Chapter 8: Marks
The Seafyre's gangplank had barely touched port on the banks of Blackwater Rush before Lelouch hurried off the ship. He heard Bluebeard swear in Tyroshi Valyrian, the high-pitched, weirder cousin of the Myrish and Lyseni dialects. It was sharp and screeching to his ears, but no one respected the sellsail less for his wet, girly mother tongue.
"Stay with the young lord! I will have your eyes fed to the dogs if he does not live to see the Red Keep!"
There was a shuffling of feet. "Double columns, double time! Advance!"
Lelouch had not even reached the River Gate before a score of Velaryon men-at-arms caught up to him. A little under fifty men in cloaks of heavy wool, dyed gold, barred their way into the city. The City Watch of King's Landing was armed with spear and cudgel, but could not form into a proper square. In a fight, he'd wager on his men slaughtering some and scattering the rest despite the disparity in numbers.
"Who goes there?" an officer asked, distinguished by the four golden disks which decorated his black breastplate.
The wind shifted, and Lelouch wrinkled his nose. The scent of refuse mingling with fish was more odious than when Myr burned and Myrmen died.
A knight with a seax on his shield who Lelouch did not recognize replied, "You stand before Lord Lelouch Velaryon, son of Jaron Velaryon, the master of ships. Let us through, we are on urgent business for the king!"
"We weren't told to expect anyone," the gold cloak said. "We were told by Lord Royce to bar the gates against any armed party larger than five."
"Is Denham Blackwood not master of laws?" the knight asked.
The gold cloak shuddered. "He'd be hard pressed to give orders through his charred corpse."
Summerhall, Lelouch thought. How many are dead? Is Alarra… There was no time for this. "No larger than five you said?"
"Aye, milord. I can offer a detachment to escort you to the Red Keep, if you need it. The people of the city have been… unruly after the death of the king and his court."
Lelouch's words stuck to the back of his throat and he nodded.
"You three, on me!" the Seax Knight bellowed.
Ten gold cloaks went ahead of them, shoving women and children aside to clear a path through Fishmonger's Square. He could feel the dark looks and soft spoken curses heaped on them, and even spotted a fisherman gripping a filleting knife like a man contemplating murder. Their pace quickened when they reached the curved thoroughfare known as the Hook, which connected Aegon's High Hill to the River Gate.
"Gods be good, I've never seen this city so riled up," the Seax Knight said.
"You've been here before, ser?" Lelouch asked.
"I had the honor to guard your father on many occasions in this city, as well as your sister and mother," the Seax Knight said. "And now you too, I suppose."
"I would have your name."
The knight tipped his head. "I am Ser Dennis of the Sea Axe, my lord."
No lordly name. "A hedge knight?" Lelouch asked.
Dennis fidgeted. "Aye, a hedge knight."
"Yet you claim to have escorted all of my family here," Lelouch said. Mother's last trip was before last winter, and to be trusted with such duties meant at least a year of faithful service. "You've served Driftmark for six years then, at the very least."
"Eight years," Ser Dennis said.
"A long time for a hedge knight to serve."
"I have known lords who have asked me to sully my good name for theirs, and lords who would not pay my due in full," Ser Dennis said. "Your father has done neither. For a hedge knight, that is as good a lord as any to serve."
"Still, eight years," Lelouch mused. "You never thought to ask for land?"
Dennis chuckled. "And tie myself down? No, my lord. I prefer my freedom and my right to choose a cause I believe in."
A larger group barred their way to the Red Keep, with banners of triple spiral, dagger crossed with mace, black lances, and many other crownland men joining their swords with the gold cloaks. Two hundred men, all told, and even had his full host been allowed through the city gates, Lelouch doubted they could best this many men in the cramped streets.
"Stop, in the name of the king!" said a white cloak. He was a well-built man, broad of chest and had the look of Ser Leyton to him. "I recognize the banner you fly, but my king decrees I ask your name nonetheless."
