Chapter Thirty Eight: Honor is a Hell of a Drug.
Thirteenth Day of the Eleventh Month, 114 AC.
Rank.
It is something of a funny word.
It carries so much weight, expectation and even power.
Yet it is also a word which described a human construct.
A social construct at that.
Which is to say that its objective reality is actually quite varied. If one is not careful, it becomes quite meaningless.
Constructs required one to know the rules of the game and to follow them as able.
Take a merchant.
Rank means nothing when a horde of angry peasants decides to lynch you because you were not careful enough to empathize with a crisis.
But Rank functions when one is careful to ensure they do not anger enough peasants at once to protect them from the noose of the guard.
Rank means nothing when a lord miscalculates his ambitions and makes supporting him squarely against the interests of his vassals.
But Rank functions when the lord's interests align with the majority of one's vassals and they were effectively turned on each-other.
Rank means nothing when a king is too comfortable with his power and allows himself to be seen as a tyrant or even worse, as week.
But Rank functions when the king has effective control and a stick to beat you to death with and knows to not constantly use it.
And rank is usually meaningless if you are a child with relatively few men in the heart of a social lesser's territory.
But Rank functions when the royal house commands the interests of the bulk of the realm and was divided between both sides looking for a way to shame the other. When said house had every tool needed to crush them like gnats.
Westeros is actually not a case to the contrary, the rough framework had worn a few skins but otherwise lasted millennia.
Even in the possible three centuries of Targaryen Rule I was familiar with, rebellions were remarkably focused and often small-scale. It just so happened that a particularly idiotic and fetishistically savage generation ended it.
Stark, Bolton, Lannister, Targaryen and so on. If one wanted case studies of how to be a bad feudal ruler with as much tact as an atomic weapon, one need look no further.
Fortunately, that was almost two centuries away.
Also, I had a dragon.
A dragon which watched the proceedings with vague interest as both a very real weapon and a very literal reminder of my position.
"Lord Redwyne," I smiled at the man's growled words. "That is quite a shocking accusation."
The Lord regarded me for a long moment before answering.
"Shocking," Manfred Redwyne gnashed the words, his bulky figure reminding me of a hippo. "Yes, Your Grace. That word is suitable in meaning if not in scale. I am 'shocked' to see such a dishonor done to my house."
If nothing else, the man is a good actor. His pudgy face was more colored than a ripe grape.
"Lord Redwyne," Ormund spoke up. His expression set grimly. "I have no intention of shirking responsibility for my conduct. I must apologize for the action spurred by drink as I-"
Manfred cut him off with a murderous glare, "So you keep saying, Ser Ormund. I have drunk my fair share but I do not recall ever dishonoring a lady."
That was such a lie that it was not even funny. Westerosi smallfolk tended to have feudal rights that were more in line with the worst part of absolutist Russia, so I doubted that they thought much of raping smallfolk.
Or even just dishonoring them.
But that was just Westeros.
My angry glare was pointed at my cousin.
I liked Ormund.
He was kind, a reasonably attentive father and to my understanding, a fine warrior.
Unfortunately, he had the flaws of honor and honesty.
"You are correct, Lord Redwyne," Ormund confirmed with a nod. "But I beg you to understand that this failing falls squarely on my own shoulders."
"Your shoulders?" Lord Manfred spat.
"Not his shoulders," Lymon interrupted, calm but with his eyes just a shade narrowed and his words having a solidity to them. "And I am wary of this farce, Lord Manfred. What evidence do you have of this wrongdoing?"
I blinked and felt my smile stiffen.
The commotion had been going on for at least an hour and it was absurd in the extreme for that entire span to have been spent raging.
Especially since to my understanding, a good deceit required forcing the victim into action before there was time to really think about their situation.
"What need have I for evidence? Your son was found in my daughter's bed!" Manfred shouted. "Do you expect me to believe that she dragged him to her bed and undid his britches? At least he is not fool enough to deny it."
My eyes flicked to the where the Redwyne girl stood and I evaluated her for the first time.
Jeyne Redwyne reminded me a great deal of a certain other Jeyne that might be born in a few centuries. That Jeyne had also been pretty with a heart-shaped face and a slender body, she had also been 'dishonored' by someone with good prospects which had been sworn to someone else.
There were some differences, this Jeyne had the flowing locks of orange hair expected from her house, hazel eyes and a sharp nose. She was also fairly tall and nearly as tall as Ormund. But the key difference was that the other Jeyne had gotten her marriage and had infected her husband's cause like a particularly virulent plague and had seen an entire house fall to ruins.
Ya…. You are a problem, I concluded with a quiet sigh as I regarded the girl. If I let you get your way then I damage my entire scheme and shame both of the houses which I am trying to indebt to me.
"Indeed, your seneschal had said as much this morning," Lymon nodded while glancing at his son for a moment before patiently crossing his arms. "What recompense do you desire, Lord Manfred?"
I knew what the Lord of the Hightower was really saying, I am not really in the mood to play with your little show, what do you want.
