Chapter 10
The negotiations will be short
Archmaester Sater
"The dragons are still alive. Our plan to establish a glorious era of science and order has failed."
The words had been uttered in a hateful whisper behind an unmoving platinum mask. The darkness of the library they were currently meeting in made them even more cruel and distorted.
"I don't think so." Replied a figure indentified by a silver mask, rod and ring. "The greatest reptiles of these inbred idiots have been killed and only three or four remains. We can still kill them all."
The rest of the twelve men assisting to this conversation did not intervene in the debate between their two colleagues. No event of importance had come since the last time they had gathered in secrecy. Speaking now would only lengthen a debate noted for its incredible sterility.
"Enough." Coughed Archmaester Valer in a feeble voice. The Master of raven studies and Seneschal of the Citadel for the current year sounded incredibly tired. As it should be when one was responsible to rule over a realm of highly eccentric researchers, grumpy teachers, quarrelsome Archmaesters and distracted students while war raged outside. "The dragons...are a problem...which will wait...the reports of the next moon."
Archmaesters Cley and Tyrar bowed in acceptance, but the very unfriendly look they sent each other told Sater the disagreement they had just expressed was not going to vanish in the air.
"In this case, I suppose we can speak about the real problems." Sater knew he should speak in a calm and reasoned tone, but he was unable to hide the bitterness in his tone. "Luthor Flowers is mustering an army of cutthroats in the taverns and southern quarters. While I would be delighted if he decided to join the Green decimated forces at Cider Hall, I'm afraid he has far more disloyal ideas in mind."
A chuckle came from the lips of the elderly Archmaester Gulian and his brass mask.
"Sater, don't be ridiculous. The children of Oldtown will never tolerate a bastard ruling them."
"And who will they accept, Gulian? Who?" Demanded Sater, slamming his yellow god rod on the ground of the Library of Superior Studies. "Lord Otto is dead. His sons Lynor, Jonor, Gunthor and Gwayne have perished on the battlefield or by daggers in the back. Queen Alicent is at King's Landing and her health is terribly fragile. The best claim is now held by King Daeron himself and I don't think Oldtown is at the forefront of his thoughts these days!
"There are cousins...Ormund had many sons and some are with the Green army. We can recall them and organise a marriage with one of the secondary but rich descendants of the merchant lines..."
"I think your Citadel is far less secure than you think." Hissed Archmaester Turen, sinister Archmaester in the little-understood domain of the occult.
"What is this supposed to mean?" Retorted testily Gulian.
"Otto and his descendants have never been more unpopular in the streets and the whorehouses." It was hard to guess if behind the Valyrian steel mask Turen was happy or angry with this outcome. "A quarter of the city is starving since the lands around the Honeywine are abandoned and the bandits are preying all over the roads. The smallfolk won't care if the new Lord isn't a Hightower if he gives them peace and bread. They want to eat and they don't care about a man who killed their children in the greatest war since the Conquest."
"We should have killed the dragons earlier!" Barked Archmaester Tyrar. "It's their fault if the realm is starving!"
None of the thirteen other Archmaesters replied but Sater heard many sigh as discreetly as possible. The sentence which had just been pronounced was somewhat true...in the case one completely forgot how many incentives the Citadel had given the Greens to oppose the Blacks. It had been their agents who had stolen certain evidence from Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra before the demise of the old King Viserys. It had been their ravens who had selectively informed the Great Lords of the realm when certain events unfolded in order to weaken the Blacks. Aegon II may have been the King sitting on the Iron Throne until his last showdown over Dragonstone, but the maesters had pushed the Greens to rise against the Blacks long before he rose against his half-sister.
A new series of coughs came out the mouth of the Seneschal. A finely crafted crystal glass came to his lips as the old Archmaester slightly pushed up his mask, revealing a pale face which would not last long in this world. Not with all the white ravens and the growing cold descending in every kingdom of Westeros. When he spoke, his voice was laced with pain.
