Chapter 3
The Shadows of King's Landing
Lord Steffon Baratheon 1
The monumental storms of his lands had not managed to end him. He had survived the wrath of the Narrow Sea, the pirates of the Stepstones, the infinite arrogance of Lysene and Volantene nobles. Raising three sons of difficult temperaments had been difficult and caused him plenty of headaches.
Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of King Aerys II, did not know if he was going to survive King's Landing. He was old, too old really, and the capital was not a battlefield where his skills and his strategies were useful to begin with. On the Stepstones and all over the Dornish Marches, the enemy – Blackfyre or bandits – was to be fought with spear and swords. In the crowded streets of King's Landing, the weapons of choice were daggers, honeyed words, false promises and gold.
The greatest city of the Seven Kingdoms smelt awful and the Lord of Storm's End was not only speaking of the shit and the corpse odour which could be noticed a dozen leagues away. The court was full of ambitious nobles from the Twins to Sunspear and keeping the peace was too often far from their minds. The City Watch, the Guilds, the Alchemist, the Faith and the foreign merchant companies...they were all playing games...they all wanted to be at the top, grabbing gold, silver, knighthoods, titles and favours from the Royal House.
The Royal Council should have put an end to this, Steffon knew. As Hand of the King, he should have put King's Landing in order...but for this the ability to place his own supporters in the places of power would have been necessary. The firm support of the King would have been appreciated too. Steffon had neither.
The Royal Council – or 'the Old Council' as the smallfolk liked to whisper – had been firmly entrenched by the time Steffon had been named to replace Lord Tywin. Of course they had been replacements since the year 284 after Aegon's Conquest, but they had inherited the power bases of their predecessors. To be blunt, the Hand of the King trusted none of them. These men had all their own ambitions and patrons to satisfy, and what he had discovered in the last years made him wonder if the enemies ready to assault the Seven Kingdoms from outside were really that dangerous when one watched the snakes already inside the walls.
"...and Magister Turario of Myr emissary has delivered us the message a new tax is going to be added on our glass purchases in two fortnights. My little mice tell me this is a reaction to the newest skirmishes between Myr and Lys in the Disputed Lands..."
The unctuous tone of Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers, echoed in the suffocating room the Small Council met. The heads of the various Lords around the table nodded, resignedly. The trade wars between the quarrelsome daughters of Old Valyria were as frequent as they were unpredictable: they could last between days and decades and begin for the most futile reasons.
"Bah!" snarled disdainfully Lord Lucerys Velaryon. The silver hairs of the Commander of the Royal Fleet had long turned to white and if Steffon was feeling the weight of years, the Lord of Driftmark had an ill appearance. Several of his cousins were already advancing their own names to replace him. "The Myrish will pay more when their ships will pass the Gullet!"
This was a narrow-minded and petty view. But Steffon could affirm it was worthy of the man...and some of these dragons were undoubtedly going to find their way in many Driftmark captains' purses. How long would it last before the Myrish discovered this practise and augmented the price of lace or another commodity they were the only ones to sell was another matter, of course.
"Is it not a bit too hasty?" The voice of Owen Merryweather, Master of Coin, was not at all pleased. Not surprising, House Merryweather had spent a lot of gold dragons with the merchants of Oldtown to make sure they were preferential clients when they crossed the Narrow Sea. Plus several of his numerous children and grandchildren had married Essossi women and men. They were ties of blood and gold here. "Let me send a ship to Myr, the affair will be resolved before this year ends..."
Lord Velaryon and Lord Merryweather exchanged looks that had nothing friendly in them. One glance around the one hundred-year old carved table showed him the rest of the Council have no intention to intervene. But then the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands had grown quite used to it. As soon as there was a chance to talk to the King or improve their own standing, the councilmen were jumping and finding energy in a bottomless depth of indulgence and frivolities. The rest of the time, it was best not to count on them.
"Send you ship to Myr, my Lord." The Reach Lord beamed before the Hand of the King added: "By order of His Majesty Aerys Targaryen the Second of the Name, we will increase the fees a Myrish ship needs to cross the Gullet as long as this tax is put into effect and the glass-makers aren't willing to listen to reason."
This time it was the turn of Lucerys to smile in a predatory manner. Perhaps House Velaryon should have taken a shark to embroider on their banners?
"I will make sure this is promptly resolved, Lord Hand." assured him Owen Merryweather. By the Seven, Steffon really hated his obsequious attitude.
"Let's pass to the next order of the day." Inside, Steffon wondered how long this was going to end this endless council. The sun had long passed its zenith and there were still at least a dozen subjects to debate. The Baratheon patriarch longed to go back to his loving wife but it looked it wasn't going to happen any time soon. "The accusations of heresy have tripled these last three fortnights. Commander Hayford, what have your men found in the raided houses?"
This time even the ageing Master of Laws Symond Staunton and the venerable Grandmaester Pycelle did their best not to look half-asleep. Prince Targaryen stopped taking notes and raised his head from the voluminous book he was absently turning the pages of. Most Devout Luceon, the Master of Faith, was on the edge of cheering as the reason of his presence was spoken. As for Lord Warne Hayford, commander of the Goldcloaks and the defence of King's Landing, he showed a very uneasy face.
"My Lord Hand, my men have not found anything worthwhile..."
