Maris
The Dragonpit had once more found itself hosting a coronation. During the hours of the wolf and nightingale, thousands had streamed from their lodgings both within and without the King's City to observe the coronation. In the time that had passed since the peace had been negotiated, the Lords of the realm had arrived in numbers unheard of since the Great Council during the reign of the Old King. This time, however, there was to be no deliberation or debate. With the death of their King, those who had fought under the banners of Aegon II had (albeit reluctantly) resolved to see his nephew, Aegon the Younger, crowned as Aegon III.
Row after row of lords and knights, some even accompanied by their wives and children, had gathered atop and within Rhaenys' High Hill to observe the official end to the slaughter and anarchy that had been dubbed 'The Dance of Dragons' by the most enterprising of singers and mummers. Dressed in their fineries, the colors of Green had been thoroughly subsumed into a sea of blacks and reds. Seated at the forefront of the pageantry alongside her sisters and father, Maris was one of the few of sufficient rank actually able to see the dais upon which the boy would kneel to become King. Casting a cursory glance about her, Maris fought the urge to chuckle as she observed her father, dressed in a doublet of the deepest black hue that had been accented by cloth of gold. Stags danced upon Lord Baratheon's sleeves and pranced upon his chest, leaving no doubt as to which House he belonged. A stern but neutral expression had overtaken his features, a noticeable contrast to that of Lord Stark, who had arrived with a look of icy hate that had ceased to melt despite the fiery warmth of the Dragonpit's interior. Lord Cregan's wrath concerning the Peace was one of the most poorly kept secrets of King's Landing. Father had positively guffawed as he had relayed details of the armistice over an evening meal many nights previously. He had contended that Cregan had looked 'fit to burst.' Maris, sneaking another glance at the Lord Paramount of the North, could not help but agree with the description.
While many of the lords that had streamed into the capital prior to pay homage to their King-to-be had been overtly relieved at the end of the war, some had made their disdain plain. Lord Lyonel Hightower had arrived seven days previously alongside the Lady Tyrell, who had finally stirred from her self-imposed confinement within Highgarden. The Tyrells' obstinate neutrality earned them no friends, but they certainly can count a few more foes. If the rumors are to be trusted, several of their most powerful vassals have spoken openly that the Tyrells forfeited their right to overlordship of the Reach the moment they declined to fight for their rightful monarch. Maris pursed her lips. The whispers grow more contentious whenever the matter of WHO was the rightful monarch is raised. According to Lord Bryndemere, Lord Alan Tarly had had to be restrained from the presence of his lady liege, just as he had been banned from the presence of Lord Hightower. Only the intervention of his sister Samantha had prevented them from coming to blows.
Maris' father had wondered aloud whether Lord Lyonel would arrive with his army in tow during the weeks of waiting after the ravens had flown. To the relief of both parties, he arrived with only one hundred knights and a few hundred mercenaries that had refused his call to disband in the Reach. Lord Hightower's gold may no longer flow, but it seems certain that they will find other employers in the capital. Diplomats representing the Free Cities stalked every tavern, offering ten times the normal rate for mercenary work. Lord Bryndemere had informed her that the Three Daughters had completely collapsed, and the blood had begun to flow freely upon the Stepstones and within the Disputed Lands. Lord Lyonel's Summer Islanders have already been approached by a Myrish Magister, but declined his offer when a Lysene captain offered to double it. Goldenheart bows are seemingly worth their weight in gold.
Knights and men-at-arms were sailing in ever greater numbers daily, from Stormlanders to Valemen to savage Northmen. The Lady Jeyne Arryn had arrived three days past, and had supposedly granted her former 'volunteers' permission to seek out mercenary work if they so desired. Lady Jeyne had taken her place amongst the highest lords and ladies of the realm, dressed in a sky-blue gown with a high collar. A silver falcon soared upon her bodice. Maris was intrigued by her. Her Black sympathies were obvious during the war, but she was astute enough to feign neutrality when the outcome was uncertain. Perhaps she will prove politically adaptable once more in its aftermath. Maris hoped to have words with her; she thought it possible Lady Arryn might have things of import to teach. She watched as the Maiden of the Vale suppressed a hacking cough with her kerchief.
In all, Houses Stark, Arryn, Tully, Tyrell, Lannister and Baratheon were represented amongst the elites chosen to observe the coronation most closely. Maris thought it most telling, however, that the delegation representing the Westerlands had been paltry. The Ironborn supposedly gave no response to our calls for an armistice. The Lady of the Rock begged forgiveness for her lack of attendance, claiming the West needed all of its swords. While her words carried truth, it seemed likely that Johanna Lannister was none too eager to see an enemy crowned whilst her people were still savaged by his mother's servants. Ser Tyland Lannister, along with a few knights representing the Houses Banefort and Lorch, were supposedly the most notable attendees.
The last major lord attending his soon-to-be King was the Seasnake himself, who had been permitted to sit amongst the Lords and Ladies paramount in recognition of his service and loyalty to Aegon the Younger. Many had protested granting him that honor, especially Lords Hightower and Peake, but the King-to-be had obstinately refused them, supported by the formerly Black commanders. So it was that Lord Corlys had come to stand amongst the realm's most powerful. If the tales of his wealth are even partially true, he certainly ought to be among us. The Hightowers have been beggared and even the Lannisters grow wary. Velaryon shipping dominates trade from King's Landing to White Harbor, and everywhere in between. Matters were made even more troubling when one considered that Lord Corlys was a grandsire to no less than three dragonriders, and an uncle to a fourth. Father states that Ser Malentine has rebuffed the Seasnake's attempts at reconciliation, but how long will it be until he is offered a King's ransom to forget past wrongs? Can hate truly triumph over endless wealth?
It seemed to Maris that perhaps the only Lord secretly pleased with all that transpired was her own father. When he is in his cups, he speaks frequently of marriages to be arranged. Maris knew that her courtship of Lord Bryndemere was likely to be respected, but she suspected that her father was eyeing Ser Malentine for Elyn or Floris. It would be a natural reaffirmation of his loyalties, and allow House Baratheon to command the loyalties of at least one dragonrider. Maris smiled. With how often father eyes the Black Seeds, he may aspire to win the loyalties of several. She watched her father as he gazed upon the Dragonriders, all of whom stood at attention behind the dais. Ser Malentine, given his unique status, had been permitted to stand alongside them. Two riders of silver and sea green, and two of beaten black and red. Ser Addam Velaryon had been outfitted in the finest steel that his grandsire could buy in preparation for the event, whilst the riders of the Cannibal and Grey Ghost had relied upon the sets granted to them by the Pretender. Maris cast a glance upon the huge knight whose black plate seemed to drink in the firelight, and flinched as his helmet turned, seemingly regarding her. Eyes akin to the storms of Shipbreaker Bay gazed coldly forth.
She was spared from bearing his ire any longer when horns blared through the hall. Thousands of whispering voices hushed in unison as the great bronze doors of the Pit were opened. Beyond, grey winter sunlight had begun to stream downwards. Escorted by Ser Marston Waters, the boy-King rode a black destrier down the center aisle, clad in raiment of black velvet and red silks. His silver hair had been shorn close after his confinement had been lifted, but he had allowed it to begin growing out in the interlude before his coronation. Seated upon horseback, his long legs could be seen, showing him to be tall for his age. Perhaps he will grow into the appearance of a King, freed from the hideous scars that covered his predecessor. The Prince rode the length of the hall, followed by his brother and half-sisters, all bedecked in the striking colors of their House. The ladies Baela and Rhaena wore silver circlets to accentuate their Royal blood, whilst the Prince Viserys wore one of gold. From a distant gallery, a dragon shrieked at their entrance, sending a wave of consternation through the crowd. The Lady Baela's dragon Moondancer was most wroth during the months of its confinement, according to father. Perhaps it now greets its rider. After her freedom, the Rogue Prince's eldest daughter had taken to flying her dragon almost daily, soaring through the clouds above the city with the Pretender's former servants. Many had already begun to talk, decrying her willfulness. Her sister appears to have a better handling of court politics, but even she is not immune to accusations of scandal. Rumor has it that she had grown improperly close to a Corbray knight.
As the Royal procession made its way down the hall, cheers began to ring out. Formerly Green and Black lords alike hailed the coming of their King. When it came time for the young Aegon to finally dismount, the energy in the chamber had reached a fever pitch. Septon Eustace awaited upon the dais. His hands will bless and anoint two Kings. The Prince ascended the steps of the dais, kneeling upon a pillow studded with garnets as the Septon bestowed the Seven's Holy Oils according to their rites. Eustace whispered a prayer, making a sign of devotion to the Gods Above, before motioning for Ser Marston to come forward. The Prince Viserys solemnly presented the Conqueror's Crown, its smoky valyrian steel and rubies glinting in the firelight. As the whole assembly held its breath, the Kingsguard placed the circlet atop the boy's head, and proclaimed him King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. A thunderous cheer erupted, and the new King stood, grimly looking out over the assembled nobility of his new realm. A servant in finery approached, handing him a beautiful cloak of deep black with a roaring three-heading dragon firmly emblazoned upon its length. So comes the second act, thought Maris.
Once more, horns blared. The Bronze Gates of the Pit were opened, and the crowd grew quiet. For walking amongst them was the new Queen to be. Maris watched the Princess Jaehaera closely, and saw that she had a fine silken veil placed over her face. The Princess, who had yet to reach her ninth birthday, was guided slowly by Ser Willis Fell, who led her gently by the hand through the vast assembly. Behind her, noble daughters of a similar age followed, holding her dress train gingerly. A long black cloak was affixed upon her shoulders, and a golden dragon roared defiantly upon it for all to see. The last gasp of a dead King. The girl was led quickly, but as she passed one of the massive pillars a dragon hissed, and others began to roar and slam against their cages. Dreamfyre, the great pale blue beast, blew a gout of violet flame that roared between its chamber's bars. The princess, still mostly hidden beneath her veil, began to cry. Ushered onwards by her white knight, she was brought before her King and husband to be, who watched her with a grim acceptance. Maris cringed as the Princess sobbed, and as Septon Eustace hurriedly uttered the writs of matrimony, the seniormost Kingsguard removed her Maiden's Cloak. The King attempted to gently take her hands, but was rebuffed by the distraught princess. Unsure of how to act, King Aegon III placed his House's black and red cloak gingerly about the Princess Jaehaera's shoulders, and Septon Eustace proclaimed the two as husband and wife as Jaehaera wailed. Maris sighed. So it is done.
Maegor
He didn't think that he would ever understand nobles, and the games that they played. There is one thing of which I am certain, however. An event cannot be considered to be of any significance unless it includes a feast. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was once more host to a feast, one of even grander proportions than the one that had occurred to celebrate the Prince Joffrey's elevation to the title of Prince of Dragonstone. A title now held by the Prince Viserys.
