Red Keep: Tower of the Hand
Not a tenth as spacious as the King’s Throne Room, nor half as imposing as the Small Council Chamber, the Tower of the King’s Hand is nevertheless possessed of its own unique magnificence. Luxurious without ostentation, intimate yet formal, the chambers of the Hand strike a perfect balance between authority and beauty, conducive to counsel and policy. Upon floors of red stone are strewn Myrish rugs, embroidered in fantastic patterns with birds, beasts and plants of exotic kind. At the southern end of the tower is a round golden window like the sun, and a watchful eye upon the rest of King’s Landing. Beneath it is the high seat of the King’s Hand; a deceptively simple chair of polished golden wood and black leather.
Adorning the walls, white-pillared against the red stone masonry, are wall hangings depicting scenes of hunting and battle, and famous events of history. On the northern wall, a serpentine staircase spirals upward to the Hand’s private residence chambers. Before the high seat are two smaller chairs, and upon a low table between them are quill, inkwell and parchment. An extensive bookcase contains numerous tomes and scrolls, and the personal mementos of the King’s Hand. Northward a pair of oak doors lead to a wide hall, where petitioners may wait for an audience. The door to the tower, heavy and reinforced with steel and brass fittings, bears the sigil of the Hand.
The squire leads Almer to the royal apartments, past the familiar faces of the Kingsguard to where the king is being divested of the heavy cloak and chain and doublet. The plain tunic beneath shows the slight stain of his body’s sweat, but the king hardly seems to notice it. “There you are, ser,” the Young Dragon says, motioning towards a seat. “Now that that tedious business is out of the way, some wine for parched throats.” The king drops into his own seat, a low-backed chair, as one of the squires moves to fill two goblets from a silver-gilt decanter. The wine being poured is a dark red.
Looking frankly at the marginally older knight, Daeron states, “You look well, ser. Does this mean King’s Landing agrees with you?”
Though he seems a trifle uneasy, especially in such august and refined company, Ser Almer looks like he belongs; clad in ghostly white samite and rich blood-crimson, with vivid dancing griffins on cloak and mantle, he is the picture of the dashing young knight. He projects an air of quiet confidence, and the smile he offers the king is at once familiar and full of respect. “Your Grace,” he says, bowing formally and then dropping the pretense.
“It does not. King’s Landing smells worse than Sunspear, and the snakes here are twice as poisonous.” He accepts wine from the squire but does not sip. “But you are kind to say so.”
“I am always kind,” says Daeron, laughing—sounding like the youth that he really is, still at the flower of manhood. He takes a swallow from the heavy goblet—a Dornish summerwine, as it turns out to be—and then notes, “Yet you are here, despite all that? I am surprised. I should have thought that, if you disliked it so, you’d return to Griffin’s Roost. Especially as I am told your brother is here. Or is it your betrothed that keeps you? A handsome woman, I saw.”
“In truth, since the war ended I have found myself longing for my tourney days,” the young knight replies with a wistful smile. “A knight-errant’s life, tourney to tourney, has a certain clean simplicity to it.” Almer shakes his head, samples the wine, and finds it excellent. His expression sobers a bit. “As for my… ‘betrothed’...” He chooses his words with care, uneasy and unsure of how to proceed. “The Lady Liane is beautiful and noble indeed, and my lord father honors me by arranging the match. But, the truth of the matter, Your Grace, is that we are unsuited… For I love another.” The easy confidence is gone now, and he seems as if he wishes the ground would swallow him up rather than continue.
The king takes that surprisingly lightly. Indeed, he flashes a smile and remarks, “That is why Dornishmen have their paramours, ser. Doubtless you will find the lady understanding of the situation. The septons here will be less understanding ... but those in Dorne? I expect you’ll find them uninterested in such matters when you and your lady are at Hellholt.” That then leads to a rueful smile, and a remark on the Ullers. “The gods know when that will be, of course. I trust Lady Joslena only marginally further than I can throw her. So long as there are rebels in the mountains, the Ullers are likeliest to try and join them at a moment’s whim. Your lady is not mad, is she?” A shake of his head, and he takes another swallow of the wine.
