Jaime Lannister had foreseen that his return to Myr might entail long spells of onerous duty, as part of his repentance for the difficulty his renunciation of his inheritance had caused. He had even considered the possibility that he might be relegated to an office in the bowels of War House, where his days would be consumed by papers. In comparison with that dread possibility, the duty of squiring the Summer Islander princes that had followed him from the Isles had come as a pleasant surprise, even with all the trials that had arisen therefrom. Gods knew he would never take a valet or steward of his for granted again, after having to keep four crowned heads fed, watered, entertained, and out of trouble. Thank all the gods that Chonda Zham, the emissary from Koj, had remained in Myr city, where she was Uncle Gerion and King Robert's problem; her resemblance to Aunt Genna was stronger than Jaime found comfortable, and made worse by a prickly sense of pride that had required Jaime to tread lightly in his conversations with her.

By comparison, managing the other five princes was child's play, if occasionally difficult. Zantar Salas was the least trouble of all of them, partly because he was aptly nicknamed 'the Silent'. Jaime suspected that this was due only partly to personal preference, with the other part being due to the reason he had joined the Kingdom's cause. Before his elder brother's unexpected death had propelled him to his humble throne, Zantar had been in training for the priesthood, and his mentor had specialized in negotiating with the slavers for the ransom of Summer Islanders that had been taken in the occasional raids on the Isles. That experience had added a personal leavening of hatred to the more general dislike that the Summer Islanders had for the slavers, although unlike a Westerosi Zantar chose to let his frowning silences convey the depth of his loathing rather than any spate of florid insults and lurid threats. Taquor Dar and Tarano Rhosaq might live for the feud between them, but in and of themselves they were good men, if inclined to crustiness. By this point, Jaime was willing to trust either of them with money, strong drink, or a woman's honor, but at the same time he was not willing to trust them in each other's company unsupervised, for fear that their habitual insults would suddenly turn deadly. Jalabhar Xho was a braggart, but he had a good heart and enough sense to know when to climb down; Jaime suspected that the latter trait was due largely to an incident at Court where only some fast talking on Jaime's part and a fulsome apology had prevented a duel with Ser Akhollo Freeman, as well as Jalabhar's subsequent realization that a wildcat should walk quietly when it found itself among lions. The one that had most surprised Jaime was Balabos Rhosas, for although he was the oldest of the princes, he possessed the most colorful history, having been a merchant and sell-sail for twenty years before coming to his small throne by the death of his uncle and the absence of any more suitable heirs. Judging by his stories, Balabos had been everywhere and seen everything on the world-ocean, although where exactly he had gone and what exactly he had seen and done changed from one story to the next and he reacted to any challenges to his narratives with florid outrage. But for all his tall tales and extravagant outbursts, Balabos was invariably the most courteous and genial of the princes, and with his twinkling eye and jovial manner reminded Jaime of no one as much as Maester Gordon. And on those rare occasions when he became serious, even Jalabhar paid attention.

As was happening now, as they watched the Alalia Regiment of the Iron Legion at its monthly exercises. "Ku," Balabos said softly as he watched the infantry maneuver, fingering his short beard, "but that's fine infantry. Even the Imperial Bodyguard of the azure emperors of Yi Ti do not compare. The Imperials have better discipline, or did when I saw them, but they had not taken the field for two generations even then."

"Whereas these men have both discipline and experience of war," Jalabhar said, stroking his own beard in imitation of Balabos; Jaime noticed the slight smile on the old prince's face as he noticed his younger counterpart's mimicry. "And these men are newly mustered, Ser Jaime?"

"Alalia was liberated and brought into the kingdom some years ago, and it's first Legion company was mustered in the last days of 284," Jaime replied, "but there have been changes since. Some men have been made unfit for service by wounds or age, others have gone elsewhere, new men have taken their place, and of course the companies were regimented two years ago, causing even more change. Perhaps a quarter to a third of the men in this regiment are old veterans, while another third or so have seen action but less of it, having taken the King's shield since the Destruction of Tyrosh."

"And the men who have not seen action may as well have," Tarano rumbled, "what with having so many veterans in their ranks. They have that effect, like yeast on bread."

