UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
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REDACTION CLEARANCE DENIED
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Preliminary Threat Assessment of the States, Polities, and Other Organizations and Entities of 1352-Alpha-3
Submitted [REDACTED], by [REDACTED]
Commissioned by [REDACTED]
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Overall Threat Assessment Level: 1
The overall threat presented by the states, polities, and other organized entities of 1352-Alpha-3 is minor. They possess minor ability to project local military force. They possess minor ability to contest UEG diplomatic, economic, and political influence. They possess major ability to conduct local intelligence operations. They possess moderate ability to conduct local counterintelligence operations. They possess no significant ability to project military force beyond the planetary level. They possess no significant ability to conduct intelligence operations beyond the planetary level. They possess no significant ability to conduct counterintelligence operations beyond the planetary level. They possess no significant ability to exert diplomatic, economic, and political influence on the UEG civil government and public.
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Recommended Immediate Response Level: 0, with provision for escalation to Response Level 3
In the near-term, the threat presented by the states, polities, and other organized entities of 1352-Alpha-3 requires no response by the Office of Naval Intelligence beyond standard observation and monitoring protocols. Any further responses are, at present, not cost-effective. In the event that local polities prove more resistant to UEG diplomatic, economic, political, and military pressure than previously anticipated, recommend that Section III begin formulation of a concerted proxy propaganda campaign targeted at [REDACTED]. In this event, Section III should take advantage of intrinsic balkanization, separatist sentiment, religious division and institutional weakness to [REDACTED].
Should local polities prove more resilient than expected, recommend that Section III investigate methods of [REDACTED] (ex: Viserys Targaryen, the Iron Islands, Dornish Separatist Groups, Essosi slave populations) in accordance with stringent technological restrictions to prevent reverse-engineering which might allow such groups to subsequently challenge UNSC forces.
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Recommended Long-Term Response Level: 3, with provision for escalation to Response Level 10
In the long-term, the native population possesses the potential to develop to the point of being able to challenge UEG power. With the advent of formal contact with the UEG and UNSC forces, local polities may be motivated to fund and coordinate research and development. In addition, cultural exchange may result in undesirable societal development towards more unified, efficient forms of government able to better counter UEG influence. This outcome could result in the native population of 1352-Alpha-3 gaining the ability to challenge UEG and UNSC power and should be prevented by any means necessary. Recommend that Section I and Section III cooperate to infiltrate research and cultural organizations, whether through local proxies or direct action, in order to [REDACTED].
Special attention should be paid to the polity known as the "Seven Kingdoms of Westeros", where scientific knowledge appears abnormally concentrated in an organization known as the "Order of Maesters". This concentration of knowledge makes technological advancement in this polity [REDACTED]. Recommend Section III investigate [REDACTED], the headquarters and central information repository of the "Order of Maesters", as well as [REDACTED] in a cost-effective manner.
In the event of significant, unavoidable technological development, recommend escalation to Response Level 10. Additionally, recommend that Section II begin formulation of a propaganda campaign to be activated in the event of such an escalation, designed to render complete [REDACTED] acceptable to the UEG civil government and public. Recommended means of [REDACTED] are [REDACTED].
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Ground Forces Threat Assessment Level: 1
The ground forces of 1352-Alpha-3 possess minor capability to contest UNSC ground forces.
Due to the nature of military force in 1352-Alpha-3, it is difficult to estimate the true potential size of 1352-Alpha-3's ground forces. Conservative estimates place the upper bound of 1352-Alpha-3's ground forces at 700,000-1,000,000 soldiers. These numbers are highly variable. Troops are divided between various feudal lords, tribal clans, city-states, mercenary groups, and other armed factions that do not fall easily into standard military nomenclature. At any time, these factions are bound to each other by a complex web of social, legal, traditional, and political obligations that may stretch back thousands of years. As a result, overt military action against any one faction may have a stronger unifying effect than anticipated, leading to a full mobilization of 1352-Alpha-3's ground forces. However, many factions also harbor deep grudges and resentments against each other, which may preclude mutual aid and defense. In addition, due to the balkanized nature of 1352-Alpha-3, many factions may not cooperate out of opportunism and wait for one faction to be weakened in order to take advantage of them. These factors should be taken into careful consideration before overt action is taken.
Mobilization of the ground forces of 1352-Alpha-3 is further complicated by the differing levels of quality and professionalization present in their ranks. The two major polities of 1352-Alpha-3 are the "Seven Kingdoms of Westeros" and the "Free Cities of Essos". There exist other polities, but they are beyond the scope of this threat assessment. In the "Seven Kingdoms of Westeros", military organization is very similar to Medieval Europe. Standing forces are small and centered around a professional cadre of highly trained noble soldiers, similar to European knights. In times of war, feudal lords will levy soldiers from their territories. These soldiers are often poorly trained and poorly equipped, with poor morale. In addition, it is unlikely that a maximum levy will occur, as this would cripple agriculture and cause widespread starvation.
In the "Free Cities of Essos", there is a heavy reliance on mercenary groups and slave armies to provide military power. Such groups could possibly be induced to switch employers or rebel, crippling the military power of the "Free Cities". An exception is the "Free City" of "Braavos", which maintains a significant professional fighting force that is well trained and equipped by the standards of 1352-Alpha-3. "Braavos" also controls a significant portion of 1352-Alpha-3's financial institutions in the form of the "Iron Bank of Braavos", making it a priority target for [REDACTED]. Also of note are the "Dothraki", a large nomadic faction split into several tribes inhabiting the same continent as the "Free Cities". They may be incentivized or provoked to attack the "Free Cities", removing two military factions from play. The "Free Folk" play a similar role relative to the "Seven Kingdoms of Westeros".
