Part 18 – A Roman, A Senator, and A Knight
Lucius (IV) - December 9.
The tent flap pulled back a bit as one of the two guards protecting the entrance leaned over to call out, "They're all gathered now Legate."
"Very well," Cassius answered, placing down the tablet he'd been staring at. A cheery grin spread over the man's normally stolid face, pulling back and smoothing the crow's feet that had gathered around his sparkling grey eyes as he squinted at the quartermaster's updated tally list. "You still have time to slip into a toga, Lucius Pomponius," he merrily pointed out.
The Tribune too gratefully placed his own cursed Legion paperwork down on the Legate's folding camp table. Nearly a decade younger than his forty something year old commander, his eyes had yet to start distorting words on a page. Still, he found the endless river of reports that a Legion with a full complement of auxiliaries generated tedious in the extreme; thus a distractions were always appreciated. And the evening's scheduled event in the Red Keep promised to be a pleasant distraction at that. He smiled slyly and stood up from his stool, remembering one particular night he'd worn his toga to Maegor's Holdfast. "This occasion is completely different, Cassius Lartius. Before, I was the Legion's ambassador to these barbarians. Tonight I am just a, how do they say it, a sell sword captain," he declared running a hand lightly over the small, plume shaped iron scales of his lorica plumata covering his chest. "Truly, Legate, it is you who should show off the sartorial splendor of Rome in your finest toga.
Cassius Lartius' grey eyes twinkled as they looked up at the six foot tall Tribune. "Alas, unlike some overly civilized senator I could name, I never thought to bring a toga with me when we left Eboracum on campaign," he said with amusement.
"Have you asked Hermann?" Lucius chuckled. "He's quite resourceful for a Langobardi tribesman born in a hut."
"Hermann?" the Legate called.
"Yes?" the deep, dour voice of Cassius' recently freed body servant rumbled from the interior room of the command tent.
"Do you have a toga for me?"
A rude snort echoed out of the back chamber. "I not shine lazy Roman master's lorica all day? Show me rust!" he accused.
"The Tribune thinks I'd make a better impression in a toga. Did you pack mine, Hermann?" Cassius asked seriously, though his eyes twinkled with the enjoyment of prodding his longtime companion.
Grumbling in some dark forest besotted German tongue, that Lucius understood not at all but which put an amused expression on the Legate's face, slipped out of the back, followed by a gruff answer in heavily accented Latin, "No … have sagum?"
Cassius Lartius laughed at his servant's impudent suggestion. The smelly, yet highly water resistant wool cloak worn by every legionnaire on campaign or in foul weather was almost as ubiquitously associated with Rome as the toga, but far from the proper garment to meet a King in circumstances other than battle. "No, the lorica will do," he replied lightly. "Bring out a vinegar sponge and a bowl of water. I want to scrape off these ink stains before I depart. Lucius Pomponius?"
The Tribune looked down at his own lightly stained finger tips. "Thank you, Legate. I shall. Don't want them to think we're an army of scribes armed only with quills."
The freshly smartened up pair stepped out of the command tent. Five Roman officers, all dressed in their finest, as if readying to proceed in a Triumph from the Fields of Mars to the Capitoline Temple, sat atop five spotlessly clean horses; postures relaxed, thighs only needing to lightly grip the barrels of their mounts, feet resting nonchalantly in the newfangled and extremely effective stirrups.
The Legate gestured with a hand and two legionaries started to lead over horses for both Cassius Lartius and Lucius Pomponius. The Legate's eyes narrowed unhappily, a member of the party was missing. "Where's Diviciacus?" he snapped in his command tone.
"The preening Gallic cock is likely still washing his pretty hair in lime, Legate," the senior centurion of the First Cohort japed.
"Damned fool," Lucius whispered in exasperation at the dandy little man.
The King's invitation had been for the Legate to bring seven of his officers with him to dine in the Red Keep. In the interest of keeping the Legion's auxiliaries content, Cassius Lartius had offered one of the evening's slots, determined by the drawing of lots, to the captains of the six allied companies. The leader of the predominately Aedui and Lingones Gallic cavalry had pulled the short straw, much to the dismay of the leaders from the contingents of Greek slingers, Mauritanian horse archers, Belgican foot, Spanish archers, and Britannian scouts.
The Legate put a foot in the stirrup of the delivered horse and easily lifted his aging, but still lithe and muscular, frame into the saddle. "Well we can't keep the Rex waiting because of one cock sucker," he proclaimed. "I hope we have the necessary translators, because your Greek is utter shit, Aulus Vibus."
