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Cortnay Penrose

Cortnay hid a proud smile as Edric Storm bounced into the lord's solar in a bundle of energy. It was the first time that the castellan had allowed him to attend.

With the last and youngest of their number now arrived, he looked around at the assembled council.

"Let's begin. What news of Ser Davos?"

"All the lords are receiving him and letting him state Lord Stannis's case, as King Renly ordered. Though why he ordered that I do not know." Orys elaborated

"His Grace is probably hoping that Grandison, Horpe, and Trant will obligingly stick their heads in the noose so he can execute them." Maester Jurne commented lightly. "Or that they'll agree to support Lord Stannis if he lands, so Lord Dondarrion can kill them in battle when they turn their cloaks. I doubt His Grace particularly cares which."

"Especially not if His Grace can squeeze every last coin from their traitorous houses as payment for not attainting their entire lines for their treason." Cortnay smirked. "Speaking of which, Lomys, I take it gold dragons haven't miraculously appeared in the treasury since last week?"

The treasurer of Storm's End winced. "No Ser, though I pray for it daily. With the coin King Renly has spent and the amount taken by Lord Estermont for the army, there're precious few dragons in the treasury at all to speak the truth. I've resorted to paying merchants in moons and stags regardless of the amount owed. Keeping our little remaining gold back for deals with the highborn. Despite their complaints at the weight of the silver, the merchants are happy enough at being paid no matter what coin that payment is in. If we pay highborn in silver they'll start to question whether we have enough coin to settle our debts."

"We don't. Not if we don't make drastic changes to the running of this castle soon. Or start melting down some of the Baratheon gold pieces." Jaime jumped in, the steward causing a lot of uncomfortable shifting.

Not least from Cortnay himself, who stroked his pointed red beard to hide his sour expression. The situation was even worse than most thought. King Renly had already prised the largest square cut rubies, emeralds, and sapphires out of the artworks of Storm's End and taken them with him to Highgarden. Along with the two largest golden goblets, which he'd had melted down and worked by Tobho Mott while everyone else believed them to still be in the treasury.

"The situation is not yet as dire as that. I'm sure the King will supply us with coin in due time."

"Sooner than that perhaps, if Trant continues his usual habit of making the worst decision possible." Orys muttered.

The tough castellan continued, unaffected by the comment. "But His Grace will have many responsibilities with this war and it may delay him. Lomys, cease the purchase of wine, spices, beef, citrus, horses, and all but essential cloth. I will not skimp on war preparations, but we will simply have to do without luxuries until the war is over. Addam, how is the garrison?"

"Shaping up nicely." The master at arms reported. "The new, well less new now, recruits are building the strength to use longbows and their aim is passable. Their swordwork is improving well too. Without Meadows their fighting spirit is higher and they're training harder than we've managed in quite some time."

"Uncharitable as it is I do hope that damned Reacher gets himself killed." Ser Jaime muttered.

"Enough." Cortnay snapped, looking at Edric's shocked expression. The boy had only tuned four-and-ten a week passed, he had yet to learn that men with spines of jelly like Elwood survived their failures on the strength of their House name, when if there was any true justice they would be attainted for them. "Ser Jaime is the construction of the new portcullis complete?"

"The portcullis has been forged and the tunnel extended. The craftsmen are just waiting for the spring tide to install it. So they can ensure it drops properly and that there're no rocks or other obstacles at its base that allow someone to swim under it. It will be done by the end of the next moon. They're carving murder holes in the tunnel extension in the meantime." The sour steward sniffed at the reprimand, but reported as ordered.

"I've already made the tunnel a permanent part of the guard rotation" Addam noted.

"Good work." Cortnay nodded, acknowledging them both. "Jurne, has the rookery calmed down yet?"

"Somewhat, now that we don't have every lord of the Stormlands in residence, messaging everyone they know." The maester gave a wiry smile. "Ravens are still flooding in with replies. I've been dispatching them in batches with couriers after the army, but suffice to say it seems that King Renly's idea has borne a mighty harvest. If there's any highborn outside the Westerlands that believes Joffrey Waters to be legitimate then it's because they've never met a Stormlander they didn't dislike. The Lannisters will find allies hard to come by. Though the silence from most of the Vale beyond courteous acknowledgment is concerning, and the North remain vague as to their intentions despite the fury their replies convey."

"Uncle Renly will have a plan for it. He has a plan for everything!" Edric burst out proudly, unable to keep silent any longer.

As the others hid their fond smiles, Cortnay could only find himself agreeing. It seemed strange to thank the Seven for striking down his liege lord with a normally deadly illness, yet he found himself doing so more and more. Though he had never failed to carry out his duty before, it could not be denied that his liege lord had worn his lord paramountcy lightly. The fitting fever had made his lord finally treat his responsibilities with the weight they were due, and the man that had emerged from under that weight had been one that old Steffon would truly have been proud to call son.

"Perhaps you could enlighten the rest of us as to how your project is progressing Edric?" The castellan asked, rubbing his bald head in fond exasperation.

"Uncle Renly found something interesting in one of the books he got from the East." Edric began, pausing to look confused at the knowing snorts of the councillors who knew exactly what most of Renly Baratheon's books contained. "It described a Yi-Tiish tool called a seed drill. It ploughs the ground to the right depth then drops seeds into the furrow in neat lines, properly spaced, before covering them over so the birds can't get at them."

Cortnay remembered well the day that Edric had run to him in excitement. To tell him about the task his Uncle had given him, with the promise of a great reward in place of a nameday present if he was successful.

At first the cynical old knight had been outraged. Believing that his liege lord's new love of his nephew had fled as quickly as it had arrived. That His Grace was preparing to exile his ward to the life of a freehold farmer.

It was only when Edric had babbled on, oblivious to his anger, about how King Renly had told him a story about a far off king. King George, of the House Hannover, Third of his name. A king that studied farming and wrote great treatise to tell his smallfolk with neither the time nor the coin to experiment how best to improve their yields. The king was the most beloved of his House by his people as a result.

Of course there was no King George, nor any House Hannover, but Cortnay had quickly grasped what His Grace had been doing when he created the story out of whole cloth as a guide for his nephew. His Grace was clearly preparing to legitimise Edric and give him lands and a holdfast. The first Ser of a new landed knight house.

The seed drill would massively increase the efficiency of planting, requiring less work. Which would be a problem for the smallfolk that relied on that work for the coin to sustain them until the harvest, but the king surely knew that and had a plan. More important was that such a device meant that less than a quarter of the seed currently used would need to be planted for the fields to yield the same at harvest time, if the farmers he had discreetly questioned were correct. If this tool spread. much more of the harvest could be eaten or stored, a truly great boon as this was already the longest summer on record. It couldn't last much longer, no matter how much every man in Westeros wished it would.

His Grace undoubtedly intended for this revolutionary invention to be attributed to Edric. To smooth the egos of the Stormlords, given that Robert's bastard would be being legitimized and allowed to found a landed knight house while the boy was still too young to earn the right in battle.

As the others exclaimed at the nature of the seed drill and what it would mean for the smallfolk of the Stormlands, Cortnay looked lovingly at Edric. The boy stuck out his hairless jaw and stared down men three times his age when they criticized him, the confidence which had grown in him with his Uncle's attention and Lord Dayne's companionship shining through.

