Interlude: Snippets from 285 AC
The Sealord:
The men in white wigs drew swords at each other, eliciting a gasp from the crowds.
"You are a murderous infidel!" Decried the young man in Targaryen livery, the boy looking resplendant save for the large wooden arse, painted red, that was tied to his backside.
"I agree my liege!" Said a man in green and gold doublet, as he slid his hand up the prince's arse, eliciting laughter from the crowd, "His existence is an affront to the Gods!"
"And you are a traitorous and ungrateful son." The older one too was in Targaryen colors, but on him the wooden arse was an improvement. The man was disheveled, with matted hair and nails a foot long, the mummer doing an admirable job grasping his blade despite those.
"I, Robert Baratheon, the Hand of the King and the Warden of the South and Lord of Copper Counting and Paramount of Bum-licking, am a unequaled knight champion of the realm," Walked the tall man adorned in Stag sigils, himself supporting an arse similar to the one that the father and son had. The pompous fool had become a favourite of the masses soon as the news of the civil war from across the Narrow Sea had started coming in, "Thus I, Robert Baratheon, being endowed with the BEST of poles and the most MASSIVE of hammers, am right when I say that I, Robert Baratheon, agree with your glorious, resplendant, SHINING majesty!"
In short order, the mummer Baratheon too slipped his hand up his king's backside, and the father and son began duelling in earnest, being puppeted this way and that by their arse-ridden puppet-masters.
"Now is the right time!" Said a smart looking man in crimson and gold, more to his audience than any mummers on the stage and ran to put a hand up the man puppetting the King.
"I fostered him, damn you!" Now an older looking man in Arryn colors ran after the Lannister man before shoving him lightly, before joining his compatriot in puppeting the Hand of the King.
"I gave my daughter to him!" Said the man with wolf pelts, running to have his hand join the other two.
"Oh! My Knees!" Cried a younger man in silks, sun and spear adorning his breast as he hobbled up the stage, before shoving his hand up Baratheon's bum as well.
"Don't forget about me!" The red dye in his hair looked bad, and Qallo was a mummer everyone loved to hate, but he sent the crowd into a raucous fit as in a rush to join his fellow lords, he slipped and fell off the stage.
"My lord," That made Rangdan Otherys turn back, to see his seneschal, Allaquo leaning into his ear, "It's here."
Two pieces of parchment were deposited in his hand, and then Allaquo beat a retreat from the balcony. Bad subordinates could spell a disaster for a Sealord, as Antaryon before him had found out. Thankfully, Rangdan was luckier in that regard.
"Ow! My balls!" The cry from the stage drew him back, the mad king sword thoroughly planted on his mad son's jewels.
"Begone! Begone before I forget the bonds of blood!" The ropes from the stage lowered a black cloak over the prince as his puppetmaster fled the stage. The spittle flying from the mummer's mouth was a true dedication to art in Rangdan's estimation. As the play reached a lull, he looked down at the missives in his hand.
His Esteemed Excellency, Rangdan Otherys, the Sealord of Braavos,
It is with great jubilations that Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of Stormlands, Warden of the South and Lord Protector of the Realm confirms his intent to journey to the great city of Pentos in time to attend the Summit of Narrow Sea. The Lord Protector looks forward to productive dialogue and meaningful cooperation with his excellency, Rangdan Otherys, the Sealord of Braavos, that will bring security and prosperity to both the Great Free City of Braavos and the Seven Kingdoms.
Ser Eldon Estermont,
His Majesty's master of ambassadors
"I, Robert Baratheon, the Lord Paramount of Wardens and the Hand of the Realm of the King of the Andals of the Seven Kingdoms of the First Men, am true when I say that I, Robert Baratheon will FUCK your WIFE!" Said the mummer Baratheon, before earning a clap on the ears from the Martell one.
Rangdan had well heard this part before when his lovely Nera had insisted on a private show in their pleasure barge. He instead chose to focus on the second missive.
