2 The Iron Throne

The grand hallways of The Red Keep were bathed in the silence of the fearful. The servants spoke to no one. The nobility muttered at most. And the guards stood with bent backs and burdened shoulders. Alistair looked on with worry as he wandered the halls, a finely polished wooden box of delicacies balanced on top of his hand, with the emblem of The Biscuits Union emblazoned upon the lid in gold.

He knew that the times were ill within The Red Keep, everyone had heard some rumours of what happened within, and with their extensive access to information he had heard almost all of the rumours. Perhaps second only to the master of whispers, at least within King's Landing, seeing as he knew him to have both spies of his own, and one or two within the Union itself.

Alistair decided that perhaps he should at the very least grant the people of The Red Keep a breath of fresh air, so to speak, even if he was there to see an atrocity committed, and a rebellion born. Alistair straightened his unconsciously bowed back, teased a cheerful and benevolent smile forth to play over his lips as he thought of better times within The Union, and animatedly studied whichever art he happened to see.

The Red Keep was rather magnificent, even for all of its current atmosphere. Alistair currently walked the inner halls, on his way to pass the entrance to the throne room at an auspicious time to witness all which happened within. It was not his preferred path through the castle, as he rather preferred the path with a fantastic view of the sea, with its sweeping arched windows and as-close-to-fresh-as-King's-Landing-achieved scent. Of course, this path had intriguing paintings every so often, and the entirety of The Red Keep had a flair for open sweeping arches to allow cooling breezes, so perhaps his destination coloured his opinion slightly.

Alistair inwardly shook the thoughts aside, although he ensured that no such action was taken physically, as he rather felt it would ruin the atmosphere he carried with him. He happily noted that his ploy for a small light in dark times seemed to be a success, given the slight spark of hope he noted in the eyes of those who passed with a nod from him.

It also unsettled him slightly, however, that the slightest sign of confidence and comfort from a complete unknown was all it took to spark hope within them. For if an unknown baker was enough to awaken hope, how starved for a saviour were they? And what caused such desperate need for someone to believe in?

Alistair felt that the time was right to approach the grand hall, and so called out to the next servant he saw cross his path. "Hello, I seem to have gotten terribly turned about, rather embarrassingly really, as I've been to the keep far too often to be this lost. You would not happen to be able to point me in the direction of the quarters of Lady Valdyne?" Alistair said, ensuring that he remained cordial and jovial.

The maid seemed surprised to be addressed at all, never mind kindly, and while she didn't smile, she did seem less downtrodden, for a moment. "Of course, my-" her eyes flicked to the box he carried. "…Would you prefer to be shown the way, or should I just suggest a path?"

"Ah, a difficult question. Considering that I honestly should have found it on my very own as any half-witted two-year-old might have been able to do, I clearly cannot be trusted with directions-" A fantastic excuse to be found where you did not belong, he had found, and since then he had cultivated a reputation for getting lost. "- yet simultaneously, I would not want to inconvenience you so."

The maid thought for a moment, before she paled slightly and answered with a waver in her voice. "I would be honoured to guide you. The quickest path would go past The Grand Hall, but with the upcoming… trials, we may not wish to take that path. Of course, if speed is needed, all you would need to do is say the word."

Alistair glanced around and saw quite a few others at the crossroads of halls he found himself in. He had no wish to involve the poor girl, no older than fourteen, in anything as horrific as his goal, and thought that he may as well cultivate a reputation for kindness when such an opportunity presented itself.

"I would then be happy to accept your gracious offer-" Alistair said as he began to walk, pausing for a moment or two. He paused until the improved understanding of others his Charisma granted him told him that it was an instant before the girl would overcome her hesitance and follow. He paused mid-step, perhaps a bit theatrically and turned to 'study' her, before he continued his sentence. "Of guidance. You seem very dedicated to your work, to the point of fear, and I would never dream of bringing you to something you are so clearly averse to doing."

She practically sagged with relief as she began to explain the route she deeded the swiftest. Alistair listened, both to her, with an expression of attention, even towards someone 'lower' than himself, while also vaguely hearing the surprised murmurs of approval, and the sound of rumours being birthed from all around them.

Alistair eventually stood around the corner of the wide hallway leading to The Throne Room. He stayed out of sight as he waited, the low echoing conversation reaching him through the cavernous halls. He waited, already prepared with small plates of iron attached under his heels designed to draw attention as he walked. When the soft sounds of speaking slowly started to simmer to a halt, he began to walk, stepping down with his heels so that his every step echoed like thunder in the silence which fell over the hall, just as practiced

Before he stepped into view of the hall, Alistair schooled his features into a mask of mild confusion with a layer of appreciation. He checked his reflection in the metallic bracelet he wore to ensure that his minimalistic make-up still enhanced his greatest tool, his Charisma, to the fullest extent he could accomplish.

