It was with a sore head and a tender stomach that Ivar Drumm had reported back aboard the Tara after the two days and nights' shore leave he was due as a junior lieutenant. Tyro-Martyros, he reminded himself- might still be closer to a military outpost than a proper city, but its waterfront district had, by all appearances, already fully recovered from the Destruction, thanks both to the Braavosi and the surprising number of Westerosi, primarily Gulltowners and King's Landingers, who had decided to take their chances on a potential boom town. As well they might, given how much traffic came through it, and not only from trade.
The Tara had entered Martyros harbor in company with three other galleys of the Royal Fleet, the middleweights Liberator and Chainbreaker and the lightweight Wolfhound, after a two-month cruise of the Stepstones, the latest the Fleet had undertaken. These cruises, the captain had explained, were supposed to uphold the Kingdom's alliance with the Braavosi by sharing the burden of patrolling the islands and to increase the reputation of the Kingdom by demonstrating that King Robert's reach was not limited to the mainland. Ivar suspected, however, that the cruises were also meant to show that the Kingdom need not rely on its allies alone to patrol its seaward flank. The fact that the captain had ordered the squadron to make a show of itself as they passed Lyseni-held Skullstone, flying every flag and pennant in the lockers and with those crewmen and officers not immediately engaged in working the ship standing at the rails in battle order as they passed the harbor, was a powerful argument in favor, to his mind.
A bellow of "Master Drumm!" intruded on his reverie. He straightened from where he had been supervising a portion of the crew, also newly returned from shore leave, at sail-mending and turned to the sterncastle, where the captain was standing by the tiller. "Attend, if you please!"
Ivar trotted up the waist of the ship to the sterncastle and saluted. "Mark you that ship entering the harbor, Master Drumm?" the captain asked, pointing to a galley that was dipping its colors to the Bleeding Tower. "What do you make of her?"
Ivar saluted again, took the ship's far-eye from the offering hand of the bosun, and turned his gaze on the galley. What he saw made him frown. "Lyseni by the look of her lines and the rigging of her headsail," he began. "Not a warship, though; too small and too light even for coastal patrol. Not a chance they have more than four or five men aboard beyond the oarsmen and the sail-trimmers. And that's not a sail plan for a short-handed ship that might have to fight on short notice." Aside from the great square sail on the mast and the headsail rigged to the masthead and the bowsprit, there was a third lateen-rigged sail behind the mast that looked like it was rigged to the sterncastle and one of the beam rails as well as the mast. Getting that much canvas furled and stowed quickly and safely took a significant amount of manpower, more than a ship that size would be able to spare if battle was in the offing. "They're flying a white pennant as well," he went on, "and a seven-colored flag beneath." He lowered the far-eye and turned to the captain. "Do the Lyseni have ships specifically to act as cartels, ser?"
The captain tipped a hand from side to side. "They have galleys built for speed, like that one, to carry official dispatches and messengers when time is of the essence," he said. "One of them could be repurposed as a cartel."
Ivar nodded. "Then that's what that ship is, ser," he said confidently. "A Lyseni ship carrying dispatches to either the Braavosi or to us under flag of truce."
"Quite so, Master Drumm," the captain said with an approving nod, and Ivar felt a rush of triumph as he realized he had just passed one of the captain's impromptu tests. "And most likely those messages are being conveyed by hand of officer. An important officer, too, to merit passage on one of those ships; there aren't more than four or five of them under Lyseni colors. Either that or his messages are important." He shrugged. "Either way, let it never be said that the Fleet is lacking in manners. Dip the standard if you please."
"Aye, ser," Ivar said with another salute before turning to give the order to the bosun. A few shouted commands from the bosun saw the crowned stag flying from mainmast slide halfway down its line before climbing back up again. Strictly speaking, the royal standard was not to be dipped except to someone of equivalent rank to King Robert and certainly not to an enemy, but there was peace between the Kingdom and Lys these days, officially at least. And dipping your standard was the nautical equivalent of a polite nod in passing; everyone did it, although the usual protocol was that warships be dipped to first. That said, ships on the business of their sovereigns, like the Lyseni, were considered to have the same status as warships for such purposes, even if they were under flags of truce.
