Reviews make me write faster! - I use the quatermaester interactive game of thrones map when writing.
Renly Baratheon
I stifled a yawn as I walked down Aegon's High Hill and into the chaos of the midday market in Kings Landing. Behind me, two servants carried a large iron bound crate as we walked to Tobho Mott's workshop, flanked by my guards. I had sent Edric dancing with Arya to provide her with emotional support and distract her from her fathers' condition. As well as hopefully endear himself to her in the process.
After pointing out that while I would give him leave to stay by his father's side, that was unlikely to help anyone, least of all him, I'd also sent Jon out with twoscore of my guardsman to distract him as well. He'd ridden out as soon as he'd checked that Arya was with Edric and Syrio, and Sansa was at their father's side under the watchful eye of Ser Arys Oakheart and the entire Stark household guard.
Putting Loras' lessons in command into practice when the Tyrell Knight wasn't there to save him from any mistakes would be a good learning experience for Jon. As would learning how to command despite being in emotional turmoil. War was a messy and devastating business that almost no one got through without losing someone close to them. In that Ramsey Bolton had been right; if you thought the game of thrones had a happy ending, you hadn't been paying attention.
Having successfully dispersed all members of my retinue that would react badly to more morally dubious decisions, especially the Stark ones given what I was carrying, I made sure to inspect several of the most expensive tailors, exotic goods traders, and goldsmiths on the way through the city. As was expected of me. Inwardly I wasn't registering any of it and was instead lamenting that no one had discovered coffee as I could certainly use some after last night's excursions. I did, however, buy the entire stock of Dornish soap I could find and had most of it sent to Storm's End, ensuring that the rest would be sent to my household in the Red Keep.
The Dornish had figured out that using olive oil instead of animal fat made a soap that was far less harsh on the skin. Which given that the soap made with tallow for washing clothes gave the washerwomen blisters was definitely something I was willing to pay for. Granted, tallow soap intended for people wasn't quite as harsh as that intended for clothes, but the point stood. If I ended up leaving the Red Keep soon then dornish soap was one luxury I was determined to always have access too. I did not intend to ruin one of Renly's most powerful assets, his appearance, by giving him peasant's hands. But I also didn't intend to drop dead of e-coli or some other infection I could have easily prevented. So, Dornish soap it was.
Eventually we walked up the Street of Steel and entered Tobho Mott's workshop. He quickly ushered me into the fitting room, which I noticed for the first time was behind the forges, likely to use their noise to cover what was said. I expect several people wanting secret additions to their armour or weapons that had to actually stay secret had resulted in this rooms placement.
My servants placed the crate they had brought before leaving the shop. I unlocked it as Tobho Mott unlocked a similar one that was present already, pulling out the pieces of my new armour. It was coal black with beautiful golden patterns all over it in what I recognised as a celtic style but was apparently traditional Stormlands patterns, culminating in a stunningly realistic rendition of a stag's head and antlers on the breast plate. I'd refused the gilded gold originally proposed as both far too Lannister and utterly impractical for amour that was to be worn on campaign. I had instead replaced it with brass inlay which would both stand up far better to the rigours of constantly cleaning off mud and blood and make it clear that I intended to actually fight, not just look pretty astride a horse. The result was a beautiful set that was clearly practical and meant to be used in battle while still showing wealth and exquisite craftsmanship. On the whole, it felt entirely appropriate for the lord paramount of the practically minded and unpretentious Stormlands and would likely go down very well with my vassals.
Tobho worked in companionable silence, ensuring each piece fitted perfectly and needed no adjustment that couldn't be accomplished by its leather fastenings. It was only when he came to the gorget that he finally spoke.
"It's time then?" he asked quietly, barely audible to me, let alone anyone who had somehow managed to get close.
"It is." I confirmed. "Ideally you should be gone by sunset on the morrow, but you must be gone before sunset three days hence. I would change horses at least twice in your journey as well, to increase your speed."
