Disclaimer – This fanfiction was not written by me; it belongs to the user Gladiusone on alternatehistory & spacebattles, by publishing it here I only intend to bring it to a wider audience and make it available for offline reading. I do not claim any ownership of the content.

A Game of Kings and SIs

Chapter 3

The great hall rang with the golden tones of trumpets, and the massive doors opened, and the massed crowd of the Realm's notables turned and bowed low as Cersei and I, flanked by the gloriously armed and armoured Kingsguard, strode ion a stately fashion down the aisle towards the dais. The skulls of the previous dynasty's dragons had been removed from the walls, and instead the banners of the Seven Kingdoms hung from the walls, the massive stain-glassed windows shaped into seven-pointed stars letting in the morning light to illuminate the court. A low rumble of muttered 'Your Grace,' 'Seven blessings, Your Grace,' and the like followed us as we climbed up to where a heavy oak throne, carved by entwined lions and stags was set up next to the massive, Lovecraftian-splendour of the Iron Throne. I helped Cersei sit into her slightly-smaller throne, then carefully took my own seat on the Iron Throne, having taken some private time in the last few weeks to ensure that I was well aware of where all the sharp bits were, so as not to either cut myself or let my formal robes catch on any protrusion.

Taking a moment, I waited until the crowd had quieted down into an expectant hush. As the silence grew, it was as if the nobles, septons, guildmasters and ambassadors were leaning forward to hear what I had to say. It was a little trick I learned in school, making sure that the audience's attention was on me.

Finally, I nodded to Ser Barristan, who stepped forward and announced, "Announcing: His Grace, Robert Barratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." He bowed, and withdrew.

Raising a hand, I called out, "Before we begin, I would like the High Septon to say a few words, and offer his blessing for this gathering." That caused something of a stir, not least because Robert wasn't exactly known for his piety, or bothering to indulge any of his court who were. The septon, however, had been prepared by previous consultations with myself and Jon, and stepped forward with confidence, regal in his rich robes and crystal throne. I had no idea if this was the same high septon as had featured in the first book, due to the practice of each new high septon relinquishing his names, personal and family. He seemed a little slender to be the priest known as 'The Fat One', but then again there was a decade and a half to go before that description would have been coined, so it's possible ... either way, he seemed to be at least partially competent, and we had had several conversations regarding the treatment of the poor, the education of the smallfolk, and the codification of the Faith: I felt that he would be extremely useful in years to come.

The high septon cleared his throat, and began his blessing. "We call upon the Father ..."

*** *** ***

What followed was fairly standard: I judged several former loyalist nobles who had fought against me in the Rebellion (three I pardoned and welcomed their pledges of fealty, the fourth I sent to the Wall), ruled on several outstanding legal cases, heard the letters of several Essosi rulers (or at least their secretaries) congratulating me on my wedding, and accepted several gifts from various ambassadors.

Finally, after the last petitioner withdrew, Ser Barristan stepped forward, and knelt before the Throne. "Your Grace: may I speak?"

Like most court events, this was as much drama and entertainment as legalities: we had choreographed this exchange as well. I lifted my hand in benediction. "Of course, Ser Barristan. Your wisdom and experience is a gift to us all, as is your loyal service."

"Thank you, Your Grace. But it is regarding my service that I must speak. For centuries, the seven brothers of the Kingsguard have defended the crown, the royal family and the realm with our lives and honour."

"Indeed," I intoned, nodding. "And you have done well. Those who wear the White have never failed in their charge, whilst breath remained in them."

This caused a stir, and many heads turned to the spot where Jaime stood, but beneath his gilded armour and pristine cloak, he ignored them. Fuck them: how many cities did they protect from a mad ruler?

Ser Barristan continued. "Unfortunately, since the war, our Order has been reduced in number, and at present only three remain: myself, Ser Jaime, and Ser Kirin," he named the young Ironborn knight who had taken his vows not long after my coronation.

"A sad situation," I agreed, "Especially since you are now charged with protecting both myself and my beloved queen," I added, leaning over and taking her hand, offering her a reassuring smile, before turning back to the Lord Commander. "Doing so with only three knights must be a challenge to even warriors of your stature and reputation."

"As you say, Your Grace. In order to fulfill our duty, the Kingsguard must be brought back to full strength ... and expanded."

This time it wasn't just a stir, but the court instead exploded, with many crying out in shock or surprise, and many others in anger. The size of the Kingsguard was a hallowed tradition: seven knights, one for each of the New Gods, one for each of the Kingdoms ... it was unthinkable!

I held up my hand for silence, but the shouting and arguing continued, until Ser Jaime grabbed the spear from a nearby Gold Cloak, and slammed the iron-shod butt of the weapon into the flagstones, bringing silence and all eyes to him.