"You would know this from experience?" Taquor asked sardonically. "Only I doubt it, if so; gods know you have little enough of your own."

"And what's the scar on your arse from, if not from my spear?" Tarano shot back before turning to Jaime. "He was running like a frightened rabbit at the time," he explained, "and try as I might, I couldn't catch up to him. So I just gave him a cut with my spear, to remember me by."

"Your obsession with my arse, and it's decorations, is unworthy of your line, you old bugger," said Taquor. "But then, I suppose there has to be a reason your nephew stands to inherit, rather than any son of yours."

"The last time I saw men like these," Balabos said breezily, cutting off Tarano's splutter, "they were Unsullied that had just fought off a corsair raid. Less than a dozen left of more than a hundred, there were, standing in a street with corsair corpses thigh-deep in front of their shields. Though I'd back these men over Unsullied any day of the month; the eunuchs haven't the brains the gods gave sheep. Why," he went on with a chuckle, "I once heard a master demand of his Unsullied which of them had failed to prevent his wife's lover from slipping through their patrol, and the silly buggers responsible raised their hands!"

Jaime grimaced through the inevitable chuckle that arose. "Brains aside," he interjected, "the Legion has something the Unsullied can never have; they have spirit. The Unsullied have the spirit beaten out of them in their training, so they will stand and fight to the death with the best of them, but they have no enterprise in them. The Legion, on the other hand . . ." He clicked his tongue. "I've seen a Legion century hammer through twice it's number faster than it takes to say it, seize a position, and then hold that position against three separate assaults before they were relieved. The Unsullied could do the last, but they could never do the first."

There was a wave of nods from the princes, most enthusiastically from Jalabhar, and a considering look from Balabos which Jaime took as a good sign. The old prince might play the jester, but Jaime doubted that he had lived to his age as a merchant, sellsail, and prince simply on the strength of his jokes. And he had seen the callus on Balabos' hands; only some of it was the result of handling ropes, or he was no judge of fighting men. Jalabhar might have sailed to Myr for pride's sake, and Tarano and Taquor because they each could not allow the other to do them one better, but Balabos had sailed for a different reason. He was sixty years old, he had told Jaime, and while he had been a good prince his first love was and would always be adventure. Every year he had sat his throne he had yearned a little more for the days when he was simply a merchant venturer, taking on the worst that the world could throw at him with his wits, his seamanship, his crew, and his spear, and making a profit in spite of all. So he had surrendered his throne to his son and followed Jaime to Myr, where a greater adventure than any other waited for him.

Or so he had said, when Jaime had inquired after his motives on the voyage to Myr. On the other hand, Jaime had heard him tell Jalabhar that he had been bored out of his mind as prince and sailed on a whim, and tell Tarano that of all villains he hated slavers the most and could not bear the thought of passing up an opportunity to strike the slaver cities a blow, after so many years of pretending not to care that the merchandise he had carried for them was the product of slave labor. Jaime shrugged to himself; whatever Balabos' true motives, he was almost certainly a canny strategist and dangerous fighter, to have lived so long in an adventurous life. He would be, as uncle Gerion had been fond of saying, a handy fellow to have in a tight corner, and Jaime had the feeling that tight corners would come thick and fast in the coming years.

XXX

Halfway down the rank of the first company he was inspecting, Robert turned his horse to a stop with a barely-perceptible shift of weight and pointed at the man before him. "Your kit," he said.

The man bowed in the saddle, dismounted in a fluid motion, and began pulling equipment off his horse. The two buckets that hung off his horse's withers came off first and were emptied to show twenty javelins, fifteen of which were light affairs with wooden shafts and leaf-shaped steel heads while the other five, being made from a single piece of iron with deceptively thin shafts and small, pyramidal heads, were meant to penetrate armor. "In addition," the light horseman's captain explained at Robert's elbow, "they can be used in the melee as a light lance." The soldier nodded agreement as he added a coil of rope with a grapnel, his gambeson and light mail-shirt, steel bridle gauntlet, kettle helm, hooded woolen cloak, and a long-hafted battle axe to the array laid on the grass.

Robert smiled slightly as he looked over the soldier's kit; all of it was clean, the weapons obviously sharpened, and laid out neatly and efficiently. "Your name, soldier?" he asked.