"As is yours," snickered the First Cohort's senior centurion.
"Aye, as is mine," the quartermaster piped in.
"Brutus Pius, I dare say you hardly speak proper Latin, either," announced the red haired physician. "Just like some hayseed from Picenum, eh Aulus Vibus?"
Lucius, now mounted as well, noticed that the Legate began to look irritated at the banter. "We speak the language of war," the Tribune stated coldly. "I dare say that is the only language the Rex cares about."
Cassius Lartius cleared his throat. "Ah, there you are Secundus Tatius," he said, now taking note of his Greek capable aide who'd spent as much time with the barbarians as anyone the past month, picking up a good smattering of the Westerosi tongue. "And is that Polites I see beside you?"
The aide saluted. "Yes, Legate," he answered seriously.
The slender Greek rock thrower, looking very uncomfortable sitting even a small horse, bobbed his head in acknowledgement at being recognized; all the while white knuckling his hold on the reins.
"Good," Cassius Lartius responded distractedly, then set his steed in motion, heading east from the middle of the newly, and almost wholly, constructed Legion fortress towards the gate nearest the walls of King's Landing.
Horses were spurred and seven Romans followed after the Legate, passing by eight man tents that sprouted inside the fortress like a field of well-ordered mushrooms. In the two days that the whole Legion had encamped on the Tourney Grounds, they'd completed erecting a sturdy wall and sufficiently deep ditch to establish the footprint of the fortress. Strong watch towers had been constructed at each of the four corners and at the four gates. Titus Sidonius' hard working Second Cohort which had arrived at King's Landings weeks before the rest of the Legion had already constructed a mess hall, capable of sitting and feeding a whole cohort at a time; as well as sufficient latrines to keep the piss and shit from ten thousand men from spreading pestilence and disease throughout the camp. Tomorrow the basements of a plethora of store houses and workshops were scheduled to be dug; along with the first surveying of terrain for an aqueduct to bring in fresh water and hopefully flush out the sanitary trenches. Permanent barracks would need to wait. The weather was still mild, even as the day lengths shortened – definitely not the summer time that they had left Eboracum to go out on campaign against the wild northern Picts, but not yet an inconvenience to the hardy legionaries and auxiliaries sleeping beneath canvas and leather. The building of the headquarters, the future home of the Legate, would wait until last, when all the men had a solid roof over their heads.
The little dinner party proceeded down the main street and came to the right principal postern. Lieutenant commanding it smarted saluted and his men quickly pulled open the gate, while the men on the wall and in the Watch Tower kept a steady eye out on very little of anything. A few vendors and their carts had taken to spending the night outside the city, hoping to win contracts and sell goods to the Legion. But a true market and shanty town composed of the natives had not yet formed outside the Roman's fortress, as invariably seemed to happen wherever the Legion permanently set down its cobbled footprint. 'Give it time," Lucius thought.
They were halfway over the quarter mile from the fortress to the Lion Gate when the loud, not yet greased, squeak of the postern announced some sort of activity coming from the encampment. The group paused and all craned their necks backward.
A man in a vibrant, piss yellow cloak came charging out the gate on a swift, calico colored hunter.
"Diviciacus," said Brutus Pius, announcing the obvious.
"About time, undisciplined Gaul," Aulus Vibus sneered with disgust, staining the short cavalryman with the greatest sin in the Senior Centurion's reasonably short list of moral failings.
"By Jove's hairy balls," laughed Titus Sidonius. "Will you look at that!"
Lucius stared aghast. The Gaul really had limed his hair. The great mass of blond locks stood nearly on end, shrugging off the effects of wind and gravity. What's more, the tangled upright mass glowed even more stridently yellow than even the piss color of his cape.
The gate to the Red Keep remained open even though the sun had already dropped below the horizon before the party reached the foot of Aegon's Hill. Clearly the Romans were anticipated and welcome, torches kept the square in front of the entrance well lit; light danced off the red stone of the immense curtain, turning them a morbid crimson hue, and flickered off the gold disks decorating the black breast plates of the City Watch guarding the open gate. The Legionaries pulled their mounts to a stop.
The Legate's aide Secundus Tatius spurred his horse forward a bit. "Hail," he called out in Westerosi.
The middle of the gold cloaks line parted and their frog faced, piggish commander, Ser Janos, waddled out with an overly generous smile plastered on above his jowls. "Welcome, friends," he croaked. "Please enter, Robert Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, awaits the presence of his leal Ronams."
