Chapter 7 – November 14th 2019

WAR THROUGH THE RING – HIGHTOWER ARMY STRIKES WEST TOWARDS BRIGHTWATER KEEP, ROSBY CASTLE BENDS THE KNEE, KING STANNIS ENTERS THE RIVERLANDS

LORAS TYRELL ACCOMPLICES MOVED TO PORT PHILIP PRISON, DAME PHYLLIS FROST CENTRE, GOVERNMENT VOWS TO PROSECUTE 'TO FULLEST EXTENT OF INTERNATIONAL LAW'

"GATEWAY INC" – NEW ELON MUSK COMPANY TO STUDY, ATTEMPT TO REPLICATE WORMHOLE TECHNOLOGY

GREAT WALL OF WESTEROS "COULDN'T POSSIBLY HOLD ITSELF UP" WRITES ACADEMIC

UN DISMISSES MCDONALDS BID TO OPEN FIRST FAST FOOD RESTAURANT IN BRAAVOS

######

Fifield poured Pycelle another cup of coffee, as the former Grand Maester continued his story.

"Aegon V had a good heart, one would not deny it. His upbringing was unusual. Touring the Seven Kingdoms in service to a hedge knight, then rising to seat the Iron Throne? Who would have thought! I still remember at the citadel when we got the raven announcing the result of the Great Council. I was only a novice then, not even one of these links in place" he said, gently touching the heavy chain that remained draped about his neck. "Archmaester Abelon had the right of it though. He predicted Aegon would be a weak king. Too soft. Too merciful to his enemies. Too cautious to draw his sword, and he had the right of it."

"King Stannis has showed you a degree of mercy, has he not?" Fifield pointed out, making no mention of how much their own lobbying efforts had produced that very result.

"Oh, well…if you consider exile a form of mercy" Pycelle spluttered, taking another sip of the drink. The café was mostly empty, and it seemed in recent weeks the sight of a Planetosi in Melbourne had gone from an outright sensation to a mere curiosity. Other patrons observed the meeting from a distance, but a pair of federal police sitting at the next table kept the casual onlookers at bay, and no press had approached them that morning. The former grand maester had already given a number of interviews, satiating the media for a while.

A TV behind the counter showed ABC24, where a report had just run on Ser Erren's Florent's visit to Washington D.C. Next the Westerosi delegation would be heading to Tokyo, then Beijing, Moscow, Brussels and London, shadowing the route of the Braavosi representatives from a few weeks earlier. The story changed to aerial images of the Hightower host, estimated at ten thousand strong, that had left the Roseroad days earlier and was now marching west towards Brightwater Keep, the home of Queen Selyse and her family. That was followed by images of the bushfires currently burning in New South Wales.

"Stannis did not wish to offend the citadel is all, given he has lost the faith and half the realm already" Pycelle went on. "Still, I suppose a man can count it lucky his head remains attached to his shoulders, and I cannot fault you your hospitality, here through the Ring." With a finger he felt up inside his ear a little, at the small black hearing aid that was almost hidden from view, as if checking to make sure it was still there. He glanced out the window, where Flinders St and the rest of Melbourne's CBD stretched out into the distance. The Grand Maester could count himself lucky in more ways than one. Exile would previously have meant the Wall, and at his age a man was not like to survive the trip.

"So what happened with King Aegon's reign? And why was he too weak?" Fifield pressed. Beside them, two aides were writing notes, and the recording device on the table was always running. Pycelle would babble on for hours if you let him, a richer source of information than a dozen history tomes. The printing press did not appear to have come to Westeros yet. So far they had digitally recorded less than a hundred books, many of which had come from the Grand Maester's own study. Supposedly the Citadel had thousands more, but Oldtown was not exactly a welcoming place for them at the moment.

"Well, when his grace was crowned, he brought about new reforms, to try and help the smallfolk. But they were unpopular with the highborn."

"So what reforms?"

"Well…" Pycelle thought on it a moment. "He decreed something called The Right to First Harvest. That in the first harvest after winter's end the smallfolk could keep all they grew, in order to replenish their stock. Wheat, barley, oats…the lords could only take their share from the second harvest onwards."

"And that is unreasonable?"