"Thank you, Ser Jaime," I said seriously, and he nodded back, bowing slightly, not letting go of his borrowed spear. "Ser Barristan," I spoke again, turning the court's attention back to the knight, "This is an unusual suggestion: the Kingsguard is, by tradition, limited to seven knights. To expand your brotherhood beyond those numbers is against tradition and precedent. However," I smiled slightly, "Not against law, or good sense. It has long concerned that the protection of both myself, my queen, and any of our children was placed in the hands of so small a band of warriors, no matter how noble. I presume, however, that you do not suggest that we turn your ancient order into an army?"

"Of course not, Your Grace," he responded instantly, as though mildly offended at the suggestion. "In order to retain the honour, dignity and concentrated strength of our brotherhood, we cannot simply accept any applicant: we must still hold only the strongest, most skilful, and most honourable knights within our ranks. I had hoped, in all, to expand our numbers to seven-times-seven."

I let the newest round of murmurs to die out before responding. "Forty-nine knights, and when one adds the king, an even fifty: very auspicious and appropriate, large enough to be a strong guard against the enemies of the crown, but small enough to remain an elite amongst the Realm." I turned to the High Septon. "Holiness, may I ask you for your opinion?"

The priest stepped forward, leaning heavily on his ornate staff. "As you say, Your Grace, forty-nine is an auspicious number. The number seven stands symbol of the seven gods, and seven times that number is honour sevenfold ..." He drifted off for a few minutes into theological details that went way over my head, but it all sounded impressive to me. "So, in all, Your Grace, the Faith can only applaud and welcome this adjustment to the traditions of the Realm, which can only make our Kingdoms safer and more stable."

I nodded, and rose from the Throne. As I did so, the assembled great-and-good of the Realm fell to their knees in genuflection. "So be it," I intoned, my voice echoing throughout the court. "Funds and facilities shall be henceforth provided to the Order of the Kingsguard, so that they may recruit from the honoured knights of the Seven Kingdoms, and increase their number to an authorised forty nine. I leave the details of this task in your capable hands, Ser Barristan. You have never failed in your duty to the Throne, Lord Commander, no matter who has sat upon it. I do not expect you to fail now. You have my utmost faith."

Ser Barristan stood, and drew his sword, raising the blade before his face in salute.

Abruptly, the court exploded into cheers and shouts of support. If anyone objected, they wisely kept silent.

*** *** ***

Lord Jeffari Cowan, newly named Master of Works, frowned as he tossed the lump of concrete from one hand to the other. "It seems solid enough," he reasoned, taking his time to evaluate the material. "For certain, I have seen decent castles and keeps built from worse stone. You say your fellow made this?"

Standing in a corner of the workshop, Horin stood with his hands clasped in front of him, doing his best to avoid the piercing gaze of the older, more nobly born engineer. He still wore a simple brown robe, but it was of a finer cut than his old clothes, as befitted one of the king's personal servants. Officially, he was my scribe and secretary. Unofficially ...

... No wonder the kid's uncomfortable, I reasoned, ignoring the fact that the 'kid' was likely half a decade older than my current body. He's not thrilled at passing my ideas along as his own, but he's smart enough to realise that he stands to profit more, both for himself and his family, by playing along.

"Depends," I snorted, gulping at some wine. The alcohol was well watered, so it looked like I was guzzling like there was no tomorrow, but was barely more than flavoured water. "That lump? Sure. If you mean the idea? Hardly. Young Horin found a battered old book when he was in Oldtown, and brought it along with him when he came to the capital. Bloody thing's torn and half burnt, but you can make out a fair bit, and it's chock full of nifty little ideas."

Horin spoke up. "Quick lime, milord," he stated calmly, "Sand, and gravel, mixed well with water. This forms a slurry that can be shaped, like wax in a mould. I am still refining the mixture, but the results are, um, promising." He swallowed. "Milord. Your Grace." He stepped back and bowed his head again.

Jeffari placed the chunk of concrete back on the table, then glanced at the plate covered with the grey powder. "I can see the benefits," he said thoughtfully, rubbing his fingers through his short beard. "You could build walls where there was no native stone, like building with mud bricks, but as hard as stone - just ship in a few dozen wagons of this stuff, and mix with local gravel and sand. Still, crushing up that much gravel is almost as much work as cutting stone."

"Cheaper," I added, "'Cause you don't exactly need master stonemasons - just a bunch of guys with hammers." I pointed to the table, where both a foot-long tube of concrete and a rough statue of the same material sat. "Plus, you can mould the stuff like clay or, as you say, mud. Make whatever shape you want ... or thousands of things that have the exact same shape."

He glanced over at me, and I gulped down some more wine. Careful: don't be too insightful, Bobby-boy. Remember, Horin's the genius, you just pay the bills. "Look, I just thought it'd be useful. If you reckon it's more trouble than it's worth?" I shrugged. "No skin off my nose."