Maegor looked up to the high table, where the King and his family sat. The Prince Viserys was engrossed in feeding a leg of chicken to his dragon, Terrax. Too large now to be perched upon his shoulder, it was instead curled in the Prince's lap. The Prince tossed a piece of chicken into the air, and his dragon's head darted suddenly into the air, snapping up the meat. The Prince grinned, and looked to his brother for his reaction.
King Aegon Targaryen, the third of his name, gave his little brother a wan but genuine smile. From what Maegor had seen of his new liege in the past, expressions of mirth or joy were a rarity. However, it seemed that his brother Viserys was an exception to the rule, and did much to brighten his elder brother's spirits with his presence. Unlike the multitude of nobility feasting heartily before him, the King of the Seven Kingdoms picked at his food, and seemed to be cloaked in an air of resignation for all of the proceedings surrounding his coronation.
This feast is also in celebration of a marriage. Something that nobles and commoners alike had an affinity for, celebrating newly-made bonds of matrimony. A mummer's farce of a marriage. Two miserable children, forced to pay for the sins of their Royal parents by linking their familial lines together. The Princess - no, Queen Jaehaera had stopped her weeping by the time she exited the royal carriage with her new husband, goodbrother, and goodsisters at the Red Keep.
Mayhaps the only Green left that I bear any sympathy for, Maegor mused. The last scion of the Green line of House Targaryen, Maegor hoped that Jaehaera would find some solace and peace in her existence, now that the war had ended. A vain hope, mayhaps, but I will carry such hopes for her sake nonetheless. The Royal children were not their parents, and they did not bear their sins. Maegor bore them no ill will.
Looking out across the hall, Maegor could see that despite the flowery proclamation of the King's Peace, much of the nobility present in the hall still sat about tables containing only their fellow Blacks, or in other cases, their fellow Greens. He had searched for their faces the moment he had entered the hall. However, of the traitors at Tumbleton, Maegor had only spotted Ser Hobert Hightower, seated with the rest of his recently-arrived kin, and Lord Unwin Peake, who was himself surrounded by kin that had traveled to the capital from their lands on the Dornish Marches.
Maegor couldn't help but grin at the realization. The likes of Jon Roxton, Richard Rodden, and Roger Corne, after all that they'd done for the Usurper's cause, were not of enough import to be feasted directly in the Great Hall. "And yet here I am," Maegor muttered aloud to himself.
"What?" Gaemon said in response, turning to regard him.
Maegor, realizing that he'd spoken aloud, gave his friend a small half-smile. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He grabbed a leg of chicken and took a large bite from it. I must content myself with small, petty victories such as these. Such thoughts soured whatever sorry excuse for a good mood he had tried to present. Maegor grabbed his goblet, drinking deeply of the wine contained within.
There can be no retribution now. His dream of King Maegor at Harrenhal had frightened Maegor deeply, more so than any of the dreams of dragons that he had before. Maegor had quickly been disabused of the notion of fiery vengeance against the Greens' seats when his dream made him truly consider the possible implications of such a set of actions. I will not have innocents pay the price for any revenge that I exact. To allow that to happen would make Maegor an utter hypocrite, and no better than the evil men that he hated so deeply. If I were to attempt to exact any revenge now, I would likely start the entire conflict anew. All of the blood would be on MY hands. Such revenge had a price that Maegor could not, would not, pay.
While he had been caught up in his dark ruminations, Maegor had only been somewhat paying attention to the happenings within the Great Hall. Several tables in the center had been pushed closer to the chamber's walls, and several nobles had taken to the floor, beginning to dance. Despite the enthusiastic music of the minstrels throughout the hall, it seemed that any efforts to draw in more dancers was initially futile. That was, until the Lady Rhaena Targaryen led Ser Corwyn Corbray onto the floor. After that, it seemed to Maegor that it was suddenly a struggle to find enough room on the floor for all the new dancers.
He watched the dancers dance, and he continued to drink. As he reached for a pitcher once more to refill his goblet, Maegor felt a hand on his arm.
"Slow down, Maegor," Gaemon said with a half-grin that conveyed more concern than friendliness.
In response, Maegor pulled his arm free, grabbed the pitcher, and filled his goblet once more. He was beginning to feel the effects of all the wine, and Maegor found that in such a state he had little mind or care for his friend's warning.
"Would you like to dance, Ser?" a voice asked him.
Maegor looked up, and saw the Lady Baela Targaryen standing before him in her dress of black and crimson. She smiled kindly at him. Those who murmur that her branding has ruined her beauty are utter fools, Maegor mused in silence. After a moment, Maegor realized that he hadn't actually said anything in response to the Lady Baela, and had merely been staring at her in silence.
Maegor felt his face flush red in embarrassment. "I'm- I'm afraid I must refuse your kind offer my lady." The wine was making it very hard for him to think clearly. Just offer a polite excuse before you embarrass yourself further. Maegor gave the Lady Baela a small smile. "I fear that I have spent the whole feast getting myself quite drunk." Damn it.
At his bold proclamation, the Lady Baela let out a surprised but genuine laugh. Then, with a conspiratorial grin, she leaned in closer so as to only be heard by Gaemon and Maegor. "That's the first bit of good sense that I've heard all evening," she murmured, smiling wickedly.
She turned to regard Gaemon. "Because the gallant Ser Maegor has spurned me, I suppose you'll have to do."
Gaemon smiled back at her. "The Seven above always smile upon great acts of self-sacrifice."
Standing from his seat, Gaemon led the laughing Lady Baela out to the floor, where they joined the swirling throng of dancers. Though his growing drunkenness made it difficult to focus, Maegor tried to follow the two of them with his eyes as they danced. Resting his chin upon his steepled fists, Maegor felt a small smile spread across his face. We've all suffered much and more throughout this war. Methinks the both of them deserve some happiness and laughter now that the killing is done.
Standing from his bench, Maegor began to make his way from the hall, taking slow and measured steps. He had been given a room somewhere within the Red Keep, and it was Maegor's hope that he might somehow find it before sunrise.
A knock at the door woke him from a deep slumber. "Ser Maegor?" a muffled voice called.
Maegor blinked once, then twice, and groaned. "Yes, I am here," he called in response. He did not know how long he had been asleep. All that he knew for certain was that he had the beginnings of a headache, and his mouth was very dry.
The door of his chamber opened, and a guardsman with a red three-headed dragon patch stepped through it. "Apologies, Ser," the guard began, "but there's a man in the outer yard. He says he's your man, and he's been askin' us to bring 'im to you ever since he arrived at the castle gate."
Maegor looked at the guard in confusion. "My man?" he wondered aloud.
The guard nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, Ser. I wouldn't 'ave believed 'im neither, except he has a letter bearing the Pretender's- ah- the Princess Rhaenyra's- mark."
The sudden realization woke Maegor up immediately. "Take me to him, please," Maegor asked the guard, and at his nod, Maegor and the guardsman began the journey to the Red Keep's outer yard.
When they arrived, Maegor could hardly believe what he saw. Before him was the groundskeeper of Sallydance's sept. He was just as lean as Maegor remembered him, and still wore the cloak that Maegor had given him. His greying beard had been cut short, and he held the reins of a red-brown palfrey that whickered softly behind him. When the man saw Maegor, a smile spread across his face.
"I told ya, didn't I!" he exclaimed to the guardsmen standing around him. "Ser Maegor knows me. I'm his sworn man!"
Maegor was so surprised that he found it hard to speak. "You- you've arrived," he finally managed to say.
Still smiling, the man nodded at Maegor's words. "Yes, Ser. When I arrived at Harrenhal, the garrison told me that the army and dragonriders had already left. When I showed 'em the Queen's letter, they gave me a horse and supplies, and directions to Duskendale. When I arrived there, the cap'n of Duskendale's watch sent me along to the Queen's city to find ya."
The man dropped to one knee before Maegor in the dust of the yard. "When you met me, Ser, I- I was finished. I didn't care if I lived or died. You gave me a new way, a new choice. To bid farewell to the ghosts of those I'd lost, and try an' find a reason to keep goin', keep livin'."
The man smiled tightly, as he struggled to hold in untold depths of emotion. "And I did, eventually. Twas a long journey, and for most of it I had naught but my thoughts for company. Twas the hardest thing I ever did, but step by step, I found that I wanted to go on."
He looked up to regard Maegor. "Ya didn't know me when we met. Ya had no obligation to help me, and yet ya did all the same. Thank you, Ser. Yer a right and proper knight, and if you'll still have me, I'll gladly continue on as your sworn man."
Maegor's voice nearly caught in his throat as he made to respond, and he blinked painfully as he forced back tears. "I will gladly accept your continued service. I should think that I would be hard-pressed to find another man of your fortitude and resolve."
As he made to leave the outer yard with the first of his sworn men at his side, Maegor breathed out a deep sigh of relief that he hadn't realized he'd been waiting so, so long to release. Bennard was right. Kindness mattered, in the end. Small victories in a much larger, unending war, but victories nonetheless. I have no better weapon in my arsenal to strike at the cruelties of the world than a willingness to try and help those who need it. Though the blustering winter winds were as merciless and biting as ever, Maegor finally took a moment to appreciate the warmth of the sun.
Hobert
Ser Roger Corne's corpse had been found in an alleyway within the Street of Silk, his throat slashed from ear to ear. His tongue had been ripped from his mouth, and was pinned to his chest by the same dagger that had pierced his heart. Above his corpse on the wall of the building it was propped up against were the words "WE REMEMBER", written in the slain knight's lifesblood.
This foul act of murder was on the minds of many as a great council of the King's lords convened within the Great Hall of the Red Keep. Surrounded by men-at-arms bearing the Hightower sigil, Hobert approached the throne room's great bronze-and-oak doors. Hobert took a deep breath, and tugged at the golden chain of interlinked hands about his neck. His relation, the youthful Lord Lyonel, walked alongside him, with Vigilance hanging prominently from his swordbelt. Hobert had returned the blade of valyrian steel to its rightful owner nearly as soon as Lord Ormund's heir had entered the King's city. Better a true warrior of our family to wield it than I. Lord Lyonel was as Hobert remembered him at the Hightower: bold, brash, and quick to take offense. He was deeply unsatisfied with the war's conclusion, and the state that their family had been left in. If left to him to choose, he would never have ended the war. Hobert looked at the young Lord's angry expression. If he had seen what I have seen, he would rejoice in the peace. Lord Ormund's young widow, the Lady Samantha, walked at the other side of Lord Lyonel. She is never far from Lord Lyonel's side, ready to suggest and advise.
Entering the Great Hall, Hobert broke away from his family's entourage, walking slowly along the long red carpet to the dais at the end of the hall. Upon the dais sat the Iron Throne, and upon the Iron Throne sat Hobert's new liege, the King Aegon, third of his name. As Hand of the King for Aegon II, Hobert had managed (though not without significant consternation on the part of his former enemies) to retain his post in the upheaval of the initial post-war deliberations, in order to provide for a more smooth and undisputed transfer of power.