The Qohorik smith frowned heavily, no doubt feeling pressured. I decided to ram the point home. "The Queen's brother just attacked the Hand of the King in the street and gave him a wound that will take weeks to heal. Do you really want to find out what she'll do to one of her husband's bastards if she gets her hands on him?"
That little reminder sank in, he simply nodded in acquiescence.
"And that?" Tobho Mott muttered quietly, tilting his head at supposedly empty crate I had brought, where the hilt of Ice was just visible amongst the straw.
I smiled mildly at the complete neutrality in his tone. Truly he didn't care where the Valyrian steel came from if it meant he got to work with it. I was glad, because while the lies I had prepared and begun spinning should hold against most questions, they were obviously useless against the man who had to actually rework the damn thing. Thankfully I still wasn't troubled by guilt, which was a good sign. I wasn't going to keep my head attached by acting like some paragon of virtue, honour, and kindness. Rob Stark, Ned Stark, and Margery Tyrell had all found that out in one way or another. I certainly wasn't going to sit on the Iron Throne as regent or king acting like that, not when I was up against Tywin Lannister. This would likely be far from the last immoral decision I would make before the end.
"Hide it well and take it with you, there are instructions on what to do with it and other materials you will find at Storm's End attached to the hilt. Ser Cortnay Penrose will provide you with everything you need. Don't wait for my arrival to start work."
The master smith simply nodded again before fitting the final piece of armour, my helm, and sighing in disappointment. "I wish you had let me craft you a stag helmet worthy of you my lord, or at least allowed me to affix antlers like the king's."
My helm was a standard Stormlands rounded top with a single raised ridge down the centre, rather than anything fancy. Though the massive antlers attached to Robert's helm called fiercely to my sense of the dramatic and love of pretty things, the fear of someone grabbing them in battle and using them as leverage to twist and snap my neck with my own helm easily won out.
I had acquiesced to the stag's head and antlers brass inlay on my breastplate being repeated on each side of my helm as a compromise. A king was supposed to look a certain way after all. Hopefully fulfilling those expectations would combine with my way with words and let me draw even with Stannis in most people's minds.
"This isn't tourney armour Master Mott," I sighed. "If it were I would allow you to craft to your hearts content. But I won't have someone snapping my neck with my own helm in battle because I wanted to show off."
The rueful half smirk on the master smiths face let me know he had accepted the gentle chastisement. Which was good, I needed him on side.
"As you say my lord. Well, shall we get this off you and into your crate? I have a lot to prepare before first light tomorrow."
I reluctantly stripped the new armour off, pleased that he would be leaving Kings Landing so soon. I was still glowing with pride when I locked the crate and called my servants back to carry it. I would be going into battle looking like a true Baratheon, like Robert on the Trident, rather than like the fourth Tyrell son. Which, intended or not, had been the result of the previous green armour that Loras had commissioned for me.
Loras had been enraged when he had found out that I had commissioned new armour and had screamed at me at a volume and length that would have given Cersei's rows with Robert a run for their money. The wound against his pride from the implication that his gift wasn't good enough had mixed with his fear that his was the first step in me rejecting him and finding a wife, resulting in his famous temper exploding. It had taken days filled with a lot of kisses, sweet whispers of devotion, apologies, and explanations of political realities to calm him down again. As much as I was relying on the Tyrells, I did still need to be distinct from them, in appearance at least, if my plans were going to work. Thankfully, I had managed to get Loras to accept that in the end. I hoped his assignment would bear fruit soon because I was already missing the insecure, prideful, knight.
I set off back to the Red Keep as more of my plans slotted into place. If everything continued as expected, it would be another five days before Ned would awaken.
Alyssa Waters
Alyssa grumbled mightily in her head as she refilled the cups of another group of sailors and avoided their groping hands as much as possible. If Lord Baratheon's last assignment had been the strangest he had ever given her, this one had to be the most humiliating.