Jeffari raised a hand. "Forgive me, Your Grace ... I was in no way rejecting your servant's gift. This material ... if it works, it may save a great deal of the Realm's coin as I fulfil the tasks you have presented me with when you granted me my new position. Although ... some masons - many, for that matter - may resist learning to use a new material or technique. In many way, we builders are as hidebound as any knight," he gave a somewhat self-deprecating smile, which I returned with a bright grin.

"Then cashier the bastards and hire ones who're willing to learn. I'm sure that after a while watching their competition flourish, they'll decide that learning a new trick isn't beneath them after all. Or they'll starve to death. Either way."

The Master of Works wasn't quite convinced, but had no intention of contradicting the king. "If I may move on? I have men inspecting the sewers, drains and aqueducts within the city, clearing away the damage from the siege and from their reports we can begin to plan for repairs and improvements." He paused. "Are you sure you wish to put such expense into the sewers? I know that the shit in the street doesn't exactly improve the city's odour, but it is hard to find a city that doesn't smell."

I snorted. "Sometimes it seems like you're either smelling rotting seaweed, tons of shit or lots of perfume, and it's hard to know which is worse!" We shared a small laugh before I continued. "Still, cities with decent sewers tend to suffer less from plague, so the maesters say. Of course, the septons say plagues are a divine punishment on us for our wicked ways. Me, I've seen holy men die of the flux after drinking from water downstream from the camp, and brutal sons of bitches get along just fine drinking from upstream, so I'm more inclined to believe the maesters when they talk about miasmas and such than the septons. More importantly," I raised an eyebrow, "I'm the one sitting in that damned metal chair, so it's my opinion that counts. Good enough for you?" I smiled to take the edge off the question, and the lord bowed his head with good graces.

"Of course, Your Grace. Now, as with the sewers, I have good men inspecting the roads throughout the Crownlands. The Kingsroad is, of course, in excellent shape, but there are issues with some of the lesser pathways ..."

*** *** ***

"A remarkable system, Your Grace," observed Lord Eldon Estermont, running his fingers over the lines of script on the page. "A clear method of understanding where the coin comes from, and where it goes. Better yet, one that is very difficult to fool: if there is a discrepancy, one can locate it with little effort, and discern who made the error, and when."

I shrugged. "Eh. Counting coppers isn't my idea of fun, but one of my clerks suggested this. Said he learned it from a Bravosi banker or some such, I didn't pay all that much attention. Still, seems to work." Double entry bookkeeping, may the Old Gods and the New bless the money-grubbing Italian bankers who dreamed it up. It wasn't perfect, but it was a damned sight better than the almost random piles of promissory notes, letters of debt, accounts and records and all other such which cluttered the Master of Coin's offices. "I assume that you're undertaking an actual accounting of the physical treasury, rather than taking the previous Master's records on faith?"

The elderly lord smiled through his thick, white beard. "Your Grace, I began just such an accounting because I found it exceedingly difficult to read his records! Man had a hand like a spider's web. Still, he at least had the decency to leave behind a few clerks who could recognise his 'system', as we may laughingly call it, and I believe we should have things in order in good time."

"Wonderful: I knew you were the man for the job! But better hurry: the new Master of Works is bound to be pestering you pretty damned fast for funds, 'cause from what I hear, roads and walls and things cost a pretty dragon or two - and I don't mean the coins!"

Eldon snorted. "True, and he'll be bleeding my accounts dry as fast as I can fill them: I know the sort. Still, it's a good investment: King's Landing is perhaps the largest city in Westeross, and has an enormous appetite for food, cloth, fuel, raw materials of all sort, and only a fraction of that flood can be borne by ships. Most comes from the Crownlands by road, and if the roads are better maintained, then more goods can be transported, which means more tarrifs, taxes and fees."

Hell, this guy actually knows what he's talking about! He's wasted as a feudal lord, but I'll take any advantage I can wrest from this messed-up universe. "True, but he won't be the only one. There's another Small Council member who'll be knocking on your door pretty soon, and he might not be as polite ..."

*** *** ***

I pulled my horse to a halt, the sound of stamping boots and clattering harness spooking the beast, but I kept a firm grip. Cersei was true to her word: she had helped me find a decent estate near the capital, with a strong keep, plenty of drill room, and a lord who had no further need of it ... or his head, for that matter. Now it was the home of the new Royal Army, the beginnings of which now marched past my horse.

In all honesty, it wasn't much to look at. Barely four hundred men, in miss-matched armour and rough clothes, or the uniforms of various lords from across the Seven Kingdoms. They weren't exactly a precision drill team, either, but their backs were straight, and they held their weapons like they knew how to use them.

"I know they aren't all that pretty, Your Grace," commented Ser Vollan Tyrek, the Valeman sitting stiffly on his horse. "I've only had them for a week. Still, some of the lads are shaping up nicely, and I've got a nice core of veterans to build around."