Edric was Cortnay's son in every way that mattered. The only one he would ever have, given that he'd never felt the stirring of desire in his loins for anyone. Not even for a man, as afflicted his liege lord. He couldn't have asked for a better child even if they shared his blood.

Edric's features seemed to ripple before him and the old knight saw the man he would become for a moment. Surrounded by men-at-arms wielding vicious warhammers while fields of barley surrounded them. Just like the Selmys of Harvest Hall with their renowned swordsmen and fields of wheat.

The weathered old knight indulged himself in the vision until the council settled, finally running out of questions about the vague description of the seed drill that King Renly had provided. Cortnay took command once again, questioning his son ward directly.

"Have you met with success Edric?"

"Almost Ser." The young bastard flushed at his guardian's attention, his prominent Florent ears glowing red under his long black hair. "I've been working with Gendry, the apprentice smith Uncle Renly suggested I go to for help. We've made everything work except a way to slow the seeds down when they fall from the hopper, so they don't all plant themselves in the first three feet. I wish to ask Maester Jurne if he would be kind enough to offer his great wisdom help solve the problem."

The Maester in question preened a little, despite his obvious amusement at the childish attempt at court flattery.

Cortnay himself was still stunned by His Grace's obvious plan to place Robert's lowborn bastard in the smithy of his highborn one when Edric was granted his lands. A waste of a Qohor trained smith's skill to be sure, but an excellent solution to the issue of his birth. And one the apprentice was not likely to resent if he had a firm friendship with his bastard half-brother.

"As you were set the task, should you not complete it alone?" Orys criticised.

Edric's hand tightened into a fist, as if he had a white knuckle grip on the shaft of his Warhammer, but he was utterly respectful in his answer. "Uncle Renly said that a good man knows what he knows and what he doesn't. That he seeks out and listens to advice on matters he does not know, rather than charging ahead blindly and making a mess that will take thrice as much effort to clean up."

Cortnay felt his eyebrows raise at the wisdom stated so easily by a boy whose balls had yet to drop. Wisdom that many men grown never learned. Another vision of Edric, this time seated upon the Storm Throne in Storm's End's round hall, holding court as wisely as his uncle, flashed across Cortnay's mind for a moment, before he ruthlessly purged it. Praying fervently that he hadn't tempted fate with an idle dream.

The gods struck down those who reached too high.

"I will assist you happily Edric." Jurne cut across Orys before the puffed up man could retort.

The weathered old castellan ended the council there and Edric promptly leaped up, dragging Maester Jurne out of the solar by the sleeve.

Cortnay snorted at the expression on Jurne's face. Apparently he hadn't intended for his assistance to be quite so immediate.

Ser Cortnay Penrose soon found himself alone in the lords solar of Storm's End, looking out across the fields and hills of the Stormlands. It was raining again, but it was the soft, warm, rain that usually fell. Not the intense and howling storm which was just beginning to break on the Seven Kingdoms.

The Old Lion had descended from his golden mountain and the Oncoming Storm had marched out to meet him in battle.

Cortnay would once have followed Renly Baratheon to war without hesitation. He was his liege lord, and he had been a good one despite his extravagance, prissy nature, and the lightness with which he wore his responsibilities. After the fitting fever, when his lord's frequent lapses had led him and many others to fear the worst, his faith had wavered. But now he would charge into the seven hells themselves at but a word from the youngest Baratheon brother. At nine-and-thirty, Cortnay Penrose had never expected to again feel the burning certainty he'd felt in his youth. Following Robert Baratheon into battle against the Mad King.

No rainbow miraculously appeared in the warm rain for him to pray to, but still the old knight thanked the Seven that he'd been wrong.


Ronnet Connington

The Riverlands were aflame.

For over a moon the Knight of Griffin's Roost had chased the Mountain That Rides across the western and southern Riverlands. Always arriving to find Edmure Tully's garrison butchered, the village burned, the holdfast ruined, and the smallfolk or scattered.

Ser Bonfier Hasty and his Holy Hundred had been trying to push the raiders towards him, but in truth they had not even come close to success.

Then the Old Lion himself had descended from the Golden Tooth and the mad dog had returned, howling, to his master.

News was filtered through a dozen mouths by the time it reached them, but it was dire nonetheless. The Lannister army had utterly routed the combined strength of Houses Vance and Piper below the Golden Tooth, before advancing on Riverrun and carving through Edmure Tully like a dagger through cheese.

Lord Tywin hadn't accepted any quarter, slaughtering all who fought under Tully banners. To hear the terrified smallfolk tell it, all 9,000 of the Tully, Bracken, and Blackwood men were cut down. Along with the Vance and Piper survivors of the Golden Tooth debacle.

As they were hemmed in by the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, as soon as their lines broke the Tully men had been speared against Riverrun's walls like fish in a barrel. The same position that was so strong to defend turning into an inescapable trap when the gods turned against them.

As educated men rather than frightened peasants, Ronnet and his leftenants knew that the slaughter couldn't have been that complete. But they did have to concede that few in number indeed would be those that had been able to flee. Raymun Darry held out hope that maybe half had managed to escape, but the Riverlord was deluding himself. Lothar Mallery, Elwood Harte, and Gladden Wylde had all agreed with him that if even 2,000 Men of the Trident had managed to get away it would be a miracle from the Seven themselves.

All of them had reproached him when he'd told Raymun to stop living in dreams and face the truth of life like a man grown. But what use was it to let the man believe otherwise? Tywin Lannister had clearly decided that The Rains of Castamere needed a couple more verses as the Lords of the Trident had dared to muster against him. The utter slaughter of the men of half the great houses of the Riverlands would certainly make many of the petty lords and landed knights wary of answering their liege lords' calls. To say nothing of the news of Wayfarer's Rest.

Few indeed were the unburned holdfasts between the Tumblestone and Red Fork. But Wayfarer's Rest stood, largest and strongest among them.

While his liege lord had been gutting the floppy fish, Gregor Clegane had taken the undermanned castle by storm. Slaughtering the garrison before raping and murdering Karyl Vance's three daughters one after the other, just as he had Elia Martell before them. The most excitable of the peasants swore that the youngest had screamed so loudly that the Mountain had crushed her skull with his bare hands to silence her.

Regardless of the truth of it, with Lord Vance dead for certain and Karyl's fate known only by the gods, it seemed likely that the Vance's of Wayfarer's Rest had gone the way of the Reynes and Tarbecks.

Lord Tywin's message had been well heeded. The Vale was silent, despite Hoster Tully's own daughter sitting as regent in the Eyrie. There was no word of Mallister, Frey, or Mooton moving to relieve their liege lord, and Lord Piper had fled Pinkmaiden with his youngest son. The gates of the castle thrown open as Tywin's mad dog would surely strike there or at the Vance's of Atrana next.

Ronnet judged them all cowards. A man didn't hide because the fight looked difficult, and stiff old Bonifer agreed with him. Despite wrapping that agreement in a load of pious drivel.

