
CERSEI
That doesn’t sound terribly comfortable for Dawn. Which one is she, then?
JAIME
Dawn is his sword.
CERSEI
I thought you said his sword was called Morning?
JAIME
Sword of the Morning is his name, not his sword’s. Well, his title actually.
CERSEI
So it’s Ser Sword? Lord Morning?
JAIME
How many times have you heard me talk about this?
CERSEI
About Ser Arthur Dayne, the finest swordsman in all the world and the first to carry the Sword of the Morning honorific since the reign of King Daeron the second? Or about his sword Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star, bestowed upon only those sons of Starfall deemed warrior enough to bear sword and title both?
JAIME
You were teasing me.
CERSEI
You may have told me the tale once or twice over the years, now I think back.
JAIME
Should I go over there? No, I can’t just walk up and start talking at him. I don’t want to seem too presumptuous.
CERSEI
Jaime, he’s at a banquet in our honour. I hardly think he’d find you introducing yourself too great a presumption.
JAIME
So you think I should go and talk to him? I should go talk to him. I’m going to talk to him.
JAIME slips away, leaving CERSEI alone to nod and smile each time she catches another man’s lingering study, drawing blushes from the men and possessive scowls from their women. Entering unheralded through a side door, TYWIN makes his way across the room towards his daughter, never doubting that the crowd will part before him to accommodate his imperious stride.
CERSEI
Father.
TYWIN casts a critical eye after his son trying and failing to surreptitiously stalk his hero.
TYWIN
It appears your brother is enjoying himself.
CERSEI
You did invite him.
TYWIN
We both know it was you I called to court. As long as your brother stays out of trouble, he can occupy himself however he pleases.
TYWIN looks CERSEI over, clearly reaching a rather less appreciative conclusion than the rest of the men in attendance.
TYWIN [CONT’D]
I thought we agreed you would wear the gown I had made for you.
CERSEI
I’ve never cared for green; it’s simply not my colour.
TYWIN
A girl may dress for their own pleasure, Cersei, a woman may not.
Come, you can change after supper.
CERSEI takes her father’s arm and lets herself be led to where the crowd is thickest, TYWIN speaking only loud enough for his daughter’s hearing.
TYWIN
Princess Elia will not be accompanying her husband this evening. Still too weak to endure sitting down to dinner, it seems.
CERSEI
How disappointing. I was so looking forward to introducing myself.
TYWIN
I will see that you are seated next to the Prince. You will have him entirely to yourself for the evening. I expect you to make good use of the opportunity.
Arriving at a densely-packed ring of dignitaries, all with their back to the room, TYWIN pointedly clears his throat and nods in perfunctory graciousness as the bodies obediently shuffle aside. CERSEI’s eyes grow wide, shining with admiration at the sight of QUEEN RHAELLA TARGARYEN, a gown of red and black silk hugging the contours of her lean, lissom body, her shoulders and arms bare but for a layer of the most delicate Myrish lace. While the first signs of middle-age may have dimmed the queen’s natural radiance, the wrinkles about her eyes and hint of white among the silver hair fixed in a roped braid about the crown of her head confer upon her an undeniable air of stately grace. TYWIN bows, CERSEI recovering herself sufficiently to follow suit.
TYWIN
Your Grace.
RHAELLA
Ah, my Lord Hand.
TYWIN
If it please Your Grace, I would like to formally introduce my daughter: Cersei Lannister, of Casterly Rock.
CERSEI curtsies low before the QUEEN.
CERSEI
Your Grace.
RHAELLA takes CERSEI’s hands and looks her over, shaking her head in silent wonderment.
RHAELLA
Gods, look how you’ve grown! And mother’s mercy, so beautiful! The very picture of our dear Joanna.
Despite being no stranger to complements upon her comeliness, CERSEI blushes beneath RHAELLA’s affection.
CERSEI
You’re too kind, Your Grace.
RHAELLA
It’s just wonderful your father finally called you to court, I can’t tell you many times I’ve asked it of him. I was almost ready to make it a royal command!
CERSEI
You flatter me, Your Grace.
RHAELLA
I’ll have none of that. You shall call me Rhaella, and I shall call you Cersei, do you hear me? I just know we shall be the very best of friends, just as your dear mother and I once were.
CERSEI positively glows at this: the Queen’s warmth radiating, her ebullience infectious, her charm impossible to resist.
RHAELLA [CONT’D]
Now, what has your father told you about the old days at court?
CERSEI hesitates, surprised at the question.
CERSEI
Only that my mother was in your service, until she and my father married.
RHAELLA frowns and bats at TYWIN’s arm in mock reprimand.
