Lyman

Dusk had already come and gone when the king finally called on him. A day's work had passed them by, all of yesterday's troubles truly sown in the fertile soil of the now. He should not have been surprised that the command had come so late, but the time lost still rankled. Some small part of his mind chided him for his worrying. There were no foreign sails on the horizon, nor pretenders rallying treasonous armies to their banner.

There will be. The peace was built on a foundation of sand, of the words of men long dead. A strong hand was needed, a fierce warrior as wise as he was deadly. There could be no doubt as to where everyone stood before the king, to what each man was owed and owed in turn. Yet they all stood in the long hours before dawn, suspicion rife between brothers, confusion between kings and their subjects. And all refused to wait for the light to return to the world.

His mind could not settle, would not settle. The realm was not just a land divided by a history of bloodshed, but a beast of a thousand heads maddened at the thought of being caged. It refused to be tamed at the command of any mortal man, especially by those who called themselves kings. Even if it were tamed, the hunger the realm had would not fade away. Yet still his liege dared to turn his back on the bared fangs, expecting the Seven Kingdoms to be sated on the weak fare of duty and honour that he offered them.

"A king's duty is to command," Lyman faintly remembered from his days in the household of old Roxton, "and yours is to serve." He knew how to serve. Fifty years he had given to that word, to what that word meant. Fifty years to turn his mind from the troubles of his childhood to the worries of better men. He was of a brotherhood of servants, whose voices were those of a slave to a master. And he had come to accept that place, chained and shackled to the idea of duty. Yet try as he might, even now as he approached his seventieth nameday, he could not voice that idea in words that could turn others to the same path.

You are tired, he chided himself as he collected his papers. The need for sleep had grown greatly as of late, until he could scarce go an entire day without some servant or other having to wake him during meetings. The king's advisors pretended to make no mention of it in his presence. When he returned to his chambers however, he was certain that they traded remarks to his detriment. They had no love for him, as old in age and loyalty as he was.

Yet the king had no reason to doubt his council, they all knew that. He had lost the strength of youth, not his wits. The king knew that, seven bless his reign. Why else would he keep him on as Master of Coin, charged with the management of his finances? If his loyal words were of no use, then why still keep him close counsel, when the light of day was forgotten and the other advisors had fled to the welcome embrace of rest? The king needed him, his words and his devotion. There were too few of his kind at hand, too few willing to follow the road of duty when it pointed towards a mountain peak.

He crossed the bridge to Maegor's Keep as he always did as of late, without the company of friends or servants. Years before, he had walked together with Ryman Redwyne, a friend first and fellow councillor second. He had crossed the drawbridge with Septon Barth, marveling at the way the man saw the world. There had been Gyles Tarly and Harlon Farman, rivals in love; dashing Kyle Chelsted, who had dared to dream of the Handship; Jon Bywater with his glories of the Stepstones; and Lyle Staunton with his tragedies of the same. Lyman had been friends with others, but even their names now escaped him. All dead now, replaced one after the next until he was alone of the old ways.

Even the servants were strangers to him, their parents not yet born when he had come to sit the council. Forty years, fifty, and none knew him. A girl stepped gingerly around him, curtsying with as little grace as could be excused at that hour. She looked familiar, brown hair framing eyes of coal. I knew your mother, he wanted to say, smiling as an exhausted page in the livery of Bulwer passed them by. I knew all of your parents. Grandparents might have been closer to the truth. Now all he saw were ghosts, portraits transposed on the living.

The king greeted him just as he greeted all of the realm: abed. Once he had cut an imposing figure. That would have been a day long gone to faded memory, when lords and peasants alike cheered his reign. Twenty four years of rule was long enough to change a man, to strip away everything that had made them what they were. Now all that displayed any sort of regalia was the room itself, filled with treasures only a dying man could love. Tears threatened to dampen his face at the thought. He was too old to remain stoic in the face of such a fragile life.

"Ah, Lyman," the heavy-set monarch heaved. "I have need of your counsel."

King Viserys was not alone. Young Lannister and the Grand Maester kept His Grace company, their books sprawled across the royal bed. Both men stood to greet the old lord, their courtesies cut short by the sharp crack of the king's cough.

"You'd be better served with my leeches," Grand Maester Mellos japed. His smile stretched wide, but Lyman could see the fear that wore itself plainly on his brow. It was a fear he too was cloaked in.

Beesbury had served the old king for all of his adult years, and at the end he had been one to suffer the honour of standing by the royal bedside as the old king passed away. It surely would do him no great honour to have to do that again, as near his own end as he was. All my friends are dead, he told the Seven. Do not let we survive another king.

"I am sure you'd enjoy that," the king replied, a smile on his lips. "But I will have his words before your leeches. Tell him of our plans."

Tyland Lannister, his eyes dark, offered him a document. Glancing over the parchment, the ink still moist to his sight, the nobleman couldn't grasp at first what it was that he was seeing. They have been here for hours, Beesbury realised. Working away on some project of the Queen's while the real problems multiplied in the dark, untouched. All without me.