"Ser Hightower, I am Lelouch Velaryon, eldest son of the master of ships," Lelouch said. "I came as soon as I heard of my—" He swallowed and blinked away the sting in his eyes, "—my sister."
Gerold Hightower frowned. "I had thought you were dead, or at least lost to us. The whole court did. We will need to call your father to confirm your identity."
Lelouch glared, a retort on his tongue. Who are you to deny me entry? Who are any of you to keep me from my sister!?
"Ser Hightower," Ser Seax said, perhaps sensing the storm before it struck, "do you recognize me?"
Gerold glanced at him, then at his shield. "I do, Ser Seax. Do you vouch for Lord Lelouch?"
"On my honor as a knight, ser."
"Then duty no longer binds me to keep you here," Ser Hightower said. "You will want to see your father."
"He can wait. Take me to my sister, if you would," Lelouch said.
Hightower hesitated. "She is not in the best of state to receive guests right now, and your father has not left his apartment in some days."
Lelouch turned violent, violet eyes on him. "Take me to my sister, ser, or point me to someone who knows where she is."
"Very well," he said, and led them to the Tower of the Hand. Sunlight streamed freely through the tall windows. They climbed its many steps in silence. Finally, Hightower stopped before a room and gestured to its door.
Lelouch flung the door open. A lithe girl with silver hair stood up, eyes wide and lips parted slightly. For a moment, he thought her his Alarra, but the cheeks were off and her hair did not shimmer in the light. And Alarra was no royal blood to have a white cloak guard her.
"Your Grace," Hightower greeted behind him. "Ser Mooton."
"Lord Commander."
Lelouch's eyes followed the hand the girl held, and walked up to the bed she sat next to, and the sister he'd failed. "Alarra..." Lelouch cupped the half of her face unmarred by wildfyre, "what have they done to you."
"She… she cannot hear you," Princess Rhaella said. "Grand Maester Pycelle says she has not woken since he gave her milk of the poppy for the pain."
A thin sliver of throbbing, reddened skin ran down her face, snaking down to the back of her neck and shoulder.
These were her lesser scars; severe, but not fatal.
Her left arm was a charred ruin, with a stump for a hand. A knife had been taken to her skin to clear away the deadened bits. In places, it had begun to scar over, but even that flesh was slick and black and oozing. He could see maggots squirming about, cleaning the dead flesh, and the odd mold poultice to dress what wounds could be safely dressed.
What a cruel jest the gods had played, to turn the most beautiful maiden in the world into this.
Even Alarra's hair… her beautiful silver hair...
"It was my fault," Princess Rhaella said, eyes puffy and swollen.
"What happened." A demand, not a question. Why? Why had his little Alarra been marred so, while this Targaryen looked the state of health, beyond some sleeplessness?
They were Velaryons, were they not? They were of the blood of Old Valyria, descendants of dragonriders past just as much as any of these Targaryens.
"My grandfather brought out the dragon eggs… Wisdom Maxir had convinced him to hatch them. One moment we were talking and the next the world was burning down around us." Her voice hitched. "The fire was green and burned hotter than dragonfire."
"I cannot imagine," Lelouch said, "that any soul alive today knows what dragonfire feels like."
"My ser Bonifer...I still hear his screams at night," Rhaella said. "Ser Duncan was brave. I would have died if not for him. Both of us would have, but Ser Duncan saved me first and Alarra..."
"Will my sister live?"
"The grand maester believes the worst is past her, though with wildfyre, no one really knows. That she lived at all… men have burned to death from even the smallest spark. Wildfire barely needs an excuse." Hightower said.
"Praise the Seven for that," Lelouch spat out, "I would like the room to myself, Your Grace."
She narrowed her eyes. "Must you be like this? We are all in mourning. Summerhall has brought pain to the whole realm."
"I have lost my uncle and my sister both in the span of a sennight."
"My condolences—"
"Words," Lelouch interrupted her, "I do not want words. Those will not bring them back. Action might yet save one of them."