"I don't care much about pretty," I admitted, casting my eyes over the marching troops, "But we can't have them marching about in rusty chain and battered plates, with the badges of half the bloody kingdoms on their backs. Bad for morale, if nothing else. I want every man in half-plate, with good boots and a decent uniform ... green, I reckon."

Ser Vollan's face was impassive. "That much plate will be expensive."

"Maybe, but it'll be worth it in the long run. Moreover, it'll tell the men that we're not going to use them as wall-fodder. I don't want peasant levies, Vollan: I want a solid, professional force. Discipline, man, that's the key. You can read, right?"

Vollan blinked at the sudden question. "Yes, Your Grace." He winced. "Not, perhaps, as well as I should."

"Right. I'll send over a book I found in the Keep. Dusty old tome, and the translation's tough to follow, but it's all about the old Ghiscari legions. How they trained, how they drilled, formations, tactics, logistics.

"Drill them hard, Ser Vollan. Push them 'till they drop, then push them some more. The more they sweat, the less they'll bleed."

Vollan raised an eyebrow. "Humph. Nice turn of phrase: mind if I steal that?"

I laughed, and slapped the Valeman on the shoulder. "Why not? I sure as hells did!"

*** *** ***

Steel scraped on steel, and grunts of effort and yelps of pain, combined with curses and shouted orders, filled the courtyard as knights from across the Seven Kingdoms duelled under the sharp, Lannister-green eyes of their overseer. I stood watching from above, with Ser Barristan standing beside me on the balcony. "I see Ser Jaime is quite the taskmaster," I observed, and the leader of the White Cloaks nodded.

"He's taken to it with a will. Any young blade who thinks he's garunteed a place is quickly taught a lesson in the realities of war: there's always someone better than you."

We watched as the Kingslayer singled out a knight who had handily defeated three opponents in a row, and proceeded to reduce the boy to tears with effortless strokes of his sword. "I'm told he was your squire once," I noted.

"Aye, during the fight against the Kingswood Brotherhood. He did well, and Arthur Dayne knighted him after that battle." We both paused, the silence between us broken only by the noise from the courtyard below. Dayne had died, fighting Ned Stark and his men at the Tower of Joy, at the end of the Rebellion.

"We all lost people we loved in that war," I said finally, and the older knight nodded, acknowledging that he didn't blame me ... much. "In any case, how are the renovations going?"

"We've got more stonemasons and carpenters blundering about the tower than you can shake a lance at, and some of the new brothers object to living in what used to be servant's quarters, but by the end we should have enough space for the expanded Kingsguard and our squires. Currently our numbers stand at nine, and we have three more candidates ready to take their vows tomorrow. I understand if you're too busy to attend ..."

"Ser Barristan, these men are vowing to devote their lives, honour and souls to the defence of myself, my family and the Realm," I said in a serious tone. "I would be honoured to stand with them to witness their vows."

*** *** ***

I groaned as I poured myself into bed.

"What have you to complain about?" smiled Cersei as she sat at her mirror, applying a lotion to her arms before bed. "All you did was ride about and talk to people all day! I had dress fittings, preparations for tomorrow's banquet, had to listen to hours of dreary poetry ..."

I grunted. "Being king is damned hard work. Meetings, reports, decisions - pay for this, build that, put that off for now, tax that, oh, and if you screw up, thousands of people die." I scrubbed my hands over my face as I lay my head back on the pillow. "Seven hells, I should have just dropped the whole mess in Ned's lap and gone for a sellsword in the Free Cities!"

My queen stood up and walked over to the bed. Well, less walked and more stalked. "Well, then," she said, still smiling, as her robe slipped off her shoulders, revealing her to be gloriously naked beneath it, "That would have been a shame, as I doubt my father would have agreed to marry me to a common sellsword."

"Then again," I grinned, reaching out for her, "I guess the Throne isn't that uncomfortable ..."

*** *** ***

It was a far smaller flotilla that sailed into the harbour than had left. Three galleys and six carracks, and many who saw them despaired, believing that the king's brother had run afoul of the Loyalist fleet. However, the vessels flew bright flags and streamers, and as they came close to land, soldiers and sailors cheered and laughed, sending tidings of victory.

Dragonstone was taken.

*** *** ***

Lord Stannis Barratheon marched through the great doors, Ser Davos at his side, the sailor-knight looking distinctively uncomfortable in both his fancy clothes and his surroundings. Stannis ignored the assembled great-and-good of the Realm, and fell to one knee before the dais, his head bowing low, Ser Davos right behind him.

My voice boomed through the great hall, the acoustics of the room conspiring with Robert's leather-lungs to ensure that everyone could hear me. "Brother! You have returned! What news of Dragonstone?" Of course, he had sent a runner ahead with his written report, but court appearances like this were the medieval equivalent of press conferences and official statements: the best way to get information to the movers and shakers of the Seven Kingdoms.

