Ser Cortnay Penrose couldn't help an unsettled feeling as he surveyed the scene before him. Ordinarily, the training grounds of the Red Keep were where he came to relax, as being the one place where his word was law. By King Stannis' decree, the Lord Commander of the Stormguard was also chief master-at-arms to the dynasty and the Court, although appointed subordinates would do the bulk of the actual work, and as such within the training grounds and the salle d'armes of the Red Keep the Lord Commander outranked every man, woman, and child who set foot therein except the reigning monarch. And within those boundaries, the monarch was the Lord Commander's equal, not their superior. How else were the members of the dynasty, and the lords and knights who would stand beside them in battle, be properly trained, unless the Lord Commander could give them orders and expect them to be obeyed? The one time someone had been foolish enough to test that authority, Ser Cortnay had ejected him from the training grounds and ordered him to never return; Stannis had upheld the ruling, adding a harsh word of his own for the fool who thought he could flout a king's express command, and the man in question had eventually left Court in disgrace.
But the days when the Red Keep's training grounds were a scene of martial harmony appeared to be over. Ser Cortnay had never tolerated faction on the grounds, but even he could see the divisions that were forming.
On one side of the great paved square was a cohort of men wearing red and gold to varying degrees, usually either as squares of cloth or ribbons affixed to their clothing or as articles of clothing themselves; one pair of young dandies swaggering swords with each other were wearing matched doublets quartered in the two colors. Many of them were Westermen, either bannermen of Queen Cersei's father or members of the wider Lannister clan, but others were Rivermen, most notably Edmure Tully, who wore a pair of red and gold ribbons twined about his right arm, and the few Valemen who had remained at Court after Jon Arryn had gone back to the Eyrie. The colors the Queen's Men wore, Ser Cortnay had heard explained, symbolized the blood they were willing to shed and the coin they were willing to spend to defend the Faith, or so they claimed. Ser Cortnay was skeptical of their ability to do either, unless the blood in question was their own; half of the men who wore the red and gold had yet to see a pitched battle such as Tyrosh or Tickclose Field, or even a hard campaign against an equal opponent. Balon's Rebellion, in his opinion, did not count as such, given that Balon's madness and the imbalance of force between the two sides that had led to the Ironborn's swift defeat. That said, he had no doubt at all of their willingness; they certainly trained themselves hard enough. Especially young Edmure, who seemed to have no recreation from his duties with the City Watch other than training and prayer. And rather than the High Septon, the Tully heir was most often seen in company with Most Devout Hugar, who had quickly become one of the more vocal mouthpieces of the Faith on the need to combat heresy by every means available.
And Edmure, he knew, was one of the more intelligent and reasonable of the Queen's Men, in that he knew when to keep his tongue behind his teeth and heed Stannis's orders to the letter. Others simply had such a reflexive hatred of heresy and heretics, or such a blind loyalty to the Lannister family, that reason was forced to play second fiddle.
On the other side of the square was another group of men, distinguished by the livery badge of a rampant stag that each of them sported in varying styles. Most common were plain cloth badges affixed to the doublet, but the wealthier among them wore metal versions of the badge, ranging from lead up to gilded copper or silver but most popularly iron. They called themselves Kingsmen, and claimed that the King's evident valor, justice, and prudence were sufficient to convince them of the rightness and righteousness of his policies, as should be the case for all leal subjects. The fact that many of them were Stormlanders who were ancient bannermen of the Baratheons, Reachmen who took their lead from Lord Tyrell in hitching their fortunes to Stannis's, Rivermen who had followed the example of the Reachmen for various reasons, or Crownlanders who owed all they had to Stannis's will added a spice of regional jealousies to the stew of bad feeling developing between them and the Queen's Men, made all the more piquant by the fact that more than a few of them were scions of houses that Stannis had thrown down for rebellion. Those young but rapidly growing men, the sons of Norcross, Norridge, Graves, Inchfield, Redding, Leygood, Qorgyle, Uller, and Dryland, among others, knew as well as anyone that their survival depended on Stannis's good graces; without his protection their lives would not be worth an onion, as the Dornish saying went. It was a common refrain of the Queen's Men that a rebel was as bad as a heretic, for had not the Lord of the Seven Hells rebelled against the Father at the dawn of creation?
