The King's Hand

"All right, you lot! I hired you a master archer from the Dornish Marches as an instructor! There will be free lessons for anyone who wants them on their day off!"

The prince's voice was beginning to change, Jon noticed. He'd have his twelfth nameday quite soon. From all indications, he'd have his father's booming battle voice. Not quite six feet yet, the royal heir had a decent chance at attaining his sire's height, as well.

Gods, I feel old, Jon thought. It seemed like only yesterday that young Robert had won the throne.

The prince noticed him and bowed slightly. "Ah, my lord hand, welcome! Is Lyra well?" he asked immediately. Joffrey held the reins of his horse politely while he dismounted. His squire and Arryn household guards did the same behind him.

"His Grace's favorite was beginning her travails ere I left, my prince," the Lord of the Vale explained, a bit uneasily. Robert was always a man of strong appetites, siring a bastard before he was even a man grown. Joffrey's seeming comfort with the public dishonor of his mother rankled. What manner of boy cared more for sewers than his own lady mother? It was the Lannister in him, Jon decided.

"And the maester washed his hands, as I instructed? And cleansed his instruments with strongwine?"

"Yes, yes," Jon confirmed. "All progresses by your design."

"Then it's in the god's hands," Joffrey remarked. The lad waved his arm, indicated the "city outside the city," a few minutes by horse upriver. "Have you come to inspect our facilities? See there? That's the washhouse. All my workers must strip and scrub down at the end of the workday, every day. There is also the cookhouse and the bunkhouse beyond. All that they might need is provided as part of their wages."

There were long timber buildings, each constructed after the same fashion. The place was not terribly crowded just now, as most of the workmen in the prince's employ labored in the city, under the city, to tell it true. It was impressive enough, as these parts were but empty fields a few years ago, the ruins of an old holdfast burnt down in the war.

"It seems, my prince, that half the city works for you these days," Jon remarked, trying not to sound accusatory. That business about training his men as archers put Jon on alert. Joffrey and his father were close, but still, the boy was ambitious, no mistake about it. Even more alarming, he'd been the same when he was small. What would the prince wish for when he was a man grown, with a man's hunger?

"A temporary measure," Joff remarked casually. "Once the city is completely rebuilt, and the displaced persons are resettled, they will return to their former trades, had they any. For the rest, I'll find something."

He sounded so sure of that. Jon liked it not at all. "Is it a prince's business to find work for the idle?" Jon could not resist asking.

"Yes," Joffrey answered immediately with shocking confidence. The snap of the word made Jon recoil slightly.

"You truly mean that?"

"Naturally." There was an easy smile upon his face, his Lannister face. The boy was Jaime with Robert's bulk, and mayhaps Tywin's wits. "The flow of water is my business, Lord Jon. Money flows much the same. What a king receives in taxes, he may, if he is wise, put back in circulation. I find some manner of useful work, and hire the smallfolk to do it. All the realm benefits in the bargain, for the peasant has coin in his pocket, which he will spend, and my city shall have something which was not there before!"

Gods, he was bragging about it. Still...

"Lord Baelish did tell me tax revenue was up, somehow."

"It is no surprise at all, Lord Jon!" Joffrey answered with easy confidence, almost as if he were a maester lecturing. "A poor lad rotting in Fleabottom, with no way to earn his bread but thieving, now has a trade. He can earn his bread. With the coin obtained thereby, he buys all manner of things, enriching bakers, butchers, and tailors, among others. The guilds pay their taxes, and because they've been doing more business, they have more with which to pay."

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There was a certain logic in it, and trade was thriving, so Petyr assured him.

"About the flow of water," Jon attempted to change the subject. "Your men labor continually. Have you a notion of when the work shall be complete?"

"Never," Joffrey answered. Gods, this conversation was bad for Jon's heart. "Anything built must be maintained. Someone will always be working on it. But the main trunk sewer is completed already. The ancillary courses will take another two years, at the present rate. Work on the alludio, ahem, outfalls, beyond the Iron Gate, has already begun. Reconstruction of the northeastern portion of the city is being conducted in tandem, but anything worth doing is worth doing well. There is a new grid plan with wider streets and a system of waste disposal, as well as precautions against future fires. I anticipate full functionality by the year 300, two years from now, as long as the weather holds. If winter comes before then, it may slow us down. A good round number, don't you think? 300 shall be the start of a new era for my city."

His city. The prince spoke as if it were true already.

Mentally, Jon was calculating the sum in his head. He'd have to check with Petyr to make sure. Even if the crown was in debt, Lord Tywin was more than happy to fund his grandson's fancies. There was no way Robert would countenance a stoppage, either. For his precious golden boy, no price was too great. Well, it was about time to get down to business.

"It was not an inspection of your works that brought me hence, my prince."

Joffrey brought his heels together and stared up at Jon. "Oh?" he said, waiting patiently for an answer.

Jon took a deep breath. He really had no idea what the boy would do when he found out he wasn't going to get something he wanted. "We received a reply from the Dornish."

"And?"

"Prince Doran has other plans for his daughter's hand."

Joffrey blinked. "But she's ten years older than me. By the reckoning of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess Arianne is near out of time already."

Jon sighed, though secretly he was relieved. A Dornish faction at court was the last thing he needed. "I know not the Prince's mind, Joffrey."

"Damn," the boy said quietly. "I had thought it the best match. There is bad blood with the Martels from the war. What better way to make amends than to make his daughter a queen?" He leaned in slightly and whispered, "And between you and me, I prefer the look of Dornish women."

Robert's son, indeed.

"Well, mayhaps I'm too young in any case. We can discuss likely brides some other time. Is there anything else, my lord?"

There was, but how to bring it up?

"My prince, your mother..."

Catching his tone at once, Joffrey led the Hand away to an isolated corner of the town where they were not like to be overheard. "She's not well, plainly. Mother hardly leaves her bedchamber, having meals brought to her by one trusted servant. She's drunk most of the time and hardly speaks to me. Her morose mood has affected Myrcella and Tommen. Truly, I know not what to do. Sending her away might make matters worse."

All this, Joffrey reported rapidly, seeming to hold nothing back.

Her Grace's seclusion was bad enough, but the main issue was her refusal to appear at official events. It looked ill to the court, and Lyra Flowers was more visible every day. If the boy thought Cersei needed to be removed outright, then Jon had little hope of getting the queen to come out of her tower. Soon, Robert would have a second bastard by Lyra. No clean solution occurred to him, so Jon made his excuses and left.

I am the second most prominent man in the realm, and the most powerless.