PART II: The Great Game
Maegor's Holdfast
300 AC
Jon had awoken just before dawn. Ghost howled as brown-grey clouds swept over the sky above.
Jon immediately got out of bed, feeling well enough rested from his four-hour sleep. He'd been up late the previous night helping his father sort out some records from Crackclaw Point-a good portion of the Crownlands lords had defaulted on their food shipments once again, which meant that a firmer hand was required for the job.
If anything, the excuse of 'winter is here!' would have been enough, yet Lords from Houses Celtigar, Brune, Pyne, Crabb, and Hardy had sent more lots of spoiled meats and half-dried fish and had only said 'apologies, we will send higher quality goods upon the next fortnight.' and left it at that.
Which, as Jon noted, was almost exactly what they had sent in their previous round of letters.
Apparently, the Crownlands lords had the same comfortable itch that the Reynes and Tarbecks had with House Lannister. Either things would need to shape up on their end, or Jon and his father would be mobilizing the Manderly soldiers under their command.
But two thousand men were not enough for the job-Jon and his father could not wage war on the Crownlands. We shouldn't even have to. By all counts, they were being quite difficult for no particular reason at all.
The Crownlands should be completely aligned with the ruling house in King's Landing, but they didn't care a smidge for Robert's authority in the least.
Jon supposed it was the lords getting back at Robert in some way. Most of the Crownlands were staunchly loyal to the Targaryens, and denying Robert meager portions of food was about as passive-aggressive as they could get. That, and of course, winter had arrived.
As Jon slipped on his shirt, trousers, and boots, he decided to put the matter out of his mind. Negotiations between Tywin Lannister and Lysa Tully were being wrapped up this afternoon, with both heads of the respective houses agreeing to withdraw their soldiers from each other's lands and accepting a truce. So if the Crownlands issue had devolved any further, Jon and his father would have a more formidable force of just over seven thousand troops.
He left his chambers quietly, closing the twin oak doors behind him and striding down the long hallway of pale marble, passing by the two guards who were about to finish their night duty.
Once he'd descended the stairs and briefly took a turn into the grand chamber, which served as a sort of reception room with neatly filed wooden tables and rows of comfortable spruce chairs, Jon went up to the tall bronze doors of the keep and took his leave.
Outside, the air was wet and chilly. Fresh snow had dusted the long drawbridge that led out further into the grand courtyard surrounding the Great Hall and the Tower of the Hand. Jon nodded carefully to the Kingsguard who was standing on his side of the bridge, Ser Mandon Moore. The quiet man didn't nod back and simply acknowledged Jon with lifeless grey eyes.
Jon looked to the other side of the drawbridge and saw Ghost bounding towards him from the shadows. His coat of white fur blended seamlessly with the layer of fresh snow.
Jon approached the great direwolf and scratched him behind the ears, in response Ghost had turned his head in towards Jon's palm and pressed into his hand.
"Good morning, boy," Jon said. "It's time to train. Let's go find father."
Ghost licked his hand in response and turned away. Meanwhile, Jon patted his hand against his shirt (it was going to be soaked with sweat anyways), took a deep breath, and got started with his morning run. He headed straight for the Tower of the Hand.
His father was waiting for him at the base of the Tower. Eddard Stark looked rather tired, probably having got even less sleep than Jon. Despite this, he gave Jon a small fatherly smile and fell into step with him.
They ran fifteen laps around the Great Hall. Occasionally out of the corner of his eyes, Jon had spotted Ghost and Lya trailing behind them, guarding them against any would-be daggers waiting for them in the dark. Even though Lya was Ghost's mother, it seemed that the snow-white runt of her litter was getting bigger and bigger than even her as the days passed by. Jon guessed that Ghost was almost a foot taller than his mother.
By the time they'd finished running, the sun had long risen. Now it was time to train with the sword.
The City Watch barracks beneath the Tower of the Hand had an adjoining courtyard, the same one where over a hundred gold cloaks and House Manderly men-at-arms now trained and crossed blunted steel blades. Jon and his father decided to spar for about an hour, then wash up, change, and get on with their day.
"Have you heard anything from Varys?" his father had asked. They made sure to walk out in the open, far away enough so nobody could hear.
It had been just over two weeks since Jon received a surprise visit from the Spider. Not a single word had been spoken since then. The issue of the Queen's children stalled-they could do nothing without sufficient evidence to present to Robert.
