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283 AC – Siege of Storms End

Sometimes I think it's best to let my old life go. As much as I'd like a coffee in the morning, read the news on my favorite websites and maybe catch up on some of my guilty pleasure television shows...that's pretty much over. No amount of wishing will save me from the horribly tight spot I'd found myself in. I had no time to adept, little breathing room to accept my new lot in life, but circumstances forced me to attempt that anyways. Hearing the loud ruckus that sixty god damn thousand troops are making just outside of your castle, and are seemingly both willing and eager to come rip you apart, has a way of focusing your mind.

It's been a month now for me and, as best as I can tell, a little over seven months for the fictional character I've seemingly body jacked. The Fat Lord Tyrell had Storms End, the Baratheon strong hold, surrounded by close to sixty thousand troops and I was stuck in it. Escape routes were locked tightly by the Tyrell host on land and by the Redwyne fleet choking off Shipbreaker Bay. Things..weren't looking all that well.

Together with my newly acquired little brother, Renly, and a shade under two thousand personal troops we were holed up in the strongest castle in Westeros. Or so my Master-at-Arms claimed merely hours before he attempted to escape and cut a peace deal with the leaders of the Tyrell host. Incidentally, he's in jail now and currently not being fed.

My 'squeamishness' went down the drain after the first children started dying.

It doesn't matter that most of army making that noise are levies fresh from their farms, or the fact that they are badly led by Tyrell, they still managed to make any sally out of the walls a non starter. My one shining beacon of hope was that an audacious smuggler has made his way into my – or at least temporarily mine – castle and offered to sneak in some much needed supplies.

Maester Cressen, a kindly old man deemed a learned and most educated adviser by the locals, was urging me to accept the smugglers offer. He didn't know I had already made of my mind. Long hours of watching this very story unfold, lazying in my bed, had me convinced that acquiring Davos' services were paramount.

“Do I have your consent, my Lord? Our people cannot be kept well fed by your mushroom farms or your rat enclosures, clever as that may have been.”

The old man was shocked, and hid it rather poorly, when Stannis had urged the rat catchers hand over their hauls. The old owner of this body had to endure a few minutes of Cressen's chastisement for his perceived fastidiousness before he managed to explain to him that he simply wanted to breed the lot of them. One of our many empty rooms was converted into a rat farm and while Cressen was right, we couldn't live off of it, it certainly had helped us stretch our remaining resources. As had the mushrooms, my doings this time, that I seeded in as many damp and dark spots as I could possibly manage. They grew slowly but at least they required little to no tending.

I smiled slightly at Cressen, which always seemed to unnerve him, and said, “I agree, Cressen. Send the man in, if you would.”

While the old man shuffled off to collect the man I considered my utterly precarious position. If canon unfolded the way it was supposed to I had to it through another month or two, perhaps slightly more, and watch as the people in the castle slowly wither away. If canon unfolds as it should I'd get rewarded for my 'service' by Robert, my new and not so shiny older sibling, to go kill him some children on Dragon Stone.

I considered, honestly I did, to simply ride this out. To wait for Eddard Stark to come get me and quietly sit out my days, hanging out on Dragon Stone, and attempt to deal with the constant boredom that was sure to haunt me. I'd already been through my partying phase and the thought of lounging about, rolling from feast to feast, for the rest of my life, sounded utterly mind numbing. And that's not even taking into the account to fairly inevitable zombie scenario that would unfold even if I cravenly hid myself away. If I chose to do anything but pulling a Robert I'd inevitably get caught up in politics. As the 'brother' of the King that would be all but guaranteed.

After which I assume I'd die.

Or I could play the game of thrones for myself, still likely dying, but perhaps I could scrape by. And perhaps even make a difference in the aforementioned zombie scenario.

Hah.

More likely I'd simply bleed the realm dry of funds and build myself a stronghold somewhere deep in Essos. From my own memories, as well as little Stannis', I knew that Robert probably wouldn't notice. Or even if he did he wouldn't care. Also, I'm not an altruistic man. If I want both a long life, riches, and the ability to skedaddle off to Essos I needed to shake canon off the rails. I find myself not caring how many people would have to go down for that.

As long as it wasn't me.

Or Renly. I'd grown remarkably attached to the little bugger.

Someone knocked on the door of my study, presumably Cressen, and let himself through a moment later. The old Maester stepped aside to make room for Davos and I got my first glimpse at the man. He looked weathered, sun kissed as most sailors were, but I'm sure he was hiding some strength under his frayed and equally weathered cloak.

Maester Cressen attempted to introduce the man but I forestalled it with a raised hand. Sometimes I did enjoy being an illustrious noble, even one as hunted as myself, and the way everyone here jumped to my commands made me feel just shy of intoxicated.

Apparently power agrees with me.

“So, you're the smuggler. Tell me, Davos, what made you come seek me out?”

The man hemmed and hawed for a bit, attempted to deny being a smuggler, but after a glare from me came to the point, “I'm tired of this life, milord. I've never known much else but I saw an opportunity to leave it all behind.”

I was careful to keep a bland expression on my face as I nodded for him to continue.

“I grew up in the Fleabottom ward of King's Landing, milord. It was a hard childhood but I got through it just fine enough. I was able to make my escape by stowing away on the Cobblestone, a vessel owned by Tyrosi smuggler, and he took pity upon me. I've been following his trade ever since, milord.”

Well, all of that certainly fit with what I knew of the man. Should I let him bring it up or should I just bulldoze right through him?

I smiled, ever so slightly, and said, “And now you're hoping I'm your fresh start. Your new beginnings, perhaps?”

I let the silence stretch just long enough for the man to attempt to speak before I interrupted him, “Or, far more likely, you wish for something more, something better, for your children?”

Ah, that got the man. Davos finally dared to look me straight in the eye, he even stood a little taller, and simply replied, “Aye, milord.”

I returned his bold gaze and let my smile grow a shade longer, “I admire your bravery, Davos. To come to a man surrounded by enemies and offer to undertake great danger for him.”

Would he see where I was going with this? Despite how canon turns out I simply won't risk being perceived as gullible or desperate. Well, I probably couldn't avoid being seen as desperate. I can definitely work on gullible though.

“One might even say that such a man would be desperate enough overlook the highly miraculous circumstances that help might appear in, Davos.”

Now he got it. I watched carefully as his expressions cycled through a touch of confusion, a shade of shocked affront, but what mostly caught my eye was a clear absence of fear. Either he was a remarkably adept liar, which wouldn't be such a stretch for a smuggler, or he was genuinely upset I thought him a spy.

“I do not know how to convince you, milord. All I can offer is my word that I would serve you well.”

I kept staring into his eyes but I didn't know what else to look for. If I took this as a separate event, completely disconnected from what I remember reading about, would I be inclined to make this deal? Taking the service of a shady smuggler, who appears just as starvation is beginning to set in, that almost miraculously managed to circumvent a full fleet?

Worst case scenario he relays our dire position, but it wasn't as if the Tyrells weren't aware of that, and he simply disappears after. Perhaps he manages to catch a glimpse of our guards and their positions, but even that wouldn't be such a big deal, or a handful of other annoyances he might prove to set off.

Annoyances. I couldn't imagine him doing, or pulling off anything more than annoying, that would genuinely harm me. On the other hand...the benefits, if he was true to his word, would save hundreds. I was pretty much sold.

Despite that I made a mental note to have him greeted, in the case he managed to return to us with fresh supplies, by a cohort of my troops. Troops that would be under orders to stab any boxes, barrels or whatever else Davos manages to acquire us. This massive castle would not fall because I let a smuggler smuggle in enemy troops.

I finally let my smile spread widely and told Davos, “I'm willing to accept that, Davos, especially in light of the risks you have already undertaken. Deliver on your promise, smuggler, and you have my word that your children will have the best opportunities I can ensure.”

I didn't expect the man to fall to his knees but I probably should have. I endured his offerings of gratitude with a broad smile on my face until Cressen finally saved me. Just before Davos left the study though I called out to him.

“Oh, and Davos? In the future, please remember that you're not a handmaiden of my non-existent wife. You'll address me as 'my Lord', understood?”

“Aye, my Lord.”

If it was possible I would have smiled wider at that. Cressen finally ushered the man out of my study and I considered what else I had on my table. I'd already done my daily morning patrol; inspecting the walls and cheering up the men, making sure the fires were heated enough to warm up sand to use against the Tyrells, and overseeing the construction of some three dozen Ballista's.

What else?

Ah, yes.

I had to go see a man about a kidnapping. Was that the right word? Kidnapping? In any case...it sounds better than fat-man-napping.

=-=

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

I found myself standing in front of the fourteen volunteers for my mission. Each of the men had cause to thoroughly despise the Tyrells baying at my walls. Morty, a former tenant of one of my banner men, witnessed their depraved assault on the village he was from. Hugo, a tanner by trade, had seen his only son wither in front of his eyes as the young lad proved too weakened by hunger to fight off his ailment. From what I gathered it was quick but that didn't diminish the effect it had on Hugo. The man was a boiling mess of seething fury and more than willing to get even the Tyrells.

No matter the cost.

Each of the men had similar hatreds, equally appalling and agonizing stories, and most of them had no real prospects to speak of. They wouldn't mind throwing themselves at the enemy, even if they only took one or two out, and some of them went as far as to thank me for the opportunity. It took all the inner strength I had not to flinch at their words.

Their part of my plan was simple. A little under an hour before dawn they were to scale down the outer walls of Storms End, don their muddied gray and brown cloaks, and hide in the shrubbery just down the road from the gate. I directed them to the area, just barely outside of bow range but well within the range of my new ballistas, where they were to park their asses. They would, hopefully, be camouflaged well enough to avoid being spotted by Lord Tyrells guards. Once I made my move they'd attempt to intercept the Fat Flowers guards from retrieving their Lord.

The men standing beside me, the spares the Storm Lords had deigned to send my way, were integral to the rest of my scheme. The second son of House Bollin, a distance Baratheon bastard line, stood side by side with the third son of House Buckler. Their enmity completely forgotten in the face of sixty thousand screaming Reachmen. House Herston sent a distant cousin of theirs, but because he still bore their name it apparently wasn't a slight, and I could find no fault with the boy. He was just a year or so older then me and he'd comported himself rather well over the past few others. The other lordlings came from House Errol, a powerful vassal that could raise thousands of levies on their own, as well as House Gower.

I think the Errols barely sent a third of their men with my 'brother'. I wasn't exactly sure what to make of that, but I couldn't afford to pay it much mind. Conspicuously absent was House Estorment, the House of my 'mother' but they've thoroughly proven themselves unreliable. Robert couldn't afford to turn them away, nor would he listen to Stannis' objections, but I didn't think my big 'brother' cared all that much. The damned Estermonts lived less then a weeks ride away from Storms End but from what I gathered from Stannis' memories...they never even showed themselves, once.

I wasn't much surprised they didn't offer anyone for the defense of Storms End.

I cleared my throat and projected my voice, “Men of the Stormlands! I have no pretty words for you. You know the stakes, you all know how much we've suffered at the hands of these Reachlords, and you're well aware of your importance to my gambit. I need you, Stormlanders. Will you serve your Lord, faithfully?”

Their assent was loud and almost startling in its intensity. With a gesture I sent their off to rest up for their coming ordeal and turned to my noble retinue. They were to be my hard core of violence that I'd send forth to sally out against Mace Tyrells guards. I had already arranged for him to meet me, just outside the castle, to talk terms. While the fat lug would certainly assume I meant terms for surrender I, obviously, had no such intentions.

I could already hear the berating Robert would get up to if I did that.

“Any man who doesn't make it back will have my word I'll take care of his remaining family. Any man that does survive...well, I have greater things planned for you. Go rest and pray men, for strength and conviction for the coming ordeal.”

A lot of this plan relied of Mace being at ease and not overly suspicious. That the man would be willing to come deal me with, personally. Even if only to gloat and take my submission to him in person. I didn't care what drew him in particular. I just needed the man to show up and I thought he was prideful enough to go through with it.

He'd be surrounded by guards, but I was counting on him leaving the majority of them behind, when it was time to actually converse with me. If he kept them around him, even through the parley, then I was simply screwed. I'd have to pull back to 'consider' the terms and attempt the whole gambit later. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. I sincerely doubted the volunteers would be able to hold still for a whole day.

Sebastion Errol was the first to speak up, “My Lord, are you certain you wish to attempt this...ploy?”

I knew what he was driving at. We'd had this conversation many times over. The man, the future lord of Haystack Hall, has concerns about the distinct lack of honor inherent in my plan. Despite the many, and I mean many, times I told him that you can't eat honor he wouldn't hear of it.

Frankly I was getting tired of it, “If you're not up to the task, Sebastion, I would urge you to speak up now. I'm sure I could find something else for you to do.”

Left unsaid was the fact that he wouldn't enjoy that. There was a tight rope line I had to balance myself on. I was, technically, in charge of this whole mess as the eldest Baratheon in Storms End. Both because I was still Roberts heir, but largely because 'I' had spent the last seventeen years here and people were used to my commands. That being said...I didn't have a lot of leverage in this situation. I couldn't afford to alienate the little lordlings I'd surrounded myself with and risk them attempting to escape, or worse.

Fail to escape and force me to lock them up. I also had very little in the way of a carrot to keep them all sweet. If there wasn't a massive siege on the way I could have simply sent the whiners away, covered in shame. Now...

I had to balance forcing them to obey me while not pushing them too hard. Stannis' memories weren't much of a help either. Very few people around here actually liked him and all thought him far too severe.

Sebastion spluttered for a moment but I did him the favor of ignoring it, “Does anyone have any practical concerns? Do you see any ways to improve upon our plan?”

'Our plan'.