No sooner had she stepped off the ship from White Harbour then Lord Baratheon had sent her right back to the docks, this time in the guise of a serving girl in one of the more reputable taverns. Still, at least this time she knew what the purpose of her assignment was. Which did give her some satisfaction.
A feeling she held on to tightly as she faked a yelp of surprise when one of the ship captains pulled her down onto his lap. "Come on now girl, how 'bout you show me a good time?"
"I've got drink, food, gossip, and the name of some girls on the Street of Silk, but that's all ya getting from me." Alyssa replied tartly, pushing the captain's bearded face out of her cleavage.
"Ahh go on girl!" He grinned but Alyssa simply smirked and pushed his head back again.
"Fine! I'll take one of the meat pies n'nother ale, wench."
"Coming right up, sweetheart."
It was on her return trip that Alyssa got her chance. "So, what's the juiciest bit of gossip since I was last here? None of that flowery court stuff neither. Everyone's heard about the Stark bitch and the Imp, and the Kingslayer and the Hand. I want true gossip, sea gossip."
Alyssa launched into her well-worn speech. "Well, Willem and the Wayfarer recon they barely escaped a genuine kraken, the damage she's carrying makes it look like she mite'ave too. That or the dumb cunt sailed her into alf'a dozen rocks. Sea Snake is more than two months overdue and they recon she's been taken by pirates when she sailed through the Stepstones, or old Jon finally turned pirate himself. Either way she were carryin Arbor wine so someone's avin a right old time now. Orys and the Windblown came by from Dragonstone claiming grim Lord Stannis burned the Sept and the godswood 'cause some mad red god bitch said it wud bring him power. Those statues were carved from the masts o' the conqueror's ships themselves but that didnae save 'em. Went up like matchwood they did. 'parrently some lordlings tried to stop em and now they're in grim Lord Stannis' dungeon. Orys said the red bitch was sayin they should burn the lordlings next so 'e made sure Windblown scarpered right quick!"
Alyssa continued for some time before moving on, but she was already starting to hear the claim about the burning of the Dragonstone sept and godswood from several other sources. It seemed that her work was succeeding and that Lord Baratheon's rumour was taking root. Best of all, with all ships now being denied landing on Dragonstone there was no one to dispute it. The rumour should spread from the docks to the Great Sept on its own soon enough, which would be enough for most lords. But Lord Baratheon wanted it carried by every ship and merchant leaving the city, so Alyssa swallowed her pride and headed back out into the swarm of drunk, groping, and very suggestable men.
A few more whispers from her and they would carry the rumour of Lord Stannis spitting on the old gods and the new everywhere from Oldtown to Yi-Ti.
Satin Flowers
Satin's thighs were excruciating, blood seeping through his breeches as he finally pulled his horse up at gatehouse of the massive castle that was Storm's End. Through pain blurred vision he noticed the guard approaching, backlit by the morning sun streaming through the gateway, gritting his teeth and groaning Satin tried desperately to focus.
"I….have a…mess….or…Ser Cortnay….rose…" Satin muttered, trying to remember his instructions as he fumbled for the silver messenger medallion. He managed to find it and hold it up to the guard in a bloody hand, but as he straightened, he caught his thigh again and his world became nothing but pain. Satin toppled sideways with an agonized scream and the last thing he saw was the ground rushing up to meet him.
He awoke some time later in what was clearly a set of guest chambers, though he had never actually stayed in any so fine. His heart started pounding as he began to panic, realising that not only were his breeches gone, but so was the letter he'd been intrusted with.
"Oh, you're awake." Satin startled but relaxed minutely as he realised the words had come from a young boy rather than a man. Perhaps twelve namedays, the boy had been watching him from one of the chambers chairs.
"Where am I?" Satin asked hoarsely, panic continuing to rise as the fear of failure grew. He tried to rise, but had to hiss and clench his teeth as his legs simply refused to bear his weight. "Where are the rest of my clothes and the lett….the contents of my pockets?"