The Lyseni messenger galley cruised into the inner harbor without lowering her own standard by so much as a foot. Ivar bared his teeth and the bosun, a heavyset Sisterman with brawler's scars on his knuckles, voiced a wordless growl. "How rude of them," the captain said softly; only someone who knew him, as Ivar did, could have read the anger behind the tightness of his diction. "Master Drumm, enter a description of that ship into the log. We'll remember them the next time they cross our path, hmm?"
Ivar's grimace turned into a predatory smile. "Aye, ser," he said grimly.
XXX
Eddard Stark planted his fists on the table and stared at the map of the southern border country like it had personally offended him. "We've fought them for too long," he rumbled, half to himself. "Fight good swordsmen long enough, you become a good swordsman yourself, if you have any capacity to learn."
"Unavoidable," he heard Ser Brynden observe matter-of-factly. "The slaver cities might be weakened by the very institution they are based upon, but they are still among the richest, and hence strongest, states in this quarter of the world. If they were contemptible, then Rhaegar and his fellows would not have fled here after we drove them from Westeros."
"And even if Rhaegar had not fled hence, we would have had other cause to quarrel with them," Robert said. "Our friendship with Braavos would have seen to that. But that's beside the point. How do we react to the way the slavers have grown in strength and prowess over the past few years?"
"Become even stronger and better ourselves," Ser Brynden replied instantly. "Even if, by some miracle, we were to build a lasting peace with the slavers, we would have to do so anyway in order to prevent them from getting ideas."
"And the gods know that a lasting peace is an impossibility," Eddard added. "If it weren't for the raids we've authorized, the Legion would be grumbling even more than it is already. To say nothing of the volunteers we get from Westeros and Braavos."
There was a round of groans from the other men in the small council room deep within the Palace of Justice. The volunteers, men and a few hard women from Westeros and Braavos who had come either to seek fame and fortune in the Kingdom's wars or to fight the good fight, could often be of value in bolstering the ranks of the Kingdom's martial aristocracy. Enough so, in fact, that Ser Brynden had instituted an office specifically charged with receiving them at the docks and finding places for them, either in previously established companies or in ad hoc bandas. Their usefulness, however, was balanced by their deserved reputation for hotheadedness, overweening pride, and lack of judgment. There were reasons why, when they were grouped into ad hoc bandas where they constituted a majority, they were placed in the interior under the command of a seasoned and famous veteran who could make them behave themselves until they had the piss and vinegar knocked out of them by their training and a few cutting visits from the royal inspectors.
"Something my old master-at-arms taught me, and you, Robert, when we were in the Eyrie," Eddard said slowly. "Don't put your trust in a single blow; anyone can parry a single blow if they're fast and strong and skilled enough. Instead, throw two or three or more blows, all building on each other. As with swords, so with armies." He shifted around the table until he stood before the portion of the map that showed the border near Alalia. "Continue the raids but send out many of them at once. From Alalia, for instance, send them out thus, and thus, and thus, and thus, and thus." His hands described five thrusts across the border at separate points. "Let each raid be at least two and preferably three companies in strength, if not four, and let them have the means to attack and take these fortified plantations we have received reports of, either by escalade under cover of night or by escalade covered by bombardment. Let each column operate independently, but remain within one or two days' forced march of each other and come to each other's aid if summoned. If they are counter-attacked, let those columns that are attacked stand their ground and call on their neighbors for aid, while the rest continue on." He raked his fingers across the surface of the map. "Limit the depth of the penetration to ten days' march," he finished, "and let everything within the penetrated area be laid waste with fire and sword."
There was a moment's silence as the other high officers of the Kingdom's government contemplated his suggestion. "Sounds less like a raid," Victarion Greyjoy finally said, "and more like an invasion."
