Not completely happy about this one, please any constructive/reviews and comments would be helpful, though don't just comment on the op nature of the MC. It's going to get tiring really quickly and doesn't help anyone.
Jon Arryn I
Jon was intrigued, for lack of a better term. Both for the sudden summons by the Master of Whispers, Varys - plump, bald and effeminate, Jon could smell at least three different perfumes radiating from him, a sign of his past as a mummer in Lys; and the sight of both his foster son, King Robert Baratheon, and the King's wife, Cersei Baratheon - though The Hand knew the woman would much rather be called Lannister than take her husband's family name.
Robert almost never joined the Small Council meetings, only ever appearing twice in his entire reign, once at the beginning and automatically deciding on the spot that the intricacies of ruling bored him and left Jon in charge; then at the meeting just before a messenger charged in to inform the council the Ironborn had rebelled.
What was even more strange was the fact Queen Cersei was in this meeting. While Robert disregarding his duties as King to be buried in women and a woman's counts was something that Jon felt frequently shame in not curtailing in the King's youth, The Hand felt that there was no point in the Queen's appearance, despite her father's considerable power and wealth - which Jon reminded himself about needing to talk to Petyr about the crown's finances - Cersei had no mind for politics or the many positions of the small council. No matter how much she clenched her teeth and seemingly being ignored due to her being a woman, Jon might've listened to her if the spoiled brat had any attitude to ruling herself, and to not throw her weight around.
"The Seven hells you called for this meeting, Varys?" Slurred Robert, already deep in his cups before the tenth hour had begun.
Jon frowned and held his head against interlocked hands. Robert was a drunkard and a man whose eyes focused on any pair of tits when he was young, especially when he took whores to his bed, and others, in King's Landing. The man on his left, the King's brother and Master of Ships, Stannis, was a cool reminder when Robert took a serving girl to the man's marriage bed - bad omen for the marriage between Stannis and Lady Florrent, some would say.
Taking another look at Robert, Jon couldn't help but think he failed his foster son. The man who had slain Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident where the King rightfully earned his monitor as the 'Demon of the Trident' was now nothing more than a shadow of his former self: a beer belly with a long beard that hid several folds underneath the chin, his once strong body of countless years of training was now turning to what could be generously described as Aegon The Unworthy come again. Yet he wasn't always like this, before… before Steffon's death.
Prince Steffon, the second born son, a boy of seven that was already near a man grown, a fierce smile of happiness with a head of black and golden, of eyes of blue and green, a face of a pure joining between Robert and Cersei's own. A clear celebration of the joining of Houses Baratheon and Lannister the High Septon had said. Steffon was the joy of the castle, and a terror to the maids and servants, always running, always laughing - A reborn Laughing Storm, the servants would whisper.
Then he was taken from his world. A month had passed after the Ironborn declared their independence. Robert, Stannis and he all left to quell the rebellion, though not before sending off Steffon to begin his fosterge in the North, at Winterfell, by ship - a decision commmanded two months prior by Robert - It was safest, it was thought. After all, the Ironborn were on the other side of Westeros, and the weather was clear and true for many months before.
Except, a missive reached them as they were about to storm the island of Pyke.
Steffon had never reached Gulltown, didn't even pass the seat of Claw Isle.
The ship had been destroyed, a storm had rendered the Narrow Sea all but impossible to sail through. Lighting, wind, and water shook and clawed at the eastern coast of Westeros like the storm god of old. Scouts had reported a distant cog that resembled the ship that housed the prince of Westeros had been struck by no less than ten bolts of lighting, an army of waves and hurls of wind had seemingly pulled the ship to its watery grave, split into five separate pieces.
Many houses along the coast had sent men out to try and save the crew and the prince. Only to meet their own deaths as the storm's wrath lashed out at the mere thought of the prince being saved.
Steffon had been declared dead. For no man, not even a unique child such as Steffon could have survived the storm that was described.
Robert… Robert was inconsolable. The King had seemingly lost all fight when the message was read aloud. First, he almost killed the messenger in anger, thinking it a poor attempt at intimidation or shit threat from the Ironborn. Then, silence, when his own reports had said the same thing only a view hours later with the Master of Whispers signature. Robert just sat down. No move to drink or yell.
He just sat there, uncaring of his, or his foster brother's, Eddard Stark, or his blood brother's attempts to get his attention.
Robert then just walked out and could not be found for the rest of the day.
Many were sent out but the King could not have been found, many in the army had lost morale when the King had seemingly abandoned them in his grief.
Then out of the morning mist, stood the King clad in plate armour that could not have been comfortable, the King had put on weight even back then, with his warhammer tightly held in his shaking clenched fist.