Hobert's young liege's eyes looked upon him coldly as he approached the Iron Throne and climbed half of its height, seating himself gingerly on the melted metal steps. What is fated for the Realm when a King disdains his own right hand? Looking across the multitude of assembled lords and landed knights, Hobert swallowed thickly. A sea of expectant faces, their bodies below bedecked in a multitude of heraldry. Men and women of every one of the Seven Kingdoms, for even a delegation from Dorne, led by the Prince Qyle Martell, son of the ailing ruling Prince, were observing the proceedings.
They will all be looking to me for guidance, the whole of the King's Realm. To do what must needs be done to mend the many wounds, and see us all into a new era. They need a man of strength and vision, not- Hobert suppressed the urge to grimace- not me. It was the first grand assembly of the lords of the Realm since the coronation, and all present wanted answers to a multitude of issues, not the least of which was to be done about the first significant breach of the King's Peace in the death of Ser Roger Corne.
Hobert took in a short, gasping breath as his growing apprehension turned into a wave of panic that nearly overwhelmed him. I CANNOT be the King's Hand. I never wanted it, and I was never the right man for it. I was given the office because the rest of my kin in the army were slain. Hobert had not so fervently sought out peace in order to watch the Realm collapse once more into bloodshed under his own inept rule. Though the prospect of what he needed to do terrified him, Hobert reached deep within himself, gathering whatever wilted mites of courage could be found.
Standing, Hobert took a deep breath, before projecting his voice in order to be heard by the crowd. "Let this convention of the King's Lords, knights, and esteemed guests begin in earnest, for there is much to be addressed." Hobert breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes for a moment. Find your courage. "There is much and more to be done, for with the coming of peace, our trials and tribulations have not ended. Now is a time for rebuilding, mending wounds, and setting aside grievances."
As he looked out across the massive crowd, Hobert watched the many faces, and the many expressions. Though he wasn't surprised, it still pained him to see that many expressions were those of deep skepticism, or outright disdain. How could I hope to believe in myself when none will believe in me?
When Hobert met the eyes of Lord Stark, his gaze lingered for a moment. The Warden of the North's eyes were full of an icy and merciless hate, and he did not blink, no matter how long Hobert returned his stare. Oddly enough, Hobert felt no fear, when before such a hateful glare would have made him wish to squirm. Instead, all he felt was an empty resignation. I know my crimes as well as he does, and I cannot blame him for hating me for them.
Hobert wondered how many in the crowd currently wished for his head to adorn a spike. They believe that I've escaped justice. And haven't I? Mayhaps the Seven weren't giving him a second chance by allowing him to live when so many died. Mayhaps they wanted me to live, so that I might know how hated, how reviled, I've become. Hobert wished that he could still be an afterthought, as he was before the war, rather than the target of others' hatred or ambition.
Realizing that he had been standing in silence for quite some time, Hobert collected his thoughts once more, took a short breath, and continued to speak. "With the new year, our new King's reign dawns. It is to be a time of renewal, and new beginnings."
Hobert sighed tiredly. His advanced age made many tasks and activities difficult, but when did simply waking and rising from bed each morn become such a chore? "It is for this reason that I… that I-" Hobert hesitated, at the precipice of what he was about to say. The decision frightened him, but he also felt an odd sense of peace within it. For the first time since the war began, Hobert was going to make a decision for himself, and not merely plod and stagger along at the whims of others.
"As of this meeting," Hobert continued, his voice and resolve strengthening, "I formally announce my resignation as Hand of the King. In my last act in this office, I hereby call for a vote to be conducted immediately amongst the King's lords present, so that they might acclaim a new Hand from amongst themselves to usher in a new era."
The uproar was immediate. Hundreds of voices began to loudly shout amongst themselves, and amidst the chaos, Hobert turned and continued climbing the steps of the Iron Throne towards his seated liege. Aegon the Younger's deep violet eyes were still cold, and full of mistrust as Hobert approached. Stopping several steps below his King, Hobert removed the golden chain of interlinked hands from about his neck and bowed deeply, holding the chain of his office before him in outstretched hands.
The King hesitantly took the chain into his own hands, and nodded in acquiescence at Hobert. Some of the coldness had receded from his expression, and more than anything else, Hobert's liege simply looked confused at his former Hand's actions. Without a word, Hobert turned and descended the steps of the Iron Throne. He resolved to seat himself at the edge of the dais until a new Hand was chosen. Amidst the chaos and cacophony, Hobert felt a small, yet content smile spread across his face.
Hobert supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised at the result of the vote. Given the sheer size of his army, and the multitude of his own nobles that had accompanied him south, Lord Cregan Stark won the vote by a narrow margin, barely receiving more votes than Lord Corlys Velaryon.
The support that Lord Cregan received from Lords outside of the North was not to be discounted, however. It was no secret that there were many disaffected nobles at court, especially from amongst the supporters of the Pretender Rhaenyra. Many felt that the negotiated peace had robbed them of the ultimate justice that they sought, and for that reason many supported the Lord Paramount of the North, who had made his wrath at the war's outcome quite well-known.
Hobert's former comrades amongst the Greens were not insignificant in number, but had been utterly unable to decide upon a candidate that the majority agreed upon. For this reason, a multitude of formerly Green Lords had come forward as candidates, and none came even close to the votes received by Stark or Velaryon, who had both received the majority of the former Black Lords' votes.
What surprised Hobert even more than the results of the vote, however, was the response of the victor. Lord Cregan had climbed upon the Iron Throne's dais and refused to accept the title of King's Hand. "With the coming of winter," Lord Stark had begun coldly, "the snows fall heavily upon my home. I am needed by my people in Winterfell." Lord Stark had then taken a deep breath, glowering at the many Greens in the crowd beyond. "With the return of the King's Peace, it appears that there is naught more that I can do but to return to my seat."
With that, Lord Stark had descended from the dais to stand once more amongst his Lords in a brooding silence. A somewhat surprised Lord Corlys Velaryon had then ascended the dais, humbly thanking the assembled nobility for their confidence in him, and promising that he would serve as the young King's Hand with pride and distinction. He then ascended the steps of the Iron Throne to receive the chain of his new office from the King himself, to the loud cheers of many of the assembled Black nobility.
The meeting that followed, now presided over by Lord Velaryon, had covered a wide range of issues pertinent to the new King's reign. Hobert had returned to his assembled kin amongst the crowd's multitude, and people made way for him, many staring at him with expressions that largely displayed shock and confusion.
Though he was not prevented by his kin from standing amongst them, Lord Lyonel and Hobert's other Hightower relations had coldly refused to speak with, or in several cases, even look upon him. Hobert once again surprised himself by realizing how unbothered he felt. Let them resent me, hate me even, Hobert mused in silence. I will suffer their schemes no longer.
Time had drifted on, and Hobert had stood in silence, hardly focusing on what was being discussed. He was content to bask in the sense of newfound freedom that he felt. Of all my regrets and doubts, stepping down as Hand is not one of them. In fact, it was one of the first decisions that Hobert had made in a long while that he felt was absolutely, unequivocally, right.
Hobert was content to wait out the rest of the assembly in contented silence. That was, of course, until the issue of the Iron Islands was brought up. Lord Paramount Dalton Greyjoy had not responded to any of the King's entreaties for he and his men to lay down their arms and be accepted back into the King's Peace, and continued to make war with the Westerlands. It had become clear that outside intervention would be necessary to truly bring peace back to all seven kingdoms.
It was decided that an army made up of nobles, levies, and dragonriders from throughout the King's realm would be sent to bring the Ironborn to heel, which all made good sense to Hobert. What surprised him was what Lord Corlys Velaryon had suggested next. "In my capacity as King's Hand," the aged Lord began, "I will extend a nomination for the proposed leader of this army. This leader must needs be a man proven capable of leading soldiers, and keeping unity amongst their lords. He must needs be a man experienced in the fell craft of war, but firm in his magnanimity."
Lord Corlys paused a moment before continuing. "It is for this reason that I offer the leadership of this army to Ser Hobert Hightower, that he might lead it to victory, and pacify the perfidious Iron Isles."
All eyes within the hall were once more on Hobert. His initial feelings were those of surprise, and an all-too-familiar fear. Why? By all the Gods, why? Will I find peace only in death?
After his initial panic, however, Hobert more seriously pondered Lord Velaryon's offer. If I am leader of this army, I can bring justice, true justice, to the godless savages of the Iron Isles. I can free the children of the Seven in the Westerlands from their depravity and depredations. Hobert closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. This is it. My second chance. The reason the Seven have seen fit to allow me to survive so much, when nearly all others perished.
Hobert opened his eyes, and looked to Lord Velaryon. "My Lord Hand," Hobert began firmly, "I accept."
Gaemon
In the morning hours, Sunfyre the Golden had departed the Red Keep, bringing an end to its silent lethargy. Flying out over the Blackwater Bay, it disappeared into the winter gray sky, the clouds masking its movements. While the Usurper's dragon had left many concerned with its sudden exit, many more were invested in the ongoing announcement of the King's Regency. Lord Corlys Velaryon had presided over the appointment of its members with a calculated urgency, ensuring that each of its members would serve the new King with skill and loyalty. Gaemon had watched each appointment with interest. Those chosen were ultimately unsurprising. Drawn nearly exclusively from the Queen's former supporters, it was clear to many that the Hightower Hand's abdication had destroyed any chances for the Usurper's men to remain in power. Sers Elmo Tully and Torrhen Manderly had been the first appointed, both for their service to the cause and their proven ability as men possessing calculating minds.
Many had immediately assumed Lord Manderly's appointment to be a conciliatory gesture to Lord Stark, but it had likely fallen on deaf ears, as the Lord Paramount of the North had departed with the majority of his lords and retinue a few days previously. Lord Cregan's departure had been as wrathful and silent as his presence during the negotiations. For Lord Stark, all treasonous paths should have one destination: the headsman's block. His inability to purge King's Landing of those he deemed unworthy of peace had driven him away, and he left accompanied by the same howling winter winds that had heralded his coming.
After further deliberation, Lady Jeyne Arryn was offered a seat, and she accepted it with all the grace Gaemon had come to expect from her, hiding the coughs that still wracked her body from beneath a kerchief, accompanied by Lady Jessamyn. Afterwards, Lords Manfryd Mooton and Thaddeus Rowan had been offered seats of their own, both for their reputations as seasoned lords and the respect of their peers. Of the final two seats, one had been granted to Grand Maester Orwyle and Ser Tyland Lannister. Many had resisted their appointments, but there is little precedent for toppling a Grand Maester. Gaemon frowned. As for the Lannisters… they are still locked in a deathly struggle with our erstwhile allies. He had paid little attention to news of the War in the West in the past; the Ironborn had only recently become the focus of the Crown now that they remained the only wound of the war that refused to be bound.