And one of them, Ser Cortnay reminded himself, was still an outright pagan. Theon Greyjoy was young still to wield a proper sword, but he was swinging a waster at the pell with commendable energy under the eye of one of the subordinate masters-of-arms. Ser Cortnay's eye caught the shadow of a bruise around the young Ironborn's left eye and pursed his lips; he knew that even being a king's ward would not deter a determined bully, but he would have thought that even a stupid bully would be smart enough not to leave such an obvious mark. King Stannis had a famously attentive eye, especially where the health of his charges was concerned. Their treatment reflected on his justice and his mercy, after all. That being said, Ser Cortnay was not so bad a student of human nature that he could not see the advantage to the dynasty that followed from young Greyjoy falling in with the Kingsmen. Theon was only a year or two older than Prince Lyonel, and for all the faults of the Ironborn, they were as true to their given oath as any breed of men, especially to those who conformed to their particular ideals of lordship. Look at how Euron had served Stannis, or how Victarion served Robert of Myr. And even if Prince Lyonel turned out to be only half the warrior-king his uncle was, Ser Cortnay could see as well as anyone that with no living family this side of the Narrow Sea, Theon would have no anchor for his loyalties beyond the dynasty. Men who found themselves with only one option tended to latch onto it with a death-grip.
A flicker of motion caught the corner of Ser Cortnay's eye; he turned, watched, and grimaced. The third party of men in the square were quite possibly the biggest headache of them all. Lord Renly had come north from Storm's End to visit his brother's Court, and he had brought with him the company he had formed in mimicry of the cavalry of Myr. It was a small company, only twenty lances, but each lance was made of picked men, either from the knights sworn directly to Storm's End or from the younger sons of the nobility of the Stormlands, and reportedly trained according to the instructions of King Robert's famous, and notorious, chivalry. They certainly seemed to consider themselves to stand above the common run of their fellows, with their gold-trimmed black cockades and their insistence on doing everything in near unison. Stannis had done them the honor of reviewing them upon Renly's arrival and had been heard to remark favorably on their discipline and their evident loyalty to Renly. To Ser Cortnay's eye they seemed well-trained, at least; he had seen them take their horses for exercise outside the city and had been struck by how well they maintained their alignment even at the canter. How they would perform in battle was anyone's guess. Where exactly they stood in the web of faction that was being woven through the Court, outside of their obedience to Renly and Renly's vocal loyalty to his brother, was also a mystery, and one that made Ser Cortnay deeply uneasy. Twenty well-trained and disciplined lances was the sort of force that could win battles, if not wars, and not all wars were fought in the field.
Although such a war might not be too far off. The Riverlands had settled down as much as that restless land ever did, an abortive rising in the Iron Islands, sparked apparently by despair at the terms of the peace that had ended Balon's Rebellion, had just been put down by the Knights of the Sea with Ser Harry Flash reportedly striking down the ringleader in single combat, and the other kingdoms were quiet, but Ser Cortnay had no delusions about the peace being anywhere near permanent. There was simply too great an undercurrent of suspicion afoot that anyone might be a heretic until they proved themselves otherwise to allow for the normal rhythms of peace to develop, even leaving aside the old trends that had dragged Westeros into civil war in ages past; Reachman against Stormlander, Reachman and Stormlander against Dornishman, Westerman against Reachman and Riverlander, Riverlander against anyone that crossed them. Only the Northmen appeared to be steering clear of the growing factionalism; Lord Bolton had taken all his men home with him when he resigned, and Brandon Stark had reportedly told Stannis that he would not ask another Northman to travel to a place where he might have to choose between his duty, his faith, and his life. No one, not even the few remaining Ironborn, were sufficiently foolish as to attract King Stannis' ire by starting a war without his leave, but Ser Cortnay knew about the grey hairs and the lines on the king's face that he hadn't had when he was crowned. The Throne changed men, that was widely known, but it also aged them before their times, and as strong as Stannis was he was rapidly approaching the point where not even flatterers could call him young.
