*000000*

I looked up from the report I was reading as the guard announced the entrance of Lord Tywin Lannister to the Small Council Chamber. It was a sizable room, with excellent light, and was comfortable for reading, so I had been spending some time there, catching up with the matters that Robert had previously ignored: Jon was still doing most of the work, but I couldn't allow myself to remain ignorant of the Realm I was expected to rule, and the Hand had been patient with my shortcomings (Robert had never really paid much attention to a lot of the details of history, geography or economics, and the books had missed a lot of details). Besides, since I don't have Robert's urge to drink/wench/hunt/brawl my way through life, I've got to fill my days somehow!

Putting the report (a memorandum regarding the conditions of agriculture in the Crownlands) aside, I considered my father-in-law. He looked much as he was portrayed in the Game of Thrones series, if somewhat less regal and, of course, a decade and a half younger. Tywin approached the table and bowed (as shallow as custom would allow, of course). "Your Grace," he began respectfully, but I interrupted him by standing from my chair and walking around the table, stepping down from the raised dais and taking his (somewhat surprised) hand.

"My Lord Tywin," I said in a welcoming tone. "Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice."

He blinked, but quickly recovered. "Of course, Your Grace: we are, after all, family now," he not-so-subtly reminded me that I had married his daughter.

He thinks he's got a leash on me now ... he's going to learn just how wrong he is soon enough.

"Of course, of course. Come, have a seat. Wine?"

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Servants brought us wine, and we drank together, although I made a production of pretending to drink more than I actually did. "Ah, that's good," I murmured, before turning to Tywin. "I'll come right to the point. As you said, we're family now, right?"

He nodded. "As you say, Your Grace."

"And family helps family, you see?"

Puzzled, he nodded, and I took another swig (actually, I just touched the wine to my lips, but he expected a sot, so a sot I had to pretend to be).

"Marvelous. Well, my lord, we, both of us, have problems. You're familiar with the issues regarding Dorn?"

"Of course, Your Grace. Prince Martel is ... reluctant ... to acknowledge your right to the Iron Throne ... a very thorny problem."

"Exactly," I gestured with my goblet. "So, I'm sending Jon Aryn down there to sort things out, get the whole Seven Kingdoms back together properly."

"A wise decision," Tywin insisted, "Lord Aryn is a fine negotiator, and should manage to convince even the ... prickly ... Dornish of the rightness of your claim." Despite schooling his expression, Tywin's contempt for the Dornish people came through loud and clear. It wasn't an unusual attitude: Dorn's independent nature, their singularly different culture, their attitudes towards sex and gender and nobility and inheritance and, well, everything that mattered to the rest of Westeross, especially the somewhat prudish Westerlands.

"I'll drink to that," I joked, and pretended to do so, and Tywin obediently drank as well.

Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I paused a moment, before continuing. "There is a bit of a problem, though: Martel's been a bit standoffish, especially regarding the death of his sister and her children."

Tywin froze. "Yes ... unfortunate. Still, as you said at the time, better for all that we have no dragonspawn threatening your claim to the throne," he said in a careful tone, but I waved his concern away.

"Yes, yes, we all know that. Still, it's a sticky point with the man: seems he was fond of his sister, and there are members of his family who are insisting on claiming the Iron Throne for that Targaryen brat over on Dragonstone."

"Ah, yes. Still, Doran Martel is a cautious man, and while the armies of the Sunspear are fresh, they lack the numbers and recent combat experience of our own forces. We could simply force the Martel's to kneel ..."

"But it would take for-bloody-ever, and cost thousands of lives and millions in gold: we'd drain the treasury and even put a dent in your gold mines. No," I shook my head, "Jon's plan is the best bet we have. If all else fails, we can always invade later, but we had better give him a chance to smooth things out first."

"An excellent decision," flattered Tywin.

Wow: either he's nowhere near as subtle and crafty as the books made him out to be, or he really doesn't hold any respect for me at all. Either way, I'll happily take advantage. "Good, good," I toasted him again and took another sip that sounded like a slurp. "Right," I continued, "So it's settled: have Clegane and Lorch arrested and shipped south as soon as possible."

Tywin froze. "What?" he snapped, and I looked sharply up at him, before he recovered. "I mean ... Your Grace, whatever do you mean?"