"How stand...our finances?"
"Badly." He stated. "Except the closest towns near Oldtown, no one is volunteering anymore for training at the Citadel and I suspect things are going to get worse as winter comes. The Noble Houses' contributions have been curtailed by eight-tenths, an unfortunate result of the war and many Lords blaming the Hightowers for the civil war. Our food reserves and the gold we keep in our vaults are adequate but if the snow last years we will be forced to ration ourselves."
A shiver crossed the grey robes of the unofficial Conclave. Every of the fourteen Westerosi was at least five and forty name days old; rationing at their age was something to avoid at all costs.
"But surely...we will...recover our influence...over the Seven Kingdoms...in the next decades?"
"I am astoundingly surprised by your words, Seneschal." Hissed Turen. If the eyes of the Archmaester would have been bows ready to strike, the senior member of the Order would have been a dead maester. "By these words you assume there will be a Kingdom left when this war is over. Have you listened to the reports? Have you paid attention to the hordes of fleeing smallfolk and deserters erring between the Neck and Dorne?"
"Go back to your discussions with your warlock friends, Turen." Archmaester Cley posture could be best described as 'vexed and sulking'. "The rest of us are dealing with important-"
Whatever insults and impolite remarks the Archmaester had been about to say, he didn't continue. The man behind the platinum mask tried to turn but his legs trembled uncontrollably and he fell on the green carpet.
A large dagger was planted in his back.
For an instant, the Archmaesters fixed the place where their colleague lied dead. Many of them had seen dead men in their lives, whether due to their studies in healing, tragedies having marked their travels before they forged their chains or more nebulous circumstances.
But no Archmaester had ever been killed in the middle of a Citadel library like this!
"Run you fools!" Hissed Turen before taking his own advice and rushing towards the nearest exit. Well, the only exit to say the truth.
"Hold on!" Shouted Archmaester Dorur as Sater lighted off several candles to favour their escape. These were his last words as the assassin had just been granted a perfect target. The room was in the penumbra but he saw enough to watch a second dagger be thrown in the throat of his colleague. Dorur fell like a sack of potatoes.
Sater cursed under his breath and ran, abandoning his rod on a table of midnight-black wood. Under his grey robes the only object which could be considered a weapon was the silver paper knife he used to unseal his letters and the secretive financial negotiations his contacts passed him. Against a trained assassin, he might as well use his hands. Plunging behind a large bookshelf on his right, the Riverlander-born maester seized a middle-sized book and held it in front of him. Just in time to oppose the next dagger of the murderer.
"You missed..."
From his right something slammed in him. Sater screamed in pain and tried to put the maximum of distance between him and his present location. A glance at his injured arm informed him a powerful arrow had more or less shredded his member. There was plenty of blood and his healing knowledge informed him that unless he found healing help in a few turn of hourglasses, he would join the dead in the coldness of the grave.
Sater ran, changing of library shelf without a sequence. He didn't know how many assassins they were. He didn't know how they had infiltrated the heart of the Citadel. In the distance, he heard the Seneschal and to his shame felt a moment of relief as it meant one of the killers was not occupied to track him.
"Valar Morghulis." Someone whispered.
Archmaester Sater felt something very cold against his throat before the world exploded in pain and darkness.
Lord Larys Strong
From the top of the Red Keep's dungeon one could almost believe the chief city of King's Landing was calm, prosperous and beautiful. The snowfalls of the last days had powdered the roofs, the towers, the septs statues and the ramparts in white. The Blackwater Bay had taken a very dark blue colour which should give great success to any artist managing to put it in his paintings. Several ships from the other side of the Narrow Sea were disembarking their goods with great pulleys and animal-driven machinery. From the South and the Rose Road came scores of chariots, their progression looking like a great snake from where he stood.
