After the adrenaline from practice had faded, my wrist had pained me all through the night. I woke up the next morning with dark circles under my eyes and with the offending wrist red and throbbing. The last thing I wanted in the world was to get sick in any way and end up depending on the healthcare of medieval, quasi witchdoctors. So I knew where I had to go today before it could get any worse.

I wasn’t exactly anticipative to a visit with Grand Maester Pycelle, even if I’d conversed with him from time to time in between council meetings. He was a blubbering old lech, to be sure, but he had a keen mind. Keen enough I had to play the long game and talk with him several times about books and journals from men related to the faith, all so he would think nothing of the request I would make of him today.

I rose from bed before any of my servants came to my door, for a change. It was a challenge getting used to being dressed and bathed like a toddler, but I had to play my part. With my poor night’s sleep and the pulsing on my wrist, however, I didn’t have the patience for it today, so I started the grueling task of putting on my own clothes like a normal human being. Oh, the horror.

When I finished fastening up the last gold-colored button of my night black coat, I stopped and looked myself over in the mirror. As was a boy’s due, Tommen had grown up considerably since the beginning of the year, and the face that I now wore had started to come into its own.

Say what you will about the incestual dynamic duo of Cersei and Jaime, but they were damned good looking people. I would never be a behemoth the likes of Robert Baratheon or the Clegane brothers, but I had a nice mixture of height and handsomeness going on.

I hadn’t a care for vanity. But what a lot of people don’t realise is that symbols do matter, and a king must be exactly that: a symbol—a story that fathers tell their children about, of how they once saw the great noble king trot by on his mighty steed, his gleaming armor breaking the sunlight into a rainbow, or some such nonsense. That symbol must be untouchable and unreachable to the masses down below, kind and fatherly to children and servants, firm and decisive with his lords, vicious and cunning against his enemies. All in one person.

Image is just another scope by which kings are measured, and I intended to pull off the solemn, dashing hero-king as best as I could. I even got my sad back story on point, with my father, mother and brother ruthlessly taken away from me at a young age.

Taking a last glance at the mirror, I noticed something missing. Something key. On a whim, I walked up to the display hanger set over my bedroom’s hearth. Widow’s Wail rested vertically against the bronze-colored stone wall, point facing down. The smoky Valyrian steel sword was tinged with red and black ripples all along its blade, and the once impractical golden handle had been wrapped tightly in black leather.

Yes, that would do fine. It was about time I brought out the big guns. A King Arthur must have his Excalibur.

I took the sword belt from where it hung on the mantle and wrapped it around my waist. A new black scabbard with golden accents had already been looped on it, so I took the sword down and slid it in place with a quiet hiss.

I already knew what I was going to call it. Hopebringer. As pretentious a name for a sword as it could be, but it was also a symbol. A rallying cry to the men and women of Westeros. It was the sword with which I would smite false kings and queens down; the sword whose blade would end the threat of the White Walkers once and for all.

Or, at least, that is what I hoped the stories would say. I had no intention of trading blows against dragons and those millennia old ice-demons, after all.

A sudden knock on the door heralded one of my maids. I moved to the table where I usually ate when I was alone and called her in. She had my breakfast on a large platter with an even larger plate cover on top.

For her to get in my room with food, the food tester would have had to taste it in front of one of my Kingsguards at the door. He would then lock back the food under the metal cover, which I would unlock again in my room. It was an annoyingly complicated system, but it worked.

I watched Alyce stride in, her focus only on balancing the food. She was a pretty thing, only a few years older than I, with comely hazel eyes, suntanned skin, and black hair she kept under a head scarf. She wore the usual clothing of a noble’s maid, a conservative dress in either brown or beige, with long flowing skirts and a white apron over her legs.

The first time she served me, she seemed surprised I didn’t immediately bend her down over a table or something like that. She must have heard horror stories of my supposed father from the other maids before she started working for me.

She jumped when she saw me already up and dressed. “Your Grace!” The platter wobbled on her hands, but she was quick enough to catch it and lay it on the table in front of me. “I—I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I thought you’d be only just waking now.”

I waved her off. “Don’t concern yourself with it.” I took a small brass key from where it hung on my neck and unlocked my food. As per usual, there was more than he’d ever need: a full spread of fresh fruits, hard-boiled eggs, fried onions with bacon and cheese, smoked salmon from the night before, and hot bread with butter and berry preserves on the side. I hummed and plucked a grape in my mouth. “Now, tell me, Alyce. How is your mother—Joss, was it?”

Alyce’s eyes went wide as saucers at the mention of her mother’s name, and red blossomed on her cheeks. “My... mother?” she stuttered out. “Oh, oh! She’s, uhm, I… I mean to say…” her mouth opened and closed a few more times before she just stopped trying.

“Well?” I stopped trying to spear an unpeeled quail egg and looked up at her. “She’s better, I hope?”

I saw her struggling to swallow down her nervousness. “Uhm, yes, Your Grace, yes. All thanks to you, of course.” She tucked an errant lock of hair under her scarf. “She was back on her feet quick as a possum after the good Maester visited her. He prepared a, uhm, pottisse—”

“Poultice,” I told her.

Alyce brightened. “Yes! A po-u-ltice for her chest, Your Grace. I spread it me’self on her every night. Her cough is all gone, too. It was a blessing for the Gods, Your Grace. Your blessing, too.”

I was pretty sure it was just onions and a few natural analgesics but I’ll take it. I’d sent the maester after I heard an off-handed comment by her with another maid. These are the people that clean my room, wash my clothes, prepare my food. You never know when a little kindness might just save you.

“Well I’m glad, Alyce. Joss worked in the Keep her whole life. She deserves nothing less.” I smiled as gently as I knew how. “And thank you, for my meal.”

“Oh, uhm, of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied deeply and moved to leave, then as if struck by an idea, she turned. “If you’d like, Your Grace, I could, uhm…” Alyce’s flush had reached her ears by now. “I mean, I heard what maids do and, uhm, if you wished…” she trailed off.

I looked at her with sorry eyes. “I would love to, Alyce, truly. And you’re very lovely. But I plan on remaining faithful to my betrothed for now. Perhaps after my wedding, yes?”

She seemed confused for a moment, but she just nodded enthusiastically and scurried out of the room.

I blew out some air. It felt like I just kicked a puppy. It was terribly tempting to give in, but I didn’t want to wake up twenty years from now with a bitter wife and a flower-themed boar waiting to gut me the next time I went hunting. I had a good rapport going with Margaery, and she was more adventurous than I expected. Give me some wiggle room to work on her, and I’d be revisiting Alyce’s offer soon enough. All in good time.