"Essino Unchained, Your Grace," the horseman replied, his gaze fixed over Robert's left shoulder. He was a slim and wiry man, with the copper skin and almond-shaped eyes of the Dothraki, but his black hair was cropped short and his left cheek was marred by a brand in the shape of an uppercase letter R in Valyrian script.

Robert indicated the brand. "Tried to run, did you?" he asked.

Essino nodded. "Tried once, Your Grace," he said. "Succeeded the second time, after Alalia. But I have sworn to run no more, unless Your Grace's officers order it."

The captain at Robert's elbow nodded. "He made that oath when he enlisted, Your Grace, and I felt I had to insist on the caveat," he added. "In the interest of discipline."

Robert nodded. "Very good," he remarked, glancing at Essino's horse; it was a stocky creature, with a large head, a barrel-shaped body set on strong legs, and a long mane and tail both tied in simple braids. "A Dothraki beast, I take it?"

"His dam was taken at Novadomo, Your Grace, and put to a courser stallion," the captain replied. "Most of the company's mounts are at least half plains-bred; we found that they have better stamina than comparable horses of pure Westerosi blood."

Robert nodded. "Hybrids are often more vigorous than purebreds, I learned from my first stablemaster," he observed. "Although how they are raised and trained also has an influence." He gestured to Ser Richard Horpe, who was acting as his squire for the day. "Stag crown," he ordered, making the pock-faced knight fumble in his purse and produce one; part of a new mint, and at five crowns' worth the most valuable coin the Royal Mint made. Essino took it, slipped it into a small leather pouch at his belt, and bowed deeply.

Robert rode on, his entourage following him and leaving Essino to reassemble his equipment and remount his horse. It was possible, he supposed, that making such inspections as this could lead to charges of royal favoritism, given that they were almost exclusively made to the companies of Myr city and its near vicinity, but that was inevitable. And on those occasions when he left the capital, he made a point of inspecting the local companies, with their captains and lieges in tow. They served both to satisfy in his own mind that the Army was in proper condition, and also to impress on the soldiers that the King took an interest in their well-being and state of readiness.

And there were other benefits, he reminded himself as he finished inspecting a legionary and instructed Ser Richard to give him another stag crown. Of his three children, two were in his entourage, although Stalleo was sitting in the third rank on his little pony while Cassana was being held atop a heavy courser in the first rank, with Ser Akhollo's arm securing her in the saddle as effectively as any leather strap. Stalleo was there because he would turn seven before long and would have to choose between entering the Faith and going for a soldier; this excursion, and the time he had been allowed to watch both the Legion and the cavalry at their monthly exercises, was all meant to give him some idea of what a soldier's life would look like. Cassana, on the other hand, was there as her first formal appearance, in order to introduce the Army to their next monarch and, by law, their next Captain-General; the monarch could designate such subordinate officers as it pleased them to lead the Army in the field, but the ultimate authority of command rested on the monarch's shoulders, and Robert knew that it was best to broach the idea of Cassana taking up that mantle now, while there was time to bring the recalcitrant around to the idea.

The unfortunate fact was that the most recent example of a queen ruling in her own right was Rhaenyra Targaryen, who was no one's idea of a good example. Admittedly, much of that had been due to circumstances beyond her control, but the preexisting prejudice against a female ruling in her own right had only been reinforced by the discouraging precedent that Rhaenyra set. Essos's history was more promising in that regard, but at the same time less useful; the Rhoynar aside, all of Essos' female rulers had been slaveholders, and Braavos had never elected a woman as Sealord. What legitimacy Cassana would have would derive almost entirely from what Robert could leave her, especially since it was entirely possible that Serina would birth a son a few moons from now. The pressure to set Cassana's claim aside in favor of a legitimate son, or even in favor of Stalleo, would be immense, but Robert and Serina had made more than a few plans in that regard. If Serina's new pregnancy resulted in a son, then he would be named the heir, but if it did not, then the next new year's celebrations would see the noble guests and the guilds of Myr city pledge homage to Cassana as Princess of Brivas, which would be the title of the heir apparent thenceforth. Stalleo, it had been decided, would be the first to do so, followed by Mya, so that there would be no doubt as to the relative positions of Robert's legitimate and bastard children. And once Stalleo decided on a career, he would be kept as far away from Court as duty and decency would allow, on the theory that keeping him out of sight would keep him out of the mind of any would-be plotters.