"Your ill manners shame your house," Rhaella huffed, storming off. Ser Mooton glared at him and followed her out.
"That was poorly handled," Hightower said. "You will not win any friends at court with a tongue like that."
Lelouch looked him in the eye. "I did not come here to make friends. I came here for a war."
Hightower stiffened, and placed a hand on his pommel. "Clarify yourself."
"The Blackfyres are gathering their strength," Lelouch said. "Liomond Lashare has my uncle. War is upon us, whether the realm wishes it or not. It is coming, as certain as ebb and flow of tide. Now leave me, if you would, ser."
He turned back to his sister. What have they done to you?
-ZeroRequiem-
Half an hour. That was all the peace this wretched place would grant him before a knocking on the door disturbed his vigil.
Perhaps if he ignored it, whoever was knocking might go away? The door was barred shut after all.
"Open this door, or I will have Ser Hightower cut it open," said a familiar gravelly voice that brooked no dissent.
Lelouch grumbled and stood to remove the chair he'd propped up against the door before opening it. His father was accompanied by two men.
"You need a shave," Lelouch said.
Father's eyes were bloodshot, and his clothes were wrinkled and dirty, unusual for a man that loved the court so. Lelouch whiffed the air and made a face. "You're about to say something," Father said. "Go on then, tell me about how 'greed is ever the downfall of men'. How wanting to see Alarra made the future queen of Westeros has ruined our house."
"Where were you?" Lelouch said instead. "My sister burned, yet you were not there to protect her. Your only daughter—"
"I had other duties," Father snarled, "to my king and the realm."
Like moping in your apartment. "Damn your duties. Alarra should have come first! Always!"
Father's face contorted into a vicious, ugly thing, but no words erupted from his lips. His gaze moved towards Alarra's still form, and the room behind Lelouch. Something in him seemed to break, and he hunched over, as if all strength had left him. "When I heard about Myr, I—" Father paused to choke back a sob. "I thought I had lost you as well."
Then he hugged him. Lelouch couldn't remember the last time that had happened, and he remembered nearly everything. A pupil any archmaester would kill to have Maester Banneth had called him.
"Touching," the other man with them said, "as this moment is, there was a point to this visit besides the family reunion."
"Edgar, must you ruin everything?" Hightower asked.
"The affairs of the world do not stop even for the king, Lord Commander. Nevermind us lesser beings," Edgar said.
"Who is this?" Lelouch asked, raising a brow as Father pulled away.
"Lord Edgar Sloane, King Aegon's master of whisperers," Hightower said.
"King Jaehaerys' master of whisperers now," Father said.
Sloane was a pudgy blond with beady eyes, so distinctly opposite Ser Gerold's classical Reach knight look. "I am given to understand you are from Myr," he said. "We have heard word that its port was burned and an outbreak of violence in the streets, but little else."
"Both are true," Lelouch said with a curt nod.
"Have you any idea as to the cause of such misfortune?" Sloane asked.
"You're looking at it."
Sloane frowned. "I don't understand."
"The fire," Lelouch said, "The violence. I caused it all."
"Explain," Father said.
So he told them of the magisters and Lashare and of his uncle's… choice. Lelouch could not bring himself to call it treachery, for his uncle had only done what he thought best for their house, though it stung to think of it. He might have succeeded too, had Lelouch not stolen men from his cause.
He told them of his schemes and knifes in the night. He told them of his suspicions about Blackfyre, but he did not tell them about the witch. She was hard to explain and the less people knew about Cici, the better.
"It is as we feared," Hightower said. "Maelys Blackfyre is preparing to invade."
"It is not enough," Father said. "We have brought our warnings before the king before. Both of them. They did not heed us, and the testimony of my son will not change the mind of the Lord Hand or our new master of laws."
"It may change Pycelle's mind," Hightower said, "or the newly arrived Lannister."
"The master of coins will side with Lord Baratheon," Father said. "The heirs of Casterly Rock and Storm's End are friends, lest you forget. With Lord Tytos' lack of clarity, Tymor Lannister will seek out his natural allies at court."
