Robert was just finishing his correspondence for the day when his secretary, a former scribe-slave named Maran, opened the door. "Your Grace," he said in his soft and slightly timid voice, "Septon Jonothor requests a moment of your time."
Robert's brows beetled in a pensive frown as he returned his quill to its inkpot. "By all means," he said, "send him in." He hadn't expected a visit from Jonothor, but he could always make time for the man who had put the crown on his head. Especially since he didn't make a habit of requesting audiences for frivolous reasons.
When Jonothor came in Robert's frown deepened; he had never seen the septon so out of sorts. Jonothor's severe, angular face was drawn and his jaw clenched, like a man trying to hold back vomit. His hands had picked up a slight tremble from somewhere, and he walked with the slow, deliberate gait of a man holding onto his self-control by his fingernails. As Jonothor bowed Robert waved impatiently. "Sit down, man, sit," he insisted, gesturing at the chair on the other side of his desk. "No need for formality, we're not in court."
Which was true; Robert's solar was one of the larger rooms in the royal suite, but it was still meant as an informal reception room as much as a workplace. Aside from the desk with its pair of chairs, there were a few other chairs and a low table with parchment, quills, and ink by the fireplace, a sideboard with a selection of good wines, and a small kettle for mulling them when winter came. Which, the gods willing, would not be for some years yet; Robert was unsure as to how well the Kingdom of Myr could withstand a winter without at least a year or two of peace beforehand to prepare for it. "Drink for you?" Robert asked, gesturing at the sideboard. "You look like you could do with one.
"No, thank you Your Grace," Jonothor said hoarsely. "I have come to inform you that I will be sailing for King's Landing on the morning tide. I am summoned to the Great Sept of Baelor."
Robert blinked. "Forgive me," he said, "but I was under the impression that you had been sent here with us specifically because the Great Sept wanted you out of their sight. What do they want you back for?"
Jonothor reached into his cassock and drew out a scroll. "This," he replied, handing over the scroll with a slight rustle as his hand trembled involuntarily, "will explain."
Robert accepted the scroll, unrolling it to find a bull fixed with the seal of the High Septon. As he laboriously read through the flowery High Andalic of the bull, his frown deepened and deepened, so that by the time he reached the end he wore a scowl like a wrathful pagan deity. "What in the bowels of the Hells are they on?" he asked in a growl. "After that mess with Jaspar, I know you don't exactly see eye to eye with the High Septon and the Most Devout, but you're not a heretic!" Catching himself, he cocked an eyebrow. "Are you?"
Jonothor shrugged. "It is true that I have gone beyond the bounds of canon law," he admitted, "but always in a fashion that I believe to be consistent with the teachings of the Seven-Pointed Star and the commandments of the gods. I have never denied the supremacy of the Seven, or their number and constitution, nor have I altered the Divine Office beyond the prescribed bounds." He shrugged again. "In any case, it will all come out at the trial," he went on. "Under canon law, I have the right to face my accusers and name an advocate to present evidence in my defense. I still have a few friends in Westeros who would be willing to defy the Most Devout."
Robert laid the scroll down on the table and leaned back in his chair. "How confident are you that you can win an acquittal?" he asked bluntly.
Jonothor spread his hands. "Before an impartial court, I would be reasonably confident," he replied. "As it is, I doubt that the Most Devout would be a model of impartiality in my case. Accused heretics do not usually find favorable listeners at the Great Sept. Have you heard of Jon Wicleff?"
Robert frowned. "Name rings a bell," he said slowly, "but I can't place it."
"He was another who believed that the Faith needed to change," Jonothor explained, "and in arguing so he ran afoul of the Great Sept. His death was suitably gruesome." Jonothor bowed his head. "The Stranger waits for us all," he said somberly, "and although I would rather keep him waiting a while longer, I will accept whatever judgment the Father levies upon me."
Robert frowned. "The Faith can't actually execute you, can't they?" he asked. "As I recall, someone sentenced to death by the Faith must be handed over to secular authority to be actually executed."
"That much is true," Jonothor admitted, "but I cannot foresee the Most Devout encountering any difficulty in that regard. King Stannis is, by all reports, a dutiful son of the Faith, if not an enthusiastic one." He stood. "By your leave, Your Grace, I have some final business to attend to before I leave tomorrow."
"No you don't," Robert said, having made his decision between one word and the next. "You aren't going anywhere."
Jonothor froze, blinking rapidly. "Your Grace," he said slowly, as if to a somewhat dense child, "I am summoned to the Great Sept. One does not simply refuse such a summons."
"One does when the summons is illegal," Robert replied. "Listen, whatever heresy you did, you did in the Kingdom of Myr, correct?" At Jonothor's hesitant nod he plunged ahead. "So even if the Most Devout were able to judge you, they would have to hand you over to me for execution. And since I will not do so, there is no point to you making such a long journey and undergoing such dangers when you don't need to."