Due to a lack of professionalization and standardization, there is inconsistency in the standard armament of 1352-Alpha-3 ground troops. The average soldier is likely to be armed with a polearm, such as a pike or a halberd, and/or a sword. Many carry daggers and use them in a similar role as UNSC combat knives, as a combination of utility tool and close-quarters melee weapon. The main projectile weapon is the longbow, of similar make and capabilities as the English longbow. Crossbows are also used, though less frequently than longbows. Slings are used by some specialist troops, and their threat should not be disregarded due to their primitive nature. A properly slung stone is more than capable of causing concussion in helmeted troops and killing unhelmeted troops. Weapons such as axes, maces, flails, and clubs are used to a limited extent and do not represent a significant contribution to the armament of the average native soldier. Highborn soldiers, or "knights", generally favor the use of the longsword, though war hammers, flails, and battle-axes also find some use among their ranks. As highborn soldiers are generally employed as heavy shock cavalry, they also commonly use lances, especially when charging. Armor quality also varies greatly. Highborn soldiers commonly wear high-quality full plate armor over chainmail. Basic chainmail and light plate are common among the average soldiery, and some might possess no armor at all. Shields are widely used. Artillery consists of weapons such as catapults, ballista, and scorpions, which possess limited anti-aircraft capability but pose little threat to spread-out or entrenched troops due to lacking explosive payload.
When possible, avoid engaging 1352-Alpha-3 ground troops in melee range. The average knight is especially proficient in melee combat, and will likely defeat an average UNSC soldier in melee range. 1352-Alpha-3 ground troops fight in large formations, in the open. Artillery, especially VT airburst shells, should prove effective. 1352-Alpha-3 ground troops possess little experience with or protection from [REDACTED]. UNSC forces may be initially unnerved by the impression of a cavalry charge. Recommend a review of tactics for countering horse cavalry and the education of UNSC forces on such tactics.
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Aerospace Forces Threat Assessment Level: 1
The aerospace forces of 1352-Alpha-3 possess minor capability to contest UNSC aerospace forces.
There is no evidence that the native populations of 1352-Alpha-3 have achieved powered flight. There are indications of experimentation with unpowered flight, such as kites and primitive gliders, but such technologies are not widespread and their military applications do not appear to have been realized. Recommend Section III make efforts to [REDACTED].
Artillery weapons used by the native militaries of 1352-Alpha-3 possess minor anti-aircraft capabilities. In particular, the "Scorpion", a weapon of similar design to the Roman weapon of the same name but possessing greater size, power, and range, is capable of threatening low-flying reconnaissance drones and similar slow, low-altitude aerospace craft flying on predictable vectors. Recommend that Section III make efforts to [REDACTED] individuals with knowledge of the design of such weapons and [REDACTED].
There is evidence that the native populations of 1352-Alpha-3 once utilized organisms similar to dragons from Earth mythology as flying mounts in battle. These organisms were highly armored and maneuverable, possessed some level of intelligence, and were capable of orally projecting large quantities of a highly flammable substance capable of melting steel and stone. However, local sources indicate that such organisms are now extinct. As such organisms could pose a potential threat to UNSC aerospace and ground forces, efforts should be made to find and secure any source of such organisms, for research or [REDACTED]. If such organisms are used against UNSC forces in battle, recommend deployment of high-powered anti-aircraft weaponry and investigation into [REDACTED].
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Naval Forces Threat Assessment Level: 0
The naval forces of 1352-Alpha-3 possess no significant capability to contest UNSC space forces.
There have been no detections of artificial objects in orbit of 1352-Alpha-3, in the 1352-Alpha solar system, or of shipbuilding activities. However, due to the high likelihood of Forerunner involvement in the development of 1352-Alpha-3, hidden caches of Forerunner technology may be scattered on the planet or throughout the system. Due to the highly advanced nature of such technologies, the native population may be utilizing a fraction of their capabilities without realizing what they truly are. Recommend coordination with UNSC forces to secure or terminate such artifacts and technologies before the native population can realize their full potential.
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Covert Forces Threat Assessment Level: 3
The covert forces of 1352-Alpha-3 possess major capability to contest UNSC covert forces.
Despite a lack of formalized study and development in the fields of intelligence and covert operations, the covert forces of 1352-Alpha-3 are highly effective and efficient, especially in the disciplines of infiltration, HUMINT, and liquidation operations. All major political entities possess extensive experience with espionage, proxy operations, and political manipulation. The fraught political and social landscape of 1352-Alpha-3 has provided them with with a great deal of expertise and they are not to be underestimated. There are two entities that deserve special mention.
Varys is the "Master of Whisperers" of the "Seven Kingdoms of Westeros". He controls an extensive spy network, a significant portion of which is constituted of orphaned children, destitute individuals, and otherwise normally overlooked members of 1352-Alpha-3 society. Preliminary reports indicate that this spy network extends to all major regions and continents of 1352-Alpha-3. Recommend that Section II educate UNSC forces on the importance of infosec, and to institute frequent patrols and movement controls in and around UNSC facilities and operations. The use of orphan children to gather intelligence may elicit sympathy in UNSC forces and cause accidental divulgence of sensitive intelligence. Recommend institution of orders mandating the immediate [REDACTED] of all unauthorized individuals discovered within five hundred (500) meters of UNSC facilities, regardless of age. Recommend that Section III move to [REDACTED].
"The Faceless Men" is a covert organization based in the "Free City of Braavos". Actionable intelligence on this group is difficult to acquire, and attempts to infiltrate this group via proxy action have proved fruitless. What is clear is that this group possesses possibly supernatural techniques of disguise and infiltration, and have proved capable of terminating highly-guarded HVTs. Recommend institution of guidelines mandating three-point genetic screening of individuals entering UNSC facilities, stringent compartmentalization of intelligence, increased security surrounding UNSC and UEG HVTs, and [REDACTED].
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Final Notes:
It should be stressed that many of the measures outlined in this report are boilerplate escalation responses and that it is unlikely any will go into effect. The native intelligent population of 1352-Alpha-3 poses little threat, and it is likely that, with time, they will be peacefully assimilated into greater human civilization. Anything beyond the most basic of intelligence, counter-intelligence, and liquidation operations are, at the moment, not cost-effective.