"An invasion aims to conquer and hold territory," Ser Brynden said. "Which won't be the case here." The aging knight limped over to Eddard's side and slashed his fingers across the border as Eddard had done. "Each time we launch such a raid," he went on, "let the companies along the rest of the border remain quiescent, so that the enemy can shift forces to react. Then, after we withdraw," he moved his hand back across the border, shifted it several-score miles westward, and jabbed across the border again, "we shift our forces to a different point on the border and do it again, into an area that they have weakened. And again, and again, and again, each time at a different point." The Blackfish's fingers danced over the map, describing raids launched from almost every town in the border country that could support the necessary forces.
"Won't they maintain their border garrisons as they are," Ser Mychel Egen asked, "and use their reserves to respond to us?"
Eddard shook his head. "Their reserves are companies of Unsullied and militia infantry and heavy horse," he replied. "Too slow to march out from their garrisons in the interior before we have turned around and are running for the border. Only the light horse companies they have stationed along the border have the speed to respond as quickly as their people will demand of them. And they will need to shift those companies anyway, in order to compensate for the losses we will inflict on them."
"In a phrase," Robert said, "stop poking and start stabbing." He laughed shortly. "I like it. It'll take time, and money, but our men will be glad for the victories."
"And what we carve out of the border the Lyseni will have to spend time and money rebuilding," Ser Gerion added. "And more time and money trying to build up their defenses along the rest of the border, in order to maintain the confidence of their citizens." Eddard glanced up to see the urbane Westerman nod. "I like it as well. The more money the Lyseni are forced to pour into defending the border, the less they will have to maintain their fleet in the face of ours and the Braavosi's. They are strong, but they cannot be strong everywhere. Not unless the Volantenes give them more help than I deem they will be willing to send so far afield." He clicked his tongue meditatively. "Of course, the Braavosi won't like this idea at all. Not when they've just gotten their Exchequer back on stable footing."
"The Braavosi won't be paying for this," Robert said flatly. "We will. So both the Sealord and the Iron Bank can walk on with their objections."
"Up until we have to ask them for another loan," said Ser Jaymes Whitefield, who as one of Ser Wendel Manderly's senior lieutenants was keeping his seat on the Small Council warm while he was in the Summer Islands. He was a good man and a fine knight, but no one would call him an optimist. "Which we will, if we try to launch more than one of these great raids a year. Even one may be more than we can afford, if Devil Daario lives up to his name."
"Even if he does," Ser Gerion replied, "he may find it a more expensive victory than he can afford. The Lyseni may claim to have many subjects under their banner, but at least three in every four and perhaps four in every five are slaves, who they not only dare not recruit and give arms but must guard themselves against. They may be able to place a larger portion of their men in the field than we can, but they have fewer men to begin with, even after emancipating their slaves in the border districts, and our numbers grow by the year, both from natural increase and from our volunteers. And bethink you, ser; employing multiple columns means that the Lyseni will have to split their army into as many or even more columns to counter us. As skilled as Naharis might be, he is still a man; he cannot be in more than one place at a time. If he attempts to pit his lieutenants against ours, then we shall cut them out from under him one by one until he stands alone, and gods have mercy on him when that day comes."
"May it come swiftly," Robert said. "Anything else?"
An hour's discussion later, Robert dismissed the Council and eyed Eddard skeptically. "And how much time have you spent with your wife and son today?" he asked pointedly.
Eddard shook his head. "A few hours in the morning," he admitted, "and they visited for luncheon."
"I know it's not for me to poke my nose into your domestic affairs," Robert said, "but I brought you back from the East because you had gotten things onto an even footing there again and you had spent too much time away from your family. I'm going up to my apartments, I'm going to have a good dinner and an hour or two of sport with my children, and then I'm taking Serina to bed and locking the door for the rest of the night. Do likewise, Ned, before I have to make it an order. The Army will look after itself for a night, and a few days after. Cassana's going to need more than one gods-cousin when she takes the Crown, as big as we're going to make the Kingdom between this day and that."