These little lordlings loved being included in my 'war council'. It was mostly empty posturing but every so often one of them actually contributed something. Today, that someone, was the Bollin spare. Stannis never cared for his presumptive and overly personal way of behaving around him but I didn't mind. If Orys Bollin wanted to play on ancient blood ties and call me cousin I was just fine with that.

“I don't mean to imply anything untoward about your strength, Stannis, but we've all had a good long look at the Fat Flower. Would you be able to both subdue and transport him while fending off his forward guard?”

A most poignant point. I had no intention of actually subduing the man. I hadn't shared this particular point of my plan though so I didn't mind explaining.

“A fair point, cousin. You're right. I can't physically grab the man and get away from his guard. Instead I'll throw a net over the Fat Flower, one which is covered up by my cloak and is tied to the harness of my horse, and speed away with him in my wake. I'll rely on your hidden crossbows to keep the guards from catching up to me.”

Errol almost immediately showed his displeasure, “My Lord! That is most-.”

Thankfully Orys cut him off, “Efficient? We're not playing with wooden swords under the gaze of your mother anymore, Sebastion. We'll be getting our hands dirty instead of just slowly wasting away as we watch the Fat fucking Flower feast in front of us.”

Marcel Grower echoed his sentiment, “Don't worry, Sebastion. Once we win this thing we get to commission the songs. They'll say whatever we want them to.”

Well, that wasn't my particular concern but I liked the way his mind works. I seem destined to enjoy, and appreciate, all the people that Stannis looked at with contempt. As far as I was concerned that was a litmus test for how well I'd get along with people. You'd think more Storms End residents would be upset with my sudden change of personality but I chalked up their lack of concern to the sheer relief they felt at 'Stannis' being less of a cunt.

Perhaps they thought my bump to the head had mellowed me out.

Errol rallied under the onslaught, “Fine! Let us lower ourselves and break parley to grab Lord Tyrell, if the ride doesn't kill him. What then? Do you truly believe that his army will pack up and leave?”

Orys looked ready to tear into him but I waved him the man down with a gesture. He did have a point as much as it annoyed me. Mace might in fact die from the fall or even from being dragged across the ground behind my horse. I didn't think it was likely but anything could happen.

His other point was pure idiocy though.

“No, Sebastion. I don't expect his army to simply vacate the siege. For one, his Hightower cousin would simply take over, but that's not what I have in mind.”

I let the silence stretch on theatrically, making sure I have their full attention, and continued, “Once we have the Fat Flower we'll get his men to send supplies. I doubt these soft Reachlords have the stomach to starve their Lord Paramount.”

I halfheartedly listened to their replies as the sun slowly went down. In a few short hours I'd make the biggest gambit of my life that didn't involve blackjack or shady bookies.

=-=

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

An hour till sunup, my volunteers should be in place right now, and I was trying to explain to little Renly what was going on. It wasn't going very well.

“But why! I want you to stay here! With me!”

I wasn't sure when the little bugger wormed his way into my affections. Perhaps it was because he reminded me of my own little brother. Or else it was simply because he's so gods be damned adorable. Either way; the clingy little bastard didn't seem inclined to let go of my leg.

I put a hand on his tiny shoulders, braced him, and said, “Hey, little man. You need to toughen up a little, alright? Your big brother is just going out for little fun! I'll be right back!”

I didn't let him reply and simply bulldozed onward, “I need you to be strong, Renly. Stay with Maester Cressen and obey him as you would me. Do you understand, little man?”

Renly's face scrunched up adorably when he replied, “I'm not little!”

I let out a loud laugh, picked him up, and crushed the boy to my chest. I let him struggle for a little bit after which I slowly released him.

“Put your hand to mine, little brother.”

Still frowned he did just that and I said, “Look at that! Three hundred of your tiny little hands fit in mine! That makes you little, right?”

Renly snorted before replying, “Nu-uh! You're doing it wrong! My hand is half your hand!”

I mussed up his hair when I responded to that, “So does that makes you a big man then?”

All I got in response was a firm nod from the lad. I smiled as widely as I could and told him, “If you're a big man, Renly, you have to act like one. Stay with Maester Cressen and listen to him. Understood?”

This time his nod was a less firm. I bent down to plant a mushy kiss on his forehead and sent him off running. I slowly followed him as I needed to speak Cressen myself.

“Please reconsider this, my Lord. I do not believe the risks outweigh the benefits and we can ill afford to lose you. These men all rallied around yourself...in your absence Storms End falls!”

I never quite got Cressen on board with my plans. The man had droned on endlessly on the blemish upon my honor that would follow me around. When that didn't work he moved on to forecasting doom and disaster.

I wasn't having any of it. I knew that sitting tight was the easy, and likely more reasonable, play but that didn't matter much to me. Unlike from what I recalled from my readings Mace Tyrell hadn't offered us any free food. Since I lacked Stannis' rather rigid view of personal honor I would have had no issue accepting it. The concern that people would 'oh gasp' gossip about my heinous kidnapping doesn't particularly mean very to much me, either.

“There are risks, Maester. They will always be risks. Instead of trying to talk me out of this, Cressen, attempt to advise me and bring success closer!”

Cressen took a deep sigh but eventually came up with, “Very well, would you talk me through the ambush one more time, my Lord?”

I did just that. I told him of the fourteen men hiding, under layers of mud and moss in the shrubberies, and their role in playing a distraction. One of those men would lob a crossbow shot at me, hopefully well over my head, after which I could claim the parley was void. I spoke of the thirty odd men I'd have at my back with hidden crossbows. I explained how the ballistae on top of the gates would be able to deter any reinforcements when we made our move. I finally ended it with my gambit to catch the Fat Flower in a net and drag him into the castle.

“I'm still worried, my Lord.”

I was about to interject when Cressen firmly continued, “Not about the details. I have little doubt you wouldn't be able to surprise the Lord Tyrell, my boy. I do not believe you understand the damage you would do to your brother's cause, let alone your personal reputation, if you go through with this. Breaking a parley hasn't been done-.”

I interrupted him, “Since the Dance of the Dragons, I'm well aware. I just need an air of confusion, Cressen, to be able to get away with it.”

The aged Maester frowned but responded, “But that wouldn't convince them you didn't break parley, my Lord!”

I shook my head, “No, that isn't the point. One of the rear guards will yell out 'Betrayal' after the shot goes off, and once the hidden men hear that they'll charge at the Tyrell guards. I'll close in with Mace Tyrell and yell loudly he broke the parley, after which we'll drag him inside. The big crossbows on top of the gate will dissuade anyone.”

Cressen attempted to speak up again but I halted him with a raised hand.

“Mace Tyrell has attempted to speak to me twice now. I've simply ignored the first two tries. Last week he called for me again and now I finally responded. They might think I've set this up but I'm not adding these little touches for their benefit. It's for the realm at large.”

Cressen frowned, causing his eyebrows to become one wriggled mass of hair, and said, “Do you believe that will suffice? An obvious plot such as that?”

What is it with this incessant worry about honor? It doesn't do anything for you and it's not as if there aren't Lords out there who've done worse. I don't need a sterling reputation. Not when Lord god damned Tywin is a respected member of the nobility. If people whine too much I'll stick to the fiction I was heinously attacked.

“It doesn't matter, Cressen. I'm working on the assumption my brother, and his Vale- and Northmen, will be able to win the day for us. When they do, or even if they don't, nothing we do here matters.”

A deep sigh preceded his inevitable surrender, “Very well, my Lord.”

The next few hours passed by far too soon and before I knew it I'd found myself riding up to the gates. We passed the inner gates and the lot of us were waiting for the outer gates to open up. A heavy feeling settled in my stomach and I almost felt like throwing up. I still had access to most of Stannis' skills, as proven by the fact I managed to get on the horse, but clearly I didn't benefit from his inner reserves of courage. Only the heavy cloaks covered up the fact that I was shaking. I obsessively checked for the crossbow laying over my lap and the rope secured to my net.

When the gates finally opened I cleared my throat twice to make sure my voice wouldn't catch in my throat.

“Nobody makes a move until the first bolt is in the air. Wait until I have the Fat Flower tied up and unleash your own bolts in a single volley. You know what to do afterward.”

I didn't wait to listen to their loud assent and made my way through the gate. It took every ounce of restraint I had to not scan the area too obviously. As we got closer to the staging ground for the parley I kept an eye out for my volunteers. I didn't see any of them.

That was good, right?

Within moments Mace, he even looked like he did on the television, appeared at the head of fifty odd men. He wasn't as fat as he'd be a few years from now but he certainly was chubby. Not that it took away, but in fact only enhanced, from his image as the opulent Reachlord casually dominating the Stormlands. If I really was Stannis I'd be grinding my teeth at the sight. The Fat Flower made his way to the staging ground, thankfully completely oblivious to my trap, and closed in on me with a tremendous smile lighting up his face.

Despite my most fondest wish the Fat Flower didn't leave all his guards behind. Three spectacularly armored men accompanied him only meters behind him. This might prove tricky.

“Young Lord Stannis of Storms End! You've held up admirably under the strain, young man.”

I restrained the temptation to trade banter with him. Instead I simply charged right ahead into business.

“You came here to discuss something, Lord Mace. What do you want?”

I spoke up even louder at the end of my question signaling it was time.

“Are you truly so eager to head back to your empty castle, Lord Stannis? Would you not care for some refreshments? I can have my men deliver them right here to us.”

Oh, the smug cunt. And what happened to my men? Why didn't anything happen yet?

Perhaps this was an opportunity for me. Would he send one of his men away if I accepted? Or was I only inviting more scrutiny upon me?

I had to take the chance

I raised a singular eyebrow and said, “Oh, I doubt your fare is much better than mine, Lord Mace.”

He scoffed, he actually scoffed, and replied, “Very bold of you, young man, but you don't need to pretend.”

I forced down the rising bile and plastered a neutral smile on my face.

“Very well, Lord Mace.”

“Excellent, Gaston! Go tell the men to bring out the delicacies.”

One of the large men accompanying Mace nodded and turned his horse around. Just after he got moving the 'attack' on my life finally happened. I could vaguely make out a dark shape moving in the bushes, on the side of the road, and a stray bolt came barreling overhead. Behind me the men knew that to be their signal.

I rounded on Mace, “Oh, you traitorous cunt!”

He spluttered, behind me I could hear my men yell 'betrayal', but I didn't wait for his response. I raced forward, withdrew the crossbow on my lap, and loosed it on the flank of one the guards horse. The creature reared back, Mace attempted to retreat, but my forward momentum was good enough to catch up to him.

I threw the net and whooped with pleasure when it connected with the Fat Flower. Mace tried to shake it off but his every move only served to entangle him further.

“What is this-.”

I urged the horse to turn around, briefly sent up a prayer of thanks to Stannis' excellent horsemanship, and heard the Fat Flower's wining be cut off by my rapid retreat. I braved a quick look backwards and let out another loud whoop of laughter as I saw the entangled man being dragged forcibly behind me. The final guard however was right on my tail and shit..!

He just cut through the rope!

I turned around as fast as I could, raised my sword, and charged into the lonely man. My heart was beating so fast and loud I was worried it was going to explode out of my chest. Still, I had no intention of crossing swords with him. Our horses charged into each other and I threw myself clear of my horse. The heavily armored Reachmen didn't fair as well I did and while I managed to roll to my feet quickly he landed flat on his ass.

I ventured a look over the brawl, courtesy of my hidden volunteers, and judged that they might keep the reinforcements away from me for at least a few more seconds. I steeled my resolve, sprinted over to Mace, and when I reached him smashed the man's head with the butt of my sword. He didn't pass out but he did look dizzy enough to stop resisting. With my offhand I grabbed Mace' right arm, twisted it behind his back, and pulled him up to his feet by hooking my sword arm around his neck.

“You won't get away with-.”

“Piss off, you tried to murder me during a parley!”

Quickly withdrawing my arm from under his chin, and replacing it with bare steel, was enough to shut him up. With some mild effort I managed to turn around, walking backwards with Mace in front of us, and slowly made my way to the castle. My crossbowmen had formed up around me, the unfortunate Reachman that was slow to get to his feet got a bolt to the face, and the rest flew off to help the volunteers.

It didn't matter much. They were all cut down rapidly.

I looked behind me and saw I still had thirty or so meters to go and the Fat Flowers guards were barreling down us.

Shit.

Where were the god damned ballistae?

=-=

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

A good forty odd highly armored men on heavy horses were barreling down on us. We'd inched closer to the gates but they were still a good twenty or so meters away. Thankfully Mace didn't go limp on me, probably because of the bare steel pinching into his throat, but I knew we weren't going to make it.

Where were the god damned ballistae?

I bit out to my retinue, “Reload and fall back! I'll deal with them.”

It was a testament to their discipline that none of them balked at my orders. The men fell back a few meters, started reloading their crossbows, while I attempted to halt the incoming charge. I had exactly one chance at this. If these men didn't care about preserving their Lords life I was pretty much done for.

I yelled as loud as I could, “Hold! Or I'll slice off your Lords neck!”

Fuck, they still kept coming! I steadied Mace with my off hand on the arm I still had wrenched behind his back and kicked at the back of his right knee. The man yelped loudly but crashed to the ground as planned. If they wouldn't stop I'd make damn sure to take the Fat Flower with me to my grave. My legs were still shaking, my sword arm was beginning to tire, but I had little choice. I was committed to this ploy no matter how much I felt like pissing myself.

“I said, hold! You flowery fucks!”

The first ranks slowed down, were pushed a bit further by the rear guards, but they all came to a stop a few meters before me. I could see the rage in their eyes and all I could do was grimace at it. A few incredibly tense moments passed before one of the guards called out.

“What do you want, Baratheon?”