Ser Cortnay shook his head; that was a problem for the future. For now, he simply had to prevent these three factions of heavily armed and highly trained young men from killing each other where official notice would have to be taken. Which meant that he could no more afford to look weak, or old, or distracted, than Stannis could, despite the fact that he was old enough to be an uncle, if not a father, to most of the men here. A difficult conundrum, that.
XXX
Radalfos Solazzo looked at the handbill lying on his desk with an anger that was all the greater for having a new target. Simply the content would have been sufficient, as it was nothing less than a blatant call to the people of Norvos to commit insurrection. Great Norvos is enchained by her so-called allies! it read. Remember the honor of your ancestors! Be of stout hearts and fight for your City and your freedom! We have lost a battle, but we have not lost the war! And more in such vein. But what truly roused Solazzo's anger was the last line, printed in half-sized type. Produced in Ghoyan Drohe by order of Mycan Banderis, Chief Archivist, for the government of Free Norvos.
Solazzo pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache he felt building behind his sinuses; he had been assured, in writing, less than a month ago, that the head of the Norvoshi government-in-exile was the Voice of Noom and that Mycan Banderis was his faithful subordinate. This, it seemed, was no longer the case. The report that had accompanied this handbill, written by the captain of the fort at Ghoyan Drohe, disclosed that the Voice of Noom had been effectively sidelined by the Chief Archivist, on the grounds that the Voice, while a worthy and godly man, was not the man to lead Great Norvos in war. That required a younger man, with more fire in his belly and less residual good will towards the enemy. So the Voice of Noom was now First Servant of the Unspeakable One, in practice a figurehead, while Banderis had taken the title of Chief Minister of Norvos. It was, in effect, another coup, although this one was at least bloodless, and Banderis was friendly to Braavos.
Which didn't make up for his belligerent tendencies. The captain's report included the transcript of a speech that Banderis had given after sidelining the Voice, given in Ghoyan Drohe but addressed to the Norvoshi people at large. The most damning line came in the second-to-last paragraph. Therefore do I, Chief Minister Banderis, in consultation with the First Servant of the Unspeakable One, declare a war of faith against the traitors and foreigners who have usurped the power of the god. I declare them to be excommunicate and attainted and command all true servants of the Unspeakable One to do them such harm as they are able. I summon to the banner of the god all those of His servants who reside without the city, that His rule over His city might be restored and those who blaspheme against Him be thrown down and destroyed.
This speech, which was an even more naked call to insurrection than the handbills were, had apparently already been reproduced in hundreds of copies by the same printer who had made up the handbills. And how in the seven hells of the Andals a printer had managed to set up shop in Ghoyan Drohe undetected was yet another matter to be enraged by; by Braavosi law, no printer could operate without a special license, and such licenses were only valid within the geographical bounds specified therein. Solazzo knew for a fact that no such license had been issued that allowed a printer to set up shop in Ghoyan Drohe. He had helmed the Committee of Information for eight years prior to his election, after all, and while printer's licenses were issued under the Sealord's signature they only came to his attention by the Committee's nomination. And while printers tended to be an adventurous lot, as was usually the case with the practitioners of new arts or sciences, they knew better than to risk the Titan's ire.