His Esteemed Excellency, Rangdan Otherys, the Sealord of Braavos,
It gives us great pleasure to have reached a consensus with your esteemed person and the Great Free City of Braavos. The shipments of grains shall commence from a moon after the harvests come in, and pulses half a moon after that. We look forward to further deepening the ties of friendships and commerce in the coming future.
Ser Selwyn of House Tarth,
Chairman,
Narrow Sea Trading Corporation
"I, Robert Baratheon, The High Lord of Bla di bla, am uncomfortable when I say that his marvellous, ILLUSTRIOUS majesty is CLENCHING!"
This is new. Rangdan's attention was brought back to the stage as the Lannister mummer clicked his fingers, followed shortly by a shave pate woman in flowing silk garb coming up and putting a knife to the Mad King's throat, the Baratheon mummer finally pulling out his hand.
"My reward?" Tittered the woman.
"I, Robert Baratheon, the shield of Mankind, am most pleased, as I bestow this on you!" The mummer pulled out a sword from his side and cut down the woman, before turning back to the men puppeting him, "And I, Robert Baratheon, the Lord Protector of fools, am most magnanimous in announcing that you get a title!"
"And you!" He pointed to each lord up his backside in turn, "And you! And you! And EVERYONE gets a title!"
Catelyn:
"Have Allard bring out another barrel." Catelyn said to the Vayon.
This was going to be a big affair. Lyanna's was going to be seven and ten nameday old. If Robert hadn't decreed to wait another year before they were wed, Cat would like as not have been preparing for her departure to be wed to her betrothed.
Be that as it may, with her goodfather and Benjen still due to return from their progress of the up and coming castles in the New Gift, Brandon still having not arrived from overseeing the christening of the new flagship of the trading fleet that was to soon began meeting the increasing hunger of Stormlands for peat and ore and iron-wood, and Lyanna looking after the children, it all fell to her to oversee the arrangements.
Thankfully the manufactories of Stormlands and their constant need for raw materials had seen the coffers of Winterfell with enough gold to not worry Cat overmuch about expenses, of which none were to be spared per her goodfather's wishes. Cat agreed.
Though Lyanna was much less morose than before, still she was a far cry from the Lyanna of Brandon's tales. She would rather have her goobsister enjoy a little cheer before she went to the den of vipers they called King's Landing.
Catelyn got up from the bench and started to make her way to the kitchens. As she crossed the yard, there was a blast of horn. She felt a smile come at that and turned. By her reckoning Rickard and Benjen should still be day away. It had to be Brandon.
She found Lyanna with Willam in her arms, and Sansa by her side. Cat reached them, and took Willam in her arms, while her free hand ruffled her sweet girls hairs.
"Jory?" Catelyn asked.
"Riders, my lady."
"Is it Brandon?"
"No my lady," Jory turned back, "Royal banners."
What?! They had received no words of any royals arriving. The preparations . . . gods be good, we'll need more game brought in! Nevermind the rooms!
As the party came through the gate, Cat did espy the three headed dragon. However just below it were the letters sewn into it that gave her a stop. Royal Postal Services.
The man in lead came before them and bowed, before beginning, "My lady, Lord Robert Baratheon sends the warmest of regards to Lady Lyanna on her nameday", a cart laden with chests was brought forward, "And as a representative of the Royal Postal Services, I am proud to present the gifts that Lord Robert had entrusted us to bring to you on such auspicious day!"
With a start, Cat realised, they thought her to be Lyanna. As she looked over, she saw a playful smile playing on Lyanna's lips.
"Of course, I would be remiss in not mentioning the most important one," At his signal, another man brought forward a steed, pale as snow, with a slim face on a beautiful long neck adorned with a great grey mane, "A sand steed, bred by the finest of Dorne in the demesne of Ser Santagar."
Knowing Lyanna, she'd had kept up the charade had she not been thoroughly enamoured by the beast.
"Oh, Lyanna, go." Cat said. The man looked confused at that, before realising his mistake, an abashed looked setting on his face, "Go, take a ride!"