Before I could respond though the world went mad. I could hear the faint -plink- of my ballistae being fired and I had just long enough to process that information to think; oh fuck. The first line of the troops in front of me were utterly decimated. Horses reared up, chaos spread through the ranks, and the massive bolts just kept coming. One cut through two riders before pinning a third horse to the ground. The next flew into the middle of the group of troops and collapsed the lines there. Another caught them on the flanks and I could hear the footfall of men behind me.

I ventured a quick look over my shoulders and saw that a contingent of my pikemen had come through. I didn't spare enough time to count them all but I guessed it was half a cohort. Two hundred men came rushing through gates and sheer relief rocked through my very being. I turned back to the Tyrell guards in front of me and my eyes went wide at the carnage coming my way.

Crap, I'm going to die here.

I pulled on Mace's arm to yank him backwards with me but this time the man was far less cooperative. Once again I was forced to smack him on the back of his head with the butt of my sword. With Mace properly cowed I attempted to pull him back to the gates.

Just before the Tyrell troops, those that shook off the shock induced by the artillery barrage, managed to reach me they were caught by a hailstorm of regular crossbow bolts. The vast majority of bolts crashed into their horses leading to yet another collapse of the charge. By this point the pikemen had finally reached me. I slipped through their ranks, still pulling Mace with me, and handed him off to some of the crossbowmen that had returned.

“Lock him up somewhere, tightly!”

Stannis' memories provided me with a name for the man replying, “Aye, my Lord!”

Balon Swann, the second son of Lord Gulian of Stonehelm, and while Stannis didn't exactly approve of him...he didn't mind him as much as some of the other lordlings.

I screamed at the other crossbowmen, “Reload and flank the pikemen!”

I made sure to sheath my sword, grabbed up a pike from one of the passing troops, and ordered him to help the Stonehelm spare. I took his place in our pikewall. The ranks weren't as tight as I'd hoped they'd be but I could work with it. The Tyrell troops were already nearly broken and all we had to do was capture them before reinforcements arrived. This whole scuffle had lasted no more than about four minutes but I knew we'd made enough noise to attract unwanted attention.

I yelled on the top of my lungs, “End this quickly! Forward two-step!”

Almost as one the moving mass of men picked up speed and caught up with the entangled horsemen. I had to give it to these Reachmen. Even after the pummeling their received they still managed to regroup enough to take our own charge. Unfortunately for them it appeared that the ballistae had reloaded. The small pocket of horsemen, maybe four or five of them, that had retreated from the encounter were well out of range by this point but there was still a significant number of Tyrell men taking our spears.

I couldn't quite make out what was happening until I heard the -'plink'- of launched ballistae bolts. This final attack, coinciding with most of my crossbowmen hitting the Tyrell men from the sides, broke the opposition and the vast majority of them dropped their weapons. The rest of the Tyrell horsemen followed soon after. I briefly, very briefly, considered ordering my men to cut them down but decided against it.

I already had enough problems.

Instead I ordered them, “Disarm them and escort them back to the castle!

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

I'd lost all but one of my fourteen volunteers. Hugo, the tanner, had miraculously managed to make it through the fighting. I took the men aside when we made it back to the castle and told him, privately, that I would have him publicly knighted as soon as the siege was lifted. I also told him that as far as I was concerned he should consider himself one, now. Apparently my latent worries that he would balk at that were baseless. The man was as excited about the prospect as, you could reasonably expect, a father who recently lost his son could be.

The crossbowmen had all made it back and we lost three pikemen in the first close combat clash against the Tyrell horsement. All in all it wasn't a particularly bad encounter. We'd gained the custody of the Tyrell Lord Paramount, a handful of his personal warriors, and a good thirty odd Tyrell mooks. We had them stripped of their armor and each of them was cooling their heels in the Baratheon dungeons under Storms End.

Those were the good outcomes of this.

The bad outcome was that I was cold, tired and covered in so much blood I didn't know whether or not some of it was mine. The moment night had cleared the Tyrell host attempted to storm the castle once again. I wasn't sure whether they simply thought I wouldn't kill the Fat Flower or if they didn't care. Either way...the Reachmen was starting to fight in earnest now.

“Bring up more hot sand!”

A long line manned by both men and women of Storms End, starting in the courtyard, hustled over buckets filled with hot sand. It wasn't very effective against deterring wall-climbers, the sand would lose much of its heat falling from the incredibly high walls, but it was just perfect against the hasty towers they'd erected.

It's been a week now and there have been attacks almost every night. Granted, none of them got very close to breaching the walls, but I came to regret my rash action. For every Storms End defender the Reachlords managed to knock off, we crushed a dozen or so theirs. Even an illiterate peasant could tell these weren't sustainable numbers.

I had only lost a little over fifty defenders over the past week but the situation was still dire. My men were reaching the point of starvation and I had to make the decision to give up on the rat farm. Rat soup, boiled and enriched with copious amounts of wine, on top of the regular fare was the only thing getting us through the days.

I was shook from my thoughts when yet another lumbering tower came headed our way. The ballistae crews had, by the point, became rather well trained at harassing the progress of their goliaths closing in on us. Half the people on the walls were women outfitted with excess crossbows. I'd like to say the vast majority of my men understood why I had to recruit them but there was still grumbling during the first few days.

Now though, on our seventh day of repelling these seemingly mindless charges, they were comprehending the need for extra bodies on the walls. Half the men, a little over a thousand, were resting and catching up on sleep. With the added numbers we could hand out pikes to all the men strong enough to carry them while the women harassed anything that moved.

Anyone not strong enough to fight was on bolt carving duties. Or heating up more sand and bubbling mudwater. We got pretty good at improvised siege defenses. The sun was almost down and while our enemies had traditionally retreated then I couldn't afford counting on it.

I yelled at one of the children we used to ferry messages around, “Dirk! Run to Cressen and get him to bring the Fat Flower.”

As the youngster sped off I turned back to the wall prepared for fighting off, hopefully, the final charge of the day. Lets see how much Mace Tyrell enjoyed not eating, and only tiny sips of wine, for these past few days.

=-=

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

I was surrounded by several cohorts of intensely battle weary troops and I had to resort to using an improvised bull horn to make myself heard. Every so often I had to make these little performances to keep the fighting men, and women, on an even keel. If there was anything I remembered from casually perusing history, and more than a fair share of military history, books is that morale is god damned key.

“So! My sergeants! Who had the best kill of the day?”

Shouts rang out from all around me and I had some difficulty discerning who said what. I pointed at a random sergeant, the men in charge of half a cohort, and bid him to come closer.

“My Lord! James Fairfields and his crew felled a tower by themselves!”

Oh, I remember that.

“An excellent contender!”

I turned to another one of my sergeants and he shared, “Betsy the seamstress shot a flowery cunt who was steadying the ladders! One tumbled down and took the rest with him!”

That, as well, I remembered and it was glorious. I already knew I had to award the prize to her. Besides, it would be excellent for honoring the commitment these women were showing. A loud laugh rang through the crowd which led me to hope I wasn't misjudging the situation.

“Even better! Who can top that?”

Other claims sprang forth. A crossbowmen had shot one man through the gut and had the bolt throw another man off balance enough to crash to the ground. It was all excellent, and with the last of the horseflesh we pilfered running out likely the last time anyone here would be in such high spirits. We had accumulated an amazing number of Tyrell corpses on the grounds in front of the wall. Our own losses were light, some seventy odd dead out of three thousand five active fighters -men and women-, but we couldn't keep going like this.

I didn't quite understand why the Reachmen were still launching these rather ineffective attacks on our walls. They clearly weren't getting through and they didn't seem to committing more than a sixth of their men every time they attack. The only thing I noticed was that they were different retinues attacking at every day break.

We kept facing fresh men which was a god damned nightmare. Which is why I so desperately tried to keep the mood up.

“Stormlanders! You've all defended our home, bravely and with great god damn fervor, I wish I could share this bottle with all of you!”

I let them hoot and holler for a while before interjecting, “But, alas, there must be a winner and it was clearly Betsy the seamstress! I'm sure you'll have a whole mess of new friends tonight, Betsy!”

I had clearly long since given up on attempting to uphold the distance Stannis had created between himself and his people. The man, or boy perhaps, had his reasons and he did admirably suffer right along side his men but I felt there was no reason to emulate that aspect of Stannis. I handed off the bottle of delicious, and incredibly expensive, Arbor Gold to the seamstress and graciously accepted her vow that she'd top her achievements. Despite its exorbitant cost, considering just how much wine Steffan Baratheon stockpiled, it was the one supply that we had enough off.

While the currently highly popular Betsy was the center of attention I made way for the rested, for a given value of rested at least, troops and followed them up to the walls. I was bone tired, felt as if I could drop at any god damned moment, but I somehow found the will to continue. Like I said before...sixty thousand, or well...a few less now, men wanting to come kill you is a pretty effective motivator. A few cheerful conversations, mentions of the badassery of the previous 'shift', and I was on my way again after making sure to walk by everyone.

Orys Bollin, who was making an excellent showing so far, and accompanied me on my final patrol before I took my own rest.

“We ran out of horseflesh yesterday, cousin. What are we to do now?”

A concern that weighed heavily on me. What the hell could I do? I had ordered the little runner to come collect Mace last week but the Fat Flower had no intention of ordering his host to bring in supplies. The man hadn't arrived for they retreated and I had no desire to find out what the Tyrells would do to any negotiator I sent their way. In the same vein...I didn't dare the Lord Paramount of the freaking Reach starve to death in my cells either. I had instated the same rations for the Fat Flower as the rest of us.

He still moaned and whined. I barely resisted from kicking his teeth out.

I may have screwed myself, badly.

“I'm working on it, Orys. When I know, I'll be sure to share.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes, patting men on the back left and right, before Orys seemingly found the confidence to ask me something important.

“Can I ask you something, Stannis? Hopefully without offending you?”

What could he want?

I sighed and said, “I'm sure that would depend on what you have to say, Orys.”

The lad grimaces and bit out, “I'm serious, cousin.”

“Very well, I won't jump at your throat for your words.”

The Bollin spare fell silent again for a few heart beats until he continued, “What happened to you? Ever since the Master-at-Arms tried to escape you've been acting differently.”

Oh, here it came. Perhaps it wasn't so much dodged the subject, and accepted by everything, than that it fell rather low on priority list. How do I respond to this?

“Oh? Did I change in any particularly heinous manner?”

“No, far from it! I mean compared to...uhh.”

I let a small grin form and prodded the lad to continue, “Compared to what, cousin?”

Was I teasing someone while the god damned world around me was burning? Holy crap, how used to this situation have I become? Was a little over a month and a half in siege enough to jar me into accepting this?

Or was it, yet again, because sixty god damned thousand men want to kill me?

“Like that! You never acknowledged we were related, Stannis, no matter how distant. What changed?”

“The Estermonts are closer related to me, Orys. Hell, their Lord is my grandfather. But you're here and they are not.”

We walked in silence for a little while before I felt the need to continue, “That makes you far more related to me, Orys.”

Orys laid a hand on my shoulder and perhaps that was the only thing stopping me from keeling over to the ground at the sight in front of me. We had arrived at the gates, the first line of defense and one that carried two massive ballistae, with a good hundred men posted there. They were all relaxed, sitting around a fire, waiting for word to come down that the enemies are at the walls.

That wasn't what concerned me.

As we walked I noticed an abandoned bucket with a very slight amount of mudwater in it. The water was shaking and swirling but there was nobody around that could have set it off. I stayed put for another minute or two to make sure..

The water was definitely shaking.

Oh, fuck me sideways.

This must be why the Tyrells simply kept hammering us on the best defended parts of the castle. They were distracting us, distracting me, from realizing their real plan. They were building a fucking tunnel and if I hadn't walked past the nearly empty bucket I wouldn't have realized it. I looked around me and struggled to remember how this would look from the other side.

Storms End was divided in three major parts. The outer gates came out to a courtyard that led to another high wall. That was the first wall. This wall had another courtyard behind it and two smaller gates that led to that yard. And finally that courtyard let to the keep proper with its own defenses.

The Tyrells were trying to, probably, circumvent the first two and meet us at the keep. Perhaps they hoped to catch us off guard and suddenly appear at our backs. If the water was shaking near the gates... how far away could they possible be tunneling?

“Hey! I'm giving you a compliment here, Stannis, you should be more gracious-.”

I reached out to grab at Ory's arm and pointed at the water. The lad followed my gaze but seemingly didn't quite comprehend what he saw.

I whispered softly to the Bollin spare, “The Tyrells are tunneling below the foundation. Their mining is disturbing the water...”

His eyes went wide when he understood but I needed him alert. I shook the lad twice and bit out, “Bring Cressen here. We need his advice, quickly!”

When he ran off I turned to the half cohort standing idly by.

“Men! Over here!”

They formed up in their ready position and quickly surrounded me. How should I play this?

Fuck, hard work it is.

I attempted to conceal how utterly disheartened I was, pointed at the sergeant, and spoke just loud enough to be heard, “Send someone to grab shovels from the keep.”

While the sergeant barked out some orders I turned to the others, “The Tyrells are tunneling through our defenses and we need to put a stop to this. We're going to dig holes every six feet, both to the sides and down, until we find and collapse their tunnel.”

I needed to hold on for either two more weeks, or one month and two weeks, which seemed a fairly long ways away. I wish they were more specific about when Stark arrives...

God...

Please don't let there be more than one. We might not make it.

AN: Feedback and commentary is greatly appreciated!

Chapter Text

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

I must have aged decades that day I found out about the tunnel. I stood side by side with the men and shoveled until Cressen's frantic cajoling convinced me I should take my rest. Its been three days since then and we had come no closer to finding the damned tunnel. The only consolation I had was that the water buckets, those we seeded everywhere around the walls, were no longer shaking.