Robert concealed his distaste behind a practiced smile as he rode off the field, ending the review; he hated the idea of sending his son out from under his eye in such a way. But there was nothing else for it.

XXX

Meanwhile, in Westeros

Renly Baratheon waited until Randyll Tarly had left his wing of the Red Keep before allowing himself to give in to the fury. Two broken chairs and an upended desk later, he had calmed down enough to summon Ser Balon Swann, who was the second-in-command of his company, and the commanders of its three bandas, Ser Francis Errol, Ser Jaymes Cafferen, and Ser Davyd Swygert. "It seems that Ser Carlus Storm will no longer be with us," Renly began without preamble once everyone had filed into his study. "He has received orders to report to Master Jordayne and serve a term with the Order of the Sun."

There was a round of winces. "And Ser Lorent Lorch?" Balon asked gently.

"Has received similar orders," Renly replied. "To serve Master Riverbend in the Order of the Sea."

Davyd opened his mouth, closed it to think visibly for a moment, then shrugged. "Seems fair enough," he allowed. "They're both gone from Court, everyone goes home equally unsatisfied, and the matter ends there. No fuel, no fire."

"It would be, if Ser Carlus were actually the heretic that Ser Lorent accused him of being," Francis replied, drumming his fingers against his thigh. "Instead His Grace has shown us that we cannot depend on him to protect us however scrupulously we obey the law."

Renly's look made Francis quail. "Have a care how you speak of the King, ser," Renly growled. "However just your words might or might not be, he is still the King, and my brother."

"With respect, my lord, Ser Francis has the right of it," Balon said. "In law, Ser Lorent should have been bade to prove his words, either with evidence or upon his body, or withdraw them. Instead, we are shown that so long as the Queen and the High Septon present a united front, His Grace is either unwilling or unable to defy them."

Renly leaned back against the edge of his overturned desk. "There is some truth in that, it seems," he admitted heavily as he looked at his lieutenants. Balon with his rectangular frame, square face, and reassuringly competent air. Francis, whose thatch of blond hair and slightly too-open face made him look like a yokel until he went into action, at which point he transformed into a wild man out of the tales of the Andal conquest. Jaymes, whose spidery fingers never stood still unless they were wrapped around a weapon. Taciturn Davyd, who only seemed to come properly to life with a sword in his hand or at the head of his banda. Good men to ride to battle with. And possibly to defy a throne with.

Renly shoved the thought out of his head ruthlessly. He loved his brother, and was no traitor. Not unless Cersei made him one. And in that case, that would be Cersei's problem. "So here is what we shall do," he said. "We will continue as we have before, but the emphasis of our training will change. No more open-field maneuvers. From here on, we focus on the joust and foot combat. And tell the men," he looked his lieutenants in the face, "that the next time someone falsely accuses them of heresy, they are to put a glove across the lying bastard's face. And when they meet on the field of honor, they are to put him in the ground; I care not how ugly they make it. In fact, the uglier the better."

Jaymes whistled. "His Grace won't like that above half," he pointed out. Stannis, it was known, hated dueling, although Jon Arryn and Randyll Tarly had convinced him not to forbid it.

"Leave His Grace to me," Renly said, raising a gloved fist. "Understand me, gentlemen; we have the right to defend ourselves, even if His Grace will not for reasons of state. So we shall do so to the best of our abilities, I shall defend us from His Grace's displeasure, and the Lord of the Seven Hells can take him who is in the wrong."

And if Cersei wants to play the game of thrones a outrance, Renly told himself as his lieutenants bowed and left him, then far be it from me to disappoint a lady.

XXX

Of all the things Ser Cortnay Penrose had expected to happen of an evening, he had not expected Prince Lyonel to request a moment of his father's time. In the normal run of things, Lyonel did not interact much with his father outside of meals and the hour they spent with each other every two days where Lyonel told his father how his lessons were progressing. Those reports were usually to the good, for Lyonel was a voracious student, but occasionally he had to explain to his father why he had lost his temper with one or another of his tutors, and then Stannis had to give one of his lectures about the need for a prince to control himself. Of all people, he would say, the one that could least afford to lose control was the one with the most power; when someone with as much power as a prince lost his head, people died.

