Jaime bent the knee as Princess Molanta's scribe presented him with the copy of the treaty that would reside in Myr city. "On behalf of my king, I thank Your Grace," he said. "This alliance will do much towards advancing the cause of freedom and further curbing the designs of the slaver powers." It would do less than Ser Wendel, rest his soul, had hoped, being only a treaty to establish trade and the conditions under which Princess Molanta's subjects might take service with the Royal Navy and the Iron Legion, but it was more than Jaime had hoped for, even after High Priest Rhoqu had thrown his apparently considerable weight behind the embassy's case.
"And we thank you, Ser Jaime, for giving our ways the respect they are due," the Princess replied with a smile that reminded Jaime of his Aunt Genna; there were few enough of the Princess's Court present that they could be relatively informal. Most of them were smiling as well, probably calculating how much their merchants would be able to sell their spices, exotic hardwoods, and brightly patterned cloth for. "So many of your countrymen do not that to find one who does is . . . refreshing."
Jaime returned the Princess's smile as he rose from his knee. "For which courtesy Your Grace should thank High Priest Rhoqu as well," he said, indicating the broad figure that was standing off to one side, leaning on his ceremonial staff. "It is difficult to be improperly respectful when such a man as he is reminding you of your manners."
Princess Molanta laughed shortly. "We found this to be true as well, before we followed our mother to the throne," she said. "But we hope that you will continue in the wisdom he has given you, even when you are out from under his eye."
"I shall, Your Grace," Jaime replied. "Both from my duty as a knight and an ambassador, and from regard for the aid High Priest Rhoqu gave me when I needed it most." And also, he did not say, because he had felt the power behind Rhoqu's faith firsthand; power like waves crashing on the shore and the earth trembling beneath him where he had knelt in that glade beneath the Talking Trees while Rhoqu had chanted in the guttural, percussive tongue of the Isles and led him back through the halls of his memory . . .
Jaime shook himself. "Would Your Grace have me bear any word to Your fellow princes and princesses in the rest of the Isles?" he asked.
Molanta nodded. "My scribes will have letters prepared by the time you are ready to sail," she said. "And you may tell Jalabhar Xho, Prince of Red Flower Vale, that if he wants to play at war, then he may as well do it in Essos, where he can learn how to do it well."
Jaime bowed. "I shall relay your words exactly, Your Grace," he promised. He turned to High Priest Rhoqu. "Are you sure I cannot convince you to join me, my lord? Your words would do much to sway doubting hearts."
Rhoqu shook his head. "However much the world is changing, my place is here, in these lands and waters," he said. "And you know that you must make your own reputation now; it is not the way of men to lean too much on others, like a cripple on his stick."
Jaime bowed shortly. "Then with the gods' help I shall do so," he said, concealing the edge of anticipation in his words. Rhoqu might have declared him noa, cleansed and commonplace, but he still had a debt to pay for the trouble he had caused. And a Lannister always paid their debts.
Rhoqu nodded. "There is one that I would send with you, however." He turned and gestured sharply, and a boy a few years younger than Jaime stepped forward. "This is Mantar, my brother's son," he said as the young man nodded. "He is a brash young man and full of opinions, but he has a good heart for all that, and wants to see the world and take a few slaver heads before he marries and takes up a craft."
"Does he?" Jaime asked, eyeing the young Islander. Despite his youth he was of a height with Jaime, and the muscle in his shoulders and torso was promising. "You can fight, young Mantar?"
Mantar nodded. "My uncle taught me to wrestle, and I can use a spear and a mace," he said confidently.
"Can you sew?" Jaime went on. "Do leatherwork? Cook? Care for a horse, or armor?"
Mantar shook his head. "I can sew, but not much more than a simple stitch, and not with leather," he admitted. "I'm better at weaving. No horses and not much armor in the Islands, and what I know about cooking my mother can fit in the palm of her hand."
"With room to spare," Rhoqu added, a twinkle in his eye belying his words. "My brother is a fisherman, Ser Jaime, not a warrior, but what he knows he has taught well to all his sons."
Jaime nodded. He liked Mantar's honesty, and he could see the callous and small scars on his hands that told of years of hard work. The guileless look in his eye was also promising, along with the reserve and confidence of the boy's bearing. "Then my only question is this," he said. "Will you obey me without question, and learn all that I teach you so that it becomes engraved on your heart?"