Had the Tyrells given up on it?

I found it fairly unlikely. Perhaps they had simply gone deeper?

Either way. I couldn't afford getting bogged down in this particular problem. Not when hundreds of others demanded my time. Day after day the Tyrells launched their stubborn attacks. My garrison has been reduced to a little over three thousand two hundred, injured soldiers that rejoined the battlements included, and the stack of bodies in front of the walls were ever increasing. The bastards had resorted to throwing the most virulent of the corpses over the walls and forced me to detach three dozen men to have them immediately burned.

I wasn't going to lose this castle to fucking disease.

The food situation was far more dire. Davos still hasn't turned up and our supplies were falling dangerously low. Some of the cooks managed to perform miracles with horse bones but the soup was increasingly thinning.

I knew that Davos would show up soon, had I conformed to canon, and rescued us from the looming threat of having to resort to cannibalism. Now though...I had thoroughly riled up the Reachmen. Perhaps I had butterflied Davos' success right out of the book. Which meant that I could not rely on the scurvy smuggler.

Instead I would have to take risks. A rather massive one, in fact, as soon as night hit. The Reachmen seemed to retreat every evening, after spending a few hours in the morning attempting to scale our walls, and I was hoping they'd hold true to form. Dusk was already settling in and when the battlefield was fully cloaked in darkness I could start with the first part of my plan.

Over the past two days I had attempted to make deals with the Reachmen in my dungeons. Each of them was locked up in a different part of the castle, to ward against collusion, and I had them all interrogated by way of bribery with food. Half the men categorically denied our offerings.

Those had starved by now.

We carted off their bodies, and made sure to pass the others in lock-up, and had their remains burned. Their cloaks, and other garments, were needed for our plan. The other prisoners, mostly after having seen their companion bodies as well as the compelling argument their hunger man, played ball with me. These Tyrell men were interrogated separately and, while several tried to trick us, most of them shared details that were verifiable across the board.

I know knew the, perhaps heavily outdated, lay out of the watch teams of the Tyrell host. Even if the specific details were no longer accurate it was still possible to make deductions. The host liked to sent out groups of thirty outriders to patrol. They liked having two seperate lines of watch men, several watching the inner camp with the leaders, while most paid attention to the outskirts of the camp.

I may not know they positions but I could make educated guesses after hearing several possible lay outs. The information I had more faith in was the make up of the camp itself. I knew about the two concentric rings but the absolute gem in the bunch was their horses. Before the past three weeks the Tyrells were lazying about, playing at war in their feasts and tourneys, and because of that never bothered to thoroughly secure their vast number of horses.

I wanted those horses. Those delicious, delicious, walking food-supplies.

Now, however, I was counting on the assumption that the horses would be even less defended. The Reachlords absolutely could not believe I would sally out and harass them. Horses were also notoriously useless in sieges.

Please let their horses be under defended.

“My Lord, I am ready.”

I looked over at Hugo, dressed in the Tyrell colors and cloak, and considering the sheer balls of brass this man must have. The thought idly struck me that perhaps he might not want to survive this mess. I'd like to say that this felt terrible...but it barely registered with me.

“Hugo, are you clear on your task? You must come back with accurate information.”

Hugo the tanner nodded firmly and when I dismissed him, after giving him a bottle of fine Arbor Gold, he made his way to the wall. I'd told him that, in the event he was caught, he might be able to trick them into thinking he's a levy who sneaked off to get drunk. I didn't have high hopes for that.

In a few minutes the Tyrells would have retreated far enough, the staging ground will be dark enough, for him to sneak down and follow them. Hopefully he'd come through for me.

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

I made my peace with god and fully expected to die here. The only consolation I had was that it probably wouldn't be a long drawn out ordeal. I looked around at the cohort I had with me and only saw determination shining through their posture. I had to admit that it did a fine job of steadying me in return. With our scaling off the wall in the darkness I felt that the worst of it was over. For me at least.

God, I hate heights.

I was keenly aware it should be the other way around but I wasn't about to bitch and moan. The whole lot of us slowly made our way across the three hills that separated Storms End from the Tyrell camp. Hugo had quietly scouted it out for us, with his prized possession of Arbor Gold still tied to his back, and told us of the troubles ahead.

“Patrols come out every so often, my Lord. If we hold behind that hill-” He pointed to a particularly steep one, “We can wait it out and sneak past.”

That sounded just fine with me.

Unfortunately reality didn't tend to quite agree with me. And so I had to prepare for quietly taking the patrol out. Hugo had assured me he saw three sets of thirty patrol men pass by, each time taking the same route, so we had the benefit of setting the staging ground. I chose a small area between two rocky hills with a road that narrowed down through them. I arranged for fifty crossbowmen to sit perched on the far side of the hills. Fifty pikemen to hide behind the hills and come rushing out to set the trap.

Another fifty pikemen would sit just passed the treeline covering one side of the battle. These men would rush forward and cut off the retreat of the patrol. The rest of the men would be sent up ahead, and off to the left, to catch whoever managed to dodge us.

Oddly enough, this was a situation I was much more comfortable with than simply hiding behind a hill...hoping to not get spotted. Of course...if the first volley of bolts missed the man with the horn we were screwed. We'd have to retreat immediately having accomplished little.

I found religion again and prayed that wouldn't happen.

“I can see them, my Lord.”

I had positioned myself with the pikemen in the treeline, as my group was the most heavily armored. Orys as in charge of the anvil, the men between the hills, and hopefully I'd be the hammer crushing the patrol. Annoyingly slow minutes passed by as the patrol lazied across the short distance – did they really feel this safe – and when they made it to the narrow part of the road I gestured for my men.

As quietly as fifty men could move we sneaked across the road, swerved off to the hills, and formed up two man deep. Our timing worked out wonderfully, the crossbowmen sent the patrol hurrying past them, and I didn't hear an incredibly loud vuvuzela expy.

The volley of bolts was our cue to charge...and god damnit, charge we did. We ate up the distance between us and the patrol getting chewed up by the other pike. Unfortunately we didn't make it all the way across before we were noticed. Bolts had ceased crashing into the turmoil and the patrol managed to turn.

Shit!

They were going to try and run.

“Double step!”

We sped up to meet their charge and loosed the single ballistae bolt we each carried as javelins. The first line of cavalry was chaotic enough to allow us to field the pikes, retrieve our shields from our backs, and then we clashed.

Horses don't like crashing into walls, even if they are made up of pikes, and with the fairly loose way they had to turn to charge at us...they didn't have any momentum to come crashing through us. Even worse than all the people I'd killed from the safety of the walls...this was straight up slaughter.

As we caught up with the patrol our other pikemen charged them from the back. The crossbowmen picked off anyone who managed to swerve out of our trap. The rest of the horsemen were well and truly caught between anvil and hammer.

Within moments I ordered, “Move the bodies past the treeline. Send three men to take those horses back to the gate.”

After Orys handled that for me I turned my mind to our next objective. We had a little over an hour to make our way over to the horse herds.

I needed a distraction.

=-=

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

Together with the vast majority of my men I hugged a tree. We were hiding in the shrubberies across from the fields where the Tyrells kept their horses. There were no enclosures and thankfully my besiegers felt themselves secure enough to not tie them down. The horses were idly grazing and from what I could tell only a token force kept watch.

I say kept watch.

I mean they played cards next to the warm fires. Hopefully that meant their night vision would be shite. The plan for us was simple; a two pronged attack on the herd, and its watchers, and then racing off to the gates. The attack would happen right after a distracting fire was set and I prayed, with all my might, that the two pronged screaming charge we'd try would startle the horses bad enough to get them to rush away.

We needed to herd the horses as close to the main road as possible. There another two cohorts were stationed, out of sight, to cover our retreat and assist with directing the horses.

We waited with bated breath for the promised distraction. I'd sent a small contingent of men, twenty poor souls, to go harass the Tyrell supplies. With some careful maneuverings they managed to dodge the incoming patrols and followed in their wake. All the detachment around me could do now was wait for the chaos to kick off.

Such idleness wasn't for me though. I peeled off another twenty men to follow me, around the edge of the wood, to circle back around and surprise the guards. I couldn't tell how many of them there were but I didn't need to kill all of them. They just needed to be run off. Quietly my little band of marauders hustled our way through the treeline and eventually made it close to the guards. From this closer distance I could spot at least twelve men. Another six or so we'd spotted a few minutes before.

Two short and sharp engagements then.

Wordlessly I directed half my men to crawl out, to the area on the right of the guards, while the rest of my crossbowmen followed my lead to the left of the partying troops. Our muddy cloaks hung heavy over ourselves but they were needed. We crawled, ever so slowly, across the field and once again I fired silent thanks off to the dark of the night.

If there was any kind of moon this would have been impossible.

After we made it to our positions we had to wait.

And wait.

Finally I could hear commotion in the distance. The guards were stirring but they still made no move. Minutes passed by agonizingly slow before the ruckus got louder. Finally the Tyrell men shook of their lethargy and dispersed.

Yeey for protocol!

This was our cue. I slowly inched my crossbow off my back, took careful aim, and was rewarded by the silent thud a body makes when it flops to the ground. Holy crap, that was a lucky shot. While I reloaded the rest of my men to their knees and fired at will. The guards freaked out, attempted to reform ranks, but we had half of them wounded while a few perished.

I got up, silently, and rushed the disoriented group. Twenty meters have never felt so excruciatingly far. I crossed the distance, didn't dare to look back to see if my men were following me, and fired off my last bolt. This time I only heard a faint grunt that let me know I didn't miss. I dropped the crossbow, reached for my sword and shield, and threw myself in the carnage.

One man died when I caught him in the neck and his blood sprayed all over me. Immediately after that I threw myself to the right to avoid getting speared. Right then another volley of bolts hit the group standing over me. I made sure to stab at their shins just in case.

By the time my men had converged on the Tyrell troops and within two or three minutes we had them cut down. I knew there was still another six of them out there but I couldn't worry about that.

“Be loud, Stormlanders! And smack as many horses are you can!”

Surprisingly, the men chose to scream, “Stannis! Stannis! STANNIS!” As we crashed through the herd, slapping the horses as we passed them, desperately trying to get them to stampede. At first it seemed like they wouldn't cooperate. The horses attempted to run towards the Tyrell camp but a courageous performance by some of my men dissuades those bold horses.

The rest bolted into the direction we wanted them to. I attempted to catch a passing horse, failed, and humiliatingly had to accept the outstretched hand of one of my men. The soldiers, Duncan something, pulled me up on the back of his ride. I shook off his crossbow from his back, searched around for his bolts, and when I found them half-twisted around my axis.

Where were those other six men?

“Heeya!”

“Stannis! Stannis! STANNIS!”

This went on for a while, even longer than I dared, but I was desperate. We absolutely needed at least a hundred or so of these horses to make it all the way to the castle. It was less than a mile away but I had no doubt we'd have angry Reachlords on our tails soon enough. Even so; the many hundreds of horses we were riling up would be dispersed regardless. I might as well cause some trouble for the Reachlords.

I yelled as loud as I could, “Alright, RETREAT!”

And Duncan steered us behind a particularly dense group of horses. I had no idea how many we managed to scatter, or steer towards the castle, but if we even managed to bring this single group home I would be pleased. We had already secured a dozen horses from our earlier ambush but every last bit would help.

Especially if it appeared that Stark was more than a month away.

The first few minutes of the ride were hectic but not terrifying. We were making good place and had made it at least halfway back to the castle. Unfortunately I had completely lost contact with anyone outside my twenty man group. I had to simply trust they would follow the plan. We had to make it another hundred meters before we passed our reserve troops. Four hundred men, or two cohorts, would be lined up beside the main road and all I needed them to do was to delay our tail.

Which incidentally started following us and attempting to ride us down, hard.

Sixty meters.

Forty meters.

Twenty meters.

And we made it.

“Halt here, I'm retreating with the reserves.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

Duncan stopped his horse, I slid off the back, and the man continued onwards. Driving up our section of the herd to the gates. I, on the other hand, slipped away into the shrubbery. Within moments I had made contact with my men. Unfortunately it was because one of them almost shot me. I didn't know if I simply slipped, ducked out of a vague sense of danger, but the bolt missed me by inches.

“Motherfucker! Hold your god damned bolts, Stormlanders!”

I didn't wait for their replies and rushed, as much as you can rush in the shrubberies, into their ranks. One of the troops attempted to apologize but I wasn't having any of it.

“It's done. Now, save your bolts for the fucking flowers, savvy?”

“Aye, my Lord!”

I looked around for Sebastion but I'd apparently picked the wrong side of the road. It didn't matter much. Despite his whining he's a fairly capable man. I had no doubt he wouldn't disappoint.

“What's the situation?” I asked the nearest sergeant, Karel Langtree.

“We sent a tenth of the men onward with the herds, my Lord. The rest of us were waiting on your stragglers and we already picked up a few.”

I nodded, realized he wouldn't be able to see that, and said, “Wait no more, we're wiping out the Tyrell forces following us. Expect about six to eight hundred troops. Form up six deep with crossbowmen on the flanks. Peel off thirty men for each flank to stiffen the crossbowmen, Karel.”

“Aye, aye.”

I bid this group adieu and hurriedly made my way across the road. Thankfully the other pocket of men didn't attempt to skewer me with friendly fire.

“Sebastion, we fight on the road. We crush the force chasing us and make way to Storms End.”

“At once, my Lord.” He turned to the rest, “You heard him! Form up on the road and make good with the Warrior!”

I added my two cents, “Form up, six deep! Pikes out, crossbowmen flying flanks!”