RHAELLA
You do your daughter a disservice, Tywin. Every girl should know her mother.
TYWIN
As you say, Your Grace.
If RHAELLA registers the rote compliance in TYWIN’s tone she gives no sign. She leans closer to CERSEI, speaking in the intimate whisper of co-conspirators.
RHAELLA
You and I will find some time to talk away from all these ghastly men, just the two of us. I will tell you about the side of Joanna your father never saw, all the wicked little secrets women share when they are alone.
CERSEI
I would like that very much, Your…Rhaella.
RHAELLA
Better! Much better! Now you’re mine, it’s only proper I be allowed to show you off! Come!
Leading CERSEI with one hand and fluttering the air with the other to shoo aside her guests, RHAELLA forges a path for them both, TYWIN following behind in their wake.
RHAELLA
Allow me to introduce my son, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
At the sound of his mother’s voice, RHAEGAR breaks off his conversation and turns dutifully about. CERSEI cannot prevent a small gasp from escaping her lips in the first moment RHAEGAR sets his eyes upon her. Transfixed before his twin storms of whirling indigo, she clutches tighter to RHAELLA’s hand like a squall-wracked sailor clinging to the mast. On unsteady legs she dips once more, her skin afire at the touch of RHAEGAR’s lips as he returns the courtesy with a kiss to the back of her outstretched hand.
RHAELLA (CONT’D)
I imagine you’ll find her quite changed from the little girl you once met all too briefly.
RHAEGAR
I heard rumours all morning of a beautiful woman arriving at the hour of the wolf. Half the guards imagine they saw the ghost of Shiera Seastar returned to humble those ladies yet living.
CERSEI cannot form a reply, stepping closer to RHAELLA like a shy child hiding behind her mother’s skirts. Taking note of his daughter’s uncharacteristic timidity, TYWIN steps forward to spur events along.
TYWIN
Your Grace, I believe it’s almost time to announce supper; may I escort you to the stairs?
RHAELLA
Is it that time already? Thank the gods we have you to keep the wheels greased around here, Tywin. Do lead on!
RHAELLA winds her arm through TYWIN’s and the two depart, leaving CERSEI and RHAEGAR entirely alone in a crowded hall. As he passes, TYWIN places a hand in the small of CERSEI’s back and gives her a gentle push of encouragement towards the prince.
CUT TO:
Resplendent in their gleaming whites, SER ARTHUR DAYNE and SER BARRISTAN SELMY stand apart from the general revelry, passing the evening in idle conversation over cups of watered-down wine. JAIME hovers anxiously just beyond their notice, straightening his crimson doublet and running his hands through his hair like a nervous suitor at his beloved’s door.
JAIME
Ser Arthur.
The Kingsguard turn, JAIME’s nerves immediately settling somewhat at the easy smile with which ARTHUR greets him.
ARTHUR
If it isn’t the young lord of Lannister.
BARRISTAN gives a half bow, his manner every bit as genial as ARTHUR’s.
BARRISTAN
The man of the hour, indeed. Welcome to King’s Landing, my lord.
JAIME
Thank you, ser. And you, Ser Barristan. I noticed you from across the room and thought I might introduce myself. It’s a true honour to meet you both…truly.
ARTHUR
The white cloaks do give the game away somewhat.
BARRISTAN
The Lord Commander insists on his standards, even for the off-duty.
ARTHUR
Lurking by the buffet table was so much easier before I took my vows.
JAIME
I recognised your faces, actually. I saw you fight in the melee at the Crag two years past, and Ser Arthur when he led a detachment of Targaryen soldiers through the Westerlands in pursuit of the Black Hand Brigands.
ARTHUR
You should have made yourself known. We were ten days hard riding after the Black Hand, and my men would have welcomed a break to visit with a son of the Rock.
JAIME
If only I could. My father did not allow Cersei or I to mix among the smallfolk, so I wore a hooded cloak and joined the back of the crowds gathered to watch you pass.
BARRISTAN [aside, to Dayne]
A popular practice, it seems.
ARTHUR grins at BARRISTAN’s muttered aside; JAIME furrows his brow.
JAIME
I’m sorry?
ARTHUR
Do you ride, Jaime? Train with the sword?
JAIME
Yes, Ser Arthur, every day. I’m undefeated in the tilts, actually, and our master at arms says I remind him of Ser Barristan in his youth.
ARTHUR
He must have an especially long memory, then.
BARRISTAN
And who is your master at arms, may I ask?
JAIME
Ser Matthos Hunt.