Mantar nodded. "I will, ser," he promised.
"Then I will do my best to make you a knight," Jaime replied. "And hopefully a better knight than the one that made me." He turned back to the Princess and bowed. "With your permission, Your Grace, I will have much to do and little time to do it in before we sail."
Princess Molanta nodded. "You may go, then, with our friendship," she said. "And tell King Robert this as well; Walano may not sail to war in earnest, but each ship that chooses to fly the crowned stag will go with my blessing and my prayers for their success. We are a people that love peace, but we know also that for there to be times of peace, there must also be times of war."
Jaime bowed, exchanged a few further pleasantries with the Princess and the other members of her Court, and then led the embassy out of the hall and back into the tropical sunshine. There was still the formal farewell and then half a dozen more courts to visit, each of which would require starting almost from the beginning and acting with the same respect and courtesy that Princess Molanta's Corut had required, despite the fact that none of them could match mighty Walano. Partly, in fact, because none of them could match Walano but would not be caught dead admitting it. Koj, in particular.
Nonetheless, Jaime could not help the feeling of satisfaction that stole over him. For the first time since Novadomo, he had indisputably done well. Even if it had taken some help.
He touched the short, broad, hooked wooden club that now hung from his belt, carved with a double spiral pattern. To everyone who asked he said that it was merely a memento given him by the priests of the Talking Trees, worn as a mark of respect. Which was true, but not entirely so. He had seen, that endless day under the Trees, seen his life literally pass before his eyes, stripped of falsehood and embellishment. As Rhoqu had told him when he had woken from the trance, shaking like a leaf as his mind whirled, he had done much that was worthy, more that was unworthy, and it was his fate to always have to choose the one or the other. And that carefully, for that a man with mana such as he bore could wield it for great good or for great evil, and which choice would lead to which would not always be clear. Hence the club, made from the fallen limb of one of the trees and, Rhoqu had explained, a taonga, a treasure of the priests. When in doubt, he was to remember what he was entrusted with, both by the priests of the Talking Trees and by his own people, and take the choice that was worthiest of that trust.
What might happen if he did not had been made clear to him, for he had seen also what might have been, in a different life where he had . . . fallen. Jaime stroked the pommel of the club. "The things I do for love," he whispered to himself. If he had come far from the despair he had felt, he had further still to go. As far as he needed, to not be the man who had said that.
XXX
"So then," Ser Brynden Tully said as he reined in his horse and brought the ride to a halt, "what is the significance of this position, here? Ser Joren, perhaps you could enlighten us."
Ser Joren Potts saluted and walked his horse forward to where he could get a good view of the stream the Ser Brynden was indicating with his cane. "Well, ser, to start with I wouldn't try to bring an army this way," he began, blinking away the sweat provoked by an unseasonably warm late-spring day. "It's in the wrong direction, and turning into the right direction would make the army, and it's supply train, cross two water features instead of having to cross one."
Ser Brynden nodded approvingly. "Indeed, given the way this stream flows at a right angle to the Poona River, where the border lies," he said. "What else?"
Joren stroked his short beard to give himself time to think. "If the enemy attacked first I would station a small force here to cover the flank," he said. "Perhaps two or three hundred mounted archers and light horse, in order to prevent any outflanking force from crossing the stream before reinforcements could come up from the main body."
"Only mounted archers and light horse?" Ser Brynden asked sharply. "No knights, no Legion companies, no heavy troops at all?"
"No need for them, ser, given how steep the banks are," Joren replied, gesturing at the stream's near-perpendicular banks. "Even if this stream dries out in high or late summer, as looks possible, the bed of the stream will still act like a moat for the covering force. And if the enemy comes in sufficient strength that knights and Legion companies are needed . . ." he shrugged slightly. "In that case, ser, the enemy will likely be making their main thrust here instead of the crossings of the Poona and the main body will be able to disengage from the Poona and wheel left to engage either here or just back from here, if the covering force can't hold the line of the stream. Although why the enemy would throw a bridge across the Poona and then wheel right and try to ford this stream in the face of opposition I can't imagine. Not when they could simply leave a covering force on their side," he gestured across the stream, "and start burning their way into the interior."