When he was a third of the way past the entrance, he slowed to look upon a dragon's skull handing above them in apparent wonder. He ensured that his face was angled so that the light flooding from the entrance caught both his jade eyes and sharp cheekbones. Alistair surreptitiously leaned backwards so that his raised right arm and tensed back highlighted his physique. His light blond waves of hair were styled slightly with enough wax to be kept from his face, as the series of iron plates attached to a leather braid around his wrist caught the sun and drew the eye to the polished mahogany box within his hands.

Which would hopefully awaken Aerys' suspicion enough to do what he could never survive doing, and initialize an encounter, without tickling his paranoia to such a degree that he would die that very day. Or at least not to such a degree that he did not get the opportunity to use his more than one and a half times as charismatic as the average human abilities.

"Oh? Who might you, our uninvited guest, be?" A voice rang through the near-silent room, echoes bouncing from the walls making the already strange voice carry a hint of the ethereal and unknowable. And the voice was truly strange, as it simultaneously portrayed the security only a king felt upon his throne, yet also the fear of a king as he knelt before the person who conquered him.

Alistair turned, prepared to look overwhelmed and awestruck for a brief moment, before attaining the peak of cordiality to appease the king. But when he turned, he saw a sight which truly astounded and appalled him. Dominating the room was a mountain of iron wrought together, blades bent and twisted till they were a throne of steel, yet spiked and sharp as no chair should be. It truly was the throne of a conqueror, yet as Alistair looked upon the thousand swords of the Iron Throne, stark and dark against the outside light, he saw naught but the thousand people who once held those swords so long ago, only to burn for a war which could never be won.

Above it, at least from where he stood, hung a small silhouette, the details indistinguishable due to the grand window behind it, suspended from the rafters, right above the sharp and piercing form of the iron throne, as if meant to fall and die upon its swords.

Alistair shook himself from his stupor and knelt before the throne and the few assembled aristocrats. The hall was startlingly empty, in fact, which seemed to highlight how small those few gathered were when compared to the iron throne. Especially the young man standing before the throne, and a small flock of distinctly more beaten men to the side.

"Your Grace, I am no more than a pâtissier, honoured yet unworthy to stand within even the shadow of your splendour," Alistair answered, resisting the urge to look upon the Mad Man sitting atop a throne of graves.

The layer of distrustful fear lessened as he spoke next, even if a glimmer of manic paranoia remained. "And what, pray tell, might you carry with you in your box?"

Alistair quickly changed his plans away from offering the king his sweets, even as he was opening his mouth to speak, as he expected the king to not take kindly to being offered food from a stranger. "Sweets, cakes, and biscuits, your grace. Meant for delivery to the lady Valdyne. Of course, should you wish the paltry fruits of my labour to be granted to another, I am most assured that neither I nor she would consider for even a moment to put our will before that of our King."

Silence reigned far more so than Aerys, for a moment which to Alistair stretched eternal. He endlessly considered how his actions could be interpreted, over and over, again and again. Alistair attempted to see himself and their conversation with varying degrees of sanity.

Until finally a mad cackle was heard ringing throughout the hall, the soft claps echoing amongst mad laughter.

"Good, good, your words are honeyed as those of all bakers should be. You may not have been invited; however, you shall see the justice of the Targaryens. The envoy of the smallfolk, we shall call you." His shrill, wheezing laugh rang for a mere moment longer before it was cut from the air, leaving only echoes to remain for a moment.

"Of course, sweet words often hide poison. Might the very smallfolk I rule be attempting to poison me, by sending their sweetest speaker?" what would have been a jest from any other was spoken with narrowed eyes and deadly calm by the King.

Alistair knew that immediate denial was far too likely to be seen as nothing more than an assassin's natural response by Aerys, and that admitting it was… well, admitting it.

"Should his grace find it right and just to kill me for transgressions seen only by his wit and wisdom, I shall of course knell, walk or act however his grace may wish me to, even should it lead to my demise."

Aerys leaned forwards on his throne, the sound of his long nails scraping against the throne. Softer than a whisper, yet heard clearly in the deathly silence "… A properly loyal response, I would think. If all my subjects were loyal as you, I would never be thrust into unfortunate days such as these where my own subject demands a duel to the death. And not after a small slight, no, he wishes to fight my champion so that his son may go free after conspiring to kill MY HEIR!" Aerys hissed and spat, wheezed and shrieked.

Aerys sat panting upon the iron throne, for some time, before he spoke with clipped words and distracted annoyance. "Stand next to Ser Lannister, baker. A trial by combat waits for no smallperson.

Alistair rose to his feet and walk swiftly yet gracefully to where Jaime steadfastly stood, the picture of knightly honour with his white cloak, golden hair, and green gaze surveying the room, and Alistair in particular, for any threat to the king.

