The Throne Room smells like iron, wax, and polished egos. The clatter of boots dies as I move up the carpet, head dipped just enough. Robert lounges like a sated bear on that uncomfortable chair (gods, the thing is ugly—the throne, not Robert… though, hm). His inbred bitch of a wife sits straight as a blade; Jaime, her equally inbred brother, leans idly on his sword's guard. Varys the Eunuch wears that velvet smile he thinks is mysterious but only makes him seem slimy. Littlefinger is counting invisible coins on his fingertips, also convinced he looks mysterious. Pycelle wheezes like a tired bellows. And off to the side, two surprise heavyweights: Tywin Lannister and Eddard Stark. Thanks, Ryan, for the staging. Really. Fantastic.
I stop at the foot of the steps, keeping my face flat even though I'm actually surprised.
"Your Grace. My queen. My lords," I say, clear and calm. "I come to seek royal leave to raise ships and coin to sail for Essos, buy every slave I can find, free them on the spot, and settle them on Skagos as free subjects of the Seven Kingdoms."
The silence that follows lands like an anvil. Eyes narrow. Mouths tighten. Good, they heard me.
"Slavery's forbidden in the realm," Robert growls, straightening a little. "Have you even read our laws, boy?"
"Exactly, Your Grace. Forbidden here, tolerated there. I'm asking for your leave and your oversight to do what no one dares: drain part of the pond by emptying the markets our ships can reach, then crack down at home on any revival. Not my way. Yours."
I look around the hall, one face at a time.
"The Crown would have full oversight. Royal auditors aboard my ships; inspectors in Pentos and Braavos if need be; maesters of the Citadel to attest the manumissions. On arrival: sworn registration before a royal magistrate; letters of freedom signed by me and sealed by the Crown; housing and work. The former slaves will pay taxes like all your subjects. Skagos grows, but so does the kingdom."
Pycelle clears his throat. And keeps clearing it. And keeps—like he's trying to cough up a scroll. "Hrrm… such an undertaking… would cost a fortune… And if… hrrm… your generosity encouraged the… merchants of Essos to… seize more?"
"A fair question, maester. I propose a one-time, final purchase under royal decree forbidding any further transactions under a Westerosi banner. Our ships will seize any slaver that tries to run a 'second round.' I'll fund the first and the last. After that, it's open war on chains."
Littlefinger slides in, honey at the corner of his smile. "And how… shall we verify that you won't turn these good folk into a tidy private army? Grateful subjects make excellent soldiers, they say."
"By showing what others hide. Public rolls by name, a census open to the Treasury's auditors, limits on levies: a maximum force set by letters patent sealed today, if you like. I'll swear not to exceed it and to inform the Hand before any muster. Royal garrison permitted at Bloomhaven, our ledgers open to your agents. I'm not afraid of the light, Lord Baelish." Of course, those records will be cooked, and anyone they send will be flipped by my spies. Not that I'm telling them.
A faint "hm" moves through the hall. Tywin doesn't blink. Stark doesn't either.
Eddard Stark cuts in, voice plain as iron. "Why Skagos? Why not the king's lands or lords' lands short of hands?"
"Because I already have the mills, forges, baths, hospitals, granaries, and discipline to take them in now, Lord Stark. I can wash them, heal them, feed them, teach them, work them. Tomorrow morning. And once they're steady, I'm ready to detach groups of settlers to any lands that demand. Skagos is the gateway, not a monopoly." Plenty of them will be spies, obviously. Also, not saying that.
Varys inclines his head, fingers steepled. "A noble project. And what guarantee that this gateway… does not become a citadel?"
I choke back a smile. It's already a citadel, you ball-less bastard, it's just that none of you know it.
"Two guarantees, Lord Varys. First: I pay a fixed fee to the Royal Treasury for every freedman registered. Whether I find gold or not, the Crown profits." My coffers are overflowing, paying won't hurt. "Second: I accept a resident royal advisor, chosen by the Hand, to oversee my edicts concerning these new subjects for the first five years." Whoever they send will be taken by the intelligence office and turned. Their brainwashing methods are incredible and fucking scary.
Robert scratches his beard, amused despite himself. "You're offering to pay to do something dangerous, you're opening your house to my men, and you're promising to obey a royal nose poking through your papers. You're mad, or you were born for politics, boy."
"Probably both, Your Grace."
Muffled laughter. A black look from Cersei. Progress.
Unfortunately, the Old Lion finally decides to speak:
"Power unsettles, even when it clothes itself in virtue. To soothe the Crown, nothing equals a blood tie. Laena, your younger sister, could be betrothed to Tommen. A peaceable, solid, useful union."
A beat. Cersei straightens, her gaze like a polished dagger. "My son is not a bargaining chip, Father." And she's royally ignored, which is fucking hilarious.
I don't let the blade sink in.
"I… considered that possibility," I say, calm. "I've already spoken with Laena. She accepts in principle—if the Crown agrees, she may settle in King's Landing to learn your customs. We bind our houses. For the long term."