"Quite so," Ser Brynden said warmly. "Which is why we shall cross this stream and see what any forces stationed on the other side might do to prevent such a misfortune. Onward, gentlemen."
Joren blew his cheeks out in a relieved sigh as he let himself drop back into the column, flashing a smile at the approving nod of Ser Lyn Corbray as his liege-lord rode past. These rides were a new exercise that Ser Brynden had come up with whereby he and some of his staff from War House would join the chivalry of a given district on their monthly muster days to ride about the territory and speculate about how a theoretical enemy might act or react to certain circumstances on certain grounds and what could be done to counteract them, as well as bringing in knights and lords from outside a particular district to join in the rides and the discussions they provoked. Especially when the lords and knights in question were from interior districts, as Sirmium had become, instead of the simmering borders. It would not be enough, Ser Brynden had told the members of this particular ride before they set out from Oakenshield Castle, to simply fight valiantly; victory also required that men fight intelligently, and a man's mind required as much exercise as his muscles did. So instead of simply handing down recommendations, Ser Brynden would ask the knights and lords attending the ride for their opinions on what might be done in a given locality, and limit himself to ensuring that their reasoning was sound.
Joren was also of the suspicion, unproven but still strong, that these rides were being used to test which knights would be most suited to higher command. He could think of few other reasons why this ride included not only him, but so many others who might be only landed knights but nonetheless had names for martial cunning. Or for why there were so few men who didn't have such names and whose martial virtues were more prosaic. If it was so, then Joren found himself liking the idea of these rides even more. Not only did it provide men a chance to show their liege-lord and their king's officers their worth, but it could also serve as a means to rise that wasn't tied to the amount of available land. That, he was smart enough to know, was what the maesters called a zero-sum game; the gods weren't making any more new land, so the only real way to get more was to take it from someone else. And while Lys and Volantis and the other slaver states would certainly provide rich pickings in that regard, the day when those lands were carved up for spoil was some ways off yet. In the meantime, royal favor and office, and the benefits thereof, made a perfectly acceptable substitute.
Especially given the recent changes in his life. Dinora had accepted him, and the circuit septon had married them in Pottsdam's great hall not two months ago. Some of his comrades had made jokes about low-hanging fruit, but not after Joren had casually mentioned that Ser Lyn Corbray had offered to stand as godsfather to his first child; that was not a tie to be trifled with, even if the fact that Ser Lyn was a heretic would make it difficult. Regardless, the fact remained that there was a world of difference between the affairs of a bachelor and those of a married man who fully expected to have a significant number of children. Pottsdam was well-run, but Joren had learned from his father that even the most fertile land could only produce so much, and a wise man did not demand more of his smallfolk than the land could bear. The pay of a captain would go a long way to making good any shortfall between Pottsdam's incomes and the expenses of raising the sons and daughters Dinora would give him, and if a captain's banner came with advantages in Myr city and at Court . . . well, what kind of father would he be if he didn't scrape every advantage he could for his children? War was always the best way to advance oneself and one's House, but when war wasn't in the offing, then other means would have to do.
XXX
So it was that King Stannis called his banners and marched into the Riverlands, summoning all men to cease their violence and return to their true allegiance. In this he was joined by many great lords, among them Hoster Tully of Riverrun, Walder Frey of the Crossing, Jason Mallister of Seagard, Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall, and Archsepton Pawl of Stony Sept. But the hearts of men were hardened against his words, so that they obeyed him only grudgingly. Such was the will of the gods that after the aforesaid great lords it was the heretics who first obeyed the king's commands, claiming his protection against the predations of their neighbors. In time, the king in his wisdom saw that it was needful to act as a judge in a court, not a captain in the field, and so he summoned the lords of the Riverlands to Harrenhal, that each might argue their cases before him to be judged under the law . . . Excerpted from
Stannis had thought that he had prepared himself for what to expect from Archsepton Pawl. The oration on the duty of the Iron Throne to defend the Faith, to be the sword and shield that the Faith had laid down, had been entirely expected. What he had not expected was for the Archsepton to produce a small horde of smallfolk, bearing a petition written out by a pair of begging brothers that he had requested be read into the record. "Whereas," the Archsepton declaimed, "we most greatly fear that we shall be forced into heresy by our lords, to the danger of our souls, and further fear that we shall receive no aid from any other lord to prevent this, we petition, pray, and beseech His Grace the King to grant us protection against any attempt against our faith, our lives, and our livelihoods, from any person or party whatsoever, under the laws of the Realm."