"Well, sir. Perhaps in a long summer, it is acceptable. In a ten-year summer there may be twenty, or even twenty-five, harvests. But what of a short summer? Why, in the year of the false spring, most of the realm had barely one harvest, before winter was on us again. If Lord Tywin had not undone Aegon's reforms, there would have been no tax at all that year. How could lords maintain their castles? Or his grace fund his armies and protect the crown? No, no, no. Like I said, Aegon had a good heart, but that went too far…"

Pycelle went on like that at some length, about fencing rights and rent limits and disgruntled lords not being able to compel their subjects to work past noon on the sixth day of the week. Aegon had also decreed that the smallfolk should not be denied the right to hunt in their lord's forest or fish in his rivers come autumn, so that they could collect their own meat for the winter. Crime and punishment had been reformed as well. A thief should only lose a single finger, not a whole hand, per offence. No boy under twelve or girl under sixteen deserved to be executed for any crime, nor could smallfolk be compelled to work on the king or queen's birthdays, or that of the heir. And people still complain about a 38-hour work week Fifield thought idly, as Pycelle rambled on.

"Perhaps if his grace had been more cautious, enacted only a few of these reforms, his lords may have bit their tongues, but he tried to do too much, too fast. Other disaster befell the realm as well. He came into power halfway through a six-year winter, after which Daemon III attempted to take the crown for the Blackfyres yet again. The Golden Company landed on Massey's Hook, but were defeated at Wendwater Bridge, where Duncan the Tall slew him, though Bittersteel escaped once more. Then Aegon's son broke his marriage pact with Lord Lyonel, and the Stormlands rose up in revolt. A single combat decided the issue. Ser Duncan again, proving his worth, a brave man, a true knight of the kingsguard, one cannot doubt! But then, only the next year, another revolt. The lords of the Crownlands rose up, the Darklyns and Stokeworths in particular. They marched with ten thousand men to the gates of the city. A stronger king would have declared them traitors and demanded their heads, but Aegon backed down, and his latest reform was abandoned."

"And which reform was that?" Fifield pressed, with genuine curiosity.

"His grace had decreed that, while a first son needed to remain on his lord's land, inheriting his position and duties from his father, that obligation to work on the lord's estate did not extend to the younger sons. They were free to go and find employment elsewhere, with another lord or even in a town, without their lords' leave. The Right of the Seconds Sons, it was called."

"And they found this unacceptable?"

"Why, yes, naturally" Pycelle said, as if it were obvious. "A lord's wealth comes from his smallfolk, from their hard labour. In return, the lord protects them from others who would do them harm. His grace had broken this sacred covenant. And by freeing up the younger sons? Why, there was chaos. Thousands of young men poured into King's Landing, Oldtown and the other cities, seeking work. But when there are so many, not all can find it. Wages dropped, and in some places, not enough men remained to work the fields. Many starved as a result. Revenues to the crown dropped. His grace tried to tax the merchants instead to make up the shortfall, doubling port fees and such, but this made many trades unprofitable, and the situation only grew worse. By this point, even the Small Council was again the king, no, no, no." Pycelle shook his head as vigorously as his aged bones would allow him. "The smallfolk are best left on their land, tied to their lord and his protection. Lord Tywin had the right of it. Once Aerys picked him as Hand, he undid Aegon's foolish ideas, winning back the lord's loyalty."

"Did the smallfolk not object?" Fifield asked earnestly.

"Well of course, but what could they do? Certainly there were revolts. In Tywin's first year as Hand, I recall, he led a royal army personally up the Blackwater, then north towards Maidenpool. But he restored order swiftly, just as he did in the Westerlands."

Fifield frowned. "I have not heard of these revolts. There is no mention of them in your True History, or the other books we have documented."

"Well, no" Pycelle said, with a shrug. "Maesters write of the deeds of great men, of knights and kings and dragonlords. Revolts by the Smallfolk…one might as well write books about the coming and going of the moon and tides."

Fifield tried to hide his frown. "Consider me curious. What other smallfolk rebellions have their been?"

"The realm is large, sir. There are always revolts happening somewhere." Pycelle furrowed his brow a moment. "In my term as Grand Maester…hmmm. It was in the year 275 after Aegon's conquest. We had seen the end of a three-year winter. There had been barely a year of summer beforehand, so there were many empty bellies towards its end. There were revolts in the North. We had ravens from Barrowton, White Harbour and Ramsgate. Ironborn raiding along the Cape of Eagles, and the Vale Mountain clans became restless. Lord Arryn rode out personally with the knights of the Vale, but the clansmen melt like snow whenever men show up bearing real steel."

