Part 13 – Grounds for Union & Separation
Lucius (III) - November 26.
The Hand, the Young Pup, and the Mushroom all proved highly solicitous in providing Lucius Pomponius Bassus with escorts when he left the Red Keep in the early afternoon to survey the Tourney Ground outside the city walls. Lord Bryce Caron and Ser Robar Royce, boon companions of Lord Renly, immediately used their noble status to claim the privilege of riding their chargers to either side of the Tribune when the mismatched assembly began to plod out of the keep and down Aegon's Hill. The duo of dyspeptic northerners from Lord Stark's retinue, the steward Vayoon Poole and the guardsman Varly Byrch, rode behind the Roman on modest sized blue roan mares. Lord Baelish's faithful minion, Allar Deem, sullenly rode in the front next to one the Mushroom's Free Cities speaking courier; occasionally barking orders to the score of marching gold cloaks he brought to attend the trip beyond the city walls.
The Roman's negotiating demand that a barracks, or at least a barrack's site, for the Legion be specifically stipulated in the sellsword contract with the crown apparently had caused a the stir in the Small Council. The Hand and the Lord Commander were firmly against allowing such a large company of hired swords a home within the City; as was the Master of Coins, who already controlled most of the gold cloaks. Lucius knew the Mushroom might prove more amenable on this issue if the Tribune lowered his client price, which he had no intention of doing, to a more modest payoff in golden dragons. The Young Pup seemed vastly amused to tell Lucius all that this morning when they 'happened' to meet in the yard; as well as detail how he forcefully played the contrarian to his rivals and had suggested the legionnaires should simply replace the city watch. So to split the difference between the two sides, the idea of the Romans building an earthen fortress outside the city walls to garrison had been broached, and thus the afternoon's jaunt.
This was not the Tribune's first trip out of the Red Keep, but the sights, sounds, and smells of the city were still fresh and exotic to his senses and he enjoyed soaking everything in. As the group headed almost due west toward the Gate of the Gods, they entered the large market square located between Visenya's Hill and Rhaenys' Hill. Lucius first turned his attention to the left, up the Street of Sisters and at the Great Sept of Baleor. The sight of the marble domed temple surrounded by seven sparkling spires propelled the Roman to gently scold himself. Though none of the knights and lords he'd met so far appeared particularly religious, the fact the Westerosi would build a holy place as impressive as any of the temples surrounding the Roman Forums meant something. These people weren't lousy tree worshipping Celts or Germans; their seven gods mattered to them and it behooved the Tribune to know more, perhaps even to personally adopt a few of them. He must learn to think like them and understand them; for that might be the difference between reaching the dignitas he demanded of himself and death. Lucius shook his head remembering his shock to discover the implacableness of their taboo against slavery. That revelation had stood in the forefront of his most recent missive to the Legate updating him on events in King's Landing. He prayed Cassius Lartius Mucianus moved most promptly to manumit all the slaves at the camp.
Next, the Tribune looked in the other direction on the Street of the Sisters, up at the ruin of the tantalizingly named Dragonpit. He had seen it before, and at even a closer distance, during his travels to the Mushroom's villa. But that was before yesterday. Yesterday, when he first saw the incredible evidence that dragons once truly existed! Any semblance of attention he made to the anecdote Ser Robar told in his choppy Free Cities' Greek vanished. Lucius mind fell completely back into the vision of the massive, deadly, beautiful skulls resting on the cellar floor. How powerful the jaws and giant teeth appeared. How smooth and strong the bone felt to the touch. How hot the fire that must have spewed forth from those maws. To have soared with the wind on one of those magnificent, terrible beasts ... to rule the skies, the thought of which started to arouse Lucius.
"Ha, ha," laughed Ser Robar at his own wit. "The peasant found the foamy stuff weren't beer, see? Hahahaha." Lord Bryce guffawed heartily too at the anecdote's reveal. Lucius whipped up a merry smile and chuckled lightly, pretending to have paid attention all along.
The survey party found the Tourney Ground populated with a smattering of lordlings, knights, squires, sell swords, free riders, and even a tiny leavening of archers, all training at their crafts. Hooves beat the hardened dirt as riders wielding swords and lances went thundering about in every direction. One field sported several rows of railing, where warriors pitted lance against lance, or tried to pierce the middle of rings hung from the arms of tall butts, or stabbed with the points of their weapons at hand sized cloth pieces spread across the ground. Occasionally the sound of a loud crack or deep thump added to the symphony of hoof beats when a lance shattered or an armored figure tumbled to the earth. With scarcely a thought, both Lord Bryce and Ser Robar whooped loudly and deserted the group, trotting off to join the martial fun.