'By Augustus and the heavenly gods, when will these barbarians quit butchering our name?' Lucius wondered with aggravation. Nevertheless, no trace of his frustration slipped past his well-worn mask and the Tribune joined his fellow legionaries and trotted through the gap in the gold cloaks, under the portcullis in the gateway, and into the keep's outer yard, revealing not only the King, but a plethora of lordlings, knights, and gold cloaks.
"Well this is unexpected," Cassius Lartius murmured.
Rex Hercules stepped forward, Ser Barristan in shining white cloak and armor, as well as a balding man in dull brown yet rich satin cloaks, by his side. "Welcome, my friends," the King called loudly.
"He's welcoming us, Cassius Lartius," the Tribune translated quietly. His Westerosi was still very much a work in progress, but he was making noticeable strides in his understanding of this thick tongue.
"Dismount," the Legate commanded. The ten men quickly climbed down.
"Cassius," Rex Hercules said with a smile, addressing the Legate.
Lucius saw the Legion's commander stiffen ever so slightly. 'He's worried the barbarian's going to hug him again,' the Tribune thought, remembering their first introduction to the behemoth. Immediately he realized he'd stiffened as well. 'So am I,' he thought wrly.
"Or should I say Ser Cassius, eh?" the King continued.
Secundus Tatius, already at the Legate's side, whispered the translation into Cassius Lartius ear.
The Legate rendered a formal salute, then, in halting Westerosi, addressed the King. "Thank you, your Grace. Your generosity. The Legion fight hard for you."
"I'll drink to that, Ser Cassius," he said, jocularly delivering a mighty smack to the Legate's shoulder. "I know you bloody will, 'tis why I hired you, eh? And speaking of your special sell sword contract with me, there are some terms of it I need to abide by," Rex Hercules announced with a cheery grin.
"Your Grace?" Lucius asked, uncertain of what the King intended, but knowing by the large and noble audience, it would likely be a spectacle.
"Ah, Ser Lucius," Rex Hercules said with a happy wink. "The contract you winkled out of feeble Littlefinger requires your captains to be knighted. So why wait, I thought," and he gestured at the gathering of lorica wearing men, well, all in some type of lorica except the Greek Polites. "All the more reason to make a merry celebration out of our dinner tonight."
A flurry of translations passed between the Tribune and the Legate. Lucius cleared his throat. "Not all of our Centurion's and allied captains are here, your Grace."
"No matter," the Rex replied. "This all looks like a soldierly set of captains. T'will be a fine start to it."
Again the Tribune cleared his throat. "Not all of them are captains, as the contract stipulated."
"Well of course they aren't, Ser Lucius. I see Polites there. Fine chap, not a knight, of course. And that's … uh … Secundus, ain't it? Excellent fellow, makes Ser Cassius a superior squire, if a bit old for it, don't he? But the rest? They've met the sharp end of a blade and lived to tell of it; my eyes are sharp enough to see that."
"They have, your Grace," the Tribune answered, well knowing that not just the Watch Commander, but the quartermaster and the doctor too, had far more experience than himself in battle.
"Why Publius Postumius there has killed more men than I've taken shits," Rex Hercules continued to ramble.
Ser Barristan suddenly blinked once, the only thing that betrayed his misgivings at the situation. And the priestly garbed dullard outright squirmed.
Secundus Tatius had clearly been doing his translating duty to the Legate for Cassius Lartius spoke up in Latin. "Stop arguing, Lucius Pomponius."
"A moment please, your Grace," the Tribune said and when the Rex nodded his agreement, Lucius turned to look at the Legate, immediately noting, even in the dim light of the courtyard, the twinkle in his grey eyes.
"Keep the despot and give him what he wants. Contradicting him in front of his … what do they call them … banners, is pointless and stupid. Besides, the more knights the Legion accrues the higher status we'll all gain," the Legate pointed out.
'I thought I was the sly one,' Lucius chastised himself. "Of course," he answered in Latin. "Cassius Pomponius insists we accept your generous offer, your Grace," he replied in Westerosi.
The smile on the plump King's face grew wider. "Excellent," he proclaimed. He gestured towards Diviciacus. "Let's knight that'un first. I want to see whether with that hair he's an Essosi in disguise or if someone pissed all over the little runt." And immediately the words were spoken, off went Rex Hercules, with Ser Barristan and the brown clad pontiff or augur promptly trailing behind the lumbering bull stag.