"I mean," I said seriously, "I want you to apprehend the two knights who grievously ignored your orders and attacked and brutalised the Royal Family, killing the Princess and her children, and transport them to the kin of the murdered Martels for trial and execution."

The Lion of Lannisport floundered, surprised by the sudden demand. "Your Grace ... it was a time of war ... and despite their excesses, Ser Gregor and Ser Amory are anointed knights and vassals of House Lannister -"

"They are animals," I said bluntly, "Rabid dogs who should be put down before they bite their masters. Better that we should profit from their deaths than suffer for them."

Tywin switched tactics. "The two knights in question are of great use: their talents indispensable -"

"Being good at killing is hardly a rare gift," I steamrollered over him. "It's one I share, and any contribution to the Realm they could make pales in comparison to re-establishing Dorn as a part of the Seven Kingdoms. Two lives to save thousands ... a bargain."

"But ... you pardoned them after the battle," suggested Tywin, but I shook my head.

"Did I? Not formally, as I recall. I may have ignored their crimes, due to having to take control of the Realm, but I am certain I never formally pardoned them for rape, murder or infanticide. So, my lord, I would like you to arrange for their arrest and extradition." I picked up the report I had put aside earlier, and perused it, dismissing Tywin from my attention.

"But Your Grace," Tywin tried again, "As I said, they are knights of the Realm, and one cannot simply ... I mean ... Seven Hells, how is one supposed to arrest the Mountain That Rides?"

I looked up, as though surprised to see him still sitting there. "I would suggest crossbows: lots of them. It may be more appropriate for Clegane to die resisting arrest, but I suggest you make sure Lorch is alive for his trial: I doubt Clegane would be smart enough to beg for his life, but Lorch may offer the Dornish court a little amusement to help them accept our offer." I shook my head at Tywin's expression. "For the gods' sake, my lord, it's not that hard: you're a clever man, I'm sure you can figure it out." Sighing, I put my report aside again. "In any case, I'm not asking you to do this for free. After all, I did say that we both have problems, and if you help solve mine, I can do the same for yours."

"And what problem is that, exactly?" asked Tywin, his face flushed with resentment.

"You have three children, my lord. Jaime is in the Kingsguard, and can neither marry nor inherit. Cersei, as we mentioned earlier, is my wife, and your youngest son -" his flush deepened - "Is young Tyrion: a bright boy, from what I've heard, but hardly the sort you would like to carry on your family name. You lack an heir of the body to leave the Westerlands to. Oh, you've got cousins galore, but a healthy, vigerous male heir would be best."

The Lion growled. "It is true, Your Grace: my beloved wife is dead, and I have no more sons."

I nodded. "So, I shall simply give you back your eldest."

Tywin blinked in shock. "What? But-"

"But the Kingsguard is a lifelong commitment, I know. Moreover, it has been established that even a king cannot simply discharge a member of that order. However, these are unusual times, and I do not believe that we have ever been in this situation before, that the only acceptable heir to a House Paramount is a member of the White Cloaks. I'm sure, given the urgency of maintaining the Lannister bloodline, we can make an exception, and allow Ser Jaime the opportunity to retire from his position, and return to Lannisport as your heir and successor."

Tywin was poleaxed by the sudden offer of something he had long despaired of recieving. "You ... you would give me my son back?"

I nodded. "In exchange for the murderers, and the peace of the Realm, you can have your son and heir. I have consulted with Ser Barristan, your son's commanding officer. He has consulted the appropriate laws and regulations, and has, reluctantly, agreed that we can offer Ser Jaime the opportunity. He must simply say the word, and he will be allowed to remove his cloak and armour, and return to Lannisport with his honour intact, to serve as your successor."

Tywin's eyebrow raised. "'Opportunity'?"

I shrugged. "As I said, I can't just discharge him: he must request it. The rules of the White Cloaks are clear: all I may do is make the offer. Do you think he would agree?"

Tywin snorted. "Of course he will!" He stood up, and I followed suit. "Your Grace ... thank you," his green eyes burned with sudden sincerity. "Thank you for the opportunity to save the honour of my House. I will send a raven to ensure that the knights in question are taken into custody: the needs of the Realm, of course, come first."

"Brilliant! Guard," I roared, "Send for the Lord Commander and Ser Jaime! And more wine!"