Ned:
The wick was nearing it's end, the room partly lit partly cast in dancing shadows from it's flames. Ned would need to light another, and soon, but he would rather just lay his head down. He knew he couldn't but that only made the temptation even stronger.
He looked down at the parchment in front of him with lidded eyes, a terrible headache beating the back of his skull. The flux was running rampant through the flea-bottom. There were other incidents throughout the cities, but in the wider areas it had been easier to control, the cordons much more enforceable. Flea bottom though was a perpetual thorn in his side. It had gotten bad enough that Robert thought it best to take the entire court to Summerhall, though movement on it was yet to start.
There were three rapts on the door, and his eyes opened wide as Stannis snuck through the door.
"Thought I'd find you here."
"Why are you still awake?" Ned asked. He was the master of work and the days when the capital was Stannis' problem were long gone.
"Othor's heart gave out," Stannis said, "There are now five captains wanting to lead the van. They have no regards for my sleep."
Stannis for his part was set to be shipped to the Vale. As the snows melted the clans had grown bolder. It had gotten to the point that a Stone Crows band had fallen on a well-armed and armoured column of Waynwoods, the defence being near enough that they had nearly lost Alyssa to it.
The constabulary under Denys was good at breaking fool skirmishes between villages in Riverlands, or deal with Highwaymen sprouting here and there in Crownlands, but he had lost good men trying to safeguard the roads in Vale. Roads that were to be reworked by Ned's men. So in the ongoing cyvasse game between Jon and Robert and lords Tywin and Hoster, in which men like Ned and Denys and Stannis were the prized pieces, Stannis was to mobilise his men to make the main roads safe enough for Ned to began, were he ever to be free of the woes of King's Landing. Robert, in turn, got an expansion of another five thousand for the Royal Army.
Stannis came upon the desk, eyes intently studying the parchment, as he reached to light another wick, unbidden. That he understood small things like that endearing him to Ned even more. "It's the sewers."
"Not just that," Ned said, "We can break the blockages, were the small folk to use it good capacity."
"I'm telling you, were Jon to allow me just a week," Stannis said, producing a flagon from his belt, before pulling the stopper and taking a draught, "Everyone and their mother's would throw their refuse in the drains and not on the streets like they do."
"I don't think the commons will take kindly to a punishingly long march, Stannis," Ned said with a small smile, "Not for something that they and their forebears before them have been doing for ages."
"They also lived in hovels for ages. That changed! What's so hard with this?"
"I'll increase the fines once Denys comes back with enough men to enforce it," Ned conceded, "But as I said, it's more than that. Here look at this."
Ned handed the roughly drawn map to Stannis, who looked at it intently, before it finally came to him.
"The wells," Stannis said, "There's near the main sewer lines."
"Far as I hear Bracken and his hospitaller say it, that's where the reports first emanated from"
"It's been ages since the sewer walls in these areas were serviced."
"Indeed," Ned agreed, "There could be leakages there, causing bad humours to mix with the water from the wells."
"Well, Dale can see to it in your absence." Stannis said, pushing the flagon to him.
"No Stannis," Ned said, "I'd rather see the work began myself."
"Very well. Gives me more time to clean up the roads for you."
Satisfied, Ned finally took a swig. And near wretched it all out, over the parchments.
"For all the good that comes out of Stormlands," Ned said, shaking his head as he handed the flagon back to Stannis, "Why can't you get your wines to not taste like shite?"
Stannis smiled at that, as if remembering an old jape, clapping is shoulders before saying, "Because then, we'll be too oh-pee."
Illyrio:
Illyrio ran. Though it had been some time since he hung up his sword to trade in spices and gems and cheese, and he had starting growing fat, his appetites finally having caught up with him, he still ran with near as swiftness as the earlier days before Varys, when he lived by his blade.