Yes, seen from there King's Landing looked at peace. Almost. As long as the gaze did not turn to the carcass of the Dragonpit. If the common observer did not notice the hundreds of large holes in the city where houses had once stood. Paved streets were missing uncountable stones where the rioters had used those to bash the heads of their enemies. Warehouses and inns looked grotesque where the dragonfire had touched them. Truly the capital was a wounded creature. And it fell to Larys and others the impossible task that the city didn't succumb from those injuries.
"How many dead the last day?"
"We found six and two scores." Replied Bofon Follard. With his gold cloak in tatters and his mail having seen better fortnights, the brown-haired knight of thirty name days wasn't presenting the appearance one expected from the Commander of the City's Watch. Yet this was his role, a fact which may have something to do with him being one of the rare officers having had the courage to accept the insanely dangerous post.
Five Commanders under the Green and Blacks' rule had perished in the last four years and the number of soldiers having perished under them was in the high thousands. With some hope Follard would bring back some stability and honour to the Goldcloaks. Prince Daemon had largely contributed to tear apart the institution he had himself created but it didn't mean it had to stay that way. Tens of thousands desperate people lived in King's Landing and for the sake of the realm the law had to be enforced. Even if it turned him the stomach when he saw the countless beatings and killings. Even if each day brought scores of deaths...and he was sadly sure many more were thrown at the bottom of the Bay with stones chained to their feet that he was unaware of.
"The riots are weakening. Good."
"The supplies of food the Stormlords domains provide us are doing the lion's part." Cautiously warned the second son of Lord Follard who might well be the new Master of Folly's Fortune once the butcher bill of Bosworth Bridge was confirmed. It was a good point, Larys had to admit. His agents in the depts. Of Flea Bottom reported that the soup shelters and the orphanages the Queen had organised in her name had become immensely popular. "The Kingslanders still hate House Targaryen and their dragons. The crowds of Fleabottom, Cobbler's Square and the River Rows don't make the difference between a dragon and another. And..."
"And Grandison didn't give them any reasons to love us, right?"
The curt nod of the Crownlander was all the confirmation the Master of Whisperers waited for. Not that it was a surprise. This sole morning he had already ordered three deaths of Riverlander merchants having somehow survived in the tunnels under city and conspiring to open the gates should any Black army march again on the capital. To his knowledge, they had already killed over eight Goldcloaks and the Seven knew how many more had been paid to close their eyes. Two Guild Masters had been arrested for treason and an attempt to poison the supplies coming from Grandview traders.
Of course if he announced Grandison was dead, there would be a lot of celebrations and maybe a slight calm before the next riot or insurrection attempt. But then he would have to explain exactly how the unlamented sire had died and this would not do at all.
For understandable reasons, the Battle of Bosworth Bridge –since it was the name his King had apparently decided for the incredible slaughter – had not been revealed to the population of King's Landing for the time being. Explaining to an entire city ready to explode again at the first opportunity that the Green greatest army didn't exist anymore and that their best defence stood with a dragon and a company of Essossi sellswords was something he hoped to delay as long as humanly possible. By the intelligence a few of the fanatics had showed in the past, a lunatic might well consider charging a dragon with a lance straight-on.
"How fare the Barracks?"
"We will have finished fortifying the Eastern one in two days."
"And the three others?"
"Those will need more work. A fortnight and a half for the Northern one, it's the most advanced. The Southern one will require a lot of work. Two moons?"
The legitimate Lord of Harrenhal nodded grimly. Between the riots and the carnage Rhaenyra Targaryen had brought on the rebellious Kingslanders, none of the fanatics who had led the frenzied crowds had been willing to show mercy to the Goldcloaks. The Eastern barrack had held until order was finally restored by the Reach and Storm swords. The Northern, Southern and Western had been swarmed by the furious mass of bodies and in the case of the Southern one, been torched with its last defenders still alive inside. Massive repairs had been needed for the least ravages places to serve as defensible barracks again. For the rooms and the bastions having burnt, it had been necessary to raze and rebuild from scratch.
