Chapter 15 – the 30th day of May, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
DOTHRAKI MASSACRE: UN REPORTS FIVE HUNDRED DEAD, AS MANY AGAIN WOUNDED. HORDES RETREAT FROM PENTOS IN DISSARAY
WAR BREWING IN ESSOS? 'DAYS ARE NUMBERED' FOR SLAVER CITIES
CHINA PNEUMONIA OUTBREAK: MYSTERY VIRUS PROBED IN WUHAN
BALERION THE BLACK DREAD 'COULDN'T POSSIBLY HAVE FLOWN' WRITES ACADEMIC
ALEX JONES: WE NEED TO INVESTIGATE SHADOW DEMONS FROM PLANETOS
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Two months had passed since the coronation of King Stannis, and much and more had changed in King's Landing in that time. Summer had long since given way to autumn. Rain lashed the windows of the Red Keep and cool winds howled down its draughty corridors. The city beyond was still scarred, but a long, slow rebuilding had begun. With the insistence of Lord Florent, refugees had begun trickling back to the city. Many were camping in the ruins of their old neighbourhoods in tents donated by the flying men, but commerce was at least returning to the markets and order to the streets.
Embassies were sprouting up like mushrooms again. Russians, Japanese and Europeans now populated the throneroom, while their diplomatic cars honked and growled their way through crowded city streets. Despite the chaos of recent months, the city's inhabitants were looking little worse for wear. It was rare to see even the meanest of beggars walking about barefoot. Shoes had become cheaper than bread. The cobblers had been complaining about the flood of donated footwear, and it had become the subject of many meetings, protests and at least one violent brawl. Arrangements had been made to donate most of the shoes to the former shoemakers, allowing them to distribute them for a few coppers each. Many had taken to focusing almost solely on shoe repair instead. Others had changed professions entirely. Entrepreneurial signs like 'Sam's Shoe & Cycle Mending' had sprung up overnight.
Even the war seemed distant. Rosby and now Stokeworth had yielded. Far away, other sieges continued. Duskendale, Deep Den, Brightwater Keep…Just recently, word had been received of Robb Stark's Northern host reaching the Golden Tooth. But in spite of war, upheaval, uplift and interdimensional magic rings, the nameday of a princess remained a noteworthy occasion.
Fifield strode up the steps into the throneroom. The hunting tapestries of Robert Baratheon had been slowly disappearing in favour of more ostentatious replacements from the free cities. Nine in ten seemed to show some sort of imagery involving fiery hands, flaming towers and smoking mountains. It was a bit apocalyptic for his tastes, but the Lady Melisandre's followers were multiplying rapidly.
Half the royal court now dressed in red, and not the bright Lannister kind (almost cheery by comparison) but a deeper blood red supposedly favoured by their new god. Nearby, he noticed old lord Gyles wearing a long pink coat, embroidered with the three red chevronels of his house. Rosby had been the first of the Crownlands castles to fall, and the quickest. When Lord Velaryon's ten thousand men had appeared outside his gates, Lord Rosby had coughed his way through negotiations lasting just two days, before agreeing to bend the knee. He had kept his title, and even publicly embraced the red god, though with no heirs left it seemed he would be the last of his line. The jostling over who would inherit his lands had already begun.
Lords and ladies were arriving to give gifts and dote on the young princess. A gaggle of ladies of the court (that seemed the appropriate term) were gathered around Shireen herself. He spotted Florent cousins, as well as Tyrells, Martells, Estermonts and other nobility. All in this group, led by Margaery Tyrell, had smeared a sort of grey paste down one side of their face and neck, matching Shireen's scars. They were showing it off proudly to any who deigned to notice it. Fifield wasn't sure whether this behaviour was endearing, or just a whole other level of fawning sycophancy, though he privately leaned in favour of the latter. The queen seemed to share this opinion. As the girls giggled and gossiped among themselves, Selyse looked on, observing Margaery the way one looks at a particularly large and venomous spider found in one's shoe.
Before long trumpets blew, and silence fell as the Lord Hand rose atop the Iron Throne. Mace Tyrell did not command quite the presence of the king, but he seemed to like the pricky great seat well enough.
"My lords, my ladies, foreign and distinguished guests" he began gravely "many great perils plague our kingdom, perils on which his grace, the Small Council, and the king's loyal bannermen must devote a great deal of their time and energies, but today, I decree, is a day of celebration. We are gathered to celebrate the tenth nameday of the crown princess, Shireen of the houses Baratheon and Florent."