Stannis's fingers clenched on the arms of the throne that had been set up for him in the great hall of Harrenhal. Theoretically the smallfolk had the right to appeal to the king for justice, but to the best of his knowledge it had never been exercised before, if for no other reason than that the odds of actually getting that appeal before the king were laughably long. Apparently, the gods or blind luck had decided to use some very crooked dice on that series of throws. "This petition, Your Grace," Archsepton Pawl went on, flourishing the sheepskin it had been written on, "bears the marks of eighty-six villages in the Riverlands, each of which has sent men to swear to their authenticity and the gravity of their claims. These are your people, Your Grace, your leal subjects, who come before you, to beg the justice they are owed under the laws of the Realm."
Stannis inclined his head in a fractional nod as the lords assembled in the hall murmured among themselves; even the densest of them could realize that here was something unprecedented. "We see," he said evenly, turning his gaze on the crowd of smallfolk standing behind the Archsepton, all in their drab best and with their caps in their hands, looking discomfited but determined. "And each of you goodmen is willing to swear thus? Think well before you do, for you are speaking in Court, and are under oath to speak the truth."
One of the smallfolk shuffled forward and went to his knees. "We all swear it, Your Grace," he said roughly. "And by the tax we pay and the loyalty we owe, we beg the King's Justice against our lords, who would make us either heretics or corpses."
Stannis could not help but be impressed by the man's self-possession. As well might a mouse speak to a terrier in a room filled with cats. "Then justice you shall have, under the law," he said. "That I will alleviate every burden and break every yoke I cannot promise, but any man who seeks to touch the faith of even the least of my subjects will answer for it." He turned his gaze back to Archsepton Pawl as the other smallfolk went to their knees. "Have you anything further to add, Your Excellency?"
The Archsepton bowed his head. "Saving only the right to rebut such errors as present themselves, Your Grace, I rest the case of the Faith, and yield the floor."
Stannis nodded as the Archsepton withdrew, the smallfolk he had brought huddling behind him. Probably as much as can be asked for. He raised a finger and Ser Jacelyn Bywater, who was acting as marshal of the Court, rapped the butt of the staff he was carrying against the floor. "The King calls upon Lord Hugh Lychester to come forth and speak," he declared.
There were angry mutterings from most of the other riverlords as Lychester, his heavyset frame reduced and the bags under his eyes deepened by his spell in captivity, took the floor; he wasn't the only man here accused of heresy, but he was certainly the most prominent. The fact that he had done nothing to allay the charges against him had not helped his popularity. It was only by Stannis' order that he was no longer in irons, and only by Stannis' declaration that he was a witness, and so under the protection of the Throne, that he was speaking today.
Lychester briefly knelt to the throne as he took the floor, then stood and seemed to collect his thoughts for a moment. "Your Grace," he said finally in a voice softer than seemed appropriate even to his diminished bulk, "Your Excellency, my lords, I stand before you today accused of heresy, and of breaking the King's Peace. I have been commanded to give answer to these accusations, and advised by many whose regard I hold dear," his eyes flicked towards Hoster Tully, who was seated at Stannis' right hand, "that my best course would be to admit my fault and cast myself upon Your Grace's mercy." He bowed. "I pray your pardon, Your Grace, but I cannot do this."
"Heretic!" Jonos Bracken roared, provoking an outcry that was only broken when Ser Jacelyn gave over pounding the floor and signaled the royal sergeants and Blackwood spearmen standing around the hall, whose combined spear-butts sounded like thunder against the flagstones. Stannis waited until the last murmur had died away before speaking. "You are here under our protection, my lord, and need no pardon until your guilt is proven," he said evenly. "Nonetheless, you owe us an explanation as to why you feel the need to refuse such sensible advice."
