The sun shines brightly this day, with nary a cloud in the sky. Rumor runs through the castle that Baelor has determined to depart sooner rather than later, citing the danger of bandits troubling him and the hostages despite the best efforts of the Warden of the Kingswood. Because of this, there’s an unusual quality to the Red Keep, an atmosphere of hurried expectation. So it is, perhaps, a surprise to see Prince Viserys, with the symbol of his office draped on his chest, taking time out of his day to peruse the king’s kennels, where hounds bark and yelp and howl for attention. The kennelkeepers are kept busy, feeding and caring for the beasts, but they all bow nervously as the Hand passes them by. One of his household knights trails after him.
Summoned by one of the more dutiful kennelkeepers Ser Luthor Rivers appears, dressed for his role as huntsman in dark leathers, slashed with red, a fair approximation of his usual woolen livery, done in leather. The three headed dragon of the Targaryens above his chest. He smiles to see the Prince among the hounds and then after a moment, makes his way over, bowing when he has reached an appropriate distance. “An unexpected pleasure your Grace,” he says when given leave to rise from his bow.
The prince, bulky in his robes and his chain of office, gives the younger man a nod of his head in greeting, and then a motion of a hand with a heavy ring on it lets Ser Luthor up from his courtesy. “Being about the dogs reminds me of my care-free days,” Viserys says to the younger man, “before my brother called upon me to be his Hand. I have no time for hunting anymore.” Not, in truth, that he was ever a great enthusiast of hunting, from all reports—but perhaps time and cares have magnified his enjoyment of the sport.
“Lady Reyna informed my steward that you wished to see me. Something about the broken men?” Viserys asks then, as he stops in front of a capering hound that presses up against its cage, tail wagging furiously. It’s rare to see a smile on the prince’s lips, yet there is a thin one, and he kneels on the ground to pat the creature as he speaks.
For truth it is hard to associate care-free and Prince Viserys in Luthor’s mind, to him Viserys’ name has always been associated with the management of the realm. He examines the Prince with carefully lowered eyes trying to imagine him a young man. He finds it a challenge. “Well should the time ever be found,” Luthor says. “I would be pleased to offer you brief return to those days at your pleasure.”
He watches the Prince with the dog for a moment before speaking on business. “Yes your Grace, I did have a pair of proposals one to do with the honest broken men, the other for those who have turned bandit.” He explains, as he kneels near the dog as well, though a respectful distance away from the Prince.
The dog’s licking at the prince’s hand, and his smile briefly widens ... before the purple eyes narrow in thought, as he looks at Rivers. “Well, ser,” the Hand finally says, before removing his actual hand from the cheerful dog which is still wagging its whole body at the unexpected attention. “What thoughts have you had on the matter?”
Luthor nods, getting down to business. “The first thought was for the men turned bandit. I was thinking if the crown put forward a reward and pardon for those bandits who turn themselves in and reveal the location of their fellows. Payment and pardon conditional on finding the bandits so revealed. We’d have the bandits turning on each other and doing the Kingswood men’s work for them.” The bastard knight reaches out to the dog as well, rubbing him gently. “The second is for those men still honest. It seems to me, with so many lost in Dorne, the crown’s own lands, and those of the Crownlanders, must want for strong backs to work the land, and have many widows wanting husbands. I thought that perhaps we might pair broken men with widows, and ensure thus reduce the number of men like to turn bandit, and, see the realm prosper as fields are worked, and harvests reaped before winter is upon us.”
A thoughtful hum at that, as Viserys’s thick, pale eyebrows lower, forehead wrinkling. He stands then, hands dusting away at his robes. “I see you have put some thought into the matter,” the prince says, briskly. “But the first proposal should rightly have gone to the Warden of the Kingswood. These bandits are his responsibility, and if thinks the idea good, it is for him to let us know.” And so he turns those purple eyes, always judging and weighing, to the knight as he asks, “Have you presented this matter to Ser Sarmion?”