There were cheers from the galleries. The princess herself looked small, arms clasped in front of her modestly, as if embarrassed by the attention. All smiles, Margaery gently seized one hand and raised it into the air as if in glorious celebration. There was laughter from the other ladies.
"A girl nobly born and raised, with, as I have come to know, a gentle heart, and yet a sharp mind" the Lord Hand went on. "A lady I know will rise to be a great queen, and that I hope to one day call my gooddaughter, and with pride."
More cheers. More applause. With some further supplication, Mace reached into his garments and produced a tightly bound scroll.
"His grace deeply regrets that he could not be present for this occasion. His grace rides to war, for the security of the kingdom is paramount. His grace will not rest until justice has been served and peace restored to the land. The humble duty thus falls to me today, to present his great gift to the crown princess, if she may step forward."
Shireen did so, walking over to stand before the throne, light footfalls echoing throughout the cavernous space. She seemed small. Possibly she had never had this many eyes on her at once before. She gave a well-practised curtsey before the Lord Hand as he unfurled the scroll.
"By order of his grace, Shireen Baratheon is hereby granted the title of Lady of Dragonstone, with all its attendant lands and incomes, and her children and grandchildren shall hold these honours after her until the end of time…"
More cheering. Shireen gratefully accepted the gift, gave another little curtsey, and retreated back to her flock. More lords and ladies came to offer their own tributes. Arianne Martell approached, wearing a purple gown so thin it was almost transparent in places, but her most interesting garment was the thick green snake that wound its way around her waist and up over her shoulders. Shireen's eyes went wide, but beside her Margaery was laughing.
"She in not poisonous, princess" Arianne reassured her. "A harmless grass snake. Not even any fangs, see?"
Perhaps it was the many eyes watching, but Shireen soon found the courage to tentatively stroke the creature, while it hissed its displeasure. Under the queen's glare, Arianne soon handed the gift over to a herald, to be added to the king's menagerie. Fifield waited his turn patiently. His gift might appear modest, but months of planning had gone into it. When his time came he bowed before the throne and the princess both.
"My lord, my lady. I have the humble duty today to present to you the first of what I hope will be many passports. Important documents which may be used to travel through the Ring, between the Seven Kingdoms and Australia and all the many lands beyond it."
Fifield reached into a small bag and began extracting the small black books one by one. It was about time, in truth. What should have been a simple process, that of picking out a flag to represent the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, had turned into a bit of a mess. When requested, the king's Small Council had simply provided the royal banner. King Stannis now rode beneath a crowned stag within a blood red heart wreathed in flames, reflecting, it seemed, both his Baratheon heritage and his conversion to worship the Lord of Light. The fiery heart differed from the crowned stag of his predecessor, and Robert's banner of course had deposed the three headed Targaryen dragon. Shireen herself, when she came of age, was like to use the stag quartered with her mother's Florent fox. They had tried to explain that a national flag was one meant to endure from monarch to monarch, and even dynasty to dynasty. This only seemed to confuse the Westerosi. The Iron Throne was what held the entire realm together, why should their flag be any different from that held by the current king?
A committee had proposed a number of alternate designs. A seven-pointed star, a simplified representation of the Iron Throne, a crude map of the seven kingdoms, a seven-colored banner, a large Baratheon stag prancing above the shrunken sigils of the other great houses, a heart tree contained within a seven-pointed star in turned wreathed in flames, or some combination of the above. A small army of vexillologists had taken to the task with enthusiasm, looking for some combination of symbols to properly convey the nobility, religion, culture, language and geography of Stannis' realm.
Nothing received universal acceptance however, and in the end, the passports were simply stamped with the flaming heart stag, and they moved on. Official portraits had been taken, and the same subsidiary that printed Australia's banknotes and passports had set to work on the task. The first few hundred examples were now ready. It was just the latest step in tying Westeros into the modern world system, and one Fifield was glad to have completed. Shireen received the first example, then the Queen, the Lord Hand, the Small Council members and two dozen other lords and ladies of prominence in attendance.
His task done; others approached the throne. Oberyn Martell marched up, smiling broadly. The prince had already oft dressed in red, so it was a little harder to tell if he had embraced the Red God as well. Fifield had heard no word on the matter. He had certainly taken to his new role enthusiastically. Over the last few days, he had been supervising the installation of a pair of large, ten megawatt generators in a far corner of the Red Keep, between the kennels and the stables. Teams of engineers and electricians had been laying cables and setting up various devices throughout the castle. He promised Shireen a night of lightning she would always remember.