However, preparations must be made for the worst. The native intelligent population of 1352-Alpha-3 is genetically identical to greater humanity, but due to the long period of isolation between our two populations, there are few shared social and cultural links between us. As a result, the native intelligent peoples of 1352-Alpha-3 are as alien to us as the Sangheili and Jiralhanae were and are. As the events of the past 30 years have taught us, there do not exist friendly aliens. There are only aliens that temporarily share humanity's interests, and aliens which must eventually be exterminated, and there is a significant overlap between those categories. Humanity must continue to recover, rebuild, and expand, but we must never underestimate or trust again. Could this require what any decent human being would consider to be egregious crimes against life? Yes. But we should always remember: it is no worse than what they would do to us, given half a chance.
[REDACTED]
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SEMPER VIGILANS
The position of Hand of the King did not come without its benefits. He was a practical, no-nonsense sort of man, which was more than he could say for many of his noble peers. He preferred unadorned plate to jeweled armor and an easily-defended castle to one built with only luxury in mind. Still, he couldn't call quiet, private quarters, fine food and drink, and access to some of the finest minds and warriors in the realm unenjoyable. No man could.
Yet, as Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King massaged his temples and attempted to block out the squabbling of the small council, he couldn't help but rue the day he ever agreed to serve as Robert's Hand. The small council chamber's atmosphere was contentious on the best of days; today, it was downright chaotic. The day's meeting was originally planned to discuss the state of the royal treasury and to begin planning for another one of Robert's pet tourneys; now, with the arrival of the newcomers and their iron carriages, those plans had taken a dive out the window and dashed themselves to pieces on the rocks below.
As the shouting continued, it seemed that no two men could agree on the same course of action. Grand Maester Pycelle was calling for the newcomers to be driven out at pike-point. Lord Renly wanted to welcome them with a feast. Ser Barristan Selmy attempted to mediate between the two and strike a balanced, welcoming but cautious approach. In this matter, he was not helped by Petyr Baelish, who seemed to take more delight in stoking the argument to ever greater heights of fervor than in actually contributing to the discussion. Lord Stannis, expression even stormier than usual, stood with his arms folded across his chest. Jon couldn't tell if he was deep in thought, or simply also nursing a headache. For some reason or other, Varys was unavailable, and just when they might most need him too. Typical, though Jon, the eunuch is probably off plotting some scheme.
"Your Grace, I must insist that we prevent these strangers from entering King's Landing!" said Pycelle, chain jangling as the old man practically bounced in agitation. If he closed his eyes, Jon could almost smell the fear coming off of him — or was that piss? "To come before us in such a manner, wearing such strange dress and flying no banners — it is a ploy! They can only mean to distract us and leave us vulnerable to some nefarious plot!" He directed his entreaties towards the head of the table, beard practically shaking as he paced back and forth, one finger waving above his head.
"Oh, calm yourself, old man," replied Lord Renly, "haven't you ever heard of mystery knights? If we drove out every last man without a banner, the tourneys would be dreadfully boring." The youngest Baratheon lounged on his chair, a goblet of wine in one hand, an easy smile on his face as he shook his head. "You'll give yourself a fit if you keep up that pacing. As for me, your Grace," he continued, addressing Robert, "I think it unlikely that anyone could have come to make trouble with such a small force. And even if they have, there are, what a thousand, two thousand Goldcloaks in the city? Combined with the forces of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the sheer weight of bodies alone could force them back the way they came." Renly paused to sip from his drink, then aimed a wink at Lord Stannis. "If it came to that, I'm sure my Ser Barristan or my brother would be happy to lead the counter-charge."
"Hmph." Stannis did not deign to answer; unfortunately, Baelish was more than happy to do so in his place.
"You do make a good point, Lord Renly," the Master of Coin said, that perpetually sly, pleasant, as-friendly-as-you-please voice of his even more grating on Jon's ears than usual. He was leaning forward, one elbow braced on the small council table, resting his chin on his hand, idly twirling a quill with the other. "Shall I begin counting the coin for a welcome feast? Perhaps the Grand Maester would like to advise on what dishes these strangers might enjoy."
"I will do no such thing!"
"Peace! Lord Renly, Grand Maester Pycelle, I beg of you, peace!" Ser Barristan's voice rang out above the commotion, strong and steady and utterly ignored. Jon felt a spike of sympathy for the venerable Lord Commander as he tried in vain to bring the small council to order. May as well tell the Dothraki to swim the Narrow Sea. "We must act with caution, yes, but paranoia will not do us any good. We have no reason to assume that these stranger came here with ill intentions, and we must show…"
With some effort, Jon forced the Lord Commander's voice to fade into the background, along with the rest of the small council. Beyond giving his pounding headache some small measure of relief, it allowed him to focus on the only person who, perhaps unfortunately, mattered at this table. King Robert of House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, hadn't said a single word in the past twenty minutes of argument. Apart from sipping dourly at his wine, he hadn't done much at all, preferring to let the small council jabber and squabble and get nowhere at all.
Jon's heart ached a little every time he looked at Robert. The Iron Throne had turned his previously strapping, vital ward into a fat, unhealthy man, nose and cheeks red like the wine he was so fond of. There was still muscle under there, somewhere, and Robert could still crush a man's skull with a warhammer, but these days he was more wont to eat and drink and fuck any half-attractive woman with a pulse that crossed his field of view than to do any campaigning… or ruling, for that matter. Jon felt like he hadn't had a single proper night's sleep in the fourteen… or was it fifteen, years now since the Rebellion ended with Robert atop the Iron Throne, never mind his private quarters and soft bed. His was to serve, of course, but even he had private moments of weakness, staring at reams of parchment and shelves of books, where he wished Robert could try his hand at just a bit of the ruling that he had completely left to Jon. The Robert he knew would have brought this meeting to order with a single word. The Robert of now continued to listen to the arguments, allowing the meeting to drag on and on and distract Jon from other, more important tasks. Grand Maester Malleon's book was waiting for him, back in his quarters.
Pycelle and Renly continued to go back and forth, Baelish continued to egg them on, Barristan continued to attempt to mediate, Stannis continued to sulk, and Varys continued to be somewhere else. Just as Jon was about to call for a recess, a clatter of armor sounded from outside the small council chamber. The argument stopped; all eyes turned to the door, followed by the shout of the castle guard sergeant guarding it.