"You mean the scum you have in your ranks were busier filling their pockets with jewellery and stealing their possessions than preventing the heretics escape in all impunity." corrected the Most Devout with an expression which sounded very happy indeed. It did not please the Hand of the King. Already the presence of a septon at their table had been a concession of their monarch five years ago when he had wanted to appease his conscience. One example among many how difficult it was to handle the rightful Master of the Iron Throne.
It would have been somewhat difficult to make sure a 'normal' septon had no ideas above his head. But the representative the High Septon – also known as the 'Bellyfull One' – had chosen was Most Devout Luceon, born Luceon Frey. And the fifth son of Lord Walder and a Swann Lady was not a priest Lord Steffon liked meeting every day. Seeing this man in silver robes and a crystal circlet atop of his head, the eldest Baratheon wondered what had happened to the founding principles of the Seven. Luceon used shamelessly his influence to threaten merchants, guild members and smallfolk alike. There were rumours the vows of celibacy were discarded every night in his bed. Several weasel faces had been noticed in more than one case coming from the Twins and assisting the 'pious septon' in his holy duties of beating people refusing to pay the religious tithes.
It made his last remark all the more hypocrite of course. Steffon was ready to bet the member of the Brave Sons that Luceon had ordered to accompany the Goldcloaks had not been the last to participate in the pillages.
"I reiterate my question, my Lords." All around the table, the councillors knew the answer but this was how the game was played and Hayford became redder. "Have your men found anything to prove the men, women and children were heretics like you pretend?"
"Well, they fled!" The expression of the Lord Commander of the City's Watch was not showing a sign of dishonesty. For the ten thousandth time, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands knew Warne Hayford was the wrong man for the job. But his family ties with Houses Hayford, Stokeworth and Wayn made his removal impossible.
This time even the stone-faced Barristan Selmy guarding the door snickered. When people were woken up in the middle of the night because downstairs the Goldcloaks were busy thrashing your tables, chairs and the rest of the furniture while screaming they were going to burn the heretics, the accused were not going to stay a few turn of hourglasses for the executioner to arrive.
"This was not the point of the Lord Hand, Warne." Symond Staunton words were slow and coughed more than once. "Lord Steffon wants to know if you have found proof they were worshipping demons, reading heretical books or doing anything heretics are supposed to do."
"We found nothing." The admission was uttered in a murmur, head fixing the few papers on the table like they represented the solution to all problems.
"I'm sure the King will not be pleased when I will announce him this piece of information." The weasel eyes of the Most Devout however were looking deeply satisfied. Lord Lucerys Velaryon and Lord Owen Merryweather – and Steffon supposed, he too – were expressing diverse expressions of rancour. They were the Lords of the Royal Council, their titles were granting them great powers...but since the deterioration of the King's health five years ago, the Lord and Master they had sworn themselves was surrounded at every hour of the day and night by septons and septas chanting holy verses of the Seven-Pointed Star. Many times King Aerys had refused to see them in the last months. But for Most Devout like Luceon, Raynard and Torbert? His door was always opened. "This is a monumental failure in your duty to protect the Faithful from the heretics' temptations, is it not?"
At the sight of this pompous idiot smiling, the Hand of the King regretted he had not his faithful sword to his side. One strike, and they would be rid of Luceon...on the other hand the Faith would no doubt recruit a cretin even less intelligent and principled than him to fill the vacant seat.
"This had best not be an attempt to revoke Maegor's Edict." Owen Merryweather replied with a gesture of hands betraying his annoyance. "Besides the Brave Sons and all the Faithful, we have hired and trained thousands of men-at-arms to find the heretical cults across the Seven Kingdoms. Each of the commanders and their senior aides were checked by the High Septon and the Most Devout. If you have no confidence in these brave men, perhaps you should have spoken against them while you had the chance."
Most Devout Luceon bared his teeth at the Lord of Longtable accusations.
"The problem is not with the men dedicated to the persecution of heresy...though some could use more training and sermons to impress them how important it is to be vigilant against the corruption brought by demons and their minions." The favourite of the High Septon paused to regain his breath. "No, the greatest problem is that more heretics are hunted and arrested every year because we do not burn the heresy at its roots! For every heretic who burn at the stake, there are three others waiting to take its place!"
The Master of Coin had been wrong. This was not an attempt to reform the Faith Militant after all –though many of his agents had affirmed the Brave Sons carried metal under their cloaks. No, it was the second issue they were whispering in the ears of the dying Aerys.
"We must strike the monster in the heart and destroy the heresy at its core!" The septon was truly a mediocre preacher for such a high-ranked figure of the Faith. The words flowed in an erratic manner and the sentences gave the impression they had been learned in all haste. Luceon himself was nearly spitting and stuttering in his declaration.
"You speak of a War of Faith." Varys jovial face was courtesy itself, but in a few years Steffon had learned that the minor raise of the left eyebrow only occurred when a particular stupid affirmation had just been uttered.
"Yes!" bellowed Luceon, grabbing the bait with both hands. "How long are we going to tolerate these heretics north of the Neck? How long Faithful men and women are going to fear walking in the streets because these damned souls are free to poison our lands and our souls?"
The Stormlands Lord rolled his eyes. The threat of heretics and the like had been quite often screamed by the Faith since Northerners warriors had come fighting the Dance of the Dragons a century and a half ago. But for all these denunciations, the apocalypse they had prophesied and the coming of a demon invasion were delayed decades after decades. He wasn't the only one to have such feelings. Lucerys Velaryon coughed in polite disagreement and Owen Merryweather yawned.