Allar Deem muttered something derogatory with the nobles' departure, but used the opportunity to draw closer with the Tribune and converse, as did the Hand's steward. Both spoke at once in the harsh words of Andal, a language whose mastery was just one of the many daily chores the Tribune wrestled with.
The sounds passed incomprehensibly through Lucius' ears. He turned to look expectantly at the courier turned linguist.
"The Captain asks whether there is ample space for you to build your fortress?"
"And the other?"
The translator blinked. "He, the Hand's man, … he wonders whether we should ride closer to the river. Ten thousand men require much water."
The steward's question had actual merit. "Are there any wells about?" the Roman asked. His head scanned about for a moment and then he pointed at where servants allowed several horses to slake their thirst, "A trough. Where does the water come from?"
When his words were relayed, Allar Deem yelled at his men to search about the grounds for any wells or water vendor carts.
Lucius briefly watched the gold cloaks lackadaisically disperse, before nudging his mount to begin a slow circuit of the Tourney area. He quickly discerned a sporadic pattern of mostly open fields interspersed with stands of trees; arranged most likely to separate venues and vendors and camp sites, as well as for strategic placement of shade. The layout sprawled about haphazardly, but did show a few signs that hinted of a purposeful design.
"May we cut the trees?" he asked, trying to calculate how much lumber the Legion would need for housing, storage, stakes and a walkway atop the dirt ramparts, corner towers, gate houses, gates, and fuel for cooking and winter heat. "We will need many logs and boards. My men will not suffer living in tents forever," the Tribune declared.
Neither 'authority' provided him, the steward or the captain, seemed to know the answer. Though curiously the northerner gave a knowing look and said something that translated as, "Yes, Winter is coming."
The Roman continued with his train of questioning. "When a Tourney happens. When lords and servants camp here beneath tents and cloaks, do merchants come to sell logs and charcoal? Or are the trees chopped down to make fire with?"
Allar Deem gave a brief 'oh' look, comprehension finally dawning, before responding. His words were translated as, "The captain says carts come from the countryside loaded with kindling and cords of wood for the city."
Lucius nodded his head, time and effort would likely need to be dedicated to harvesting the necessary materials. He slowly pivoted his horse, noting a few points of ground which rose slightly higher than the rest of the mostly flat terrain. He decided he would prefer one of those locations, should wells proof dig-able, than a site next to the Blackwater Rush. He doubted the clods with him knew how high or how often it flooded. He stopped turning the mount when it pointed toward the river. He peered at the dark green ribbon that appeared several miles beyond the flowing waters, the Kingswood. His arm waived in that direction. "May we freely harvest our lumber from King Robert's forest?"
The steward and the gold cloak simply shrugged their shoulders. They did not know.
'Useless,' he thought. 'I am forced to deal with ignorant men.' At that moment, as if to emphasize his disgust, a shriek of laughter caught his attention and he turned to see Ser Robar lying on his back in the dirt; unhorsed by the heavy bag of sand swung backhand at him by a tilting dummy.
November 30.
The Tribune, the Centurion, and the Watch Commander waited in quiet silence under the shadow of a pillar as the gathered lordlings started to disperse. The Hand had ended the court and now slowly hobbled off from the Iron Throne. A few petitioners gathered by the foot of the raised dais, shouting their pleas and requests. The three Romans watched the man who dispensed to their eyes an interesting justice on the three traitors.
"Not surprised burned face chose to trust his blade," declared Titus Sidonius.
"He will die hard, if at all," guessed Publius Postumius.
"You think this Clegane can win against one of Rex Hercules' illustrious Kingsguard?" Lucius suggested.
The Watch Commander snorted rudely. "Depends on which one Lord Stark chooses. Maybe the Hand wants the chance to fill a post on the guard with one of his own allies."
The Tribune smiled in surprise, "Why Publius Postumius, that's as devious a plan as any Senator could devise."
"Now Lucius Pomponius," rumbled the Centurion unhappily, "there's no call to insult Publius here; comparing him, and begging your pardon for this Tribune, to a useless politician. Tsk. Tsk."
Lucius chortled at the older man's disdain for his superior's profession prior to joining the Legion as its Tribune. "No offense meant, Publius Postumius; and none taken, Titus Sidonius."