On the other hand, he reminded himself, Banderis' incendiarism could prove useful. The Commune's spies reported a great deal of disaffection in Norvos, especially in the city where the ratio of slave to free had been more nearly equal and there had been a relative dearth of people whose revenues relied on slaves. Slaves could be made to work in manufactories, but the combination of Norvoshi law and the high wages that skilled laborers were paid meant that such slaves tended to be emancipated in relatively short order. And the guilds who controlled the manufactories preferred to give open places in their workforce to freeborn men, the better to prevent their professions from becoming tainted by association with bondage. The use of chattel slaves in mass was rarely profitable except on large landed estates where they could be put to work on crops that required much manual labor and could be sold for high profits. In Norvos that meant largely flax, cotton, and wool, to feed the workshops where their famous tapestries and rugs were produced. The disconnect thus created, between the countryside which relied on mass slave labor to produce goods and the city which relied on the countryside's goods for its livelihood but looked askance at the mass slavery that fed it, made for disagreements even under normal circumstances. In a civil war, they made for the foundation of an edifice of hate. One that Braavos would do well to shore up and contribute to, if the Norvoshi exiles were to pull their weight in this war.
Nor were the Norvoshi the only factor in play. The Windblown had been travelling through the western part of the Norvoshi hinterland, having taken a long-term contract with the city a few sennights before the vote on abolition. When the coup had hit, they had found themselves responsible for law and order in those districts, and a suddenly vital piece on the gameboard that the Upper Rhoyne had become. The Tattered Prince was known to be true to his contracts, like all mercenaries of his station, but he was also known to be willing to interpret those contracts creatively when it benefited him and his company to do so. It was also known, his file in the city archives said, that he still harbored an abiding ambition to hold power in his native city of Pentos. Solazzo was of the opinion that that ambition was largely rooted in a desire to kill the men who would have made him a disposable puppet, and if that was so then the fact that those men had almost certainly died after the Commune's incorporation of Pentos would mean that the Prince's ambition was now rootless. Even so, and to an extent even if it wasn't, such an ambition could be worked with. The post of Viceroy he could not have, the Commune had made that mistake before and learned from it, but there were other positions that such a man could hold. And the Prince was an old man, who would likely be willing to take the chance to earn a wealthy and dignified retirement. He would know how rare such a thing was for sellswords, even ones as distinguished as he was.
Solazzo swept the handbill and the captain's report into the outbox on the side of his desk and began to scratch out ideas on a sheet of paper. It would be for his Council to decide what moves to make regarding the Norvoshi and the Windblown, but he could still tell them what measures he would be most willing to sign his name to. The Sealord was supposed to be the figurehead of the Commune and the Council the rudder, but in practice the Commune often took the Sealord's expressed wishes into account. As an Andal sellsword had once quipped in Solazzo's hearing, "If the lord ain't happy, then ain't no one happy."
XXX
Jaime Lannister sighed contentedly as he sat back in an armchair and looked out the window of the antechamber to the royal apartments in the Palace of Justice. He had never considered Myr city his home, having spent as much time in the field as in the city during his exile. His longest permanent residence had been in Alalia but he had few fond memories of that town; most of them had to do with papers and self-righteous slaves-turned-burghers. Nonetheless, Myr city was his home, now, and it was good to be back.
Especially since the embassy and the fleet that had attached itself to them had returned with such fanfare. Word had preceded them by dispatch galley from Martyros, so King Robert and Uncle Gerion had had the chance to muster a reception at the docks and an impromptu procession to the Palace of Justice where Jaime had officially returned his ambassador's credentials to King Robert and Queen Serina and the kingdom's new allies had been welcomed. There would also be a banquet tonight where the principal captains among the Summer Islanders would be formally presented, and a tournament in three days' time where the Islanders could demonstrate their prowess. Jalabhar Xho had already been heard to boast that he would sweep all before him in the archery and gods pity any who opposed him on foot with spears. Jaime snorted softly, half in fondness and half in exasperation; Jalabhar really needed to learn that it was better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt, as his brother had once written him.
The door to the royal apartments opened and Ser Richard Horpe stepped in. "His Grace will see you now, Ser Jaime," the scar-faced young knight said formally. "In private," he added, with a meaningful glance at Mantar who returned it with a stoic impassiveness that he had undoubtedly learned from his formidable uncle.