BARRISTAN
Ha! Well in that case we shall have to keep a close eye on this one, Arthur. Hunt knows a swordsman when he sees one, except perhaps when he’s been in his cups. I seem to recall he lost a bag of silvers betting against you at Maidenpool after a night celebrating his brother’s betrothal.
ARTHUR
Not his finest moment, but a good man otherwise. I actually learned a good deal of my swordsmanship alongside Ser Matthos. We spent hours sparring together in the days before our knighthoods.
JAIME
Yes, I know. That’s why I had my father hire him as my instructor.
JAIME silently curses himself as his earnestness draws an awkward silence from the knights.
ARTHUR
[polite cough]
Will you be entering the lists at Harrenhal, Jaime?
JAIME
That’s certainly my intention. I’m looking forward to testing myself against a better class of competitor.
SELMY
Let’s hope you don’t draw Ser Arthur, then!
ARTHUR
If you truly are the younger Selmy come again, I’ll have to make a point of watching your tilts. I’ve always wondered how the old man would fare if he didn’t move so slowly.
BARRISTAN
Slower than you is still faster than most!
JAIME
I’m certain I couldn’t help but improve should you be kind enough to provide me your advice. Doubly so should I find my mettle tested against knights of such renown.
ARTHUR
I’ll do you one better: unhorse Barristan here, and I’ll give you a week of private lessons. How does that sound?
BARRISTAN
Don’t give the boy any more reason to knock me on my backside. Defeating a Kingsguard in his first big tourney should be incentive enough, don’t you think?
JAIME
That would be…yes, of course, absolutely. I will try my very best, Ser Arthur. I mean, apologies Ser Barristan, I meant no insult, I just –
BARRISTAN [amused]
Relax, my young friend. I am not so easily offended.
His attention suddenly distracted by something across the hall, ARTHUR hands BARRISTAN his cup.
ARTHUR
You’ll have to forgive me, Jaime, but even off-duty a Kingsguard must keep his obligations. Again, welcome to the capital.
JAIME
You too, Ser Arthur!
JAIME flinches in embarrassment at his nonsensical reply, BARRISTAN chuckling at the young man’s blushes.
CUT TO:
CERSEI
How long has it been since we last saw one another, I wonder?
RHAEGAR
Seven years, at least, my lady.
CERSEI
You must have remembered me as quite the little horror.
RHAEGAR
Not at all. I always thought of you as a charming young lady, a credit to your family and your house.
CERSEI
And did you often?
(pause)
Think of me, I mean?
RHAEGAR looks rather uncomfortable at this flirtatious turn. CERSEI smiles wickedly and leans close.
CERSEI
I have a little secret to confess. Do you promise it will stay between us?
RHAEGAR
I never betray a confidence.
CERSEI
I had such starry-eyes for you, after I met you that first time. I would boast to the other girls that I was going to grow up and make you fall in love with me, and that I would give you a dozen children, all as beautiful as their father.
Endeavouring to disguise his discomfort behind the mask of courtesy, RHAEGAR smiles politely, tugging gently at his left earlobe.
RHAEGAR
That’s very flattering, though I hardly imagine I warranted such attention, callow youth that I was.
CERSEI waves a hand dismissively.
CERSEI
Oh, you know how girls can be when they’re infatuated with a handsome older man. It all seems so long ago now. Childhood seems like a different lifetime when you’re grown.
CERSEI raises her glass, batting her lashes at RHAEGAR over the brim.
CERSEI [CONT’D]
Once you’ve entered into your full womanhood.
She takes a slow sip of wine, inviting RHAEGAR to dwell on the sensuousness of her pillowy pink lips. RHAEGAR tugs at his earlobe once again, this time with the vigour of a novice septon ringing the morning bells.
ARTHUR
My lady, please forgive the interruption.
Materialising like a phantom at RHAEGAR’s side, ARTHUR bows his head in apology to CERSEI.
ARTHUR [CONT’D]
Your Grace, might I beg a moment of your time? It’s a matter of some urgency, I understand.
RHAEGAR conjures a beleaguered scowl for CERSEI’s sake.
RHAEGAR
Well, if it’s an urgent matter. Lady Cersei, if you will excuse me, I shall leave you to enjoy your evening.
CERSEI
Oh, I’ve no doubt I shall. I understand we’re seated next to one another at table.
RHAEGAR
Until then.
RHAEGAR allows ARTHUR to escort him away.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
What took you so long? If I’d pulled on my ear any longer, I was like to rip the damned thing off entirely.
ARTHUR
I was having my owoduction to the next generation of Lannisters, though I suspect mine was altogether less…predatory.
ARTHUR looks back at CERSEI and the circle of young lords that has already gathered about her.