The Watch Commander shrugged his shoulders noncommittally and stated, "Politics is war too, just one using weapons other than mine." His words drew nods of agreement from his fellow Romans. "Now I understand granting mercy to the old scholar, he means nothing. But why spare the bastard?"
"Old Domitian would have already crucified the mewling brat alongside his mother," said the Centurion. "Alive, it seems to me, he might someday lead a rebellion against the Rex."
"Perhaps there is something to pledging this Night's Watch we don't understand? Something sacred akin to joining the Vestal Virgins?" Lucius supposed. "Or maybe he hopes mercy will keep his noble grandfather from rebelling?"
Lord Renly and Ser Loras walked past the pillar and stopped. "Ah there you are, Lord Lucius, good Sers. Ready to sign the draft contract?" asked the King's brother in Free Cities Valyrian.
"Happily, Lord Renly, happily. There are very few things I look forward to more," the Tribune replied with a grin.
The Young Pup returned a knowing smirk. "Good, good. Why don't you walk with us to the Small Hall then?" The three Romans promptly fell in with the two Westerosi. Once they resumed walking, Lord Renly continued. "And, uhh, did you enjoy today's spectacle? Our good Ned can put on an interesting show, despite being such a dour northman. I thought for sure Joff would piss himself or cry out for his sadly departed mum," the young man laughed.
"In fact, we were just wondering at the Lord Hand's surprising display of clemency."
"Oh Ned, beneath his ice bound, frigid Stark hide, is all prickly honor. He must have thought Joff blameless for his choice in mothers. Tsk. Tsk. Honor like that can ruin a Kingdom."
King Robert, looking bloated and bleary eyed, sat behind the table in the Small Council Hall. Lucius saw a sheen of sweat on the man's forehead when he looked up from the parchment before him. The Rex gazed across the table at the Romans and Small Council members standing opposite the King. "Any last complaints afore I place my seal?"
Ser Barristan coughed, before announcing, "I do not approve their knighting, your Grace. Excellent warriors though they may be, none have received even a modicum of knightly training, and neither do they believe in the Seven."
"It does seem dishonest somehow, your Grace," agreed Lord Stark.
"They only want eleven of them, Robert: for Lucius, his Legate, and the nine Centurions," countered the Young Pup. "If war comes, these men will need that standing to be heard and obeyed by any jumped up Hedge knight or piss-ant lordling."
"Ned's no knight, but men listen to him," complained the King.
"He is Lord of Winterfell," interjected the Mushroom, "that may have a small hand in how most others view your friend."
"And I do not approve of making those same men lords either," the Hand grumbled.
"Posh, that's at the end of ten years of service. Those not dead will surely have earned such piddling titles they're asking for," argued Lord Baelish.
"Giving sellswords such titles and lands will not sit well with the other lords. It sets a poor precedent," Lord Stark continued.
"I'm a lord," said Renly. "I don't mind. A third of the land will come from my domains, another third from the Crownlands, and the last third out of the hides of the fucking Lannisters. No loyal lords will be dispossessed of their own lands to provide these niggling crofts. So who of importance is there to complain about how the King grants his own land?"
When a translation of the other's words was done being whispered into his ear, the Tribune spoke up, "Your grace, the true purpose of the land is not as a reward for the captains, but as a promise for the men. Each soldier will receive an equal parcel from the land allotted to the Centurion he serves. The Legion will fight all the harder knowing the blood they shed for Rex Hercules earn them a legacy. Earth on which to farm, build a home, marry a wife, and raise a family."
One of Rex Hercules' eyes twitched as he listened to the translation of the Roman's plea. When Lucius stopped speaking, the Rex grabbed a cup and swirled some wine about in his mouth while contemplating both sides' words. "These seem small boons. I grant them," he finally commanded firmly. "Any more complaints? What about from you, Lucius?"
"I humbly ask, your Grace, that our request to purchase the Dragonpit and make it our barracks be added back into the contract," the Tribune entreated.
The idea caused the King to growl angrily, "A three headed dragon is the Targaryen coat of arms. I ground the accursed dragon into dust to win the Iron Throne. And dust they will stay, including their gods damned Dragonpit!"
Responding to allay the naked hatred of the King before it could vent further, Lucius bowed low, "Forgive me your Grace. I shall never ask it of you again."
December 3.