Jonothor opened his mouth, then closed it. "The argument has some merit," he allowed finally, "but it ignores the central issue. If you give me safe harbor, Your Grace, then you will declare yourself to be an abettor of heresy and an enemy of the Faith." He spread his hands. "I submit, Your Grace, that your kingdom has enough enemies already without adding the Faith to their ranks."
Robert stood. "Have you forgotten the oaths I swore?" he asked softly. "The oaths you witnessed when you put the crown on my head? I swore to defend the faiths of my people, to uphold the rights of their clergy, and to protect them against all their enemies, wheresoever they may arise." He shrugged. "If the Most Devout choose to make themselves the enemy of my people, then they can take the consequences."
Jonothor shook his head. "Your responsibility to the rest of your people outweighs your responsibility to me," he replied. "The Faith can be one of the strongest pillars of this kingdom, along with the Royal Army and the Red Temple. Even if the Seven never claim more than a third to a half of the smallfolk, they will still provide another means of binding them and the Faithful nobility to the kingdom and its mission of destroying slavery. If, on the other hand, that prop is turned against this kingdom . . ." Jonothor grimaced. "Imagine this kingdom placed under interdict, Your Grace. The Divine Office unsaid, the dead unable to be buried with the rites of the Faith or in sacred ground, the sacraments unperformed, the septs closed . . ." He shook his head. "Better that I should suffer whatever penalty the Faith levies upon me than that I should bring down such a fate upon the people who look to me for spiritual guidance."
Robert leaned forward, planting his knuckles on the desk. "Let them," he rumbled, his brows furrowing again. "We shall reopen the septs and celebrate the sacraments anyway."
Jonothor's jaw dropped, his face turning white. "Your Grace," he stammered, "are you seriously proposing to lead the kingdom into schism deliberately?"
"That is exactly what I am proposing," Robert said. "I am the King of Myr, not the High Septon, and I will not be dictated to by some soft-handed dress-wearing pimp who has done less for my kingdom than the least of my soldiers." He tilted his head to look past Jonothor. "Maran!" he roared. "Get in here!"
As Maran scuttled in, Robert pushed himself away from the desk and squared his shoulders. "Take dictation," he told his secretary, who situated himself at the fireplace table and took up a quill. "To His Holiness the High Septon," Robert began. "I have been told of your excommunication of my trusty and well-beloved friend Septon Jonothor from the Faith and your summoning of him to King's Landing to answer the charge of heresy. Upon interviewing Septon Jonothor myself, in my office as Defender of the Faiths, I have determined that he has done nothing to warrant such treatment, and that both the order of excommunication and the summons to appear are thereby invalid. Septon Jonothor has at every point in his service with the Sunset Company and the Kingdom of Myr acted in accordance with the highest traditions of the Faith, has earned the gratitude of the Crown for his deeds multiple times, and retains the complete faith of the people of his parish, his fellow septons, and of myself in both my office as King and in my private person. Accordingly, I have directed him to remain at his post in the First Sept of Myr and continue in the duties of his office." He nodded. "Add the usual salutations, but none of the usual pleasantries; I want to convey my displeasure at him. Write up a fair copy tonight and I'll review it with the Small Council tomorrow."
As Maran left the room, Jonothor bowed low. "Your Grace," he said humbly, "I truly appreciate your willingness to protect me, but I fear that you are making a grievous mistake. The Faith is not an ordinary enemy."
"Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, and Mace Tyrell all told me that I was making a grievous mistake when I abdicated the Iron Throne and formed the Sunset Company," Robert replied, gesturing broadly at the room. "And behold, here we are. If I have learned anything, Jonothor, it is that there is nothing that cannot be overcome with sufficient courage, skill, and might." He bared his teeth. "How many companies does the High Septon have?" he asked rhetorically.
XXX
"You're too fucking slow!" the exiled knight roared, all but dancing in rage. "Spur up, man, spur up! Faster, faster, fast-oh for fuck's sake!" There was a thump as the trainee's lance hit the shield on the quintain, a creaking as the quintain's arms revolved around the central post, and then another thump, this one rather heavier, as the sackful of wet sand on the other arm caught the trainee on the back of the head and knocked him off his horse to land heavily on the packed earth of the lists. The exiled knight snatched off his cap and dashed it to the ground with a cry of "Godsdamnit!" and strode towards the line of other trainees who were sitting their horses on the other end of the lists.
"Are those lily wands?!" he demanded. "Are you soldiers?! You're supposed to kill the other bastards; at that speed you won't even tickle them! It's enough to make the knightly aura of my blood turn to effluent!" He propped his fists on his hips as he glared at the trainees, who for their part stared at him with a sort of paralyzed fixation. "How many times do I have to tell you?" he demanded. "You lock your lance under your arm, you lean forward, you dig your spurs in, you get your nag up to speed, and you don't stop this side of Hellgates! It's not difficult when you do it right! Now again, from the top! You!" He aimed a finger at the trainee at the right end of the line. "Take your mark! And show some spirit this time or so help me gods I will put some on the end of my cock and ram it up your arse!"