Which had led the two of them to their current location, hidden in what little cover there was on the eastern side of the Red Fork, on either side of the Mummer's Ford. As the closest ford over the Red Fork to Pinkmaiden, if the Mountain was to strike down the Pipers next he would surely cross here.

Staring at the ford through the Myrish far eye as it was his turn on watch, it was Lord Mallery that called out what they'd all been waiting for.

"Riders, Red."

"Their numbers?" Red Ronnet asked gesturing for the far eye even as he asked.

"A hundred or so, they've just left the treeline and are entering the ford."

Ser Gladden and Lord Harte gestured and spoke furiously, getting the men to abandon their camp and mount up at once.

Lord Mallery joined them as Ronnet swung himself into the saddle, immediately staring back through the far eye as soon as he was seated.

"Hasty has seen them too." Lord Darry hissed, a white knuckled grip on his reins as the flash of sun reflecting off a lady's mirror came again from the Holy Hundred's hiding place.

Ronnet once again decided not to think about why Ser Bonifer had a lady's vanity of royal quality with a Targaryen sigil, and swung the far eye back to the ford even as Darry's men formed up behind him. Fury pouring off them as they sat waiting for the order to charge even as the rest of the men were still getting ahorse.

Suddenly the mass of mounted men plodding slowly through the ford moved and Ronnet could see the man at their centre, a man near twice the size of many around him.

"It's the Mountain." He whispered, the thrill of his prey finally being within his sight after so long rushing through him.

Raymun Darry didn't wait for the order. The moment the conformation of the Mountain's presence left Ronnet's lips the Lord of the Trident charged straight towards the ford. Screaming for vengeance while his men were but moments behind.

"CLEGANEEEEEE!"

"Gods be good." Ronnet cursed as the Rivermen charged without the rest of them. "Forward, now!"

Not all of the men were ready, but Ser Gladden and Lord Harte joined him with those that were. Lord Mallery remaining behind screaming at the remaining men to get mounted and charging as fast as possible.

Red Ronnet felt the thrill of anticipation fill him as they charged, the sound of thundering hooves filling his ears as the Mountain's mere hundred men cleared the ford and tried to build up speed to meet the two hundred charging down on them.

When the brigands were fully committed, Ronnet had but a moment to see Bonifer Hasty and Elwood Meadows charging out from their own hiding place with their command. The Holy Hundred and a hundred Baratheon guards swung behind Clegane to cut off his retreat through the ford and take him in the rear, crushing his raiders betwixt hammer and anvil.

Ronnet laughed at Gladden Wylde's derisive yell to him that of course Lord Meadows' green cape, easily spotted amongst the gold or purple of the other riders, was at the rear of Ser Bonifer's charge rather than at the front. He was still laughing when they smashed into the Mountains men

Then there was no time to laugh or think as he hacked and slashed and stabbed at the raiders.

Honourless brigands though they were, they were fierce fighters. Training against the Mountain himself obviously removed the unskilled very quickly, probably in showers of blood, guts, and rolling heads.

Despite having them four to one, and fully enveloped, the Mountain's men were fighting like demons and there was no time to look for the others. The Knight of Griffin's Roost simply focused on killing every enemy in front of him.

A heartbeats break in the fighting meant he caught a glimpse of Raymun Darry, trying to cut his way through to the Mountain. Even as the monster was cutting men in half with a single swing of his greatsword and caving in mens' helms and heads with a single blow from his entirely metal shield. There was no sign of his horse so Ronnet couldn't tell whether he'd been forcibly unhorsed or just dismounted so he could cause greater carnage.

Red Ronnet felt, rather than saw, Lord Mallery join the battle with the last of the stragglers as the Mountain's men finally began to falter. Even demons couldn't fight as fiercely when an ever increasing number of them fell to the blades of the Stormlands, Crownlands, and Riverlands. Returning with interest the butchers bill they'd vested upon the smallfolk.

The battle slowed as more of the demon brigands fell and Ronnet saw Bonifer Hasty and Raymun Darry as he paused for breath. Both on foot, they were taking on the Mountain That Rides as their men fought to keep the brigands off them.

The knight and lord were using lances like spears, using their whole weight to smash them into the joints of the Mountain's armour. Never penetrating, but pushing gargantuan man back and forth between them, always staying out of reach as Tywin's butcher roared in frustration.

Working in tandem while avoiding the wild swings of Clegane's sword and shield, Ser Bonifer and Lord Darry were slowly but surely forcing the Mountain That Rides back towards the gurgling waters of the Mummer's Ford.

Ronnet grunted in approval at their plan even as he blocked a downward strike that would have pierced between his collarbones. If the Mountain would insist on wearing plate so thick no weapon could penetrate it, on top of gambeson, leather, and ringmail to boot, then the only reasonable way to kill him was to push him into the river to drown.

Even a man as freakishly strong as the Mountain couldn't possibly swim in that weight and it was certainly safer than trying to get closer to put a sword through the eyeslit of his helm.

The panicked cries of Elwood Meadows were expected given his spine of jelly, even if actually being able to hear them over the roar of battle wasn't, so Ronnet paid them little mind. It was only when Gladden Wylde echoed them that he pushed his opponents back for a moment, to allow himself to breathe and see what had so unnerved his fellow Stormlander.

The western bank of the Red Fork was higher than the east and thickly wooded, and Ronnet cursed that mightily as the Lannisters had used it to good advantage. Obviously formed up and waiting out of sight, waiting for them to try and ambush the Mountain, Lannister cavalry in numbers beyond quick counting were now charging down the road and into the Mummer's Ford at speed.

There was no time to curse the fluttering golden lion on red banners, nor the golden tooth on sky blue banner in the lead. No time either to protest that the Lannister army was supposed to be at Riverrun.

"Men of the east! Break away! Retreat!" Ronnet called out bitterly, the cry being taken up by his leftenants as they too saw what had to be a thousand horse charging directly towards them.

The call had barely gone out when the charging Lannister cavalry plunged through the ford in a rolling mass of white spray, slamming into the rear of Bonifer Hasty's command. The trap had been well and truly turned on its planners.

Still, there was hope. Even as Elwood Meadows was speared clean through the belly with a lance, and the Baratheon guards around him were likewise pierced or swept aside, the Lannister vanguard wasn't splitting.

They weren't attempting a double envelopment, as they should to prevent any escape. Rather, they were charging spearlike right into the heart of the ongoing battle. As if Ronnet were commanding a mighty army deployed in full battle array, rather than a counter-raiding force that was densely packed, already engaged, and ripe for encirclement.

Red Ronnet took full advantage of Lord Lefford's mistake and continued to call out as he and Ser Gladden fought together to free clumps of men long enough for them to break away without being cut down.

"Retreat! Break away! Retreat!"

He continued to call the retreat as Lords Mallery and Harte led those that already managed to break away in the direction of Stoney Sept. The mustering position he and Ser Bonifer had agreed to regroup at should the Mountain somehow prevail. With the two Crownlands lords imposing what order they could on the fleeing men at arms, Ronnet was confident that the men who escaped the Lannister trap wouldn't melt away completely.

Meanwhile, the Lannister charge had reached the three highborn fighting at the centre. A lance pierced Ser Bonifer Hasty's plate, sending him screaming to the ground to be trampled underfoot.