"Do your best, Commander."
Bofon Follard didn't ask if there were reinforcements for the City Watch and Larys didn't answer. With Lord Baratheon dead and most of the army destroyed, there was no way the City Watch would gain veterans guardsmen for the foreseeable future.
"We will. But I need two more executioners to deal with the scum we captured in the last violence bouts.
"You will have them." Said Larys and he was sincere. The position of King's Justice – or executioner if one wanted to call a cat by its true name – did not have high requirements. You had to know how to sign your name, have an intimidating appearance and appreciate the sight of blood. These days, the men having these 'qualities' were not in abeyance. "Are they other issues?"
"Not that I am aware but the day is still young."
"Let's hope then the Seven will give us a calm day." The chuckle coming from Follard's lips showed how likely this was. Not that Larys blamed him. He hadn't had a tranquil day since...ah he didn't remember. Maybe before this damned war had begun?
The descent down the dungeon's stairs after this was a tiresome affair and the Master of Whisperers reflected he should really find a location easier of access to hold conversations safe from curious and inimical parties. Alas, he hadn't found one without giving the members of the Council the knowledge to navigate the underground maze under King's Landing.
The Clubfoot didn't trust them to that point. To be fair, he didn't trust anyone except the King these days and the affection he had for his kingly master was still prudent and limited. Larys had thought the rider of Tessarion was able to control somewhat Lord Borros. Evidently he had been mistaken. Thousands of men from the Reach and the Stormlands their cause couldn't afford to lose were lying dead in the fields. There was no time to recruit more troops and train them. Winter was here and none of their warriors was used to campaign under this weather. For better and surely for worse, they were going to negotiate with the Blacks. After so many deaths and destruction, negotiate...at least Rhaenyra and Daemon were both dead.
Ruminations on the outcome of the war aside, Larys was forced to move aside rapidly in the stairs when a particularly big servant made the ascension and missed the collision only by sheer dumb luck. Larys was one of the highest-ranked Councillors present inside the walls of the capital and he expected the excuses to come with prompt celerity...only to see the insolent youngster disappear upstairs.
Grumbling about how politeness and traditions were falling by the wayside, Larys resumed his walk only to freeze two marches down when he realised the left pocket of his modified tunic was open and a piece of paper which definitely hadn't been here a turn of hourglass before was seized by his fingers.
On it were only four words. There was no introduction, no name, nothing to indicate who had written them and who they were destined. Just a convened code to inform him a contract had been completed.
The Ravens have fallen.
Despite the turn taken by the events, Larys Strong smiled widely as he swallowed the parchment and went in the direction of the Throne Room. One problem down...a hundred to go.
Lady Johanna Lannister
Casterly Rock was one of the few castles in the Seven Kingdoms which could boast to have every type of facility inside its walls. Tunnels, dungeons, barracks, stables, gardens and courtyards had been carved from the rock itself decades, centuries and sometimes millennia ago. There were seven septs, the smallest being the size of a well-proportioned mansion and the biggest easily being counted in the ten greatest of Westeros. There was a well-supplied menagerie where once lions had been kept for amusement but now only less dangerous pets were caged. A prison existed in the entrails of the Rock, one so deep the rumours affirmed those who were imprisoned there would never see the light of the day again. As the mountain taking the name of Casterly Rock was three times the size of the Hightower in Oldtown, the Casterlys and their Lannister successors had had a lot of place to play with and the result was a citadel being a maze of rooms and tunnels which required an army of servants and builders to maintain in good order.
But this was not what smallfolk and highborn thought about when one spoke about Casterly Rock. No, the first subjects to be told in a conversation were the inexhaustible gold mines, the vaults filled with gold ingots, coins and priceless gold creations. The gigantic Golden Gallery contained the greatest treasures of the Lannisters, enough heirlooms, gilded ornaments, gold structures, jade vases, silver and gold crowns to buy every Essossi Free City twice over. The Hall of Heroes was a succession of golden-marble creations for every Lord, Prince and King of the Rock.