Luthor meets those weighing purple eyes as he frames his reply. “You are correct your Grace, rightly it should have been given to Ser Sarmion, and I did not intend any insult to the man by bringing it to you first, but given that his wife is in a bad way, with childbed fever, I had thought it would be better not to bother him with this, and instead seek your counsel on proposal,” the knight says honestly. “Forgive me if I have stepped wrongly.”
There’s a weighing, judicious pause ... and then Viserys shrugs his shoulders. “Speak to Ser Sarmion on it. I do not know if he will find it a wise course or not, but I would not have him say that men seek me out when it is his given duty,” the prince finally says, with a certain ... irony in his voice, perhaps. But then he says, “This other thought of yours, on the other hand… You understand, ser, that the Iron Throne is not a marriage broker for every wench and potboy in King’s Landing. And yet…”
He falls silent in thought, and then he says, “Come, ser. I must think a little, and if I am not sitting, walking is the next best thing for thinking.” He turns, walking from the kennels, his guardsman a few steps behind him. After a little while he says, “It is true, the king’s own demenses are somewhat reduced for the loss. If his grace were to agree, I could have our factors and stewards put forward the word, tendering such offers as you prorpose. If the king’s leal vassals should choose to follow suit, all the better.” And then, as an afterthought, he adds, “You understand, however, that the king will not order them—Darklyn, Stokeworth, Rosby, and all the rest—to do the same. Nor any other lord.”
Rising from his crouch, Luthor joins the hand in walking, hands clasped at the small of his back. “I will speak to Ser Sarmion of it then,” he says, and falls silent until the Hand has said all he means to say of the matter. The bastard knight nods. “I understand your Grace, and I would not expect the Iron Throne to give such orders to its lords, it would set a poor precedent. However I am confident that Crownlanders, having lost so many, will see the wisdom in applying a similar policy within their own demenses. I have been in communication with a number of the men in question, honest veterans who seek legal means by which to avoid starvation, if my suggestion should be acceptable to him, I would be pleased to assist in finding the men for your stewards and factors.”
“Perhaps,” Viserys says, non-committally, as he walks. Perhaps to what? It is not clear, and he does no clarify. Instead, he changes the subject. “And how have you found your time as royal huntsman, ser? Is the office to your liking?”
Not willing to pry further into meaning of perhaps, Luthor falls silent, and follows the new course of the conversation as easy as a stream diverts around a stone. “It’s a good post, for which I am greatful and I am pleased to serve his Grace in this or whatever capacity he might decide I am best for,” the Rivers knight replies. Not exactly a full answer, but an answer all the same.
Viserys nods at that—it’s an expected answer. “You have been doing well, by all accounts. And I have heard you are a most enterprising knight, ser. Taking in boys as apprentices, arranging guards for merchants… Men of such enterprise are rare, in these days.” Is that a good or a bad thing? The way he says it, it’s not exactly clear, his expression and tone well-schooled. But he watches.
Not yet, the flawless courtier that he aspires to be, some pleasure at the Hand’s words, are visible in Luthor’s eyes, as he walks along beside the Prince, with a courtier’s smile fixed on his lips. He offers a bow of gratitude. “Your Grace’s words are kind. I only do what I can to make the realm better place in my small way, even as I make my own place in it.”
“Commendably said, Ser Luthor,” the prince says then, pausing in his walk. He takes the measure of the younger man, and then nods his head briskly. “I shall let you return to your duties, ser, as I return to mine. Perhaps I shall find occasion to go to the kingswood and hunt, some day—you will be sure to hear about it.” And with that, Rivers is dismissed with a last nod. “Good day to you, ser.”
Bowing with all courtesy, Ser Luthor bids farewell to the Hand. “My thanks for your company your Grace, it has been a pleasure to speak with you, and it would bring me joy to know you have had some time for pleasure amidst your many duties.” He inclines his head as he stops his own progress as the Prince carries on. “Good day, your Grace.”