*** *** ***

Some minutes later, the two white-cloaked knights entered the room, the Kingslayer a step behind his commander. Approaching the table, they both bowed. "Your Grace," began Ser Barristan, "You sent for us?"

I nodded, putting my goblet aside and standing up, Tywin not far behind. "Ser Barristan, you remember our conversation regarding Ser Jaime?"

The younger Lannister's eyes flicked to the Lord Commander for a moment in confusion, but straightened as Ser Barristan nodded. "Of course, Your Grace. As I said, it is unusual in the extreme ... but unusual times call for unusual decisions."

I nodded, and turned to Jaime. "Ser Jaime," I said seriously, "You have come to a turning point in your life. As a member of the Kingsguard, you have been asked to give up all claim to title, family and inheritance. However, in light of both your service to your order and this Realm, and the needs of your family, Ser Barristan and I have agreed that you must be given this choice."

Jaime frowned, his handsome features unacustomed to the expression. "Your Grace?"

"Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, I, Robert Baratheon, First of my name, etcetera, etcetera," I rolled my hand, "do hearby extend to you, with the full agreement of both Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy and Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister, the opportunity to honourably put aside your cloak and rejoin your family at Casterley Rock, to one day take your father's place as Lord of the Westerlands and Warden of the West."

Jaime's eyes bulged out and he looked at me, then his father, and finally to the stern face of Ser Barristan. "Ser ... surely -"

"As I said, Ser Jaime," the elder knight said not unkindly, "Unusual times. Understand: I am satisfied with your service, despite what many would say: you are my brother," he said with rare emotion. "I have no wish for you to leave ... but I agree with King Robert: you should be given the choice."

Jaime glanced back at me. "I named you Kingslayer," I said, and saw the slight flare of rage at the title in his emerald eyes, so like his sister's. "But I have never felt less than safe to have you at my back these last six months. Like Ser Barristan, I have no complaints with your service. I have married your sister, and hope to grow to love her, and so, as your brother in law, I make this offer: rejoin your father, marry, have children, and inherit his titles and duties."

He hesitated, and Tywin snarled. "For the gods' sake, boy, they're offering you your life back! Come home, back to your family!" Immediately after he opened his mouth, he realised that it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late.

Jaime straightened up, and bowed deeply towards me. "Your Grace, I understand the enormity of your offer, and the incredible opportunity it lends me. But ... this is so sudden, so unexpected. May I beg leave to consider this for a time?"

The room was silent, but for our breathing, until I nodded. "I understand this is a grave matter, Ser Jaime, so I will allow you a day's grace to reconsider. If you change your mind, come to me or Ser Barristan at any time before tomorrow's sundown, and we will accept your decision then. Speak to your father, to your sister, to Ser Barristan or, if you wish, to me, and we will advise you as we can, but the decision is - must be - yours."

He straightened his spine. "I will, Your Grace, and I thank you for it. You will have my answer before nightfall tomorrow."

*** *** ***

Preparations for Jon's journey south continued, but he managed to set aside some time for a meeting in my chambers, when he presented me with a young man in plain, if well made clothes. "Your Grace, may I present Horin Garrock," he introduced, and the man (well, maybe past his twentieth year ... maybe) bowed. I recognised the name as a minor lordship somewhere in the Stormlands, but he didn't seem the knightly type. "As you requested, I sought out a young man of a scholarly bent, who understood natural philosophy: Horin was a student at Oldtown, and showed promise in matters of chemistry and physick."

Ah: excellent! "But he wears no chain: why did you not join the Maesters?" I asked sternly, but the lad bore up under my attention.

"I fell in love, Your Grace," he said in an even tone, and I suppressed a smile at his backbone. "I knew I could not commit to the Order, and so I withdrew from the Citadel."

I considered for a moment, then nodded. "A man of honor, then. Good. Thank you, Jon, you did exactly as I asked."

The Hand shrugged. "It is my duty. Although I have no idea why you would want a former novice of the Citadel while you have the Grand Maester at your disposal is beyond me."

I smiled, and clapped the elder lord on the shoulder. "I fear you will have to wonder for a while longer: it may turn out to be nothing, but if my idea pans out, it will change ... everything. When you return from Dorn, I promise, I will explain everything."