The Hall of Thunder was a lesser hall place compared to the former, but it was still somewhat famous –or infamous if the person was not a member of House Lannister. Firstly, it had been built by King Tybolt 'the Thunderbolt' Lannister after he defeated three Andal warlords and made sure their entire forces were slaughtered in the pass of the Golden Tooth. Secondly, three golden columns on each side contained a large part of the gold which had been gained in blood from the invaders. The rest had been added to the great golden throne Johanna was currently seated on. Thirdly, it was extremely spacious, the Lords and Ladies of the Rock being able to host over five or six thousands guests together while leaving enough space for the servants to deliver the meals and the decoration to remain undamaged by drunken men of high rank.
What made the Hall built by Tybolt feared by observers however, was the issue a Lannister only seated on this throne before a bloody order was going to be given. Several times in history it had happened to the point it had almost become a tradition. Andals, First Men, Valyrians and Essossi, the culture didn't matter. When the head ruling the Lannisters was about to organise the slaughter of their enemies, they came here to pass the sentence. Though usually there was a large audience to hear the sentence.
"The Ironborn must die."
Three scores of men applauded the statement of their Lady Paramount. About a third had grey hairs and beards, their bodies covered in scars and the ravages of time. Those who didn't belong to this category were young, with several not yet requiring razor blades to shave their yellow-golden beards.
"The Ironborn will die." Promised Edric Lowther. Ship captain in the Redwyne Fleet, it was him who had come to Casterly Rock bring the news of the Red Kraken's death three days before. "My lord is mustering every men we can spare from Oldtown and the Arbor for the invasion of the Iron Islands. You will have to take my word on it, but there were discussions of several senior captains when I departed northwards to hire several companies of sellswords to...make sure the Ironborn will not threaten our coasts."
A few of the children and the grey beards made noises of approval, but to Johanna's ears, these murmurs only betrayed how silent the Rock was. The men she had left were forced to constantly man the watchtowers and the forts, only certain manner to give an early warning should an Ironborn raid be launched. The West had lost an entire generation of men and the rest were trying desperately to stop the tides of murderers, pirates and rapists Dalton Greyjoy had unleashed on the lands of her deceased husband. Her lands now, since her only son Damon was too young to rule and the fool hadn't judged good to write his will before going to war. His twin Tyland could have been the next Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, but gelded and at King's Landing his days at the top were over. The description of his injuries told her he wasn't likely to pass the winter anyway.
"Excellent. The squids must pay for all the destruction they have caused." Johanna was born a Westerling, not a Lannister, but her eyes were conveying enough of her fury for her bannersmen to make a step back. "Thousands of our men, women and children have been kidnapped by these beasts and are doubtlessly suffering uncountable privations and torment. We owe them release and vengeance. Make a mountain of their skulls. I will offer one gold dragon for every Ironborn head and five for every Westerner you return to their loves ones."
She did not spoke of liberation or hope. After what the murderous animals had done to Lannisport, those Westerners who had been captured as thralls or salt wives must be begging for death in the dungeons of Pyke, Blacktyde and the other Ironborn citadels. All because her husband had not considered likely that their enemies would attack them in the rear while the elite of their forces was campaigning and dying in the Riverlands. Brushing her pale blond hair aside, Johanna tried to find the consolation none of the parties responsible for this disaster were going to see the end of the year.
"Worry not, my Lady." The smile of the Reach Captain told her what she expected them to do during the future invasion been completely understood. "We are going to teach these pirates the price of rebellion."