Stannis raised his head and his voice. "The news is victory, Your Grace," he said firmly, and the crowd erupted into cheers, to have the rumours confirmed. "The enemy fleet was decimated in a storm before we had even left port, and the lords of Dragonstone were falling over themselves to surrender once we sailed into their harbours! What few of them who resisted, we defeated handily! Aboard the vessels of the Royal Fleet I have in chains those lords who refused to bend the knee, or their heads, whichever was most convenient to take back with me!" The court cheered again, with a more bloodthirsty edge to it.

I raised a hand for silence, and after a few moments, the people quieted down. "And what of the Targaryens?"

Stannis did not hesitate to respond. "Here I must admit failure, Your Grace," he said firmly, and a rustle flowed through the crowd. "The garrison had planned to hand over the two they had in their court, a boy and a newborn girl, but they vanished in the night. I believe a troop of Loyalist knights managed to spirit them away, possibly with help from the citadel servants - I have men scouring the island for them, but it is likely that the whelps are already at sea." He bowed his head again, this time in shame. "I take full responsibility."

The court was silent for a few moments, before I stood up from the Iron Throne. The crown of antlers atop my head glittered in the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows of the hall, and the air of the room was filled only by the tramp of my boot heels on the flagstones of the dais as I descended to stand in front of my brother.

I looked down at him for another moment, before reaching down. "Well done, my true and faithful brother," I said, and he blinked as I pulled him to his feet. "Never have I doubted the courage and valour you possess, and never have I been prouder to be proven right!

"I asked you to hold Storm's End against all comers, and you did, without question or complaint. I asked you to take Dragonstone, and so you have, without asking for recognition or reward. So let us hear no more of 'failure': this is a day of victory!" I took Stannis's shoulders in my hands and pulled him into an embrace, and the crowd cheered.

"Laying it on a bit thick," Stannis whispered roughly into my ear, and I grinned.

"Eh, part of being a bloody king: we're as much actors as rulers. But I speak true: you have done well, and I am proud to call you my brother."

"The Targaryens -"

"Fuck the Targaryens! They're gone, either dead or in exile. The children may have already drowned at sea, or their 'rescuers' may just be trying to get a better ransom for them. It doesn't matter: the dragon's power is broken." I pulled back, and clapped him on the shoulders again. "Stannis Barratheon," I intoned, so that all could hear, "I would name you Master of Ships, and place you in charge of the Realm's navies and shipyards, to defeat our foes at sea, and protect our coasts. Will you take your place in the Small Council, and help me rule this Realm?"

He response was without hesitation. "I would be honoured, Your Grace!"

I embraced him again, and the court erupted in more cheering. "Have you decided?" I asked him quietly, "Now that you've seen Dragonstone?"

"Dragonstone is a cold, wet, black rock in the middle of the ocean, with the ugliest castle I've ever seen," Stannis replied. "If you are still willing, I would take my seat at Storm's End."

"Done," I whispered, and slapped him on the shoulder. "Brother," I cried, and he raised an eyebrow. "You have served myself and the Realm with distinction, and have offered no complaint, nor begged any favour. When I asked you to take up another burden, you did so without hesitation.

"You held Storm's End during the war against the Tyrant. Will you hold it now, and for the rest of your life, and pass it on to your children? Will you become Lord Paramount of the Stormlands?"

Stannis fell to one knee before me. "I would be honoured."

"Then rise, Lord Stannis Barratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Master of Ships, and Lord of Storm's End."

*** *** ***

We feasted that night, sang and cheered and toasted, told stories of valour, heard the captains of Stannis' force as they told their tales of conquering Dragonstone. Wine and ale flowed freely, and epic platters of meat and fruits and all sorts of produce were consumed.

Throughout it all, Cersei sat at my side, putting on the face of the regal queen, but I could see that she was uncomfortable. I sidled over to her, smiling ruefully. "I know it is not a feast of refinement, fine dancing and clever conversation," I admitted, "This is more of a Stormlands feast, in honour of my brother - not that he's enjoying it as much as the rest are," I nodded to where Stannis sat, drinking a lot less than his companions. "He always was a dour, cheerless sort," I confided, not unkindly, and raised a goblet in toast to the victorious war leader, who silently returned the gesture. "Still, next feast, I promise, will be catered to your taste. Fine music, dancing, delicacies from across the Kingdoms ... I leave it completely in your lovely hands."

Cersei smiled in response. "Thank you, Robert," she said, and there seemed to be a sincere light in her eyes. Or I'm just seeing what I want to see. "I shall attempt to avoid draining the treasury completely," she covered her mouth delicately with one hand to conceal her sudden grin.

I shrugged. "As long as I've got enough left to pay for my drinks, that's fine with me."

*** *** ***

"How's your head?" I asked as Stannis and I circled one another, practice swords in our hands.

Stannis growled. "I think this is the first time in years I've had a worse hangover than yours. Where the hells did this new sobriety come from? And don't say it's being married to that Lannister woman: one look at her and I can tell she'd drive even a saint to drink!"