Jon bowed his way out, leaving me and Horin alone. Suddenly alone with his king, the former student seemed to wilt, until I gestured for him to sit across the table from me. "So, you studied minerals and alchemy at the Citadel?"

The lad flushed. "Yes, Your Grace. I was a tolerable student, and I hoped one day to study the interaction of the elements, but ..." he spread his hands. "Now I am an apprentice to an apothecary in King's Landing, a better post than many who leave the Citadel."

I nodded. "Very well. Horin, I'm afraid your apothecary will have to do without you: you have just entered the service of your king. You will be given a space in the Red Keep for your laboratory, a generous stipend and whatever materials and tools you require.

"We have a lot of work ahead of us."

*** *** ***

It was once said that knowing that one will be hanged in the morning concentrates the mind wonderfully. Knowing that I could one-day turn into a puddle of jelly on legs was enough incentive for me to begin each day with sword practice in the courtyard.

I grunted and sweated in my padded gambeson, but a lifetime of martial training, combined with a physique that could best be described as heroic, meant that both the shield and blunted sword I was swinging were light in my hands ... at least for the first half hour. Eventually, they felt like lead as I exchanged blows with a Barratheon guardsman. I've got the strength, but I need to work on my wind, I reasoned, and resolved to introduce some endurance work to my routine.

Over the last few days, I had largely come to the conclusion that I was really Gladius in Robert's body, not Robert with Gladius' memories. I had a closer emotional tie to my life on Earth, and I greatly missed the friends and family I had left behind ... as well as things like the Internet, telephones, running water and toilet paper. I felt Robert's joys and pains, the loss of his Lyanna, the fury at the Targaryans, but it was a distant, cool sensation. The way Paramount had screwed up the Enterprise series, on the other hand, was still a sharp, painful memory.

In any case, I had resolved to accept my role in this new world: to make the Seven Kingdoms as prosperous and safe as possible, to prepare for the Long Winter ahead, and to try and avoid some of the monumental screw-up's of the next two decades.

Eventually tiring of the exercise, I handed my shield and sword off to my squire (a good, solid lad from the Stormlands: no Lumpy for this King Robert, that's for sure!) and accepted a towel to wipe my face with. "You've a fine hand with a blade, Marcan, and you challenged me today: care to make it a regular appointment?"

The swordsman, not a noble nor a knight, but a simple soldier who fought well at the Trident, paused to rest his weight on his sword, point on the flagstones. "An honour, Your Grace," he panted, but grinned as he doffed his helm. "My younger brother has joined Lord Stannis' expedition, and our elder brother has taken up our family land north of Blackhaven, so I am glad for the opportunity."

I nodded as servants brought over well watered wine, and we each took a cup. "Dondarrion's man, then? Good man, good fighter. You've come a long way."

"Others have come further to serve you, Your Grace. 'Tis simply my honour."

We finished our wine, then I headed off to bathe and dress for the day, but my mind returned to that young soldier. How many more are like him? Far from home, trained and experienced in battle, but now that the war is near ended, with little else to hold them together ... how many will turn bandit? Join sellsword companies? Or just get lost in King's Landing and become drunken thugs, stealing purses for their next jug of ale? And how many would end up in an iron wagon headed up the Kingsroad to find themselves taking the Black, in lieu of a hangman's rope?

*** *** ***

It was something of a surprise to the others when I entered the Small Council Chamber that morning, and everyone rose to attention as I stalked my way inside. "Sit down, sit down, no need to get up," I breezed over to my chair, where Jon was already getting out of the way, signalling for a servant to fetch another chair.

"Forgive our startlement, Your Grace," came the velvet tones of Varys, the eunuch Lord of Whispers, "It is the first time you have decided to grace us with your presence in the deliberation of small matters: and may I say what an honour it is, and a relief, to have your wisdom and -"

"Varys?" I asked, sitting down on the chair, and settling onto the cushion.

"Yes, Your Grace?" simpered the spymaster.

"If I want flattery, I'll visit a brothel. I rely upon you for other things." My tone was cool, but not disrespectful.

The bald man bowed low in his seat, accepting the gentle rebuke. "As you say, Your Grace."

Grand Maester Pycelle, who had been about to copy the eunuch's flattery, struggled to come up with something more original to say, but I interrupted. "I know I haven't been around much since I put on the crown, but Jon's been getting me up to speed. So: unless something important's happened since the last meeting?" Around the table, heads shook. "Right. Consider me informed.