Lord Royce Caron
For a council supposed to decide the fate of a great Kingdom, the Council of Antlers had not the accommodations, the audience and the decorations which went usually with a prestigious event. Royce had been there at the Great Council of Harrenhal when King Jaehaerys I had summoned the Lords of the realm. It had been thirty years ago and he had only been the Heir of the Lord of the Marches, a young knight who believed chivalry ruled the world and summer would never end. But he remembered the splendour of the Council. Hundreds of Lords, Ladies and their families had come in the best attire. Red, blue, grey, green, yellow: all the colours had been included in the parade armours, the dresses and the tunics. The tourney organised had seen hundreds of jousts, a glorious melee, an archery contest where one of House Caron's archer had achieved three perfect shots and a horse race. It had rained drinks and poured meals – unless it was the reverse. There had been no great feuds. Northerner had got drunk with Stormlanders. Reachers had courted Riverlander beauties. Westerners had been delighted to blind the Crownlanders and Valemen with their wealth and their finely crafted jewels. And it had been done at Harrenhal. The castle had been in full rebirth with the newly created House Strong. Renovations had been ordered with three of the five colossal towers and three small villages had burst into existence around the God's Eye, providing plenty of enthusiast hands to erase the damage made by the elements and the Black Dread. In all the way it counted, the Great Council of 101AC had celebrated the power's height of the Targaryen dynasty. That a generation later the succession decision taken at Harrenhal had contributed to the disastrous war was bitter irony. Prince Viserys Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon had been the final contenders...and the one which had been unable to make sure the peace of the realm lasted. If only Laenor had been willing to sire children with Rhaenyra...if only Viserys had not chosen to remarry with the Hightower viper...but it was too late for the regrets and Royce knew the dead could not be brought back to life.
This was the reason of their presence in front of the Antlers on this cold day. The sky was a dark grey but at least it had stopped snowing. It was freezing, harsh weather for anyone but a man living north of the Neck. Large fires burnt near the small tents where the soldiers camped and the greatest one was providing light and warmth for the tents where his King and the Black pretender were going to talk. A foreigner might ask why the two most important persons of Westeros were meeting outside. One look at the ruins of the Antlers was enough to guess why. The castle had received the fate of many Crownlands and Riverlands holdfasts: immolation by dragonfire. For once the responsible had not been Vhagar; the defiance of House Buckwell had angered Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes had proved in less than three turns of hourglasses it was largely able to destroy a castle by itself. The survivors of House Buckwell had taken refuge south of the Wendwater, leaving a score of servants watch over what was left of their lands. This outcome made the Antlers the closest thing the two sides had of a neutral ground. Neither Maidenpool nor King's Landing had been deemed suitable by the side which didn't hold it.
Then there were the delegations. In past blessed times, the weight of traditions and culture would have forced each Noble House to bring scores of followers, trusted retainers and Knights. For two Kings of Westeros, the servants alone should have numbered in the thousands. But the war had happened. The Green and the Black Lords didn't trust their once-neighbours and now mortal enemies. King Daeron had come with three advisors to these negotiations and four score of men for sole escort. Baela Targaryen had arrived with the same numbers, though Royce had noticed one of the men in the escort was Lord Tomard Umber...force was to recognise the whispers of him having giant blood in his veins had an inch or two of truth. According to certain rumours, the Lord of Last hearth had slain Borros Baratheon...of course they were countless other names claiming to have done the deed. The death of the Hand of King had been a full melee and in the chaos of war...
King Daeron chose this moment to leave the ten where had been waiting close to a fire reading some papers related to inheritance issues. With a magnificent gold crown - rubies, emerald and sapphires were inserted on it - on his head, a large doublet of fur coming from a great brown bear and Blackfyre to his side, the legitimate sovereign of Westeros had the noble appearance of his rank. Royce felt largely underdressed but he had had not many winter clothes and had preferred wearing the maximum of layers rather than enduring the vicious bite of the northern winds. Lord Shermer had chosen the same kind of clothes; Captain-General Belicho had chosen more flamboyant things: tiger fur, golden torques and generally a lot of jewellery which had in common the characteristics of being shiny, expensive and distinctively Essossi in origin.