The two full cohorts, eight hundred men strong, did form in good order. Five hundred and four pikemen, six men deep held the entirety of the main road. Two hundred crossbowmen flanked them in the shrubberies and the easily passable, for them at least, treeline adjacent to said road. We were as ready are we were ever going to be to face incoming trouble. And come it did in the form of a force of Reachmen. It was too dark to make out how many, and I deliberately hadn't brought any torches - my men knew the land intimately -, I could tell we'd be slightly outnumbered. For the third time tonight I found religion again and prayed the flying crossbowmen would be able to swing around the host attacking us.

A buildup would be perfect and the conditions were ripe for it.

Another only silver lining I could perceive was that this was likely the first response the Reachlords mustered. They can't really advance in good order and make good enough time to catch us. I was banking on the fact that our disciplined line could catch their advance and turn it back. Hopefully that would buy me enough time to double march out back to Storms End.

“Embed Pikes! First line kneel for impact!”

Our fair robust six line deep pikewall would simply have to hold. With the first line kneeling each of us could reach over and stab an overly eager Reachmen before they crashed into our lines. Afterward the first two lines would slip into the ranks, cause chaos, and attempt push a short distance clearing space for the other lines to follow.

It's difficult to explain the feeling of utter terror, and dreadful piety, a charging mass of horses inspires. The very ground shakes as they come for you and horses are big. If something doesn't halt their progress the charging Reachmen would be able to barrel through us. The horses would be going too fast to allow anything else.

Which is why I loved my crossbowmen.

"Loose!"

Sixty meters before impact a volley of heavy bolts tangled up the first ranks of the charge. Because of their speed they tumbled, took several others with them, and in turn tangled up more and more horseflesh. Two hundred bolts would slow down any charge, let alone one as disorganized as this moonless night chase. It worked marvelously. The crossbows were effective at greater ranges than that but I liked to play it conservatively. More than a handful of charging Reachmen collapsed, inconveniencing plenty of others.

I yelled, “Pike, Hold!”

I couldn't order an advance yet as I felt, not unreasonably, that I'd like my crossbowmen to poke as many holes as possible in these Reachmen. That meant that this wasn't the time yet for our own counter charge. Chaos engulfed the vanguard of the Reach cavalry, knights from the looks of their armor, but they thankfully didn't have enough time to fully armor their horses. Heavily armored knights don't do too well when their horses die underneath them.

“Loose at will!”

The heavy horse in front of us , those still intact, attempted to reorganize itself with another, far smaller, spray of bolts shook it. Nowhere near enough crossbowmen had managed to reload their weapons but it wasn't wasted. Several well placed bolts interrupted a breakout from the flanks, slight off the the side of the road, and neat disorganized that attempt. Even if it didn't particular hurt them too much.

Curse slow reload times. I'd need to figure out how to make repeatable one, soon.

"Hold, back ranks fall in!""

Within seconds they were on us, but thankfully not before every collectively put their shoulders, and shields, behind the first two ranks. The shock was not as bad as it could have been but still they very nearly broke through. A quick thinking sergeant filled up the holes before I could attend to the situation. This freed me up to order the counter charge. These cunts had no room to maneuver, couldn't retreat too far because they too were backed by other troops, and I wasn't about to let them reform. Errant bolts flew through the air but I couldn't tell where they went. I was engulfed in human flesh.

“Double Step Forward! Push!”

The first ranks of pikemen took a long step forward. The next two followed immediately. The following three, myself included, did the same. A few mindbogglingly terrifying seconds had passed when I was worried the first two ranks couldn't punch through the disorganized, but well armored, Reach knights. My relief was palpable when the full cohorts moved as one. Thank fuck I didn't make nearly starving men drill for nothing.

The first ranks surged forward, we used our heavy boots and shields to batter anything that still moves under our feet while we step forward, and so forth. I'd like to say my first taste of up close organized warfare was the stuff of legends. It wasn't. It was mechanical, steady and repetitive, but I couldn't afford getting caught up in the uniformity.

In hindsight I should have stayed behind the lines on a horse. Right now I couldn't tell what was happening up front. Only the forward momentum, which we kept up, and the futile squirming bodies beneath my hard boots told me we were winning.

The thing was...I didn't want to be winning all the way into the main Tyrell force.

I yelled, desperate to be heard over the din of battle, “Offer surrender, Dalos!”

I thought I saw him in first ranks, and frankly he strikes me as the type who enjoys that sort of thing, followed the order. We proceeded with us merry butchering, our enemy cavalry caught between thick insurmountable trees and their own rearguard, for a good long while.

Finally the first ranks stopped advancing I got a little crushed.

“Last two ranks, retreat and cover the flanks!”

They melted off and made way through the shrubbery to do just that. I, myself, walked briskly -fuck, I was tired - around my men to go see what happened.

It was marvelous.

A large contingent of the crossbowmen interspersed with pike, did in fact, manage to swing behind the troops to sow some delicious chaos. The knights had become knelled by their own allies and our pike's tenacity didn't help them much either. A decent sized group of knights, a little over a hundred survived to surrender to my sergeant. The man proved Stannis' confidence in him right when he immediate split off fifty pikemen on the flanks to disarm the knights.

I walked up to the closest group and said, “Who's in charge here?”

The defeated knights looked at each other for a long moment before one spoke up, “That would me be, Lord Stannis. I am Ser Humphrey Hightower. I'd like to say it's a pleasure meeting you but I don't believe in lying.”

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Fuck you.

I smiled a wide grin, “Is there anyone else here I should know about? We wouldn't want my men to mistreat any easily offended highborns, I hope.”

A flash a very real hatred shone for a brief moment but the man contained himself. He nodded over to someone else who introduced themselves as, “Ser Jon Cupps.”

That...meant nothing to me. Nothing to Stannis either beyond signifying he was a knight from an extremely small fiefdom. Fuck it, I'll have more time for this later.

“I hope you can march gentlemen. In case you can't, my men will tie you to a horse, and your feathers might be ruffled. We're off to Storms End.”

I waited a long beat before I continued, “Any escapes or attempts to delay our retreat will be met with swift crippling. I can ransom you just fine, even if you aren't are pretty as you used to be, my good Sers.”

I ignored their affected affront and turned to Dalos, “Gather the horses. Everyone else, move out in order!”

"Aye, my Lord!"

Tonight we were going to feast and I was going to interrogate the shit out of this Hightower spare of a spare.

=--=

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

Saying that the negotiations weren't going well was an understatement. The fop they had come out to me, the Lord of Oakenshield Humfrey Hewett, embodied everything I'd come to despise about these Reachlords. The man brought cavalry, some thousand man strong, to the meeting which I didn't begrudge him. I brought a substantial number of my own troops with me as well.

Hewett's heavy horse stood a few hundred meters away from us, neatly dispersed – clearly they learned their lesson -, and I was aware of them at all times. My own troops, seven hundred pikemen and three hundred crossbowmen together with my own knights on their flanks, would hopefully deter the Tyrell force from attempted to snatch me up.

I doubted I'd fare well in Tyrell custody. Which is why despite their moaning and bitching I arranged for the meeting to be within spitting distance of my walls. At the first sigh of trouble I'd fall back to my men, kill as many of these Reachmen as possible, and rush back to my castle.

No, what pissed me off was his insistence on wasting time an dallying about.

“How can we even begin to discuss your terms if you cannot provide assurances our Lord is safe and well?”

I didn't bother holding back my snort, “He's grumpy and hungry but no more so than anyone else in the castle.”

Hewett narrowed his eyes and bit out, “You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it, Stannis!”

It's been an hour of this already. I'd offer to parade Mace around on the walls for him to peruse. He'd refuse and insist I bring him out. I'd resolutely and vehemently deny any such possibly. I'd offer to bring Hewett in the castle again but then he'd just throw another hissy fit.

I probably shouldn't have kidnapped the Fat Flower.

“We're getting nowhere with this. Will you hear my terms or should I retreat to my keep?”

The large Reachlord fell silent for a good long while before he deigned to respond, “Very well.”

Contempt dripped out from every pore of the man. The bastard was looking down his nose at me and I wasn't having any of that. Completely at odds with inner turmoil I smiled at the man, “Six months of provisions, enough for four thousand men, and four thousand full sets of armor. In exchange for that; I'll guarantee we won't eat him.”

He froze, again.

“I beg your pardon...?”

I smiled even wider, “We're starving and we recently acquired a whole bunch of well fed Reachmen. I'm not saying we'll start with Mace but you have to admit he'd feed us for a good long while.”

Hewett flushed red and the little veins on his forehead bulged out dangerously. The Reachlord fixed me with glare of such intensity I was mildly impressed. I knew full well I was acting like a little shit but I had precious few options. I had absolutely no intention of releasing Mace.

I wasn't exactly sure why the Tyrell host ramped up their attacks after I took him. The man himself was utterly inscrutable but short of getting him black out drunk I didn't know how to make him talk. I wasn't about to torture a Lord Paramount, either.

As best I could tell, and this took some mental gymnastics, I thought that the Hightower branch was making a play for the Regentship over the Reach in case Mace expired. The Fat Flower only has young heirs and no suitable siblings. The Hightower spare of a spare wasn't much use either but he didn't deny the possibility when I raised it.

Was that enough of a reason to disregard his safety?

I didn't think it like but I almost resigned myself to notion I'd never find out. The Tyrell host ignored my earlier attempts at a parley, which again...I couldn't rightly blame them for, but apparently grabbing a hundred of their shiny knights brought them to the table.

“You cannot be serious.”

I laughed, watched him flinch, and continued, “Of course I am. This is what happens when you starve people. They tend to get desperate.”

“You wouldn't dare...”

I smiled even wider, “Why not? Because you'll do what precisely? Try to kill me harder?”

I'll save you ranting and raving of a powerless diplomat. The man attempted to threaten me, cajoled me for a while, until he finally settled down. All the way through his rant I made sure to plaster a pleasant smile on my face. Angry people tend to get upset if people calmly smile at them.

Fuck these Reachlords.

I cleared my throat and said, “Well then, do pass along the message, Hewett. You know where to find me.”

I turned my horse around but before I got very far Hewett spoke up.

“Wait! We have terms of our own!”

What?

This wasn't how this was supposed to work. I have the hostages. They didn't have shit. Why would I even entertain their 'terms'? I sighed deeply, swung my horse back around, and stared the man down.

“Is this your first hostage negotiation, Hewett? It doesn't work like this.”

This time the Lord of Oakenshield almost snarled, “This won't stop us from attacking, you simpering child. It hasn't stopped us from attacking. Even if Lord Tarly complies, which I highly doubt, you'd still be surrounded, boy.”

What is he playing at? Did he really think I was unaware of my, rather, precarious position? I'm sure it must look that way to them. They weren't aware of the fact Eddard Stark was about to completely ruin their day. If I had my dates right. If not...well, I was growing more and more confident I could hold Storms End for another month.

“I'm sure you'll get to the point. Hopefully sooner than later?”

The gruff Lord visibly restrained himself before harshly replying, “Oh, do you have somewhere to be, boy lord?”

Of course I have places to be. Namely, back at my god damned castle. I had a hundred different troubles to address. A thousand petty differences to settle between my men. The list of issues I had on my plate was longer, varied and even thinking about it made me tired.

Not as tired as this conversation though.

“You're speaking words, Hewett, but you're not saying anything. What do you want?”

Hewett pinned with me another long glare. I was fast growing tired of this farce. What in god's name has this bastard suddenly tongue tied?

“You must understand you cannot win this, Stannis. We outnumber you twenty to one and even the might walls of Storms End won't save you. I beseech you to come to fair terms, boy. For your men if not for your sake. Or is the call of glory too great for you?”

The moment I spot displaced dust on the horizon. The first inkling I got that Stark was in the neighborhood I'd force his hand. I'd find a way to commit the bastard to wiping out these smug flowery cunts.

I raised a singular eyebrow and asked the man, “I see. You're rather misinformed but I can't blame you. You clearly weren't chosen for your mental acuity.”

Oh, he does not like getting insulted.

Hewett managed to hold on to his temper and bit out, “Oh, do enlighten me then, boy.”

I plastered a sharp grin on my face as I said, “The loyalist cause is dead. My brother will destroy anything in his path to the crown. He's on the march as we speak and soon he'll come for you.”

The bastard mirrored me and raised an eyebrow of his own, “Is that so? I distinctly recall easily fighting him off before. I have every confidence we can do so again.”

This was pointless.

I smiled even wider, “On your heads then, Reachlord. Now, be a good chap and run along with my message.”

I gently nudged my horse to turn but once again the bastard interrupted me.

“We're not done here, boy!”

I ignored him and kept riding. I wasn't going to waste more time on this. I picked up some speed and headed off to my men. Once I passed their lines I'd call for an ordered retreat back to the castle. I didn't pay the Reachlord screaming behind me any mind and raced forth. Soon I couldn't hear him anymore and shortly after I found myself among my men.

“Ordered retreat. March in formation! ”

The paved main road to the gates was just a quarter mile away. Just far away enough for the Tyrells to consent to a meeting but close enough we could retreat without any concerns of getting caught out. The road itself was wide enough to let my men march in formation but I still made sure to keep an eye on the distance Tyrell force. They didn't seem to be budging yet but cavalry is fast. I didn't think they venture into the range of my artillery but crazier things have happened.

So when a madly running figure came barreling down the road I didn't see him. Orys caught my attention and pointed out the cloaked man running our way. My blood seemingly froze in my veins.

There was no way this was good news. The Tyrells had done something. I knew it, deep in my bones. What could they have done? What could they possibly have accomplished in this short timeframe? Scenario after scenario raced through my mind, each more horrific than the next and all of them vying for prominence, and my panic levels were rising.

Did they finish that god damned elusive tunnel of theirs?

Perhaps they managed to scale a wall while nobody was looking?