The ceremony eventually concluded, but a few hours later another formal reception would take place in the queen's ballroom. Fifield had time to return to the embassy and see to other duties. As his entourage returned to the castle that evening he was intercepted by Stannis' sellsail admiral, the 'pirate lord' Salladhor Saan.
"Ambassador, you look well" the Lyseni said, bowing deeply.
"As do you, my lord" Fifield replied. It was true. Salladhor's silks had never looked so clean. The buttons on his deep red cloak were pieces of jade carved into the shape of tiny dancing monkeys, and he wore an ostentatious green cap decorated with peacock feathers. He made the Westerosi courtiers look positively drab.
"I wish to share good news with you, ambassador" Salladhor went on, as they passed under the barbican of the inner courtyard. "I have written to my steward at my manse in Lys, and he has written back, confirming my instructions. I had twenty-three slaves there at my manse. He has freed them all, and offered to hire them at fair wages. All but two of them accepted the offer."
Fifield looked at him. He detected no lie on his face. "So you are no longer a slave owner, my lord?"
"No ser, I am not" Salladhor said, with another small bow. "I have also written to my cousins, and they have pledged to do the same. The crews of my ships are all free men, paid honest coin for their rowing and sailing and other duties. I proclaim to you today, on my honor, Salladhor Saan of Lys owns no slaves whatsoever."
Fifield considered this a moment. "Then that is very good sir. A wise decision."
"Indeed" Salladhor said. "The moment I first saw your flying machines, I knew, the world has changed forever, has it not? It was obvious. Woe to those who are so blind as to not understand this at once."
"That is wise. I have said before, my people were once much like yours, before we found better alternatives to slavery. Now, no one in my world will trade with slavers, but we also believe anyone is capable of reform. Perhaps by your example others will understand this."
"Indeed, ambassador. I fully expect they will, if given time. But this is a new time! Old ways will vanish, and there are great opportunities in the new, I am sure" the sellsail said, with a twinkle in his eye.
A thought occurred to Fifield. "Still, I would be overlooking the obvious if I did not ask…Some have referred to you as a pirate lord, have they not?"
Salladhor shrugged. "Aren't all lords pirates? We demand coin from the smallfolk, and in return offer our protection. What is a king except the biggest pirate around? Oh sure, we claim they have legitimacy, because the gods will it, or their father and grandfather sat in the same chair before them, and so on" he said, with a contemptuous wave of his hand. "But what is the difference, truly? Why, ambassador, if you were to exclude all those you take plunder or tax at the point of a sword, then who would be left for you to deal with?"
Fifield nodded. "I suppose there is truth to that. Even in my world, we say two things are inevitable – death and taxes."
Salladhor laughed. "Indeed? Then perhaps our two worlds are not so different. I will confess to a certain self-interest, ambassador, if I may be so bold. I do wish dearly to enter the Sunset Ring, and so venture into your world and explore the many possibilities beyond. I am no longer a slaver; I swear to you. I may even profess to abandon piracy if it please you, though my crews may well mutiny before moon's turn. Nonetheless, I now ask, could such a thing be possible?"
Fifield considered this a moment longer. An opportunist, this one, but not an unreasonable man. "I hear your family has a degree of influence in the free cities?"
"Why, more than a degree, ambassador!" Salladhor said excitedly. "House Saan is one of the most respected anywhere from Ibben to Qarth. Our sails are famous from the Shivering to the Jade Sea. My own ancestor, Saathos Saan, reigned as king of the Basilisk Isles for thirty years…"
The pirate lord went on at some length, as Fifield headed down the Serpentine Steps and approached Maegor's Holdfast. The damage from the battles earlier in the year had faded, and there were signs of new construction. A number of thick cables were strung up on spikes hammered into the nearby walls. A few extended into the holdfast itself, supported by new wooden pillars. These bypassed the drawbridge entirely and instead disappeared into an arrow slit a few floors up. Fifield finally managed to excuse himself from the conversation with a promise that Salladhor could visit the embassy on the morrow to apply for his own passport and visa documents. The pirate lord left him, appearing well satisfied.