Alistair purposefully stood slightly in front and to the right of Jaime, keeping him between Aerys and himself while making him easy to kill by Jaime's hand. It seemed quite ironic, what with how his survival hinged on being able to convincingly show absolute vulnerability.

He thankfully seemed to have succeed, or at least have been good enough that Aerys would ignore him in favour of the ongoing executions.

"I have already explained your crimes once, and such vile acts as treason should not be spoken of more than necessary," Aerys hissed quietly, "And yet even after hearing exactly what your son has done onto mine, you dare to demand a trial by combat?" a low scratching was rung in the hall as Aerys paused, and Alistair realized that the madman was shaking with fury as though he truly believed every word he spoke.

"But I am a just and fair King, and as such, I shall honour the laws of the realm," Alistair could only imagine how vehemently Rickard Stark disagreed, from where he hung high from the rafters of the great hall, bound on both hands.

"However, that brought up a question I had to answer. What might the champion of our house now be?" Aerys continued to speak in a voice of deadly calm. "Since the days of the conquest, dragons have been our champions, yet now there are no more dragons to burn your craven flesh till only ash and splintered bones remain. Although. Do the alchemists not often claim that wildfire is next of kin to dragons flame?"

Aerys' utterance of judgement was clearly a planned signal, for immediately after he gave what may as well have been an order of execution a group of alchemist acolytes began to push in a cart. On the cart were stacked at least ten jars of wildfire.

A chill ran through Alistair as the realization that Aerys was mad enough to execute one of his most powerful subjects with wildfire of all things took root. He had heard of the wildfire executions. Everyone had, be they smallfolk or lord. Yet to see one himself, to see another human being be burned with those accursed green flames for a petty outburst not even from him, but his son's outburst…

The staunchest supporters of the Targaryens claimed that it was only good and deserved for traitors to get a preview of the seven hells. Alistair had spoken to some of the few men and women with the peculiar mix of fortune and ill fate to survive the sting of wildfire. They claimed that no one with even half their sanity intact would doom another person to it's sting had they touched the filth.

"I will even give you an even better chance, and allow your son," he gestured to the figure on the floor before the Iron Throne, a noose around his neck bound to a protrusion of the Iron throne, "the chance to help you in your duel. Ser Selmy, put a sword at the marked location."

The young man, no older than twenty-one, seemed frozen in shock as he stared at his strung-up father and the wildfire below him. He was handsome under the grime and blood beaten into him, with dark hair and grey eyes, and seemed to only awaken when a sword clattered down in front of him.

He tried to surge forwards, but Aerys ordered Barristan Selmy to hold him back for the moment, an easy feat even for the ageing knight when Brandon had his hands bound behind him.

"Now… Commence the duel!" Aerys called gleefully.

A single spark was thrown by a Wisdom of the alchemists guild, and twisting green flames roared to life, stretching so high into the air that even Rickard was enveloped where he was, suspended above the hall. Alistair could feel the unimaginable heat even where he stood beside the throne, he was blinded by the pillar of green flame with only a single dark silhouette within, but he could thankfully not smell the stench of charred flesh over the noxious odour of burning wildfire.

But hear, he could. From the almost pleasant roar of flames, more thunderous than he would have ever imagined. He also heard what made the flames pleasant to hear, at least by comparison, as a yell of pain and anguish was heard from within the flames.

Alistair knew he could look no further, so turned his gaze to Brandon, to force himself to see what he had done through inaction. He saw the noose tight around his neck, flesh swelling on either side of the tight rope in nauseatingly bulbous pustules of pure flesh, forced away from where it should be by the cuttingly tight rope. His face was red with effort, until a bluish hue overtook him, and he fell backwards. Yet the noose did not loosen, and Alistair knew Brandon would die.

Alistair knew that he was not ready to once again face the flames, so he looked over the nobles, servants, and guards of the realm. They were horrified, yes, yet something was lacking from their reactions. There was no hope. No looking for anyone or anything to better the situation they found themselves in, simply appalled acceptance that Westeros would remain under the shadow of Aerys' madness till the day he passed.

He turned back to the execution pyre just as the roars of pain ceased. He stared into the green flames as he considered the single quote he knew and remembered from the books of his own world.

'When you play the game of thrones you win, or you die. There is no middle ground.'

Alistair knew it to be true, or at least as true as sayings could be. He was no maester, yet they had stolen enough books to affirm the truth of the sentiment. But as the charred corpse enveloped in half-molten armour swung out from the pyre to land in a broken heap as both the chains holding it aloft snapped from the heat he came to a decision which would forever change him.

He would play the game, not to win, but so that someone good could finally triumph.

With the mad cackles of Aerys ringing in his ears, and orders for Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark to be delivered to him ringing in the hall, Alistair considered what he could do.

It was time to call together a meeting of the Union.