"Ser Jaime Lannister, here to speak to His Grace!"
"Send him in." The doors opened, admitting the one and only Jaime Lannister, face slightly red as if he'd just run the entire way up to the chamber. Jon took a small bit of selfish satisfaction in seeing his Lannister blonde hair disheveled.
"Ser Jaime!" Selmy said, relief filling his voice. "You have returned! And in one piece, I see."
"Quite so." The Kingslayer took long, smooth steps across the room, ignoring everyone else to kneel in front of Robert. "Your Grace, I bring news of the strangers."
"Well, stand up so I can hear you properly," grumbled Robert, gesturing with one hand while still staring into his cup. "Who are these bloody strangers and what do they want?"
Rising to his feet, Jaime set the box on the table and cleared his throat before speaking, hands clasped behind his back. "Their leader is a man named Mateo Figueroa," he said, the name tumbling awkwardly from his tongue. Jon thought it might have had some hints of Braavosi in it. "He claims to be an emissary of the 'Unified Earth Government' and wishes to speak to you or one of your representatives."
"Preposterous," said Pycelle, before anyone could get in a word edgewise. "To demand an audience with His Grace like this? The disrespect! We must teach these interlopers—"
"Shut your fucking mouth!" shouted Robert, stunning Pycelle into silence. "If I want your bloody advice I'll damn well ask for it! Go on, Kingslayer," he said, "what proof does this 'Mateo Figueroa' provide of his claims?"
"He provides letters and documents, finely made and signed but nothing that cannot be faked," Jaime replied, dismissively. His voice took on a more wondering note, however, as he continued, "In addition to those, he gave me three gifts to bring to you, that they might pique your interest."
Robert lifted an eyebrow. "Gifts, you say?" Setting down his wine, he leaned forwards and clasped his hands, suddenly interested. "Well, let's see these things. It'll make for a laugh, at least."
"Of course, Your Grace." Jaime went to open the box, then hesitated for a second. "I should say that I have not closely examined them yet. As soon as I took possession of these items, I made haste to bring them to you."
"What?! You fool! How could you—"
"I said shut up!" Pycelle quailed at Robert's voice. "Enough already. Open the box!"
"Yes, Your Grace." Jaime quickly undid the latches on the box and swung open the lid. Inside rested three small bundles of cloth. Carefully, he lifted out the leftmost and set it down on the table, then proceeded to unwrap it. Robert, Renly, and Baelish leaned in for a closer look. Despite his previous objections, Pycelle craned his neck to see as well, and even Stannis and Barristan seemed interested, though Barristan also tightened his grip on his sword and shifted so that he might shield Robert with his body at a moment's notice. Against his better judgement, Jon also moved to get a closer look at what appeared to be a small metal cylinder with a clear glass top. Inside the glass top, there appeared to be a set of crystals.
"And this is…?"
"I do not know, Your Grace." Jaime held the thing up so the entire council could get a better look, tilting it from side to side in puzzlement. "It appears to be some sort Myrish eye, but one end is completely sealed."
"Wait," Jon said, and pointed to the tube's side. "There is some sort of black depression there. It seems like you could press it."
"Oh? So there is, Lord Arryn. Let's see…" Jaime pressed the switch, and a small gasp left the entire small council as the crystals lit up with a brilliant white light. When Jaime pointed it at the table out of reflex, a circle of light appeared on the dark surface. Dust motes danced in the beam, made visible by its illumination.
"By the Seven, now that's a bloody trick!" Robert took the cylinder into his own hands and admired it from different angles, sending lights playing around the room. Jon squinted as Robert pointed the thing into his eyes, blinding him for half a second. "Pycelle, this is your moment, how do you think it's done?"
"Hmph." The maester had gone back to looking unimpressed, arms folded across the front of his robes. "A simple parlor trick, nothing more. A novice at the Citadel could do as much with fireflies in a cage."
"I do not know, Grand Maester," Ser Barristan remarked, deep in thought as he regarded the tube. "That light is more brilliant than any I have seen before, and the tube seems too weighty to hold fireflies. Not to mention, where would they get their air from? It seems more like a glass candle to me."
"Enough, you two. Bring on the second gift!" Robert clapped his hands in eager anticipation, finally fully engaged in the meeting. Better late than never, Jon supposed. If these strangers could keep Robert's attention, then more power to them. Would that I could say the same.
"Yes. Of course, Your Grace." Jaime reached down and picked up the second parcel. Upon unwrapping, the cloth revealed a simple black box, unadorned accept for three protrusions labeled with a red dot, a green triangle, and a white square, respectively. There was a paper secured by some means to the box, adorned with a hand-drawn illustration of an arrow pointing to the green triangle. Going off of previous experience, Jaime pressed down on the green triangle.
Pycelle practically jumped three feet into the air. Stannis and Barristan had their swords halfway out within moments. Renly laughed in delight, Baelish's expression revealed nothing, and Jon started as a voice began to emanate from the box. It was thickly accented, but the Common Tongue that it produced was smooth and fluent, well-articulated and clearly polished. "To whomever may be hearing this message," it said, "I am Ruth Charet, President of the Unified Earth Government. I am speaking in order to extend to you a hand of friendship. Our people desire peace above all, and I hope that our relationship will prove to be a fruitful one. From Earth and all her colonies, we send to you our best wishes, and hope to meet you soon." The voice then transformed into other voices, speaking in strange tongues and accents. Jon though that he might have caught a hint of the Summer Tongue in the mix, but it was washed away in a bewildering array of messages before the voices stopped and the box sat inert.
"… it would appear they desire peace," Stannis remarked drily, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. Jon could only nod in agreement, still trying to figure out how the box had produced its sounds. Normally when such things were done, there were a group of dwarves hidden under the stage, but there was no stage here. If he knew Stannis, however, the man was already thinking about the military applications. No need to rely on the unreliable memory of messengers when you could order them to carry your actual voice with them. "Grand Maester, how do you think this was done?"