Eddard smiled. "Well, when you put it that way, Your Grace . . ." he said teasingly as he rose and bowed, before walking out the door as Robert shouted advice after him.
XXX
Donys Rahtheon dismissed his valet, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat back in the comfortably-upholstered armchair where he spent so much of his average day. It had taken months of careful wrangling, but it was done; Volantis and Lys were now formally allied. Or they would be, as soon as Viserys put his signature and seal on the parchment. He glanced at the short stack of parchment that now occupied the left-hand side of his desk, where it would remain overnight under armed guard before he took it to Viserys for his imprimatur tomorrow morning. Theoretically, such a treaty required the signatures of all three Triarchs and a vote of the Thousand, the ancient council elected from the patriarchs of the Old Blood that was supposed to act as an advisory and legislative body under the Triarchs, but the Thousand had not been assembled in more than a century and had not exercised their prerogatives for even longer. As for the other two Triarchs, one was an old dodderer who would never see eighty again and the other was a client of the Maegyr's; they would sign whatever they were told to sign.
And even if the other Triarchs and the Thousand tried to kick up their heels, a single reading of the treaty would show that they had little to make a fuss about; the Lyseni had been too afraid of having to fight the Myrish and the Braavosi alone to drive a hard bargain. Just to start with, the commercial agreements in the treaty heavily favored Volantis, from the mutual declarations of most-favored-nation status to the removal of tariffs that had long kept Volantene silk and wheat out of the Lyseni market. The military aspects of the treaty even more blatantly favored the City; in the event of war the combined armies of Volantis and Lys would be commanded by a Volantene general, the ships that Volantis would commit would form a separate squadron under their own admiral albeit under overall Lyseni command, Lys was bound to pay at least forty percent of the cost of any defensive war, Lys was even barred from undertaking any offensive action over the border, in order to ensure that war was not provoked until Volantis was ready. Baratheon and his Braavosi hirelings might be leashed by the need to rebalance their budgets for now, but Donys knew better than to assume that they would develop a taste for peace. Especially Baratheon, who might find peace necessary but would find an overlong peace unsustainable if he wanted to keep his martial aristocracy sated and his collection of insane slaves pacified. War in the Disputed Lands was inevitable, and the City would have to prepare.
The treaty would help with that also, as Lys would provide basing and provisioning for a squadron of up to twenty Volantene galleys to augment their own fleet. Those ships would give the Volantene navy experience beyond simply chasing pirates up and down the Rhoyne and patrolling the Orange Shore, and another clause of the treaty allowed for Lys to essentially rent up to a thousand men of the Grand Army for up to a year at a time, who would do the same for their landbound compatriots. As much as men might boast of their deeds in the River War, Donys knew enough to agree with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan that the River War, and its predecessors, were not accurate harbingers of how a war against the Kingdom of Myr and the Braavosi would transpire. Such captains as Ned Stark and Lyn Corbray would not sit within the walls of a fort and wait to be besieged, nor would they content themselves with a single sortie. If the Grand Army wanted to pull its weight in such a war as the Iron Legion would fight, it would need to sharpen its mind and its nerves as much as its swords. And if they failed to do so, the same clause of the treaty that dictated a Volantene general command the united armies of the two cities also dictated that Captain-General Daario Naharis serve as his second. Even if Daario the Defiant had yet to win a major victory over the Iron Legion and its Westerosi confederates, he had done more against them than any other foe they had faced so far. Simply surviving against them as long as he had was a feat in itself.