When it came down to it, Steffon was sure the smallfolk were more frightened by the possibility of the constables storming your house and arresting you for heresy than they were of the heretics themselves. Counting the Iron Islands and the North together, there were certainly less than five hundred men and women of these two kingdoms at any given time travelling through Westeros and it included the crew of the Black Ships on the western and the eastern coasts.
"A war against the North would be a long and costly endeavour," affirmed Pycelle, passing his hand in his long white beard. "Despite numerous crusades in the past, the Southern Kingdoms have never been able to storm Moat Cailin."
"We would need to bring all of our fleets to secure a harbour," growled the Master of Ships. "And supplying it if we're not in summer would be nearly impossible. Northern seas are treacherous, cold as hell and wracked by storms that no kingdoms save the Stormlands ever see."
The last comment was pronounced with a little smile in his direction, and Steffon returned it with one of his own.
"Declaring war to a kingdom when no oath has been broken..." The musical voice of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was melancholic and sorrowful, attracting the council's eyes to the right of the empty royal seat. "The word of the Iron Throne must be as strong as steel." Purple eyes fixed the assembly and for an instant Steffon forgot the effeminate Prince was not a warrior and was constantly in his books of prophecy and customs.
"So you will let the treachery root and fester? Cowards!" The violence of the words, the place where the Most Devout had chosen to speak and the light in his eyes...Steffon felt something really unpleasant when he swallowed. Had Luceon and his followers managed to convince their King of such a folly?
"This is not a question of cowardice, Most Devout." Every councillor watched the Bold Knight standing guard now. It was so rare for him to speak in public like this that a majority were ignoring his presence when it came to the matters of governance. "The North is defended by terrible warriors and the ravens of the Citadel are telling us summer is coming to an end."
The last affirmation was pronounced when looking at Pycelle, who thoughtfully nodded to confirm.
"Only a madman would attack in these conditions," approved Lord Symond Staunton. "Mustering our banners to cross the Neck would take moons and by then it would already be autumn..."
"And it would prevent thousands of smallfolk from harvesting their fields a last time." Merryweather was worried at the prospect of so many income lost, it was evident. "A long summer is always followed by a long winter, as the proverb says."
And this summer had been the longest known to man, Steffon mused. They were three moons away from the end of the year 300 after Aegon's Conquest...the last winter had been in 290 so they had had the next best thing near a decade of summer. Really, they had better hope the winter would not last half as long...
"I see the Lords of the Council are unwilling to shed blood in service of the Faith!" The Frey Most Devout rose from his chair so violently the two pillows under his large backside fell to the ground. "But you will see, oh yes you will see..."
And on these last threatening words the mumbling weasel stormed out of the Council room.
"I don't like this, my Lord Hand," told the Lord of Longtable after the sounds of furious footsteps on the carpets were no longer heard. "To challenge us like we were under his orders..."
Steffon did not reply to the Master of Coin. Like the principal members of the Council, he was evaluating the possibility of Luceon convincing the King that a War of Faith against the North was necessary. Five years ago, his cousin would have said no. But the illness and age were more pressing and his liege may not have all his wits anymore...moreover Aerys had been sometimes prone to strange ideas in his young years and it had taken a lot of effort from the Lord of Casterly Rock himself to ignore them.
That said the Lords Paramounts were not going to watch this folly without saying anything. And in definitive, it would be them Luceon and his master had to convince. To face the monsters the Starks kept in chains, a few thousand sellswords and the Brave Sons were too green and inexperienced. If the High Septon tried to storm Moat Cailin against the entire might of the North with four thousand spears, the War of Faith would die on its own.
"Continue your investigations, Commander." He ordered to Warne Hayford. "But the discipline of your Goldcloaks must hold. I don't want to hear about pillaging and rioting when we have nothing to accuse the heretics with!"
"Of course, my Lord Hand." The Lord Commander of the City Watch looked suitably chastened and Steffon Baratheon did not pursue the issue further. "Now what is the next order of the day?"
"Prince Oberyn Martell urges the King to legitimise his bastards."
"Refused." Year after year, the Red Viper continued his efforts to give the Martell name to the uncountable number of snakes he sired. And year after year, the Small Council was content to deny him the legitimisations. The Red Viper was free to bed every unmarried woman in Dorne but the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms did not approve the life of depravation he was living. "Next order."
"The great tourney for the name day of Aegon." Prince Rhaegar had at last closed his books. "Since it is the end of summer, we should make it a memorable event..."
Bronn 1
The night was dark, dirty smelling and if he had the choice, Bronn would not be outside at this hour. The streets of King's Landing were dangerous. The sellsword had visited the five great cities of Westeros in the many contracts he had taken for one master or another, and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms was the one where you were the least safe.
Gulltown was not exactly secure and the Grafton men loved taking the gold dragons everywhere they could find them, but they kept the peace. Oldtown and its city watch were competent and dedicated to protect the hundreds of merchants travelling to the High Tower. At Lannisport, breaking the laws of the Lannisters signified a lengthy stay in sunless mines or a public execution. And at White Harbor...Bronn shivered. Every man, woman and child was warned before setting a foot on Northern soil that not respecting the laws of House Manderly would get you a prime place on Slaanesh's altar.