Well, that's twenty-three slaves freed. Maybe twenty-three million to go…
Ser Godry stepped aside to grant the Australians entry. Inside the holdfast the atmosphere was almost cheery. Ser Barristan Selmy stood by the dais, close to the princess and her mother. Only two kingsguard remained in the capital, the others having gone west with his grace. Lords and ladies were gathered in clusters. A few cameramen had staked out one corner, recording the event for posterity. On one side of the hall was a long string of electronic devices of various kinds. Some were rather mundane, others much rarer. A washing machine sat next to a tesla coil (borrowed from the Scienceworks museum in Melbourne) while a microwave was displayed next to a vintage pinball machine. On the hall's other side had been cleared a large dance area in front of a modest stage. Fifield knew who would be appearing, and only wished his kids were here to see it. The room was quite dimly lit. A few score candles dotted the tables, and only a few flaming brackets along the walls. When the guests had assembled, Prince Oberyn came out again, and all eyes turned to him.
"My lords and ladies, Queen Selyse, Princess Shireen, the Lord Hand, and other distinguished guests. No doubt many of you have been wondering as to the purpose of our recent construction in the castle. I declare that you shall wonder no more! We have been installing two great devices, what are called generators by our flying guests. They are marvelous devices, capable of harnessing the power of the sky. I have ordered them turned on tonight, so that you may all see the fruits of our labor." He turned to a squire, who nodded back, holding up two electrical cables, their ends a few inches apart. Oberyn turned back to them. "So tonight, my fine lords and ladies, I do so proclaim – let there be lightning!" The squire connected the cables.
Immediately, unnatural illumination flooded the room. The guests gasped, as half a hundred bulbs flickered to life, lighting up Maegor's Holdfast as if it were day. A few of the more startled ladies shrieked in alarm. Leonette Fossoway swooned. Her husband, Ser Garlan, was a thousand miles away in the Reach at that moment, so it fell to Jalabhar Xho to catch her. Any cries of panic quickly turned to awe. Oberyn looked pleased. Behind him, the devices had come to life. Other squires went among them, pressing buttons in well-rehearsed motions. The washing machine started turning, the pinball began flashing, a boombox began playing, while a fridge started humming quietly.
The elite of the Seven Kingdoms gathered around in astonishment. Oberyn himself popped a butter chicken meal into the microwave, watched it turn for a few minutes, then brought it out to share with a party of Dornish nobility. He then made an attempt on the Pinball machine (the display said Johnny Mnemonic) but did not last long. Margaery and her cousins were examining the washing machine in fascination while its function was explained by Ellaria Sand (who had provided the linens being washed). The princess and the queen warmed their hands on a heater before cooling them before a fan, while Grand Maester Gormon was showing Lord Tyrell the convenience of reading a book under a lamp. Ser Stevron and a party of Freys were observed attempting to master a toaster, with mixed results.
Everyone turned to stare as the Tesla Coil was turned on. A few technicians from the museum had come for the demonstration, bidding the Westerosi to stand back. The device buzzed, before fingers of pure lightning shot out two or three feet from its metal top. There were some cries of alarm, but then applause broke out. The Lady Melisandre in particular seemed fascinated by the display. She stepped forward, reaching a hand out to touch the tendrils of lightning. The men waved her off, and quickly shut it down when she ignored them.
"I do not fear a little lightning" the Mistress of Whisperers protested, but they did not turn the machine on again.
The evening resumed, with the audience closely inspecting every delight the Master of Lightning had prepared for them. The treaty they had signed with the Westerosi had divided any conceivable good, service or technology into three categories. Category A goods were mostly the basics - foodstuffs, clothing, footwear, toiletries, essential medicines and other everyday goods. These could be distributed quite freely throughout the realm, provided it was done in the name of King Stannis and a record of their spread was kept, to be shared with the Small Council upon request.
Category B were more complex goods, that could only be distributed or sold directly through the Iron Throne and the relevant council members. No electrical device could be purchased in Westeros without the permission of Prince Oberyn, for instance, nor a flying machine without the approval of Ser Stevron Frey (automobiles too, it had been decided, were under his purview). Both were directly accountable to the king.
Category C goods meanwhile were, for the time being, entirely off limits. This was a lengthy list. No modern nation wanted to sell firearms, jet aircraft, rockets, computers or nuclear power in any form to the inhabitants of Planetos just yet.