Jon didn't take part in the storming of the main Ironborn castle, he was an old man and his best days were behind him, so the Hand of the King stayed at the back and was not able to personally make sure Robert was okay, but from what the Kingsguard had said, Robert had seemingly become the Demon once again. His warhammer shot back and forth as if he were a giant of myth picking trunks from the earth. Reavers were unmade into mists of red, skulls flattened, bones snapped, armour splintered and shields shattered. Robert charged into the fray, the first in line despite the protests of his Kingsguard and advisors, worried the King was ruled by hatred and guilt.
In the end, Robert Baratheon had slain more than any other man in the Siege of Pyke. The fortress' walls coloured red, guts and brain matter slowly sliding down the brick to the horror and awe of his Kingsguard. When Jon, Stannis, Eddard, Tywin and the rest of the generals arrived in the main hall of Balon Greyjoy. Jon and Eddard both were horrified at the headless corpse of Balon Greyjoy, his body off to the side and his remaining children, young Asha, and even younger Theon, both cowering in the corner.
And in the Seastone Chair, sat Robert. Armour once steel was now blood, not a single shimmer of plate was seen; his warhammer carried handfuls of brain and bone between the spikes, occasionally the weapon letting the body pieces go to slop off and drip to the floor.
At that moment, Jon Arryn did not see his foster son, did not see Robert Baratheon, did not see the King of Westeros, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men.
No. Jon saw a bloodthirsty god of war in the skin of a man, eyes alight with a fury of a thousand men.
'Was this the power of guilt?' The Hand thought to himself. Fearing what would happen to himself if little Robin were to die.
"My Lords, my King and Queen." Started Varys with a small but hurried bow, bringing Jon back to the present, though a brow was raised, wondering what had the usually collected Master of Whispers rankled. "I apologise for such a hurried summons but I have urgent news brought from Volantis."
Jon kept his face neutral as Varys pulled out a scroll of parchment. Volantis was a sore spot for the bald man; ever since the storm that took the Prince, information had stopped coming and going from the Firstborn of Valyria. Seemingly overnight, Varys 'Little Birds' sang no more to the Spymaster's distress.
"Well, out with it!" Commanded Robert, the woman beside him uncaring of the interaction.
"There is a slave uprising currently taking place in Volantis." Varys informed them. "My little birds in Lys, Tyrosh and Myr sing of the rebellion occurring."
A small silence was followed by Robert's glare of impatience.
"And? Why should we care?"
"Because of who is leading this rebellion, Sire." Varys opened the parchment, reading from it. "The leader's battle cry is why I brought this attention to you, my lord. The leader said 'Today, no more slaves! Today, no more masters! Today, we are free! Today… '" Varys paused before looking straight dead into Robert's eyes. "'Ours is the Fury!'"
The motto of House Baratheon forced Jon's eyes to widen, the same happening to everyone sitting, and standing, around the table - the only one that seemed unsure why the small council and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard were shocked, was Janos Slynt, the newly promoted Commander of the City Watch.
"Spider." Not the King, but Cersei, growled - body shot straight and shaking, nails clawing grooves into the arms of her chair. "If you are lying, you will not have a tongue to speak them."
"I am not, you grace." Varys said, handing the parchment to Petyr Baelish, who in turn handed it to Symond Stauton, the Master of Laws from the Mad King's reign - a man Jon knew planned to retire sometime soon.
Symond gave it to him and Jon read the parchment himself.
A man. It said of the leader. A giant with hair of black and gold. An eye of green and a half-face of burned flesh.
Jon blinked and slowly gave it to Robert, who snatched it out of his hand like a boy finally getting a turn to play with their toys. The King scoured the parchment, scoring as more and more lines were read.
The King turned the message over, as if hoping to find more information. "Was there no other description of this 'Fire Wound'?" His voice turned dark and deep, stone breaking against stone and Jon was brought back into the main hall of Pyke once again. Shaking his head to rid himself of the memory, Jon stared at Varys and thought.
While in his heart, he hoped the boy was alive. The Hand couldn't help but feel it was too good of a coincidence, that Steffon, boy of… two and ten he would be now, was discovered half a world away and leading a slave rebellion. Jon could not think of a boy that young, even if he were taller than the average man now could lead something as complex as managing a revolt.
"My Lord." Jon said to the King.
"My son, Jon." Robert knew what he was going to suggest, one of the rare moments of intelligence broke through the drunkard that sat before him.
"I know, Robert but we still don't know this to be true, if a slave rebellion had happened then this Fire Wound could be nothing more than a coincidence of appearance. Dyes could be used, a slave would look good for its owner to show off, and eye colour could be mistaken, especially from hearsay."
His words seemed to reach his foster son, the King lowered and lent his entire weight on the chair, and the Hand's soul curled at the action. His words had stripped the fight from Robert, but he knew that something must be done.
As the Queen took the message, Jon looked at the Spymaster. "If… if the Prince is indeed alive, I think it would be best to have actual proof instead of words on the wind."