ARTHUR [CONT’D]
You’d better watch yourself with that one. I might not be here to free you from her web next time.
CUT TO:
BARRISTAN
Is this your first visit to the capitol, Jaime?
JAIME
It is, me and my sister both.
BARRISTAN
How do you find it?
JAIME
It’s…everything I heard it would be.
BARRISTAN
Ha! If your skills with a lance are as well-honed as your manners I may as well yield before we even reach Harrenhal. Well, perhaps my brothers and I could help you acclimate yourself. How would you like to spend tomorrow riding out in the company of the Kingsguard?
JAIME
Really? I…I don’t know quite what to say.
BARRISTAN
Well I would hope you’d say “yes, Ser Barristan”.
JAIME
Yes, Ser Barristan, absolutely. It would be my honour.
BARRISTAN
Wonderful. We’ve had a spot of trouble with the Kingswood Brotherhood of late, so the Lord Commander intends for us to make our presence felt among the locals, give them a glimpse of the royal standard to set their minds at ease.
JAIME
The Brotherhood?
BARRISTAN
Sorry bunch of scoundrels, by all accounts. Thieves, thugs, and broken men led by a soiled knight named Simon Toyne. A band of City Watchmen went missing in the snow giving chase a couple moons past, and then only a few days ago Lord Tyrell’s cousin Victor was cut near in half by some beast of Toyne’s the smallfolk call the “Smiling Knight”.
If they’d held themselves to rustling the odd horse and robbing the occasional purse they’d likely have lasted until the spring before Lord Tywin passed them across the Lord Commander’s desk. Once you start swinging steel at the highborn, though…
BARRISTAN trails off, and in so doing recognises the excited glint in JAIME’s eyes. He holds up his hands as though calming a young colt bucking in its corral.
BARRISTAN [CONT’D]
Don’t go getting your hopes up, lad. I wouldn’t be extending the invitation if I expected anything other than a pleasant afternoon taking in the scenery. The Brotherhood are scavengers; they have no belly for a fight. They’ll flee back to their boltholes the second they hear us coming.
A hush descends as TYWIN and RHAELLA climb the steps leading to the banquet hall and turn to address the crowd.
RHAELLA
My Lords and ladies. Unfortunately, my husband the king is currently indisposed with matters of the realm that demand his immediate attention, and so it falls to me to thank you all for your attendance tonight, and for joining my family in welcoming to the capital the children of our dear Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister. Cersei, Jaime, I bid you welcome.
RHAELLA raises her glass, and the hall follows suit. From amid her throng of admirers, CERSEI raises her own in acknowledgment. BARRISTAN hastily hands JAIME one of his cups so that he might join the toast.
RHAELLA [CONT’D]
You are all invited to join us in the banquet hall, where we will break bread together and feast in honour of the newest – and fairest - members of this great court!
As the revellers begin shuffling up the steps, a spectral figure lurks unseen. JAIME and CERSEI move among the crowd like torches of golden fire, all about them attracted closer by the beauty and vitality of their flames, while in the shadows at the chamber’s farthest threshold, AERYS TARGARYEN watches the children of the Rock with a ruminative eye.
2.14 INT: ILYRIO’S CHAMBERS, THE MERMAID – DAY
VARYS
From everything I have seen thus far, it’s clear to me that the boy possesses neither the interest nor the acumen to play at his father’s games, whatever hopes Lord Tywin may publicly profess to the contrary. He preens, he struts, he parrots the proper courtesies…but there’s very little of substance behind the handsome veneer. He rather reminds me of a similarly dashing young swordsman I once knew.
ILYRIO
If only I’d had his father’s coin…
VARYS
While he still merits half a mind of interest simply by virtue of his being Tywin’s eldest son and heir, I feel confident in saying we can safely set Jaime aside. The daughter, however…
ILYRIO
You suspect she was the true purpose of her father’s summons?
VARYS
Any suspicions I may have harboured were – if you’ll pardon the turn of phrase – put to bed when I watched her beside him at the banquet. She ate very little, her stomach no doubt full from all but devouring Prince Rhaegar braids to boots.
ILYRIO
Have you spoken to the king of the girl’s intentions?
VARYS
I have not, nor shall I unless he enquires outright. Aerys is especially mercurial when it comes to his son, and I will not have him sticking is royal fingers in the pie before it has finished cooking.
ILYRIO
An edifying image indeed.
VARYS
Said the flesh-peddler to the eunuch.
ILYRIO turns down the corners of his mouth in concession to VARYS’ fair comment.