Since then, Jon had been busy with Small Council meetings, taking his father's place while Eddard had finished wrapping up negotiations with Tywin Lannister and Lysa Tully. And because the ships from Gulltown had yet to arrive, the price of bread had soared from three copper pennies to seven. Soon enough, the people would become restless and unable to eat.
"Nothing," Jon answered. "I can follow up with him this afternoon. Aside from that, there was a small disparity with the royal books that I wanted to investigate."
"The books?" His father seemed surprised.
Jon elaborated. "The explanation that Baelish gives is that Robert loved throwing expensive tourneys and feasts. This is true enough, but I thought about how all the costs of these tourneys." He said. "It all doesn't add up to the six million gold dragons that the Crown owes to the Lannisters and the Iron Bank. It would mark up just under one million."
"Which was far less than what the Targaryens left behind…" His father was beginning to nod in agreement. "They left over four million if I recall. Look into this, but take care. Now, any word of Marwyn? Or the Tyrells?"
"Marwyn sent word from Oldtown," Jon said. "He was going to sail for Essos but said he'd come as soon as possible. Said he'd take a boat up the Mander and make his way to King's Landing. Should be here within a fortnight."
"As for the Tyrells," Jon continued. "Garlan said he's mobilized a force of over three thousand men-around five hundred cavalry and the rest infantry, a bit much considering we've only asked for food. But he's also got over forty wagons filled with grain heading up the Roseroad as well. They should be here on a moon, maybe less if the weather is kind."
His father snickered. "You must've shocked Olenna by coming here. She's not about to let you go off and get killed."
"And probably because Margaery is pregnant," Jon said off-handedly. "We could use-"
He was stopped by his father, who got him with an iron grip on his shoulders. Eddard's grey eyes were shocked and almost furious. "What did you say?"
"Margaery is with child…" He said again, then realizing that he failed to tell his father of the news moons prior.
Eddard Stark let go of his son's shoulder and lit up with an excited smile. "Why didn't you tell me, lad?"
"We were so busy with everything going on here in King's Landing…" He trailed off. "It never crossed my mind to tell you."
"Son," His father's expression turned stern. "Never think that I am too busy to hear news such as this. Does your mother know?"
"Nobody knows except for Fjalar and Maester Theomore," Jon said. "Margaery said she would send word to her family. She might've told Mother about it."
"And no one tells me what's going on?" His father laughed joyously. "You've become a man-grown, Jon. First, you've raised Queenscrown all on your own, now you're having a child!" He embraced Jon in a surprisingly strong bear hug.
Jon returned the embrace, slightly embarrassed with himself for not informing his father of Margaery's pregnancy.
Almost in a matter of moments, Eddard Stark seemed to be infused with a new sort of energy. Almost as if he was told by Robert that Stannis had returned and that he was going to become Hand of the King, all so that Jon and his father could go home to the North.
"And the wedding?" His father asked. It was a foregone conclusion that Jon would wed Margaery by this point.
"Once we return to the North," Jon said. "I thought we might use Winterfell for the occasion. The weirwood in Queenscrown's godswood isn't grown yet, and Snowgate Keep isn't large enough to house guests from the North, the Reach, and Dorne all in one."
"Gladly. I'm not about to miss your wedding, lad. Your Mother won't want you to return to Queenscrown until the babe is born, however."
"She'll have to wait," Jon said uneasily. His Mother would fight to keep him and Margaery stuck in Winterfell. "I have a few projects that I want to see done."
"We'll see about that soon enough, son." His father clasped him on the shoulder once more. "For now, let's resume our training and finish our work here in King's Landing." he smiled. "Shall we?"
Jon nodded with his father. "We shall."
It wasn't terribly difficult to find Baelish's office.
The Master of Coin's office was a small apartment at the bottom of the Tower of the Hand. Inside was a decently spaced circular room with yellow Pentoshi carpets, a large fireplace of grey stone brick, and a wide yew table that had neatly filed stacks of paper and an iron inkpot, and a quill.
By the fireplace was a large black bear's pelt. The stuffed head guffawed in Jon's direction as he entered the room. He wrinkled his nose as he got whiffs of fresh perfume and… mint.
