Chapter Text
284 A.C.
Tywin Lannister hated his children. Of course he loved them—they were his blood and his legacy—but he despised them all the same. Of the three, there was only one who had even half a brain, and it was the Imp. If that was not tragic, Tywin did not know what was. Still, he loved his children, so when fourteen-year-old Cersei told him that she wanted to be a queen, Tywin made her the Queen, because they were Lannisters and Lannisters always got what they wanted.
But the mighty Tywin Lannister forgot something very important, something that he did not recall until a good four years later, at the wedding feast of the new king and queen, a stag and a lion where once there were only dragons. When Tywin had informed his daughter of her betrothal two moons before, she had laughed with delight and thanked him a thousand times over, insisting that she was going to be the happiest woman in all Westeros.
And, for a day, she was. Then came the night, and feasting and dancing and drinking, and Tywin watched as realization dawned on his only daughter’s face as she in turn watched her new husband, her king, stare down into his goblet of Dornish wine with all the adoration that she so craved.
It was only then that, Tywin, too, realized; realized that desires could be poisonous and satisfying them fatal. But by then it was too late. He had given a lioness a crown, and in doing so he had dug a grave for the whole pride.
Such is fate, sometimes.
286 A.C.
Cleome had a mother once, but she did not remember her. She had a father once, too, and she did remember him, though she wished she didn’t.
Now Cleome had a babe of her own. He was growing fast, though, and every day he looked less like a babe and more like a boy.
One day he would be grown (she had seen him in a dream, a man grown, tall and strong and beautiful, and it warmed her heart and broke it at the same time) and he would not remember her. Nor had he a father to remember, not in any way that really counted.
No, her beautiful boy would not remember her. He would not love her, never know her face, not if everything worked out for the best. But she would love him for always, and could only hope that someday he might come to forgive her, that someday he might come to understand. Even if he did not, it would be all right, because in order to hate her he had to be alive, and that was all that really mattered.
She saw a few gold cloaks coming down the street and instinctively pulled her own cloak tighter, her hood falling to her brow to shadow her face.
She needed to save her son, her precious Gendry.
Being a whore had few advantages, but they were there nonetheless, and the greatest of them was knowledge. It would probably more accurate to say gossip, but the rumors first heard in the brothels tended to have an alarming amount of truth to them. So when she first heard whispers of Robert’s bastards being targeted, meeting “mysterious” ends, since the birth of the prince, Joffrey, she listened. Listened, and heard of fish market boys drowning and stablehands trampled and killed by their horses and dozens of other suspicious tales, connected only by black hair and blue eyes and bastard names and, nearby, whispers of red and gold and lions (though no one dared mention the name “Lannister”).
Cleome was a whore, but she was no fool. She knew her son wasn’t safe—he had too much of the Baratheon look to be mistaken as anything else, especially by those who knew what they were looking for. She knew she had to do something. But what? That was the question. Leaving King’s Landing was not an option. She had no money, no place to go, and if she left she would be looking over her shoulder for more than just Lannister men. Cleome had worked for Bill the Bloodhound since she was twelve, alone in the world and willing to do anything for a bed to sleep in and a meal to eat. Bill got his name from his infamous practice of hunting down and killing women who left his service without his permission, as well as his uncanny talent for finding them. Unfortunately, in exchange for permission to leave Bill demanded five gold dragons, gold dragons that Cleome did not have. So leaving was simply not a possibility.
Cleome sighed and quickened her pace. She had no destination, but moving made her feel a little better, made her feel as if she had some semblance of control even though she knew better.
A hand reached out from the shadows and grabbed Cleome by the forearm, yanking her into a narrow alleyway before she even realized what was happening. Cleome cursed herself for being so stupid. She had been so focused on the gold cloaks that it dulled her awareness of the rest of her surroundings. She could hope that her mistake would not cost her her life.
She could not see her attacker, hooded and cloaked and enshrouded in shadow, but he was strong, and he pulled her further into alley. She went to scream and he shoved a rag in her mouth. The cloth was soaked in something Cleome could not identify, something sweet and sharp and cloying.
“I am sorry about all this,” her attacker apologized, his voice oddly pitched and lilting. “But you can never be too careful.”
Cleome felt her limbs growing heavy and her eyes closing of their own accord. Her mind clouded and her thoughts dissolved one by one until there were none left at all.
When Cleome came to, her first thought was of the throbbing ache in her head. The second was of Gendry. She had left him with Loren, a fellow mother working for Bill, and her four-year-old daughter Lyra, but she couldn’t leave him there forever.
The third thought she had was of herself. Where was she? The room she was in was richly furnished, well-lit, and could easily be anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms or possibly beyond. There were no windows, no sigils, nothing that even suggested where she may be. And before her, one of the strangest men she had ever seen sat in a gilded chair, eyeing her curiously. He was large and impeccably clean. His bald head shined like polished stone and his clothes, though sparsely ornamented, were clearly of the finest make.
“Where am I?” she asked, if only to break the silence.