"To begin with, I know this Council has been operating with only some of it's members, since the Masters of Law and Coin either died during the Rebellion or fled the Kingdoms. So, we have a small, Small Council," I waited for them to chuckle at the weak joke, then moved on. "Jon's been taking up the slack, so to speak, but it's time to make some appointments, get things running properly."

"Indeed," noted Pycelle, having recovered his equilibrium, "And about time, too. Nothing like getting a little normality back after a crisis, I always say."

I nodded. "Well Said, Grand Maester. So, I've had Jon make up a list of appropriate candidates, and I've made my decisions." I pulled a small roll of paper out of my tunic, and opened it. "For Master of Laws, I have appointed Lord Gulian Swann."

Stannis nodded. "An excellent choice: good man. Solid."

Jon added his agreement. "And a fine legal mind, as well as an honourable man."

Heads nodded around the table, and I moved on. "For Master of Coin, I have chosen Lord Eldon Estermont."

That was a little more contentious: the Lord of Greenstone was familiar with trade, and had supported the Rebellion, but he was older even than Jon. The Hand frowned. "Perhaps, Your Grace, one of the Lannisters -"

"It does seem, Your Grace, that the Stormlands are, perhaps, becoming overrepresented amongst the Small Council," offered Pycelle, ever-willing to push the Lannister agenda.

"Bah," retorted Stannis, "It was Stormlander blood that bought the Iron Throne, not Lannister gold!"

"Moreover, I know Lord Eldon, and I know his character," I added, "And it is likely that he will only serve for a few years. Perhaps when he retires, we can investigate an alternative appointment, once I've gotten to know the other candidates. For now, I'm sticking with those Lords who have supported me without reservation."

Jon nodded, already planning to present his suggestions at an appropriate point. Sorry, Jon, but there's no way in the Seven Hells I'm letting Petyr Baelish into any kind of position of power. "In addition to those, I've also decided to expand our Council further."

Varys frowned. "Your Grace?"

I shrugged. "I know it's not traditional, but I think it's time for a little adjustment. Both of our new titles take on responsibilities formerly the province of the Hand, but upon discussion with Lord Arryn, we have agreed on the establishment. Firstly, I hereby create the post of Master of Works, responsible for the maintenance, improvement and establishment of roads, aqueducts, bridges, canals, harbours and sewers in King's Landing and the Crownlands. For this task, I have appointed Lord Jeffari Cowan," I named a minor Vale noble that Ned and I had known growing up.

Jon smiled. "A fine choice: a well trained engineer, and a scholar as well as a fine knight. And I would welcome having that part of my load removed: I know little of masonry or plumbing."

"True. Next, I hereby create the post of Master of Arms, to be responsible for the command, training and organising of the Royal Army, a permanent force that will report directly to the Iron Throne." That surprised them, but Stannis nodded firmly. Varys and Pycelle frowned and muttered between themselves, but Ser Barristan was stoic. "Don't be too fearful that I've let the Throne go to my head: I'm authorising a modest force, of around five thousand troops, mostly pikemen and archers.

"I've got a few reasons for this one, and I'll explain. First, to solidify the Dynasty's grip on the Iron Throne. We saw during the Rebellion that some lords chose to follow their leiges, others followed the Throne, and some fought for whichever side they thought was more likely to win. If the Baratheons are going to hold onto that damned uncomfortable chair, then we're going to need a solid, firm force loyal directly to us.

"Second, it'll serve as a way to mop up former soldiers, on either side of the fighting, who might turn bandit when they've got no battles to fight. Instead of letting them drift away, and become problems later, we weld them together into something useful.

"Third, it'll let the Gold Cloaks go back to being thief-catchers and gate guards, rather than pretending to be an army. It's not what they're trained for, or paid for.

"For the role of Master of Arms, I'm naming Ser Vollan Tyrek, of the Vale. He commanded a large group of pike and swords at the Trident, and did well with them. The common soldiers respect him, and the nobles know his family and his honour."

Reluctantly, the lords of the Small Council gave their (unnecessary, but expected) consent to the appointment. I nodded. "Right: that's the highlights. If anyone has any questions or suggestions?" Heads shook and lords gave muttered responses. "Good. Dismissed. Oh, Ser Barristan, can you and Jon stay behind?"