"Aren't you short for even a Roman?" the King asked, staring down, way down, at the diminutive cavalryman.
Polites, standing closest, haltingly translated the Westerosi question to the colorful Gaul.
Diviciacus laughed, then grabbed his crotch saying in his Aeduin accented Latin, "Yes, but it's the size of my sword that matters," causing some stifled snickers amongst the legionaries.
When the Greek rock slinger's reddening face stumbled out the response in Rex Hercules' tongue, the big man roared with laughter. "'Tis the truth, wee man, ain't it?! Whether at war on the field or in the bed chamber!"
The septon standing beside the King looked less pleased, though hardly scandalized for he must have had frequent dealings with the earthy Rex, at the quasi vulgar exchange.
"Come now Devout Brother, bless him with the oil already, the sooner we're done, the quicker you can go back to dusting the seven altars in the sept."
The septon pulled a glass orb out of a wide sleeve opening, and uncorked it. The man made seven passes over the bemused Gaul, spraying him each time with a drop or two of some aromatic perfume, all the while reciting holy words that included the names of all seven incarnations of the Westerosi gods.
At the conclusion of the display, Rex Hercules solemnly said, "Ser Barristan."
The equally solemn looking Commander of the Kingsguard unsheathed his gleaming sword and handed it over to his King.
Rex Hercules held the blade over Gaul head and proclaimed, "I, Robert Baratheon, knight of the Seven, seeing that your soul is pure in spirit of the Faith and your heart full of the Warrior's chivalry, I doth proclaim you Ser …" The King looked over expectantly at the Tribune.
"Diviciacus," Lucius responded.
"Ser Devacus," and Rex Hercules lowered the blade to lightly touch one shoulder and then the other shoulder of the barely five foot tall calvaryman. "Welcome brother," the King exclaimed.
The Gaul gave the standard safe response to any situation in the Legion, he saluted the King.
"All right, who's next?" the Rex asked loudly.
The food was very rich, a veritable banquet almost sumptuous enough for the Palatine Hill and the Flavian Palace. Not that Lucius was a supporter of the old dynasty; he was firmly a Trajan man, and now Trajan's cousin, Hadrian, too; or at least he had been until Fortune blew her fickle breath on the sails of the Ninth Legion and propelled them to the shores of this strange land, Westeros. The Legate suspected he'd turn out to be an equally firm supporter of Rex Hercules as well … so long as the fat, drunk man kept the gold and plaudits flowing. Lucius felt his earlier knighting only the bare minimum due him. 'I am a senator of Rome,' he haughtily thought, knowing himself and his family's lineage far superior to anything in this barbarian country. And judging by the wealth he'd already seen in the Red Keep, this ballroom being an excellent example of it, there should be plenty of money for the King to shower on him.
Lucius sat by one side of the fat, loud Rex and Cassius Lartius the other; with the perpetually dour Hand of the King on the Legate's other side and the Young Pup, Lord Renly, by the Tribune's other hand. After mollifying the affection requiring puppy with verbal strokes to his ego, as well as a few surreptitious flits of his foot along Renly's calf, he turned his purposefully bored gaze on the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, observing the man boisterously enjoy himself at the feast. A quite modest, but noticeable, improvement could be seen in the color and tone of the skin in the King's neck, jowls, and cheeks. 'Maybe Publius Postumius is having a positive effect on Hercules' twin,' he thought, 'The oaf seems to be restraining the amount of spirits he guzzles down his fat throat.' The Senior Watch Commander was seldom seen at the Legion's new fortress, spending most of his time here at the Red Keep in secret, 'training' with their employer and overlord.
"Your Grace," the Tribune called, pitching his voice above the tones of the troubadour's playing in the gallery above the main floor, to get the Rex's attention and find a simple avenue to enter into conversation with the King.
'Yes, Ser Lucius," the King responded.
"I had yet to see this fine hall of yours. Very … decorous. Do you entertain your lords here often?"
Something dangerous flickered in the back of the mighty Stag's dark eyes. Then it quickly fled as the King started to chuckle with satisfaction. "No, I never enjoyed myself her before," he answered. "'Tis called the Queen's Ballroom. I found few invitations to, and even less joy in, Cersei's domain," the dead Queen's name spoken with the bitterest contempt. The Rex smiled cruelly. "I thought it only just to inaugurate the room's use by feting the men who saved me from her vile assassins."