"What we need is proof," mused Sloane. He turned to Lelouch. "You spoke of magisters, that you conspired with them?"
Lelouch knew what he was asking. "No need to bandy words. You want proof. I can provide you that in exchange for something."
A smile touched Sloane's lips. "You speak my language well, young lord. Very well, information for information is a fair bargain. But first, what proof do you have to offer?"
"I have three magisters on my ship, the surviving government in exile of Myr. They will testify that my accounts are true," Lelouch said.
"Of the events in Myr perhaps," Sloane said, "but of Blackfyre's ploy? What would merchants know of that."
"Not much," Lelouch said, "except for Magister Zoutos who witnessed the verbal and signed confession alongside me."
Sloane rubbed his hands together. "Quite the prize you've brought us! This child of yours is full of surprises, Lord Velaryon. Why have you never brought him to court before?"
"There is the matter of what I want still," Lelouch said.
"And what is it you want?" Hightower asked.
War. Vengeance.
"Wisdom."
-ZeroRequiem-
The court had been left in shambles by the Tragedy at Summerhall as it was being called now. Only five living souls could now claim the name Targaryen. Besides the king and his immediate family was his youngest sister, Princess Rhaelle, who was wife to the new Lord Hand.
The Kingsguard, Lelouch had learned, had been decimated. Only Gerold Hightower and Harlan Grandison remained of that ancient order before the first white cloak was offered to Lewyn Martell in the days since. Even Ser Duncan was dead. Half the small council had perished too, with only his father, Lord Edgar and Grand Maester Pycelle having served with King Aegon.
Countless more retainers, knights, officials, ladies, and men-at-arms died.
Fortuitous, these vipers called it, that of Princess Rhaella's ladies-in-waiting, only Alarra had been touched by fire. The Lannister and Martell girls were out for a walk when the fire occurred.
Fortuitous, Lelouch thought, as he brought the butt of his quarterstaff down on the fallen squire's shield, over and over.
"Yield, sir! I yield!"
Lelouch hit him once more for good measure, before looking to Ser Willem Darry. "Next."
"You've had quite enough, Lord Lelouch," the master-at-arms said. "This is your sixth bout, and your hand is still injured."
The squires here were much easier to catch unawares with tricks and viciousness, unlike Donnall. Lelouch wished he'd not sent his cousin back to Driftmark, but needs must. His arms ached and his lungs burned, but they did not burn hotter than wildfire. It was not enough. "I will tell you when I've had enough, ser."
"I will face him."
Lelouch turned his head to see Steffon Baratheon step into the sandy courtyard. He recognized the two boys flanking him as Prince Aerys and the Lannister by their hair. The sparring swords in their hands did not escape him. He spotted two whitecloaks, Redfort and Meadows, watching uneasily from a distance.
These must be the heirs.
"Are you certain, Lord Steffon?" Ser Darry asked.
Steffon nodded. He had the look of a demon to him, with his face contorted in rage.
Lelouch knew that feeling well.
"My sister spoke of you," Aerys said.
Ah, so that was it. "At least your sister can speak to you," Lelouch said, kneeling down. A lance of pain struck his injured hand as he grasped at sand, before he stood.
"What happened to your sister was a tragedy, but that is no excuse to lash out at my cousin Rhaella," Steffon Baratheon said.
"You do not use a sword," Aerys said.
"No, a spear suits me better," said Lelouch. It was Uncle's weapon of choice, why had he need of another?
"Like a Martell," Tywin Lannister said. He could feel the boy studying him with his eyes.
"A peasant's weapon," Aerys said. "Are you a peasant?"
"I don't think dead men care how or who or what kills them," Lelouch said. "Whether lord or peasant, the Stranger takes them all the same. Now, are we going to stand here all day, or are we going to fight?" His hand was killing him.
Steffon charged with two hands on his bastard sword, going for a powerful swing.