Gold cloaks gripping shields formed a circle a hundred paces across inside the Middle Bailey of the Red Keep. A dais had been built on the steps of the Tower of the Hand, and upon an oversized chair set there Rex Hercules slumped dissolutely, an enormous flagon of wine ensconced in his right hand. From his eagle's perch atop the Gate House to the Outer Yard, the tall Roman Tribune watched a frown appear on the Hand's face each time the King lifted a hand to slurp from the almost amphora sized jug. And as usual, Ser Barristan stood near the Stag too, his face an immobile mask to keep from improperly betraying his inner feelings, whatever they might be.
"The King still looks like shit," muttered the Centurion, Titus Sidonius, from out of his hard lined, middle aged face. "I'd hoped this morning's word of war might cheer him up."
"A man may guzzle grapes in garrison, but not when a campaign is in the offing," the Watch Commander said, expressing his disappointment.
"Oh, that was nothing more than a raid, Publius Postumius," countered Lucius, joining in on the gossip spewing around the Red Keep that morning. Gossip brought on raven wings about a deadly melee at some remote place in the Riverlands called Mummer's Ford. "Does the Legion stir in Eboracum when a band of Brigantes gets caught and slaughtered by the Coritani or Cornavii for trying to steal their sheep?"
"But these men were Rex Hercules men; almost a Century worth killed while carrying out the king's justice," the Centurion pointed out.
"No, they were the Hand's men and minor lordlings. Not quite the same thing," Lucius contended. "War need not come from this. There is still time for the Queen's family to save face by denying their direct involvement. And besides, with this victory, maybe the old Lannister Lord can judge the slights to his honor as satisfied?"
"Or find that the blood inflames him further," the Watch Commander added with cold insight to the hearts of men.
"Ahh, here comes burned face," the Centurion announced, gesturing from their vantage point towards the corner of the Armory.
The disgraced prince's bodyguard, considered huge even in a land the Romans found well populated with large men, strode purposefully, menacingly toward the combat circle. A retinue of gold cloaked jail-keeps formed a moving box around him, but struggled to match his long paces. The Hound quickly reached the edge of the shielded circle, which parted to allow him to enter the grounds for the Trial by Combat alone. He walked straight to the center of the ring and stopped, standing straight. The sun barely reflected off his suit of dull grey plate armor, nor the dog shaped helm sitting atop it. Clegane lifted open the visor to peer up at the King, revealing a cocky grin beneath his dead eyes and big hooked nose. Only a hint of his hideous facial burns showed along one edge of the opening.
"Where's Trant?" he blared in challenge. "Still shitting himself in fear?"
"He prays Clegane," replied Ser Barristan in a firm, loud voice to the challenge. "He prays that the Seven sees justice done today."
"Ha," the Hound barked, yanking out his hand and a half sword to raise it high in the air. "This is my justice! And all I pray for is a drink of whatever the fat man has once I'm through gutting Trant!"
"Address his Grace properly, or you will duel with more than one Kingsguard today," Ser Barristan shouted hotly.
Sandor Clegane laughed. "Even the old man knows he'll need a new brother today."
Lucius understood that challenges and taunts were passing between the two deadly fighers, but recognized only a few of the Andal words flying through the air. Eventually he turned to the Watch Commander. "The Hound is certainly stronger than this knight Trant, but have you had a chance to watch either practice in the yard with their blades, Publius Postumius?"
"He's faster and crueler too," responded the Ninth Spanish's doughtiest legionnaire. "The chosen Kingsguard is good," a strong compliment coming from Watch Commander; "but, the Hound will cripple Trant until he begs for death, and then leave his husk to bleed out."
Something inside the stoic Tribune nevertheless shivered at the calm, matter of fact manner in which his deputy predicted the outcome of the trial.
A crescendo of noise swept through the Middle Bailey and Lucius looked over to see Ser Meryn Trant and two of his Kingsguard brethren walk out the doors of the keep's Sept. All three gleamed brilliant white in their armor, helms, and cloaks. Ser Boros carried Trant's shield and Ser Preston his longsword. They stopped at the edge of the golden circle, and as it parted to allow Trant entry, the knight accepted the return of his blade and buckler.
A third figure entered the ring at the same time as the Kingsguard, a septon. The brown clad priest joined them in the middle of the circle. The man started to cry out in a loud voice, and Meryn Trant dropped to one knee, while most inside the Middle Bailey lowered their heads as some Westerosi sign of respect for the cleric or their seven gods. Not unexpectedly, the disrespectful, arrogant Clegane remained standing, his lips curled in a mocking smile. Lucius stared down at the priest, looking for what the man might use for taking the auspices, but saw none; no bird nor four legged animal. Though far from a religious man, the Tribune did not understand how a Trial by Combat to divulge the will of the gods could be performed without a positive auspice, no matter how suspect the augur's interpretation of the signs. More words just seemed to blather on and on and on out of the cleric's mouth.