Varys. They had such dreams. After he gained to Magister Qonys's assent for Aella's hand, and Varys had been taken in by the bastard's line, he had thought them unstoppable. In years, they had thought nothing they set their minds to was outside their reach. In those years, there was a court, ruling over seven kingdoms that called Varys a lord, and Illyrio had well and truly risen from a bravo to a petty trader to a magister in his own right. Even Aella's death, sad as it was for him, only cleared the way for him to be with Serra in the eyes of gods and men, nevermind the Prince of Pentos being wroth with him.
They said that the farther the rise, the harder the fall. The stormlord that had near usurped the throne had caught upto Varys. A moon after his missive stopped arriving, news came that the Spider had killed the King, only to conveniently be killed by the erstwhile Hand in turn.
Then that blasted ship had come. Serra who had already been broken at loosing her brother had caught the plague, that too when she had finally grown great with their child. It took all his wealth and a veritable army of medicine men and woodwitches, but they pulled her back from the brink, if only just so. But soon as Illyrio had thought the worst to be past, the strands of fate turned again, the boy was born dead, suffocated by the cord about his neck to hear the learned men say it. Something deep broke in Serra then. She had passed from her mortal coil not a week after. The man who had risen from sleeping on street side to having the marbled manse now ran though a dark back alley, sweat and blood staining his rich sable doublet from a deep gash on his back, his britches covered in mud from having skidded to save himself from a wild strike by one of his would-be assailants.
Oh how the fire had burned in him then. The Myrmen were already unhappy with Stormlanders when they started to break into their glass market. What however had truly earned stormlanders their enmity though were the copies of the thrice-shooting crossbows coming from Tarth and Cape Wrath. Robert Baratheon had snuck and freed some slaves that shared the trade secrets of Myr, not that this hadn't been tried before, but this was the only time the slaves seemed to either have taught their liberator their arts before earning the knife in the back that always came for such actions, or the knife sent by Myr had never found their mark. The crossbows the stormlanders were producing were of a lesser make, but they also were lighter on the pouches. When Illyrio had lost Serra, he had used his not inconsiderable resources in stoking the fire of that flame. And there was at least some damage, the Stormlander organising a summit to allay the tensions, a summit that was to take place in Pentos before the plague came.
However the Baratheon lord had not sat idle. It started when one of the godowns housing his cheese stores caught fire. Next the carts laden with his gems were dashed on the streets, each gem falling prey to every passerby. Slowly but surely the noose around his neck was tightening. He knew his time was up when his unsullied started falling. And now he knew that he will not live long enough to sup on the satisfaction of the three daughters sullying stormlord's designs in the Narrow Sea. It was a hollow victory to began with, but now he'll be robbed of that too.
"DIE!" Not so easily though. As the crazed man brought his bravo's sword in a wild arc, Illyrio turned on the balls of his feet, his sword coming up and blocking the cut with ease, before flick of his saw his assailant's neck bloom red with blood. The blood was like kisses of warm rain on Illyrio's cheek, but alas it wasn't to last long.
The sudden thumping pain bloomed in his centre, starting from his shoulder blade and culminating in his upper right chest. As he looked down he saw the wicked spike of the bolt jutting out from his breast. Before he had time to process it, much less to turn, the pain went away, replaced but another this time lower and to the left of the original as another spike joined it's brethren, pieces of his gut and viscera handing onto it against the pools of blood escaping the puncture.
Dust kicked off as he fell on his knees in a great thud. He tasted it alongside the blood in his mouth. A hooded man stepped in front of him and said, "The crown sends its regards.", before the mercy stroke came down.
And Illyrio finally knew peace.
Rhaella:
As a child Rhaella had liked to read tomes by Lomas Longstrider and other great adventurers detailing the wonders made by man. She had enjoyed reading of The Titan astride the entry to Braavos, the Wall, higher than any a seat in Westeros, of the Valyrian roads, still holding only their majesty centuries after their forgers had died off. But none compared to the joy she derived from reading about The Palace of the thousand rooms in Sarnor.