It would be for Ser Arthur to make the Grand Army into a weapon that could match the Iron Legion, but this treaty would give him at least some of the tools he needed to do so. And if it entangled Volantis in Lys' internal affairs by offering the Conclave a guarantee of protection, then that was the cost of doing this sort of business. In truth, he suspected that particular clause was aimed more at Daario Naharis than anyone or anything else. Victorious generals had dissolved conclaves in order to set themselves up as tyrants before. And he had balanced it with a clause binding Lys to abide by the customs of Volantis' elections and abide by the results thereof. That would make one of the next stages in his plan substantially easier. Enough, perhaps, to make the concessions he had been forced to give the vassal towns to win them over worth it. Under the old system, the administration of justice in the hinterland and the vassal towns had been the province of judges sent out from Volantis to hear cases, determine guilt, and pass sentence, and against whom there had been no ready form of appeal. Under the measures he had recently gotten Viserys to approve, the vassal towns would have their own courts to judge misdemeanor crimes and a process would be delineated for the appealing of the verdicts on felony crimes. There were other measures, largely to do with the guilds in the vassal towns gaining some power to govern their own internal affairs, but those would be the most earth-shaking.
Donys grimaced as he took a sip of his wine. The lessons of history were clear; power once surrendered was not easily regained. Especially power that so obviously benefitted the people you had surrendered it too. That said, granted rights could always be revoked, and the vassal towns had fallen into line readily enough once he had thrown them that particular set of bones. If, in time, their allegiance granted more . . . well, there was no point crossing that bridge until they came to it, was there? No more than there was speculating how much easier it would be to get the Norvoshi to sign on to the Valyrian League now that it existed somewhere other than his imagination. Donys threw back the rest of his wine and stood. The guards in this wing of the Palace of Order would see to the safety of the treaty, and if by some appalling misfortune it came to harm then that was why there were scribes laboring away at fair copies. In the meantime, he would have a good dinner and then one of his small household's female slaves in his bed. He was in the mood to celebrate.
XXX
The judge raised an eyebrow. "This is a very generous offer you are being given, young man," he said in his most reasonable tone of voice. "It would be unwise to refuse it."
Norello Hestion folded his arms and sat back in his chair with an impressive scowl for a man of only twenty-three. "If the generosity being given to me is not also extended to my fellow citizens, then it is worthless," he said flatly. "I will not betray my city to save my own skin."
"I could have you beggared and imprisoned," snarled Larazo Ennaar. "Possibly sold into slavery, if you cannot pay the damages the court will assess. It is only because your father and I are old friends that I am being this generous to begin with. Take it and thank me, now, and I will not insist you thank me on bended knee."
Norello turned his scowl on the other man. "I and mine are trying to save the city," he spat. "Either help us do so or go suck slave-cock in hell and let us get on with it."
The judge forced back a groan with the ease of long years on the bench. On the face of it, the case was simple enough. Norello had made a series of speeches defaming Ennaar for various imagined crimes, all boiling down to failing to make a contribution to the defense of the city and its territories proportionate to his wealth and status. The fact and content of these speeches were not in dispute, as they had been made in public before sizable audiences and Norello himself had admitted to making them. On the face of it, Ennaar had an ironclad case for slander, with every likelihood of wringing a towering fine out of young Norello, or more properly his family. However, as was commonly the way with such disputes involving magisterial families, Ennaar had offered to accept an apology and a third of the legal maximum fine in return for dropping the charge. The judge had forgotten how many such cases he had seen settled in such fashion in this very office. It was such a routine matter that Norello wasn't even in manacles, not that there was much need for them in the first place as his offense hadn't been violent.
The problem was that while Norello's family were willing to front the monetary penalty, Norello himself was refusing to apologize. This despite the fact that old Lysor Hestion, the patriarch of that family, was present and looking more infuriated by the minute. "Damn you, boy," he was growling even now, "you will accept Magister Ennaar's offer, or by the gods I will . . ."
"Do what?" Norello challenged, turning to face his father. "Beat me like one of our slaves?" His scowl turned into a bared-teeth smile. "I think I would like to see you try it. When was the last time you tried to beat someone who could fight back, old man?"
The judge raised one hand to forestall the bailiff standing in the corner, who had put his hand to his truncheon, and the other to forestall Lysor, whose face had gone alarmingly red. "Masters, I must ask you to restrain yourselves," he said pointedly, sweeping Ennaar and the two Hestion's with one of his better glowers. "We may not be in court, but my clerk is nonetheless taking notation for the record. I should not have to remind you of the honor of your houses and the need for you to behave appropriately." Lysor subsided, his glare promising penalties unmentionable for his son once they were in private, while Norello leaned back in his chair, his arms still resolutely folded. Ennaar simply sat and fumed. "You are resolved upon this unwise defiance, Master Hestion?" he asked.