The Grand Maester started ticking other examples off his fingers. "The next few years saw the Kingswood Brotherhood, until Ser Barristan killed their leader, Simon Toyne. Then the Defiance of Duskendale of course. I can think of no others during Tywin's tenure as Hand…Let's see, ah yes. Two years after King Robert was crowned. The Smallfolk rebelled all along Cracklaw Point. They refused to pay tax now a Targaryen no longer sat the throne, led by some veterans of the Trident who fought for Rhaegar, calling themselves 'good dragon men'. The nerve of it!

They laid siege to Brownhollow, but once Robert got the raven his grace was quite wroth. Within a fortnight he had gathered some five thousand men and rode north. The rebels tried to ambush him in a forest, but they were no match for the royal host. Ser Ilyn took all their heads off at Dyre Den. A nasty business. Following that…oh yes. The Martells sent some ravens, three or four years into the long summer. It is a problem in Dorne, see? A long summer there can mean little rain, and so nothing grows. The smallfolk refused to pay their taxes, so Prince Oberyn gathered a host and marched all the way from Lemonwood to Vaith. Dornish justice is of a fierce sort, so I hear…"

Pycelle was finally interrupted by Fifield's ringtone. He apologised to the Grand Maester and held it to his ear.

"Fifield."

"Sorry to disturb sir. There's a problem at the camp."

"Yes?" Fifield asked, knowing he was referring to Camp White, the sprawling refugee complex that had sprung up half a day's walk north of King's Landing.

"There's a Lord Alester Florent here, demanding the king's subjects return back to the city. He seems rather insistent…"

Fifield frowned "Give me three hours." He made his apologies to the former Grand Maester.

The drive through the Ring was getting easier. The road through had finally been paved, and work crews were busy extending it south towards King's Landing. The army had erected temporary bridges on the rivers in between, each now guarded by a platoon of the 82nd Airborne. In the weeks after the battle Mountain clansmen and other broken men had roamed in the surrounding woods, but they seemed to have been cleared out by now. In short order his convoy had turned right onto a rutted track and they were waved through the gates of the camp.

Tents, aluminium sheds, makeshift wooden shacks, portable toilets and every other imaginable type of temporary structure stretched to the horizon. A headcount a few days earlier had estimated ninety-six thousand, four hundred and eighty-two displaced persons, men, women and children, overwhelmingly those whose homes had burned down in King's Landing. The other two brigades of the US 82nd Airborne division had withdrawn back through the Ring, leaving the last 3,000 men to hold the perimeter. Within, a battalion of Australian soldiers, 2,000 Indian peacekeepers and a few hundred City Watchmen from King's Landing were currently tasked with maintaining order.

The road in was demarcated by a tall wire fence. Crowds of children ran up to it, sticking too skinny arms through the gaps, screaming for bread and chocolate. Soldiers escorted dozens of trucks through the Ring each day, dropping off food and clean water, clothing, shoes, toiletries, medicine, building materials and all the other paraphernalia being donated by the people of Earth to help their Planetosi brethren. No matter how much they gave however, more and more people seemed to come.

The cars pulled up in front of a building that, in another place, might have served as a portable classroom. A few men from Foreign Affairs stood around, along with an Australian Colonel and his American and Indian counterparts. A Westerosi delegation stood nearby. Fifield recognised Lord Florent, the King's new Master of Laws. Renly's old position he thought idly. Renly had been half this man's age but had at least twice the charisma. He looked deeply unhappy. Well his home is under threat Fifield thought it would piss me off too. He recognized a few other faces. Lord Celtigar, the Master of Coin, as well as Gormon, Pycelle's replacement.

Lord Florent turned to face him as he stepped out of the car and strode over. "Ambassador" he said brusquely. "His grace has ordered these people must return to the city."

"My lords" Fifield said, with well-practiced patience. "It is good to see you. Has the king not gone west with his host?"

"He has" Lord Florent admitted "but his grace set me in that task before his departure. The people must return to the city."

Fifield looked around, at the half-camp, half-shantytown that stretched for miles around them. "And where shall they sleep, in King's Landing, my lord? Their homes have burnt down."

"His grace has hundreds of builders working on this task" Florent replied.

"Indeed, but won't it take months for their efforts to bear fruit?" Fifield pressed. "If they are sleeping on the streets, won't thousands die of exposure, come a cold night? It is autumn now."