Complete lie. I'm not leaving my sister at the mercy of these degenerates, my plans will be in motion long before any wedding.
Silence hardens. Cersei swallows her ire with poisoned grace. Tywin inclines his head by a hair. Robert smacks the arm of the throne, satisfied, like he's just felled a boar. "That eases me. But the North might grumble." He slants a look at Ned. "So no one can say you're mustering strength in the realm's middle, your… other brother, what's his name?"
"Aldran, Your Grace." I don't like where this is going.
"Him. Let him wed a Stark girl. Then no one feels left out."
I'm not sure my face moves, but inside? Yeah. Really, Ryan? You drop Ned into the room, and that's the bounce you wanted. Brilliant. I swear I'll find a way to strangle you with my bare hands.
I breathe. Don't insult the North. Don't sell my brother like a sack of grain. Don't defy the king. Tightrope.
"Your Grace, the honor's real and I do not reject it. But an alliance is not a fine. I can't offer my brother's hand without first speaking to Lord Stark and without the lady's and her house's consent. If Lord Stark wishes to discuss it, I'll hear him today, before the ink dries on my petition."
Ned's eyes meet mine. Nothing shifts on his face, but it isn't a no. Robert snorts, then nods, surprised not to be crossed.
That's one box ticked.
"Good. Speak among yourselves. As for your slave business… I grant it. Crown auditors, capped levy, royal garrison at Bloomhaven, per-head fee for every freedman, resident counselor named by the Hand for five years. First misstep, I take your head."
"I hear you, Your Grace."
"And may the gods keep you," he adds, sounding only half convinced.
"If they feel like it," I say, and bow.
Several quills scratch at once: the machine of the realm kicks into gear. They hand me the parchment tied with a red ribbon. I take it. At my back I can feel Cersei's cold fury, Baelish's arithmetic, Varys's curiosity, Jon Arryn's silent assent. And Tywin's shadow heavier than the rest of the world.
I step out of the hall; the air tastes like a gulp of water after hours under a helmet. The doors close. Two steps into the gallery. A low, clean voice:
"Lord Harlow. A moment."
Not an invitation. Gravity deciding the apple falls.
I follow without fuss—two cloaks slipping between columns, guards turning to statues. We pass through a run of corridors where wax and new leather replace King's Landing's stench, though my super senses still catch scraps of it. He opens a door to a study too large for one man: bare table save an inkwell that never spills, a few scrolls tied square, a writing box, a lion engraved in matte gold on a paperweight. Nothing useless. Nothing to distract.
He doesn't offer me a chair. He sits; I mirror him, not bothering with the little dominance games.
Tywin unrolls a parchment slowly, like revealing a sheathed blade. "Your origins," he says without looking up. "I had searched this morning for what I once read. Your mother."
I don't blink. Inside, yeah. Ryan… if this is another of your brilliant surprises, I'm stapling a pillow to your face until the silence suits you.
"What does my mother have to do with the Crown, Lord Lannister?"
He lifts his head. Light catches in his eyes like yellow stone. "She has to do with me. Your mother is—was—a distant cousin of House Lannister, through a cadet branch. She was disowned for bringing shame upon her line. One does not erase blood by striking a line from the ledger."
Ryan, I hate you so much. The omnipotent motherfucker could at least make it less cliché: the banished woman's child succeeds, so the main family wants him back. How fucking original.
The sentence lands between us with the weight of a verdict. He slides the parchment across. It's just a rigid family tree with hard angles, my world a margin branch, noted in a dry hand: struck off.
I feel my jaw tighten, but my voice stays even.
"I understand. And I sympathize with the misfortune of a house that feels shame, Lord Lannister. But I fail to see how that concerns me."
A shadow of a smile flickers and is gone. "Choose your witticisms more carefully. You carry Lannister blood, whether you like it or not. And the deeds of men who bear our blood reflect, sooner or later, upon the Lion. If you aim to become… something at the realm's center, you will not do it as a savage. You will have a name to honor and if not yours, then ours. By me, or by someone else."
Nice one, Ryan. You didn't just drop Ned into the throne room—you rewired my whole damn family tree.
I set my fingertips on the table, light as on a lake's surface.
"My mother was disowned, Lord Lannister. That's your word. Yours. She was no Lannister. She didn't live under your roof, eat your bread, or wear your cloak. She wore mine. My name is Harlow. That's the name I carry, fund, and defend. Which means I owe nothing to you or to any other member of YOUR family."
He doesn't move. But the desk feels smaller by a breath. "You think words outweigh blood?" he asks, almost curious.
"I think words make laws, and laws make kingdoms," I say. "You disowned that branch. You cut the tie. You don't get to stitch it back together now because it's convenient."
"You are young. And you have won much in a single morning. Men who win quickly forget they can lose just as quickly. I do not claim an heir; I remind you of a consequence: you now have a betrothed within my house. Your faults will be hers."
Did this bastard granddad just—?