“The lady is an Uller, and all Ullers are half-mad. She says she will accept it,” Almer replies with a weary frown. “And that is madness to me. But I fear my honor will not bear such an arragement. I am no zealot of the Faith, sire. But I am no Dornishman, either. If I take this lady to wife, and say the vows, then I must be bound by them, and put aside the lady I truly love, and break her heart, and mine, I fear.” His hands tighten into fists at his side. “Why not Gallard? He is my father’s heir and the logical match. I am only a knight and a second son.”
With this, the king seems a little less pleased. A frown touches his lips, and he is silent before yet another sip of the wine. “Well. That is not what I thought to hear, ser,” Daeron says. “You’re questioning your lord father’s thinking? You aren’t giving him enough credit. If he had proposed Gallard for such a marriage, I would have rejected it. I know little enough about your elder brother, but you’ve made it plain he is not a fighting man. He has not even taken a knight’s vows, for gods’ sake! How could he possibly hope to one day hold Hellholt?”
He shakes his head now, and says firmly, “Lord Athell was canny. If Lady Joslena dies early—and who knows? her health was not the best when I was there; she ate little enough—then I will depend on you to keep that pack of madmen in line. In return, you’ve one of the greatest seats in Dorne, commanding much of the land that connects the west of Dorne with the east. Over all that, you’d rather have this woman you speak of? Who is she?” The last is a clear demand.
“He is no knight,” Almer agrees, his eyes hard as he considers his brother. “But holding Hellholt is a task beyond any one man, I think. And as for my father…” An eloquent shrug. “As for my lady… she is a young woman I encountered in the Prince’s Pass, when I rode with Lord Garvys. She had been used viciously by some of Dagos Manwoody’s men. She is… remarkable. She has dedicated herself to looking after orphans of the war.” He smiles, wistful again. “Her name is Keira… Sand. Perhaps you see some of my difficulty.”
The mention of Hellholt makes Daeron’s brow furrow, and his frown turns to a brief scowl. He takes a long swallow from the goblet, and then sets it down hard. “I see no difficulty, Ser Almer,” he states flatly. “Break off the engagement, upset your father, marry the lady, and probably be disowned. It will make errantry much easier, I assure you.” The last words are said with a little heat. There is an awkward pause from him, but it is clear that he expects to speak.
“I will have to see to finding someone else for Lady Liane, then,” he finally says, grudgingly. “Viserys always did disapprove, the old fart. I’m sure to have an earful from him. _And_ your father.”
Disbelief, as if Almer mishears the King, plays havoc with the knight’s composure. He laughs then, loud and long, with all the pent up emotion born of months of anxiety. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he says with an effusive smile. “I am accustomed to dealing with my lord father. But marrying my lady would be much simpler if she were not a Sand,” Almer adds with a none-too-subtle arch of his brow. “Even so, if you are concerned for Hellholt, then you need only say the word. I will take my company down there and burn it into ash, or turn it into a garden, or put the heads of all the Ullers on the battlements.” The grandiloquent words are exaggerations, of course, but he seems altogether sincere about his willingness. “My sword, as ever, is yours.”
“I doubt that will be necessary,” Daeron responds, more seriously than the remarks perhaps deserves. “Marry your bastard, and worry about your father disowning you.” The words seem particularly well-chosen, and his gaze from across the table is flat. He leans over to take up the goblet, weighing it in both hands before draining it in a long, last sip. “You’re already thinking about it, I suppose, with that offer of your sword. And that of those who follow you, as well? Or will they all turn back to your lord father?”
“They are sworn to me, and to Your Grace. Not to Lord Connington.” Almer smiles grimly, masking his disappointment with a show of confidence. “But if they choose to follow Griffin’s Roost, and not the Griffin, I will not hold them unwilling.” He sets his glass aside, barely touched. “If my lord father disowns me, what does that leave him? Gallard?” Almer, for the first time, seems openly contemptuous of his brother. “He’ll have better luck getting a granchild through the High Septon’s line.”
He pauses. “I meant what I offered, though, sire. My sword is yours, and ever shall be. I have seen enough of this city to know it is full of flatterers and liars. Even so, trust that I am your true knight, and my men with me.”
“Of course. Thank you, Your Grace.” The easy dismissal draws an equally easy reply, and Almer bows with just a touch of formality. “I will see to the lady. Farewell, and welcome home, sire.” The lanky young knight backs away, ever correct, then turns to stride from the room. His step is noticeably lighter than when he arrived.