Needless to say, none of the three men would have accompanied their sovereign to this Council before Bosworth Bridge. Not if Daeron wanted to treat in good faith – which as far as Royce Caron knew, was the case. But the battle had devastated the highborn ranks, hundreds lying dead in the cold grave of the river and the luckiest ones were prisoners of war. His status was on the rise...whether this was a good thing remained to be seen. This war had a habit of cutting down those who rose to claim its spoils. At the King's command, the two Westerosi and the sellsword commander marched to the great tent waiting for him and entered. Royce sighed in relief as they suddenly were no longer at the mercy of the terrible winter. Mere instants later, it was the turn of the Black delegation to come in.
None of the four persons who represented the Riverlands, Valemen and Northerners could be compared to the Green cause. There were almost no jewels, no gold, no symbol of their charge. The young woman leading them wore a simple diadem encircling a great ruby but the rest of her clothes were simple black fur from an unknown animal over a red tunic. So this was Baela Targaryen. Royce had expected her to be taller and far more impressive. She was pretty no doubt with her long silver hair and her pure violet eyes but her frailty made him wonders how in the Seven Hells Aegon the Second of the Name had managed to lose a dragon battle against her.
The man to her left huffed like a large walrus and has the appearance of one. If Royce and his fellow highborn had chosen to bring large layers of furs, the man below the white bear furs was literally buried under them. The brooch of a mermaid identified him as a Manderly. The second man was a dark-haired fellow wearing black furs and black clothes – he looked ready to join the Night's Watch. The third envoy wasn't a man at all but a woman; the brown-coloured furs and the emblem of the black tree told him this had to be Alysanne Blackwood. In his mind, he shivered as he reminded the reports affirming the woman had castrated hundreds of Westerners after the Battle-by-the-Lakeshore.
"Cousin." The tone of the young woman was warmer than the snow outside...but not much. Well at least it answered the questions the Lord of Nightsong had answered to himself.
"Cousin." Replied diplomatically Daeron.
All eight participants seated in silence on each side of the middle-sized rectangular table.
"Can we begin?" Asked politely King Daeron. Nods of approval came from the men and the women chosen by the two sides. "Very well. I declare the Council of Antlers opened. I think we all know why we are here."
A smirk came to the lips of the young dragoness.
"I suppose it's not to agree to my generous offer. You know cousin, the one where you bend the knee and recognise me as your Queen?"
To his credit, Daeron managed to keep a level-headed and calm tone.
"I respectfully decline. Cousin."
"How sad." The mock regret on the Black Targaryen's young visage ceased after that remark.
"We are here to put an end to this war." Grumbled Shermer. "Such a grave affair is no time for pleasantries of this kind."
"Admirable, really admirable. What solutions is your King ready to accept to end this conflict?" For such a big representative, the voice of the Manderly was curiously soft and as he had profited from the interlude to remove several layers of his winter disguise, showing deep and piercing intelligent eyes to rest of his peers.
"If the Black Lords and Ladies are ready to bend the knee, I will issue a general pardon for them. As long as the swords are sheathed and the banners having fought with the Black Dragon agree to renew their allegiance to the Iron Throne, I will let sleeping dragons lie. Enough blood has been shed."
This was a reasonable and generous proposition indeed in Royce's opinion but as he looked the expressions of the Black delegation, one face in particular showed him this was not bloody likely to be accepted. The noble visage of Alysanne Blackwood was a grimace of hate.
"You speak finely of peace and that we must forget and forgive, Prince Daeron." A few sigh came to the lips of his King at the refusal of the royal title. "Yet it was your brother who torched the Riverlands from Pinkmaiden to Cracklaw Point. It was your family who transformed our homes, our fields, our forests and our families into mountain of corpses and plains of ashes."
This time Royce felt he had to intervene.
"Prince Daemon and his own wife caused as much damage with Caraxes and Syrax!"
This time it was the time of the Black Pretender to throw him an icy glare and Royce remembered – a bit late, sure – that the silver-haired Princess had idolised her father.