"… I do not know," said Pycelle, brow furrowed and hands trembling as he reached to examine the box. "It is not by any techniques that I know of."
"Well, whatever it was, it would make for quite the party trick," Renly said, and Baelish nodded.
"Of that, Lord Renly, we are in agreement. This 'Ruth Charet', I wonder, are they a woman?"
"Well, whatever it was, it was bloody brilliant!" Robert laughed, a deep, rich, booming noise of delight that Jon had not heard in some time. "Bring on the third gift! These strangers have my interest!"
Jaime quickly went to unwrap the third item, quite a bit larger than the rest. Luckily, however, the item that emerged was one that Jon recognized: a large, clear bottle, containing some manner of brown liquid that looked like a very dark rum. On its side was another hand drawing, this one of a person drinking from a bottle. Written at the bottom was a single word, written in the Common Script, which Jaime read aloud. "Enjoy." Under that paper was another one, plastered tightly to the side of the bottle. The letters "Coca-Cola" were emblazoned upon it in a highly stylized script, though Jon could not fathom what they meant. However, a terrible thought went through him as Robert reached to take a drink from the bottle.
"Your Grace, I must strongly advise against this," Jon said immediately, Pycelle and Barristan nodding vigorously in agreement. "This could be a poison — the previous two gifts might have been attempts to gain your trust."
"If they were, and it was poison, then why was it free to be picked as the first one?" Baelish asked in return, a sly smile on his face. "It seems to me that, if the strangers wanted to gain our confidences, they would have hidden these curiosities one under the other, instead of lining them up in the open like they did."
"If you are so certain, Lord Baelish, then why don't you have the first sip?"
"I have a better idea. Sergeant!" Baelish called to the door. "Bring a taster to the small council chambers."
It took agonizing minutes for the taster to be brought, with Jon glaring at Baelish the entire time. When the man finally arrived, he bore the stoic, resigned expression of someone being paid very good money to risk death at every meal. When presented with the bottle, it took several seconds to figure out how to open it. Pulling at the top didn't work, and it was only by accident that the man spun the small red circle that covered the opening. The council waited with bated breath as he took a small sip.
The man didn't immediately drop dead or go into convulsions, which was good. Instead, his eyes widened and his jaw worked like he was running his tongue over his teeth. "It's good, milords," he said. "Very sweet. And it feels like there're bubbles popping on my tongue."
"Well, that's good enough for me. Give it here!" Robert grabbed the bottle, took a massive draft, and slammed it back down on the table, sloshing a little of the liquid out of the top. Almost instantly, he began coughing, eyes and nose watering as he covered his mouth with a hand.
"Your Grace!" everyone shouted simultaneously. They rose to their feet in alarm, but Robert waved them off, despite his watery eyes and running nose. A few moments passed with them standing there uncertainly, before Robert recovered from his coughing fit.
"I say, that is a bloody drink and a half!" Robert exclaimed, a broad smile on his face. "Sweeter'n sugar, and it bubbles back up your throat! Cleans out the nostrils bloody properly, it does!" He took another draft, followed by a large belch escaping him. He laughed and said, "You all should try it!"
Stannis, Barristan, Jaime, and Pycelle declined the bottle as Robert offered it. Renly and Baelish each took a swig, nodding appreciatively at the taste and covering up their coughs. Jon hesitated, but at his old ward's insistence, he took a sip. The concoction was, indeed, 'sweeter'n sugar', and produced an odd prickling sensation on his tongue, but it did not seem to be poison of any kind. As Jon thought about it, such a bold and unsubtle poisoning scheme seemed unlikely, anyhow. Poisons were colorless and slipped into food and drink, not brown and presented in colorful bottles to a suspicious room.
"Not bad, is it?" Robert laughed once more, spreading his hands at the three items on the table in front of him. "These strangers know how to introduce themselves! Kingslayer, bring them to the throne room! I wish to see these men and their tricks in person!"
"At once, Your Grace!" Jaime bowed and turned, armor clanking as he ran for his horse. Jon helped Robert up from his chair, and the King smoothed out his clothes before gesturing to the small council at large.
"Prepare the throne room! I have an audience to hold!" The council members nodded and scattered to the four winds as Robert turned to Jon. "Maybe that bloody fucking chair might not be so boring this time around, what say you?"
"Perhaps, Your Grace," Jon said. The sooner these strangers left, the better. They might have interesting tricks, and perhaps they could strike up some sort of trade arrangement, but they were ultimately a distraction from his real task, one that held the safety of the realm in the balance.
Why were all of the royal children blond?
"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth," muttered Captain Zheng, "but I'm still surprised that they let us keep our weapons."
"The locals seem to be under the impression that our rifles are a strange, poorly built kind of crossbow," Figueroa muttered back, then frowned as the captain shuddered. "Something wrong?"
"Just imagined fighting the Covenant with crossbows. Anyway, if the rifles are crossbows, then what does that make the rocket launchers, battering rams?"
"Let's not overcomplicate this, shall we?"
"Right, right you are." The terms of entry had been unexpectedly generous. Zheng had planned to leave his rifle with the Mastodons but keep his pistol and grenades. Not only had that been unnecessary, but the knights had allowed him to bring an honor guard of thirty troops. That honor guard was really just 2nd Platoon minus its mortar section, but nobody needed to know that. As a result, accompanying him and Figueroa were thirty marines, formed into two columns and carrying an odd assortment of assault rifles, DMRs, SAWs, and three rocket launchers, an improvised military parade of sorts. Luckily, the marines retained some memory of their marching drills from basic training, and the synchronized impacts of their boots on the ground were rather satisfying to hear.
Standing at the column's head, Zheng continued to admire the 'sights', as they were, of the city, before another thought struck him. "We're not just going to leave that recorder with them, are we? Who knows what kind of tech they might derive out of it?"
"Don't worry about it," Figueroa replied, "The casing's sealed and there's a tiny thermite charge inside. In about… fifteen hours, that circuity'll be nothing but slag and melted plastic."
"Ah. Very clever."