I grunted as I blocked a sudden stroke and swung one in return, which Stannis deftly parried before almost taking my head off with a nifty move that I barely saw coming. "Let's just say that there are ... ugh ... compensations." My weeks of morning training were paying off, but Stannis was just back from a hard, sharp fight. I had the advantages of strength, durability and reach, while he was faster and, to be honest, a more natural swordsman. "I just don't have time to be a drunk anymore!" I thrust low, then caught a riposte on my shield, then spun about to hit him from the other direction, which he barely sidestepped.

"You're trickier when you're sobre," he stated, shifting his grip.

"And you're slower when you're hung over: I should make sure you get drunk every night!" I laughed as our blades clashed again and again, the sound of steel scraping on steel filling the courtyard.

Later, we sat in the shade as our pages scurried about to bring boiled water flavoured with fruit juice (my new favourite drink) and very well-watered wine. I nibbled on a piece of cheese as I waited for my body to stop sweating. I looked over to where the Onion Knight stood, waiting for his master. "Not feeling like practicing today, Ser Davos?" I asked cheerfully.

The older man smiled ruefully, and held up his gloved hand. "I fear my fingers have yet to heal - what of them I have left, that is," he said, but bowed respectfully. "I can hold a blade, but I'd never be able to grip a shield, not yet. Besides, fighting aboard ship never really called for shieldwork."

"Yer a knight now," growled Stannis, wiping his balding forhead with a cloth. "You'll have to learn. Horse and lance, too."

"It may be too late for that, milord," said Davos with a shrug. "But I have four sons, with a fifth child on the way: they may yet get the learning and graces I never had." Along with his title, Stannis had granted Davos a small keep and some land on the Cape Wrath peninsula, which was where his wife and children were now residing, adjusting to their new lifestyle.

"If you can't find anyone to take your boys on, send 'em to me," stated Stannis, taking a cup of wine from a page with a grunt, annoyed at having to wait.

"And I'll take any he can't," I added. Hmmm: not such a bad idea. Perhaps a Royal school for the nobility? Gather them together at the capital, have some of the best knights in the Realm tutor the boys, make sure the girls at least learn how to read, let them mingle and get to know one another in a safe environment ... a thought for later. "Ser Davos," I continued, "I wanted to ask: how would you rate the Royal fleet? As a sailing man, of course."

He raised an eyebrow. "The fleet? To be honest, I've spent most of my life avoiding the Royal fleet, and I'm still getting used to sailing on ships flying it's banners."

"Yes, yes, but how well do they sail? Do their crews know their business? Their captains?"

He looked uncomfortable. "Your Grace ... the fleet is a proud body of men, with many fine sailors aboard. The captains are mostly men of good family, some are knights, some are even lords. Not a one of them isn't a proven fighter, and leader of men."

"But?" I pressed.

Stannis leaned in also. "Speak the truth, Ser Davos, that's why I keep you around."

Davos took a breath. "Your Grace, milord, for the most part they're good men, these captains, but not one in four was a seaman before being given the rank, and it shows. Back -" he hesitated, but continued at my nod, "Back when I was still a smuggler, I could generally tell who was in command by how their ships sailed, and I knew who I could out-sail, and who I had to run from. Most have sailing masters, seasoned hands who know their ships, the seas and the weather, but a lot of the captains don't listen to their advice, and the word of the captain is law, no matter -" He stopped. "I shouldn't say more, ain't my place."

"Bull," I snorted, gulping down my drink. "You're saying that our fleet needs more captains who know about sailing, rather than knights who think a ship is just a big, wet horse. Men who know how to judge the winds, navigate by the stars, can plan around the tides and have a better idea about shipboard tactics than just 'ram them!' Am I right?"

Davos shifted. "Your Grace," he began, but facing down two Baratheon glowers, he sighed. "That's about it, your Grace."

I nodded, then turned to Stannis. "There's your first task as Master of Ships. Fix it."

He snorted. "What, casheir all our fighting ship captains and put smugglers, pirates and traders in their place?"

"No, but keep that as a backup plan." Oh, the irony. "I want you to get the better captains - have Ser Davos help you work out which are which - to start taking on apprentices. Good lads, sons of knights and lords, but get them young. Call them sea-squires or something, and have them sail aboard the ships. Have the captains and crews train them, make sure they learn how to handle sail, how to outrun storms, tell a lee from a yardarm, whatever. Make sure they learn their business, then when they get older, promote them to officers.

"It won't fix the problem right now, but in twenty years, the Royal Navy will be the most professional force on the sea."

Stannis blinked. "But as you say, that'll take twenty years to get done."

"Then we haven't a minute to waste."

Davos frowned, thinking hard. "But where'll we put them? Space aboard ship is cramped as it is."

I shrugged. "I'm sure you can find a place amidships, or something. Work it out."