Lychester deepened his bow for a moment before straightening. "I must refuse it, Your Grace, because none of the fault for this affair is mine," he said, looking at Stannis with the eyes of a man past fear. "Yes, I am a Jonothorian, for that I have seen much in the Faith that cries out for reform. I have seen septons demand riches of the poor, humiliation of the justly proud, and degradation of the pure in return for performing the sacraments that should be at the service of every man and woman of faith. Yes, I am aware that heresy is a crime by the lights of the Faith, punishable by death. But I am not aware of any power the Faith has to arrest, question, or try me, or any other subject of the Iron Throne, for any crime whatsoever!" Archsepton Pawl seemed to swell in indignation but Stannis caught his eye and glared him into deflating. "I am your loyal subject, Your Grace," Lychester went on, "and I have obeyed your law in every thing and every word. Yes, I am a heretic, by the lights of the Faith, but I have made no effort to convert others, by example, persuasion, or force. I have made no outward show that I follow Jonothor's precepts, save only that I have striven to act in such wise as to prove my merits in the sight of the gods. I have no truck with the Rymanists, who would regard me to be as great an enemy as His Excellency the Archsepton, and as little deserving of mercy if ever I fell into their hands. When war broke out I sought only to keep the King's Peace within my lands and defend myself and my people against whatever enemies might arise. Your Grace, salvation might be the prerogative of the gods, but earthly justice is Your Grace's, to execute in accordance with the law. I have broken no law of the Realm, Your Grace, and so I beg your justice against those who have wronged me so."
Stannis had to make a conscious effort to loosen his jaw as the self-admitted heretic lord knelt again to angry grumblings from Jonos Bracken and his confederates. Damn it, man, would it have been too much for you to take the smart way out? Bracken and his followers might persist in their reflexive hatred of heresy, but there were others who seemed more receptive to Lychester's argument. Jason Mallister was stroking his beard meditatively as Tytos Blackwood whispered in his ear, while Walder Frey was looking at Lychester like a merchant examining a gemstone for flaws. He turned to Archsepton Pawl. "Your Excellency, I take it you have something to say in reply to these assertions," he said, forcing his voice to coolness.
The Archsepton all but dashed onto the floor. "Leaving aside, Your Grace, that this man has just admitted his guilt for you and I and everyone in this hall to hear," he declared, his face red with indignation, "his argument for his innocence is specious and deserves to be laughed out of this hall. It is wholly impossible," he went on over the applause led by Jonos Bracken, who Stannis was already marking down for some display of royal displeasure at earliest convenience, "wholly impossible for a heretic to abide by the King's Peace. The very fact of their heresy breaks the Peace, for what true child of the Faith can stand by and allow the scriptures to be corrupted, the sacraments blasphemed, and the commandments perverted? How can any belted knight, mindful of his vow to defend the Faith, let a heretic pass in peace, when to do so is to break the oath he swore at his knighting to the peril of his soul? How can any judge set aside the law of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, who commanded that secular courts give such aid to the Faith as the Faith shall request to maintain its purity against those who would subvert it? When Your Grace was crowned you swore an oath to defend and maintain the Faith; I summon you to remember that oath, and keep it as the worthiest of your predecessors did!"
Stannis struck the arm of his throne with an open palm, the crack of flesh on oak silencing the Archsepton. "Do not think that you must remind me of what I have sworn, Your Excellency," he grated, his voice only barely restrained from a snarl. "I have engraved my oaths upon my soul, and will answer to the gods for how I discharge them. But I did not swear an oath to the Faith alone; I swore an oath to defend my leal subjects against their enemies, to maintain the Peace, and to cause law and justice to be granted to all," he looked pointedly at Lord Lychester, who was still on his knees, "my subjects. How, I pray you tell me, is it meet that I keep the one oath by allowing the other to be broken by any churl who perceives a deviation from the Faith in his neighbor? A deviation, mark you, that he cannot be qualified to identify, much less prove?"
"And where," Hoster Tully interjected as the Archsepton opened his mouth, "is the benefit to the Realm? How does it benefit the Realm to permit any lord to attack any other on no greater basis than suspicion? How does it benefit the Realm to permit such a war of all against all, where otherwise law-abiding men and women are attacked and outraged, and all because they are perceived to be heretics? I am no lawyer, but I know as well as any man that even a traitor may not be hanged without he be tried and condemned under law, and allowed to defend himself against his accusers. Shall we, Your Grace, my lords, allow this most basic principle of justice to be discarded, and the Realm made a land of blocks and gallows? Why did we rebel against the Targaryen's, if not to prevent exactly this?"