The Tribune politely smiled and lifted his wine glass in a toast. "Very fitting."
"Fitting!" shouted Renly. Others, with no clue the meaning of the cry, nevertheless well understood a toast when they heard it, and joined in the cry; all raising whatever beverages were already at hand.
Lucius hid a smile behind the rim of his cup, amused at the Young Pup's outburst, wanting to be included in whatever the Tribune had shifted his attention to; even his bore of a brother. 'I'll need to be circumspect,' he thought. 'Loras is one of the white cloaks standing guard tonight. It won't do to stir a lover's quarrel now.'
The King, to much shouting of approval, took a modest sip of whatever primitive malted brew he was swilling in his efforts to avoid the seductive song of the grape. Then the bull stag roared out, "Varys!"
From the far end of the main table, at which all the Romans and the entire Small Council sat, the creepy eunuch and spy master answered back in his unctuous, too high pitched voice, "Yes, your Grace."
"Are there any more Lannister curs still left out in the city plotting to stab me in the back?" Rex Hercules loud cry demanded to know.
"Oh no, not even to poison you, your Grace," Varys tittered. "All whom the Queen patronized, from mummers and singers to seamstresses and favor seeking lordlings, are keeping their heads very low so as to reveal no neck to Ser Ilyn's blade."
"Is that why Moonboy isn't here tonight?" Littlefinger japed. "And all along I thought you were the fool's patron, Lord Varys."
The eunuch's face stiffened, before he smirked, "And I, you, Lord Baelish."
Lord Stark's face darkened at the mention of the King's Justice. "Your Grace," he murmured in a low voice. "Why do you let that Westerlander remain free? House Payne has served the Lannisters for hundreds of years. Ser Ilyn was once the captain of Tywin Lannister's guards.
"Bah, Varys has him watched." Rex Hercules responded, then shouted, "Don't you Varys?"
The spy master nodded and then added, "And I've told him so too, your Grace."
"But with his …" and Renly paused to suddenly make guttural, almost gasping sounds, "tongue cut out, how can you know if he actually said he understood?"
The King hooted a laugh of appreciation at the insult to his 'Justice.' Then, "Moldy!" apparently at one of the two squires lurking behind his large chair. "My tankard's dry. Fill it," he demanded.
Lucius barely heard the Mushroom, Lord Baelish, comment under his breath, "Those who've had a part of them cut off are the most dangerous, aren't they eunuch."
Clearly displeased with the table's current topic of conversation, Ser Barristan cut in to redirect it, speaking in Free Cities pidgin Greek. "Ser Publius, as no doubt your keen eye has discerned, all Westerosi knights are permitted the privilege of selecting their coat of arms. Most, already coming from ennobled blood lines, take that of their House. Do you have a family crest or symbol you might take and wear on your surcoat and emblazon on your shield?"
"I had not thought of it, Ser Barristan," the senior Watch Commander answered. "Truly the Legion is my family. Perhaps I shall choose an eagle then."
As his words were translated to those legionnaires who didn't speak Greek and those Westerosi who lacked an understanding of Free Cities Valyrian, interest evidently grew about the table and even down into the lower seats filling out the rest of the Queen's Ballroom.
"What color, Ser Publius. There are many houses which lay a claim to that noble bird."
"Gold on a field of red, Ser Barristan."
"Hey, no fair there Publius Postumius," the First Cohorts Centurion, Aulus Vibus, shouted out in Latin. "That should be the Legate's if he wants it."
Cassius Lartius smiled. "I think I should be happy with a wolf suckling two children."
The men nodded in appreciation of the Legate calling upon the symbol of Romulus and Remus.
"I shall take the mare of Epona as mine," Diviciacus declared fiercely.
"What would the Druids say to that?" the red haired doctor asked. "Would they take it as blaspheme and want to wrap your intestines about their sacred trees."
The yellow glowing Gaul turned a bit green before he spat on the rushes to ward off evil and proclaimed, "Wherever the druids are, they aren't here and neither are their magics."
"Peregrinus Caelius," the doctor's friend, Brutus Pius the quartermaster, asked, "what, oh mighty physic, will you select for your coat of arms? A crossed pair of broken bones?"
"Or perhaps a bleeding hemorrhoid," Aulus Vibus wickedly suggested, garnering many chuckles from the Roman's around the table.
The red haired men held back on a caustic retort, though he'd more than once provided ointment for the aging Senior Centurion's festering piles. "I choose the Staff of Asklepian," he announced; laying stake to the emblem of a serpent wrapped around a tall stick.