The boy seemed to be swinging between contempt and eagerness and eagerness had won out for the moment. "You're in Storm's End, you collapsed outside the gatehouse just after breakfast. Your message was taken by the castellan here, Ser Cortnay Penrose, as you managed to mumble it was for him before you fell. Ser Cortnay says it had my uncle's personal seal!"
The boy's mood turned as he motioned to the blanket covering Satin's legs. "You ruined your thighs riding so hard, you're clearly not used to it. Maester Jurne tried to treat you, but you kept fighting him off, saying he couldn't buy you anymore. The maester had me apply the healing ointment and wrap the bandages instead."
Satin sank back into the bed, accepting that his legs were in no state to help him rise. If this boy was indeed the nephew of Lord Renly, then he wasn't someone Satin wanted to offend. So, he ignored how the boy's tone had changed to contempt when talking about how he had fought off the maester. He fought down a blush at the shame of it nonetheless, but given how many of the men who had bought him wanted to play maester and student, or later maester and wounded, it didn't surprise him that he hadn't let the maester here near him when he wasn't thinking clearly.
"Thank you…" He trailed off and gave the boy his most dazzling and admiring smile. The first step in the game of seduction, intended to make whoever received it believe they were the most skilled, most handsome, most impressive man Satin had ever met. Though he was too young for it to stir the boy's lust, it certainly made him puff out his chest with pride and begin talking again.
"I'm Edric Storm and I apologise for my rudeness. If my uncle chose you as his personal messenger then the Maester Jurne must be wrong, you can't be a whore." Young Edric beamed when he mentioned his uncle before heading towards the door. "Ser Cortnay asked that I inform him as soon as you awoke, he has questions."
Satin let his head fall back onto the pillows, tears of relief gathering in his eyes and redding them, though he refused to let them fall. It had been agonising continuing to ride as the saddle stripped away the skin and flesh of his thighs, but he had pushed on regardless. He'd refused to let Lord Renly down and prove that he was as weak and useless as the rest of the household sneered he was. The pride swelling in Satin's chest was a foreign feeling to him, but it was certainly worth all the pain and fear he had endured. Whatever else happened, he knew he was good for something other than sucking cock now, no matter what anyone said. And that was something that no one could take away from him.
Some time later a tall, bald man with a weathered face strode into the room with a man in the grey robes and chain of a maester scurrying quickly after him.
"You boy, you claim to be a messenger sent by Lord Renly?" The maester broke in before the older man could speak.
Satin felt indignant at being called a boy, but given that he was was closer to Edric's age than either of the newcomers he simply answered the question. "I am, maester."
The maester snorted with derision but the bald man held up a hand to silence him and spoke instead. "I am Ser Cortnay Penrose. I'm told you were to deliver this to me alone. Do you know what is in the letter?"
"No, my lord." Satin answered honestly. "Just that it is dangerous, I was ordered not to let it fall into the wrong hands."
"When did you receive it. Did Lord Renly give you this message himself?"
Satin hesitated before replying, fear that everything he endured would be for naught suddenly growing. "I was given it in the night my lord, and I rode for three days and four nights before reaching you. But the letter was not given to me by Lord Renly. It was Ser Loras Tyrell who gave it to me and relayed Lord Renly's instructions."
"There! You see!" Maester Jurne cut in, sneering. "The catamite admits it. The Tyrell undoubtedly hired a whore to give us a false message and put Lord Renly in a very precarious position with the king."
Satin bolted upright, desperate to refute the maesters charges. He couldn't let Lord Renly down by making the maester and castellan disbelieve the letter just because it was him who had delivered it. Surely even the gods would not be that cruel to him.