"Of course," Jaime replied, rising to his feet. "Await me here, Mantar," he said to his squire, "and try not to take any heads while I'm gone." Mantar gave him a pawky look that he mollified with a bow that was very correct for being so recently learned. The former fisherman was a little overwhelmed still by the sheer scale and busyness of Myr city, even if it was easily comparable to Lotus Port, but he was as earnest as only the young could be and had firm ideas on the proper behavior of guests. Which he was apparently classing himself as, at least until his and Jaime's status in the kingdom was clarified.
Which was likely what this private audience was going to be about, Jaime reflected as he followed Ser Richard through the door. Open court was as much a show as any mummer's performance, and King Robert doubtless wanted to make sure that they would both be reading from the same script. Which he was well within his rights to do, Jaime reminded himself. Robert didn't know what he had gone through under the Talking Trees and couldn't be expected to know the significance of the club that High Priest Rhoqu had given him. Jaime could claim that he was a changed man until he was blue in the face, but he would still have to earn back men's trust in him. However long that might take.
He followed Ser Richard in to a private solar to find King Robert setting aside a sheaf of papers as he rose from behind a desk. Jaime couldn't help a surge of relief. His ordeal had shown him many things, but one of the worst had been the sight of King Robert as a drunken, bloated wreck who still sat the throne only for fear of what his heir (not his son, Jaime reminded himself) might do with it. Seeing him as the trim, vigorous warrior he was meant to be was more reassuring than Jaime had imagined.
He covered up his thoughts by bending the knee. "I have returned, Your Grace," he said formally.
"Indeed, you have," Robert replied, gesturing him to his feet impatiently and leading him back out into the main solar that Jaime last been in when he had been sent to the Islands. "And under better circumstances than I would have expected. Even after poor Ser Wendel's death you managed to gain us a whole slew of treaties, agreements, and understandings with the Summer Islanders, as well as bearing yourself well in a deed of arms that enhanced the security of the Kingdom and, I am told, has placed Lord Greyjoy in your debt." He gestured Jaime into a chair by the fireplace and sat across from him as Ser Richard poured them each a glass of local wine and retreated to stand by the door. Robert raised his glass. "To your success, Ser Jaime," he said graciously. "And to Ser Wendel Manderly, gods rest his soul."
Jaime raised his own glass. "To a fine lord and a worthy knight," he replied, trying not to think too much of the look on the face of Ser Wendel's steward when he had handed over the casket containing his lord's bones.
They each sipped at their glasses, then Robert leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles comfortably. "Now to business," he said. "First off, the kingdom will be going into battle soon; our festivities here will provide some cover for this in addition to welcoming our new allies."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Battle, not war?" he asked curiously.
"You recall the Great Raid that Corbray made when he was made Lord Lieutenant?" Robert asked. Jaime nodded. "It will be along those lines, but more focused. As much an invasion as a raid, really, but we will be seeking to pillage and burn, not to seize and hold, so the name of raid remains accurate."
Jaime nodded again; he could see the logic. "And the Lyseni will not respond to us in kind?" he inquired. "Or use the pretext to declare open war?"
Robert shook his head. "They may, but we doubt it; they have become little more than an appendage of Volantis under the terms of the treaty they have signed, according to the Office of Foreign Inquiry. And Ser Brynden is of the view that the Volantenes will want some years yet to prepare before they dare seek cause for war against us. Forbye, the Office tells me that the Lyseni are almost at each other's throats, according to the news from their spies over the border. No, Lys will not escalate matters beyond raid and counter-raid."
"And how are the festivities to cover for this raid?" Jaime asked.
"Ser Brynden tells me that it is too late in the planning stage to insert you or our new allies into the raiding force that will go over the border," Robert replied, almost apologetically. "However," his bluff features took on a surprisingly sly look, "if it became known that the Black Lion had returned and was riding to Alalia in company with some other famous knights and a banda of warriors eager to wet their spears with slaver blood, it might serve to draw the Lyseni's attention away from Oakenshield and the massing of the true raiding force, or at least to keep them guessing as to which is the true thrust and which a feint."