But at King's Landing, there were no such incentives to be prudent for criminals, murderers and the like. The Goldcloaks were neither competent nor incorruptible. Many officers were paid and repaid by rival gangs to eliminate each other. Merchants and tavern keepers were brutalised in front of the Goldcloaks without one raising his sword to defend the innocent. The more he watched of this stinking hellhole which the arrogance of proclaiming itself a city, the more Bronn was sure being a sellsword was the right choice. Sure, it was not something popular but it paid and he was not pretending to be something he wasn't. If he killed a man, it was because someone had paid him. He would not proclaim he had done it to keep the King's peace.
"Bronn, the men are ready." said Alaric behind him. The grizzled veteran from the Disputed Lands was not smiling as the rest of the sellswords marched in the square. Walking in the streets of King's Landing at night with a company of sellswords was not likely to end with your throat slit and your naked corpse thrown in the excrement-filled gutters. Walking in the streets of Fleabottom at night however...
"Let's finish this mummery and complete the contract." The two scores of swordsmen surrounding him were all mercenaries having fought several times in cities or villages. Thus there were not the murderous acclamations or the battle-cries of green youngsters. They nodded and followed his steps into the night.
Despite the last hour, the great street going from the Gate of the Gods to the Guild of the Alchemists was far from empty. King's Landing never slept: a capital of over half a million needed workers and food like a sellsword needed women, wine and war. There were a lot of torches in this avenue, and the fighters kept hoods and large cloaks over their armours. Once they had turned towards the Iron Gate, the disguises were removed and given to one of the men who served as rear-guard. Bronn took third position in the vanguard while Alaric stayed in the middle.
Steps after steps, the sellswords left the proper houses of the merchants and their rich allies to enter the putrid alleys of Fleabottom. The sellswords wanted discretion but here there was no choice but to light two torches, one for each extremity of their formation. The odour was nauseating, the slums were covered in hovels of debatable solidity and Bronn didn't need the advice of his fellow sellswords to know every move they made was watched by the local hungry eyes. This was a part of the city where the laws of the ambitious nobles were never enforced and where corpses disappeared forever.
"Bronn, there are a lot of torches ahead." The almost angelic voice came from Matthos, a middle-aged archer of the Marches who had recently arrived to King's Landing. According to the principal interested, his eyes were better than those of eagles and falcons – Bronn and the rest of King's Landing had their doubts. For the moment however he had proven reliable and he was leading the formation this night.
"How many are 'a lot'?" In Fleabottom where the inhabitants were poor as dirt and their pale eyes were forced to live in the perpetual shadows of the Dragonpit and the Red Keep, one or two torches were far above the norm and often attracted undesirable attention.
"Four scores, maybe five." A few hisses were made at this revelation. As the mercenaries one by one reached the point where Matthos had noticed the lights, everyone could see the Stormlander was right. There were a lot of torches in Fleabottom tonight. They were not using the same tortuous paths the sellswords were taking, but Bronn hadn't survived so long by believing in coincidences. Their patron ordered them to earn the gold tonight and a large group had the same idea? Knowing most of the nobles and the smallfolk in this smelly city couldn't count on their fingers without preparation, it was unlikely.
"What do we do, Captain?"
"We advance towards the house we're supposed to storm without being seen." It would not do at all to make a report the next morning to their employer that they had cowardly fled at the first moment of trouble. "We observe. If it is the Goldcloaks, we wait until they're gone."
There were a few nods of approval. Old sellswords did not age without learning a few tricks. They could take the men of the City Watch – to be fair a band of idiots armed with a few pitchforks could defeat these brutes with sufficient numbers – but discretion was a treasure in itself. Kill a bandit and the Lords were ready to pay you; kill a Goldcloak and his patrons gave you the choice between the axe, a desolate sept to rebuild with your bare hands and a glacial trip to the frozen wastes of the North.
"They're here for the same thing we are, no?" asked one of the Riverlanders, his heavy 'labourer' accent betraying him.
"Probably," admitted Bronn. "The Goldcloaks never come here unless they have orders. There is no gold and silver to take here."
This truth was punctuated with several of the men spitting on the ground to signify all the good they thought of the defenders of King's Landing. Each of these warriors could fight his way in a real battle. The fancy gold cloaks and muddy armours of the City Watch were trained to intimidate the foreigners, thieves and rob blind the small-time shops.
And the distance closed between the vanguard led by Matthos and the other group, it was quite easy to discover the Goldcloaks were indeed forming the core of this group. There were maybe one or two men looking like Priests in the lot, plus a few sellswords looking like they had just gone out of a sack. Miracle of miracle, the man commanding them was none other than Commander Slynt, the Butcher of the Iron Gate.
"They have come for our prey," remarked in a whisper Alaric. The sellswords had stopped maybe fifty or sixty feet away from the Goldcloaks, but the nightmarish racket they made was such he could have screamed all the same.
"The prey has certainly escaped," reminded him Bronn in a conversational tone. "Do you hear their screams? Only a blind and deaf idiot would not have seen them coming!"
"I agree." A Reacher veteran exclaimed at the end of the group. "The heretics are long gone. This entire contract has been a waste of time."
"Someone has spoken too much." In the dark and the fading light of the torches, it was impossible to discover who had made the accusation but it stung nonetheless.