The shock only slowed Lord Darry for a moment, but it was enough.

Dropping his sword, Gregor Clegane grabbed the lance Lord Darry was thrusting at him and used it to pull the much smaller and lighter man towards him before he thought to let go.

The courageous Lord of the Trident was met with a vicious swing of the Mountain's shield that caved in his entire face. The bloody mess that remained was unrecognisable as that of a man's head at all, let alone that of Lord Raymun Darry.

The mountain roared, picked up his sword, and pulled a Lannister man down from his horse to swing into the saddle in his place.

Ronnet decided that he'd saved as many men as he could from the disaster. Calling to Ser Gladden, both Stormlords wheeled their horses around and joined the stream of men riding hard in the direction of Stony Sept.

The screams of those unable to escape the disastrous trap at the Mummer's Ford faded into the distance behind them.


Renly Baratheon

I was staring at the letter that had come in by courier at midday. Desperately trying to make the words change into something else.

Unfortunately they didn't, and I was left with yet another problem to add to my teetering pile. Ravens meant that I knew my banners were somewhere between Fawnton and Bitterbridge, but my grandfather obviously felt that this couldn't wait till I joined them at Bitterbridge a week hence.

And he was right.

According to his letter I was bankrupt. Or as close as made no difference given my situation.

Lord Dondarrion's training force was funding itself entirely out of the coffers of Nightsong, Harvest Hall, and Blackhaven, on the guarantee that they would be repaid as soon as possible. A situation that could not continue for more than a handful of moons more without at least a portion of that debt being repaid by Storm's End. None of those Houses were particularly rich, they simply didn't have the coin on hand to sustain Beric's army much longer.

Unfortunately Storm's End itself had been stripped of more coin than Lord Estermont had believed was even possible before he marched out. Leaving the garrison with little more than copper and silver in the treasury.

Even taking that much hadn't been enough. My desire for speed over everything else had depleted the coin Lord Estermont had on hand far more rapidly than even our worse projections. Food had been purchased at a premium, lords that swore they couldn't meet my schedule with the coin they had on hand had been subsidised, and riders had been dispatched ahead to hire men to construct bridges across the many small streams of the Kingswood. Essential so that the carts of the logistics train could follow the army without the foot pausing to construct them themselves.

It had worked, my army was moving even faster than Robert's had on his rapid march north in the rebellion. But the costs were already high and were continuing to spiral.

The eight moons of operations and two major battles I thought I had the coin for before total financial collapse was actually more likely to be five moons and one battle. Maybe less given how much of the Riverlands was already aflame. Food prices were only going to go up, shelter and support would be jealously horded, and refugees would be everywhere.

I rested my head against the cool wood of the library table and just groaned.

"That bad?" Garlan asked as he came up behind me, still covered in sweat and dust from the training yard.

"I'll deal with it." I muttered, franticly trying to think of how.

"The Frey family tree?" Garlan commiserated as slid the letter from my grandfather into my stack of other papers without him noticing. Making a big show of rolling up the large chart on the table to hold his attention. "That's enough to give anyone a headache, trying to keep the lines of inheritance straight. The Late Lord Frey seems determined to field an entire army out of his own breeches."

"And as a result House Frey is linked to the Lannisters, the Vances, the Rosbys, the Royces, the Swanns, the Crakehalls, and the Blackwoods. And that's just the major Houses, there are a couple more minor ones just from Old Walder's get. Then they're his children's own marriages and the resulting spawn to consider, which I've only accounted for from his first wife's children so far." I cursed in frustration. "We're going to war, which has a nasty habit of causing Houses to go extinct, and this spider's web of Frey marriages hangs like an executioner's blade over the heads of more than a dozen families. Just waiting for The Late Lord Frey to press the twin towers' claim if they fall in battle."

Garlan shuddered. "An unsettling thought. One of Walder Frey is quite enough."

I gathered up my papers while grunting in agreement. "Is everyone accounted for?"

"I left Jon in the training yard fighting some of my best men three on one, Loras is keeping Mother, Father, and Leonette occupied, Arya is in her lordly lessons with Maester Lomys, and Edric is doing his arm strengthening exercises so that he might soon hold a sword again. Everyone is accounted for." Garlan rattled off the information, clearly having stayed informed before coming to collect me from the library for our meeting.

I was becoming ever more confident in my choice to make him my Hand. A good development as I'd given him the position on the sole qualification that he was the only able bodied male Tyrell that wasn't Mace or Loras.

"Then let's get going. How's your hand?" I questioned as we walked up to the small solar as the afternoon's light drizzle hissed against Highgarden's walls.

"Healing." The gallant knight winced as he stretched out his fingers under the bandage. "Maester Lomys was most wroth with me, but so far I seem to have avoided infection."

I simply nodded as I bitterly wished that I knew how to isolate and produce pure Iodine from seaweed to disinfect wounds. The thought that I could save so many people in the war ahead if I wasn't such an incompetent fuckup that couldn't remember basic information began to eat me alive, before I caught the spiral of unrealistic perfectionism and ran though my coping exercises.

No one could remember everything they learned in school. While remembering more of my GCSE lessons on Iodine would be a lot more useful to me now than the ability to order a cheese omelette in French was, I had no control over what I remembered. I hadn't known I was going to be dumped into this world, I hadn't had a chance to prepare, I no longer had access to google, or even my old class notes. I was doing my absolute best, that had to be enough as I could ask no more of myself.

I repeated the mantra in my mind along with deep, slow, breaths until I stopped spiralling.

"How many war galleys does House Tyrell field?" I asked Garlan as we climbed, breaking the silence.

"Ourselves?" My Hand queried.

I nodded, I didn't want to rely on vassal houses for this if I could avoid it, not even House Redwyne.

"Five, all of them docked at Highgarden Town. All of them are of two hundred oars, as most of the Royal and Redwyne fleet war galleys are, though we use them for little more than showing our strength on the Mander or sailing to Oldtown. This far inland we have no need of more, especially not with the Shield Islands and their fleets defending the mouth of the Mander."

I nodded in acknowledgement, even as I internally winced. Five weren't enough, I would have to rely on vassals after all and simply ensure the most critical assets were placed on Tyrell ships. "Ensure they're ready to sail four days hence and call up another half dozen or so more from the Shield Islands."

"Of course, Your Grace. May I know why?"

I ran through the schedule in my head. Tomorrow I was, collaring the High Septon, getting my own retinue in order, and then having the third and final family council. The day after was the war council, a meeting with Mace, and then the wedding rehearsal, and then came my coronation and wedding day itself. On the fourth day I would finally ride out of Highgarden and see if all my scheming had been worth it.

In the grand scheme of things it was only four days. I could show some of my cards a little early to build a stronger rapport with Garlan. As king and Hand it was essential that we worked well together.

"Most of them will be needed for assignments distributed at the war council. The last…will be taking one of my agents to the Citadel and Arya, Edric, Jon, and Willas to Starfall."

Garlan winced. "I'm not sure Lady Arya will appreciate that. Nor will her lady mother and brother if you intend to treat with them."