It had taken months to hammer out the details of this system, and some items were still swapping places. It had taken great effort to convince Lord Tyrell that condoms deserved to be in category A, for instance, along with the morning after pill (a much preferable alternative to moon tea). Most alcoholic beverages could also be sold freely, though spirits had been placed in category B, due to their strength and uniqueness (they had found no potatoes on Planetos yet) while cigarettes, previously unknown to the Westerosi, had remained in category C. The continent had enough problems without introducing an epidemic of lung cancer, all had agreed.
The Westerosi were marveling at the electric lights, but the evening was still young. Sullivan, the American ambassador, came out briefly to introduce the night's entertainment.
"My lords and ladies, tonight, we have brought for you a great musical talent, one which I am sure you will all enjoy. She has flown here, thousands of miles, from the far side of the Ring, to serenade you and win your hearts, I am sure. She is most delighted to meet the young princess and sing for her. I present to you now Lady Taylor Swift of Nashville."
The singer strode out, in a tasteful blue dress that matched her eyes. Tall and blonde and beautiful, in heels she was of a height with the Lady Melisandre. All she carried was a guitar. A microphone had been set up in front of her, and a trio of supporting musicians stood behind. There was polite applause throughout the hall as the lords and ladies turned away from the electronics display. They had been introduced to movies and a degree of modern music, but this was the first live performance in Westeros of any note. Taylor thanked them all, wished the princess a happy birthday, and hoped they would enjoy the music. Electronically magnified, her voice had no trouble filling the hall.
We were both young when I first saw you
I close my eyes and the flashback starts
I'm standing there…on a balcony in summer air
Fifield watched the audience closely. He had to withhold a smirk. They were as enraptured as the first time they had screened Titanic. The nobility of the city would be talking about this for weeks, he knew. Taylor sang for almost an hour, including an encore. The audience was cheering, most disappointed to see her go. She mingled with the ladies of the court for a while, even taking what were recognizably selfies with Shireen, Margaery and Arianne. Even the queen looked touched.
"The lord has blessed her with a lovely voice, truly" he overheard her say to the Lady Melisandre. "Blessed are we that he led her to our hall."
Fifield flitted from guests to guest, chatting and challenging and promising by turn, as was his role. The princess had soon retired from the hall, almost dragged out by her mother. As the evening was coming to a close ambassador Wei sidled over to him, clutching a wine glass.
"Good evening."
"And to you" Fifield replied. "How did you like our display?"
"Adequate" the Chinese diplomat observed, glancing around the room. "I am glad nobody has tried to burn the washing machine yet, or nailed the dishwasher to a cross and attempted to crucify it."
"Is this not what progress looks like?" Fifield insisted. "Modest progress, but progress nonetheless?"
Wei looked at him sadly. "I see you persist in your futile attempts to civilize these barbarians."
Fifield smiled at him. He put an arm around the man's shoulders. "Careful, these walls have ears" he said gently, leading him from the room. He waved his goodbyes to a few people. He walked with his Chinese counterpart until they were across the drawbridge and making their way across the courtyard outside. A few guards and aides always accompanied them, but they kept their distance for the moment.
"I would not say futile. I would say inevitable" Fifield said.
"You think a few light bulbs will make a civilization?"
"It is a start, like everything else we have been doing."
Wei shook his head. "The more technology you give them, the more you only put ourselves at risk. How many more of your pilot's hands must they cut off before you abandon this folly?"
"One hand chopped off in a year, it could have been worse" he said lightly. Wei did not smile. Fifield evened his tone. "It was an unfortunate incident" he conceded. "But the risks we've taken have been calculated. Envoys, pilots, technical advisors…we are all vulnerable this side of the Ring, to some extent. We cannot bring armed guards everywhere, and we had spent months cultivating a good relationship with Renly and his people. Unfortunate that was all undone in a day."
"Yes, by an invisible man."
Fifield stayed silent a moment. They were passing up the Serpentine Steps now. Usually one had to watch one's step, but Prince Oberyn hadn't just illuminated the interior of Maegor's Holdfast that evening. Fluorescent lights were strung along walls all over the castle, shining into every crack and crevice. On their right, he could hear the distant hum of the new generators. Dogs were barking at the unfamiliar noise.
"We are not sure what it was" he said eventually.
Wei gave him a sideways glance. "Lord Renly's death is not the only thing in this world to defy explanation. How was their great wall of ice built? How does it stay up? How is it dragons exist here, like something out of legend? And where is this place in the universe, anyway? Our sky surveys have found nothing recognisable. We are probably not in the Milky Way galaxy anymore, but otherwise we have no idea. It could be a different universe entirely. But who linked these two worlds together? Why? And how many times has it happened before?"