Under Ser Hobert Hightower's ostensible leadership, an army was assembling in order to bring the Iron Isles to heel. Northmen, Rivermen, Valemen, and Reachman all intermingled, expecting titles and rewards for their service. Ser Alan Waxley and Ser Maric Massey had already announced their intentions to join the host, which was expected to depart soon in order to rendezvous with Ser Erwin Lannister's forces, which had succeeded in driving the 'squids' from the mainland. All that remains is to liberate Fair Isle and from thence subjugate the Isles. To that end, Lord Gilbert Redwyne had pledged his fleet to the cause, with Lord Lyonel Hightower following suit. Lord Gilbert was to join Ser Leo Costayne, the Hightowers' admiral, en route to Fair Isle. All that remained was to appoint dragonriders to join the expedition to ensure its success.
It was under these circumstances Gaemon found himself kneeling beneath the Iron Throne, accompanied by the last of the Seeds. Addam Velaryon, clad in silver and sea-green was to his left, newly shaven and cleansed for court life. To Gaemon's left was Maegor, looming even without his armor, bedecked in clothing similar to what they had worn during Prince Joffrey's celebratory feast so long ago. His friend might have bathed, but the rigors and scars of the campaign still made themselves plain upon his features. Gaemon himself had made himself presentable, grooming his beard and quietly asking a servant to assist him in braiding his long hair into the fashion that he had seen the Rogue Prince once wear. He had forgone Dark Sister and his own colors for the time being, deciding that now was not the time and place to boldly proclaim his supposed paternity.
Completing their number and kneeling apart from the rest was Ser Malentine. While bearing the valyrian features Gaemon had come to associate with the Velaryons, the rider of Silverwing was an enigma to Gaemon. We have not spoken, and I doubt we would have even if he still possessed his tongue. Rumors abounded that the knight kept to himself, assiduously avoiding Lord Corlys or his servants. Servants spoke of his brothers, slain during the course of the war, and his friends, who died so that he might master a dragon. With the death of the Usurper, Ser Malentine finds himself without allies in the midst of his former enemies. Gaemon wondered if he had already been approached by any former Greens. Internally he chided himself. It is not a question of whether it has occurred, but of how many have tried so far. In many ways, Gaemon suspected that Malentine's lack of obvious loyalties made him all the more appealing to powerful Houses with daughters of marriageable age. To command the loyalties of a dragonrider would be a powerful temptation… even to his former foes. Gaemon eyed the sea of lordly visages behind him. How many have daughters at home, and lands aplenty to grant as dowries? He felt their eyes upon him as well. They watched every Seed with a barely concealed interest.
Gaemon shifted, resting his eyes upon the Iron Throne itself. The King sat quietly high above, with Lord Velaryon seated halfway up its steps. In a semicircle before the dais seven ornately carved chairs had been placed, and each held a member of the Regency. With the Ironborn threat becoming more pressing, the time had come to address the Seeds that remained. Was I correct before, that we have become liabilities? Or was I blinded by my fears of betrayal?
Lord Corlys stood, a chain of golden hands coldly interlinked about his neck. Smiling, he motioned for the four dragonriders to rise. Two Velaryons, two… unspoken for.
Eyeing them each with eyes that masked intent, the Lord of the Tides descended the throne. A page met him at the end of its stairs, handing him a pouch. Approaching them, the Lord of Driftmark finally spoke.
"How does one properly address heroes? How does one approach men who mastered beasts of terror and of legend, men who served faithfully despite all the power and temptations at their fingertips?" He paused, his eyes resting the longest upon his grandson. "Never in the history of the Iron Throne has it had servants such as you. The road ahead is unprecedented, and the Crown has every desire to honor those whose loyalties have never wavered… even if they were misplaced." His eyes fell upon Ser Malentine as he uttered those last words, and the last Green dragonrider refused to meet them.
Unlacing the satchel in his hands, Lord Corlys withdrew four medallions crafted of red gold. Each was imprinted with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its flames illustrated with a spray of rubies. With a calculated grace, he placed a medallion about the shoulders of each man. The metal weighed heavily upon Gaemon's shoulders, and was cold to the touch. At the conclusion of the short ceremony, Corlys motioned for each man to kneel once again.
"Once, I knighted each of you for your valor after the Gullet. Now I have the honor of granting each of you the title of Constable of the Realm. Each of you will be expected to maintain the King's Peace anywhere and everywhere within Westeros that you travel. You will have no earthly superior except for the King, and will be amongst the most honored of his servants. The Crown will be responsible for any expenses you accrue. Henceforth, you shall bear this honor for life."
Grand Maester Orwyle rose, bearing two scrolls sealed with the Royal signet. One was handed to Maegor, and afterwards Gaemon found himself accepting the second. The regent then spoke.
"As your previous lands within Driftmark have been deemed an unworthy recompense for your leal service, the Crown has granted you both extensive lands along the Blackwater Rush. Henceforth, the lands flanked by the Blackwater and the Godsrill shall be divided between you both, and you shall be elevated to the status of Lord. While no seats yet exist within these lands, you shall be granted the privilege to gather rents from the villages that fall within your patrimony, as well as to collect dues from the Gold Road, in order to pay for its maintenance and your personal expenses. The crown grants you the right to take a name and arms for yourself, as befits you each as Lords. Your choice of heraldry shall be recorded in the Annals of the Citadel itself, so that you and your progeny will be forever recognized as full-members of the storied and ancient nobility of Westeros."
As the Grand Maester spoke, Gaemon noticed how the Hand nodded along, clearly pleased with the verdict that he had likely devised himself. Gaemon struggled to recall the exact location or size of the lands granted, but he assumed that they had previously been largely unoccupied. They've likely been untended for centuries, having existed in the borderlands of the Kingdoms before the Conquest. His eyes narrowed. Tis a grand reward indeed, until one examines the specifics. How will we ever muster the gold to construct seats for ourselves? Our smallfolk, if they even live, will be starving and destitute. Tolls upon the Gold Road can only pay for so much, and traffic will be sparse for years to come with the rampant banditry. He gazed upon the Seahorse woven upon Lord Corlys' chest. It will be far cheaper to ship goods, rather than to trust the roads. He could feel the flames of rage beginning to burn within his chest as he pondered the future. But as he grew wroth, an errant memory of Lysene promises rose, unbidden. There is gold aplenty in Essos. Dragons would be worth their weight in gold in the Disputed Lands and amongst the Stepstones. A plan began to form in the recesses of his he mused, he fixated on one final detail. Gold can wait for the time being. A promise made in Maidenpool must first be kept.
Realizing he needed to rise, Gaemon stood, making sure to nod in a properly grateful manner. The Lord of Driftmark's eyes were upon him, studying him closely. Gaemon smiled at him.
"I believe I can speak for both my honored friend and myself when I assure you that the Crown and its Hand have our heartfelt thanks. These rewards are far more than we could have ever hoped to achieve."
Seemingly placated, the Hand smiled back. "Loyalty must always be appropriately rewarded."
Raising his voice, Lord Corlys spoke once more for all to hear. "There yet remains the matter of assignments for our newly appointed Constables."
Glancing at the regents behind him, Corlys turned to Ser Addam first. "My treasured grandson, the King has requested that you attend him in court, in order to ensure the safety of the capital." Turning to Ser Malentine, he regarded his kin quietly for a moment before continuing. "Good Ser… and kinsman, the King and his regents have every reason to trust that you are a man of conviction and honor. We have deemed it prudent to ask that you, too, attend his Royal Person, that you might demonstrate these qualities to us firsthand, that we might properly reward you."
Gaemon was unsurprised that when Lord Corlys turned to address him and Maegor that he did so by speaking to them in unison. "My Lords and Constables, the Crown has further need of you. In the West, Lady Lannister begs for the aid of dragons, that she might cross the Sunset Sea and liberate Fair Isle. The King's regents and I have deemed her need sufficient, and ask that you depart with all haste to assist her."
Gaemon gazed at his friend, but found him unreadable. He wished to accompany him into battle, as he had before, but he knew that he had a separate path to take. My promise can wait no longer. I will no longer suffer the absence of our dear friend and companion. Things must be made right between her and the Crown.
Drawing himself to his full height, he spoke. "My Lord Hand, with Lord Maegor's leave I beg leave to fly for Maidenpool, and from thence across the Bay of Crabs. Our Queen once counted four loyal Seeds amongst her servants, and I mean to find the one that has been lost to us. She committed no crime, I am sure of it. Her exile must be brought to an end."
A rolling wave of whispers consumed the hall. Corlys eyed him coldly, and the regents behind him spoke amongst themselves. The Hand drew in a breath, and Gaemon could see the rebuttal and refusal in his eyes. Before he could speak, however, a regent rose behind him.
"My Lord Hand, the Lord Constable speaks truly. I sheltered Lady Nettles under my own roof, and she ate of my own bread and salt. The girl committed no betrayal. The charges laid against her by the Qu-Princess Rhaenyra were unfounded, either via calumny or vile sorcery I know not." The old Lord gazed at the regents seated about him. "Let us rectify this wrong. Let us offer an open hand to this girl, wherever she may be."
As Lord Mooton seated himself, Lord Corlys gazed at the regents assembled behind him. Wordlessly, he turned. "There is wisdom in your proposal, Lord Constable. I hereby grant your request. Go, and find this wayward girl and bring her back to serve the Iron Throne."
Gaemon nodded, his relief palpable. "I will, with all haste my Lor-"
Lord Corlys raised a firm hand, silencing his words. "Lord Constable, her dragon is one of the largest still living, and a volatile creature at that. If the girl refuses to return, her dragon must be put down for the good of the realm. I will only allow you to depart if you swear before your King and the Lords of the Realm that you will either see her returned or rendered harmless, depending on her loyalties."
An icy hand grasped Gaemon's heart. He wished to respond, to decry Lord Velaryon's words as folly, but knew it would do no good.
"I so swear it."
Corlys nodded, his features as hard as stone. "So be it. Find the girl Nettles, Lord Gaemon. Find her and see justice done."
Gaemon heard his words, but his eyes sought out another. He found Baela standing in the gallery to the right of the throne, alongside the Lady Rhaena and Prince Viserys, with Morning and Terrax coiled about one another and slumbering between them. Baela met his gaze, and he knew he had made the right choice. He resisted the urge to grin as she mouthed: good luck.