"I need her out of harms way. Unless you suggest I drag a girl of ten-and-two into battle and across a war ravaged realm with me?" I snarked.

"I was thinking more that she should stay here." Garlan placated, though his raised eyebrows and folded arms let me know he was unimpressed.

I took a breath to calm myself. "If Arya is to be Lord of Starfall she needs to know Edric's home. To come to know its people, its culture, and its power brokers before the mantle of lordship falls fully upon her shoulders. Jon won't let her out of his sight so he must accompany her, and it's essential both of them continue their magic lessons so Willas must accompany them both. Beyond all of that, when I treat with her lady mother and brother it will look less like I'm keeping Arya as a hostage if I've sent her to her betrothed's seat rather than keeping her in a castle that has sworn to me."

"You won't be calling Starfall's banners?" Garlan asked, homing in on the military component.

I shook my head. "Better to hold them in reserve. As a vassal of dubious loyalty, Edric might still be able to get word to me if Doran Martell makes a move. If we announce to all of Dorne that Edric will follow my orders over his rightful Prince's he'll certainly be cut out of any moves the Prince of Dorne might be planning."

Garlan inclined his head in acknowledgement that sometimes the right information was worth more than a hundred thousand men. "I'll have the ships prepared."

We entered the small solar together, Margaery, Willas, and Olenna already present.

"Well, Your Grace, do you have any pleasant revelations for us today?" Olenna remarked lightly.

"I'm afraid not my lady. Only fire, blood, betrayal, theft and death." I replied as lightly as I could as I took my seat.

The Queen of Thorns gave an overly dramatic sigh. "You certainly know how to treat a lady."

"At least I'm consistent. Where have you hidden my scribe by the way? I need to give Satin his next task for after the wedding."

"I'll ensure Peake sends him back to you on the morrow. Now, will we be learning of all the remaining threats to House Tyrell that you know of this afternoon?"

"All but two."

Olenna truly sighed and looked very frail for a moment. "Enemies everywhere and precious few allies to be found. Why must it be so difficult to keep my grandchildren from the grave?"

"Cersei Lannister." I deadpanned, receiving a hearty laugh in turn.

"Indeed, if she had simply lain back and thought of Casterly Rock, like so many women before her, the realm would be far more stable. But once the cows been milked there's no squirting the cream back up her udders so let's get on with it." The grit and determination of the Tyrell grandmother filling her voice with steel.

"We have two large dangers and a minor one." I commented.

"Let's start with the minor one shall we? These old bones need a bit of a run up before leaping into action these days." The withered old matriarch jested. The sharp intelligence visible in her clear eyes giving lie to her words.

"The minor threat is Petyr Baelish." I commented, lying and completely underselling the threat the intensely dangerous and intelligent schemer posed.

"Oh yes, he is very minor." Garlan laughed, the others joining in.

None of the Tyrells would believe that someone from so minor a house, lord of little more than a stone round tower smaller than a Victorian terraced house, could possibly be a large threat.

It would take far too much precious influence and time to convince them. But I could at least stop then trusting him, or any information that had his fingerprints on.

"Minor, yet it is because of him that Ned Stark sits in the black cells and Tywin Lannister rampages across the Riverlands." I began weaving the few strands of truth that were believable for them into the tapestry of lies I would need to spin to make them take Littlefinger action seriously.

That snapped all of them to attention.

"I take it you mean beyond betraying him and delivering the gold cloaks to Cersei Lannister?" Garlan asked, suddenly much more serious.

"He's been in love with the Tully sisters since he was a boy. First he loved Catelyn, your grandmother may remember he fought a duel for hand. Then, when she still rejected him despite him nearly dying trying to win her love, he transferred his desires to her sister Lysa and impregnated her from his sickbed."

"He wouldn't be the first man to settle for a sister when the one they truly love is unobtainable." Margaery teased, smirking.

I gave Margaery a genuine smile and giggle, acknowledging the hit and enjoying the teasing. "Quite. Hoster was furious of course, and banished him from Riverrun after feeding Lysa moon tea and marrying her off to Jon Arryn."

"I remember the scandal of his banishment, with no reason given it was so enjoyable to speculate. It seems I owe Alarie ten dragons even if she did pick the wrong sister." Olenna commented wistfully. "How wonderful it was gossip about something so trivial, and what fools we were to wish for more excitement. Rhaegar would give us all quite enough excitement barely a moon later. But enough of the life story of such a little man. Tell us his intentions, Your Grace. We will believe you that he has the wit and power to act on them."

"We will?" Willas asked, openly surprised.

I had the same reaction, though at least I hadn't voiced it aloud.

"We will." Olenna shut down his opposition harshly. "Something you've yet to learn, dear boy, is that you can never analyse everything yourself. Sometimes you have to simply send your most trusted and skilled agent and trust in their own reading of the situation, no matter how surreal it seems to you."

"Trusted and skilled? You flatter me, my lady." I laughed.

"Not really, I just know my grandson has you firmly by the balls. Though I admit it's in a different manner to usual."

I practically doubled over with laughter even as Garlan and Willas choked and Margaery just smirked.

"Lord Baelish, Your Grace?" Margery prompted over her brother's choking, getting us back on topic.

"He hates the Starks for nearly killing him. More importantly, Lysa and he never stopped their relationship. Through pillow talk with her husband Lysa ensured that Littlefinger was given a custom post at Gulltown, then that he was brought to court and made Master of Coin when he showed promise. Whereupon he has proceeded to rob the realm blind."

"Most Masters of Coin make sure a little of the Crown's gold never reaches the treasury. It's expected if not condoned." Willas' commented dubiously.

"For every silver stag or moon previous Masters of Coin would have secreted away for themselves, Petyr Baelish is stealing a dozen golden dragons."

That led to a lot of surprised muttering, but it was Garlan that voiced the question. "How?"

"I would ask you that question as you're one of the most mercantile Houses in Westeros. I say that not as an insult, but rather to highlight that you would surely understand how better than I. To tell the truth of it the numbers and schemes made my head spin. I simply trusted the word of my agent. Like as not that's how Littlefinger smuggled his outrageous theft passed Jon Arryn and my brother. Robert rarely read any business of the realm at all, but he especially despised 'counting coppers'. Jon Arryn was far more dutiful, but he distained trade and finance as beneath the honour of an Arryn of the Eyrie, so he likely understood little more than the basic tax matters and household accounts. With the agent supposed to explain such matters to both of them being the one making off with a significant portion of the treasury…" I trailed off and let the Tyrell's fill in the rest.

"This makes it essential we secure the treasury records and chose a skilled and trustworthy Master of Coin. Unravelling those schemes and recovering what we can will be sorely needed if we are to stabilise our rule." Margaery gave me a very pointed look, which I bowed to.

"Indeed, and I have a candidate in mind. But that is for later. We were speaking of Littlefinger, who with his vast stolen wealth has become quite the master of whispers for himself. When Jon Arryn died he seized the opportunity, ensuring, with a few well-placed titbits his loyal agent among the royal party scattered in Winterfell, that the blame fell on the Lannisters. With the wolf already suspicious primed to expect treachery from the lion, when Brandon Stark fell from the tower, pushed or not, Littlefinger's trusted agent made an assassination attempt and again ensured the blame fell on the Lannisters to push them to outright war. Then Littlefinger himself pointed Eddard Stark right at Cersei and Joffrey while he was cut off and surrounded by enemies. You can see the result."