VARYS [CONT’D]
Heed my warning, Ilyrio: The girl is Alicent Hightower come again. The young and beautiful daughter of the Hand strategically slipped into the scene at the precise moment a bereaved Targaryen brow most needs a bosom to grieve upon.
ILYRIO
Rhaegar is not a widower just yet, my friend. The man of privilege that refrains from indulging his baser desires is a rare thing in this world, but if Tywin Lannister believes Rhaegar will set aside Elia Martel for lust alone, perhaps he’s not the master strategist we were cautioned to expect.
VARYS
A woman need not be deceased to be departed. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Princess Elia since I arrived. I heard her screams, though. A day and a night that poor child laboured to deliver her stillborn son. For all we know, the girl could have quietly gone the way of King Viserys on the eve of the Dance, slowly rotting away in her bed while the court conspires around her.
ILYRIO
I’m glad to see those histories I insisted you read have left an impression. I admit I was hesitant in recommending them at first, lest you learned what a cankerous pustule on the rump of civilization these Seven Kingdoms have always been and refused your commission.
VARYS
It’s always confounded me how a man as experienced of the world as yourself can still be possessed of such petty bigotries.
ILYRIO
There’s nothing petty about my distaste for the uncivilized, and grand bigotries are the flames that fuel the world, my friend. The rich abhor the poor, the strong despise the weak, and upon the axis of these antagonisms the wheel of history perpetually turns.
VARYS
Until the fires should rage too hot and the wheel burn away to cinders, of course.
ILYRIO
More fool the craftsman that builds his wheel of a combustible material.
ILYRIO stands and steps to the window. Clasping his hands behind his back, he raises his gaze from the squalid little square below to the indomitable grandeur of the Red Keep perched atop Aegon’s High Hill, the tips of its tallest towers lost in the low-hanging canopy of clouds.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Do you know, I often find myself imagining what would become of this country if one dark moonless night every lord and lady in the Seven Kingdoms were carried away unnoticed to some place far away, never to be seen again. How long would it be before anyone noticed, do you think?
The people would still plant and harvest, elsewise they would starve. The craftsmen would still make and repair, elsewise they would soon have neither wares nor labours left to sell. The bureaucrats, the lawkeepers, the money managers…all of them going about their work as though nothing were any different than the day before. Because that’s how the system was designed.
The men of history responsible for its implementation always meant for their contrivance to one day run under its own momentum, so they themselves might never dirty their highborn hands again, and could better spend their days at leisure, eating and hawking and drinking and dancing away the wealth that flows up to them through the many strata of their great and glorious creation.
If “uncivilized” is not the most apposite word for such an arrangement, I should dearly love to hear its better.
VARYS
Well this is an unexpected turn, I must say. In all the years of our friendship, I’ve never known you to be a champion of the commonfolk.
ILYRIO
And I’ve never known you to be such a poor listener. I’m a champion of enterprise, Varys, and that makes me an enemy of any system in which a man of ingenuity and ambition finds the heights to which he may be permitted to climb determined entirely by the circumstance of his birth.
ILYRIO turns back from the window, wagging a forefinger at VARYS like a tutor commanding his students’ utmost attention.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
The conclusion I’m inviting you to draw from all this is not that I wish to abolish the ruling class of Westeros, but that I wish Westeros to have a better class of ruler.
The Magister returns to his chair. He leans forward and runs a palm over the grain of his desktop.
ILYRIO [CONT’D]
Here in Westeros, their wheel is crafted of the finest grain of wood, sourced only from family trees of the deepest and most durable of roots. An entire society built upon the gnarled and twisted branches of inherited privilege.
In the more savage corners of the world, they cast their wheel from steel. Any man may crown himself a king, however humble his beginnings. All he need possess is the courage to face down his enemies, the skill to slay them, and the boldness to climb the mountain of their corpses and claim his throne.
But in the Free Cities…Oh, in the Free Cities you need neither an ancient name nor a fearsome reputation. We have our Princes and our Triarchs, to be sure, but only with the forbearance of we Magisters. It’s the council of merchants that truly hold the power. Because in the Free Cities, the wheel upon which our lives turn is made of purest gold. Not wood, not steel…only gold.
VARYS
You speak so fondly of the Free Cities, it’s a wonder you ever left.
When ILYRIO does not take the invitation to explain himself, VARYS tilts his head and studies him closely.
VARYS [CONT’D]
Tell me plainly, Ilyrio: why did you come here?
The Magister leans back in his chair and interlocks his hands across his belly, the corners of his mouth forging trails of ascent through the loose pink flesh of his jowly face.
ILYRIO
I’d have thought that was plain enough by now, old friend. I came to Westeros to reinvent the wheel.
OUTRO.