Lelouch judged the distance, and threw a handful of sand at his eyes. Steffon's strike was off, and he danced around him. "Dead, dead, dead," he said, punctuating each word with a jab to the back, neck, and head.
"A dirty trick!" Steffon cried out, still half-blinded by the particles. "You fight without honor!"
"I fight to win," Lelouch said. "My hand is injured, yet you do not see me whining about it."
Aerys laughed. "Let us see how you fare against me then."
Aerys' stance betrayed his skill with the sword, and Lelouch had long ago learned to spot when he was outmatched. Same trick won't work twice, Lelouch thought. Plan of attack?
Attack.
Lelouch launched a flurry of blows and jabs against Aerys, but though it caught him off guard, it did not break his guard. Aerys weathered his attack masterfully, and shot him a winsome smile when his strength was spent.
Breathe. He could not—
Aerys' next blow hit the side of his head.
Get up. Fight. Lelouch stared at the sky, keenly aware of the warmth. Not over.
Breathe.
Aerys' face blocked out the sun's rays from his eyes. "Are you alright? I didn't expect you just to drop your staff like that," he said, worried, not mocking.
Lelouch opened his mouth, but no sound was forthcoming.
"Lord Lelouch has been at it for an hour now, and his injured hand does not make fighting easier on him."
"You shouldn't have pushed yourself so," Aerys chided, offering his hand. "Come on, get up."
Have to be. Better. Kill. Revenge. Lashare.
Breathe.
"Mayhaps we should bring him to Grand Maester Pycelle for treatment," Tywin said.
"I'm fine," Lelouch said. "I think."
"Splendid," Aerys said, his smile returning in full splendor. His hand remained offered.
Lelouch took it, and found himself pulled up.
"You fight well," Aerys said.
"Not well enough."
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Aerys said. "It was your eighth bout and with your injuries too. We should train together again, mayhaps when you are in better condition. It was interesting facing off against a staff with the longer reach."
"As you wish, Your Grace," Lelouch said.
"None of this Your Grace business," Aerys said. "Call me Aerys, or Prince Aerys if you're a stiffy like Tywin over there."
"As you wish, Prince Aerys."
Aerys sighed. "Great. Another Tywin."
"It's only proper, Prince Aerys," Tywin said.
"You are the Crown Prince," Lelouch added.
"Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name. Prince of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men," Tywin continued. "Future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Protector of the Realm," Lelouch finished.
"If you're quite done mouthing off," Aerys said.
"We wouldn't dream of it," Tywin said.
Aerys ignored him. "You ought to spar with Ser Lewyn Martell one day. He prefers the spear too, and is quite formidable with it. You might learn a thing or two."
-ZeroRequiem-
His day at court arrived at last. Aerys waved at Lelouch as he took his place among those who'd be granted audience. Rhaella glared. The magisters three tittered beside him.
King Jaehaerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, towered over them all from the Iron Throne. Supposedly built from a thousand blades of surrendered enemies, it was a monstrosity of twisted metal fused by dragon's breath. There was a wrongness to it, out of balance and proportion with the world and itself.
The Iron Throne has to be the worst chair in the history of chairs, Lelouch thought, maybe ever.
"Your Grace," Lord Baratheon began, "before we begin with today's affairs, we have yet to settle on a decision regarding the Alchemists' Guild. They must be punished for their role in the Tragedy at Summerhall."
"As you've reminded me many a time, Lord Ormund," King Jaehaerys said. "As I recall, you wanted the Wisdoms exiled for enabling it."
"Exile would send the wrong message, Your Grace," Lord Commander Hightower said. "What they allowed to happen is kingslaying, no other word for it. They must be put to death as a reminder."
"They obeyed my father's orders," King Jaehaerys said. "If they are at fault for anything, it is that."
"Their obedience brought great harm upon the realm," Hightower said. Father and Lord Edgar nodded.
"Have you any thoughts to share on this, Lord Tymor?" King Jaehaerys asked.