The now ruined place had inspired both the Rhoynar and the Valyrians to raise great palaces of their own to match the Sarnori glory, but if Longstrider was to be believed none had succeeded, and not from the lack of trying. It was said that the Rhoynar had raised great white palaces, even some the shores of Rhoyne in a majesty that had driven Valyrians mad with envy. The Valyrians for their part had used all the lore available to them to raise palaces as high as the flight of dragons.
Few survived to this day. Fewer still had any majesty that those two great empires had aspired to. What had not fallen to dragonflame had fallen to Garin's curse, the Sandship and Old Palace at Sunspear a far-cry from the majesty of the Rhoynar cities. The less said about Valyria, the better, it's legacy only carried in the present day by the free cities, thoroughly diluted as it was even behind the black walls of Volantis.
Yet still, the palaces that now graced those cities had taken her fancy. She had known so long as Aerys lived, any thought of ever visiting such a place was folly. She instead had contented herself trying to imagine what it would have been like to see such places. She imagined what Steffon, the last of her kin to know the worth of blood ties, would have seen as he went about the fool's errand Aerys had tasked him with.
When under the many trials and tribulations Aerys's cock had put her through, she had liked to imagine herself in one of the many balcony's of the Sealord's palace, astride the small peninsula in the Purple harbour, looking down down on the collected mengarie.
Or the old imposing palaces behind the Black Walls, where they still kept the gods of Valyria and where even a woman like her would have the a vote.
However, nothing topped the majesty of the palaces of Myr in her mind's eye. In the upper reaches of palaces, it was said there were glass murals as tall as the rookery turret in Red Keep, set in such a way that on particular days of the year, they would catch the light of the sun and the mural would come alive on the floor of the Hall of Commons, a different mural for every hour.
Summerhall now aped what her little self had envisioned. The glass pane not as tall as the ones she saw in her mind's eye, yet still taller than the high and narrow ones set in the throne room. Each pane depicted a myriad of murals, the Dragon and his sisters first landing on Westeros, the fields of fire, The Conciliator and the good queen aflight on their mounts, to the most recent one, with Aerys standing triumphant over the broken city of Duskendale, one where Robert had seen fit to sneak himself in her family's murals. Thankfully even he was not as shameless as to make a mural of his triumph over her son.
The murals were not the only new addition to the seat. Indeed Summerhall was now much more a palace than a castle she remembered from her days. To be sure a great curtain wall, some forty feet high, patrolled as it was by the brutes in gold and black armour that called themselves Custodians, that surrounded the palace, the adjoining buildings and the open grounds, but the palace itself was unmarred by defensive placements, from crenelations or corner forts. Robert had taken a Castle and turned it into a pleasure palace, a pretty thing to look at, but ineffectual in times of need, like all his 'gifts'. All the while his men patrolled the walls, while the shadow of Summerwatch loomed large on the horizon.
This being the longest Robert had spent time with her since the events that had transpired, she saw now why he was so successful in his schemes.
"I'll get you all!" Robert said in mock anger, left hand gripping his ankles as the right was outstretched ahead of him. Viserys ran away from Robert, all smiles, while his right hand grabbed his stomach. Garlan Tyrell, one of the two brothers Robert had taken hostage against Mace Tyrell's good behaviour, was further still, left hand resting on his pate. While the stormlord was hobbled by the constraint, given the length of his strides, he was gaining on Viserys and Garlan. Rhaenys, though, was the master of any game that involved running. Most games went where no one was able to touch her. All children had the broadest smiles on them, while Elia was off seeing to something or the other Rhaella couldn't be bothered to learn.
The father was not the son, or vice-versa. While Robert had very little of Estermonts in him, there were marked difference between them. Looks aside, while the former had loyally sailed off to his death on his cousin's wishes, the latter had the whole dynasty by the stones. But one thing that he did get from his father was an easy charm. Even Rhaella found herself smiling unbidden time and again at his quips. And the man had come to her over the years since he shipped her child off to freeze at the wall, saying how his hands were forced, how he did everything he could, how he had to trade away so much to retain what he could, that he consolidated and expanded where he can. While she had been all demure and saintly at that, even she found it a little hard to nurse the venom within. Only a little though.