"There is only one way that such a slight can be amended," The Redwyne growled while narrowing his hazel eyes.
"And you know very well that my son is already promised," My cousin stated flatly.
"Then he should have thought of that beforehand," The Lord of the Arbor frowned. "This is not the mistake of some youth Hightower, your son is a man of almost nine and twenty! This is no mistake of youth and you should be grateful that I do not write to King's Landing to demand justice."
Well, at least he was not stupid enough to say High Garden, I repressed the urge to say. The Tyrells were nothing more than a name until the Dance broke the back of the Hightower, the Lord Paramount had about as much power as Lymon allowed him.
I clapped my teeth, I really wanted to say something after having barged my way into the room but the simple fact of the matter was that I could only say so much.
Except.
"I repeat once more that I need no shield in this," Ormund repeated with force. "I understand my duty in this-"
"Your duty is to your House and that of your betrothed," Lymon cut him off without taking his eyes off of the Lord Redwyne.
"Father," One of the Redwyne's interrupted. "How long must we stomach this cowardice?"
Manfred Redwyne had produced a fairly large litter, ten in total with a full seven having made it into adulthood. Granted, he was also twice-over a widower due in no small part to breeding both wives like Guinea Pigs.
The rather impetuous one that spoke up was his third son, a bulky orange-of-a-knight named Reynold.
"Must my sister be forced to listen to this rapist and his house pretend that she is not a worthy bride?" He had a reasonably handsome face but the rounding effect of muscle and fact made him seem somewhat brutish.
"I will not stand for this!" His elder brother agreed while drawing his sword. I cursed the fact that there were so many Redwynes that I had not bothered to memorize their names.
"How dare you!" Otto the Dick spoke up at the insult as the half-dozen Hightower guards drew their steel and the twenty Redwyne men in the chamber drew their blades which made my own guards draw theirs.
This of course resulted in a frankly ridiculous Mexican Stand-off.
Which only escalated as Clearsky growled and positioned herself better to barbeque the people who did not regularly feed her.
"Put away your steel!" The Redwyne lord boomed. "And if any of you draw steel again in this hall I swear I will have you at the wall before you have time to breath."
I had to admit that it was a challenge to keep my expression from becoming incredulous. There was committing to a bit but those two morons were going at a pace better suited to completely humiliating their house.
That Otto was stupid enough to not grasp a basic headcount did not surprise me in the least and actually made me consider looking up precisely what were the links that he had forged in the Citadel.
Lymon probably agreed given the murder-glare he was giving his younger brother.
The hall fell into a sot of awkward silence as the Redwynes sheathed their weapons and Lymon signaled for his men to do the same.
"Prince Gaemon," Manfred Redwyne bowed his head. "If your grace could perhaps order his men to do the same?"
I blinked and realized that my White-Jaws still had their blades out in a protective shell around myself and Laena.
"Of course," I smiled sweetly as my guards and shield complied before deciding to take the opportunity to speak. "Lord Redwyne, might I be allowed to speak?"
The Lord of the Arbor considered that for a moment before nodding.
"If I understand correctly," I said. "You say that your men found my cousin and your fair daughter abed in her chambers?"
"Not just I," The Lord of the Arbor picked up a goblet from the side of his throne and drank deep. "You see that he himself does not deny it."
Because he is too stupid and good-natured to recognize a trap when he sees it, I wanted to say as Ormund nodded.
I did not trust people, but I did trust them to behave within the characteristics that I grew to expect from them.
Lymon's eldest son was nothing if not dutiful and he regularly turned down much wealthier women who were more or less dry-humping him out of a mix of that and his mourning for Garth's mother. That made him a frankly bizarre Westerosi because it hinted at empathy, but it also meant that what was happening was distinctly strange for him.
"It is as I said. I do not remember what occurred last night," Ormund confessed as he ran a hand through his brown mane in frustration. "But I confess to waking in the girl's bed, naked as she was and the sheets-"
He stopped himself with a frustrated huff and a look at the girl who looked ready to weep in her elder sister's arms.
You have been framed, you honorable nitwit. I yelled at him internally.
"You do not remember it," Lymon repeated flatly. "And as I recall, you retired to your chamber well before the girl."
"My guards report him wandering the castle after the feast," Manfred said simply.
"I went to the kitchens, I think," Ormund creased his forehead as he struggled to recollect his thoughts. "I had too much drink, your servants said that-that," He frowned. "I cannot remember."
"Awfully convenient," Lord Manfred gave an ugly frown. "If only we were all so gifted at forgetting things when it suits us."
"Lord Manfred," Lymon said warningly. "If what my son says is true… I would be left with no choice but to believe that some distasteful method had been used."
Good on you! I cheered mentally before speaking up. "You do not mean to suggest that the someone could have given Ser Ormund overly strong drink so as to leave him bereft of his senses, my lord?"
