Tywin delivered the news during dinner: the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, was dead.

Had been for the better part of a week actually, the raven only just beating us to Casterly Rock.

Only Myrcella and Tommen appeared genuinely saddened by the news, Mother was split between equal parts blatant shock and irritated outrage, while Joff was leaning right into a growing pout; the latter reactions probably having to do with the summons back to King's Landing that accompanied the news. We had only just arrived after a near month on the road after all. Lord Tywin (and it was definitely "Lord" Tywin, I learned early on not to play the "Grandpa" card with him) delivered the news with typical stoniness. The rest of the family and assorted guests reacted with varying expressions of surprise, polite interest, mild concern, etc.

I myself was completely put off my feed, as I found my guts filling up quite readily with dread, no need for dessert.

Apparently I hadn't made quite enough butterflies get to flapping during my short stay in Westeros. Then again, I probably should have been a bit more proactive if I had wanted to ensure canon's derailment. My mere presence and efforts to secure a few shineys for myself and a little higher standard of living were either insufficient to avert Jon's death or, I speculated with growing anxiety, Jon's death simply could not be averted.

This was a fantasy setting after all, magic was a thing no matter what the maesters might tell you. Proof in point: SOMETHING less than mundane had apparently decided that Robert Baratheon would, just the once, actually knock up Cersei Lannister (on their wedding night in fact). Then, said SOMETHING also decided that I would be just the perfect fit for playing the role of this new and exciting original character and subsequently ripped me from my quiet, comfortable life. Not sure precisely when I was dropped into this world, but I am forever grateful that my prior life experiences didn't seem to kick in until sometime in early childhood, leaving my memories of infancy a pleasant blank.

Small mercies. But I digress.

Along with the dread for the future, there was some actual sadness at the passing of Grandpa Jon.

Not a ton, but it was there.

I believe he genuinely was quite fond of me, but tended to be more than a little dismissive, very "that's nice but the grown-ups are talking now" which, all things considered, was fair, but to me it was very...grating, yes that's a good word. He grated me. He ruffled my feathers. Rubbed me the wrong way. Rustled my jimmies as it were. Not his fault really but he did.

So, small sadness at his passing.

A more pressing concern on my mind was Father; Robert was not going to handle this well. As Tywin spoke I was certain that my old man would be, right at that moment, drunk off his tits and sadly banging a whore. A distressing mental image, in all ways. Point is, he's having a bad time and his family should be there for him.

And by his family I mean me.

Not to disparage the rest of the family, though yes of course Mother wouldn't exactly be a big help to him right now or, well, ever, but I can say with no exaggeration and a significant amount of pride that I am his favorite by a very healthy margin.

Let me be clear, my dad is as good at parenting as he is at being King, so, y'know, not.

But!

He is great at being friends.

And we are the best of pals.

I've tagged along on just about every hunt the man's gone on since I could handle a bow, cheered alongside him at more tourneys than I can recall, and will never turn down an opportunity to hear about the good ol' days, no matter how many times I've heard 'em already. He doesn't take me drinking and whoring, that'd be a bridge too far for all involved, but I like to think that I've helped curbed his excess.

He's certainly not as blubbery as he was in the show; he's more "dude's let himself go" and less "oh god your poor horse".

Doesn't hurt that the seed was most definitely strong when they made me. No one will ever mistake me for anything other than a Baratheon; black hair, blue eyes, tall and built like a brick shit-house, it was like Mother's genes were almost contemptuously rejected by Father's. And that "Ours is the Fury" motto is no joke, I definitely did not have a temper anything like this the first time around. I am continually baffled by how hard it is not to...flip out, for lack of a more refined term, anytime something pisses me off!

If I ever took to drinking I might actually be worse than dear old dad.

Oddly enough it helps bonding with Father; the trick is to find someone to bellow at together rather than scream at each other. I've never won a screaming match with the old man but I'm a dab hand at aiming our combined wrath at acceptable targets. And I will swear 'til the day I die that the first time I ever struck something with a (toy) hammer in anger (Ser Boros), Father had tears in his eyes (I will further swear those tears were of pride, rather than laughter).

I continue to digress.

Point is that Jon Arryn was dead and I didn't know if it was due to canon still being on it's rails or if something else was afoot. Regardless, I was certain a trip up North was in my near future. With Jon's death still occurring despite my presence, I had no reason to believe that some pretty heinous shit wasn't going to be coming rapidly down the pipe. White Walkers and dragons are going to be bad enough to deal with without the continent imploding over the next few years. While I can't do anything about the former, I should be in a position to, if not outright avert civil war, at least mitigate the damages.

I muddled through the rest of dinner lost in my thoughts, remembering what I could of the canon timeline and trying to nail down where I could act and what the resulting ripples would look like. I begged off early, pleading the need for rest since we had to start back to King's Landing tomorrow, and left the table amidst Joff's grumbling at the reminder.

I distractedly followed a blond servant to the quarters that had been prepared for me, still mulling over the future.

I really hoped that Uncle Stannis doesn't skedaddle off to Dragonstone as per canon, as that would pretty much confirm that he and Grandpa Jon had twigged to the whole incest thing. I would have thought that me clearly being my Father's child and obviously having come out of Mother would have been enough to deter any investigation into the parentage of Joff and the others, but now that's looking like little more than wishful thinking.

The servant briefly looked back at me as I couldn't quite suppress a groan at my thoughts.

So much shit could have been avoided if whatever entity that dropped me here had simply seen to one tiny little detail. If I could have only been "Robert-come-again", which I practically already was. But noooo, I had to be, and I will murder whichever little shit coined the term, "Robert-with-teats".

And so begins the adventures of...
"The Black Princess"