"We don't know this." Bronn spoke calmly, the last thing they needed was a settling with steel weapons while the Goldcloaks were mere feet away. Dim-witted Slynt's imbeciles may be, but even then were unlikely to miss a small battle in the middle of the night. "We don't know how our employer got the information and who he shared it with. We will talk again in the morning and if someone has spilled what he knew of the plan-"
The mumblings ceased nearly instantly. Two out of three men were not smart enough to know who their employer was, but the corpses of several comrades having failed in their duties showed the man holding the purse was iron-fisted and quick to get rid of soldiers not following his commands.
"Break this door! I want the skin of the heretics!" As usual, Janos Slynt was proving his reputation was truly deserved. The Commander was shouting in the middle of Fleabottom when night had fallen many turn of hourglasses ago. One had to wonder how this moron had managed to rise to his present position.
The Goldcloaks used an improvised ram to break the ancient wood of what had been one century ago an old casern and now had been surrounded and assimilated by the surrounding hovels. One strike succeeded the other and the wood collapsed. The brutes of the City Watch tried to imitate the roars or howls of diverse predators, but the final result sounded more like a herd of goats in Bronn's opinion.
"For our good King Aerys! Seize these heretics!" screamed Slynt.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" The Goldcloaks stopped their charge well before the entrance they had just shattered as guttural voices covered their battle-cries. No doubt they had not expected to confront real heretics. After all the last moons they had been really successful beating and imprisoning their rivals under various heresy accusations, weren't they?
The surprise effect was thus total when a bare-chested man rushed out of the door and delivered a series of terrible blows with his axe. The watchmen fell like lambs to the slaughter. A sort of red light surrounded the newcomer, and more like him were coming behind.
Bronn drew his sword from his scabbard. To the right and left, the sellswords imitated his gesture. But the experienced fighter had not survived an entire campaign in service of Myr by being careless.
"Crossbows and bows first."
He had just finished pronouncing these words that half a score of arrows were in the air. Three struck the bare-chested fanatic in the chest and the head, killing him instantly and proving that heretical sorcery was not good enough to replace proper armour. The remaining projectiles wounded his followers and disorganised their rampage. Heartbeats later, the Goldcloaks finally recovered what was left of their supposed courage and began to use their large superiority –they still had three scores left after leaving a small pile of headless corpses in the gutter.
One by one, the madmen fell...before the last red-robed figure cackled madly like the villain of a tale and threw his torch into their lair.
"FIRE AND BLOOD FOR KHORNE!" These were his last words before three swords tore in his flesh. His demise was too late alas. Just as the body fell atop the slain Goldcloaks, the place which had been used by the cultists to pledge themselves to the Blood God went up in green flames.
"WILDFIRE! WILDFIRE!"
This was enough for Slynt and his survivors, who promptly ran away from the soaring inferno.
"Damn it!" One of the men next to him shouted. "We need to tear down some of these houses or all Fleabottom is going to burn!"
Bronn grimaced but couldn't fault the logic. Wildfire was one of the most dangerous substances in the world and the Seven only knew how many casks of it they had managed to steal from the Alchemists. Worse, all evidence was going to be purged by the inferno...no parchment trail, bloody altars or living cultists left to interrogate the Valyrian artefacts they had stolen.
"Lord Tywin is not going to be pleased..."
Varys 1
The agony screams of the prisoner resonated lengthily in the torture room. Evidently, whatever demonic pact he had passed, whatever price he had demanded for his damned soul, resistance to pain had not been part of it.
Varys did his best not to look as sick as he felt inside his mind. The Master of Whisperers truly hated watching a man suffer like this...and not only because he would take the prisoner's place if his true loyalties were ever discovered. No, these tortures were just cruel and the proof men and women really didn't need Gods and Demons to do evil acts.
Except the one where the screams were coming from, the other cells were empty. This level had been thought with only torture in mind and one did not keep prisoners long here. Behind the bars, there were dozens of cutting objects a prisoner could use to strike a guard, break the doors or end his life.
If the spymaster had wanted to advance arguments against these horrific actions, the inefficiency of the entire procedure would have figured in first and second place of his declaration. Pain did not convince a believer to talk. In the last hours, the brutes reigning over the Red Keep dungeons had beaten the heretic, broken his fingers, burned him with a white-hot brand whose extremity for a strange reason was in the shape of a seven-pointed star, pulled out violently half of his teeth...the list was gruesome and Varys had really no wish to remember it in the privacy of his mind.
And yet the Khornate cultist wasn't spilling his secrets, assuming he knew something of value in the first place. It had been nearly two nights and one day since Commander Slynt's brave descent in Fleabottom. The rest of the cult – the Messengers of the Bloody Hand they called themselves – were either dead or had long disappeared in the mass of smallfolk arriving and living King's Landing each day.
"They aren't getting answers." Varys turned his head to see the man he was waiting for had arrived. In the unpleasant atmosphere of these cells, the powerful figure of Ser Jacelyn Bywater was reassuring and standing true. What a pity there weren't more men of his honour and skill serving in the Goldcloaks...there really was little satisfaction working against the Iron Throne when it was served by such mediocre opponents.