"All great mysteries" Fifield agreed. "Perhaps some we will never understand. Still, I don't know about you, but I am oddly grateful to be alive in this time. What were the odds that it would be me? Life is rather exciting again, isn't it?"
"If you consider dealing with these savages exciting. Some of them worship trees and the king has taken up with this fire god."
Fifield shrugged. "Compared to what? There are places in our world people are still being burnt as witches. Some insist it is just six thousand years old, and in your own country, aren't some still grinding up rhino horn and passing it off as medicine?"
"That is true" Wei grunted. "But your approach is too half-hearted, and we both know it. You can hand the lords a few modern toys to play with, but what makes you think they will ever allow real change? Their very power comes from the fact that they are rich and everyone else is poor. They are literate and armed with good steel, and everyone else is not. They will never allow you to emancipate the great masses. Half of them have already turned against you. How long until the other half figure this out and do the same?"
"It is a difficult balancing act" Fifield conceded. "To reform the existing structure while still guaranteeing everyone's relative place in it? Take the maesters for instance. Their ravens will quickly be made obsolete by our radios, so that's why we have given them first access. The technology leaps ahead, while their role in society remains vital."
"A wise measure" Wei acknowledged "but a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. What happens when you try and teach everyone else to read and write? The maesters will know their power is about to wane and will react accordingly."
"Maybe" Fifield said "but we can keep sweetening the deal. The citadel could eventually turn into a university. The need for learned men and women will only increase as this society industrialises."
"Then what of the high lords? They are your biggest obstacle, make no mistake."
"The aristocracy expects a higher standard of living than the peasantry, that much is obvious" Fifield said. "They come from families that have invested hundreds of years into accumulating that privilege. If we want their cooperation, we need to maintain at least some gap. But why can't the poor get rich, and the rich even richer? The planes are a key component of that strategy. We give the smallfolk bicycles, maybe the knights get cars, and the great lords planes. A rising tide lifts all boats, to borrow a phrase."
Wei snorted. "One of President Kennedy's better lines. Prosperity is good for all, yes that is true. Deng Xiaoping said something similar. It doesn't matter if the cat is black or white as long as it catches mice. But it requires a civilized society to recognise that truth. Many will remain convinced that they can only gain if someone else loses. You think by giving these thugs the best toys, they can continue to feel all privileged and self-important?" Wei scoffed. "An impossible balancing act, you will find. No matter how much you give a man, before long he wants more. No. This will come to blood. The elite here will squash any progress you try to make, no matter how benevolent. At some point the aristocracy itself must be smashed, so the proletariat can rise and govern themselves."
They were passing back under the barbican now. The Grand Hall and the throneroom were off on their left, for the moment deserted aside from a few guards and some scurrying servants. The night was chill, a taste of the long winter said to be looming. "What would your suggestion be then?" Fifield asked. "Pack up and head for home? Ignore this world entirely? Leave it untouched and unexplored?"
"Certainly, there is much to explore. A hundred different cultures for the social scientists to observe. Genetic testing to see how much the flora and fauna of this world is related to ours. And of course, the Ring itself is the ultimate enigma. But beyond that? A wise man's options are limited. We could prospect for local resources, but without any guarantee the Ring will persist for long, who would risk the investment? And what resources are we so desperate for, anyway? Peak oil is a long way off, despite the predictions of many. We do not lack for iron ore or copper or silver. Gold is precious enough, but all that has happened so far is a collapse in local markets, which harms you more than anyone."
Also true Fifield thought unhappily. Gold had plunged 40% since the Ring's opening. As Australia was the world's second largest producer, this had prompted widespread complaints, and even lobbying as of late. They had been fielding calls from Newcrest Mining and BHP Billiton executives, all but demanding trade through the Ring cease completely.
"There are other options of course" Wei went on. "Without having undergone industrialisation, this world is still underpopulated. There may be forty million in Westeros. The rest combined is another two or three hundred million, assuming no great civilizations have escaped our notice. Guangdong province alone would fill up this world all the way from here to the Jade Sea."
"But if the Ring closed up again…"
"They would be trapped here, unable to contact us again, that is true." It was Wei's turn to shrug. "But there are many who would be willing to accept the risk. How many British convicts never saw their homes again, after sailing all the way to Australia? China has never been a colonizing power, but the circumstances now are different. We have one point four billion people, and forty million excess males. A few million would be willing to accept the risks, I am sure. The Indians are considering the same."