Norello lifted his chin. "I am no slave, to gainsay myself on account of threats," he snapped. "I said nothing that was not true, and I defy this coward," he jerked his chin at Ennaar, who seemed to inflate with indignation, "to prove otherwise."
"Coward, is it, you little shit . . ." Ennaar snarled, half-rising from his chair before the judge glared him back into it.
"In that case, masters, there seems no further point in continuing these discussions," he said. "My clerk will set a date for a trial and serve you notice in the usual manner. In the meantime, I bid you good day."
Norello stood, nodded shortly to the judge, and turned a look of disgust on Ennaar. "You should have spoken against the treaty when you had the chance," he said contemptuously. "Since you did not, prepare your ass." He turned on his heel and swept out of the judge's chambers, his father storming after him. Ennaar rose, bowed, and walked out after them, leaving the judge alone with his clerk and the bailiff, who he nodded to.
"See that they do not come to blows in the courthouse," he said wearily. "Once they are out of it, I really do not care what they do to each other." As the bailiff saluted and left, the judge sat back in armchair and blew his cheeks out in a sigh. "I really should have seen that coming," he said, half to himself, as he felt a weariness settle on him.
"Master?" the clerk asked gently.
"The treaty," the judge replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The mainland has been growing more restive by the month, with some justice. They look one way and see the Iron Legion over the border waiting for Robert the Bloody to order them to massacre and rapine, and when they look the other way they see the isles trying to carry on as they did before the wars, as much as that is possible. The pride they take in being the city's first line of defense against the abolitionist horde is thus tempered by resentment that the isles do not properly grasp the severity of the situation, or so they deem." He waved a hand brusquely. "Again, with some justice, it must be said, but they do not appreciate that it is the way of people to take refuge in the familiar in times as uncertain as these. And that people often forget what is not constantly before their eyes."
The clerk nodded hesitantly as he sanded the notation he had taken of the interview. "And the treaty is related to this, Master?" he asked.
The judge nodded. "Young Hestion and his ilk see it as a humiliation to so cast ourselves into the arms of Volantis," he explained. "By their lights, such a treaty would not be necessary if the people of the isles were willing to make the sacrifices that they have, both in treasure and in blood." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "By bringing this case to trial, I have given them a near-perfect platform to air their grievances in a way that not even the Conclave can sweep under the rug. I might as well have let Captain-General Naharis take the stand." He sighed gustily. "I hate political cases."
XXX
Jaime couldn't help a wistful smile as Stonehead faded down the horizon. The mountain, named for its uncanny resemblance to a human head, was the last he would see of the Summer Isles for many years, if not forever. He would love nothing more than to return someday, but he had much and more to do before that day came. To cover the sudden surge of ruefulness he turned and cocked an eyebrow at Mantar, who seemed less interested in his receding homeland than he was in their modest fleet. "Look well, lad," he said easily, gesturing back at Stonehead. "It's the last you'll see of your homeland for many a year."
Mantar gave him the look of barely restrained skepticism that Jaimie had already learned was his reaction to things he considered foolish. "Not my homeland, ser," the fisherman's son said matter-of-factly. "My homeland is Walano, and I saw the last of that for many a year when the Princess saw us away from Lotus Port."
Jaime shrugged. "That's as may be," he allowed, "but you should still take a good look; I wished I had done, when I last sailed from Dragonstone."
Mantar bowed correctly, but his skepticism was still unabated if Jaime was any judge. Jaime's mouth quirked in a slight smile; Mantar was a good lad, a ready learner, and already a grim fighter, but even his sense of proper respect did not change the fact that he was, as his uncle had said, full of opinions and not shy about sharing them. Well, his reserved obedience was better than the heedless admiration that had blinded Jaime to so many of Ser Arthur Dayne's faults for so long, and his native intelligence meant that Jaime had had to redouble his own efforts to be a teacher worthy of his student. Especially since Mantar was old to be a page, and he would have to find some excuse to grant him the silver spurs of a squire soon enough.