One of the city guards, or "Goldcloaks", as Figueroa and Zheng had learned they were called, looked back upon hearing their conversation. Luckily, he didn't understand enough to find it suspicious and returned his gaze forwards. With the Goldcloaks on either side and mounted knights bringing up the front and back, the Earthers were completely hemmed in as they marched in two columns through the "streets" of King's Landing. Curious bystanders poked their heads out of upper-story windows, leaned over rooftops, or simply stopped by the side of the road and stared as the odd formation passed. Figueroa's plain business suit and tie and the uniform, grey-green armor of the marines contrasted sharply with the ostentatious gold cloaks of the Goldcloaks and the colorful panoply of heraldry and decoration that the knights wore. Rifles across their chests, eyes forward, and marching in perfect lockstep behind their captain, Figueroa thought the marines looked quite a bit more professional as well, compared to the somewhat sloppy way the Goldcloaks marched and held their weapons. Still, with this many men surrounding them, even sloppy, primitive weapons could prove quite lethal. If it came to it, Figueroa didn't doubt that the marines could shoot their way out, but those spears and swords might claim a few before being cut down in a hail of 7.62.
"At least these ones don't have shields," he said, aloud but quietly, getting a twisted smile to appear on Zheng's expression.
"It is rather nice to be top-dog tech-wise, for once." Zheng's expression then turned wistful. "You know, I've never actually marched in a parade. Guess nobody really felt like putting one on. Feels quite posh, really, makes me wish I had a saber, or some music maybe."
"I might have a speaker in here somewhere," Figueroa replied, gesturing to his briefcase. "We could play 'The British Grenadiers' on the way back, give the good people of King's Landing a show."
"Oh, now that would be a treat."
The two men shared a chuckle, before Figueroa's expression quickly turned to disgust as he extricated his shoe from a muddy puddle. "And they call this thing a street? I've seen better-paved roads in refugee camps." His face contorted even further as he took a closer look, hopping to keep up with everyone else. "I think there's raw sewage in this."
"I'm sure your expense account will cover it. Shame they wouldn't let us bring the Hogs, though." The column turned the corner into a large, central square, and Zheng whistled at the sight that greeted them. "Now that is a building."
"Yes, it is," Figueroa agreed, shading his eyes as he looked up at the great cathedral towering above them. In the distance, if he listened carefully, he could hear the chiming of bells and some sort of low, rhythmic chanting. "The locals do have their moments, I'll give them that much. What's the local religion called, again? The Faith of the… Six, was it? Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone?"
"Seven, I believe you're forgetting the Stranger. Column, left wheel!" The column turned left and away from the cathedral, now facing the road that ran all the way up to the castle in the distance. Marines marched in perfect lockstep as Goldcloaks scrambled to keep up, almost outpacing the city guards as they continued towards their destination. "Forward, march! Reminds me of the Vatican, on Earth."
"You've been?"
"I've seen images. Part of my degree was studying climate engineering, they showed us how acid rain damaged the Vatican dome in the 22nd Century and forced UNESCO to launch a conservation effort." Zheng's gaze went distant as if thinking back to his college days. "It was only a VR model, but it still made quite the impression."
"I'll bet. Fun fact, you know the pope was this close to calling a crusade against the Covenant back in 2529? I was just a freshman diplomat, but I went as part of the mission to talk him down, otherwise the UNSC would've been flooded with religious nutjobs with a lot of fervor but little else."
"Really? Now that's something you won't read about in the history books." The captain thought for a second before continuing. "Have you heard about Site 59?"
"No, what is it?"
"Supposedly a 'classified', in that special way that guarantees everyone and their mother has heard about it, facility eleven kilometers beneath the Italian Alps. Apparently, HIGHCOM had preparations in place to squirrel away all sorts of cultural artifacts from across Europe in there, vacuum-sealed in sterile boxes in dark, airless, sterile rooms. Heard they even figured out a way to move The Last Judgement, don't ask me how. That way, if we ever managed to come back to Earth, it would all still be there, waiting to be opened back up. 'Course, then the Chief went and blew the big bad aliens up, so we didn't have to after all." Zheng shot another look back at the cathedral, and all the magnificent works of art it must have held. "I wonder if these people have anything like that… or if they've even given any thought to it? One stray bomb and boom, that church is up in smoke."
"Pardon me, milord, but could I ask what you are talking about?"
"Hm?" Zheng turned to find a Goldcloak, the one who had turned around before, walking next to him, an inquisitive expression on his face. "Come again?"
"I-I just wanted to ask, what are you talking about?"
"What's your name, good man?"
"Marion, milord."
"Well, Marion, the answer to that iiiiis—"
"—classified," Figueroa finished, and the Earthers burst into laughter.
"Classified?" the bewildered guard parroted, utterly confused, looking between the two of them. "I'm sorry, milord, but what does that mean?"
"My friend, that's for us to know and you to find out." Still chuckling, Zheng dismissed the even-more-bewildered Marion and turned back to the march. "Ah, haven't laughed like that in a while. Everything feels… freer, now that the war is over. Like I can finally laugh again."
"Yes, doesn't it? Last month, before my assignment, my office had a party. A party! Can you imagine? We had pizza and wings and tacos. Can't find any of that here."
"No, can't find much of anything here, I'd imagine." Zheng cast another look at his surroundings. The splendor of the square and the cathedral were not far behind them, but it seemed like the city had already turned back into what the UEG city planners would delicately call a "low-development mixed-purpose zone" and what some particularly insensitive marines called AFGs — Areas Fit for Glassing. By his count, in the last twenty minutes of marching, they'd passed a dozen brothels and twice as many bars, each advertising its services in more lurid ways than the previous establishment. Thin children stood in front of shops, crying out the day's wares. The hungry crowded the alehouses, eating bowls of something brown that couldn't possibly be very healthy at all. The column passed many a destitute, hopeless-looking man and woman, apparently too poor to afford the cheapest bowls of… brown. Several splendidly-dressed men and women, and their accompanying retinues, had joined the crowds of onlookers gawking at the passing marines. Zheng assumed they were nobility, or wealthy citizens at the very least, and that their homes were the great estates he could just barely see peeking up over distant rooftops, but their wealth only served to highlight the frankly abject poverty he saw everywhere else. The UEG could at least provide public housing — it was a downright miracle that this current road had some cobblestone paving on it. And of course, any of those people might be an assassin, a target acquisition specialist, or simply down on their luck and willing to try something. His grip tightened imperceptibly on his rifle.