"And soon it will be winter" Florent said, with a wave of his hand. "Many houses are empty anyway, as are the markets, since so many people are here. The Master of Coin's taxmen are short by half" he glanced at Lord Celtigar, who nodded his displeasure. "The fishermen must return to their boats, the smiths to their forges, the bakers to their ovens. Even those who did not lose their homes, untouched by the war, have come here, and why not? Why should they work for their daily bread, when you feed them here for nothing?"

Fifield looked around again. Harsh as his words were, he could see Lord Florent's point. Clean water, three guaranteed meals a day and a soft bed to sleep in? Half these refugees have never had it so good. He turned back to the Master of Laws. "Very well my lord. Clearly we must work something out, but there are a hundred thousand of them. They cannot all return at once. We must agree on some sort of timetable."

Lord Florent nodded, but he looked far from satisfied. "Very good, but there is another thing that concerns his grace, and the Lord Hand." He glanced at the Grand Maester, who stepped forward.

Gormon gave Fifield a short bow. "We have heard disturbing reports, ambassador, about your doctors" Gormon said, as if it were a dirty word. "We have heard they are…" he looked around nervously. "Stealing blood from the people here."

"Stealing blood?" Fifield replied.

"Yes" the Grand Maester nodded. "Even from children, and mothers heavy with child. Yandel here says you have even been cutting into their bellies and taking the child out, still kicking and screaming…" The Grand Maester's voice wavered. He seemed quite unable to continue. He glanced sideways at another maester, whom Fifield assumed was Yandel. The younger man looked deeply troubled.

Fifield blinked. "My lords, I am sure whatever they have taken, is has only been for medical purposes."

The words were meant to be reassuring, but the Westerosi looked horrified. "So you do not deny the accusation?" Lord Florent demanded.

Fifield held up his hands in surrender. "Alright my lords…perhaps this requires some explanation."

Half an hour and many angry words later, they ended up in the camp's main hospital. A flustered looking doctor agreed to give them a tour. They passed rows of patients. Some were hooked up to IVs, others had oxygen masks or bandaged limbs. From somewhere they could hear a women's screams that could only mean childbirth.

"How many births have you had?" Fifield asked the doctor, who turned out to be German and was with the International Red Cross.

"We just past five hundred" he said. "That's the seventh one today."

"I've been looking at some of the figures. The average Westerosi women has…six births?"

"Six point eight, yes" the doctor replied. "If Westeros were in our world, its fertility rate would rank second, just behind Niger. In infant mortality it would be number one though. Almost three times higher than Afghanistan, from what we've seen."

"How many have you lost here?"

"Only four, so far."

Fifield turned back to Lord Florent. He looked perplexed.

"Four?" he said, as if he had misheard.

"Yes, my lord."

Lord Florent turned back to the Grand Maester. "How many babes are delivered in Oldtown each year?"

Gormon stopped to think. "There must be past fifteen thousand."

"And how many do the maesters and midwives lose?"

"Perhaps one in four."

He turned back to the doctor. "You have lost four in five hundred? That is – less than one in a hundred?"

The doctor nodded again. "And even that's too high, my lord. Two were severely premature, before we got the incubators installed, another refused the C-section. The fourth had genetic abnormalities and died within six hours, no saving them. Back home we'd be embarrassed to lose more than three per thousand…" He went on at some length, about trimesters and Caesareans and the finer points of neonatal care. The maesters listened, and Fifield was quietly glad to see horror subsiding into mere doubt.

"I have heard Archmaester Castos talk of this procedure" Gormon said cautiously. "He had seen it attempted twice, to cut open a women's belly when she was heavy with child. But on both occasions the women was already dead, and the children did not survive either. The citadel considers it a measure of last resort. They write of some examples who survived, but they are very rare."

"Survival is not rare, if it is done carefully. You do not have antibiotics to prevent infection" the doctor explained. He turned to maester Yandel. "I would invite you to continue to observe us. Maybe what we are doing can seem baffling at times, but we do not mean harm..." They continued the conversation, while the doctor walked them down to a sort of makeshift office. On his laptop, he brought up a spreadsheet. The Westerosi gathered around to look in fascination. They hadn't yet allowed the sale of computers in Planetos. One unfortunate Google search, Fifield suspected, and the whole continent would unanimously agree to seal off the Ring forever.

"So from the surveys we've conducted, average life expectancy in Westeros right now is thirty-four point two years. For the nobility – thirty-six point three. Women about three years longer than men. Rural about two years longer than urban. The infant mortality rate sits at around twenty eight percent, youth mortality – those that won't reach adulthood, is about forty percent." The doctor swivelled around on his chair. "And all this is without taking recent events into account. In times of plague, famine or war, those figures can get dramatically worse."