"Braavos has begun raising a fleet to rival the Daughters," Viserys muttered. "And if war breaks out, we will need a fleet that cannot be turned by the allure of gold."

Lyman's eyes darted from Lannister to maester, feeling something stir as they avoided his gaze. He was hearing the Queen in this plan, he knew. The Velaryons had provided the crown with its fleet since before there was even a crown to serve. From their island seat of Driftmark they had been the bedrock upon which the Conqueror had united the realm, and enjoyed royal match after royal match for their service. Yet the queen had no love for the Sea Snake, even as his wealth bought yet more galleys for the realm's defense. Especially as his wealth meant that their loyalty was to Driftmark and not her alone.

"It also gives me something to do beyond drinking the keep dry," Tyland added, laughing though all knew he did not touch wine nor ale. He had received the honour of Master of Ships, long a title bestowed upon the Lords of Driftmark. His duty was to maintain the royal fleet, appointing its captains and lieutenants, overseeing the maintenance of the sails and oars and ropes, and a hundred other necessary evils of governance. However the royal fleet now sat at just fifteen strong; galleys built to honour the dead members of the Old King's family. Forgoing rams and castles, the attention was given only to to their appearance. As barges they had no rival, but for warships they were as useful as riding a horse into the sea.

"We already have a fleet at Driftmark, Your Grace."

One that equaled the Daughters, if the Sea Snake's boasting held true. And it was not as if they had the gold on hand to pay for a hundred new galleys in time for war. The people claimed that peace brought prosperity, but Lyman could only watch in horror as the treasury seemed to gather more dust and empty space than coins. They had created wealth under Jaehaerys, even as gold flowed to build the Kingsroad from the Red Keep to Winterfell and Castle Black beyond. Yet the past twenty years saw no flourishing of the vault beneath them.

"A fleet of mercenaries and pirates who work for gold," Lannister reminded him, as if the old man were just simply that and not a member of the small council and noble lord in his own right. "Lys is home to the Rogares, and Braavos houses the Iron Bank. Corlys is as rich as he is ambitious, but even he cannot match either coin for coin. We would be as well burning the docks from White Harbour to White Town ourselves so surely would they turn on Driftmark and the crown."

Viserys only nodded, face turned to cough into a pillow. He was never one to shout down at his vassals, but the silence spoke volumes. Sweet words and empty compliments, those were what the king enjoyed above all else now. The realm was at peace, and that was all that mattered to him. Long ago had he turned his eyes from what his legacy was being turned into.

"And what of Redwyne and Hightower, or Lannister? Even Gulltown and Duskendale float warships enough to protect our trade should Braavos make war." He turned to Mellos, who looked almost supportive to his plight. "We have ships enough." And greater problems that need this gold, he almost murmured.

"But not ships at hand," old Mellos finally replied, as if reading from the parchment in his hand. "Not with that Greyjoy youth back in the isles to threaten the coastline."

Lannister leapt at the doubt that came from his fellow advisor. "And we have a thousand knights with nothing to their name clogging up the city. What better way than to name them as officers in the fleet? We would be binding a hundred families closer to the crown."

"Driftmark cannot be relied upon should we become invested in war," said the king with lumbering finality, a pained expression on his face. It had been his edicts which drove the Sea Snake from court and into the arms of Daemon Targaryen, his feared brother. Even after years of reconciliation, the two were very different men. "No more than the western ports be allowed to leave themselves unguarded against the Greyjoys should they dare to reave again. I will have a fleet, and we will crew it with men loyal to the crown."

Lannister knights, he wanted to correct, Alicent's men. But there was no use in arguing. The king would not hear of such talk, just as surely as he refused to see the crown splitting apart above his brow. He wanted his firstborn child to succeed, and yet seemed eager to put swords in the hands of her enemies. The white-haired lord of Honeyholt opened his mouth, hearing himself accept the king's decision.

"This matter is settled. Tyland, Lyman, see to it on the morrow. Now leave me to Mellos' leeches," the king finished, his gaze wavering.

Lyman hesitated. I must speak. The king had to hear him out, for Rhaenyra's sake. Alone, he could have the king's attention. His family was where his attentions should be, not on some foreign war. Braavos had no dragons, nor the Daughters. They knew that they had not hope to win a war with the Targaryens, long-standing partners in trade that brought all parties gold aplenty. However the moment passed and he found himself forced to take Tyland's offer of company back to his chambers.

The Master of Ships did not speak as they departed Maegor's Holdfast, the keep within a keep whose history boasted as bloody a tale as its namesake. Instead he just smiled, as if only he alone in the world was privy to a fool's jape. Maybe he was. The king was abed and those who spoke for him were nothing but extensions of his second wife. Lyman scowled, at the Lannister, at the city, at the world. He would have his voice. His moment of truth.

Duty demanded it.