"I have heard" Fifield admitted.
"A big and risky investment, but not without its virtues" Wei went on. "We can make a fair offer. We find relatively empty yet fertile lands and provide people to populate them. Either we integrate with the existing polities, or we found our own. In return, we provide technology and advice to the locals. This world advances, while we bleed off some of our excess population. If the Ring closes, both worlds will have benefitted. And who knows? Maybe in another ten thousand years the next Ring appears, and the two worlds can begin a fresh exchange."
"May I ask, have you talked to the king about this, or the Lord Hand?"
"Not directly. One can imagine their reaction…For the moment it is just talk, and how likely is a successful colonisation amid such turmoil?"
"Stannis does have the Lannisters outnumbered. We hope hostilities will be resolved within the next six to twelve months."
Wei actually chuckled. They were passing under the outer wall now. Inside the gatehouse Fifield caught a brief glimpse of Follard men-at-arms playing a card game that looked suspiciously like Uno. Each man had a small pile of Maltesers in front of him, with a larger mass quickly gathering in the middle. In the square beyond their vehicles were parked, with Gold Cloaks and embassy guards milling around.
"Over by Christmas? Surely you are not that naïve. This war will go on for years. The Seven Kingdoms are far too unstable. Don't let their pretty dresses fool you. They are as tribal as Afghanistan. Twenty years there, and what have you achieved?"
Fifield shrugged. "Three million girls in schools. Infant mortality down by half…"
Wei scoffed. "And how many girls will remain in school after the Taliban takeover?"
"If they take over" Fifield said defensively. "The government might hold on."
"Kabul will not last six months" Wei said, with unnerving confidence. "Their army exists only on paper. Corruption is endemic. Half the recruits are drug addicts. Morale is low to non-existent. If you believe otherwise, your own intelligence services are deluding you. In a few years we will see helicopters on the roof of the American embassy again, like Saigon."
Or King's Landing six months ago Fifield had to stop himself from adding. His objections were weak, he knew. He had seen the intelligence estimates. Six months was a rosy prediction indeed.
"America persists in its habit of trying to impose western values on foreign cultures and succeeding only in building corrupt client states. Vietnam, Afghanistan…is Westeros to be the next? If you want an alternate solution, you know the obvious path to take."
"Which is?"
"Gather all the high nobles together on some pretence. A coronation, or a wedding perhaps, and take them all hostage. Rule through them. Any who refuse to participate you replace with more willing pawns. With their lords captured, the smallfolk should prove malleable, they have as of yet developed no appreciable class consciousness, or even a sense of nationalism. Religion is an issue yes, but otherwise this society is a blank slate, one we can remould accordingly."
Fifield frowned at all this. He glanced around the square, making sure no Westerosi were within earshot. "In all fairness, that is a drastic step. You're not planning anything foolish are you?"
"Of course not" Wei replied. "We would never act unilaterally, you know that. We are not Americans."
"Still, you think that is the wise course of action?"
"It is the only course of action, my friend. You can hand them a few trinkets, but there will never be any substantial reform without tearing down the aristocracy by force. It has been the same in every society. In France, Russia, China..."
"We still have our queen" Fifield pointed out.
"A mere figurehead. You had your own civil war three hundred years ago. It is only by historical quirk that the monarchy was restored, but no English king ever challenged parliament again so blatantly. They royal family are a relic, surviving on inertia and tradition. Everywhere else it is the same. Germany and Japan had democracy thrust upon them after the war, when you had bombed them to ruins, and as for most of your former colonial projects, how long did they last? Even for those that succeeded, tell me ambassador, what nation has ever gone from autocracy to democracy without a violent period in between?"
"India?" Fifield suggested. "Sweden? South Africa?"
"Poor examples" Wei countered. "How long do you think Gandhi would last in Westeros?"
With that, the ambassadors parted for their respective cars. Fifield sat in the back, contemplating the night's events. He caught glimpses of the royal castle as they went. The Master of Lightning had truly been busy. It was lit up like a crimson Christmas tree, shining now with the constant glare of electric lights, not the mere flickering of candles. He had felt hopeful earlier, but Wei's pessimism has spoiled his mood. Now he felt little satisfaction, even looking back upon the Red Keep atop Aegon's High Hill.
The first building in all of Planetos to be electrified.