"And in the meantime," Jaime said with a smile, "I will have time to understand how things have changed in my absence, our new allies will have time to get used to conditions here and how we do things, and we will have time to take their measure." He bowed in his seat. "Very clever, Your Grace."
"Much of it is Ser Gerion's or Ser Brynden's thoughts," Robert said. "And Ned owes me a crown; he wagered that you would make more of a fuss about being left behind. Don't worry, we plan to make more of these raids in the future; you will have plenty of opportunities to prove your worth in the field. Along with the worth of this new sigil of yours." He pointed at Jaime's surcoat, which thanks to a fast-working tailor's shop in Martyros was now green instead of red, with the lion worked in black instead of gold.
Jaime's mouth quirked in a rueful grin. "After all that has passed, the Lannister sigil seemed inappropriate," he explained. "So I had it changed in Martyros. Green, for the fields of Essos that we have already liberated and will in the future, and black for . . . well, the obvious reason."
Robert laughed. "A new sigil for a new beginning; I approve, even if the heralds will complain about how much it looks like that of the Mormont's. And fitting as well, given the other item I wish to discuss. As you know, Ser Wendel had no children; not even a bastard, as far as we can tell. He was to see about marrying on his return, but obviously this is no longer possible. His will is already being executed as to the disposition of his fortune and the establishment of the captain of his household men as a landed knight on a parcel of his former lands. As for the remainder of his lands, and the bannermen sworn thereto, his will grants the Crown the right to determine an heir in the event of his death without heirs, and his papers include a letter from Lord Manderly in White Harbor declaring that House Manderly will not seek to contest any such determination."
Jaime's mouth tightened; he could already guess where this was going.
"Ser Wendel was a Jonothorian," Robert continued, "one of the highest ranking lords who had joined that sect. In the interests of maintaining that balance of power, and also of demonstrating that you have fully returned to our good graces, I would like to see the black lion flying over White Den."
Jaime drummed the fingers of his off hand against his glass as he marshaled his thoughts. "I am of course greatly honored, Your Grace," he began, "but I feel that to be made a lord so would honor me too much. My time in Alalia proved that I am a mediocre administrator, too mediocre to be trusted with one of the finest estates in the Realm. And doubtless there are many who would object to my inheriting such an estate, even if I have made at least partial amends for my foolishness, and others who have done more to deserve such a reward of the Crown."
"True," Robert allowed. "But they are not the Black Lion. Nor do they command more than a fraction of the support that you could among the people of this kingdom. Between the Legion, the city commons, the smallfolk, and those of the nobility and chivalry who follow Jonothor, anywhere from half to two-thirds of the population considers you to be the greatest knight of the age. And if you consider the matter from their perspective, they are not far wrong. Where others who led the fight for freedom accepted power and wealth for doing so, as Ser Lyn Corbray or Eddard Stark or even I have done, you turned your back on the greatest fortune in the known world and a position of power only a step below a throne. And whatever your true motives might have been, as far as they are concerned you did so for the Realm, for Holy Freedom, and for the people you helped liberate." He aimed a finger at Jaime. "That is a reputation to conjure with, ser, and one that the Crown cannot afford to allow to languish in self-imposed poverty. Sending you into exile may have satisfied those that wanted your head after Lysa Tully's death, but it also provoked no end of grumbling among those who thought you a hero. If we are to harness the depth of feeling, and the loyalty, that those people possess, then we must make you a lord, and a powerful one at that, in order to demonstrate that we no longer hold your ideals against you."