Figueroa must have been having similar thoughts, as his expression grew steadily more neutral as the column made its way towards the castle, or the 'Red Keep', as the knights and Goldcloaks called it. Zheng found himself quite eager to meet this King Robert if only to get it over with and head back to base. Another ten or so minutes passed, the procession making good time with the city guards keeping the roads clear ahead. Before long, they found themselves before a massive gatehouse, separated from the city proper by a deep moat and with entry barred by a heavy portcullis. Zheng called the formation to a halt before the bridge that lead over the moat, prompting some not-so-subtle sighs of relief from the marines. Guards stared down at them from the walls as the knights rode up to the gate. "State your business!" one of the guards called.
"Announcing the emissary of the Unified Earth Government, Mateo Figueroa, and his retinue, for an audience with His Grace King Robert!" Figueroa internally winced as they butchered the pronunciation of his name, but his expression didn't shift one iota.
"Very well! Open the gate!"
With a deep groan, the portcullis began to lift. One of the knights turned and beckoned for the procession to enter, then trotted in without waiting to see if they would follow. The captain and the diplomat glanced at each other before Figueroa shrugged and gestured for Zheng to take the lead.
"Unto the breach, good sir."
"As you say. Forward, march!"
As his position as Hand dictated, Jon stood next to the foot of the Iron Throne. The Kingsguard stood arrayed in front, Ser Barristan in the middle and the other six spread out three per side. The Kingslayer was among them, though with helmets on it was hard to identify who was who. Stannis and Renly were close at hand as well, standing to the side of the throne room but in front of the galleries where the various lords, ladies, and other assorted nobility and people of high standing of the Red Keep sat and gawked. Pycelle and Baelish stood opposite the brothers Baratheon, and Varys, finally turning up at the last minute, completed the small council. When asked where he had been, the Master of Whisperers would only smile enigmatically and say, "Somewhere else." Maddening, but what else was new? He now stood on the other side of the Iron Throne.
Atop the throne itself sat Robert, looking more excited than Jon had ever seen him to be on that upjumped chair. Along with the rest of the throne room, he waited in anticipation for the arrival of the strangers, this "Unified Earth Government". They'd all gotten descriptions from Ser Jaime, after his second return to the Red Keep, so Jon had a vague idea of their green armor and strange crossbows. No description, however, could ever beat seeing something with his own eyes, and so he waited.
The suspense was broken when the main doors creaked open. The herald stepped in first, all colorful drapery, to announce the visitors.
"Announcing Mateo Figueroa, emissary of the Unified Earth Government, for an audience with His Grace King Robert of House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
Even Jon could tell that the man had made an absolute butcher's work out of the name, but he managed to keep from outwardly cringing. Showing no signs of being out of breath despite all the hot air that left his lungs, the herald stood outside, next allowing a pair of knights to enter the Great Hall. They strode through the doors and immediately turned left and right, flanking the entry way. A group of castle guardsmen followed them, forming two rows down either side of the throne room from the doors to nearly where the Kingsguard's line stood. Finally, after all that ceremony was over with, Jon had his first look at these strangers who had so upended his day.
The first to enter were two columns of soldiers wearing grey-green armor, marching in perfect lockstep as they entered the hall. They were lead by a man wearing similar armor but a cloth hat instead of a helmet, and each of them held some sort of strange weapon across their chest. Jon could only presume they were crossbows, but they seemed far too large and bulky to be practical, and they were missing the actual 'bow' component. Ceremonial weapons, perhaps? In any case, the echoing of their synchronized footsteps suddenly ceased when their leader, in a thick, clipped accent, shouted, "Platoon, halt!" With a thunderous stomp, all movement ceased in an instant. The command was followed by "Right column, left face! Left column, right face! Retire, two paces!" With crisp motions, the two columns turned towards each other then took two steps back, leaving a path down the middle. The man turned around to face the throne room doors and gave a final command:
"Present arms!"
With a metallic clatter, the soldiers moved their crossbows from across their bodies to vertically in front. For the soldiers armed with larger crossbows, this was obviously more difficult, but they seemed to manage admirably. Lords and ladies tittered, quite impressed, but Jon watched these demonstrations with a more critical eye. The crisp motions were obviously the product of well-trained, disciplined troops, the standardized equipment the result of a well-funded and organized fighting force, and the soldiers all bore the look of veterans. However, at a closer glance, their armor colors were faded, the metal itself dulled, chipped, scratched, and seemingly burned in several places, with tell-tale signs of having gone through hasty repairs. Their weapons were similarly beat-up. This didn't seem like the kind of formation one typically presented at this sort of meeting.
Before Jon could follow that line of thinking any further, a great murmur rose from the spectators. A lone figure appeared in the doorway, and in contrast to the uniformly armored soldiers, this man wore a form-fitting black cloak over a white shirt and seemed to be wearing a noose-like red cloth ornament around his neck. His overall dress was very plain, refreshingly so in Jon's opinion, with the red being the only real splash of color in his ensemble, and he carried a simple, slim, silvery-grey box in one hand. This must be the infamous 'Mateo Figueroa', then. He certainly had the look of an emissary being escorted by his lord's soldiers.
The emissary walked between the two rows of soldiers, who held their positions as he passed. At the end of the formation, he briefly exchanged words with the hat-wearing man, who then stepped to the side to let him pass. As he did, the hat-wearing man shouted, "Port arms!" causing the soldiers to return their weapons to across the front of their bodies.
Another silence took hold as Robert and the emissary seemed to size each other up. Jon briefly wondered if the emissary knew the protocol for meeting the king, and was about to intervene to prevent further awkwardness when the emissary made the first move. He carefully set the box down on the ground, straightened his cloak, placed his right arm straight across his chest and the other across the small of his back, and bent at the waist into a deep bow — but he did not kneel.