About half was lies, but I needed to weave a consistent narrative to sell Littlefinger's nature. Even with Olenna's declaration I wasn't willing to gamble on the truth of Petyr Baelish being believable. Especially not with the level of shock that the rest of them were showing that someone they had all dismissed managing to manoeuvre two great houses into war, dragging the rest of the realm in after them."

"Wha…What does he want?" Willas asked, his views on the nature of power having been rudely shaken.

"He wants to see House Stark destroyed or attainted while he uses the chaos of war and his vast wealth to earn enough favour with the Lannisters to be granted a keep prominent enough to let him marry Lysa Arryn. Rosby perhaps, or half a dozen others, the Lannisters have many enemies to seize one from if he makes himself useful enough. Then as Lysa denies him nothing, Petyr Baelish will rule the Vale as lord protector and regent. For the rest of his life if the rumours of young Robert Arryn being as weak in mind as he is in body are true."

The looks of disbelief meant I had certainly made the right call in pitching the endgame of Littlefinger's ambitions to be the wierwood throne of the Eyrie. From the looks of things, the thought of someone barely one step away from a peasant plotting to, and worse making progress towards, sitting on the Iron Throne would certainly have caused more than one heart attack. To people who had never known anything other than feudalism it was unfathomable.

"Well. That ambitious little bird needs to die." Olenna commented with a calm she certainly didn't seem to be feeling. "I take it you have a plan?"

"I do, but if you get to him first I won't lose any sleep over it." I gave the Queen of Thorns a shark like grin.

"A challenge, how enticing." Olenna Tyrell smirked. "But what of the boy, Robert? Robin? Is he truly an Arryn or is he Littlefinger's get?"

I held out my hand waggled it. "Uncertain. Nothing truly tells one way or the other, so we'd never get away with accusing him of being Littlefinger's were the situation normal. But with Westeros already primed to accept accusations of cuckolding due to Cersei doing so to the king, we can play it that Littlefinger cuckolded the Hand and likely be believed. That may not be the best course though, it may serve us better to loudly proclaim the boy a true Arryn. I haven't yet decided which would benefit us most."

"Something to think on later perhaps?" Margaery intervened. "You did say you had two other threats to inform us of?"

I rubbed my forehead, preparing for more headaches before taking a fortifying breath and carrying on. "Yes. The second threat is Daenerys Targaryen."

"Not her brother Viserys?" Olenna asked, resting her chin on her hand.

"You know very well that he was killed in Vas Dothrak by her husband around the same time my brother died." I replied calmly. "Your own spies have surely told you that."

Olenna simply pursed her lips in disappointment at being unable to catch me out.

"Are we to understand that her Khal husband will still make good on his promise to cross the narrow sea with his hundred thousand strong khalasar then?" Garlan asked, his voice filled with weariness at the prospect of another war so soon after this one.

"It matters little, King Robert sent assassins after her, the girl will soon be dead." Willas declared confidently. "That man hated Targaryen's more than anything in the world. He will see it done, even from the grave."

"No. She won't be." I replied to Willas. "As much as Robert hated her, Daenerys is simply too stubborn to die. And it's not her husband and the Dothraki we have to fear. The Targaryen girl will soon hatch three dragons, and with them gather her own army to conquer the Seven Kingdoms."

"Dragons." Olenna deadpanned. "You know I'm not sure why I bother to be surprised any more. I almost expect my great lump of a husband to come knocking on the solar door and say he figured out how to fly when he rode off that cliff and just forgot to come home till now."

I hid a wince. If the Others reached Highgarden it was entirely possible that Old Lord Luthor would be knocking on his wife's solar door again. It just wouldn't be a pleasant reunion.

Margery put the objections of the rest of them delicately, but there was no doubt that they were shared by all. "You must admit Your Grace, it is…difficult to believe. That this beggar girl surrounded by savages would succeed in hatching dragon eggs when the greatest Targaryen kings with all the resources of the Seven Kingdoms could not."

"Oh the answer to that is simple. She has the only unpoisoned dragon eggs in the western world." I explained with a predator's grin.

Margaery just blinked at me.

"There is a conspiracy among the maesters, my lady."

"Oh don't tell me you believe that rot about 'The Guiding Hand' boy. That rumour's been flying around since I was a girl." The Queen of Thorns snapped.

"Of course not." I dismissed. "I'm sure they do indeed exist and are trying to manipulate the rest of us. Likely they have even met with limited success in individual cases over the years. But such a conspiracy could never have the realm wide success the rumours claim. There're too many obstacles arranged against them, too many ways for the highborn to push back. No, rather I was referring to the Citadel's conspiracy to eliminate magic, which I revealed to you in our last meeting when explaining why they understand magic so little."

Olenna harrumphed. "So you did. Well at least you're not seeing shadows around every corner. But you claim the maesters have been conspiring to stop the dragons returning? How? I'm sure they wished it. But there was barely a handful of them at Summerhall and no more when other attempts were made either, if I remember the old stories correctly."

"Consider the end of the Dance of the Dragons," I elaborated, my love of lore and history granting passion to my voice. "House Targaryen was reduced to the brink of extinction, and the dragons likewise. When the dust settled, the child king Aegon III was on the throne and had seven regents. Many of those regents died, resigned, or were removed, and not all of them were replaced in a timely manner. The only one of the original seven that lasted the full regency was Grand Maester Munkun. At one point, for six months until replacements were named, the Grand Maester was both Aegon III's sole Regent and Hand of the King. With unrestricted access to every secret of House Targaryen and unlimited authority. It would have been child splay for him to poison all the dragon eggs in their possession, don't you agree?"

"Morning hatched in the Dance, and they were the only dragon to survive it without going wild. They didn't survive long into Aegon III's reign either, which suddenly takes on sinister connotations. The only egg to hatch after the Dance was right after the regency ended and the dragon was misshapen and sickly, the size of a small dog." Willas muttered. "It certainly sounds like poison. But if all the Targaryen dragon eggs were poisoned, where did the girl's eggs come from to be free of it?"

"From the Sea Lord of Braavos, delivered into his collection by Elissa Farman as payment for the ship Sunchaser. Which she sailed west from Westeros to Asshai, proving the long-held belief that the world is round."

"It was never proven that the ship Corlys Velaryon saw in Asshai was Sunchaser." Garlan argued, clearly having read the adventures of the Sea Snake, as any adventure obsessed highborn child would.

"It matters not." I dismissed. "What matters is the dragon eggs stolen to pay for it were stolen from Jaehaerys I, at the height of Targaryen power, long before they had a chance to be poisoned. When the red comet appears overhead, Daenerys Targaryen will return dragons to the world. I saw this in every possible future the glass candle showed. If it could ever be avoided, then the chance for us to do so has long since passed."

"Aegon the Conqueror defeated the combined might of Westeros with three dragons." The Queen of Thorns stated, completely neutral as she swept me with a look that would have frozen the balls off Eddard Stark.