Jaime sat back in his chair, thinking furiously. He could certainly see the logic of Robert's argument, even if he instinctively shrank from the idea of becoming his father after all. Those who wanted his head had been thrown their bone with his exile, now it was the turn of those who considered him a hero to be appeased. He knew he had no head for the management of estates, but he also knew that Robert would say that there was a reason stewards existed. And even if the son he and Cersei had spawned in that other life had proved to be the Mad King come again, High Priest Rhoqu had told him flat out that madness was the natural result of inbreeding; there was no reason to suspect that his children by a woman other than Cersei would be anything other than sane and healthy. But there were other reasons . . . For a moment his stomach rebelled against oathbreaking, then he fingered the hilt of the club at his right hip. Your oaths to Aerys became worthless the day he burned his first man, anyway, he told himself sternly. "There are things I have not told you, Your Grace," he said slowly. "Things regarding why I slew Aerys the Mad."
Robert frowned, leaning forward in his chair. "I'm listening," he said intently.
"Aerys was always mad for fire," Jaime said, his guts twisting as he remembered those fateful days, "but after the Rebellion broke out he lost his reason completely. He ordered the pyromancers to begin stockpiling wildfire in their guildhall, intending to field it against you and the other Lords Declarant. The Hand, Lord Chelsted, would have none of it; too volatile to survive the journey up the Kingsroad and into the hedgerows, he said, and too dangerous to king's man and rebel alike in that maze. Aerys fumed, but he relented, and simply ordered it stashed at the wall towers after your parley with Chelsted. When my father entered the city, and revealed his true colors . . ." Jaime had to fight for a moment to control his gorge. "Aerys went wode, screaming for Rossart to use the wildfire against my father's troops in order to drive them from the city. Chelsted objected, saying the wildfire would burn the city along with any traitors, but Aerys would not relent this time. At his command Chelsted was stabbed in the back by Rossart's apprentice, and Aerys ordered Rossart to burn them all." He stared into the fire, unaware of the way the silver goblet in his hand was creaking in his grip. "I could no longer stand idle. I killed Rossart as he turned to leave the room, and his apprentice died three steps from the door. I turned to see Aerys running for the door at the other end of the chamber." Jaime tore his gaze away from the fire to look Robert in the face. "I knew what he wanted to do, and what he was capable of doing," he said simply. "I also knew I couldn't catch him before he could give me the slip; I was in armor and he wasn't. So I threw my sword across the chamber." He looked down at his goblet, swallowing as he remembered how he had felt when he had crossed the chamber and pulled his sword out of the Mad King's back; not triumphant, not horrified, not even surprised that he had actually managed to throw his sword twenty feet and bury it half its length in a running man's torso. The only thing he had felt, or recalled feeling, was numbness. "I saw what power did to Aerys, Your Grace," he finished. "And I saw what it was doing to my father. If I fear anything, I fear such a thing happening to me, when I have fought so hard to regain my honor."
Robert nodded. "Septon Jonothor has often warned me that power corrupts, and that the greater the power the greater the degree of corruption," he replied. "Serina is of much the same mind, as it seems are most Braavosi, hence their many laws surrounding the proper conduct of the Sealord and his councilors. When the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain was formed I had them swear another vow in secret; that they neither hesitate nor show mercy if the day came when they had to protect the Kingdom from the King. But I think you will have little to fear from such corruption, if you mean to serve me more as a captain than as a lord. And it is time that you showed courage in the council chamber as well as in the field. So I place the choice before you, ser; become Lord of White Den, even if only in name, or quit my service."
Jaime placed his goblet on the table beside his chair and knelt. "I accept, Your Grace," he said. "Although I pray that I be remembered as the most reluctant of lords."
"Come, Ser Jaime, save some titles for these worthier men you talk so much of," Robert said with a smile, which Jaime returned. "And speaking of reluctance, shall I assume that you will take your sweet time finding a wife?"
Jaime bowed his head. "I have loved a lady, par amours, from my boyhood," he said. "But she is another man's wife, and in any case, word has reached me of her . . . unworthiness." He had seen what Cersei had become before the end; it had sickened him almost as much as what he himself had done. "So now I find myself alone and without the first notion of how to proceed."
