Chapter XXXIII: In the Seventh Year of His Reign
168 AC
"Today marks seven years since His Grace's coronation. Do you think there'll be a feast tonight? Or he might knight you at last?" asked a young lordling an even younger prince.
"I am very much in doubt. It is the sixth day of the week, and my cousin always fasts on the day of the Crone – it would not do for the court to feast while the king fasts. He'd rather be holed in his solar with his septons, listening to one of their lot recite the Seven-Pointed Star, or ponder on the meaning of one word of Old Andal in some ancient manuscript of the Scriptures, or discuss again the matters of the Synod." answered the young prince Daeron.
"As for knighthood, you forget that I should have stood vigil last night if it where to happen today, and I have not. And His Grace has sworn not to grant me my spurs until I could recite the Book of the Warrior from memory at every time of the day or the night. Alas, I have failed to do so until now, and I grow weary of Ser Olyvar waking me at the hour of the wolf and bidding me to recite it." he continued. "I am half-convinced that cousin Baelor was only jesting, but Ser Olyvar likes to take the king's jests seriously, if they're likely to provide him some entertainment."
"Do you think he wishes to knight you on your sixteenth name day mayhap? When you are a man grown?" inquired his companion, curiously. Walter Caron was his fellow squire, but while Daeron's knight was his uncle, the Dragonknight, young Caron's was the Ferren Kingsguard, and the boy had spent many hours hoping to listen to deeds of arms from him, but instead was regaled with tales of woe and lost love. He did not care for it, but a word spoken without care had led to his sister to know of this, and now, as a dutiful brother, he carefully penned every word of the knight's tales to his sister and send them dutifully to Storm's End, where his sister was handmaiden to its Lady.
"It might be so, though he told me not. But even my great-grandfather, of great fame and greater infamy, was not knighted before that age, and so were the Old King's sons. I have certainly not proved myself better than them, and I am no equal to my namesake." said Daeron, his words forlorn, and mixed with resignation.
"Well then", Caron said, "if there's no chance of a feast or a knighthood perhaps the Lord Hand might be persuaded to let you hunt in the Kingswood. We will tell the king we shall give the meat to the poor – after all, they still feast from his coin when he fasts. He will not think long on it – for he is always concerned with the affairs of the Synod these days. Seven years of reigning and we get no tourney, no feast – it speaks poorly, as if there were nothing to be celebrated."
"Cousin Baelor had nothing against a tourney. But alas, Lords Edgerton and Tully of Hellholt had affairs that take to long to settle, and most of the Holy Hundred have offered themselves as escorts for holy men and their Grand Inquiry. A tourney without them would make a poor showing, and a poor showing is no way to mark seven years of a great reign. Let us hope that when they are ten in number, the gods would smile upon us. We would be knights then, and our joy would not be in admiring greater men than us but showing our own mettle."
"If there's no fun to be had at court today then let us make merry – go to a tavern or a brothel." suggested the mischievous boy.
"The king and grandfather would surely smell the drink on me and the Goldcloaks are the most eager of snitches. As for brothels, you know it well that when Father tried to make me sample of such pleasure, the king granted a dowry to every whore in King's Landing to allow them to marry well – and the brothels remained derelict, with nobody to allow me to fall into temptation. Nor the notables of the city, nor the masses would thank me if I forced the king's hand again." replied the young prince, secretly amused at Caron's various suggestions of staving off boredom.
"And if Ser Olyvar hears you speak of whores and brothels, he would scold you and tell you again his past romantic misfortunes and that old advice – It is better to have loved and lost… "
"… than never to have loved at all," said the young squire." I have heard it a thousand time. Though if my sister would hear it a thousand more, she would still sigh over his words. I thought courtly romance was the realm of knight who cannot attain the love of a lady – but my sisters sighs over a man whose love she can never win. And he is thirty years her older. Perhaps I should tell mother, so she can send a couple dozen suitors to needle her. That would certainly earn me her ire. Speaking of our fun though – you did not gainsay hunting. Would you ask the king or the hand for their leave, or you would rather bore yourself until the sun sets?"
"Then let us go, and bother the king and his business, to ask permission to make our fun." was Daeron's mischievous answer.
"I did not mean that we should go. It would not do for me to go into the king's presence without asking for an audience." stammered his friend. "I meant for you to intercede with your royal kin. While I await on the other side of the door."
"Do not speak such folly." said Daeron, as he dragged the young Stormlander by the arm. "The king would be quite eager to hear your petition. Or I should tell him of your other proposal – you know how my royal cousin looks upon such vices."
And so, they went towards the king's solar, one eager for a well thought jest, one reluctant and dragging his feet, but too afraid to flee. Ser Karyl, the white cloak trailing the prince, snickered in their wake.
In one of the castle's many corridors, they stumbled upon the king's sister, the princess Elaena, and Daeron could not help but play another jape (for japes were never too many):
"Dear cousin, have you heard the news?" he asked his cousin with a voice sickeningly sweet.
"What news, Daeron? Has the king granted you your spurs, or you and Caron here will keep brooding around the castle awaiting that blessed day?" she answered in the same vein – with words of honeyed poison.
"No such thing. Alas!" said Daeron, smiling broadly. "His Grace, your brother has ordered that an addition to the Red Keep should be built – and a beautiful one, a house of whitest marble, a vault to safekeep the greatest of his treasures."