"Bah," scoffed Titus Sidonius, the Second Cohort's Centurion and a known acolyte in the Mysteries of Mitheras . "What's so special about Asklepian? It's just another snake cult."
His comment elicited more hoots of laughter, until the Legate cut in, "It might benefit us to find out if there are any taboo creatures in Westeros. It would serve us ill to make enemies out of a simple misunderstanding," Cassius explained. He then turned his head to get the attention of his aide. "Secundus Tatius, please ask one of our esteemed employers their view on snakes?"
The young Roman spoke for several moments to Ser Barristan, nodding his head as the honorable white haired Lord Commander rolled through a brief list of names. Lucius caught the gist that the region of Dorne used snakes the most. The house of Gargalen for example, though some sort of mythical beast held a dead one in its mouth. And the brother of the Prince of Dorne, a mighty warrior, was renowned as 'The Red Viper.'
As Secundus Tatius relayed in starts and fits the information from the old knight to the Legate, Lucius' attention was distracted by a discrete tap on his knee. He looked at Lord Renly with raised eyebrows.
"The choosing of a sigil is a momentous decision for a newly anointed knight, Ser Lucius. If you had the time later tonight, I'd be happy to guide you in your selection," the Young Pup offered quietly, expectantly.
"Tonight might prove difficult, Lord Renly."
The Young Pup sighed. "Alas, I leave in the morning for the Stormlands. Robert's been pestering me for days to go oversee the mustering of my banners. Much as my castellan, Ser Cortnay, is frightfully competent, there are some things only a liege lord can attend to."
Lucius looked thoughtfully at Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, so gallantly, so prettily, so dutifully keeping the far side of the Queen's Ball secure from marauding serving wenches, threatening troubadours, and drunken lordlings. He pursed his lips. "I'd think you might wish to spend your last night in the Red Keep helping … some other … knight."
Renly blushed, but only slightly. "He's been ordered to go help with his father's mustering down in the Reach and departs tomorrow too."
"With you?"
"Yesssss," the Young Pup responded with a smirk.
'So you can wait to say your sad goodbyes to the pretty boy until later, man whore,' Lucius thought. "Well then, how can I say no to such a generous offer," he replied.
The affection and carnal pleasure seeking man smiled cheerfully. "There are some things I'd like to try again," Renly said in a quiet, but heated voice. The Young Pup desperately wanted his tail wagged one last time by the Tribune.
The evening's festivities came to a close when the acolyte to the new, temporarily appointed Grand Maester slipped into the Queen's Ballroom and skipped right past his master to crouch by the side of the Hand. "Lord Stark, messages for you from the rookery."
"Can't it wait?" the Hand asked gruffly, a story of boyish japes from his days in the Eerie with the King now interrupted.
"Perhaps, my Lord," the young man agreed. "But they came from the Wall, addressed specifically to you."
That caught Lord Stark's attention. "The Wall?"
"Yes, my Lord. One of them I believe carries the mark of your son."
"Jon? Let me see them."
The acolyte handed over the folded parchments.
All eyes fell on the Hand as he slit the sealing wax, unfolded them, read them, shuffled them, and re-read them again.
Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Rex Hercules blurted out, "Is everything alright, Ned?"
The Hand shuffled the parchments one more time before looking up. "There's been an attack at Castle Black, your Grace," he said stolidly.
"The wildlings? Is your boy alright, Ned?"
"Jon's alright," Lord Stark answered distractedly. "His sword hand's been burned badly, but their Maester doesn't think he'll lose it."
"Well that's good enough news then; especially if could scratch out that note to ya," the King enthused.
The Hand shook his head, as if clearing it. "It wasn't the wildlings, your Grace."
"What?!" the startled bull stag cried.
Lord Stark stood up. "I think fewer ears, your Grace."
An unhappy expression crossed Rex Hercules face, but nevertheless he dragged himself up off his chair. "Let's go to my rooms then."
The Hand nodded. "And might Ser Barristan and Grand Maester Denys attend you too, if you please, your Grace."
The King waived a dismissive hand, "Whatever you think best, Ned." Then he turned to address his sell swords. "Good Sers. My mighty Romans. Duty calls and I must answer it. I thank for an enjoyable dinner."
With that, Rex Hercules left for the evening. The evening of Lucius Pomponius Bassus, Senator of Rome and Tribune of the Ninth Legion, had just barely begun.