It was Grand Maester Gormon who finally asked the right question. "How long do men live in Australia?"

The doctor brought up some more figures. "Eighty-one point three years. For women eighty-four point eight, so eighty-three overall. Infant mortality is three point one per thousand. Maternal mortality – so those women who die during or shortly after childbirth, is only five or six per hundred thousand. Here it is over one in a hundred. We've only lost one of them here, and she was already in poor health."

The Westerosi seemed to have difficulty absorbing these figures. "The point we are making, my lord" Fifield said as gently as he could. "With our medicine, our healing skills, you don't have to lose one in four children anymore. With our help, it could be as few as one in four hundred."

The implications finally seemed to be dawning on Lord Florent. "Why, whatever will we do with so many children?" he asked, suddenly bewildered.

"Educate them, I would hope, my lord" Fifield said gently. "Teach them to read and write, and to do sums, and everything else about the world." He turned back to Gormon. "Tell me, Grand Maester, how many maesters are there in Westeros?"

"Maybe twelve hundred, chained and sworn, ambassador."

"Twelve hundred, out of forty million people" Fifield did some quick math. "You have three maesters, assuming they are much like doctors, per hundred thousand. We have three hundred." He turned back to Lord Florent. "Do the same here, and people in Westeros can live eighty years as well. Is it not to his grace's benefit that his subject live long and healthy lives…? Imagine how much more productive they could be, the revenue the crown could raise" he added quickly.

Lord Florent seemed deep in thought. Finally, he gave a small nod. "Perhaps…yes. I had such doubts but, they are foolish…The lady Melisandre is right about you people" he proclaimed suddenly.

Fifield blinked. "And what does the lady say about us?" he asked innocently.

"That the Lord has sent you here, to aid us in our time of need." He was nodding now. "Yes, the maesters…they have never had the favour of the lord, and so they lose one child out of four. But the lord has shone his light upon you, so that all the innocent may be saved." He turned back to the Grand Maester. "You see? You must embrace the lord, Gormon, so that you will become wiser."

For a moment the Grand Maester looked affronted, but he quickly regained his composure. "Very well, ambassador." He turned to Yandel. "Remain here" he instructed. "Observe the camp. We must ensure nothing untoward is happening. Report back to us frequently."

"The people must return though" Lord Florent went on. "That much is clear."

"Then let us set up a hospital in King's Landing, my lord" Fifield proposed, sensing the moment. "A maternity ward in particular is a high priority, to provide care for as many children and mothers as possible. We will build it with the funding the UN has provided."

Lord Florent was nodding. "Very well, ambassador. The Small Council will consider this proposal. Let us shine the light of the lord into all the low places in King's Landing, and abolish the darkness that lingers there" he said piously.

Fifield tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. Well at least they think a nice god sent us this time. He turned back to Gormon. "Grand Maester, I have had many conversations with your predecessor lately. He has told us a great deal about the maesters, and your citadel. Please, I urge you again, send a delegation to observe our efforts here, and onwards into our world. We will teach you all we know and do so freely."

Gormon looked pained. "I'm afraid it is still not possible, not right now ambassador" he said, frowning. "From what the Seneschal has written to me, the Citadel is under great pressure from the Hightowers not to send any more maesters north, to those who have sworn to Stannis."

"That is unfortunate" was all Fifield could say.

"Yes, it is most unsatisfactory" Gormon agreed. "We maesters carry no weapons. Our security rests on our neutrality in the wars of the kingdoms, which we have always been careful to preserve."

"How would merely sending a delegation breach that neutrality?" Fifield asked pointedly.

"Lord Hightower, the new High Septon, they seem to think otherwise, that any contact with the flying men is a betrayal against our vows to serve. The archmaesters fear the Citadel itself could be attacked by the faith if they defy them. It is a sordid affair. Never in our history have the maesters and the faith been at such odds."

Fifield nodded, again sympathetic. In truth he was not the least bit surprised. Four hundred years ago Galileo had questioned whether the sun revolved around the Earth, and the Catholic church had locked him up for it. Now imagine that, times a hundred, and you had some idea of what Westeros was going through.

His car left back for Melbourne an hour later, the latest crisis averted. He looked out at the masses of fearful, hungry people, behind the wire fence. Well at least we've saved some babies he thought. We need to start somewhere.