"Prince Consort Daemon gave his enemies the choice to surrender. The Kinslayer never gave the smallfolk and the lords of the Riverlands a chance. As a matter of fact the rider of Vhagar was so cruel and bloodthirsty he burnt quite a few holdfasts supporting your cause before my father put him down like the mad dog he was."
That reveal made everyone on the Green side of the table wince. One, because unfortunately the sort of thing Prince Aemond was known to do when he had the blood singing in his head. Secondly, because if it was true then the Riverlands were forever lost to their cause. A lord or two settling the feuds on your lands was a too common affair in this region and would be forgotten in a decade. Annihilating an entire House, its villages and all its inhabitants in a dragonfire inferno was going to be remembered for the next centuries.
"We will not bend the knee to the brother of a monster and a kinslayer who for all we know organised the betrayal of Tumbleton." Added the Lady of Raventree Hall.
"I had no part in this." Denied Daeron with a strained voice. "Unlike your troops when they butchered the Lannister survivors of the Lakeshore."
Royce thanked the Seven this was the moment Captain-General Belicho chose to intervene. The two sides had left their weapons away with their escorts but Lady Alysanne and King Daeron looked ready for a fist fight.
"Your arguments have merit but if none of you are willing to bend the knee to the other solve your problems in the Volantene manner."
The Lord of Nightsong was so startled he stayed speechless. What sort of game the sellsword was playing at?
"Organising an election at a new Great Council you mean?" Baela Targaryen narrowed in concentration. "An intriguing idea to be sure..."
"One which would be unlikely to work." Amended the Manderly emissary while taking somehow out of his layers a sort of pastry and swallowing it. "Mhh...Assuming each kingdom would have one vote, the North, the Riverlands and the Vale would vote for us while the Reach, the Stormlands and the Westerlands would vote for you. The Crownlands have so few lords left I don't think we can be sure where their vote would go...and the Iron Islands have declared their independence from the realm."
Three votes against three, damn. Though Royce smiled at the idea the Ironborn could have been kingmakers if they weren't so enamoured with their pirate activities and Iron Price.
"With winter here none of us have the funds and the supplies to organise a new Great Council like the one of Harrenhal." The voice of their young King turned more demanding, more kingly and filled with authority. "The Seven Kingdoms must be reunited. Our feuds are weakening us and in the longer this war continues, the more time we give to our enemies to raid our coasts, kill our bannersmen and destroy everything the Targaryen dynasty has built for a century."
The two young Targaryen stared at each other for a long moment. No words were exchanged, no gestures of affection were made but Royce had a feeling the two admitted in their hearts that in another and far more happier era, they could have ruled the Seven Kingdoms together in a partnership worthy of the Old Conciliator and his Good Queen.
"Your words rang true but I won't bend the knee to you." Baela Targaryen's face twisted into something between a snarl and a grimace. "I can't. My bannersmen, my people have suffered too much under your swords. They wouldn't accept a kingdom where their enemies are in power."
"I could give you Dragonstone."
"No you can't." Said sadly the young woman who by now truly looked younger than her age. "The Dragonpit is a lost cause; you will need our ancestral home to birth the few dragon eggs you own, cousin. And even if you did, how long until our descendants are again at each other throats? House Targaryen can't afford another family dispute like the one we just fought..."
From then the pleadings and the attempts of reconciliation were blocked and the heart of the two dragonlords wasn't in it anymore. Royce noticed – and he knew the Blacks leaders had thought about it too – that not once the subject of a marriage had been spoken. True, their King was married to Arianne Baratheon but the Conqueror had had two wives and his sisters to boot. Baela Targaryen was a cousin...but perhaps the son of Viserys the First wasn't sure he could handle the Faith.
A detailed map of excellent facture was posed on the table. Royce felt tears coming to his eyes as he contemplated the last moments of the Seven Kingdoms as a single kingdom.
How could it come to this?