Petyr Baelish looked rather astounded to see Jon, yet excitedly happy all the same. "Lord Stark, what an unexpected pleasure!" He rose from his seat and made his way around the table, walking up to Jon and holding out his hand in greeting. Jon shook it easily, noting the distinct lack of a firm squeeze from the smaller man's hand. "I don't get many visitors, but that's beside the point. Tell me, what can I help you with today?" Baelish said, showing Jon to another chair across from his own.
Jon felt he should begin by downplaying his issue. "Nothing terribly sensitive, Lord Baelish. Just a small inquiry on my part." He said. "I wanted to contact a Braavosi merchant who I've done dealings with at White Harbor and Westhelm. He may be able to provide dry goods for the city, preserved foods, and blankets. But I was unsure whether or not the Crown could sustain such a deal while also being in debt."
"Nonsense," Littlefinger waved his hand through the air as if cutting the issue in two. "Who did you say this merchant was?"
"Ressaro Antoryis," Jon answered. He'd not been lying about having business deals with the Braavosi in the past. He'd meet Antoryis on several occasions particularly at Westhelm since the western port was closer to Queenscrown by the wide rivers that wrapped around the Northern Mountains and led straight to the Lake of Gales. "Have you dealt with him before?"
"We have as a matter of fact," Baelish answered. "Our last shipment from his company came just over nine moons ago. Unfortunately, he said that a plague had broken out in Braavos, so he needed to recall his ships. Were you hoping to start up business with him soon?"
"Only if the Crown can sustain it," Jon said. "I'm aware the kingdom is in debt, yet we won't have a kingdom if our smallfolk revolt in the streets and tear down King's Landing. We need grain and blankets to get through winter, so I thought to check the books."
"I believe you might be in luck, Lord Stark." Baelish held up a finger and began flipping pages in the large book that was laid out in front of him. "I've managed to procure around forty-thousand gold dragons, not counting a few thousand silver stags. That should be more than enough to-"
"Really? Might I have a look myself, Lord Baelish?"
His question had caused the small man to freeze, if only for a moment. Baelish's hand fell to the table and he looked at Jon with a searching gaze. His lip smiled, but his eyes did not. Didn't expect that, apparently. Everyone trusts him to manage the books, they never ask to see for themselves.
Baelish must have realized his change of demeanor, as he slowly sat back in his seat and bowed his head. His eyes crinkled once again. "Of course, Lord Stark…" His voice returned to normal. Jon pulled the great book towards him and began reading.
He knew well enough that most lords in Westeros detested managing their finances. Almost to the point that practically every highborn lord and lady were almost financially illiterate. Yet Jon had decided to learn how to properly manage gold long after Arthur's lesson in Braavos. Money was far too powerful of a tool to simply misuse.
This was further expanded upon when he'd taken note of how Starag handled his holdings. Even though Starag didn't care for copper or silver, he had a firm grip on his gold dragons. The Lord of Bear Island had opened up his own port and shipping lines, his own businesses. He invested in fishermen, and merchants from Pentos, Braavos, and Myr and put his money into fabrics, food, and alcohol. Starag bought ships and shops from all over Frostgate and Westhelm and brought back hefty earnings each moon. Starag had also once admitted to Jon that he half-owned the Dancing Fox, the most prominent tavern in Frostgate Town, and several of its less popular competitors.
In a matter of years, the hoard of gold dragons underneath Bear Keep had grown and grown like a plant in a heap of healthy compost. Whatever grew near it, whether it be an independent shop or merchant, grew fat with gold and silver as well. It had explained Westhelm's exponential growth in such a short time, as there were plenty of souls in Southern Westeros that wanted a taste of its wealth.
And as Jon began pouring through the great tome in front of him, he was partially confounded. Baelish had been doing the same thing as Starag for only two years in King's Landing and probably quite longer in Gulltown.
The forty thousand gold pieces that Baelish had acquired had come through from some brothels in Oldtown and King's Landing, along with several dozen ships, and twice as many wagons. Jon continued flipping through the pages. There was more. Littlefinger had bought houses in the North and the South, and he was bringing in gold from shipments of wool, cotton, and linen that were bought, stored, moved, and resold moons later.
There was more than enough hope to pay off the debt to the Iron Bank and Tywin Lannister. Within a few years of all these investments-there were no doubt hundreds more by Jon's count-it would be more than possible to pay off six million gold dragons.
Yet as Jon continued pouring through the pages, he noticed something else-the expenses of the Crown. That was when his hopes were dashed against the wall.