These lectures usually had the desired effect, for as short-tempered as Lyonel could be he yearned above all else to win his father's esteem, and he seemed to have gotten it into his head that the best way for him to do so was to give Stannis as little cause to criticize him as possible; Princess Joanna, by contrast, seemed determined to keep herself in the forefront of her father's mind and did so by whatever scheme she could think of. The last one had involved a prank wherein the Queen's confessor had found his vestments dyed a garish orange, and for which the Princess was still doing penance by trying to launder the dye out of them. So when Lyonel had sent one of his servants with a request for a few moments with his father, Ser Cortnay had been intrigued, and when Lyonel had arrived and explained the reason for his request, he had become interested. "If I may ask, Your Grace," Lyonel had asked, "why did you send Ser Carlus and Ser Lorent away from Court?"

That had been new. Lyonel was growing fast, but he was still young enough that his court did not mix much with Court proper; the little circle of young lord's sons and daughters that had been placed around him was meant to be training for the real thing when he reached his majority. Not that it didn't have its little dramas and minor crises, but it was understood that such things carried less weight among boys under the age of fifteen than they did among grown men and women. And Stannis had evidently caught the seriousness of his son's manner, for he had sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "I sent the knights you named away from Court," he began, "because it was the only way I could see to settle the matter without making it worse. If they had been allowed to remain, then sooner or later one of them would have demanded their rights under law, and that would have provoked a crisis even I could not settle easily."

"What rights did Ser Carlus have?" Lyonel asked. "He was a heretic."

"An accused heretic," Stannis said severely. "Not a proven one. And even if he was, he would still be entitled to the protection of the law against such complaints as Ser Lorent's, especially since he was in all other respects a worthy and law-abiding gentleman."

"Then why, Your Grace, did Ser Carlus not take the test of faith that the High Septon offered?" Lyonel asked, looking bewildered. "If he was not a heretic, then he should have had nothing to fear."

"He wanted to, but your uncle Lord Renly would not allow it," Stannis answered. "He claimed that the word of a belted knight should be enough to silence any doubter." He glanced towards one of the walls, and Ser Cortnay knew he was looking towards his brother's wing of the Red Keep. "My guess, though, and here I must conjecture, is that Renly feared that the High Septon would not remain impartial, with the Queen your mother making her opinions on the matter known."

Lyonel blinked. "My moth- . . . The Queen sought to intercede?" he asked.

"She claimed that she believed Ser Lorent's accusations," Stannis replied, his face settling like cooling metal, "and that until they were disproved to her satisfaction, she wished Ser Carlus to leave Court." Ser Cortnay couldn't help a wince as he remembered the fight that had ensued when Stannis and Cersei had retired for the night after Cersei had made that little announcement; he hadn't seen Stannis that angry in years. He knew that he would always remember Stannis' roar of "I summon and dismiss, woman, not you! That is not your prerogative!" "That, as much as anything, forced my hand," Stannis went on. "At that point, the only two other options were to force Renly to allow the test of faith to go ahead, and take whatever results chance gave, or require Ser Lorent to withdraw his accusations on pain of my displeasure."

"Then why did you not do so, Your Grace?" Lyonel asked. "If you ordered him, then Ser Lorent would have had no choice . . ."

"That is false," Stannis interrupted. "He could have persisted in his accusation, confident in the support of the Queen and the High Septon, and demanded that he be given the chance to prove his words. Which would have meant either bringing Ser Carlus before a tribunal, despite the fact that the only charge against him was heresy and so insufficient under the Edict of Harrenhal, or allow Ser Lorent and Ser Carlus to duel, and deal with whatever outcome arose therefrom." He shook his head. "Neither was a risk I was willing to take, for the sake of peace. Bethink you, my son, if Ser Carlus were found guilty of heresy, what would Renly have been forced to do?"

Lyonel frowned. "He would have to expel him from his service," he said. "What godly man would allow a heretic to serve him?"