The taller Redwyne son colored at the words while the girl's eyes widened, "You dare suggest-"
"I 'suggest' nothing," my smile turned murderous as I locked eyes with the man and waited for him to look down. It was childish in the extreme and likely counter-productive, but my morning had been ruined by all of the screaming and I could feel Laena nervously grabbing onto the shoulder of my tunic. Regardless of potential treachery, the girl did not take well to screaming. "And I would hope for more civil behavior! I have already been forced to stomach these accusations against the honor of my cousin when it is clear that he was drugged."
I immediately regretted my words, it went against my preferences to speak so openly but the Redwynes were becoming a threat which, with Ormund's misguided honor, might ruin my plans.
"Prince Gaemon," Lord Manfred seemed to be calming again, or at least reigning in his exaggerated anger. "I would remind you that you have made your way here of your own accord. But I understand that you are still young and in need of instruction in such matters."
The Lord Hightower's face did not register the insult. "Regardless, my prince presents a fine point. This seems suspicious, Lord Redwyne."
"Do you wish to continue your slander by now implying that I am so incompetent as to sacrifice my own daughter's virtue on some ill-conceived scheme?" The Redwyne's own hazel eyes gave a very believable glare at my (prick) grandfather's brother.
"You cannot deny that what you ask is remarkably similar to what you have long prized," Ser Otto said with a thoughtful look.
"Enough, brother," Lymon silenced him quickly. "I am inclined to believe that this might well be some stratagem to sow discord between our houses."
The Redwyne made a rude noise, "Is that so? Tell me what potion or elixir could so specifically cause such a result?"
"Mourner's Solace, of course!" A familiar mad-voice rang out at that moment as the hall's main door screeched open as Arral strode in, the ironborn nodding enthusiastically while tugging at his ridiculous beard.
I sucked in a breath as I noticed that the door had been pushed open by the slumped forms of the Redwyne guards.
I really hope no one else focuses on that… and that they are not all dead, I added the last as an after-thought.
"Archmaester Arral?" Lymon acknowledged, not paying much mind to the potential corpses. "Mourning Solace?"
"Medicinal!" Arral nodded. "Exceedingly potent! Nearly as potent as the scent of a Drowned Man's Smallclothes! But far more potent than the standard Shadow-Binder's Glamor!"
"Is there a purpose to this?" The Redwyne Lord asked impatiently.
"Of course! Of course! Of course!" The Archmaester nodded with a wide frown. "I wanted to issue a complaint! I feel ill-treated! Very ill-treated!"
He punctuated the last by rattling his chain like a morningstar much to the hall's general confusion.
"Mistreated," Lord Manfred repeated slowly, clearly flat-footed by the question even as both the Redwyne and Hightower men were taking nervous steps back from the Archmaester, seeming to register the unconscious men at the door.
"The mixture was horribly done!" Arral exclaimed. "Proper mixtures induce automatism, a high degree of suggestibility and a general increase in libido! I am deeply offended! Very deeply offended! I awoke in the kennels! The kennels! I am an Archmaester of the Citadel! I at least merit a stable!"
The only real response anyone could offer was a mood-killing silence as everyone starred blankly at the Archmaester.
Well, I raised a brow. That is definitely a thing.
"It was quite fortunate that I immediately recognized the symptoms! Quite fortunate! Extremely fortunate even!" The Archmaester went on. "Otherwise I might not have been able to acquire a suitable remedy from your maester's tower! Which is horribly stocked! Horribly! I would have words with the man who served myself and Ser Ormund! I demand to be properly drugged!"
Lord Lymon caught the end of the rant.
"You were with my son?" The Hightower lord asked pointedly.
"Yes! Yes!" Arral nodded in his typically mad fashion before turning to said heir. "Ormund! You are not wearing enough clothing! I was told at length that I needed to wear all of my clothing, what injustice is this?!"
I ignored Arral to refocus on the now thoroughly confused-looking Lord of the Arbor, if nothing else the man has one hell of a poker face.
"It seems that we have an explanation," I said with a thoughtful nod. "Unless you wish to question the Archmaester's diagnosis."
But the Redwyne Lord only colored again at my words. "This is outrageous, you accuse my house of poisoning you? A marriage is not worth our honor!"
I felt my lips twitch and I had to restrain myself from laughing, "A marriage seems worth quite a bit more given your own insistence. Or do you expect me to believe that your girl just happened to be seduced? She is guiltier than my cousin, it seems."
My smile stopped being genuine when I noticed that Laena had gone even stiffer next to me and had dipped her head.
The Redwyne did not notice however, "I will not stand for such an accusation! I will write the king himself-"
"Indeed!" Arral harrumphed. "I demand that the Grandmaester resign immediately! That was so poor an effort that he is liable to kill the king with a simple remedy if that is the extent of his abilities!"
And just like that, the room was flat-footed again.
"The Grandmaester?" Lord Manfred asked with a confused scowl.
"Of course!" Arral nodded indignantly. "By the Decree of A.C. 74, the recipe for Mourner's Solace is held in the exclusive possession of the Grandmaester!"