*** *** ***

The fires roared and the hammers fell, striking sparks from the iron as I toured the forge. The Street of Steel was one of the most concentrated collections of armourers in the world, and little things like civil wars did little to dampen their industry. True, more were making nails and chains for the navy and to help rebuild the city than forging plate armour or knightly swords, but the iron didn't care what use it was being put to, just that it was well struck.

In my other life, I grew up in Wollongong, a city built on coal and steel, within distance of Port Kembla and the steelworks of BHP. My father worked there until his retirement, and one of my grandfather's, too. So I was a little disappointed at the scale of King's Landing's forges: they were small, piddling things, barely up to the task of smelting steel at all. Bellows were pumped by hand, mostly by apprentices, fires were mostly fed by charcoal, and plates of steel were hammered out by hand. Oh, there were some innovations, but it was all pretty basic. It was the individual skill and hard work of the smiths that turned out the magnificent plate armour of the knights of Westeross.

"... so you see, Your Grace, so much plate is hard to make cheaply," insisted Donal Noye, a long-time Baratheon soldier and smith, as he waved his remaining arm about to indicate the forges. He was the one who had forged my warhammer, and Stannis' first sword. He had lost a lot of his fire since his arm was taken during the Siege of Storm's End, and he was making noises about taking the Black, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. "If you insist on armouring your soldiers in significant numbers, even just breastplates and helms, it will take an age and a fortune. Good steel costs, in both coin and, more importantly, time. When a smith is forging a helm, he can't be forging anything else."

Horin, looking more comfortable in his livery, was getting more used to speaking to important figures. "So if we reduce the labour involved, perhaps we could produce more steel faster, for less."

Noye stopped, and frowned at the clerk. "What in the Seven Hells are you talking about, boy?"

Horin refused to back down. "I have seen the great Wheel of Riverrun which is used to raise and lower the Water Gate. It occurs to me that a great number of men would be required to match the feat using only hands and rope." He waved at the apprentices working on the bellows, their backs aching and their bodies covered with sweat. "If we used a waterwheel, perhaps fed from the Blackwater, or even set up a new forge upriver where the flow is stronger, we could harness the power of the river to pump bellows that were larger than any man could work by hand. We could push the flames higher, burning hotter than humanly possible, reducing both the manpower it takes to forge steel, and the time the same would take. More, I have heard of Riverlanders using their waterwheels to drive massive hammers, tirelessly striking steel for hours with weights that no smith could lift."

Noye's eyes narrowed. "And what will the apprentices be doing, now that you've taken away their work?"

He shrugged. "Learning how to smith. What else?"

I interrupted before Noye could explode. "It's an idea," I said calmly. "Let's give it a try: find me some smiths who aren't afraid to try new things, masters if you can, but journeymen may be better. Find a plot of land upriver, and build a watermill ... no. Call it a 'steel mill'. I'll talk to Lord Estermont, he'll give you the gold you'll need. If it works, it'll be worth every Stag."

I strode off, leaving the smith and the clerk to talk, Noye looking overwhelmed as Horin's ideas overflowed. "... and there's no reason why we can't use the same technique to cut wood as well, turning out boards faster and easier than by traditional sawpits ..."

*** *** ***

The estate used to belong to a Loyalist family, but now it was the home of the new Royal army. After weeks of drilling, almost five hundred men stood in steady ranks before the platform, the stone walls of the keep behind them in the distance across the parade ground. Most still lacked armour, and what they had was mismatched and came from many different kingdoms, but all wore good boots (although a few still limped as they were getting used to their new footwear) and had green cloaks of good wool draped over their shoulders. Some were pale men from the North, others had the dark skin of Dorn, while others had features that declared themselves to be Reachmen, Westerlanders or even from across the Narrow Sea.

Ser Barristan stood behind me, while Stannis sat next to me on the dais. Ser Vollan approached the platform, having completed his inspection. He drew himself up to attention, and bowed. "The Royal Army is prepared, Your Grace," he bellowed, loud enough so that every one of the soldiers could hear, and I could feel them draw themselves up in pride.

Slowly, I stood up from my chair, and took a deep breath.

"Soldiers of the Realm," I began, projecting my voice as well as I could. "For that is what you are: not the bully boys of a minor noble, or the palace soldiers of a prince. You are the first, the steel-hard core of something new: an army not for a single lord, or a single kingdom, but the beginning of a true force to protect the Seven Kingdoms!

"I'm sure you have all heard the rumours," I continued, letting a smile enter my voice. "That the king has decided to play toy soldiers, now that the war is all but over. That the Realm already has the Goldcloaks, with their centuries old traditions. That a force of raggedy foot-sloggers will never match the power of mounted horse and a knight's lance.