Stannis shook his head. "Not so," he said. "Under the terms of Ser Carlus' oath to him, Renly would be obligated to protect him, for Ser Carlus had sworn only to be Renly's man, not to keep the Faith under the same doctrines that the Great Sept espouses and endorses. Which would not only make Renly vulnerable to charges of heresy himself, but oblige him to take vengeance on Ser Lorent and all who backed him, lest his other vassals believe that he was unwilling or unable to protect them."

Lyonel blinked, his mouth open. "Uncle Renly would have been at feud with the High Septon and the Queen?" he asked dumbfoundedly.

"Just so," Stannis replied. "And the Realm would have started to divide. Those who fear or resent the growing power of the Great Sept, or the Queen's interference in matters of faith, or simply have no reason to love me, would flock to Renly's banner, while those who would believe the Faith to be in danger, or who are beholden to your mother the Queen or your grandfather Lord Tywin, would line up behind Cersei and the High Septon. And I would be powerless to prevent the eruption; on the one hand I could not raise my hand against Renly without being condemned as a kinslayer, and on the other I could not set myself against my Queen and the High Septon, without being damned as an oathbreaker."

Lyonel stood stock-still for a moment, then nodded. "I see, Your Grace," he said slowly. "But then why did you not simply order Ser Carlus to take the test of faith and order the High Septon to allow Ser Carlus to pass it?"

"Because then I would be as great a tyrant as the Rymanists claim I am, and a fool besides," Stannis said. "Ser Carlus may be my subject, but he is Renly's vassal; it is for Renly to command him, unless something occurs to break the tie between them. And matters of faith are, by law, the High Septon's preserve; it is for him to determine the course of the Faith, and the proper doctrines of its execution. For me to interfere in either Ser Carlus' relations with Renly or with the running of the Faith would be at odds with the law." Stannis stood from his chair, walked around his desk, and placed his hands on Lyonel's shoulders as he looked him in the eye. "If you learn nothing else from me, my son, learn this. It is not enough for the King to be right; he must be right in law. He cannot enforce the law, if he does not obey it himself. He cannot constrain others to obey the law, if he is not willing to constrain himself to obey it. He cannot levy the punishments prescribed by law on his enemies, if he is not willing to do the same to his friends. That, more than anything, was the mistake made by Aerys and Rhaegar; they believed that they could act as they pleased regardless of law, and let that belief blind them to the hatred that their lawbreaking was building against them among their vassals."

Lyonel nodded. "I understand, Your Grace," he said. "But if it is for the Faith to determine doctrine, then why the Edict of Harrenhal?"

"Because the Faith is not the law," Stannis replied. "The Faith may declare a man heretic, but even a heretic may not be harmed except by the King's leave after the due process of the law. And since it is not for me to open windows into other men's souls, I decided that the state of a man's soul was not the concern of the Iron Throne, so long as he kept the peace and obeyed the law."

After Lyonel had made his bow and left, Stannis turned to Ser Cortnay and raised a brow. "Well, ser, what think you?"

"I think that the Prince is growing as fast as we might wish him to, Your Grace," Ser Cortnay replied. "But perhaps some more seasoning might be in order before he enters Court proper."

"Indeed," Stannis said pensively. "His reflexive aversion to Ser Carlus as a heretic, in spite of the lack of evidence, was troubling." He drummed his fingers against his thigh. "How is our young squid doing these days?"

"Theon Greyjoy, Your Grace?" Ser Cortnay shrugged. "He is doing well. The other wards like him well enough, now that he has settled in and proved himself to them. A quick student, and an eager one. I had it in mind to take him as a page."

"Pray do," Stannis said, "and see that he is introduced to my son's court." At Ser Cortnay's surprised look he tipped his head. "I cannot place a worthy Jonothorian in my son's court," he explained, "so a worthy pagan will have to do. It will be good for him to learn that men of different religions can be men of worth regardless."

And Theon was the only pagan at Court these days, since Lord Bolton had returned to the North and taken his men with him. Moreover, he was a pagan who owed everything, including his life, to Stannis. Cersei would, of course, be livid that her son would be required to take a pagan into his affinity, but after the mess she had made with Ser Carlus, a reminder that it was Stannis who decided who entered or left his son's court was warranted. Ser Cortnay bowed with a grin at his King's cleverness. "I shall arrange, Your Grace."