Varys bowed. "Yes, Lord Hand, I will have more information soon, maybe a month or two due to the lack of little birds in Volantis, and the situation ther-"
"No!" Cried the Queen, throwing the message towards the centre of the Small Council. "I will not wait for only whispers to be brought back! We should march on Volantis and find out if this is our son ourselves!"
"My Queen… " Jon tried to speak up, hoping to calm the hysterical women down from making too much of a fuss.
"She's right." Said the King. The various masters stared at their ruler in confusion, most of all Cersei herself.
The two had never… had a good marriage if Jon was honest with himself. Arguments and the rare hand was thrown behind the closed doors of the Red Keep. Jon had hoped Robert would move on from Lyanna and try to be a good husband to Cersei, but he did not think Robert would be this distraught over a woman he had only truly met once at the Tourney of Harrenhal. The King was stuck in the past and Jon knew of no way to bring him out of it.
Yet when both Joffrey and Steffon were born, the bridge had slightly mended. The arguments, while still happening, lessened and a smile was born out of the pair whenever they saw the two boys playing in the yard.
When Steffon was lost at sea, Cersei and Robert fell back into their worst aspects. Arguing, fighting, drinking, and whoring in the case of Robert. Cersei became fearful for Joffrey's life, always by his side every day for the past five years, whispering sweet nothings in his ear while not teaching the boy restraint as if she could keep the boy safe by herself.
"My King, I must protest this!" Jon finally raised his voice, hoping to stop a foolish action that could jeopardise the Seven Kingdoms. A glare from Robert would terrify lesser people, but the Hand had raised the man in front of him, glares alone would not curtail the old man and Jon knew he had to be firm. "If we send an army across the Narrow Sea and it turns out it's not Steffon? We'd have sent an army with nothing to show for it!"
"What would you have me do?!" Robert spat.
"Send a single ship, filled with trustworthy men that could go into Volantis and find him." He offered. "If Steffon is there, then they could bring him back without much wasted coin and men… if he isn't there? Then at least we wouldn't have lost much in the search." Pain was caught in Jon's throat as he finished, he wasn't as young as he used to be, the Hand cursed to himself. Raised voices were for the younger vigour-filled men.
Robert was once again silent. The Masters of the Small Council all held their breath at what their King would command.
Pycelle, the snivelling cowardly man, shifted and Jon was thankful the Grand Maester knew that his advice would be ignored by everyone.
Petyr Baelish simply watched as if trying to be a bystander to an execution or a fly on the wall, his usual small confident smile seemingly slaughtered while no one was looking.
Stannis. Well, Stannis gritted his teeth. The younger brother to Robert always snubbed by his elder brother and so sat aside about what should be done.
"Barristan!" Called Robert. The ageing Knight marched up and bowed quietly. "Gather men and sailors you deem worthy for a voyage to Volantis. Find my son!"
"It will be done, your Grace." Barristan said.
"Stannis!" The man stood straight. "Find a suitable and fast ship for Barristan to use!"
"Yes, your grace." Stannis formally obeyed.
"Spider! Give any and all information to Barristan about this Fire Wound and Volantis!"
Varys bowed.
"Baelish! Give them the coin for food and drink for the journey!"
"Yes, my King."
"Pycelle!" Robert stopped as the old man made a sort of noise that twitched Jon's brow. "Send an assistant with the men, with medicine. If my son is there, and hurt. I want him healed!"
"Y-Y-Yes you Grace!"
"Jon!"
Their eyes met and the Hand could see the hope in his foster child's eyes. The hope and the fear; a fear of finding out his child was dead or nothing more than a rumour; and yet, hope raged and roared before the dark army of terror.
"Jon! Coordinate between them!" With the order now settled, Robert looked at his council before striking the table, denting the wood. "Why are you fucks still here?! Go!"
Wood scrapped against stone as chairs were thrown back in haste, Barristan leading as both he and Stannis already talked logistics and the gathering of sailors - but something had caught the edge of Jon's vision.
Hopping about on the bottom of a window, was a curiously coloured raven. The feathers were not the curious part, for the bird was still the colour of night but the eyes were unusual.
The right was green. The left was a cloudy grey.
Jon blinked.
The raven with the unusual eyes was gone. No sounds of wings flapping, no loose feather flowed down nor was the stone sill scratched in any way.
Jon sighed, maybe a rest was needed before helping administrate the mission ordered by the King.
To figure out the distance between King's Landing and Volantis so I can get a sense of time scale, I looked to reddit and found this /r/asoiaf/s/xktlpYx1cG
So around 2395 nautical miles was what this guy said.
My eyeball (so not at all accurate) is around 1700 miles, which I used this link to the World of Ice and Fire map to guess.
https/awoiaf./images/1/10/WorldofIceandFire.png
Using a Cog ship average speed which is 5 knots, I believe, and using this link:
https/rechneronline.de/ship/
I used to calculate the average journey.
1700 miles (my eyeball) would take around 14 Days and 4 Hours
2395 miles (reddit person said) would take around 19 Days and 23 Hours.