Once the room was mostly cleared, I addressed the two elder warriors. "This mostly concerns you, Ser Barristan, but I wanted Jon to join us. I know you've felt that I've pushed you a little hard, what with asking to let Ser Jaime remove his cloak, and I understand why you'd hate to have any more changes, but ..."

*** *** ***

That evening, as the sun set to the west, I stood at a window looking over the ocean. The sound of the waves and the smell of the salt spray invigorated me, and I smiled, letting the stress of the day drain away.

A scrape of leather on flagstone caught my attention, and I saw the handsome form of Jaime Lannister approach. "Your Grace?"

I turned and nodded. "Ser Jaime."

He opened his mouth to speak, but found that he couldn't. I smiled gently. "Take your time. If it's worth saying, it's worth using the right words."

He swallowed. "If I may, Your Grace?" I nodded, waving ascent. "When you named me Kingslayer -" I winced, remembering how Robert laughed at that jape, and at how it had taken on a life of its own. "When you named me, you told me, 'Don't make a habit of it.' Why did you trust me? I ... I had just killed the king I was sworn to protect, to serve ..."

I clasped my hands behind me, and considered a response. There was Robert's real reason: he didn't really give it much thought, and had reckoned that if Jaime decided to take him out, he would just pop the blond knight's head like a pimple. Obviously, that wasn't something that Jaime needed to hear.

"Before I answer," I said slowly, "I would like to ask something, something I never have before." The Lannister youth nodded. "Why?"

He blinked. "Why ... what?"

"Why kill Aerys? What drove you to kill your king?"

He hesitated: it was clearly not something he had ever said out loud before. His father believed that it was to serve the family. His sister believed it was to serve her. The masses believed it was because he was a dishonorable blackgard with not an ounce of character.

Finally, he found the words. "He loved fire, like all his family. As the Rebellion grew, he ordered his Pyromancers to stockpile wildfire all around the city. When my father began the Sack of King's Landing, the King ordered that the city be burned to the ground: better for all the people to die screaming than for the Throne to fall to someone else. 'Burn them all, burn them all,' he screamed." He swallowed. "I killed the Pyromancer before he could relay the order. The ... the king ... he fouled himself, and ran for the throne, as though it would save him, as though it were some kind of dragon magic." He took a deep breath. "I cut his throat, and he died."

We stood in silence, the king and the kingslayer, for several long moments. Then I said, "You've never told anyone that before, have you." It wasn't a question.

"No," he said bluntly. "No one ... no one has asked. Everyone already knows the answer, or at least the answer they want." Then he looked at me. "And a month ago, if you had asked, I wouldn't have told you."

I raised an eyebrow, and he smiled. "And that's why: a month ago, we wouldn't have been having this conversation. You've changed: I don't know if it's the shock of marrying my sister or if that blasted Throne actually has a little magic left in it, but ... you're not the king you were. Not the king I feared you would be. No, Your Grace, I do not plan on making a habit of it."

I smiled, and clapped a hand on his armoured shoulder. "Ser Jaime, of the Kingsguard, if I ever turn out like Aerys, I expect you to do the same damned thing: better a dead king than a monster on the throne."

We stood in silence for another few minutes, watching the sea turn black as the light faded. Then he spoke up again. "Your Grace, if you'll have me, I would like to remain amongst your Kingsguard."

"Ser Jaime, I would be honoured to have you."

*** *** ***

There were three departures from King's Landing that week.

The first, and with most fanfare, was the sailing of the Royal Fleet under Lord Stannis Barratheon, to subdue the island holdfast of Dragonstone, and capture the last members of the Targaryan dynasty. Thirty-two galleys were the mailed fist of the fleet, intended to smash their way through the Loyalist fleet, but it was the four-dozen cogs and carracks that carried the thousands of knights, horses, men-at-arms, archers, swordsmen, grooms, squires, blacksmiths, septons, maesters, food, ammunition, spare blades, fresh water ... in short, everything needed for a full invasion, organised and prepared under Stannis' firm hand and keen eye for detail. Over the last few weeks, Stannis and I had come to a point where we both respected and trusted one another's strengths. It was a lot like my relationships with my brothers back on Earth: I didn't really like them, but I could appreciate their various talents.