"Grandmother! Loras would never forgive you. Besides, how do we know she isn't as mad as her father?" Margaery cautioned.

"Is she?" Olenna Tyrell asked, holding my gaze.

"Every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin. I have seen both sides, but I cannot tell you how her coin will land." I answered honestly.

The difference between show Danny and book Danny began in Qarth. It was there that the show gave glimpses of a Danny who was entitled, demanding, and afraid. A Danny that lashed out in righteous anger without thought to consequences. Much as Danny herself had seen only in glimpses in her brother, before Viserys was forced to sell their mother's crown and live on the streets as doors were slammed in their faces. Barristan Selmy later warned her the Mad King been the same, but even with the warnings they were traits that would overwhelm the Dragon Queen in the end, no matter how much she attempted to grow beyond them. In the books Danny's actions in Qarth were entirely different. Learning, manipulating, calculating, using her pride as a spine of steel to roll with her failures, before facing down her fears and showing herself to be a true leader. It suggested a very different person existed at the core of her being. Until my agents reported back, I couldn't tell which Daenerys Targaryen was walking the world with me. For once my book and show knowledge were useless, I truly didn't know how the Dragon Queen's coin would land.

"Oh very well." The withered old matriarch sniffed. "How do we deal with the girl when you seem certain Robert's assassins will fail? The dragons cannot be allowed to grow."

"I'll deal with the Targaryen; you deal with the Blackfyre." I answered calmly, examining my fingernails.

The Queen of Thorns simply sighed and closed her eyes. "What. Blackfyre? Does no one stay dead anymore? Has Melys the Monstrous decided the seven hells are too dull and come back to try his luck once again?"

Margaery failed to fight down a smirk at her grandmother's exasperation.

"Almost. He claims to be Aegon VI and that Varys smuggled him out of King's Landing ahead of the sack. It was apparently a boy from Fleabottom that had his skull smashed against the wall by Gregor Clegane."

"And he believes that?" Margaery gasped incredulously. "He believes that his mother would save him and allow his sister to die?"

"Lord Varys may have promised to smuggle Princess Rhaenys out later." Garlan cautioned.

Margaery scoffed. "As if Princess Elia would believe him and give up her only leverage on a mere promise of the Spider! No, were this story true then Elia Martell would have demanded that both be smuggled to safety together and refused to hand her son over otherwise. As it is beyond dispute that one of the bodies in the throne room was Rhaenys, then it is certain that her brother died with her. It is as certain as the heat in Sunspear. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken."

Olenna was smiling fondly as Margery thoroughly cowed her brothers. "So, the boy is a Blackfyre pretender. Though he believes otherwise?"

"Just as House Gardener continues in House Tyrell through the female line, so does House Blackfyre continue in the family of Magister Illyrio Mopatis. The richest and most influential Magister in Pentos. His second wife, Sera was a Lysene bed slave when he married her. But before her cousin Melys twisted her brother husband's head off his shoulders to take command of the Golden Company and begin the War of the Ninepenny Kings she was Sera Blackfyre. Sold into slavery as a final insult by Melys the Monstrous to his cousin."

I was really going out on a limb with my interpretation of events. But I had no wiki access now, no way of knowing whatever secrets were contained in the still unpublished Winds of Winter, and the Young Griff wasn't going to just disappear if I chose to ignore him. I had to trust my gut and gamble that all the research and theories I'd worked on were close to the mark.

Or at least close enough to matter.

"They had a child?" Garlan asked, bringing my focus back to the here and now.

"They did, and Sera desired what Blackfyre's always have, the Iron Throne."

"So with Aerys' madness this Magister decided to give it to her." Willas realised, a calculating glint entering his eyes as he tried to discern the shape of the plot.

"Why then bother with the charade?" Margaery questioned, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

"The Blackfyres are a well and truly spent force in Westeros." Garlan explained, running a hand through his wavy hair. "What dregs of support they had were snuffed out by the War of the Ninepenny Kings. None would rise for a Blackfyre, but there are many lords that would rise for a returning Targaryen."

"Be they scales of red, or scales of black, a dragon still breathes fire." Willas sang gently to the tune of 'The Rains of Castamere'. "The Blackfyre's have the same blood and look as the Targaryen's. No-one can tell them apart by sight alone. Most will doubt his story, but as long as a true Targaryen loyalist vouches for him none will suspect him to be a Blackfyre."

"Do they have a Targaryen Loyalist?" Margaery asked.

I nodded. "Jon Connington, who truly believes the boy to be Rhaegar's son."

"I thought that man had drunk himself to death in Essos." Olenna griped. "He knew Rhaegar very well, supposedly he was his closest confident. Surely he wouldn't be fooled by this farce?"

"Jon Connington spent his entire life wanting to choke on Rhaegar's dick and never got so much as lick." I smirked confidently, relaxing back into my seat. "That level of obsession doesn't just disappear. If someone supposedly gave him Rhaegar's son to raise, gave him a way to continue to serve his obsession even after death, don't you think he'd have deluded himself into believing it? Especially when it meant he'd be taking revenge on Elia Martell's ghost for getting everything he'd ever wanted by keeping her son away from Sunspear."

Garlan groaned and buried his face in is hands. "I'm beginning to see what Margaery means about men always being led around by their cocks."

"It is remarkably effective in most cases." Margaery teased, putting on her perfect brainless lady face that somehow managed to convey that she was both a chaste courteous lady and a tempting seductress at the same time.

"Stop that! Tis most disturbing!" Garlan wailed while I howled with laughter and Willas covered his mouth in an effort not to join me.

"Heh hem." Olenna cleared her throat, making all of us sober up and fight down the remaining giggles. "If this is true, why then would the Magister give shelter to the Targaryen girl?"

"That relates to how he got Varys onboard with his plan." I explained.

At Olenna's nod I continued. "Varys is Magister Illyrio's best friend. He was already happily poisoning Aerys' mind and feeding his paranoia as a gift from Illyrio to Sera. When Sera died and they hatched the plan to place her and Illyrio's son on the Iron Throne, Varys had a condition. That Aegon be raised as a renaissance prince."

I was stealing the term from home, but it was exactly what had happened according to Varys' own words to a dying Kevan Lannister. The irony of Varys of all people being the most forward-thinking man in Westeros was unrivalled. But with the Free Cities being on the verge of their renaissance equivalent, it seemed Varys was first out of the gate on the method of government that had replaced feudalism across Europe.

The concept had been born in renaissance Italy as the feudal system began to fail under increasing levels of technological advancement and wealth redistribution.

I continued to explain at the confused looks. "A renaissance prince is a Free Cities ideal, a ruler who is trained not just in swordplay and politics, but in art, in culture, a ruler that has worked with the fisherman, that has farmed the fields, that is learned and experienced in every trial his people face and who and sees kingship as a duty rather than a right. Aegon has been raised in this way, on a ship sailing up and down the Rhyone he has caught fish with his own hands. While training with the sword, he has learned from the smallfolk as much as he has from his maesters. And, as I do, he believes that to be king is to be burdened with immense duty, rather than rewarded with immense privilege. Varys believes this to be the best future for Westeros."

