Chapter Text
They cantered out together at a steady pace, the horses eager for it, with confident riders who knew how to mind a beast’s moods. His granddaughter was a pretty, wee thing, but not so frail that she couldn’t bring a stallion to heel if needed. They raced across the grassy plain to the tip of a hill, Jeyne’s sweet laughter ringing out loud and clear on a day with no breeze to snatch it.
“Victory is mine, Papa!” she announced, turning to face him, her cheeks rosy from the exertion.
Robert had grown weary of ‘your grace’ and ‘my King’ after less than a month, and soon ‘Grandfather’ had become too unwieldy for every day use.
This is the kind of girl my Lyanna would have given me, he thought, as he joined her beside a flowering gorse on the crest of the hill, the finishing point for their wager. Spirited, quick to laugh and grown free with the sharp edge of her tongue, since she had become secure at court. Who could have known that a combination of Baratheon and Frey blood could produce such a beauty, a fine example of a young lady? Robert was half inclined to betrothe his younger son to one of old Walder’s get, to see if the effect could be replicated.
Margaery would never speak to me again, he chuckled to himself.
“Good view from here,” Jeyne said, running her eyes over the partially restored castle.
Robert nodded, pleased with the work. They’d spent the last three days in Harrenhal, exploring the changes in person. If Robb Stark could garner such respect from his people for his building efforts, Robert didn’t see why the same couldn’t be said of him. Jon Arryn had greatly admired Ned’s boy, naming him shrewd for keeping his serfs and villagers busy. Working together forced the smallfolk to communicate with each other, building trust as well as castles. Men were more willing to share resources and methods for quicker hunting, fishing or better crops with those they knew. It all contributed to good relationships between bannermen and the smallfolk, which could only be good for a realm.
Harrenhal had long been too large for a base landed knight, but too ugly and damaged for anyone of consequence. The rumoured curse upon the settlement made it a sour prospect for most. But Robert wasn’t going to surrender the largest castle in Westeros to Robb fucking Stark, along with everything else, and let him claim it for his family. No, Robert wanted Harrenhal to barter with, Robb's Whent blood be damned. Robb Stark had fought and gained access to the God’s eye, the lake not being far ahead of them now, as they approached the border to the Riverlands.
If Jeyne were older, perhaps Robert would have settled it on her, to entice a good husband, not afraid of the challenge of such a complex keep. Once it was complete, the builders will have removed the most damaged, dragon-melted stones, to salvage the best rock to repair the lower levels completely. The covered walkway between the keep and the Sept was already fully restored, as were the stables, kennels and the paths and borders in the gardens. The lovely large garden would be just right for Jeyne: Robert liked to picture her walking there when the plants had been tended and flowers were in bloom.
“Ser Bronn will be happy here, I think,” said his sweet girl.
Robert watched her carefully, when he replied, “Should you like to be happy here, also?”
Jeyne’s unblemished forehead wrinkled as she parsed out his meaning, letting out a quiet, shocked, “Oh!” when she did.
“I am not sure I am ready to be parted from court yet, Papa,” she said diplomatically, avoiding his eyes.
Robert waved his head until their gazes met again. “Worry not, my girl. I know you’ll not be wanting an old knight like Bronn. Little too much distance between your birth years, hmm?”
Jeyne blushed, but said not a thing. When she was embarrassed, she became a little dormouse, curled in on herself. They both knew a prestigious knight, about to become the lord of a giant keep in fertile lands, was more than most bastard girls had any right to hope for. Had she festered away among her ratty Frey cousins, Jeyne would have snapped at the chance to be wedded to such a man, and they both knew it.
It had been his Lord Hand, Randyll Tarly, who suggested that the Kingsguard be decreased from a service for life to twenty years. Too much pressure was created by absolutes, Tarly claimed; men who could be tempted by the pleasures of wealth and women if they never expected to obtain them. Baelish had revelled in yoking men with their forbidden desires. Some kind of reform was needed, to avoid any repetition of such a scheming sycophant gaining such power ever again. And if Robb Stark was not afraid to expose the dirty secrets of his bannermen, denouncing Harald Karstark as a lecher before sending him to the Wall, Robert could admit that expecting a highborn former lord to uphold a lifetime of servitude with no reward was a tough expectation.