Daario Naharis shrugged to himself as the trainee in question heeled his horse forward. The exiled knight, a Second Son who had been exiled from the Reach for murder, attempted kidnap, and chronic inability to pay his debts, had an abrasive manner that was exacerbated by his short temper, but he was universally recognized as the best lancer in Tyroshi service, so the men he was trying to turn into Andal-style armored lancers put up with him. And to give him his due, he was doing a decent job of it; the sellswords he was training not only knew how to ride, but they also knew how to use weapons from horseback, thereby removing the first problem of training a cavalry recruit. In further aid of the matter, the men he was training were throwing themselves at the problem with the determination of men whose livelihood was in danger. The few Stormcrows who had survived Tara had told enough stories of fighting the Andal heavy cavalry to impress upon even the densest listener that the future of cavalry warfare in the Disputed Lands was the armored lancer deployed in mass. A company that could field such cavalry in numbers was a company that would not only be able to survive the coming wars, but come out of them in a position to dominate the market.
Fortunately their employers were also sensing the tide of progress. While Tyrosh was more famous for its armor than its blades, the Andal-style arming sword with its rigid, diamond-cross-sectioned blade and needle-like point was easy enough to copy for a decent armorer and the number of skilled armorsmiths who called Tyrosh home meant that every heavy cavalryman could be equipped with at least a sword, a breastplate, a pot helm, and tassets. Provided, of course, they were willing to cover the cost of their new equipment, either in hard coin or on credit against their pay. Daario snorted to himself; trust merchants to find ways to make or save money, even with a hard and brutal war in the offing. If anything the Tyroshi did was going to undermine their chances of victory, it was the ingrained impulse to turn a profit on the fighting, or at least minimize any losses.
He glanced at the lances each trainee was using. Especially when their enemies give them a push in that regard, he thought sourly.
The simple fact was that armies used a lot of seasoned wood. Lances, crossbows, tent poles, spear-shafts, axe handles, carts, saddle-trees, barrels . . . the list went on and on. Lances and spear-shafts, in particular, required relatively long, straight, and knot-less lengths of ash or fir or oak. Ships required even more wood, again in the form of long, straight, knot-free boards. That required trees, and one of the few things that Tyrosh did not have either in its mainland domains or on its island possessions was an abundance of suitable trees; centuries of ship-building and other construction had denuded the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones both of forests worthy of the name. The few that remained were more on the order of groves than proper woodlands, and were mostly maintained to provide hunting grounds for the Tyroshi nobility.
Ordinarily, this would not be a problem; Tyroshi merchants had been buying timber from the Stormlands for generations, and the commercial contacts that had been forged in the process were strong and extensive. The problem was that, again, the old paths in which the affairs of the Narrow Sea had walked for so long had been jarred awry. Westerosi merchants that for years and years had called Tyroshi merchants their friends and partners suddenly had no time for them and no words beyond curses; the raids of the Myrish exiles against the Westerosi mainland had soured their hearts and illustrated to them that their erstwhile partners were now at least the hosts of their enemies, if not enemies themselves. And then the Braavosi had gotten involved.
The Tyroshi timber cartel had paid one hundred silver ducats per hundredweight of seasoned timber landed on the docks of Tyrosh. The Sealord of Braavos, it seemed, was now offering one hundred and fifty silver dinars per hundredweight of seasoned timber on the docks of Stonhelm, the main port of exit for exported Stormlands timber, as well as the cost of shipping the timber to Braavos if a Westerosi ship was so contracted, payable either in hard coin or in sight drafts on the Iron Bank, which were as good as coined gold from Lorath to Qarth. Similar offers in King's Landing, Gulltown, and White Harbor combined to effectively shut Tyrosh out of the Westerosi timber market. Ordinarily this could have been compensated for by buying Qohorik timber through Volantis, but there were problems there too. Volantis was casting covetous eyes up the Rhoyne towards Dagger Lake, and in consequence the Qohorik were cutting back on the amount of timber they were allowing to be shipped downriver. What little did come down the Rhoyne was almost immediately bought up by the Triarchs, who also needed all the wood they could get to supply the needs of their new army.
The result was that the new heavy cavalry of Tyrosh, and the spearmen of the citizen's militia, were training with cast-iron poles instead of lances and spears, which would be issued from the city arsenal in the event of war. Daario knew that there was a side benefit to the necessity in that it would strengthen the men's arms more than they would be otherwise, but it was still best to train with the weapons you were actually going to fight with, if at all possible. The Archon had sent agents to Oldtown and Lannisport seeking timber, but those voyages would take months if not years to bear fruit, and the Tyroshi fleet had claimed first priority on the first shipment of seasoned timber, in order to retain their numeric edge over the Myrish.
Daario sighed as the third trainee in the line walked his horse forward to take his turn at the quintain. One problem at a time, old son, he reminded himself. Sufficient to the day is the difficulty thereof.