Baela
The Tower of the Hand had a surprisingly comfortable audience chamber. Baela had expected it to possess all of the trappings of power with little of the intimacy of a living space. She was pleased to be incorrect. Myrish rugs, tapestries woven in Oldtown and a round golden window helped to bring a comforting warmth to the cold stone even in the dead of winter. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that they were seated within High Tide's solar. Instead, she found herself seated amongst some of House Velaryon's most esteemed members, watching a fire burn in the hearth. Given the importance of the occasion, she had decided to dress diplomatically, wearing a dress woven from black velvet with a mantle of samite emblazoned with the dragons of her house. Rhaena had dressed similarly. Years ago, we might have even attempted to confuse the others and pretend to be one another. Instead, Baela found herself with only the downy beginnings of her silver hair, whilst Rhaena still sported the long tresses she had always favored. The Usurper's brand was also an unfortunate setback for my career as a mummer, Baela mused.
She drummed her fingers on the lacquered wood of the great table at which they were all seated, growing impatient. Baela knew that it wasn't her Grandsire's tardiness which vexed her; her anxiety regarding her upcoming request had been gnawing at her since she had first resolved to ask for it. There has never been a better opportunity to prove myself. She steeled herself as the door opened and her grandsire entered.
Addam and Alyn, seated at the table, stood immediately to acknowledge his presence, while Baela rose alongside her sister in order to curtsy. Smiling, the Lord of the Tides bid them all sit. Taking his place at the head of the table, Corlys motioned for one of his knights to close the door and maintain a vigilant watch. Inhaling deeply, his eyes twinkled as he spoke.
"I apologize for my delay. The meeting of the regents was extended on account of Lady Arryn's absence. I have been most eager to speak to you all, as I wish to ensure that House Velaryon enters the one hundred and thirty-second year after Aegon's conquest with a singularity of purpose."
Grandfather always did see us as Velaryons. She watched as Addam and Alyn sat straighter in their chairs, still coming to terms with their newfound status. The younger brother adopted a wry grin.
"As I see it, the odds have never been more in our favor, grandfather. When I last departed Driftmark, our warehouses were overflowing with the wares of merchants from Braavos to Qarth. The blockade was a wonderful inducement for them to trade with House Velaryon exclusively. If the Daughters continue to tear one another's throats out, we ought to have a near monopoly on the importation of spice, silk, and other fineries for the next several years. Even the Lannisters could not dream of such wealth!"
Addam frowned, clearly uncomfortable with talk of near-extortion. Baela saw her grandsire take note, and he placed a sun-kissed hand upon his shoulder.
"Such measures were necessary in wartime, my boy. While you fought for the Queen atop dragonback, I bid your brother to maintain the blockade as per Rhaenyra's orders. We simply could not allow the Usurper to have access to foreign trade or loans."
Addam nodded. "I understand the necessity of it, but I mislike the profits to be made from war. We have enriched ourselves at the expense of others' suffering."
Corlys' eyes darkened. "Has House Velaryon not lost enough for your liking? Your grandmother was taken from us at Rook's Rest, and your half-brothers were slain most cruelly by the Usurper and his servants. We lost nearly a quarter of our warfleet at the Gullet, and have only begun to place orders for replacements. House Velaryon has bled for this victory."
Addam met his grandsire's stare, still clearly torn, but eventually nodded. Baela frowned. Jace would have despised these methods as well, but he would not have disputed their wisdom.
Alyn watched his brother, his affection written clearly upon his face. "Had the Sheepstealer decided against trying to devour me, I might've ridden to war with you, brother. Instead, I had to fight my own way, and serve our House as best as I could."
Addam grasped his brother by the hand across the table. "I would never attempt to sully your actions, Alyn. I have only ever heard praise concerning your valor. Mother would be proud of the seafarer you have become."
Alyn grinned widely at his brother's praise. "Not bad for a Mouse, eh?"
Addam smiled wryly. "Not bad at all."
Smiling at their display of sibling affection, Baela smiled at Rhaena. Her sister was busy fussing over Morning, as the hatchling was wriggling in her grasp and attempting to snatch a sliver of meat from a silvered tray that sat atop the table.
Baela decided it was time for her to enter the fray. "Aside from our monetary stability, what else did you wish to discuss, grandfather?"
Corlys eyed her with a raised silver eyebrow. "Impatient, granddaughter?"
Shaking her head, she responded. "I am simply curious. If there is one certainty about you, you are never content to rest upon your victories."
Corlys chuckled, his melancholy that had risen with his mention of the death of his wife dissipating. "True enough, I suppose." Lacing his fingers together, he rested his arms atop the table. "As my dear Alyn has so correctly summarized, the goods seized during the blockade have ensured that we shall not lack for wealth. But wealth has always been a means to an end. Before Laenor and Laena, House Velaryon was limited in its potential. For centuries, we have made the sea our home. Now, I feel it is the sky that beckons us. Our potential with dragons is limitless. We are the greatest House behind the throne, and our loyalty has ensured the Crown's gratefulness for good and all." He eyed the four arrayed before him. "Each of you have your own skills, and your own ambitions. As your grandsire, I mean to fulfill each to the best of my ability, whilst still ensuring the power of our family. With the end of the war, we must needs look to our next steps." He gazed at Addam. "Soon you will be Lord of the Tides. To be a great lord, one must receive good counsel and possess great intuition. I can grant you the former, but the latter you must find on your own." His face grew serious. "What, pray tell, are the key threats facing House Velaryon?"
Addam closed his eyes, his head resting on his chin, clearly deep in thought. "Ser Malentine Velaryon cannot be allowed to remain unaccounted for. His loyalties are suspect. He must be reconciled with us." The boy from Hull opened his eyes. "As my brother said, the Three Daughters are tearing themselves to pieces. Raiding on Westerosi shipping has commenced, and our sailors are enslaved in greater numbers by the day in order to man the oars of war galleys. We must put an end to this travesty, for the good of the realm." He looked at Baela, eyeing her brand. "Our enemies may have escaped punishment, but under no circumstances can they be allowed to maintain any influence in court. Justifications must be found to send them to their seats, far away from where power is wielded. Favor must be heaped upon the faithful, that we might prevent future wars."
Baela nodded, finding herself in agreement with her cousin on all counts. She saw that Alyn had been nodding along, clearly enthusiastic about his brother's views. She was puzzled to see that her grandsire was only watching Addam intently, and had not yet spoken in affirmation. Finally, he responded.
"I agree with you on one count- Ser Malentine must be brought back into the fold. Even now, our former allies and enemies alike circle about him like carrion crows, eager to snatch him up for their own devices. We must needs find a way to welcome him back into the family." Corlys frowned. "My grandnephews Daeron and Daemion have proven amenable to reconciliation, despite the injustices heaped upon their father" -Baela could not help but notice the furtive glance that he cast at her and Rhaena as he spoke those words- "but Ser Malentine has proven far more intractable. The loss of his tongue, alongside that of four brothers, has made him cling to vengeance like a drowning sailor grasps a sinking ship. If we are to make amends, we will need to offer something truly tremendous to show our desires to be genuine."
Baela raised an eyebrow. "Surely you do not intend to offer him gold? That would akin to offering a weregild!"
Corlys shook his head strongly. "No, nothing so crass. I mean to offer him far more than an open hand. I intend to make him an integral part of House Velaryon's new found glory! We remain kin, even after all the ill that has transpired between us!"
Rhaena stroked her hatchling's head. "Do tell, grandfather. This is not a game of cyvasse. I am most curious about your plans."
Corlys smiled, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze. "In due time, my dear. I trust you all implicitly, but I fear that eyes and ears are never far from the Hand's chambers. If this plan of mine is to bear fruit, none may know of it until I am certain it will work."
Addam crossed his arms, looking pensive. "You said you disagreed with two of my verdicts, grandfather. What conclusions did I draw incorrectly?"
The old Hand laughed. "There was nothing incorrect about them, lad. I've simply lived too long to have as dashing of a heart as you still possess." He steepled his fingers. "I have tangled with the Triarchy before, as you all know. Attacking them now, with or without dragons, would only serve to cause them to put aside their petty quarrels and unite against the outside interlopers. It is best that we allow them to exhaust one another, and simply stay out of their needless bloodletting. Our own stores of goods, alongside the merchants of Pentos, Braavos, and Lorath, will have to suffice to satisfy the desires of the lords and ladies of the realm. If they need pepper as badly as they claim, they'll simply have to pay more than they'd normally wish to."
Addam looked as though he had been struck. "Grandfather, the Triarchy are enslaving the Realm's own people!"
Corlys sighed. "As they have for centuries, and as they will continue to do so. Westeros lacks the means to stop them entirely. The Crown's incomes are considerable, but port tolls and the Royal Demesne are not sufficient to fund a fleet large enough to rival that of the Free Cities. Besides, the inland lords would never consent to being taxed for it. Even Jaehaerys the Wise was only able to slightly raise taxes on luxury imports under Rego Draz. And I have no desire to meet the same end as the Lord of Air. It is neither politically nor economically expedient to launch a punitive expedition against the remnants of the Triarchy. If we are to involve ourselves in the slightest, it will need to be under the guise of diplomacy."
Baela hated to admit it, but her Grandfather's words carried a brutal logic to them. She tried not to think about the peoples of Westeros languishing in chains as she pondered them, however.
Her grandfather then addressed Addam's third point. "While I personally would have loved to hand over the Usurper's dogs to Lord Cregan and his monstrous blade, exiling them entirely from the capital will only foster further disloyalty. Even now they whisper of a 'Black Regency' whose only Green representatives are a coward and a cripple. We must needs find ways to assuage their rage, in order to prevent them from simply planning another rebellion. House Targaryen cannot endure any more losses. It has been reduced to nearly the same number as it stood in the days of the Conqueror. It has more dragons, but lacks individuals to ride them. House Velaryon must remain its guarantor until it has been given the time it needs to rebuild itself. Binding the wounds of the realm will go a long way in rebuilding its stability, and that will require us to work with the former servants of the Usurper. I have no intentions of working with some of the most unsavory members of that lot, but compromises will need to be made."
Baela straightened in her chair. "Grandfather, you know as well as I that our former enemies are proving troublesome. Lord Borros has only dismissed his levied peasantry from the capital. Hundreds of Stormlander knights remain within King's Landing! No other lord possesses so many swords!"
Corlys nodded. "Lord Borros blusters. He believes I prevented him from sitting upon the Regency Council, when in fact I had advocated in favor of it!" He shook his head. "The King himself forbade it. He refused to allow one his brother's murderers to grasp the reins of power." Her grandfather suddenly looked very tired. "I have a few ideas about how to reconcile Lord Borros, but only time will tell if they will prove effective." Leaning back in his chair, he gazed at each of them. "Alyn, dear boy, would you mind escorting your cousin Rhaena to her chambers? I have one final matter to discuss with your brother and Baela."
Baela's stomach clenched. So here it is. She placed her hands in her lap, clasping them together so as to not fidget. Rhaena eyed her with a look of support, before gracefully taking Alyn's hand and allowing him to guide her from the chamber. For a moment, the three remaining occupants of the room sat in silence. Finally, her grandsire spoke.