The Crown was bleeding gold terribly. Expenses from the harbor, the wages of the gold cloaks, repairing the gates. Jon blinked as he read that there were about seventeen different gaolers for the Black Cells. Why seventeen? That's outstandingly excessive. Hundreds of silver pieces for each of them?
About thirty-seven ships had been destroyed in a bad storm off the Stepstones-they needed to be replaced forthwith. Not just the costs of rebuilding the fleet, but also of hiring a new crew for each vessel. Sailors usually went for six hundred silver stags every moon-which was roughly three gold dragons for every man. Each ship would be filled with probably over a hundred sailors. The monthly retainers would need to be calculated into that as well for at least a year's salary. Yet the price of rebuilding the fleet was almost sixty-thousand gold dragons alone.
There was more smoke. Jon inspected the list of the gold cloaks that were being paid. There were roughly four thousand men who were being paid out of the Crown's pocket-yet in King's Landing, Jon knew there were only just over two thousand gold cloaks stationed across the city. More debts were owed to the Tyrells, the Hightowers, and several Tyroshi trading cartels.
Jon realized he'd been staring intently at the book in front of him. There was an uneasy feeling churning in his gut, yet he wasn't quite certain of what it meant. Had Baelish begun his investments by borrowing money from the Lannisters and the Iron Bank? On paper, it seemed that Baelish single-handedly increased the Crown's expenses and earnings tenfold.
But is there anything off the books? Jon asked himself. By all accounts, the expenses and outstanding debts made sense as Jon read further. But what about the gaolers? And the gold cloaks? "Why does it say there are four thousand gold cloaks? There were only two last I counted."
"Many of those men came from the Riverlands, Lord Stark," Littlefinger explained easily. "They returned home when all this chaos started between the Lannisters and the Tullys. That was what Lord Commander Janos Slynt told me. My predecessor also seemed to overestimate the exact numbers, so the number was likely somewhere around three thousand."
Perhaps. Jon did not like the smell of this, not at all. His eyes returned to the matter of the missing fleet. All thirty-seven had gone with the waves. That… can't be… Jon knew he simply had to make sense of it all. Even in a bad storm, at least a few ships would survive.
There must have been thousands of other tiny expenses at that. Far too many for the King to bother counting. How could any of this have happened in the last two years?
Jon remembered again that Littlefinger was not off his list of suspects. And this revelation of the Crown's finances had only seemed to make Petyr Baelish a person of great interest to Jon. Was there some kind of madness behind those polite, helpful eyes? Or was there something else hidden from the rest of the world? Something that Jon knew existed, but had yet to see?
He knew Baelish had put the Crown's money to work, which wasn't necessarily a crooked move. Yet there had to be some kind of explanation for this ridiculous list of expenses from all over the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon decided to pretend he knew nothing of personal finance and flipped back to the page that he'd started on. There were forty-thousand gold dragons-a couple hundred withstanding-at the ready. "We'll only need around ten thousand or so, I believe. My Maester handled the proceedings last time."
"Of course, Lord Stark." His off-handed admission seemed to please Baelish greatly, if only for a moment. Jon knew that by now, Littlefinger was trying to place him. Jon was more cunning than most lords, but he was still a young man of seven and ten. Not nearly the titan of experience that Baelish represented. "Lord Arryn had also looked over the details himself but grew weary at the sight of them. Hence, my appointment."
"You are most helpful, Lord Baelish. I shouldn't keep you any longer" Jon admitted as he rose from his seat. "I just want to make sure everything is in order."
"A worthy pursuit indeed, Lord Stark." Littlefinger rose with him, his pleasant smile had returned. "Please tell me you'll come again?"
"We shall see,"
With that, Jon gave the smaller man a nod of his head and left the way he came. As he exited the room, Littlefinger bowed before gently shutting the door.
As Jon stalked down the pink stone corridor, he forced himself to act casual and not to give away that he knew something was off. If he did, he didn't doubt that he'd be dead by the next morning.
The financial records were a complete mess-Baelish would not have reckoned with Jon's budding interest and knowledge of economic management. Practically all lords worth a damn in the Seven Kingdoms hadn't a single care for managing their gold, so why would Jon Stark, a young man of seven and ten be any different?