Tymor Lannister of Lannisport tilted his head. "While I can only commend the Lord Commander's devotion, it sounds as if he is judging the Wisdoms by the precepts of the Kingsguard. Not all men have sworn oaths to protect the king, even from himself."
"It sets a dangerous precedent," Lord Edgar said.
"These deliberations have gotten us nowhere," King Jaehaerys said, "and we have more important affairs to address. The Wisdoms won't be going anywhere while they're locked up in the black cells."
Lord Baratheon bowed. "As you say, Your Grace. Our next order of business is the Blackfyres. Lord Edgar tells me he has irrefutable evidence on the matter."
Lelouch took a deep breath and stepped forward.
Lord Royce's brow shot up. "This is your evidence? The son of our master of ships?"
"If you might recall, we had tasked Adamm Velaryon to gather information in Myr before the city went up in smoke," Lord Edgar said. "Lord Velaryon had also sent his son on that same expedition."
"Tell us what happened," King Jaehaerys said.
So he did, repeating the tale he'd shared with his father's faction. Aerys looked quite enthralled by his tale, while Rhaella seemed disturbed by it. King Jaehaerys, though, was unreadable. "...then I came here as quick as I could on the Seafyre."
"We are expected to believe that a boy managed to break out of a city while outnumbered?" Royce asked. "Or that his hobbled together conclusions is evidence that the Blackfyres will invade? Do not misunderstand me, they are a threat, and if the gods should kill them all I will be glad for it, but the realm is in no fit shape for a war with summer not yet upon us."
"Lelouch Velaryon has others who will corroborate his tale, and a signed confession from a conspirator," Lord Edgar said. "Besides, we're blessed with a warm winter. Men will find discomfort outdoors, but not death."
Zoutos, Rasporos, and Glossos stepped forward besides him, each with their own translator. Why they could not have shared one was beyond him. They told a story similar to his, adding unnecessary details here and there and cursing Lashare's perfidy to the high heavens. Then they presented the letter Nine Eyes had written.
"I should hope," Father said, "that this is enough to settle the matter. War is coming, as we had advised King Aegon before. Better that we prepare now, rather than later."
"I agree, Your Grace," Lord Baratheon said. "We ought to prepare at least." The stormlands would likely be the first region to see war.
"If the Stepstones are seized, Westeros will be vulnerable. It is warm enough for a campaign to be feasible," Pycelle added.
King Jaehaerys nodded. Sharp black iron points in a band of red gold rested heavy on his brow. "Send out the ravens. Call the banners."
"The Royal Fleet will need to be assembled," Lord Baratheon said. "Even then, it might not be enough. We will need the Iron Fleet and the Redwynes too."
"If I might interject, Your Grace," Lelouch said.
King Jaehaerys assessed him with large, purple eyes, as if trying to see into his soul. "You have brought us valuable information. For that, if nothing else, you have earned the privilege to be heard this one time."
"The fleets arrayed against you are scattered still," Lelouch said. "A contingent is still raiding the Lysene trade routes, and several smaller flotillas are moving to secure the Stepstones. If we allow them to solidify their hold on the islands, it will be much harder to remove them."
"Your words ring true to me," King Jaehaerys said, "but we have no fleet ready to strike so quickly."
"But you do, Your Grace." At his confused look, Lelouch added, "You have my fleet."
"The Driftmark fleet is but sixty ships strong right now," Father said, shooting him a perplexed look. He had not been told of this next part. "We are building more though."
"It is not enough," Lord Baratheon said. "There are a hundred and fifty ships in the Stepstones alone if the reports are to be trusted, and more arrive daily."
"My uncle, the Lord of Tarth, has joined his thirty ships to my cause, and a number of refitted merchant vessels," Lelouch said. A slight exaggeration. His uncle had offered a great many ships, but not his full fleet. "And the Myrish exiles have pledged to support me as well with their ships." Of which half were actually fit for war, and only pried from their unwilling, grubby hands.
"Altogether, I will have at least a hundred ships," Lelouch said. Exactly one hundred ships. "I can sail as soon as you give the word." After days of deliberation that would no doubt take place, he would be ready.