"Baela, I have not been entirely subtle in my desire to see you wed Addam. I was initially surprised at your seeming recalcitrance, as before him you had been betrothed to Jaecaerys. Persons of our status rarely choose our spouses; we marry not for ourselves but for our families. I have spoken at length with Addam about this, and he assures me that he will do everything in his power to provide you with a loving marriage and a happy household. He loves you for who you are, not who others would expect you to be. I cannot think of many matches that could offer such prospects." He sighed. "When your uncle and mother died, your grandmother and I thought that our bid to see House Velaryon to greatness had died with them. She never knew Laenor had sired other sons, sons who could carry on the Velaryon mantle. Rhaenys and I believed that it was essential that you and your sister marry your cousins so as to ensure House Velaryon remained unchallenged as the second house of the realm. Now, I believe it is imperative that you bind your claims and dragon to those of Addam to ensure that the foundations of our house remain strong."
Baela bit her lip in order to prevent a retort. Grandmother was a Targaryen! She cared for House Velaryon, but she wanted nuncle Laenor to sit the Iron Throne! If he had been crowned, he would have been a Velaryon no longer. Your ambitions were never so intertwined. She sighed. She was not entirely unsympathetic to her grandfather's perspective. Politically, a match between Addam and I makes complete sense. She hated being thought of as the fool girl she knew others thought her to be. They think me willful, stubborn, and stupid. An Aerea or Saera come again. Running off with Gaemon, regardless of its appeal, would only prove them right. Her fists clenched. But do I care? What does a dragon care for the opinions of lords? She needed to get away, to have time to think. She had feared her grandfather would move quickly with this matter.
"Grandfather, I know you have grown wroth with me." Turning to Addam, she took him by the hand, and looked into his eyes as she spoke. "I am truly sorry if I have caused you pain." She took a deep breath. Turning to the head of her mother's House, she spoke. "These past few months, I have desperately wished to prove myself as a daughter of my House. I was never permitted to fight in the war that took the lives of my betrothed, my father, and my grandmother. I wish to do so now. Lord Gaemon has left for the Vale, and I fear for Lord Maegor, left to face the Ironborn alone. Allow me to fly with him, to aid the Lady of the Rock in her struggles. Let me live as grandmother did, and I swear I will be eternally indebted to you."
She watched with grim acceptance as the 'no' began to form on her grandfather's lips, only to blink in surprise when Addam spoke first.
"Baela, I absolutely consent to your wishes. It is only natural that you wish to fight as Visenya and Rhaenys did before you." He glanced at his grandfather, eyes allowing for no argument. "When you return a hero, we will talk of marriage again."
Baela could not believe her ears. She glanced at her grandfather, but was stunned to see that he was making no motion to refute Addam. A grin began to split her features. Standing, she rushed around the table, embracing a surprised Addam and a thoroughly annoyed Corlys. Thanking them each profusely, she rushed into the hall, intent to prepare. The Seeds are departing tomorrow. I must needs be ready to join them. As she left, she could not possibly have seen the look of utter bewilderment that the grandfather gave his smiling grandson.
Gyles
The Seeds and the Lady Baela had departed in the early afternoon, when the sun sat at its zenith. A large majority of the court had made the journey across the city in order to see them off in a ceremony at the Dragonpit. Gyles had been pleased that he had felt barely any pain in his left wrist as he had clutched the reins of Evenfall during the journey. His wounds taken on the road to Maidenpool were nearly completely mended. Every morn, Gyles went to the yard to train, at first doing naught more than firing his bow at targets, but in due time he had begun sparring against opponents with training sword and shield as well.
At the ceremony's end, the Seeds and the Lady Baela were allowed several minutes to speak with members of the audience before they departed. Gyles had approached the young Lord as he watched his small grey dragon being outfitted with its saddle. "Tired of the city already?" Gyles had asked with a grin.
Lord Maegor had turned to regard him, smiling when he recognized Gyles' face. "Mayhaps it is not becoming of a Lord, but I find myself yearning for the quiet of the open countryside more and more each day."
Gyles nodded. "With luck, you will have such an opportunity, and soon." He then grinned wryly. "I fear to imagine what sort of saddle sores one might suffer from traveling on dragonback."
Lord Maegor chuckled. "I have been fortunate as of yet, I suppose." Looking about himself, the young Lord realized that it was nearly time to depart. "Will you still be in the capital upon my return, Ser? I seem to remember that you told me of your indebtedness to my person after I introduced you into the Queen's court." Maegor smiled. "I'll consider that debt paid when you buy a round of drinks for the both of us."
Gyles grinned back at him. "Only the Gods know where my path will lead me now, my Lord. But I promise you this. The next time we meet, the ale will flow freely!"
Lord Maegor shook his hand firmly. "It's a deal, then." Though the mirth remained in his features, the young dragonrider's tone was full of sincerity as he continued to speak: "I wish you the best of fortune in your endeavors, Ser Gyles Yronwood. May your journeys be free of hardships, and may your destinations be all that you expect, and more." Giving Gyles a final smile, Lord Maegor then turned to walk in the direction of Lord Gaemon.
The day had proven to be full of farewells. Though many Lords and knights intended to remain in the King's city as guests in his court, even more prepared to depart for their seats with the departure of the dragonriders, or as part of Ser Hobert Hightower's relief army. The latter was on Gyles' mind as he sat down in a tavern near the top of the hill of Rhaenys, one of a very few of its kind to survive the riots that had so recently torn the city asunder. I am in need of new work. It will be honorable work, driving godless fiends from their ill-gotten possessions. Gyles sighed. Practical as well. Whether or not I wish to continue pursuing my goals as Ser Jarmen hoped I would, the fact remains that I am in desperate need of coin.
"Why the long face, Ser?" a sudden voice boomed to his left. Gyles smiled at the sound of it, before turning to regard its source. Ser Horton Cave stood before him, wearing a shirt of mail, and beneath it, simple yet colorful and skillfully crafted accouterments made in the hardy style that was favored by Clawmen. Miraculously, his beard seemed as though it had actually been groomed.
Gyles smiled at Ser Horton. "It is of no matter, Ser. Nothing that will not be ameliorated by good ale and food."
Eyes twinkling with mirth, the large Clawman nodded enthusiastically as he took the chair next to Gyles at the table in the center of the inn's common room. Ser Horton then bellowed friendly greetings to the table's other two occupants.
Joss Oat, a newly-made serjeant in the Red Keep's garrison, grinned at Ser Horton's greeting, before giving a cordial response in kind. Tristifer of Oldstones nodded at the greeting, and a small smile graced his features.
As the night went on, the four of them ate plenty, and drank even more. Many a toast was made to the health of the new King, and for the prosperity of his Realm. Their table drew many eyes and friendly visitors, due to the recent emergence of a tale of heroism and honor in the face of great adversity, that had proven a great favorite of the bards and formerly Black Lords. Entitled The Queen's Twenty, each song about the intrepid group tried in its own way to chronicle their deeds as they fought their way north, then south again, ever faithful to their fallen Queen and her people. Though we counted more than twenty amongst our ranks, such a number would not make for as memorable of a title.
As the night grew late, the four had their tankards filled one final time. Deciding to lead the toast, Gyles lifted his tankard into the air first, before speaking. "To Ser Jarmen Follard! Though he cannot share in our toast, he will forevermore share in our triumph!"
Gyles' companions eagerly responded with calls of "To Ser Jarmen!", before quaffing their own tankards of ale. The conversation then turned to what plans and intentions lay in each of their immediate futures. For Joss Oat, he was to continue on as a serjeant in the Red Keep's garrison, having received a promotion, increase in pay, and fine new set of footman's armor as thanks for his leal service. For Ser Horton, the road led to Crackclaw Point, where his seat and family awaited him.
To everyone else's surprise, Tristifer of Oldstones told them all that his own path led home as well. "With the victory over the bandits," Tristifer said with a sad smile, "I realized a great truth. I realized that hope wasn't a lie for fools to cling to, but somethin' real, and wonderful." He sighed, but his expression remained full of a quiet resolve. "I must needs return home to my village, and tell them what became of their menfolk. They all deserve to know."
Tristifer clutched his tankard in a tight grip. "Twould not be proper, to leave them in grief, waitin' and hopin' a lifetime for word of their loved ones, never to get it." Tristifer paused, his eyes welling with tears, but he smiled fiercely. "I will tell them all the truth. That each and every man and boy who left our village for war died honorably. Whether they died in the field of battle or on the long and winding road, they kept faith with those of us who remained, through every toil and hardship."
Tears ran freely down his cheeks as Tristifer raised his tankard in a toast. "Heroes, all of them," he whispered, his voice full of fervent conviction.
Gyles, Joss, and Ser Horton lifted their tankards into the air, and spoke with a quiet reverence. "Heroes, all."
The delegation from Dorne had been granted respectable apartments within the Red Keep, not far from the castle's godswood. Each set of personal chambers was linked to a central, well-furnished common room, with a small set of carved stone steps in its corner leading below to a small set of cells in which servants and guards could sleep.
Upon receiving a message of assent to his initial inquiry of a meeting with the Prince Qyle, Gyles had made his way to the delegation's apartments, after two spearmen bearing the sun and spear of Martell on their light leather jerkins waved him through. Upon entering, Gyles saw the young Prince seated behind a large polished mahogany desk. It appears that this will not be a private meeting. Several other Dornish nobles of the delegation were standing within the common room as well, watching Gyles' approach with a wide range of expressions. Interest, reservation, and even anger.
Upon initial observation, Gyles saw a comforting multitude of familiar sigils that he'd never thought to behold again. The sword and shooting star of Dayne, the quill of Jordayne, the scorpions of Qorgyle. The black adder of Wyl. Fuck. Gyles had not realized that a member of that family was accompanying the delegation. This will be even more difficult than I'd already feared.
Gyles knelt before the seated Prince, bowing his head in deference. "My Prince," he began courteously, "my sincere thanks for accepting my request for a meeting."
A dark snort of derision followed his words, from the knight of Wyl. His black hair formed a sharp widow's peak, and his dark eyes glared coldly at Gyles. After a moment, Gyles recognized the man as the second eldest son of Lord Wyland, and one of the elder brothers of the man Gyles had slain. "Your Prince?" the Wyl chuckled coldly. "From what we've heard, you've been doing lots of kneeling and swearing as of late. Don't you have some dragons to be tending to, traitor?"
The Prince cleared his throat loudly, and glared at the Wyl. "That's quite enough, Ser Yorick. You will comport yourself in a proper manner, or you will leave this meeting."
Ser Yorick Wyl sneered coldly at the young Prince for a moment, but said no more. After a moment, he nodded in silent acquiescence, and stepped back against the wall of the chamber.
Prince Qyle turned back to carefully regard Gyles. "Though Ser Yorick has spoken out of turn, I too wonder at the purpose of your visit, as do the rest of the members of this delegation. Have you not sworn fealty to the Targaryen family? What interest should you harbor for your former countrymen?"