Did they turn some of my men?

Anything and everything, even the most far fetched theories, seemed possible as I rode the courier down. I didn't have very far to go, just a short distance to the man, but it felt like an eternity. Orys and his band of cavalrymen frantically chased after me but I didn't pay them much mind. My attention was firmly focused on the man in front of me.

“My Lord! The prisoners escaped! Lord Sebastion has them contained but we dare not denude the walls!”

The bottom nearly dropped out of my stomach when I heard that. I had only just managed to inspire some hope in the men, and women, of Storms End. I, absolutely, could not afford this distraction now. I nodded at the courier, raced passed him, and charged straight through the gates with my small cavalry force on my tail.

When we got to the courtyard I rounded on the nearest sergeant I could find, “You! Hector, what's the situation?”

To his credit the man didn't miss a beat, “My Lord, I peeled off as many men as I dared to contain the outbreak. Most of them have barricaded themselves into the dungeons.”

Most?

“What about the rest?”

“They're loose in the castle, my Lord. A small force was sent to secure young Master Renly and the Maester. We haven't heard from them, yet.”

For the briefest of moments I felt incredibly dizzy. My heart was pumping madly and I could hear its intense beating. It took a short moment, no longer than a second, for me to realize I was losing myself to pure and unadulterated rage. I found myself not caring.

I swung off the horse, unsheathed my sword, and equipped my oversized buckler. I didn't need to look to scream out, “TO RENLY!”

And I ran like the dogs of hell were after me. The main hall flew by in a flurry. I could hear the rushed footsteps of my men, and myself, echoing loudly through hallways leading to the stairs. I rounded into them, nearly stabbed a small child clinging to them, but managed to pull back just in time.

I didn't wait around.

I kept up the pace, taking two steps at the time, reaching ever closer to Renly's rooms. Within seconds I reached them, the suite was locked, and beat at the door with the butt of my sword.

“RENLY!”

Nothing.

I busied myself kicking at the door. I took aim for the area just over the locking mechanism and on my third try crashed through the door.

The room was empty.

“God damn it, RENLY!”

My men seemed to have caught up with me. Orys grabbed me by the shoulder and screamed something. He had to repeat it twice more before I processed it, “If he's not here, he'll be in the kitchens!”

Shit!

I should have known this. I was the one who insisted the little bugger would earn his stay. Usually he helped the other kids ferry messages around but occasionally he liked working in the kitchens. As I ran, full throttle, toward said kitchen I thought of the kid. Was it merely his resembling my own little siblings or did some of Stannis' feelings carry through?

I neither knew nor cared.

When we got to the kitchen I still hadn't fully regained control. I crashed through the entrance and saw a small group of men manhandling an even smaller figure.

Later I'd be told I screamed as I charged into the group. They'd tell me of what I did but I could barely remember it myself. I vaguely recalled launching myself in a rugby tackle at them, flying just over Renly's tiny head, and distracting them just long enough for my men to come in. Then things got fuzzy. There was a lot of frantic kicking involved. My sword went missing at some point. Somehow I got my hands on a crossbow bolt.

I found that bolt later in an eye socket.

The only thing that was crystal clear was the death of the very last man.

I almost broke my hand on his face before Orys pulled me off of him. Apparently he'd been dead for a while.

I took a while for me to calm down and when I did I stumbled over to Renly. Absentmindedly I ordered Orys to see to the other threats and leave half the men with me. I didn't let go of the little boy until Balon Swann assured me the other flowers were tightly locked up.

I'm not sure which one of us held on tighter to the other.

=-=

283 AC – Siege of Storms End

Mace had gotten skinnier, not all that much mind you, but certainly not any less grumpy. The Flower of Flowers had set his jaw in powerless anger. I'd dragged the Hightower spare of spare, and Ser Cupps, with me to Mace's 'rooms' and the tension in the room was palpable. The two Hightowers, for I had found out that Ser Cupps was married into the family, pointedly dodged the Fat Flowers gaze.

I, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying myself.

“Curious, isn't it, my Lord Mace?”

No reply, from any of the men. Awkward silence hung in the air but I was determined to get to the bottom of us. My good spirits had been, somewhat, restored due to the past few days of rest. The Tyrell host, if I could even call it that anymore, had opted to extend the negotiations. Tarly, or perhaps one of the other Hightowers, had chosen a different representative for our talks and things were progressing.

The Reachlords understood that with the two hundred odd horses we managed to pilfer our food woes were lessened. More than a few knights had apparently interjected on our behalf to their leaders and currently a deal was being worked out. We would send them a fair number of prized war horses and in return they'd give us what I asked for.

We haggled on the numbers and the Tarly representative fought me furiously on them. I clearly wasn't going to be getting four thousand full sets of armor. I'd stripped the Tyrell corpses in front of my walls of their armor but most of it was barely better than what we had in stock. The sheer cost involved was staggering but that didn't concern me. I wanted heavy infantry.

I continued with a wide smile plastered on my face, “I'm baffled, Mace, truly. Here I have custody of the Reachmen Lord Paramount and they wouldn't hear of talking terms. A short few weeks later and I stumble upon a Hightower or two and they're bending over backwards to accommodate me.”

The two Hightowers went still as a statue while Mace still silent fumed. Was he already aware of the tensions? Is that why he wouldn't call out to our attackers from the walls?

“One might even say those faithless scoundrels planned for this.”

Now the Hightower duo fixated on me and that was just what I needed. I was entering murky grounds and I wasn't sure whether I'd angered Mace enough for what I was attempting. Even if I failed, though, it was a no cost ploy. I kept studying the three men seated in the room with me but I was coming up blank. I thought that Mace might have come to the same conclusions I did. I thought that the two Hightowers looked guilty enough and I hoped Mace saw that.

I gestured for one of my men, James Fairfields, to take the Hightowers back to their accommodations.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

I nodded at my other men to follow along with them. I was completely unconcerned about the potential physical threat Mace might pose for me. There was no way this bastard was faster that me. And besides...I have a wonderful offer for him.

“I only had suspicions, of course, considering the lack of information I had sequestered behind my thick walls.”

Mace turned to me and bit out, “What do you want?”

I slowly let my smile melt away as I replied, “Rhaegar Targaryen has fallen by my brother's hand. The Lannisters have taken Kings Landing for my brother. Eddard Stark in on his way here with his combined Stark and Tully host. Your people just agreed to send me supplies, but even if they don't the horses I took would feed us for weeks more.”

Now I was the one letting the silence stretch. The not so far Flower in front of me needed time to digest this. His strategic position was untenable. The Hightowers wouldn't come charging on my walls anymore and victory was unattainable. Five great regions of the Westeros had found common cause and Mace wasn't in on the party.

In fact...

“The Reach is the last region fighting. I'm struggling to remember such a position ever working out for anyone.”

Coolly the man responded, “What are you driving at, Stannis?”

“Do you think your House will keep its prominence in the Reach?”

Ah, now I had his full and divided attention. Before he could respond I continued, “The Reach, as you well know, is the wealthiest land of Westeros. My brother would likely not allow you to keep it. Even without my whispering of little Renly's untold suffering.”

I leaned in and faux-whispered, “He's a tad possessive and has a terrible temper.”

Mace scoffed and said, “I'm sure. Still, you haven't told me what you wanted.”

Now I smiled again, “You're in a bind, Mace. You need a reason to walk away from this mess with as many men as possible. The Hightowers have no doubt been spending the lives of your Tyrell levies like water and I think we both know they have their own designs.”

“I'm well aware of this, Stannis. Get to the point or leave me to my solitude.”

Oh, dialing it back a little. The Flower still has a thorn or two.

“You're right. You know perfectly well what an unenviable position you hold. I'm offering a way out for you, Mace. A way that lets you keep your Lord Paramount-ship. A compromise that humbles the Hightowers, leaves you secured in the Reach, and on the right side of the new Baratheon dynasty.”

It annoyed me that I couldn't tell if he was merely entertaining my words or if he was actually considering them. This was a delicate process and if Mace was inclined to hold on to anger I was screwed. Well...the plot was screwed.

I'd be fine.

Slightly sarcastically he replied, “By all means, do share this wonderful compromise of yours.”

“My brother will want a pacified and secured kingdom. He'll either sell me to the Reach or Dorne but I doubt it will be the latter.”

Mace raised a singular eyebrow and gestured for me to continue.

“I freely admit I'm not very experienced in this, Mace, so correct me if I am wrong. The Hightowers would blame you for this mess. They would claim their oaths to their Lord Paramount was all that drove them to besiege Robert's ancestral keep. Considering they conspicuously kept the full might of their troops alive and well, Robert, and if not him then Jon Arryn, would be inclined to believe them. This does not end well for you...or for me.”

Did that pique his curiosity?

“Oh, how does this affect you?”

I smiled, “My future heirs would be half Hightowers. Considering my grandmother was a Targaryen that's quite the gamble to take on their sanity.”

Mace snorted loudly but composed himself quickly, “Funny, but now the true reason, if you would.”

I nodded at the man and said, “I know that the Hightowers are Targaryen loyalist.” I raised up a hand to forestall him, “We both know of their mad infatuation with that prophecy of theirs. They are now, and will likely ever be, loyalists. In the future I have certain plans, which I will not speak of, and being tied to a Hightower would only shackle me.”

Now he truly was curious. The man adopted a thoughtful expression before he lightly smiled, “As opposed to a Tyrell engagement?”

Ah, there it was.

I returned hit smile and said, “That would suit me far more. I would have great incentive to see your family firmly in control of the Reach. Robert would not deny me this. Not after I held his castle for a year.”

“I see how that would benefit me, Stannis. I can even see how that would benefit Robert. I don't understand what you would gain from this.”

Once again I nodded, “Oh, that's fairly straight forward. Robert can have his kingdom but I want Storms End.”

There. I played one of my cards. Now I just had to see if Mace Tyrell would pick it up. This should be somewhat straightforward. I'm presenting him with a somewhat sneaky, but competent, potential brother-in-law who could shield him from his error in choosing a side. A brother of the new King no less. In return he'd spend his gold to ensure his sisters offspring get a claim on the Stormlands.

Win, win and win.

“A most tempting offer, Stannis. I will have to think on it.”

No.

“That was my first plan. The plan with the compromise.”

Mace raised a singular eyebrow again, “Is there another?”

I smiled a magnificently wide grin, “Yes. I start killing Hightowers to keep the Reach host trapped here. They'll keep attacking and draining the levies of all your allies. Eddard Stark won't be able to negotiate a peace with them if he finds them scaling my walls. After much blood and death even the Hightowers won't be able to keep it going. I'd offer similar options to the Cuy, or the Florents, and support their bid to blame everything on you. I imagine I'd have a better negotiation position by then.”

The Tyrell Lord in front of me got an angry cast to his expression when he bit out, “Then why go through with this farce if you need not compromise! Do you think I am moved by threats?”

I raised up both hands in an effort to calm him, “It's not a threat, Mace. If I can't have what I want one way...I'll be forced to find another road. I would greatly prefer dealing with you and the Tyrells as an extension of you. In a pinch I will work with anyone who carries the Lord Paramount-ship of the Reach.”

I carefully didn't smile.

“Why?”

Why, what?

He must have seen my confusion because he elaborated, “Why would you prefer me over the Hightowers?”

“Mace, the Lannisters took Kings Landing for Robert. Their price for that service will likely be a marriage between Tywins brat and Robert. Jon Arryn will see to that. I want the Reach as a counterweight to the Lannisters.”

I fell silent for a beat or two before continuing, “I want us to set aside our enmity, Mace. Without the Stormlands I can't fight Lannister influence over the entire kingdom. Without the full support of the Reach Tywin will march pawn after pawn into Kings Landing. I want to draw you into our family, Mace. Your nephews and nieces will be Royals which will guarantee the future of the Reach.”

This was the tricky part. Was I giving away too much? Even if it did...Tywin is one of the few legitimately scary people in this world. Unless Robert somehow manages to sell me to him I would never quite feel comfortable with him mucking about.

I needed the Reach.

The silence stretched on for long moment before Mace finally sighed, “And you get the Stormlands with our backing. I don't like the this, Stannis. I don't like you but I'm willing to consider this.”

“There's just one more thing, Mace. Or well...two things.”

“What would that be, Stannis?”

I tried to look as contrite as possible when I said, “That whole mess with me capturing you.”

All I got in return was a flat glare and Mace replying, “Yes, I seem to vaguely recall that.”

“That was obviously instigated by the Hightowers as a ploy to get me to kill you.”

The seconds stretched on and on as Mace kept up his glare. Would he go for it? Would he castigate me for my presumptuousness? Call me an honorless cunt? I half expected all of that from him.

I didn't expect him to grin, “And if a Lord Paramount and the brother of the King say that's what happened...”

I smiled again, “Nothing but truth.”

Mace nodded in return, “What was the final issue?”

This was going to be awkward.

“Tomorrow I have a parley with some of the Hightowers. They said that Tarly might be present but I doubt it. Either way, I want to take you with me.”

The Fat Flower simply frowned and asked, “Oh?”

“I'm going to need to take your surrender in front of them. I'd like to publicly resolve our issues before Stark gets here. There's no reason why we should share the credit with him. Not with all the blood we spilled.”

How would he take this?

AN: Feedback and commentary is greatly appreciated!

Chapter Text

283 AC – Feasts & Knighthoods

Reluctantly I had to admire the way Mace handled his in-laws. I knew it couldn't be easy having to deal with overly powerful vassals that had wormed their way into your family. The Hightowers were too wealthy, influential and just too god damned strong to oppose openly.

Mace was milking the circumstances for all he was worth.

“Has the wealth of Oldtown been suddenly depleted, Garth? I knew my good-father likes to spend his coin like water, even when he's best served doing otherwise, but this is certainly a surprise.”