There was a wave of nods among some of the lords, and a few murmurs, but Jonos Bracken strode forward, shaking his blunt-featured head. "With all respect, my lord, Your Grace, it is not the same," he insisted. "The Targaryen's sought to degrade us, yes, but they did not threaten our faith. Nor did they seek to sow traitors," he glowered at Lychester, who returned him glare for glare, "among us, to wreak further corruption. Are we to tolerate heretics living openly among us, making mock of all that we hold sacred and luring our children away from the faith of their forefathers? Better, far better, I say, that these lands run red with blood than that we should be so disgraced!"
"If your children are so easily lured, Lord Bracken," Lychester replied coldly, "then perhaps it is for lack of a better example."
"Enough!" Stannis roared, surging to his feet. Bracken froze with his hand on his sword-hilt, visibly torn between exploding rage and sudden fear, before taking his hand away from his sword and bowing in a clumsy attempt at apology for coming so near to breaking the peace. "It is clear, my lords, that this is not a matter to be decided in a day," Stannis went on, "but this We shall declare today; that him that first breaks the King's Peace shall answer for it with his life," he glared at Bracken, who lowered his head further, "as shall he that provoked him," he turned his glare on Lychester, whose face went from belligerence to nervousness between one breath and the next. "All this talk of the Faith aside, there remains the law, and the law cares nothing for distinctions of faith. The Father, in his aspect as Judge of the World, bears the scales to judge and the sword to punish, the Patriarchs tell us, but most important of all, He is blind. The law rests upon each head equally and falls upon each neck equally, and by all the gods, my lords, We shall uphold Our oath to execute the law, without fear, feud, or favor." He swept his glare around the hall, trying to catch the eye of every riverlord in attendance. "If any should think to test Our earnestness in this, or Our forbearance," he said into the silence, making each word strike like a hammer against an anvil, "let him remember how many others have set themselves against Us, and what fates befell them."
There was a ripple of motion around the hall as the riverlords bowed. The only one that did not was Archsepton Pawl, who only inclined his head with a stony expression on his face. Stannis turned the full force of his glare upon him, and the Archsepton eventually lowered his gaze.Don't test me, septon, Stannis snarled in the privacy of his head. You and your overlords owe me too much for putting Ryman down like the mad dog he was, and you need me just as much as I need you. Perhaps even more so, now.
XXX
The following is an excerpt from Iron Flash
I had figured that His Nibs would make some kind of decree, but the Edict of Harrenhal stunned me, as it did everyone else. To be sure, most of it was taken up with the Iron Throne's duty of protection of the rights of its subjects and His Nibs' concern for the maintenance of the Faith, but those weren't the important parts. Those I remember as clearly as when I first read them. "We permit those of our subjects who practice the so-called Reformed Faith to do so within their homes and their hearts, upon condition that at all times and in all other respects they comport themselves as becomes loyal, obedient, and peaceful subjects, and refrain from troubling those of other faiths, whether by word or deed. In connection with this, we enjoin all our subjects of faiths other than the aforesaid Reformed Faith to cease, desist, and refrain from annoying, molesting, or compelling the followers of the Reformed Faith to do anything contrary to their consciences, as is currently the commonly practiced law regarding differences between the Faith and the worship of the Old Gods. Most especially we command that no person force another to convert from one faith to any other against their will, and that no child, by force or persuasion, be taken from its parent or guardian to be baptized, confirmed, or otherwise inducted into a Faith other than that which they were raised in, upon pain of Our especial displeasure and most severe chastisement."
Even someone as dense as I could see this for what it was; a declaration, from no less a power than the King himself, that heresy was to be tolerated! Yes, it only did so on the condition that Master Heretic kept it to himself, but that wasn't the point. This was His Nibs saying, in a nutshell, that heresy in and of itself was no longer a crime, at least not as far as the Iron Throne was concerned. It immediately followed up by declaring that His Nibs considered himself the foremost protector of the Faith and that in the event that the provisions of the Edict were breached, then his sword would be the first that was drawn to correct and avenge, but even so, none of the septons I saw for the next few days looked happy.