This is likely to be my only opportunity for this course of action. I will not waste time, nor mince words. "I will speak plainly of my intentions, my Prince, for I do not wish to waste the time of yourself, or any of the members of this delegation. I was exiled from Dorne on the charge of murder, on the order of Lord Wyland Wyl, and Lord Alaric Yronwood, mine own kin. I wish to travel back to Sunspear with your delegation and appeal this verdict with your father, the Prince Qoren."
For a long moment, the room was completely silent. Two noblewomen exchanged a look, and the Qorgyle began to whisper into the Prince Qyle's ear. Ser Yorick Wyl's face blanched, before quickly turning red with rage. "You dare," the knight of Wyl hissed. Gyles turned his head to fully regard Ser Yorick, and he returned a stare of his own. Unlike Ser Yorick's, it contained no vitriol. But it also contained no fear. I have seen and survived too much to be cowed by venomous bluster. There are no snake pits nearby in which he could try to toss me. Let him seethe.
Gyles knew that his request was not one to be taken lightly. His exile was the result of a verdict that had been reached by two powerful Dornish lords. To appeal to the Prince Qoren would be to call both Lords' judgment into question, and risk offending them. Gyles had made a name for himself, but had done so beneath the banner of House Martell's, nay, Dorne's greatest rival, the Targaryens. The Prince Qyle had little and less reason to accept Gyles' appeal, a truth that Gyles was confident they both knew.
And yet, I must ask all the same. The moment he had been exiled, Gyles had given up any hope of ever returning to the land of his birth. He had ridden north from the Boneway, focusing on the road ahead and his ambitions, rather than the grief that had gnawed at his heart. Forsaken by my own kin. Lord Alaric valued an alliance more than my life, and washed his hands of me. Gyles had come to accept that he would never see his parents again, nor the friends and kin he had grown up alongside.
That had all changed when Tristifer had told Gyles that he was returning home to his village. Tristifer knew that such an act would be supremely difficult, and painful. Yet he chose to do so all the same, because it was the right thing to do. Because he found hope again. The hope to believe that all the pain and tribulation he'll experience might allow him to make amends, and have a home once more. Gyles too, would take such a chance. If he was refused, so be it. But he would not allow such an opportunity to pass him by, and turn into a wellspring of endless regret.
The Prince finally nodded, and whispered back into the Qorgyle's ear. He then turned to regard Gyles. "Ser Gyles Yronwood," he began, "I will grant you your request. You will travel with our delegation to Sunspear, and have the opportunity to appeal your exile. But know this. It will not only be the actions before your exile that will be judged, but also those after you traveled north of the Red Mountains. This is no guarantee of amnesty. What I promise you, however, is that you will be heard and judged fairly. Do you accept these terms?"
Gyles' mind was reeling. Shock, hope, anticipation, and joy made for a potent mixture that seemed to flood through every part of his body. Ser Yorick Wyl's lips moved, but in his shock and rage, no words tumbled forth from them. Gyles blinked, then swallowed, collecting his wits. "My Prince," he said, voice thick with emotion, "I could not hope to ask for more. I accept your terms with utmost gratitude."
The Prince nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. "Alright then. I would advise you to get all of your affairs in order, Ser. We are not long for this city, and will be departing soon. You will be notified when the time of our departure approaches." Gyles mumbled his sincere thanks once more, before stiffly rising to his feet and departing.
The moment that he found himself in an empty corridor, he collapsed against the wall, and took in a shaking breath. There is no guarantee, no certainty. Despite himself, Gyles felt a smile spread across his face. But there is hope. Fleeting and fragile, and yet proves a salve for the deepest wounds. Gyles began to walk down the corridor, allowing himself to hope for home once more.
Veron
For as long as Veron could remember, the Great Keep of Pyke had smelled of sea salt and smoke. Its halls and alcoves bore the ashen grime of centuries, and the torches guttered in their sconces, fighting against the dampness that clung pervasively to the stone. From an early age, Veron had taken comfort in the smell of the sea, and in the scent of woodsmoke. The sea was the domain of the Drowned God, from which a plentiful bounty could be assured so long as one kept and respected his will. Fire, on the other hand, promised warmth, relief from the omnipresent chill that so defined the dank and dark halls of the Greyjoy seat.
A voice broke the silence, hoarse and ragged from raging all through the night. A voice of a man long dead, Veron mused. He knew at that moment that he walked the twilight between dream and memory, for despite the years, he had never forgotten his father's voice. Huddled in a cold niche, his past self shivered, longing for an end to the discomfort of his hiding spot. Small fists clenched in fear. Tis better to shiver than to meet the fist, buoyed on by wrath and smelling of ale and sweat. Lord Loron Greyjoy had been a cruel man in life, twisted by failure and jealousy and drink into a husk of a man. Reaving had claimed three fingers of his right hand and his left leg below the knee. A thumb and a finger could hold a chalice, but never a blade. A successful brother and unfaithful wife had done the rest. Lord Loron might have given his rock wife to the Drowned God, but he was never quite capable of drowning his shame. Veron had only lived a handful of namedays when they had taken his mother away, shortly after she had birthed his sister Morgana. A sweet child, whose first footsteps were haunted by whispers of bastardy.
As his father broke something in the distance, Veron clutched his knees to his chest, praying fervently that his father would tire, or better yet, pass out from the drink. He knew the truth, however. The drink alone could never sate father. He could only drown mother once, but he could punish her children forever. The night would not end until Loron Greyjoy found a victim. At times, Alannys or Asha would be chosen. But Lord Greyjoy found little solace in striking his daughters. They fell too quickly, sobbed too easily. Most nights, he searched for his sons. As they grew closer to manhood, their sire's wroth only increased. Veron was never certain what inspired his father's hate, but he had always assumed that they took after their mother in appearance. Or mayhaps it is simply because we have two legs and ten fingers apiece. Earlier that evening, Lord Loron had demanded a stew of bacon, onions, and halibut. The rich smells had almost tempted Veron to beg a bowl from the Kitchen Keep, but his father's cries for ale had sent him scurrying instead. He had hid himself away, wishing time to pass quickly. He had found the darkest nook he could find, hidden from the pitiless and revealing torchlight, and made himself as small as possible.
From within his unconscious state, he knew what was coming next. His father's voice rebounded down the halls, calling for his sons. Despite his best efforts, a shiver crept its way down his spine, mirroring the trembling of his former self. He whispered to himself just as he remembered, promising that this time, he would not cry out when struck. His senses, sharpened with the cold fixation of fear, heard the approaching footsteps clearly, unaffected by the usual haze of memory. As they approached Veron held his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. It was only as they drew within feet of his refuge that he realized that they were not the lurching and unsteady feet of a drunk. They were the measured and fearless steps of his brother. Dalton's face peered at him in the shadows. He spoke no words, but his eyes were kind. Veron reached for him, whispering for him to hide, but he knew then as he knew now that such encouragement was futile. Dalton shook his head, and without a word, left the niche.
For a moment, Veron listened as his brother marched down the hall. When he reached its end, he stopped, drew himself up to his full height, and shouted for his father. For a moment, it seemed as though Pyke itself had grown silent. The low roar of the sea dimmed, and the torches no longer hissed and snapped like snakes. Only the uncertain gait of a man in his cups could be heard. Veron cowered, but was unable to resist peering around the corner of his hiding place to watch his brother in awe. He will never back down from a foe, never. Dalton did not look back; he offered no indication that he knew his brother was present. His eyes were fixed firmly upon the lumbering form of their sire, his wooden leg rapping upon the cold stone floors as he heaved himself forward. Black hair streamed down from around Lord Loron's face as he approached his eldest son and heir, an engorged kraken dragging itself from the deep to meet a younger challenger. Taking a deep draft from his drinking horn, the foam of the ale flowed free down his jaw, running in rivulets down through the wild tangles of his unshaven beard. Pausing before his son, he watched him warily, eyeing him as if considering him a threat. Dalton, despite his age, was almost of a height with the ruin of a father, a man brought low by wounds within and without. Neither spoke, and the moment seemed to drag on for a century.
The silence broke as Dalton spoke: "you summoned me, father?" His words were as much an accusation as a query.
A left-handed hook caught him squarely in the jaw, sending him to his knees. Dalton spat on the floor, hate in his eyes. He stood, meeting his father's gaze once more unflinchingly. Another fist flew, this time from the right and missing fingers. The awkward slap caught him on the cheek, sending him reeling backwards. He did not lose his footing. He did not break his gaze. Lord Loron Greyjoy stared at his son with a mixture of disgust and loathing. At the time, Veron had not understood what else he had seen in his father's eyes. Years later, having sailed the seas of the world and killed many a man, Veron recogized his father's expression. It is the fear of a whipped dog, a broken lion in a menagerie. A predator that is no longer certain of itself.
Their sire raised his hand again, throwing himself into an attack whilst grunting with the effort. In his stupor, it was ill-placed. He caught Dalton with a glancing blow to the cheek, but placed too much of his unsteady bulk upon his wooden support. Lord Loron's leg caught in the ancient stones that lined Pyke's halls, and snapped. The Lord Reaver of Pyke fell, collapsing heavily upon the floor, ale flowing like blood from beneath his fallen drinking horn. Wheezing, he attempted to stand, but could only manage to drag himself to a sitting position. Lunging at his eldest son, he could only stare as Dalton looked upon him with a glance of barely concealed disgust. The heir of Pyke turned his back to his father and walked away.
Veron had scrambled to follow his brother, swearing to himself that he'd follow him to the ends of the earth. Neither of them would cast eyes upon their sire again.
The shutters of Faircastle whistled and shuddered as the winter gail assailed them. Veron awoke with a start, a half-finished bottle in his hand and his clothing still on, stinking of sweat. He cast his eyes towards his bed, only to remember groggily that Torgon would not be there. Too dangerous. Dalton's eyes and ears are everywhere. Instead, Elissa slept fitfully, holding Eleyna tightly against the wailing of the storm. Struck by the urgent need to make water, Veron left the chamber as gingerly as he could, head beginning to throb with the sort of ache that only reveals itself after an abundance of wine. While his chambers sported a chamber pot, he always felt queerly exposed making use of it before his wives. He usually sought one kept in a storeroom for the servants. Finding it, he listened to the storm rage as he relieved himself, and he wondered at how the fleet was faring. Those wooden hulls are the only bulwark we have left against the lions. The veritable mountains of wealth in the vaults below had proven useless. Myrish cloth and glass, Tyroshi dyes, Arbor wines, Dornish salt, and Westerlander gold were of little use to a battered and broken army. We cannot eat gold, and there are no swords to hire. He snorted. Even the most dimwitted of sell-swords would see us as a foolhardy prospect. Even now, the Lady of the Rock prowled and clawed at their defenses. Small sailing craft darted in and out of the straights off of Fair Isle, probing the strengths of the Ironborn's patrols. Larger craft, including a handful of war galleys, had been spotted in the deeper waters, maintaining a safe distance but slowly tightening the ever-present noose. We have been laid low, truly low, if the sight of Lighthouses and Grape Clusters cause us to scurry to safety. Since the twin defeats at Kayce and the Crag, Dalton had forbidden any captain from making landfall. Fair Isle's supply was tenuous, supported by a few fearless and enterprising captains that braved the sea to bring salted fish and hearty brown bread from Lordsport or Harlaw.