Stannis' gift was for direct action: he drove his men hard, but he also proved that he demanded no less of himself: the days leading up to the launch had seen him hauling loads with his men, making sure all the stores and provisions were ready, when he wasn't practicing blade work or going over lists and planning on how to deal with the few Loyalist forces still in power on the island. Stannis was a man for whom loyalty, duty and law were not simple words, but iron-clad facts. He didn't know how to fail, or give up.

The fleet sailed with the morning tide, to the cheers of the nobility and the commonfolk alike (the former because they knew that their long-term survival depended on the securing of the Barratheon dynasty, the latter because it was a hell of a spectacle): Stannis and I made a short but heartfelt speech each, the High Septon gave the fleet his blessing, and they sailed off.

*** *** ***

The second departure was quieter, and more private. Cersei, Lysa, a few notables and the Small Council (minus Stannis, of course), saw off Jon Arryn as he set sail towards Dorn. The quiet Lysa made her formal goodbyes, and Cersei was polite if distant, but I clapped Jon on the shoulders and wished him well in typically boisterous Robert-style. His small flotilla of carracks would speed him south to treat with the Martells, and bring the Dornish back into the Seven Kingdoms ... hopefully.

*** *** ***

The third, and quietest, departure was the party of soldiers and noblemen who were escorting Lord Tywin Lannister back up the Kingsroad, heading home for Casterly Rock. The Warden of the West had not taken his son's decision to remain in the Kingsguard well, and since it was clear that he would not be offered the opportunity to stand as Hand while Jon was in the South, he had decided to return to Casterly Rock.

*** *** ***

Two of the three departures matched, at least closely, the 'original' history, as portrayed in the books I remembered reading, although both Stannis and Jon were on far better terms with me than they had been with the 'original' Robert. The third I had no idea about: Tywin had only become a factor in the second book, and I really didn't know whether or not he lingered in King's Landing after his daughter's wedding.

Either way, I could only do the best I could, and soldier on.

*** *** ***

After dinner that night, Cersei found me pouring over a large map of the Crownlands and pages of notes on the various families who held land there, muttering to myself as I tried to make sense of the various reports, each of which had been written by a different author, and each in a unique style and structure. Note to self: institute a formalised, standardised system for reports. My list of notes was growing quite extensive: I kept a small book of thoughts, ideas and reminders in my chambers, written in English, a script that was quite foreign to Westrossi and Essosi alike.

I looked up as she approached, a bemused smile on her face, and I snorted, tossing down the sheaf of papers in my hand. "I never thought I'd wish I'd paid more attention to my lessons back in the Eyrie," I sighed, resting my fists on the table. "I was always more interested in thumping heads than using mine."

Cersei walked around the table and slid her arm around my waist and laid her head on my shoulder. "Lord Arryn has barely sailed off, and already you have taken on his burdens, along with your own."

I laughed. "Hardly: in the last few months, Jon's put together quite a few competent underlings. They do most of the work, I just sign my name in the right spot." After giving the damned documents a good read through first: I'm not Tommen 'Barratheon', and don't intend to become a rubber stamp before I get the chance to invent the damned things! "Still, I've got a cousin putting things back together at Storm's End, so I've got to get a handle on these damned Crownlanders: I can't exactly give orders by saying, 'hey, you!'"

Cersei smiled, and ran her hand over my back. Ever since Jaime had decided to remain in King's Landing rather than return to Casterly Rock, she seemed to relax more around me: perhaps she now saw me as an ally? "Then, husband, you are fortunate in that you have a wife who has lived several years in these lands. I know all of these lords and their lands," she waved at the various papers, "In far greater detail than any report your clerks could possibly compile. Were you seeking something specific in this mess?"

I grinned down at her, and then turned back to the map. "At the moment, I'm looking for an estate, preferably one we confiscated from a loyalist family, upon which to establish the new Royal army: close to the city, on the Kingsroad, not too populated or heavily farmed, because the troops will need space to drill ..."

The queen nodded, and traced a graceful finger along part of the map. "There are several possibilities that occur to me immediately ..."

There are more than a few advantages in having a smart wife, I told myself as we talked about the possibilities late into the evening. I just wish it were easier to be able to trust her, knowing what I know.