And doubly so because the embassy was returning in near-triumph. The many Princes and Princesses of the Isles had largely followed Princess Molanta's example by granting good if far short of exceptional terms of trade and giving their blessing to any independent captain or footloose warrior to enter King Robert's service, and as the embassy had traveled southward through the Isles they had attracted a steady trickle of ships and volunteers. It seemed that the tale of his deeds in the wars had gone ahead of them, and the sight of the club that High Priest Rhoqu had given him was apparently enough to dispel any lingering doubts about whether he was still tapu or not. The chilliest reception they had gotten had been at Ebonhead in the far south of the Isles, where the council of Princes and Princesses that ruled that trading port had debated the embassy's offer for three days and nights running before giving a reply that amounted to 'ask us again later', although at least they had been both amused and impressed by Roryn Pyke's valiant attempt to eat one of their famously spicy local stews.
Others had been more eager to join the wars. Four lesser Princes from the Singing Stones had declared outright alliance, although Jaime suspected their eagerness had as much to do with maintaining status among themselves as it did with any particular fervor, especially since between them the four princes could muster only two hundred and sixty-eight warriors besides the crews of their ships. Eight sellsail captains had also joined the fleet after lengthy inquiries regarding possible terms of service; they had refused to sign any contracts save with King Robert himself, but Jaime had little doubt that they would do so. Not after sailing the hundreds of miles north to Myr, and certainly not after they had been heard to boast in every port they visited of the glory and gold they would take from the slavers. The Prince of Koj had not committed himself or his people, but he had also declared in open court that he was neither a fool or a coward, to hold himself aloof from the changing tide, and sent an embassy in three ships under his aunt, a formidable woman who reminded Jaime of his aunt Genna, to see the Kingdom of Myr with their own eyes and send word of King Robert's worthiness as an ally. Jaime hoped the Kojites would be impressed; if any other Isle could match great Walano it was Koj, whose industrious people had built the Swan Nest where more swan ships were made than in all the rest of the Isles put together. Even Walano bought or traded for Kojite swan ships.
But most enthusiastic of all had been Jalabhar Xho of Red Flower Vale, who had either heard Princess Molanta's words a little too well or was simply too well known by that cunning Princess. No sooner had Jaime passed along her words than Jalabhar had sprang to his feet to declare by all the gods that he did not play at war, like a child, and if any thought he did then let them follow him to Myr and watch him in action against the slavers. He had signed the treaty the next morning, committing Red Flower Vale to full alliance with the Kingdom of Myr and offering ten swan ships and a thousand warriors led by Jalabhar himself. Jaime smiled; Jalabhar might boast of his prowess and make extravagant speeches about aiding 'his fellow warrior-prince', but Jaime judged that he would be in for something of a shock when he met King Robert. One of the few pieces of advice that Ser Arthur had given him that he still considered sound was that the louder a man boasted the less reason he had to do so. The fact that Jalabhar had overridden his advisors' counsel in open court had not been promising, either.
He shrugged to himself; straightening the self-proclaimed foremost warrior-prince of the Isles out would be a matter for King Robert and Ned Stark, and impressing the Kojite embassy would be Uncle Gerion's task. For his part, he was bringing almost a score of swan ships and more than thirteen hundred warriors back to the Kingdom that he had left in near-exile. He had a long way to go before he finally made full atonement for his mistakes, but this was a good start. One that poor Ser Wendel, whose bones were resting in a lead-lined coffin in the hold of this very ship, would likely have been proud to bring back, even with his greater skill at diplomacy. But when he returned and went back to the frontier . . . He fingered the hilt of his sword and smiled predatorially. The slavers would rue the day that the Company of the Rose failed to kill him on the road south of Pentos.