"As disturbing as it is to contemplate doing the work of the smallfolk for any length of time, in a way it does sound like ideal preparation. Aegon V was well known to attribute his ability to rule to his time as a hedge knight's squire." Willas remarked, frowning in consideration as he gripped his cane.

"It does. Until you find the iron fist hiding in the silk glove. As the renaissance prince knows what is best, none have the right to defy them. All must obey, from the lowest smallfolk to the highest lord. Absolute power belongs to the crown and no-one, not even a lord paramount, has a right to object. If they do, then they are to be cast down by the rest of the realm. For all owe fealty to the renaissance prince before any other."

The mood changed so fast I half expected everyone to get whiplash.

Feudalism had limited checks and balances baked into it on a practical level, for all that it pretended they didn't exist in theory. In feudalism the crown was owed fealty indirectly through layers of vassals, with only the those of the highest rank swearing to them directly. In practice that meant that the king was only the king because the great lords said he was.

In turn the great lords were only great lords because the lesser lords and the crown said they were, and so on and so forth down the chain.

It was why Aegon the Conqueror had converted to the Faith of the Seven, why Maegor the Cruel had only held on as long as he had because of his dragons, why the Blackfyre's had so very nearly been able to snatch the crown, why Robert was able to depose Aerys, why Robb was able to be named King in the North and of the Trident, and why the original Renly had been able to depose Stannis before the latter had even proclaimed himself king.

For that to be taken away and replaced by a king with absolute authority, granted by being owed the fealty of all the realm directly instead of indirectly through layers of vassals, it was a nightmare straight from the seven hells.

The renaissance prince was a utopian ideal hiding the brutal fist of oppression, the precursor of the fascist strongman and the communist revolutionary, the companion of the religious zealot. Authoritarian dictators one and all.

"Well." The Queen of Thorns breathed harshly after a moment to recover herself. It seems someone needs to help the Stranger remind this dear 'Aegon' that he's supposed to be dead. I will deal with this Blackfyre, Your Grace, while you deal with the Targaryen girl. Do you know their plan?"

"The bare outline. Originally Varys was to keep the realm outwardly stable while allowing it to rot from within, so that the door need only be kicked in by an invader for the whole rotten Baratheon dynasty to come crashing down. It's why he didn't expose Littlefinger when he was easily crushed, nor Cersei's cuckolding of Robert. Littlefinger killing Jon Arryn and Cersei killing Robert has disrupted his plans, the realm was never supposed to fall into chaos on its own."

'What use is war between the wolf and the lion when we're not ready yet?'

'Delay you say, make haste I reply! Even the finest juggler cannot keep a hundred balls in the air forever."

The memory of Arya overhearing Varys verbalising his struggle to maintain control, to prevent the War of the Five Kings even as Ned and Cersei hurtled towards each other like runaway trains, flashed across my mind as Olenna snorted contemptuously.

"Only a man would expect a rotten structure to stand strong till the moment of his own choosing."

I gave her a rueful smirk. "Indeed, but for all that Varys only failed by a handful of moons. He was to reveal Cersei's betrayal the moment Khal Drogo landed. It would see King Robert's rule descending into total chaos as the great houses fall upon each other in bloody vengeance even as the Dothraki ravaged the countryside in the name of Viserys Targaryen. Or Daenerys now that he's gotten himself killed, they care not which as they know not that the eggs she has been gifted will hatch."

Everyone winced as they could see the catastrophe unfolding. Cersei undoubtedly killed by a wrathful Robert, old Jon Arryn poisoned and claimed to be dead from the shock. Baratheon and Lannister falling upon each other in a blood feud like no other with the Tullys caught between them and the Vale tearing itself apart as Robin Arryn's parentage was called into question. All while the royal succession hung by a thread and the great houses circled like vultures even as the Dothraki hordes set the realm ablaze.

"With both Robert and Daenerys proven to be worthless rulers, ripping the realm apart with their blood feuds and savagery, from nowhere a handsome saviour would suddenly land. A gift from the Seven themselves, the perfect prince, the perfect husband for Margaery, with the blood of Elia to call upon the support of Dorne. Peace would quickly return to the Reach and Dorne, then his armies would march east and north into the ravaged lands to battle exhausted opponents. Proving that Aegon VI Targaryen is the one true king, chosen by the Seven to banish both the bloated old cuckold king and the mad queen of the savages. Bringing order, safety, justice, and peace back to the Seven Kingdoms."

Silence descended on the solar at the sheer audacity at what I'd concluded from the scraps available had been the original plan for Aegon Blackfyre.

"I'm really going to enjoy squashing that Spider." The Queen of Thorns vowed.


Renaissance Princes and Farmer George

The two monarchs with the highest popularity and best records of achievement that ruled England in the renaissance period, or the very early modern period, were Elizabeth I of England and James VI of Scotland / I of England. Though it shouldn't be hidden that both have major black marks on their records*

Both prioritised compromise and working with Parliament and their nobles rather than trying to exercise absolute power. Though Elizabeth got quite the reputation for cowing her ministers with sheer force of personality this would not have been remarkable in a man. Indeed, many remarked on how James was far more conciliatory and quieter than Elizabeth, having no need to fight to be heard due to dismissal due to his gender.

Opponents often used the disparaging quote 'Elizabeth was King, now James is Queen.' Which doubled as an attack both on James' rejection of the renaissance prince belief of absolute royal power and on his sexuality as he was one of three LGBT English monarchs.

By contrast the renaissance or very early modern monarchs that believed in the renaissance prince ideal the most were Henry VIII, Mary I, and Charles I. Henry and Mary are remembered as brutal tyrants inflexibly demanding allegiance to their absolute power. Charles, though he wasn't solely responsible, led England into the Civil War. The war with the biggest death toll per capita England has suffered to date.

While George III is obviously remembered poorly due to the American Revolution, it should be remembered that the Declaration of Independence was written as a post facto revolution justification propaganda document, a national rallying cry, and a military recruiting tool. It did its job exceptionally well and is a true work of art. But only two of the seventeen charges it lays against George III are actually true. Most of America's grievances were due to the actions and decisions of Parliament. Which as a constitutional monarch, George felt honour bound to back.

At home in Britain George III was exceedingly popular for all but a handful of years of his reign. He was known affectionately as 'Farmer George' towards the last lucid years of his reign due to his interest in 'mundane matters', including the ongoing advances in science and chemistry driving the British agricultural revolution. He was the only monarch of the House of Hanover (George I, II, III, IV, William II) to truly have the affection of the majority of the British people, shown by contempary accounts of nationwide rejoicing the first couple of times he recovered from the recurring mental illness that would eventually leave him permanently insane for the last ten years of his life.

The post 1700 monarchs of Britain that are perceived as 'dull' and interested in 'mundane matters' (George III, V, VI, and Elizabeth II) are, ironically, the ones the public have loved and respected the most.

*Elizabeth's was overseeing the first steps to English of colonisation of the Americas. James's was convincing the English and Scottish parliaments to settle some of their protestant subjects in north-eastern Ireland at the expense of the catholic Irish in an attempt to turn Ireland protestant via demographics rather than conversion.