“Nowhere of importance,” the bald man told her. Cleome was shocked to realize the man before her was the very same who had attacked her in Flea Bottom.
“Who are you?” she asked, though she doubted the answer, if any, would be any more informative than the first one he gave.
“No one of importance,” he answered. “A spider, some call me.”
Varys. She had had enough highborn clients to know the name. The eunuch wrapped in mystery that, supposedly, knew every secret from Winterfell to Sunspear.
“So you have heard of me,” Lord Varys commented.
“Why am I here?”
“No, I am no one of importance. Neither are you,” Lord Varys said, ignoring her question entirely. “But your son… Gendry, is it not? Well, he’s another matter.”
Cleome could feel her heartbeat in her throat.
“How do you know of my son?” she demanded.
“Knowing things is a… specialty… of mine, Miss… Cleome, is it not? A very pretty name.” Lord Varys smiled when he spoke and his eyes twinkled, as if everything he said was a joke only he understood.*
“Why am I here?” Cleome asked again. She knew enough of lords to know their games, their riddles and their politics and their lies. But she did not know enough to know the rules, nor was she in any mood for games.
“You want to save your son. I know a man who can help. I’m just playing… matchmaker?”
Cleome heard a knocking sound behind her. She turned her neck to see a large wooden door, and the movement made her head spin.
“Lord Arryn has arrived, my lord,” a muffled voice announced from from the other side of the door.
“Send him in,” Lord Varys replied. Cleome could hardly believe her ears. The master of whispers and now the hand of the king?
Cleome had seen Lord Jon Arryn a handful of times in her life, but always from a great distance. When he stood before her, she found herself surprised by how much older he looked up close. His face was well-lined with wrinkles and his grey hair was thinning. He did not, however, look frail in the slightest. He had a strong and unyielding air about him that radiated a permanence of sorts, and Cleome could not say she had ever seen the like.
“I am sorry about all this, my dear,” Lord Arryn apologized, sitting where Varys had been not a moment before. Cleome’s eyes darted around the room, but there was no sign of the eunuch. It was as if he had simply vanished. A chill went down her spine.
“Lord Varys can be quite disconcerting, can he not? Part of what makes him so good at his job, I think,” Lord Arryn said, and against her better judgement Cleome slowly found herself relaxing in his company.
“Yes, milord,” she agreed timidly, unsure of what else to say.
“But as fascinating as Varys may be, he is not my concern, nor would I imagine is he yours,” Lord Arryn paused, contemplating his next words. “I am aware this might be a delicate subject, my dear, but are you certain your son is Robert’s?”
Cleome fought to hide the wave of irritation that surged through her.
“Entirely, milord. Gendry is his image. Hair like a crow’s wing, eyes like the sea. He’s big for his age, has been since the first, and he’s strong, too. Bent a spoon the other day,” Cleome finished. She doubted she would be able to withhold from making a scene if it turned out that he brought her all this way just to wave her aside.
“Pardons, my dear. I have offended you, that was not my intent. This situation is growing uglier by the day and I’m afraid it has taken its toll on my courtesies.”
Cleome nodded curtly.
“From what Varys has told me, you are aware of the current situation regarding the king’s bastards.”
She nodded again.
“I do not wish to cause any trouble, milord. I only want to save my son,” she swore to him, not caring if her desperation seeped into her voice.
“I know, my dear. I only want to help you,” Lord Arryn said.
“Then help me. Help him,” Cleome demanded. She realized she was raising her voice at a lord, but she did not feel apologetic in the slightest. Not when it came to her son.
“You must take him north, to Winterfell. Bring your son to Lord Eddard Stark and give him this letter,” Lord Arryn pulled an envelope from his doublet, the flap sealed with stamped wax. “Lord Stark will know what to do. Your son will be safe there, which is more than I can say for anywhere else in all seven kingdoms.”
“I am afraid, my lord, that leaving King’s Landing is not an option for me,” Cleome admitted.
“I am aware of your situation.” Lord Arryn smiled sadly. “But I was not speaking of you. Believe me when I say I would buy your freedom if I could, but I cannot. Such an act would draw too much attention, could be too easily traced. There are spies everywhere, and they would put the pieces together. Unfortunately, your son will only be safe once he passes through the gates of Winterfell, and not a moment before. I would not free you from a hound to throw you into the lion’s den.”
Cleome understood, though she did not like it. She had known for a while that saving her son would most likely mean being separated from him, but to hear it so plainly from another made the entire situation painfully real.
“Then who will take him?” she asked quietly.
“That is the problem,” Lord Arryn sighed. The matter was one he had contemplated long and hard without much success. “My men cannot take him for the very same reason you cannot take him. I was hesitant to bring you here—I did not want to give you false hope. But if there was even the smallest chance… you don’t know anyone who can take him?”
Cleome could feel her heart sinking until, suddenly, a thought suddenly popped into her head and, for the first time since she realized Gendry was in danger, she felt an inkling of genuine hope. “Actually, I just might.”