"No, Commander." The eunuch whispered, but the volume of the screams was such he could have played an instrument of music and no one would have cared. "The prisoner we were fortunate to capture does not speak...and if the cultists of the Bloody Hand had not used wildfire we would never have caught him in the first place." In hindsight, the Essossi spymaster wasn't at all surprised a dumb apprentice of the Alchemists would succumb to the lure of Demons and Chaos. These men were already insane and mad from all the substances they breathed every day. Arresting them would be a favour to the realm...but Lord Symond Staunton would never give the order.
The Alchemists were the only Westerosi order for the time being to have mastered the devastating recipe of gunpowder. Without them, the first muskets and cannons produced by the Crown in all its history would be useless tubes of metal.
"Six and thirty men of Slynt are dead. Ten more are seriously wounded." The Ironhand was not showing the face of an amused man. "The Faith is screaming murder at the idea we let heretics live next to them for so long. The wildfire torched twenty hovels before the improvised squads stopped its progression. The Watch need the culprits' hideout locations, the names of their supporters, their numbers... everything."
It was good that Varys had a hood covering most of his head – the dungeons of the Red Keep were quite dirty – because he did not think his annoyance was dissimulated behind his genial persona. Everyone in this damned city wanted to know everything. How typical. Contrary to one might believe, Varys had no unnatural powers and was a mortal man. Even if he had an agent of his at every street's corner – and he did not – his duties in and out the capital were such he couldn't run to them every time a disaster happened and interrogate them from dawn to dusk.
There wasn't simply time to do everything in a single day...not when half of the councillors were frequenting whorehouses, going hunting and other less than useful activities for the good ruling of the kingdom.
"I need time, gold and skilled little mice, Ser Jacelyn." In reality the eunuch was not sure anything but a full-blown sack of the city would reveal all the problems which were crawling in the shadows of the city. After all if he, a Blackfyre loyalist, could dupe the King, the Council and the Great Lords for two decades concerning his loyalties, then surely other could.
King's Landing was an ugly and dirty nest, where treason, corruption, heresy and betrayal prospered the moment you seeded them. There was no magical cure to save the capital.
"I have no time to spare anymore. Lord Commander Hayford wants the matter settled before Prince Aegon's Tourney."
Varys chuckled internally. Many cults he had dismantled in his tenure as Master of Whisperers were older than him, a couple were older than the elderly King and he had his suspicions several of the enemies he was after had been at it before the Blackfyre Rebellions. To dismantle and arrest these conspirators before the end of the year was a dream, nothing more. The Goldcloaks and the entire city were filled with spies and traitors as a consequence if the Council really wanted to track the heretics, it would have to bring an army from the Riverlands or the Stormlands and purge the merchants, the Goldcloaks, the guilds and the nauseating bargains nobody tried to stop.
The odds of this happening before the young Prince tourney were not exactly good. A new thunder of chains and pain screams echoed in the gloomy torture cells.
"Who is your master? Speak dog!"
Truly the Crown had to find another interrogator after this lack of answers. But if there was a justice, Slynt and the so noble Commanders of the City Watch would be already freezing in the hull of a Black Ship, not commanding men and stealing the gold of innocent shopkeepers and workers.
"Who do you serve? Where are your heretical friends?"
This was the eighth time the question had been posed in this manner. But this time, it was different. The prisoner didn't try to spit at his tormentors or deliver them a litany of insults.
"Archaon!" gasped his victim in a desperate breath. Both Jacelyn and Varys winced under the power of the name. In the cell, the torturers had their members shivering. "For the Blood God I serve Archaon, Lord of the End of Times!"
The head of the heretic slammed against the wood and his neck appeared to convulse in an unnatural manner. Red blood poured out of his mouth, the eyes rolled and his members tensed with such a frightening intensity that the eunuch wondered for a heartbeat or two if the chains were going to hold. Then without warning the bloody head slammed again against the wood and didn't move anymore.
"I've never heard of a heretic named Archaon." Commented the Goldcloak Commander once it was confirmed the heretic was dead and the brutes dragged his corpse out of the cell.
"Neither have I." admitted honestly Varys. "Certainly a new heretic warlord from the Northern frozen wastes." But as he uttered his words, the Blackfyre agent knew this was feeling wrong. No man or woman, not the Manderlys, not the Boltons, not the Umbers and certainly not the Starks had ever tried to be called by this title. Lord of the End of Times...truly a title to conjure fear and despair.
Grandmaster Hallyne 1
It had cost him many turns of hourglasses, uncountable days bowing in front of the Councillors and the guild masters, thousands of gold dragons and much of his old voice, but the Grandmaster of the Alchemist Guild had to admit the new gunpowder-arsenal was worth it.
To begin with, it was fairly large, three times the size their Guild – which was two leagues east of his current location - and definitely less cramped. The number of accidents had decreased many times since the clumsy apprentices had the space to not put their arm or their leg in the sulphur and saltpetre of their neighbour.
"The next charcoal arrival will be a day late, Grandmaster." Said one of the many youngsters he had hired last year in a worried tone. But Hallyne reassured him instantly by saying they had nine days of reserve and could tolerate this delay – the merchant would have still to pay for his late delivery.
As his subordinate marched away with new parchments to deliver, the Head of the Alchemist Guild contemplated the changes he had desired. Where before they had hidden like moles under the ground, the great warehouses they used these days for the gunpowder were well-lighted and could be cleaned easily. There were still accidents of course, but less than when they had been producing wildfire.