It was fixed that twenty years was enough of a sacrifice; if a man was young enough at the start, he would still be a fit lord for a new keep, and make a good match with a fertile woman, without the gap in their ages being too obscene. It was agreed that feats of magnitude could deservingly shave off a few years, and that nothing would increase it. There was a suggestion at the time, that the Kingsguard which remained could use their time served, as the chance to step down from their position soon. Of those, only Barristan Selmy had served long enough to be honourably released from his service right then, but of course the ornery, honourable old man wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted that his twenty year span begin from the implementation of the new rule.
And what fucking fool would ever willingly relinquish Barristan the Bold as their protector?
Bronn had accepted his elevation to the order with the knowledge that his conduct during the war had already halved the time he would have to serve. Ten years to gain a lordship, castle and a highborn wife, were a small price to pay for a street urchin sellword, trained in fighting pits. Bronn's tenure was to end in less than half a year, and for the past seven moons, work had commenced on his future keep. Despite the grandeur of his new abode, Ser Bronn wasn’t good enough for the King’s beloved granddaughter, baseborn or no.
Margaery should have given me daughters, Robert grumbled to himself, not for the first time. Every man needed sons, but sons would not tend him in his dotage, or sit and read to him, nor did they squeal in delight when he returned home from a tour of his lands or a hunting trip.
It had been wonderful, to watch Jeyne transform into an eligible young lady. Robert spoilt her, with dresses and dolls, lessons in graceful dancing, household management and womenly duties from a Septa, and strategy on how to mind unruly lords from Tarly.
They’d discussed matches for Jeyne between them. Though Gendry would be displeased if he wasn’t given the chance for input, the boy did leave his daughter in Robert’s care, and it was a King’s duty to ensure the welfare of his subjects. Tarly agreed that Jeyne’s hand might be a good way to finally bring Dorne into the fold. They had strange views about women and bastards there, being more inclined to look favourably on them.
“Young Dayne might be more your sort,” Robert mused, considering the chivalrous young man who was always dashing in his silver and purple armour, “Cuts a fine figure on the field, and I know how all the young ladies of the court moon over him.”
Jeyne turned red as a tomato as Robert guffawed. He’d seen her smiling in conversation with Ned Dayne; heard the ladies twittering whenever Dayne appeared in the lists. He was a popular contender with the crowds, considered well turned out young lord, and the head of his House. For Jeyne, he would be a brilliant choice.
“Lord Dayne is very kind,” Jeyne said demurely, “I am certain he shall make his future wife very happy.”
Robert was taken aback by her lukewarm response. Ned Dayne would be an excellent catch. He and Jeyne looked very fine dancing sets together, with his blonde hair a nice contrast to her glossy black locks.
“But he’s not the one for you, eh? Is that what you mean, little one?” Robert pressed. He’d have to halt Tarly’s overtures toward House Dayne if that were the case.
Jeyne avoided his gaze, her look suddenly melancholy.
“There’s someone else you’ve settled your eye on.” Robert declared, sure that nothing else would stay her hand over a man like Ned Dayne.
She did not deny the suggestion, at last turning to look at him again.
“I had rather hoped…” she paused to gather her courage, before revealing; “Ser Rolland is most attentive. Strong and brave, and always very polite.”
Robert absorbed the surprise like an unseen blow. They’d left Ser Rolland back at Harrenhal; though as another loyal member of the Kingsguard, he had protested Robert and Jeyne riding out alone. Perhaps it was not only Robert’s safety that motivated his protests.
“Ser Rolland has many years left on the Kingsguard,” Robert reminded her gently.
“Oh, I know it most likely won’t be possible. He won’t have noticed me in that way, I don’t think,” she shook her head in an attempt to pretend she was unaffected by it, “Ser Rolland has always treated me well, but he still sees me as a child.”
She offered him a brave smile, and Robert immediately saw how deeply her regard for the man ran, and in that moment resolved to do what he must to see her secured with the man that featured in her innocent daydreams.