Of course, on the other hand, it served its purpose of establishing peace. The Baelorites were at least reassured that the world was not to be turned entirely on its head, while the Reformists were reassured that they would at least have the right to exist, if not the right to publicly profess their heresy and get away with it. Even the smallfolk went away mollified, although that probably had as much to do with the public spectacle of Lord Lychester being made to apologize to his smallfolk for putting them in fear as it did with the actual fact of the apology and his subsequent assurance to adhere to the terms of the Edict. The low always love to watch the high and mighty be humbled. And, as much to the point, it kept the drain on the Treasury to an acceptable minimum; having to fight a third war in only four years would have brought His Nibs to the edge of bankruptcy, even with the Faith doing their bit to fill the kitty.
I mentioned all this to Lord Frey two days after the Edict was published when he invited me for a night of drinking in the suite he had been allotted, and had just finished by remarking that it looked like peace at last, when he interrupted me by laughing in that grating chuckle of his. "Heh, heh heh, heh," he said. "Peace? Don't fret yourself ser, this isn't peace. This is a truce for ten years."
That struck me. "A very specific prediction, my lord, if I may say so," I replied as politely as I could manage; a very thin skin, Lord Frey had.
He shrugged his sloping shoulders. "Or fifteen years, or twenty, or thirty," he allowed. "Or however long the King continues to sit the Iron Throne. Which, heh, I'm sure we all hope will be long and long. Especially Lychester and his lot, heh heh."
I covered the fact that I had to take some time to think his words through by taking a swallow of wine. "You think that Prince Lyonel will not uphold the King's edict when he takes the Throne, my lord?" I asked.
"Not with his mother bleating in his ear about his duty to protect, uphold, and advance the Faith, heh," Lord Frey replied. "Not if he wants to be confirmed and married in the Great Sept, and not if he wants to tax the Faith as much as Stannis does. Heh. Mark me, ser, it all comes down to money in the end. The Throne wants it, other people have it, so the Throne has to do what those people want in order to get it. Stannis might whisper in our little prince's other ear as hard as his mother does, but how long has he spent away from King's Landing and the prince already? Four, five years? A mother's words are not to be despised, when the father's words are so often absent and if the King is called away many more times . . ." he shrugged again. "Who can say that Lyonel will be as hard as his father, after having Queen Cersei for a mother?"
That remark stayed with me all that night. I knew something of Cersei by then; I had seen her in action at Court. She didn't tolerate rivals unless she was forced to it, and she didn't tolerate deviation in those set beneath her, either. His Nibs would raise a strong son, I could say that with certainty, but sons are not formed by their fathers alone. I should know, having my mother's wits. And with the King coming very near to making an enemy of the Faith with the Edict . . . The thought of Prince Lyonel coming to the Iron Throne at a young age, with Cersei as Regent, would have been enough to give even His Nibs the cold sweats. The other thing that Frey mentioned that kept me up that night was the mention that since no one could openly admit to being a Reformist, that meant that there was no acknowledged leader of the Reformists for His Nibs, or anyone else for that matter, to negotiate with except for Lychester. "And Gods know where he stands in whatever hierarchy the heretics have. Or how long he stays alive after this, heh heh. And even if he is their leader," Frey paused to take a sip of his wine, "how much unity can the heretics actually have? Eh? Look at this mess. All this fuss and not a single heretic leader to be found except Lychester, who doesn't have more than a hand or two of lances to his name. No leaders on our side either, mind, except young Edmure, and now we don't even have him anymore. Heh."
It was true, Edmure Tully was going to King's Landing. Officially he was going as a new subcommander of the goldcloaks, but little birds had told me that His Nibs had told him that he could come to King's Landing in a gold cloak or in a prisoner's irons, for arresting Lychester under flag of truce and without a royal writ, and it was only because of Lord Tully's previous services to the dynasty that he was offering the choice. The plan, if I had to guess, was that a few years of working under His Nibs' eye would teach Edmure to be a good little vassal and play by the rules. If it was, it certainly worked but not, I think, the way His Nibs intended . . .