What he'd seen only gave way to frustration and confusion. Surely the kingdom didn't need to pointlessly suffer expenses such as seventeen gaolers, or an additional two thousand gold cloaks who weren't even present in the city. And what was the likelihood of an entire fleet being lost in the same storm?
None of it made sense to Jon, but to any other lordling his age (or even those older than him), it wouldn't even cross their mind. They never needed to bother with financial management before, why now?
Yes, Littlefinger had exponentially increased the Crown revenues, but if he was that good of a financial wizard, then surely he'd cut out pointless expenses. By now, the Crown should be well and good out of debt from both the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Iron Bank, and Gods know who else. I have to tell father about this…
"Aha! Jon Stark!"
Jon turned his head sharply in the direction of the deep, boisterous voice that had called his name.
Coming down the long corridor to his right was none other than Robert Baratheon himself. The king positively beamed in his direction, dressed in hunting colors of dark brown and forest green, armed with a big spear at his side and a small knife on his belt. There was no crown of golden antlers on his head, but even from a small distance away, Jon had made out a thin sheen of sweat gleaming off the fat king's forehead. The king's cheeks were flushed with red, his eyes were as blue as Gendry's, and his beard was by far one of the biggest he'd ever seen.
"Your Grace," Jon made to bow, but he was stopped by Robert, who simply pressed his huge meaty hand on Jon's shoulder.
"Just as much a hoggart for formality as Ned, ha!" Robert laughed. "You've certainly got a bright future ahead of you, lad. I saw you in the yard just the other day, you must be better than even the Kingslayer with that sword of yours."
"Thank you, your gra-"
"Call me Robert. That's a command from your king."
"Eh… Thank you… Robert." Jon said uneasily.
"Good." The king pressed his shoulder again. "I'm heading out on a hunt," He grinned. "What do you say, lad? You, me, and old man Selmy back there heading out into the Kingswood and bringing back a good boar? What about it, eh?"
Jon smiled politely. "Unfortunately I cannot, your-" He cut himself off. "Robert. My father has asked that I help him with some business concerning the Crownlands."
"Hmph," Robert seemed a little displeased at that. But then, he shrugged and returned to his usual grin. "Bah, well if Ned's asked you to help, I won't keep you from him. He said he was busy as well, and wanted to see to the petitioners…" Robert barked out a laugh. "Bloody fools can eat sticks for all I care. But that father of yours…" He poked Jon with his finger. "He's a good man, the best I've known besides Jon Arryn."
Almost in an instant, Robert's gleaming blue eyes had turned dim and wistful, as if he were recalling better times in his youth. "You know…" he trailed off. "When we came into this keep and they offered me Aerys' crown… I told Ned he should be king. He would've looked right at home sitting on that blasted chair…" Robert snorted. "Old fool wouldn't hear any of it, though. Said I had the better claim and that it belonged to me."
What? Jon never even knew that his father had the choice to take the Iron Throne. That must have happened before he went to lift the Siege of Storm's End with Starag. Before they rode to Dorne and found me…
"...And what do you know," The King snickered loudly. "Old Ned is sitting on that chair and dealing out the King's Justice, ha!" He glanced over at Barristan Selmy, who stood like a sentinel at Robert's side. "Bet the peasants will be telling stories about him in the streets. 'Eddard the Good!' they'll cry, or some other fancy title for him."
"Undoubtedly, Your Grace," Selmy answered.
Robert nodded as if he knew he was right and glanced back at Jon. "Your father's got more patience than I do, I'll admit. And thank the gods you've also got a good head on your shoulders. Realm needs more men like your father-men willing to set things right while I eat, drink, and whore myself to an early grave."
"And hunt," Jon said. "Can't forget that boar."
The King gave him a wide grin and threw back his head. His jowls had jiggled as he roared out with laughter. "Hahahaha! You've got your priorities right!"
Then, Robert calmed. His features set into a calm smile. "When I saw you all those years ago with Ser Mormont, I knew you'd grow into a fine man. Wish my boy was half the man you are."
Why? He's not even yours. A part of Jon had wanted to tell Robert the truth. Then he remembered that he could not prove such a claim. Not now. "Thank you, Robert."
"Bah! Mention nothing of it, lad." Robert stepped away, slapping Jon on the back as he went. "Time I was on my way. Damned boar won't gut itself."
And with that, Robert Baratheon strode down the hall, passing Jon, and making his way toward the exit. Jon heard the man belch and laugh as he turned the corner, leaving Jon's view.