"If you would care to remember them growing up Jurne, you wouldn't be surprised that Lord Renly trusts Ser Loras with all manner of sensitive tasks for him. While it might well be galling to be asked to trust a Tyrell after the siege, these are our lords' choices, not ours, and Ser Loras was only a single nameday old when his father tried to starve us out in any case."
The maester looked like he wanted to argue, but Ser Cortnay turned his attention to Satin.
"You, however, are no messenger. Your horsemanship must be terrible to have suffered those wounds, so why would Lord Renly choose you as a messenger? What are you to him?"
"I am Lord Renly's scribe." Satin answered, his voice steady even as his shaking hands were hidden by the blanket. He had a great deal of experience with hiding fear. Refusing to show if what a man wanted truly terrified him, so he could suggest a different humiliation that he could better endure instead. He used that skill now, hiding the fear of failure and trying to make Ser Cortnay believe him by sheer force of will. "That is all I am or have ever been for him."
"See! I told you my uncle wouldn't send a whore!" Edric cut in, glaring harshly at Maester Jurne.
"Indeed, and it would be a strange whore who ruined his body so. Riding so hard in a Tyrell scheme when such wounds would damage their prospects. Especially when their normal work is always so plentiful." Ser Cortnay pointed out to the maester. He turned and looked significantly at Satin, making it clear that he had caught the fact that Satin had never denied being a whore, he'd just denied being Lord Renly's whore. "You haven't answered why Lord Renly would send you."
"I owe my position and livelihood to him my lord. It was a significant elevation." Satin answered truthfully, answering Ser Cortnay's unasked question with an implication and a significant look of his own, the blood roaring in his ears in embarrassment. But he refused to let shame keep him from completing the task at the last moment. "As for why he chose me, Ser Loras said that it was because I wouldn't be missed if he and Lord Renly 'drew the Spider and the Mockingbird's attention'."
"Any Master of Whispers worth his salt would have agents among the royal messengers." Maester Jurne admitted reluctantly. "Given what the letter instructs us to do…"
Ser Cortnay seemed to come to a decision. Drawing himself up commandingly Satin noticed for the first time he had the open letter in his hand.
"Edric, Satin has done a great service for your uncle. You will continue to apply the ointment and change the bandages when Maester Jurne tells you to. You will also see that the servants treat him properly. Do you understand?"
"Yes Ser Cortnay." Edric said happily, looking over at Satin with curiosity, clearly hoping to get stories about his uncle in the capital from him.
"Jurne, it seems you have a large number of ravens to send. I suggest you begin."
"Perhaps it would be best to wait for Lord Renly's return before sending them Cortnay? To clarify matters? Normally this would be dangerous enough, but he's asking for everything. The eldest men and the youngest boys, scraping every last part of the barrel. I feel that…"
"Jurne." Ser Cortnay snapped harshly. "I doubt that our lord sent his scribe on a desperate midnight ride because the situation in the capital was under control and could await his return. I indulged your concerns about the messenger, even though the seal has the mark Lord Renly made on his personal stamp before returning to Kings Landing since he was concerned that Lord Varys had made a copy of it. Your concerns have been addressed. The letter is real."
Maester Jurne attempted to meet Ser Cortnay's gaze, but he eventually bowed his head, giving in and awaiting instructions. "First the nonsense with the Night's Watch, then all the thieves he has had you pay after he returned to King's Landing, now this. I simply wished to voice my concerns that that Tyrell boy may be convincing our lord to place his own head on the executioner's block."
Ser Cortnay simply stared at him coldly. "You have expressed them, and some of them are concerns that I share. But it is not our place to question Lord Baratheon. Our liege lord has given us our instructions maester. Carry them out."
"What did uncle ask us to do?" Edric spoke up eagerly.
Satin felt the same nervous excitement twisting his guts. He wanted to know what he had ridden so hard for; what he could say the pain and blood had all been for when anyone asked about the wounds on his thighs that were sure to scar.
Ser Cortnay ignored Satin and looked directly at Edric for a moment before answering his question.
"Call the banners."