The Guild was becoming more popular too. Four and thirty years ago when he had entered the Guild, the Wisdoms thought themselves lucky if five youngsters came on the day of the solstice and paid the gold tuition to become apprentices. This year alone they had taken a score of young boys and a score of young girls – and they had accepted only the smartest and most curious applicants.
Yes, the Guild was entering into a new era, one of science and prosperity where they weren't forced to hide in the darkness like rats. With the power of gunpowder, the Alchemists were going to change the world. Already one of three of their commands of the black substance came from House Lannister, who had found the explosions were astoundingly useful for the exploitation of the Westerlands mines.
"Everything is well?"
"Everything is well, Grandmaster," declared tranquilly Wisdom Horton Lurater. "We have no accidents today and the last order for Lannisport will be ended before dusk." There was a small hesitation before the senior Alchemist continued. "A messenger of the court came to see if we had more leads concerning the wildfire thievery but I managed to send him away."
Hallyne grimaced and his fellow Wisdom imitated him. At a time their fortunes were on the rise and gunpowder made the Alchemists a well-respected force in the Crownlands, their past decided to haunt them back.
A young apprentice who had never managed to learn the correct procedures in order to handle gunpowder had been put in remedial training at the Guild. It was not unusual at times...but the young idiot had decided to sell ten jars of the most recent wildfire reserves for a hundred dragons. In a way, heretic or not, this traitor had been quite lucky the Watch had found him first. There was only one punishment for stealing Guild secrets and it was to perish by the green substance.
"Good, good. On my request the other wildfire vaults have been examined and counted. Save the ten jars used in Fleabottom, there is no wildfire missing." The Grandmaster gritted his teeth before continuing. "Much as I don't want to admit it, it is partly my fault. Since Lord Rossart's success in reinventing our own recipe of the Braavosi powder, we have diverted many of our vault-guardians away from the wildfire production and keeping. We were lax, Horton."
"You couldn't know..."
"I should have." Hallyne sighed. "Blame will get us nowhere and the affair is in the hands of the Crown now." He didn't add that their highborn masters were going to act in unproductive ways: that was a given from the start. But as long as the royal patronage didn't end, the Alchemist Guild would be able to withstand the storm. In the mean time, it was time to go back to work.
"How fares the work on the new Conqueror cannons?"
Once the Guild had proven they were able to make gunpowder like the Essossi, the demand for the famous siege engines had not been long in coming. The accidents on this project had become legends. The Alchemists were not metal-workers, they never had been. Hallyne had gone to the Guild of Smiths and signed several agreements with them, but making their own fire-weapons was slow and difficult. They had managed to acquire Braavosi muskets; the attempts to obtain functional cannons had failed times and times again. Plus the Smith apprentices they were assigned were not the most brilliant young men of the Seven Kingdoms, if you caught his meaning.
Still, they were Alchemists and they had persevered – though the gold of the Princesses and Lord Lannister had proven a god-sent to continue their experiments as several warehouses had been blown apart each fortnight. The result was the Conqueror cannon: ugly, massive and slow-firing, but able to send regularly solid shots at a fortress without bursting apart and killing half of its crew.
"Slowly but surely." answered his interlocutor. "We should have thirty of them ready before year's end."
The Grandmaster passed a hand in his beard. It should be enough to satisfy their employers...barely. After all, whereas thirty seemed an impressive number, these were the first thirty Westerosi-made siege guns...and there were a lot of potential buyers despite the issues many lords and knights had with gunpowder weapons.
"Do we need more apprentices?"
"No, not to my knowledge." The other Wisdom grimaced. "We spent so much time training the newcomers that I dread to disrupt the current production. We will need to train more...eventually. But we are not at war and the weather is good. I would prefer the young men are forging every cannon we can...we always can train more when the cold days will be upon us."
Hallyne took a moment or two to see what Lurater had said...he found no fault with these priorities. Of course, he would ask the other Wisdoms and senior Alchemists but he didn't think the answers would be too different.
Casks of sulphur and saltpetre were transported to the other extremity of the warehouse and the work cadence augmented as more and more gunpowder was created in the name of science.
"Good, good. Now let's discuss the fireworks we are going to prepare for the grand tourney..."
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen 1
When one looked at the small training field, it was possible to believe the duel of the century was taking place here. Between the noble ladies, the knights in armour, the servants, the warriors and about half of the court, there was certainly an audience numerous enough to justify it. There were large banners of the red dragon everywhere, no less than three bards played appropriate martial songs and cheers mounted every time an audacious strike was made.
Looking at the two opponents was as a result a bit disappointing. On the right, the famous Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and Hero of the smallfolk, was standing helmetless and in training armour far lighter than the white plate he wore when standing to the sides of the King. The Kingsguard did his best to hide it, but he was looking positively bored and did not appear to sweat at all, despite the warmth of the early evening.
On the left was her brother Aegon, who was definitely red, sweating and out of breath. His silver hairs were totally dishevelled. From head to toe his skin and his clothes were showing evidence his training opponent had sent him multiple times on the ground. Where Arthur Dayne stood like a perfect statue, her little brother was raising his sword with difficulty and had adopted a defensive posture. His beautiful violet eyes were showing defiance and anger, and if it was possible to kill by glaring, maybe Ser Arthur Dayne would have been defeated...but sadly for him, Aegon had always refused to study sorcery and the powers their dragon blood gave them. Therefore the best swordsman of the Kingsguard was quite unaffected by the facial expressions of Rhaegar's Heir.
