The Tower of the Hand

Lord Eustace Osgrey comes to call on Lord Tarly in his new residence with a few of his bannermen - petty landed knights and sworn swords that were bound to him by kinship as well as oaths, cousins and distant relations that stretched back for many generations. Eustace was dressed formally in a rather plain white doublet with the chequy lion neatly sewn over his breast.

"Lord Hand."

Osgrey bowed his head stiffly in deference, and put on his best stern expression. Randyll Tarly was not a man for idle japes.

"My congratulations on your new post. The King chose the right man."

Don't overdo the praise, Osgrey. He doesn't like sycophants. Eustace cleared his throat.

"I come with concerns, lord, as to His Grace's strained relations with the High Septon. I wish to offer my services as an emissary to the Faith, if you would grant me the honour."

The Lord of Coldmoat was a pious man, as any good Reachman should be. That the King strangled a Septon before the Iron Throne itself disturbed him greatly.

"To put it bluntly, Lord Hand, King Aegon has little experience of our land, our customs, or our faith. It is important that he surrounds himself with men that do."

”As you say, Lord. The Faith is not a tool to be used in a game. The Seven are not so easily mocked.”

Osgrey admired them High Septon’s convictions, and found it hard to disagree with more power and authority being placed into the hands of a resurgent Faith. They protected the city and the faithful better than the Lannisters and their cronies ever did. The Lord of Coldmoat bowed.

”I am honoured by your confidence, my Lord. I shall serve you as best I can.”

”I shall join the king and lend him what counsel I can. I pray that he does not strangle the High Septon as he did his messenger.”

Osgrey quipped in response, only half joking in truth. He did not want to be torn apart by the crowds like the poor Ser Greenfield was.

”Another thing I thought to mention, my Lord, in confidence. House Tyrell remains in control of the Reach. I fear that while they will not easily forget our...”

Eustace pauses, and clears his throat.

”Differing allegiances, shall we say. I would have felt much more secure if another had been named Lord of the Mander and Warden of the South.”

Willas was supposedly a meek cripple, but losing a father to death and a sister to captivity would be enough to make any man desperate, let alone betrayal from his supposed bannermen.

Osgrey duly obliged and took the offered cup. He took one sip, as was courteous, and then set the drink aside to be forgotten.

”My own liege Lord Rowan, perhaps. Or yourself, Lord Tarly. Many of those who declared for the King over Tyrell look to your leadership in the absence of a clear authority in the Reach.”

Replied Ser Eustace, enunciating every word in a slow and thoughtful cadence.

”But if Lord Willas has your trust, and that of the king, then I am in no place to make such observations.”

"Is this supposed to be all mine?"

"Yes, it's sire"

The former smuggler was standing in the now-empty chambers atop the Tower, razed to a husk by Cersei and rebuilt by the two hands that followed, Mace and Randyll. The works were half done, the fabric restored and the interiors were laid out, but many parts remained unfinished and unfurbished. The vaulted ceiling Tyrell had planned for the new audience hall was grand, but the sculpted details laid on the floor, where the carvers had left them, leaving them as they were during the siege. The Hand's very chambers were almost completed, albeit Randyll Tarly had lived very humbly, with only a canopied bed, a large chest and a desk gracing the almost empty room. The only concession to a decoration were the bright mural paintings and tapestries, which clearly showed the influence of a more flowery taste.

They're good, though.

Thought Davos as he passed his hand over the fresco, depicting a courtly banquet in a garden. Two of the four walls were plastered but not painted. Clearly the man had no time to complete his work before he was fired up by Tarly himself. Seaworth felt like a fish outside the water. The chambers were thrice as big as he used to in Dragonstone and his small keep in the Stormlands: the vaulted ceiling was the height of three men one over the other. He felt small and insignificant. Seaworth sits on the bed, looking around. The king had been clear about his Hand living where the Hand was meant to, but... it was weird. He was no lord, just a smuggler, and now Stannis said he was lord and admiral and Hand of the King.

Will I be able to do it? Or it's too much?

He looks across the room to the desk he was meant to use, still covered in parchments. Davos crossed the space between bed and desk and took a quill in his stocky fingers. He grabbed a clean parchment roll, clearly meant to be used in a raven message, and started writting, slightly laborously: his handwritting was rather poor, but he managed to compose a legible and decent message; he was getting better and better, he had to make Shireen proud. He wrote a second message then called out for the page to bring them both to the rookery. One was for the princess, telling her the news and that he would send a boat to fetch her and Patchface and his son, Devan. Ser Devan, he corrected himself. And the second was for Marya, telling her to pack things and go to the capital with both her youngest sons: he felt lonely and he needed company and have the time back with his family.

Oh Father, oh Mother, oh Smith, help me with all this... This burden. I can't fail him.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

At least I will be seeing my lads. I waited for so long.

He sat in the chair, silent, looking around, with the sun setting behind his balding head. He sighed.

Davos arrives, there was no difference between this Seaworth and the man he was a years prior, only the badge of the Hand was a concession to his status. He salutes the Baratheon with a nod.

"My king"