“No! Of course-.”

With a terrifyingly wide grin Mace interrupted him, “Excellent! Then stop haggling like an jumped up merchant and honor your debts, Garth.”

“My Lord, I-.”

Again Mace simply interrupted him, “Besides, it's not as if your men have such pressing need for their armor. Or would you like to champion their cause? Should we discuss this further, Garth?”

Hmm.

Perhaps Mace would, indeed, make a half way decent brother-in-law. Lord Randyll was quiet, weirdly amused by the situation, but utterly silent. I couldn't quite guess at his feelings on the matter. He bent the knee just fine but perhaps he was harboring some latent anger.

I found I didn't much care.

The back and forth, or more like Mace simply dumping on Garth, continued for a short while. Eventually it was settled that I would, in fact, be receiving the four thousand armor plates I'd requested. My future brother-in-law had no issue making the Hightowers pay through the nose. I'm sure that the fact their men would have to march home, with Mace's own retinue, completely unprotected might have had something to do with it as well.

Eventually, though, the subject was changed.

“What of my brother, my Lord? What of Ser Cupps and their men?”

Mace shrugged, he shrugged, and walked away. Over his shoulders the man called out, “I'm certain Lord Stannis will set a fair ransom. The sooner Leyton pays, the sooner you have your boy back.”

If I wasn't careful I might actually like Mace.

283 AC – Feasts & Knighthoods

The sounds thousands of relieved and intensely merry men and women feasting in Storm's End courtyard was like the sweetest music to my ears. Just yesterday I had accepted Lord Mace Tyrell's submission, twice. Once in this very courtyard, where I had him kneel to me in front of all my men, and once again in front of his men. That second time he only bowed and presented his sword to me. That sword was mine until the wedding, when I hand it right back to the Flower.

I thought I'd feel something more than relief. Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mine I hoped to experience this 'glory' everyone kept talking about. As far as I was concerned it was a triumph, one worth celebrating to be sure, but just a triumph nonetheless. I was mostly just happy that people had stopped dying.

And eating fresh fruit was amazing.

Orys Bollin staggered over to me, “Cousin! I must know! Did you plan all of this!”

Wow, he almost sounds accusingly. What has gotten into him? Before I could ask for him to elaborate the lad continued unprompted, “This! All of this! Ever since we grabbed the Fat Flower! Did you know it would end like this?”

Oh.

As much as I'd like to take credit for that...it would only backfire on me. I had no intention of being known as a political genius. Mostly because I really, really, wasn't. Mace went along with my plans because it was prudent for him to do so. I can deal with prudent men. What happens the first time I need some foppish lord with more guts than brains on my side? Quietly I resolved to spend as much time as I could observing the Old Falcon. If Arryn actually lets me accompany him into important meetings.

“Orys?”

The drunk lordling had some trouble focusing but eventually I sensed I had his full attention again, “Orys?”

“Yes?”

But nobody ever said you can't mess with your drunk cousins. I'd just have to make sure to catch him again when he's sober.

I flash him a small grin and said, “If I did, cousin, would I want you asking that of me? In public no less?”

I realized I might have fucked up when all the color drained from his face. When Orys attempted to stammer an incoherent excuse I just put another wine flagon in his hands. It took some doing but eventually he settled down. Feeling a little bad I made my way through the throngs of party-goers. Everyone had a smile, a pat on the back, or just a distant nod for me. I thoroughly enjoyed their lighthearted and joyous spirits.

This.

This was what taking Mace's surrender should have felt like. A thick cloak of your troops adoration that warms you straight down to your core.

For the first time in months I felt like I could truly relax.

283 AC – Feasts & Knighthoods

Ser Balon Swann's eyes nearly boggled out of his head. The stupefied man repeated my question at least twice before he thought to answer it.

“It is most unorthodox, my Lord. However, I do not see any barriers to it.”

Fair enough. I could live with being called strange. I felt it was important I properly honored everyone in my retinue. It wasn't just so I'd develop a reputation of being a good boss either. These people here, who went through hell with me, deserve everything I can give them.

Fuck whoever thinks they can talk me out of it.

“And what do you think, Ser Balon?”

The knight took a moment to compose himself before he answered, “I cannot, in good conscience, deny their bravery. They all fought well and hard, my Lord. Without them we would not have turned the tides of battle in our favor.”

Another short moment of silence followed before he continued, “I have no objections to this. Men might question me on this but they would have to cut me down before I repudiate them!”

All I could do was smile. I had hoped for his cooperation, even if grudgingly given, but this was far above and beyond what I expected.

I nodded at the knight and just as I walked away I heard him call out, “At least we can outfit the lot of them, my Lord!”

283 AC – Feasts & Knighthoods.

An adorably scrunched up face stared at me, defiantly. Renly was not pleased when I told him it was time for the little lad to go to sleep. His arguments that the siege was over and he deserved to cut loose with the others did little to convince me.

“But I want to go back to the feast!”

I sat down on his bed, scooted him over to the side, and told him, “I understand, Renly. It does look like a lot of fun, doesn't it?”

Oh, this must not be going the way he expected it to. His expression cycled through confusion and wariness but I doubted he'd see the verbal trap I was weaving for him. Or was it called a lesson when you were helping people?

“Yes, very!”

I smiled at the little bugger and said, “Tell me why they're feasting, Renly. Tell me why I broke open our ancient casks of wine. Tell me why I let them chew through a full tenth of the supplies Tyrell left us?”

His reply came quickly, “Because we won!”

“Exactly. We won, Renly. The men, and lets not forget the women either, have fought hard for us. They killed for us, they starved for us, and now they deserve everything we can give them, little brother.”

He still didn't see it.

“Including a feast among themselves without their little lord's eyes on them. I'm also staying here with you, Renly.”

“Oh-.”

It's hard to keep in mind he's only seven. It's been so long since my own siblings were this tiny. I'd just spell it out for him.

I interrupted him, “Tomorrow we'll feast with them, little brother. Tonight is their night. Let them feast with abandon and without worries they're making fools of themselves in front of their lords.”

Renly seemed to consider that for a good long while before slowly, almost reluctantly, nodding.

“Alright.”

Good boy.

A short moment passed before he went on, “Will you finish the story, please?”

I couldn't keep in the laugh that bubbled up, “Oh Renly, the story is nowhere near its end! Hmm, where were we...”

I pretended to trail off forgetfully and Renly took the bait, “Ser Harry the Wizard Knight just raised the bones of a Dragon to fight off the horde of Others and their wicked Masters!”

I deliberately ignored the chambermaid, who was supposed to clear all the candles, slowly meandering our way. Before long she'd be daring enough to sit down and listen. I didn't mind and Renly always enjoyed that.

283 AC – Feasts & Knighthoods

I quietly sat down next to Maester Cressen. I hadn't seen all that much of him over the past few weeks. The man had been toiling over all the wounded and desperately attempting to keep them alive. Now that there weren't any more patients coming into his improvised hospital wing he could afford taking some rest.

I spoke up first, “I'm glad you fared well through this ordeal, Cressen. I don't know what we would have done without your help.”

The old man, who wasn't actually that old – Stannis' perceptions were leaking through -, sighed softly but with a small smile on his face.

“I thank you for your kind words, m-Stannis, but you don't have to flatter me. I wasn't the most important man in the siege, my Lord.”

The poor man still couldn't bring himself to consistently call me Stannis. Unlike the previous owner of this body I didn't quite feel a need for an abiding distance between myself...and everyone who works for me. I had adapted to this world well enough but when every meeting with this man sets off waves of happy childhood memories, even if they aren't really mine, I couldn't feel comfortable with him sprouting off lordly honors.

Cressen continued, “Have you read the letters? I would like to send them out as soon as possible, m-Stannis.”

I had read them just after I'd received the deliveries of armor, and food supplies, and made sure to tail the Tyrells out of the immediate Storms End lands. I had asked the kindly Maester to formulate two letters for me. One to Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, and another to my 'brother', Bobby B.

The one for Robert was a simple letter highlighting the events of the past months. I'd asked Cressen to include a few words from Renly and to express my wishes to see Robert at his convenience. I asked Bobby if he was familiar with the battle madness, as Orys had described it, that came over me. More than anything I was worried something would set it off again. And next time I might not have such well trained troops covering my ass.

I needed his advice.

The other letter was less personal but no less important. I detailed my plans, and reasoning, to the Old Falcon. All I could do was hope that the man would ratify my decisions. As far as he was aware...Mace had capitulated to me before word came about the conclusion of the war. If all went well...he should be suitably impressed and eager to welcome Mace into the fold.

On the other hand...when have things ever truly gone well in this world?

“I have, Cressen. Is there anything we should add? If my scheme falls through...I don't rightly know how to proceed from there. What if it all goes wrong?”

Cressen laughed softly and said, “I'd venture you find a way, Stannis. It is, however, good to see that some of the wonderful young man I knew hasn't been completely chewed up by this dreadful war.”

That was a compliment right?

I'm taking it as a compliment.

=-=

283 AC – Stormbringers & Squires

There was one group of my troops I hadn't checked in with until shame and self interest stirred me. The crippled, wounded and otherwise invalid men and women in the hospital ward. I was well aware that only the vigilance of my personal guards, and the luck of the draw, stood between me and those unlucky sods. I could have, just as easily, been one of them. Moaning and crying in the ill lit backrooms.

I sat down next to each man and woman, speaking softly about their hopes and dreams, trying to give them something to look forward to. I resolved to help them find task for House Baratheon. The vast majority of them had nothing much to expect from the future which was perfect, for me. I had sent for a veritable legion of septons and septa's to teach them how to read and write. They were slated to arrive in a few weeks.

Worst case scenario I'll employ the lot of them for the survey of the Stormlands I was planning. Or in any of the hundred other projects swirling through my mind. Each of the smallfolk had experience I could well use. A few of them grew up around the Kingswood and had a wealth of knowledge pertaining to woodworking ready to exploit. Others were involved in the textile trades.

That last group would help me sketch out my vague recollections of wool-spinning devices. Now however I was focused on Storms End own head smith. The unfortunately one armed Donal Noye. I had no intention of letting this man slip off to the wall.

“Donal Noye, I must thank you for your service. If you hadn't helped teach all those women how to produce, and repair, our crossbows...well, we likely wouldn't be here.”

The man was having none of it, “There's no need to thank me, my Lord. I did my duty.”

Which left me wondering why the original Stannis did away with him. Or perhaps he simply lacked the wherewithal to keep such a useful man close. On the other hand, perhaps Stannis chose not to stand in the way of Noye's chosen path.

“I'll ask the same of you as I did of the others, Donal. Now the siege is over. What are you planning on doing with the rest of your life?”

A familiar story followed. Noye had a family once. Now he was lost.

He ended it with, “I thought long and hard, my Lord. Right here in the dark and I've come up with nothing. What could anyone want with a one armed smith?”

I could think of many things.

“Did you get hit in the head, Donal?”

The smith frowned and replied, “No, my Lord?”

“So your vast knowledge of metals and metalworking hasn't dripped right out of your ears?”

Almost affronted he bit out, “Of course not!”

I smiled at the man and said, “Well then. We happen to have a great deal of good men without prospects, Donal. What say you we give them some?”

I swear I could see his morose disposition slip right off, “Aye, my Lord. I'll remain here if you will have me.”

I shoved the chair closer to his bed, leaned back into it, and told him, “Excellent. Now, I have many questions. Please tell me all you know of our mines, Donal. What resources does the Stormland mountains yield?”

We talked until deep into the night and my smile just kept growing wider.

283 AC – Stormbringers & Squires

My troops were lined up in the courtyard at attention. I'd kept my core of five hundred sworn Baratheon swords off to the side. That batch of men were mine already and had received their share of the high quality Hightower armors already. They would require little in the way of training and could slip easily into the role of personal swords. My sworn quasi Praetorian Guard that would be known as my Stormbringers.

The others, however, required a more training to fit in well. I had sent Orys and Sebastion to make the rounds for me. They had taken the pulse of the troops, on a variety of subjects, and returned to me with their thoughts. From their estimates I knew that I could count of a total of twelve hundred men. They would be the nucleus I'd gather others around and in any upcoming battles they'd perform as my shock troops. I intended on paying for their feed, in the future their horses, and of course their weapons.

Perhaps I'd set up small lines of credit they could draw against for their expenses but I doubted they'd agitate for salaries. Not if I let them know that they can keep their shiny armor after their active service is over...after a currently undisclosed number of years.

The only significant group of people not interested were the majority of my crossbow wielding ladies. Some of them had families they desperately wished to return to. The men had their own families, true, but they saw this retinue as an opportunity to provide for them. A stable job, no real battles to look forward to - from their perspective -, and perhaps even appointments for their sons.

Others simply had no stomach for further violence. I didn't blame them one bit.

I cleared my throat, “My fellow Stormlanders! We have braved hunger, we have beaten off the imperious Flowers, and we've reveled in our success!”

I gave them a few moments to scream their throats hoarse before I continued, “All that remains is to convey the gratitude of House Baratheon to its loyal servants! Each of you have done us proud! You didn't break! You stayed true and we killed a whole fucking lot of Reachlords!”

Their screams and jeers grew even louder. I had to settle them down by raising and slowly lowering a hand. I waited an extra moment or two before I went on, “I almost dare not ask you for more. How could I when you've given your all to us. To that end, all that wish to go home. All that want the horrors of this siege firmly in their past may do so with my deepest and most abiding gratitude. House Baratheon will be there for you, just as you were for us.”

I let the anticipation build for a moment.

“We few, we happy few, this band of brothers and sisters! Tell of your bravery to all that you meet and know you have played your part in a legend!”