"Your Grace, I am Mateo Figueroa, ambassador of the Unified Earth Government. On behalf of the people of Earth and all her colonies, it is an honor to meet you."
An unsubtle gasp went through the galleries. The Kingsguard line took a half step forward, only restrained by Ser Barristan. The castle guards did as well, but caught the steely gaze of the green-armored soldiers and thought better. Reactions among the small council were mixed, from Stannis' scowl to Baelish's lift of an eyebrow to Varys' unchanged, mysterious smile. Jon suppressed a groan and prepared to salvage what he could of the situation. Thank the Seven Cersei and her whelps aren't here, he thought. She'd be calling for this man's head right now. He also didn't know if he could have looked the Queen in her eye at the moment, given his suspicions about her and a certain member of the Kingsguard.
Thankfully, Robert reacted with more curiosity than anger — at least for the moment. Leaning forward with a slight frown, he said, "I see you do not kneel. Do you understand the customs of this land?"
Figueroa straightened up, a light smile that reminded Jon too much of Varys on his face. "Very well, Your Grace."
"Then you understand that I could have your bloody head off right now for not kneeling?"
Though he looked slightly discomfited by the profanity, Figueroa recovered quickly and replied, "It has been made very, very clear to me, Your Grace."
"And yet you still do not kneel. Why is that?"
Instead of answering, Figueroa clasped his hands behind his back and took a slightly wider stance, staring slightly upwards as if considering his answer. When he did speak, he said, "Your Grace, please allow me a question or two. Kneeling is a sign of respect, deference, and submission to the throne, is it not?"
"It is, and you'd do damned well to show that respect, you—" said one of the Kingsguard, probably Trant or Blount, based on how the sound of their voice grated at Jon's ears, before Robert cut them off.
"Enough!" His voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, and Jon felt a twinge of nostalgia for the days when that voice commanded armies in the field. "You would be correct. What of it, then?"
"Thank you, Your Grace. In addition, submission, in general, follows defeat in battle, conquest in war, or the swearing of an oath of fealty, yes?"
"Make your point, man, I don't have all day."
"Certainly, Your Grace. My point is this: while I have nothing but the utmost respect for you, my government and superiors — that is, the Unified Earth Government and its Diplomatic Corps — do not fall under your purview or jurisdiction, nor have they been defeated in the field by your armies. Until such time as such events occur, I shall bow, as I have been directed to do in order to show proper respect to foreign monarchs, but I shall not kneel, Your Grace. "
You could hear a pin drop in the quiet that followed. Though he could not see their faces, several of the Kingsguard looked positively murderous. Stannis seemed just about ready to leap into the fray after them, and even Renly seemed rather put-out by Figueroa's brazen declaration. Pycelle spluttered on the sidelines, and Varys' smile seemed to grow even wider. Jon sighed through his nose and mentally rehearsed what he was going to say to hopefully try and save this fool from himself when a hearty laugh broke the tension. I knew he was a fool, but even I may not be able to save him now, Jon thought incredulously, before realizing Figueroa wasn't the one laughing.
"You've got stones! I'll give you that much," Robert exclaimed, a wide smile on his face. The Kingsguard looked about in confusion, then in shock as their liege stood and made his way down from the Iron Throne to stand on the dais, still elevated but now roughly equal with the other man. Ignoring the whispers of the peanut gallery, he turned to Jon and said, "It's not everyday you find a man who dares to speak to a king like that! I like him already."
"A-as you say, Your Grace." Jon was still slightly reeling from these sudden twists and turns. "Robert, what are you doing?" he hissed under his breath. "The Iron Throne—"
"Bugger the throne," Robert shot back, "It's too high for me to get a proper look, and bloody uncomfortable anyway." He turned back to the ambassador, and Jon felt a sense of solidarity when their eyes met for a brief moment and the other man looked just as taken aback as himself. "Well, good man, let's get down to business. You came here to treat? Then let's hear it. What would you request of the Iron Throne?"
"Er…" Figueroa squatted down and opened his box, revealing a pile of papers that he sifted through until he found three, secured together by some sort of metal pin, that he pulled out. "Uh… very well. The purpose of my coming here today is to establish a preliminary agreement for regular meetings in the future," he said, in a tone of voice that indicated he was reciting a very familiar script. "The exact terms and stipulations of such meetings, including but not limited to topics to be discussed, meeting locations, times, participants, duration, and any and all other matters and considerations that the Unified Earth Government and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros might consider pertinent to such an agreement as indicated in these documents, may be discussed at a future date. Presently, my purpose is to initiate formal contact and relations between the Unified Earth Government and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and—"
Robert cut the man and his whirlwind of worlds coming out of his mouth with a single wave. "I've heard enough. Jon!"
"Your Grace?"
"Inform the cooks that I want a meal prepared for our guests immediately! The finest wines and meats that they have!" Robert strode forth and, in front of a stunned Great Hall, clapped the equally stunned Figueroa on the shoulder. The green-armored soldiers tensed as the smaller man nearly buckled under the impact, but Robert ignored them, saying, "You want relations? Well, you bloody well have them, I say! Allow me to show you how we treat guests in the Seven Kingdoms. Jon!"
"Of course, Your Grace." Robert was probably just using this occasion as a convenient excuse to eat and drink rather than truly trying to be diplomatic, but the end result was the same. Jon breathed a sigh of relief as he turned to head towards the kitchens, grateful that he hadn't had to intervene and prevent an execution… and a battle, most likely, as those foreign soldiers likely would not have taken very kindly to one of their diplomats being killed.
Hopefully, the strangers would be on their way before long. While a somewhat entertaining diversion, Jon did have a great deal of work ahead of him, the usual business of running a kingdom in place of its king, as well as his… side project. "And here I thought I'd have a quiet life after the Rebellion." He chuckled and pulled his cloak up higher on his shoulders, the hand-shaped clasp heavy on his breast.
"Yes… much work ahead."