"The boy wins one skirmish and thinks himself the Sea Snake and Oakenfist come again!" Royce said. "Shall we call you Seafyre for setting alight one measly port? That does not make you a fit commander at sea."
Lelouch tilted his head and kept his annoyance from showing. "You may call me what you wish, Lord Royce."
"He is a Velaryon. He was born to ride the tide," Father said with confidence, though his glance betrayed his feelings.
"A quick strike would give us time to gather our host," Lord Baratheon said, though his eyes were narrowed. He had not liked his vassal heeding the orders of another, nevermind from his rival family at court. "If nothing else, it might at least bloody the enemy and delay them some."
In the event of defeat, Lelouch finished in his head.
"But he's just a boy," Tymor Lannister said. "Are we really to give command of a hundred ships to him?"
"We are not giving him anything," King Jaehaerys said, steepling his fingers. "He has cobbled together this fleet of his by the sweat of his own brow, supplied them at his own expense, and called his allies with no prodding from us."
He leaned forward. "Still, you are correct, Lord Tymor. He is just a boy. Why is it you are so eager to fight, Lelouch Velaryon? Dreams of glory and honors?"
"No," Lelouch said. I fight to save my uncle. "When Daemon Blackfyre first took up arms, I am ashamed to say that my forefathers raised their swords for his claim."
Father frowned.
"We have never defied the Iron Throne since," Lelouch continued, "but the work is half-done. That a Blackfyre remains alive today is a reminder of that ignoble past. That a Blackfyre might still strike at the heart of Westeros unforgivable. I will right these wrongs. There will be no more pretenders."
"So it is not honor, but shame that moves you to act," King Jaehaerys mused.
Father opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He obviously disapproved, but what could he say? He would not countermand his own son and heir in public, not when his plan seemed to be working. He'd look the utter fool.
"I have taken the lessons of the past to heart, Your Grace."
"We shall see. Have you anything else to add?"
Lelouch nodded. "It is presumptuous of me, but if Your Grace would let me lead, I ask you leave the Wisdoms to my command. Death is a waste, and exile a mercy. There will be use for them in the battles to come, and through service to the realm and the Iron Throne, they might absolve some of their guilt."
"Not unlike taking the Black," Sloane said, as they'd agreed.
"There is precedent," Hightower added.
"It is a waste," King Jaehaerys agreed, "that such learned men of their long storied order be given to the Stranger. To let them serve then, that they might be redeemed through it, appeals to me. My advisors and I will deliberate on this."
"By your leave, Your Grace," Lelouch said.
-ZeroRequiem-
Lelouch had never considered himself pious, despite Septa Kailsey's insistence that his charity could only mean so. Even in his other life, he had not bought in to religion after his mother's death.
Yet, he found himself on Visenya's Hill before the Great Sept of Baelor.
The seven bells on the seven crystal towers reverberated, and the double doors of the dome opened. The steps of a thousand visitors echoed against the marble floor as children marveled at the great windows of colored glass. Beneath the center of the dome met seven broad aisles leading to seven altars to their seven gods.
The Father's and the Mother's were side-by-side and the first faces that were seen by any who entered. Besides the Father was Warrior, then Smith; besides the Mother was Maiden, then Crone.
Many devotees lit scented candles in honor of those gods, and held hands or prayed before the altars.
Lelouch could pray to the Father Above for justice. He would be meting plenty of it to Lashare and his band of villains. Or perhaps the Mother Above for mercy was more deserving. By her grace, his uncle might yet live. The Warrior for courage in battle, and he knew prayers to the Smith was considered tradition before setting sail. The Maid to keep his sister safe in this den of vipers? Maybe the Crone for guidance in the war to come.
Instead, Lelouch turned around and faced the Stranger. Neither male, nor female, it stood apart from the rest of the Seven.
It was the god of death, and few people lit candles for it.
Lelouch lit a candle and set it before the altar. "Forgive me, Stranger, for I will sin."