As he exited the servant's closet, Veron was brought to a halt by two great beasts of men. Lodrick and Rodrick were as akin in look as twins, but swore that they were born two years apart. Their arms were thicker than most men's thighs, and their skulls thicker still. Dalton had taken them into his service shortly after Kayce, in order to replace the veteraned reavers that had not returned to Fair Isle. Now, he was inseparable from them.
Lodrick nodded in a gruff acknowledgement of Veron's presence. Rodrick held up a great hand to stop him. "Lord Greyjoy demands your counsel, Lord… hmmm… Greyjoy." Lodrick grinned, pleased at his brother's quick thinking.
Veron nodded. "Will he mind me in my current state? I reek of ale and sweat."
Rodrick visibly sniffed. His great nose rising to take in Veron's vapors. "You will do. You smell no worse than many of the others." Lodrick guffawed before stopping and furrowing his brow, processing whether his reaction had been entirely appropriate.
Veron shrugged, acquiescing to his brother's request and allowing himself to fall in step with the two larger men. Striding through the winding halls of Fair Isle, he was struck by how empty and quiet it had become. When the castle had first been taken, there had been nary enough room to sleep, let alone make one's way through its halls unobstructed. Now, one could go unhindered. A great host of ten thousand, reduced to a handful of two, maybe three thousand? Where once hundreds of cooking fires had glowed in the fields beyond Faircastle's ramparts, now only scattered embers glowed. If the Lions are ever able to land a host upon these shores, we are doomed. We lack the ability to stop their heavy horse in the field, and if we hide within these walls we will starve. We should have sued for peace when given the chance. When he closed his eyes, he saw Pyke burning, a spear through Morgana, the screams of Alannys and Asha as they were set upon by knights with lions and boars upon their chests. Dalton will make that vision a reality, damn him. The entirety of the Iron Isles is fit for naught but to be kindling heaped upon his funeral pyre.
Entering Faircastle's Great Hall, he found his brother stooped over an aging map of Fair Isle. The coasts of the Westerlands loomed close, closer than he would've liked, and small pieces of charcoal had been arranged to symbolize the longships that could still be mustered to hold the strait. To the south, at the map's edge, a mass of coppers had been strewn, likely to represent the encroaching Redwyne fleet, bolstered by the galleys of Oldtown and the Shields. Between all of them, they likely have some one hundred and fifty war galleys. The Iron Fleet at its height would not have had the strength to face them, not without luring them into disadvantageous waters. Now we barely have the strength to face half of such numbers.
Dalton's deep black eyes rose to meet Veron's, shrouded in the dark hues that betrayed a lack of sleep. The Lords of the Isles that remained had assembled in the hall before them, and Veron was pleased to count some of his supporters among them. Lord Arthur Goodbrother nodded gravely at Veron, before returning to an intense discussion with Lord Hagon Orkwood, whose face was swollen from tears and drink. He lost a son attempting to hold Kayce, and two more attempting to retake it. He has little and less love for Dalton now. Lord Benton Sunderly had managed to rouse himself, despite the wounds he had taken in Veron's service at the Crag. Torgon smiled at Veron's approach, whispering a jape that made Lord Ygon Farwynd chuckle. The others are not so friendly, however. Lord Angred Botley lurked just behind Dalton, whispering something fervently in his ear. Hilmar Drumm and Dagmar Saltcliffe eyed Veron with an unrestrained hate, and the Goodbrothers of Corpse Lake and Crow Spike Keep kept amongst themselves, standing closer to Dalton than their immediate superior. Captains great and small milled about, and anxiety roiled in the air. It seems Dalton has finished his preparations for the final battle.
Dalton stood, straightening his back and throwing back his head, an odd light alive in his eyes. He smiled grimly as he spoke. "Lord Reavers and Captains, I bring you news of momentous import. The realm has declared itself to be at peace, and married two dragons to ensure it. They have responded harshly to my demands…" A round of muttering ensued… "But I care not. It was inevitable that the Lady of the Rock would demand aid; not once has she opened the gates of the Rock to sally forth against us; perhaps she has instead opened her legs to inspire our enemies to march forth to seize our last conquest." Shouts of anger flooded the hall. Dalton raised his hands to calm them, before slamming them upon the table. "That, my lords, is not what has summoned my ire. Nay, what boils the blood in my veins is a treachery far more foul. Our so-called allies in arms have turned against us! This very evening, I received a letter from the 'Seasnake' himself! Allow me to read its poisoned words out loud."
Dalton drew in a breath, then began to speak, the hand holding the letter shaking with rage:
"Lord Greyjoy,
Allow me to first express my great disappointment at your foolhardiness. While once you supported our dearly departed Queen, you now sully her memory by prosecuting a war that serves no purpose nor promises any rewards. The realm has suffered enough! Your silence during the negotiations was deafening. At first, I thought your lack of response was due to your distance, but now I see you for what you are: a rogue and a cutthroat who spits upon the King's will and his subjects' happiness. Know this: your ruthlessness and cunning will avail you no longer. As I put these words to paper, two of our King's leal servants have departed on dragonback to ensure you and your lackeys will be laid low, your savagery punished, and your ill-gotten gains seized. Harren the Black resisted the Conqueror out of a misguided arrogance, and his castle stands as a monument to his folly. I wonder: what will you choose to serve as your funerary pyre? The time for words has passed… let there be Fire and Blood, and thenceforth, justice.
Signed,
Lord Corlys Velaryon
Hand of the King; Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark
As Dalton finished speaking, the hall was silent. Men were either too speechlessly enraged or too sobered by the implications to speak. The Lord Reaver of Pyke broke their silence.
"Dragons come to Fair Isle. The Lady of the Rock's wish has been granted. They will seek to burn our fleet and from thence break the Isles with fire and steel. But in their arrogance, they have forgotten that dragons are not invulnerable. One of the Conqueror's own wives was slain by the Dornish, who aren't half as cunning as Ironborn! If the rumors are true, one of the harlot Queen's own sons was slain at sea! Lord Corlys may have sent two dragons, but he has only sent them to their deaths!" Dalton's eyes shone as he spoke, and his men cried out in a mixture of devotion and fervor. "I want every man to practice the bow. Every bow and crossbow must be placed in hands that can put them to use. We must find ropes to cast and hooks to catch them. Dragons may rule the sky, but the sea has always been the domain of the Drowned God! Dragons may plant no fields, but neither do we! WE DO NOT SOW AND WE WILL NOT SURRENDER! Prepare men, that we might make the greatest sacrifice to the Drowned God the world has ever seen!"
As Dalton shouted the hall erupted in cheers. Men bustled about the chamber, exiting through various doors to convey orders to their men. Others, not so certain, made their way out of the chamber with less conviction. Veron's stomach sank. Dalton has never met an enemy that could cow him. Bending the knee is as foreign to him as the Seven.
In time, only Veron remained with his brother, flanked by Lodrick and Rodrick. Dalton eyed him warily, still not completely trusting. The loss of his trust still hurt, even if he knew it was no fault of his own. For a moment, he did not speak, simply attempting to enjoy a brief quiet respite with the brother he had followed to the ends of the earth. Finally, Veron spoke.
"There is still time, Dalton. Time enough to bend the knee as our ancestor did when confronted by the Conqueror. We may not be able to save our winnings, but we will be able to recover from a position of strength. When dragons lack foes to face, they feast upon each other. In time, this peace will break, as it has before. We will be ready, ready to rise again harder and stronger and wiser with the lessons we have learned. Many before us have made the same decision. There is no shame in it."
For the briefest of moments, Dalton mulled over his words. Veron almost believed that his brother might agree. He knew he was not a foolish man, just a man who had drunk deeply of his own fame and grown accustomed to its sweet intoxication.
Dalton spoke, more softly than Veron had ever remembered him doing so previously. "But what would men think, Veron? I'd be a coward, a beaten bitch begging for table scraps. Men would mock me in their cups and curse me in the safety of their halls."
Veron frowned. "Men are fools, brother. Their sentiments are as fickle as they are irrelevant. We need not pay any mind to them."
Dalton stared at the map, clenching his fists. "I cannot do that, Veron. Too much has been sacrificed. To be Ironborn is to believe in a strength greater than ourselves. We pay the Iron Price, not the Gold. But for such beliefs to survive, our people need heroes, not old and broken men. Our people have not had such a hero since the days of Harwyn Hardhand. I mean to be such a man, even if it means my death. Otherwise this will have been all for naught."
Veron knew then that the game was up. Wordlessly, he turned to leave the chamber, and leave his brother to his thoughts. Before he could move, Dalton spoke again.
"I had intended to ask that you take your Misery alongside mine own Red Tide." He frowned. "I think now I will ask that you hold Faircastle. The Isles will need a hard man to protect them, if the Drowned God does not favor me." Veron could not help but notice just how exhausted Dalton looked at that moment. Drawing himself to his full height, a shade of his former self surfaced. He summoned a wicked grin, and spoke once more: "Besides, brother, I will not have it said that I only slew two dragons with the help of my brother. A man should win his glory alone." Standing, he turned, flanked by his lumbering guards, and began to depart for the Lord's solar.
Veron blinked, tears in his eyes. "I will see to Toron and our sisters as well, brother. I swear it."
Dalton stopped, standing still for a moment. Without turning, he spoke in an odd voice. "I thank you, Veron."
With that, the Red Kraken left the chamber.
When Veron returned, Elissa and Eleyna had awoken, and the Farman woman was brushing the Westerling's hair. Veron rummaged around for a wineskin, aware that his saltwives' eyes were upon him. He finally spoke, gruffly. "Dragons have flown for Fair Isle. My brother has ordered the Iron Fleet to face them at sea, in hopes of slaying them."
When he finally abandoned his search for drink, he found Elissa watching him closely, the brush stopped halfway through her charge's tresses. When she spoke, her face was perfectly composed, without a shred of irony. "I am sure that many will pray fervently for his victory."
Veron nodded. "Mayhaps some might. I have been given command of the castle."
Elissa nodded, resuming her brushing. "I pray that you keep the castle and its people safe, my lord."
He stared, wordlessly. "I have every intent to do so, my lady."
As the storm continued to rage, he thought he glimpsed the faintest of smiles upon his salt-wife's face.