"And why does such concern me?" asked Elaena, her mind confused.
"It is kin not the greatest of treasure?" replied Daeron. "And since you have become a maiden grown, many knights and lords have tried their suit for your hand, even if it is promised, but the know it not. As such, our king, in his gracious and great wisdom, has decided to safeguard you from evil intent and built a home for you, far away from covetous eyes and men with ill intent. Despair not, dear cousin, it is but two years before we wed, and you might at last escape your confinement." In truth, the king had ordered an addition to be built to house his greatest treasure: his ever-growing library – books from all corners of the realms, scrolls and manuscripts of Old Valyria, of fallen Sarne and Rhoyne, and the oldest manuscripts of the Seven-Pointed Star.
Elaena's face paled: "Surely Baelor has not thought of such? I will strangle him with my bare hands and no white cloak can stop me." Seeing her intended try in vain to stifle his bouts of laughter, she realised Daeron's jest – "I will strangle you, you half-witted buffoon.", and gave chase.
Elaena either grew tired of the many corridors and stairs, or her septa caught up with her and scolded her. But what was certain, was that the two boys reached the King's Solar unfollowed.
They were joined there by the Grand Maester, who was in a hurry, his breath laboured.
"Have you too a princess hounding your steps that you hurry so, Grand Maester?" laughed Daeron.
"No." he answered, slightly confused. "I come here with ill tidings."
At those words, Daeron became sober. He knew when time for jests was and when it was not. His companion was not so wise, so he had to punch him in his side to stop him from speaking without thought.
They were received together by the king, though Caron was to wait outside. His grandfather was there, no doubt discussing some grand affair of state.
"Your Grace, we have received a raven from the Eyrie." said the Grand Maester with solemn words and a grim face. " The sea was turbulent of late, so the Vale delegation took the mountain road. They were beset by mountain clans, and half their number were felled. It seems uncaring to say it in the same breath, but the Grand Inquiry has survived intact. The hill tribes are not interested in coffers of parchments, and had no inkling of what they contained, as to make them burn it out of spite."
His cousin Baelor rose from his seat, his face contorted with rage. He did not speak though but banged his fist on the table and gritted his teeth. Suddenly, he trembled as if a shiver went through him, and in the next moment he took a handkerchief and wiped his brow, who had become inexplicably sweaty.
He sat down into his seat, for a moment or three, which seemed more. At last, he spoke, his voice deceptively calm: "Lord Arryn most assuredly roused his banner in retaliation. Yet there are two sides to the Mountains of the Moon."
"Uncle, send word to Frey, Charlton, Erenford and Haigh, to Roote, to Hawick and to Harrenhal – I want their banners gathered at Harrenhal where they shall await their commander."
He turned towards Daeron: "Daeron, you shall ride to Summerhall and gather the knights sworn to it and then march to Harrenhal. They are Marchers, they know their way around the mountains and if you'll do well to become closer to them. Ser Olyvar will join you."
His grandfather made to protest: "Surely the boy is too young to be given such a command. He has not even earned his spurs. It is folly."
The King silenced him with a raised hand: "He will go. My brother was his age when he went to war with Dorne and led and fought must admirably. I hope that my cousin shares his valour besides his name."
Daeron preened at the compliment and at the authority Baelor had bestowed upon him. He imagined great battles and tales and songs that will long be told after his death – like how they spoke in taverns of the king returning from Dorne with the skulls of Martell, of Wyl, and of Yronwood, and laying them under Daeron's tomb, with the words "Daeron, your work is done."
Baelor continued: "When you shall return, you will have your knighthood, which you so greatly crave. It is better to have gained it in battle than how I did – a formality, to allow me to be crowned as a knight. Before you leave – do not forget to ask for Elaena's favour publicly – it would fit for a minstrel's song. Now be off."
Daeron left the room. Walter Caron was lounged against the wall – he sprang up at his sight: "Did the king grant you leave to hunt?"
"Aye, but I was given another quarry. We're to hunt the mountain clans in the Vale – they've slain and robbed two dozen septons, after we gather Summerhall's knights. But first I must find dear Elaena, beg her forgiveness, and ask her favour – the king fancies to make the maidens swoon over my deeds of arms."
"That was not wise nephew" said prince Viserys. "Daeron is still a boy, still prone to jests. He has no experience in command."
"Fear not uncle, I shall not deprive you off a grandchild. Let the people of the realm think he led the host. Aemon and Olyvar shall join him. They will command in truth, not him. But it will be well for the future Protector of the Realm to have a reputation akin to my late brother."
"When he shall return, I shall knight him and invest him as prince of Summerhall along Elaena as princess of Dragonstone and shall announce them betrothed before all the court."
Brother,
You had your son squired and knighted at court – that is well. He has gained no position or office and no friendship of worth – that it is not so well. The king sent Prince Daeron to lead a host of Rivermen against the wildlings of the Vale. Quickly send the boy and a dozen men-at-arms with him to join the host at Harrenhal. Blood and battle make more lasting friendships than peace, and Prince Daeron would rise quite high in future years. Do not let this opportunity pass you by – your son must grasp it with both hands.
Your always leal brother,
Balthasar Grell