However, Lucius did see, with no chance of hearing what was said, Clegane's lips moving throughout the religious proclamation. But Trant apparently heard and his droopy face, visible under a visorless helm, grew redder and redder at the insults or threats whispered to him, almost matching the shade of his beard. At what must have been the last word of prayer to pass the priest's mouth, the Kingsguard surged off his feet to swing his sword at the Hound.
Clegane easily dodged aside from the off balanced strike and brought the flat of his own blade around to loudly clang off the stumbling knight's head, staggering him and sending him in a tumble down to the earth.
The cleric, far too close to the unexpected burst of violence, shrieked in fear.
The Hand bellowed something in a voice clearly trained for the battlefield, causing the Hound to laugh. Regardless of his contempt and amusement, Clegane held back long enough to allow Trant time to stand, readjust his helmet, and assume a fighting stance. The scarred man at least used the brief respite to lower the dog emblazoned visor over his sneering visage.
Apparently satisfied, Lord Stark shouted again, this time causing trumpets to blare. With the clarion call, Clegane immediately drove forward to the attack; lashing out heavy one handed blows with his thick great sword. The stout, shorter man backpedalled, intercepting blows with his shield and sword, all the while shifting from side to side in hope of finding a flank exposed for even half a second.
Three and a half circuits they made of the shield wall circle formed by the gold cloaks, before Clegane slowed down. The Hound had hammered relentlessly away on Trant while they looped around and around. His powerful arm and sharp sword had chipped numerous large divots out of the Kingsguard's too small seeming shield. Occasionally the defender had fallen for a feint or moved a tad too slow and an attack slipped through just enough to scratch the pretty white enamel covering Trant's forearm guard, pauldron, chest plate or fauld. And during that five minutes, Ser Meryn's own blade swung on the attack hardly more than a dozen times.
Finally Clegane stopped altogether and raised his visor. "Attack me!" the burned man roared.
Meryn Trant didn't move, didn't say a word.
"I have no shield! Attack! Me! Coward!" The Hound pointed his sword back and forth between himself and the knight in white as he shouted.
Still the man remained motionless, eyes puffed large in fright for all to see.
"So this is the mighty Kingsguard!?" Clegane shouted with contempt. "Ha!" And then he buried the point of his sword in the dirt.
"Fight, damn you, fight!" thundered Ser Barristan in a rage of embarrassment at Meryn Trant.
A chant of "Fight! Fight! Fight!" began among the sparse crowd, soon joined by many of the gold cloaks in the shield wall only too happy to witness the shaming of the overweening Kingsguard.
At last the disgrace proved too much. "Arrrggghhhhh!" Trant yelled crazily and surged straight at the weaponless Hound. The burned man answered the attack by charging too, stepping inside the devasting swing Ser Meryn launched at him. The lower half of the blade smashed into Clegane's shoulder, crumpling his pauldron and popping steel rings protecting the Hound's left armpit.
The giant man grunted in pain, but now the Kingsguard was too close. One thick arm dropped over Trant's sword arm, trapping it against Clegane's armored torso. A huge hand grabbed Trant's shield and shook it fiercely, yanking Ser Meryn's tattered buckler away from his chest. The ensnared, red faced man gazed a foot upward into the snarling, insane visage of the Hound.
"Now you die!" the burned man howled. Clegane snapped his head forward once, propelling the snarling dog faced visor back down into place. Clegane snapped his head forward a second time, thrusting the raised sharp teeth decorating the edge of his visor right into Meryn Trant's unprotected face. Blood spurted from a crushed nose and eye, covering the Hound's helm. The Kingsguard bawled in agony, dropping his sword as his body writhed uncontrollably. The burned man released his grip, freeing Trant to stumble and blindly stagger around in torment.
Casually, Clegane turned back to his sword, blade point sticking into the dirt. With no seeming sense of urgency, he retrieved the massive hand and a half weapon, taking time to clutch it properly in both of his powerful hands. He stepped up behind his victim and took careful aim. Ser Meryn Trant, very soon to be a former brother of the White Swords, stayed upright for almost a whole second after the Hound's blade took the man's left leg, in a splash of gore, from the rest of his body.
"You were wrong, Publius Postumius," the Tribune announced. "The Hound never let him beg."