For she had learned that men such as these were even more insidious than open schemers. That they'll comfort you even as the drive the dirk deep in your chest. Although with him, Rhaella could never be sure what was the dirk or the sweet words to allay its bite, and the ones that Aegon and Dany were enamoured with right now specially puzzled her. In the light caught by the glass panes up top, they shone like polished metal, the one that Aeg was playing with was cream coloured, flecked with bronze. Rhaenys and Viserys had received theirs too, and were charmed with them, the girl's egg a deep green, while the boy's red with black whorls. Dany's though was pure black. The dragon eggs were hard as stone, though none who didn't share the blood felt it, and the babe's tongue hadn't progressed far enough to inquire, but to them it felt warm to touch. Even Rhaenys, despite her colouring, had shown the truth of blood and Rhaella loved her all the more for it. Rhaella didn't even get irate when she had alerted the enemy of the same, after all she was a little girl and Robert did pretend to dote on her most. She would let Rhaenys have these innocent delusions a little while longer.
"I hope one day I get to play this with Loras." Willas said, coming to sit beside her, a somber smile on his visage, "He was just a nameday old when father had to send us away."
"I am sure of it, my sweet." The boy was well-mannered, if a little reserved, and his hazel eyes shown with a keen wit. Robert did make some effort in seeing on the the boy and his brother's education, but all the titles the man liked to hog did come calling for attention with incessant regularity. If she played her cards right, being the heir to Highgarden, he would an indispensable tool in her arsenal.
"I understand my father had erred your grace," the boy said deferentially, eyes downcast, "I just wish . . ."
"Sometimes men have to say they were at fault," she placed her hands on the boys shoulders, tentative, should she find any resistance, "Even if at the time of their 'sin' they knew in their heart of hearts that they were in the rights."
"Bella, these cakes are stale," Her heart hitched a beat, as Elia's whore came up behind her, and started ordering the staff around, "Bring in fresher ones. And get some more honeywine for her grace."
As the wench bowed and left, she looked up to the violet eyes looking at her. Did she hear it? They were studying her intently.
Regency Council at the End of 284 AC:
Lord Protector of the Realm, Lord Robert Baratheon
- Lord Commander of Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy
- Dean of Royal Academy, Ser Bryce Caron
Queen Regent, Princess Elia Nymeros Martell
- Lord Castellan of Red Keep, Lord Damon Marbrand
- Master-At-Arms of Red Keep, Ser Aron Santagar
- Lord Captain of the Household Guard, Ser Arron Qorgyle
- Master of Royal Staff, Lady Ashara Dayne
Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister
- Royal Spymaster, Ser Rolland Storm
- Grand Maester, Gormon Tyrell
- Royal Exchequer, Lord Damon Marbrand (Acting)
Master of Laws, Lord Jon Arryn
- Lord Commander of City Watch, Lord William Dustin
- Master of Royal Constablry, Ser Denys Arryn
- Master of Ambassadors of the Iron Throne, Ser Eldon Estermont
Lord President of Royal Diet, Lord Hoster Tully
- Lord Mayor of King's Landing, Lord Clement Piper
- Lord Representative of Citizenry, Lord Robb Massey
- Lord Representative of the Ports, Lord Jason Mallister
- Lord Representative of the Guilds, Lord Tytos Blackwood
Jointly under the purview of the regency council.
- Grand Admiral of Royal Navy, Lord Monfrod Velaryon
- Lord Field Marshal of Royal Armies, Lord Stannis Baratheon
- Master of Works, Lord Eddard Stark
- Master of Royal Charities, Lord Jonos Bracken
A/N: I tried channeling in Cato Sicarius from TTS while writing the Robert actor. Don't know how well that came out, but here it is.