Pushing a loud battle-cry, Aegon charged at Dayne before launching a series of strike at the level of the Sword of the Morning's head. Arthur Dayne blocked each with incredible swiftness before his sword arm struck like the maw of a dragon. The hit was so fast Rhaenys didn't see all the details from her observation post at the top of the tower but her little brother was disarmed like a novice squire and a vigorous hit sent him colliding with the earth. The scores of men and women assisting to this one-sided training gasped in shock, not understanding what they had just seen.
"Our dear brother is doing rather...poorly today." The soft voice of Visenya was inches away from laughter. "Against Oswell Whent, he is usually doing much better."
Rhaenys turned her eyes away from the beating her brother received to look at her sister. With her brilliant violet eyes, her long silver hair and the revealing red gown she wore today, her little sister was a vision to tempt anyone including pious septons. Not that Rhaenys had much to complain about. Thanks to the pact her mother had made with Lady Lyanna, she had the violet eyes and the silver hairs too, though her skin was darker. On this warm summer day she had preferred to wear a light orange robe for her mother's land of Dorne.
"You mean Oswell Whent is letting him win one or twice per day." The two sisters chuckled at the idea. The Dark Bat for all his austere conduct was not a harsh trainer. It was whispered in court that Ser Oswell was fonder of encouragements than punishments when it came to the training of his charges. Judging by the stunned looks of Aegon after he was disarmed once more by Arthur Dayne, there had to be some measure of truth in these gossips.
"It must be hard for our poor brother." The feigned lamentation of Visenya did not fool her. "Years of sword training, thousands of sermons from the Faith that he is a great hero and he is unable to beat a poor Kingsguard."
The eldest of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's children nodded as they slowly walked away from their observation post and descended the stairs, taking great care to speak in low whispers. In the Red Keep, it was best to assume someone was always listening to your words. There were so many secret passages no mortal could honestly remember them all, servants and highborn were all paid by one master or another to follow each of their gestures and except your own blood, loyalties were far and few between.
"Yes, it must be hard. The High Septon intends to declare a War of Faith against all these dangerous heretics...and he isn't ready."
The set of purple eyes met each other and smiled in amusement. When they had been informed minor cultists and sorcerers were going to emerge from the shadows and create a bit of panic, they had been extremely sceptical. The Faith had many septons unable to recognise a trap even after they were given a detailed description of it, but surely even these corrupt fools would recognise an invasion of the kingdoms the Faith didn't control wasn't the answer.
To their credit, the old heads of the Small Council were resisting this insanity and several important lords had already sent ravens to support the Hand and his partisans. A War of Faith on an autumn year would be a dangerous folly and could only result in a lot of dead men...exactly as it had been planned. Now if only Aegon could realise this...
"The cupbearers I have in my service are all saying Lord Steffon Baratheon isn't happy either with our father or our brother."
Visenya sighed theatrically putting a hand above her heart in a pained fashion.
"Of course he is." The youngest of the Targaryen siblings sighed. "Cousin Steffon is an intelligent man...he doesn't understand the power of the True Gods but it is thanks to him the kingdom is well-ruled and enjoying peace. If he was the King, you would be married to Aegon or to Willas Tyrell and I would be betrothed to the son of another's Lord Paramount..."
"Aegon will never marry one of us." Rhaenys murmur was more disappointed than angry. Moon after moon, she had accepted the truth. No matter their Father wishes that they were to be the reincarnation of the three dragonlords having made possible the Conquest, there was a weak link in the chain and it was not Rhaenys or Visenya. "He listens far too much to this weasel calling itself Master of Faith and the septons accompanying him. He refuses to accept his Valyrian inheritance and the power we can wield. Our brother is content to accept a world without dragons and magic but stagnation, narrow-mindedness and the love of the Seven are acceptable in his poor head."
"We will have other potential suitors to warm our bed in a few moons," reminded her little sister. "Let Aegon have his Arryn bride...I don't think she will be of a great help when he will leave for the Riverlands."
A small laughter came to her lips. The idea of Aegon marrying someone was incredibly funny...would their brother try to recite the entire Seven-Pointed Star every time he was going to his wife's bed?
"Recently he has quite become eager to march north and fight with this new Archaon warlord the Faith is so afraid of."
The eldest child of Princess Elia Martell made sure the lower hems of her orange robe were not dirtied by the long walk before turning her gaze to her so-innocent looking sister.
"You didn't."
The large smile on Visenya lovely visage was all the confirmation Rhaenys needed.
"I did. If our dear Prince wants to be a true hero, surely he needs an arch-enemy to defeat, no?"
Sometimes Rhaenys truly wondered who of the two of them had been born from Princess Elia Martell's womb. When she wanted, Visenya Targaryen could be a true viper.
"The dragons need three heads, sister." She said as they arrived to her quarters and began the long process of disrobing. The attires their servants had prepared on her bed were far simpler as the activity this evening would involve dagger and bows. "And Aegon is an easy target for an experienced Champion of the Gods like the ones the Starks can field."
"I know." Visenya grinned as she got rid of her superb robe and everything beneath it, visibly savouring the attention Rhaenys gave her. "This is why I've started to look for a replacement..."