Robert nodded. "Then I will make a bargain with you," he said. "You will have three years to mourn the loss of this lady of yours and find a new one. I ask only that you inform me of your choice before you make any public announcements. If, at the end of those three years, you have not made a choice, then Serina and I shall choose for you." Robert smiled. "You may be assured we will exercise all due diligence and care in making sure that our choice is worthy of you; it would not do for one of my greatest captains to be subjected to an unhappy marriage."
Jaime bowed his head and raised his folded hands, and Robert stood and placed his own hands around Jaime's to accept his oath.
XXX
In the basement of a tavern in Oakenshield, Petyr Baelish leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles. "So, gentlemen," he said, "let us go over the plan again. Six days before the raid begins . . ." he pointed at Willet and Hokkan, who were both squatting on their hams by a row of barrels.
"We lead the team over the border, dodging patrols as we go," Willet answered. "We have the reports from the border companies on the patterns the Lyseni patrols generally follow, and there will be an incursion over the border twenty miles away to draw attention away from our point of entry."
"Gods willing," Petyr agreed; that was the part of the plan he liked least, but it was the necessary first step that all the rest of the plan flowed from. "Those six days will allow us to get into position near at least one major plantation. The day the raid launches . . ." he pointed at Adaran, who was leaning against a wall dominated by shelves holding crates of foodstuffs.
"We release our spies to act on their own initiative," Adaran said. "Those spies will either infiltrate the plantations in question or attach themselves to any refugee columns that may develop. They will have ten days to observe, after which they will extricate themselves and make their way back to the border. During those ten days, we . . ." he pointed at Sarra's Will, who was sitting on a low stool next to Silent Jorro.
"We will be doing what damage we can to the Lyseni," the stocky archer took up the thread of the plan. "We will lay ambushes, destroy bridges, collapse culverts, sow caltrops, start grass fires, whatever our evil little minds can think of."
"Taking care that you are not captured, killed, or otherwise rendered ineffective," Petyr supplied. He would remain in Oakenshield for the duration of the raid, as he had no talent for action in the field and remained a poor hand with knife or sword, despite the lessons he had been taking from Adaran. There was a risk, of course, that these men would lose what respect they had come to feel for him by his absence from the field, but they also knew that he would be a liability in the field. Adaran, for one, appreciated that he was not endangering them by trying to become something he was not, and given Adaran's prestige among the other men that was no small thing. And Ser Brynden had explicitly stated that Adaran would command them in the field anyway, while Petyr's role would be more general. "On the tenth day . . ." he pointed at Tychan Breakchain, who was sitting in a chair that looked dangerously near to collapse under his bulk.
"We attach ourselves to one of our columns and march back to the border with them," the big legionary rumbled. "Or we start making our own way back. Whichever we choose, we return to the border by day fifteen to twenty."
"Where we collect the reports of our spies and send them back to War House by special courier," Petyr said, completing the plan. "And finish by throwing as grand a party as we can manage out of Office funds." He uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward. "If anyone sees any part of the plan that they think won't work, or is too risky, speak up now and we'll change it."
Adaran shook his head. "I like it," he said. "Flexible enough to allow adaptation in the field, while still giving us defined goals."
Petyr looked around the ring of faces. Tychan Breakchain shrugged his massive shoulders, his rugged face impassive. Silent Jorro shook his head and went back to the small block of wood he was carving in the shape of a bird. Sarra's Will also shook his head. "I like it too," he said. "Tells us what to do, but gives us enough slack to choose how to do it." Willet shrugged. "It's a good plan," he said. "As good as any I can think of." Hokkan looked up from where he was whetting his long knife only long enough to shake his head before going back to running his hone over the thick-spined blade.
"Alright then," Petyr said as he stood to his feet. "I suggest we all make an early night of it; you'll have more than a few sleepless nights ahead of you."
Hokkan set down his hone, tested the edge of his blade with his thumb, and grinned at Adaran. "I will show you how to cut throats!" he said cheerily. "The point goes in behind the windpipe with an outward thrust, and the heel of the blade parts the neckbones! That is the way to cut an aristo's throat!"