As Jon turned back around, he recalled what his father had warned him might happen if Robert found out the truth…
"I see no babes, only dragonspawn."
Would the king be kinder to his close friend's nephew? The son of the woman he loved? Jon didn't know, and he squashed any notions of him revealing that fact to the man who had just greeted him so warmly.
This man had gloated about the death of his half-siblings, yet Jon could not feel anything but a sense of… strange kindness for Robert Baratheon.
Years earlier, he'd hated the man. When he was told of that fateful day in the throne room, Jon could've summoned all the fires in Valyria to fuel his ire.
Now… Jon could not bring himself to do it. It was easier when he felt the Iron Throne was his birthright, his destiny…
I just want to go home. He thought to himself. To Queenscrown. To Gerold. To Margaery. To continue building his holdfast and growing his lands. Seeing his people prosper in the cold heart of the North against all odds brought a warm fire in his belly. Away from this shithole of a city, from the backstabbing and double-dealing lickspittles on the Small Council.
And yet… There were problems here for him to solve. For all he knew, the financial well-being of the realm was at risk. Debts needed to be paid. The people needed to be fed. Things needed to be set right.
It was his duty.
Jon snickered to himself.
Perhaps I'm more Stark than I thought.
Author's Notes:
And that wraps up this chapter quite nicely.
Jon knows there's some financial fuckery afoot, but he doesn't know the full extent of it yet. So he's going to keep quiet until he figures it out.
And I initially played with the idea of Robert actually knowing that Jon was Lyanna's son the whole time and deciding not to do anything about it out of guilt for the deaths of Elia, "Rhaenys" and Aegon (and a fair bit of introspection about himself and Lyanna).
But I axed it because it didn't really add anything to the story.
Regardless, the next chapter is Jon's as well. Keep an eye out for that.
On another note-I was somewhat annoyed these last few days. I had a set outline for this story and how many chapters it'll have.
At first, I had twenty-three chapters in mind…
….Then it grew to twenty-eight.
Then over the last few days, I decided to smash some ideas together and axe a few others. I added a few more. Now the total is just over thirty.
Oh well. Onwards and upwards.
Someone also asked me via DMs what Starag's class was in that D&D campaign I mentioned and what edition he was created with:
At the time it was a (heavily) modified version of 5e. Starag started off as a 3rd-level Battlemaster Fighter, and then I decided to branch into Tempest Cleric. The main idea being a sword-wielding prodigy who had unusual lightning-based abilities granted to him by the Old Gods. An Action-Hero tank with insane levels of DPS.
asonia99: Rhaenys is 18 in The Last Tour. Not sure how that's predatory in the least.
Older men dating younger women isn't exactly a new thing, either. Starag has loads of worldly experience and is the Man. Meanwhile Rhaenys is far more of an innocent albeit nerdy young woman who has very little life experience.
She's attractive to Starag because he has lived a hard life. And he'd like to come home to a woman who will make him smile and make his days brighter and happier. And who wants to raise his children.
Don't see why it's so confusing, but whatever.
BerserkWriter1990: That's what I noticed too. Everyone says Valyrian Steel is lighter, sharper, etc. But I don't think it's been used in a creative way like Dawn has.
I figured that on some level, Valyrian Steel and Starmetal (or whatever Dawn was made with) are more or less of similar quality. And I decided to run with it.
Kai0ken: I understand where you're coming from, but as I've mentioned before, Starag isn't a "BAMF" kind of character.
I don't know if you've ever been in a cage match against a professional fighter before-it's fucking terrifying. Doesn't matter if you're a pro yourself, you're going to be scared.
At the same time, Starag isn't going to quit like a bitch. He's still going to go through with the match itself, and since he's going up against Jaime Lannister-while effectively gambling the fortune that would save his House at the same time-everything is on the line.
So yeah, it makes sense to me that Starag would be on edge.
Making your characters scared, but willing to do what is necessary, doesn't make them a pussy.
It makes them human.
TheLaughingMan1: Thank you, G
Gaones Paran: I don't let Starag do anything-he's just the kind of man who doesn't bitch out because he's injured.
Not saying I couldn't have handled his fight with Darkstar better, though. I definitely could have. At the time, I thought that was the best way to go.
Anyways ladies and gents, take care
Keep hitting the gym, do your squats, and stay hydrated.