"Was that a threat, Tywin?" I ask, voice cold, meeting his eyes."A simple warning. You keep your name; I keep mine. Simply refrain from putting my house in a position where we must defend you in public. And if, one day, rumor of your blood rises to the surface, I will decide when and how it serves order, not disorder. You will inform me before any decision likely to shift the balance of the realm."
The old man is starting to piss me off. "With all due respect, Tywin—which is to say, not much… go fuck yourself." I grin wide. He answers with a breath.
A breath. Not a sigh; Tywin doesn't sigh. That would waste air.
"Your stubbornness served you today," he says. "Do not let it turn vice. I do not ask your submission, Lord Harlow. I warn you against solitude. Those who pretend they owe no one always end up owing at the first mishap."
I let the line steep, then lift the genealogical parchment. I fold it carefully and set it back exactly where he'd placed it.
"I'm beholden to my people," I say. "And, for today, to the Crown that just granted what I asked. I won't add to that for the comfort of a house I don't give a damn about." I rise.
"One last thing," I add. "If someone prints tomorrow that I'm a Lannister, it'll scorch your house as much as mine. Your grandson would then have for a brother-in-law a man you refused to acknowledge, and you'd be made to answer for my deeds having never held me to account. That's a shame, you don't erase by striking a line."
For the first time, I see a hairline crack in the marble. Not anger. A recalculation.
"Good day to you, Tywin," I say, not bothering to look back as I leave his study.
Yeah. I'm probably going to have to kill him at some point.
I haven't taken ten steps from Tywin's door when a voice comes behind me:
— "Lord Harlow."
Five minutes without someone riding me too much to ask?
The corridor widens; carpets swallow the guards' footfalls. I pray for the first time today—that Ryan hasn't grafted a Stark branch into my blood on top of everything, or I'm going to start a killing spree.
Eddard Stark catches up without hurrying. His gaze doesn't weigh me; it notes me. Wolves don't need to explain their nature.
"A moment," he says. "It won't take long."
We walk side by side up to the upper gardens. Here the air smells of washed stone and bay. No weirwood, of course; only the shade of an olive tree and a too-well-behaved fountain. He signals his guard to hang back. My senses unhook for a second from the Throne Room's heavy perfumes: no quick steps, no fleeing whispers. Just the two of us.
"I knew your father."
My shoulders tighten by a breath. Ryan…
"He was not a Stark," he adds, like he read my mind. "A Northern bastard, no name or too many, depending on the place. We fought together and one day he saved my life. I… didn't keep up after. Not enough. With him, or with the family he made."
He stops. The word "sorry" comes without drama, without ribbons.
"I came… to see his son, and to say I should have come sooner."
The breeze barely stirs. My fingers find the edge of a stone bench on their own.
"My father used to say the wolves of the North have an economical way of speaking," I answer. "He wasn't lying. Thank you for coming, Lord Stark."
His gaze softens by a hair, then returns to stone.
"You spoke well before the king and held your ground before the hall. You asked much, but you offered what needed offering. The North doesn't like chains. It won't like seeing you play with them… but it will understand if you break them first."
"I'm not playing," I say. "I pay, I free, and I put the King's eyes on my hand. Ugly, but clean."
He nods slowly.
"As for the… royal proposal. For your brother."
His words carry weight without pressing. That's where men usually break. I don't like breaking.
"I gave the only sane answer I could at the moment," I say. "It's neither yes nor no, it's an invitation to speak to the person concerned. That kind of pact isn't a fine. I don't barter my people like sacks of barley."
A shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Fleeting.
"My daughters aren't sacks of barley either," he replies. "And I'm no steward. The king… proposes, but houses live with marriages longer than kings live with whims. I'll speak to my family, and I'll see what is, not what I'm told."
"Then come to Bloomhaven," I say at once. "See the workshops, the baths, the hospitals. Speak to the people. If the North is ever to give a hand, let it give it to what it has seen."
He listens without blinking. He weighs sea, time, appearances and above all, risk. Wolves don't travel for promises. They move for proof.
"Save for the Greyjoys, the North doesn't love waves," he says at last, "but it knows how to sail when it must. I'll come with my own. I want to see what you're building. Not only that, but I want to see if a man can grow at the realm's center without becoming a monster."
"You'll see stone, wood, steel, books, and people learning to hold them. If there's a monster in there, it'll be written in plain letters."
He inclines his head this time, a true sign, small but clear.
"As for the alliance," he continues, returning to the nerve of it. "I won't give a name today. Not amid noise and ale. If it is to be done, it will be with consent and reason, and I'll tell you myself."
"That's all I ask."
We stand a while in the breath of the fountain. Water has that quiet stubbornness men lack.
Eddard murmurs one last thing: "Your father…the man I knew, liked neither court nor threats. He liked simple commitments. You resemble him, little and much at once. If you must fail one day, fail for them, not for promises made to lions."
I feel my throat move. I force it to stay clear.
"I hear you, Lord Stark."
He straightens, closes the talk like fastening a bridle, and starts another, lighter one.