"To those rumours, I say, 'Come and see them, my fighting foot. Come and see the hardest working, hardest fighting, best led soldiers in any of the Seven Realms!" Murmers of agreement and shifting boots filled the ranks, as backs straightened and chins lifted. "You have learned how to move at command, how to anticipate orders, how to work as a team. More than simple warriors, you have become a part of something greater. In the coming weeks and months, you will work even harder, mastering sword, pike and crossbow. You will learn the methods of defeating cavalry, of bringing the greatest knights of the Realm to their knees, of crushing mighty keeps before you. You will learn how to stand tall and proud, to face down enemies who think themselves invincible, and see them driven before you.

"I fought Rhaegar at the Trident," I said, and all eyes were on me as I suddenly shifted topic. "I did not slay him with the glittering point of my lance, or the gleaming length of my sword!" I reached down and picked up the heavy, steel weapon at my feet, lifting it over my head. "I swung my hammer, and the Dragon fell at my feet! It isn't a pretty weapon, that fill tales and songs. It isn't a toy to use at tourney, to impress ladies or intimidate young knights at the list! It is a weapon to crush, brutalise, destroy! It is a weapon of war, and I would have no other at my side when I go to battle! Men," I lowered my hammer, holding the shaft in both hands before me, "I would rather lead you into the fire than a thousand flowery knights. I would rather have you at my backs than a thousand Goldcloaks. Will you be my Warhammers?"

The parade ground was silent. I felt a shiver down my spine, a sudden fear that I had misjudged the moment, that I had just made a fool out of myself.

Then one of the soldiers raised his fist above his head. "Warhammers," he cried, and the shout was quickly taken up, just a few at first, but at each repetition the chant grew louder and louder, gathering momentum and energy as more and more fists and voices were raised.

"Warhammers! Warhammers! Warhammers!"

I silently lifted my hammer above my head again, and the cries disintegrated into a pure, wordless cry of emotion, fists pumping in the air and boots stomping on the ground as the dust of the beaten earth parade ground was stirred.

"Warhammers! Warhammers! Warhammers!"

I have my army, now, I thought. Now I just have to make sure I'm worthy of them.

"Warhammers! Warhammers! Warhammers!"

*** *** ***

I looked up from my plate, my knife hanging idly from my fingers. "You seem quiet tonight, my lady," I ventured, and Ceresi shrugged.

"I have had a tiring day - as have you, by all the dust the servants were cleaning off your boots and cloak this afternoon," she said with a smile, and I couldn't help smiling back.

"The Realm never sleeps, so the King can sleep but a little," I intoned grandly, then raised a hand to cover my mouth as I belched. "Ugh. Good food, but I should perhaps eat a little slower. So, what did you spend your day with? More seamstresses? Planning the mid-season ball? Or perhaps planning to raise an army to take the throne from me? Because if you are, I'm tempted to let you have the damned thing, if you'll keep me on as your royal bedwarmer," I joked, and she smiled back.

"Nothing so audacious," she admitted. "In fact, I spent much of the day with Grand Maester Pycelle."

I frowned. I had vague plans to do away with the Lannister's man on the Small Council, but was still working on the details. For now he did little more than keep Tywin informed about the governing of the Realm, but I wasn't really all that comfortable with the idea of a master of poisons answering to the lord of the Rock being so close. "Oh? Are you feeling unwell?" I had noticed a little paleness in her cheeks, but had put that up to exhaustion, or perhaps annoyance, at her royal duties.

"Not quite, Your Grace." She took a deep breath. "In fact ... it seems I am with child."

The knife fell from my fingers to clatter on the plate. "You ... I ... what?"

I was the soul of eloquence.

Cersei's smile broadened. "It seems our rather vigorous adventures in the bedchamber have had a rather predictable result: I'm pregnant."

A thousand thoughts went through my mind, a blur of images and worries, shouts of glee and gibbering terror. But I ignored them all, and swept to my feet, strode around the table, and hauled a startled Cersei to her feet. I grasped her by her tiny waste and with ease lifted her into the air, spinning her about as I found myself laughing and shouting with glee. Finally, I placed her back on the ground, and pulled her in for a far more gentle embrace. Then I pulled back, looking down at her. "Oh, Seven Hells, I'm a fool! I didn't mean to -"

She laughed, and slapped my chest. "Oh, be still, you. I'm pregnant, not injured or made of Myrish glass! The Grand Maester insists I'm quite healthy, and predicts an easy, smooth pregnancy. In eight months, we shall be welcoming our first child."

Still grinning like a fool, I drew her back into my arms, and our food grew cold on the table.

It was later that night, as Cersei lay next to me on the huge, down-filled mattress, that I lay awake, staring up at the canopy above the bed.

I never thought to be a father, in either life. Yes, Robert had bastards, but he never really saw them as his, not deep down. But now I was about to become a father ... which, in this particular marriage, posed a new set of problems.

Is this child truly mine? Will it be born with curly black hair, or strands of gold? And if it is mine, will it live to see its first naming day?

Can I trust my own wife not to kill my child?