Again jeers, loud yelling and sword clattering on shields, followed my words. I didn't mind sending those men and women home with the Tyrell armors we pilfered from the corpses. We must have killed thousands in front of these very walls. Each night we'd send out a cohort to go collect their weapons, and chain armors, and I certainly wouldn't miss the few hundred they'd take with them. Besides, they would still be my levies. When I'd call...I didn't doubt the majority of them would come. Or send relatives in their place.

It would be a wonderful surprise to them once they actually left.

I continued, "To the Stormlander women! Those wonderful women who braved every danger with us. Know that we will never forget your fortitude. The gods may not have made you as strong as men but they certainly didn't shirk on your courage!"

There we go. A little feel good moment.

"I, Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End, name you Daughters of Elenei! From now, until the end of times, you may wear the colors of House Baratheon and revel in your glory!"

As much as I wanted to give them more...I knew I couldn't. They weren't less than men in my eyes, and boy would my mother do terrible things to me if I ever put forth the opposite, but I couldn't afford acknowledging them further. If I got Storm's End...I'd still have to rule by consent. I couldn't just rule by fiat, no matter how much I might enjoy that, which means I needed to be aware of how my banner-men viewed me. If they thought I was a weird agitator who flaunts the laws of the gods I wouldn't get anything done.

“To my Stormlander men! Those that seek more glory, to those that wish to continue in my service, I say welcome my Stormbringers! Swear yourself to me and I will swear to have your well being at heart! Swear yourselves to me and I will swear to you that House Baratheon will always be the shield to your sword!”

The next few hours dragged on and on. I could have accepted their oath's, from each of my men, in one lump but I decided against it. I wanted each man to have his own moment. A spectacular moment he could share with his family, his neighbors, and anyone who mattered to him. A little inconvenience on my part didn't stack up to that.

Renly stood quietly beside me and I had him nod to each of every newly risen sworn sword. There was no reason not to involve the little bugger. Besides...he's adorable and I have no issue tugging on my men's heartstrings. Anything to bind them ever closer to us.

Once that part of the ceremony was done I summoned Ser Balon Swann to me. A handful of men, and worryingly one women, remained standing before me. These were my bravest and most effective sergeants. The only ones who didn't fit that mold were Hugo the Tanner and Betsy the Seamstress. The plan was for these eight individuals to be squired but not to any particular knight. I'd spoken with Balon on the subject and he claimed that there wasn't any official prohibition against what I had planned.

He did warn me that he could not, in good conscience, agree to knighting them if they didn't stack up to his expectations. Unfortunately for Betsy...he shared he didn't see himself accepting her.

I'd work on a solution for her.

283 AC – Stormbringers & Squires

The weather was taking a turn for the worst and I was worried any raven sent to Storms End wouldn't make it. Thankfully the communication ravens trained by the Maesters were hardier than that. The letters responding to our own had finally arrived from Kings Landing.

Despite being curious about Robert's words I opened the seal of the Hand of the King first. Knowing Lord Jon Arryn's mind was a bit more pertinent, I'd venture.
Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End,
Lord Paramount of the Stormlands,
Warden of the South,

Words cannot properly convey the relief his Grace Robert Baratheon - the King of the Andals and the Roynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm- felt when he received the splendid news of your, and your brothers, continued safety in Storms End. I, too, would like echo that sentiment, my Lord Stannis. I thank the gods that this war hasn't taken more from us than it already has.

I write to you, Lord Stannis, in the hopes that you would present yourself at your earliest convenience to the Small Council of his Grace Robert Baratheon. We have a great many concerns to address, not the least of which your upcoming nuptials, and his Grace looks forward to being reunited with his closest family.

Faithfully yours,
Lord Jon Arryn of the Eeyrie,
Hand of the King,
Lord Paramount of the Vale,
Warden of the East
Oh god. Oh god, it worked. Did it work? Or was I reading too much into this?

Nah, Jon Arryn – the god damned Hand of the King – addressed me as Lord Paramount. Haha! It worked, oh good fucking god, it worked. For the first time in weeks I laughed like a man deranged. Cressen looked on, equal parts amused and worried, but I paid him no mind.

Storm's End was mine.

I mean, sure, the summons was off putting. I had no idea what they wanted to discuss, and I understood the need for discretion, but Arryn could have put a hint in there. Now I'd walk into the situation blind. I passed the letter to Cressen and started ripping open Robert's letter.
Brother,

I can't properly congratulate you for becoming a real Baratheon all the way back in Storm's End. Get over here and bring Renly. How is the little shit brat anyways?

If you meet Ned tell him I want him back in King's Landing.

Your brother,

King Robert Baratheon.
Pox on all these other titles. Call me King.
Wow, I could totally see how Stannis would have taken this the wrong way. I found myself not caring all that much though. Things were looking up and depending on how long this visit to the Royal Court would last...I could get started on any of the hundreds of things I was planning.

“Cressen, arrange for our things to be packed. Robert wants Renly and myself in King's Landing.”

“Aye, m-Stannis.”

I frowned and called Cressen back before he left, “Wait. How many men should I take with me? I don't want to arrive there with too small a party.”

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

The magic number turned out to be three hundred. Any more and the Targaryen's of old would grow prissy at their lords presumption. Robert might not identify as a Targaryen but Cressen warned me that old habits die hard. It's best not to rock the boat too hard.

I picked most of my men from the cohorts that accompanied me on the sorties out of the walls. Renly rode in a carriage in their center, having the time of his life, and was busy driving the men mad with worry. Every time the lad was growing bored he'd attempt to climb to the top of the carriage. I'd asked Ser Balon Swann to keep a close eye on him and I could swear the man was prematurely graying.

Renly was a handful.

Maester Cressen accompanied the boy in his carriage, I cared little for his complaints his place was in Storm's End, and continued Renly's lesson whenever the lad settled down. I'd be tougher on him but I was already happy the boy could be careless. His nightmares hadn't stopped yet but he was regaining much of his childhood.

I'd left Marcel Bower in charge of the castle, with Sebastion Errol as his second, and tried to instruct them to the best of my abilities. I didn't expect any innovations from them but even in the worst case scenario they'd procure me the raw supplies I wanted.

I was shaken from my contemplation when Orys rode up to me, “Stannis, there's a host of Stark and Tully men coming down the Kings road.”

Oh, this was somewhat annoying. I didn't expect to run into them any time soon. The plan was for me to meander my way across the western Stormlands, visiting Lord after Lord, and introducing myself to them. If Ned had come all this way though I couldn't afford to disregard him, or his army, and would be forced to share Robert's words with him. I had no doubt the man would urge me to race off to the capital with him.

And for all I knew Robert would hold me in Kings Landing for months, or even years, on end. That might be more than a little bit annoying. I silently vowed to myself that if that was the case...I'd start plundering the fuck out of Kings Landing.

There wouldn't be bribe small enough to be denied.

“Thank you, Orys. Send off a runner to them and let them know we're off to the capital.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

Orys was something else. My distantly related 'cousin' had been an amazing help over the past few months. Since the lad was a second son, if I had that right, I hopefully wouldn't hear any moaning or bitching from his parents. Even if they did...I'd arrange for some land for him. Sooner or later I would need actual ports. Who better than family to look after them?

I'd like to see them whine then.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

The men of my cohort and a half busied themselves digging latrines once they were done ringing our little camp with stakes embedded obliquely into the ground. I was well aware of the optics involved. There was a slight chance that Ned Stark and Bryden Blackfish might take offense I wouldn't camp with their troops.

Fuck that.

I've seen the state of their encampment. Troops pissing and shitting a mere dozen yards away from where their food is prepared. Water seemed to be collected from downstream their camp. It was a miracle cholera hasn't taken the lot of them. I had no intention of subjecting my men any of that. Instead we set up our camp a quarter mile, upstream from the small brook, and hopefully secure from the festering petri dish of disease called the combined Stark and Tully host.

Orys and myself, and our contingent of cavalry, rode to meet with Stark. Renly was to be kept in the camp, surrounded by my men, as safe as possible. There wasn't much risk involved, the Kingswood marauders having long since been dealt with, but there was no need to be overconfident. The little lad was quite irreplaceable.

All the information I had pointed to Stark being a thoroughly honorable man with a knack for warfare. The man, and his host of men, came crashing down from the Neck and toppled the entire power structure of an empire. Whatever I thought of him I desperately wanted him sweet on me. The Ned Stark seal of approval would carry quite the weight with Bobby B, I hoped.

My first impression, when I laid eyes on him, was that he looked just like Jon Snow. Albeit a fair bit more muscled. Stark was flanked by Bolton, Umber, Reed and a few Riverlords. The most prominent of which being Ser Brynden Blackfish. Brother to Lord Hoster Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and by far the most accomplished of the men gathered. His deeds in the Ninepenny wars were the stuff of legends.

So, when after the introductions went smoothly and we were welcomed into the Stark tent, I was taken aback by the man's fixation upon myself.

“Drink with us, young Stalwart Stag, and tell us how you managed to make our armies goal pointless.”

Stalwart Stag...

I knew I should have preemptively arranged for a better nickname. There was very little I could do about it now though. Not that it was all that offensive to me but it didn't exactly evoke the most magnificent of pictures.

I made sure none of my dismay reached my facial expressions and replied, “Stalwart Stag? Is that what people are calling me now, Blackfish?”

The redhead, with more than a few sprinkles of gray, threw back his head and laughed loudly. His bellows were echoed by most of the other Lords and even Stark had a small smile on his face, “Am I the first one to call you that? How do your men name you?”

Oh, this was an easy one.

I smiled and said, “They call me Stannis.”

Orys just lost it, then and there. His laughter set off my own men and I couldn't help myself. I joined in with them. Until Lord Bolton cut in with his soft, but utterly dread inspiring, tone of voice.

“A tad presumptive, would you say, Lord Stannis?”

Oh, what a cunt. Perhaps he simply didn't know I was the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands but by addressing me like a second son I couldn't quite call him out on it. Especially not after sharing how I give my men leave to call me that.

I turned to Bolton, didn't let my smile slip, and shrugged, “Once your men kill a few hundred other men for you, each, it really doesn't matter what they call you.”

Meryn Buckler raised his flagon of wine high into the air, stomped his feet on the ground, and said, “You should have seen all of us when we sallied forth out of the gates to plunder the Flower's camp. When it was time to make our presence known everyone, from smallfolk to Ser Balon over there, chanted with us. Stan-nis! Stan-nis!”

Immediately followed by Orys Bollin, Marius Heston and Balon Swann, “Stan-nis! STAN-NIS!”

I didn't want to shut them down, not in front of these 'foreign' Lords, so instead I just gestured for Meryn's wine flagon. I swapped my mug of beer with his wine and took a deep gulp. By the time I was done the chanting had thankfully ceased.

Lord Bolton didn't seem impressed when he continued, “That seems like a bold claim to make.”

I could almost hear the rest of his words. 'For a boy lord'. Did he expect me to stutter and stammer out my indignation? Fuck him. I wasn't about to play his game.

I slowly raised a singular eyebrow, leaned a little towards him – invading his personal space - and asked him, “How so?”

There, lets put the onus on him.

To his credit he didn't move out of the way or offer any recriminations. Instead the bastard just held still and waited for me to break the awkward silence. I knew better than that and made damn sure to keep his gaze. I wasn't going to be the one who lost this, admittedly petty, staring game. We were in the Stormlands.

My Stormlands.

The Blackfish was the one to pierce through the awkwardness, “Did they?”

Orys replied first, “One parts of eight lay dead of the Flower's horde. They broke on walls and swords, good Ser.”

Slowly I let my smile grow wider as I kept up my gaze at the Leech Lord.

Meryn, more than a little tipsy, continued, “The funeral pyres for their dead stacked up the first gates of Storm's End!”

Now Stark finally spoke, “Did the Tyrells not want their remains returned to them?”

With a proper excuse to turn away I responded to Stark, “They took all the bodies they desired. I imagine they simply left their levies to rot.”

Before he could continue this line of questioning I posited my own question, “Now that there is no siege to lift you for, Lord Stark, will there be an attack on Dorne?”

Of course there wouldn't be but it wouldn't hurt presenting myself as an eager little warrior. Hopefully they'll draw the conclusion that I'm a young, and overeager, lordling ready to be educated by these experienced Lords.

Brynden spoke up first, “Why would there be? They're the last remaining holdouts. They'll go looking for the earliest and most convenient opportunity to surrender. If they know what's good for them.”

Which could be an army standing on their borders...

Stark took over, “Aye, we won't need to continue with pointless bloodshed. Jon Arryn will deal with them on behalf of His Grace, your brother.”

Ah, yes. I almost forgot I was his brother. I clamped down on the impulse to be sarcastic and just quieted down. Note to self; no antagonizing these powerful men. I let the conversation pass me by as I listened to the Lords bragging, laughing, and merrily passing their time. Occasionally I even spoke softly with Lord Bolton. At one point the subject was the defense of the Stoney Sept and Roose was oddly, intensely, staring at me.

Lord Malister said, “We were lucky that day. Had the Septons betrayed King Robert we all would have been undone.”

I wasn't as careful as I should have been. It just slipped out. So much for being seen as unthreatening.

“We were lucky Connington was unwilling to be a butcher.”

Sudden quiet around the table as all eyes were on me. Roose inched closer, with a disturbing little smile plastered on his face, and asked me, “Oh, do elaborate if you would?”

Crap. I might as well continue this.

I took a deep breath, a sip from my wine flagon, and replied, “He could have burned the whole settlement once he knew Robert was there and cut down everyone who attempted to escape the fires.”

Bolton laconically responded, “Efficient.”

I resolutely ignored the stares that the Blackfish and Stark were giving each other. The rest of the event was spent eating, drinking and being interrogated by this host of Lords. As long as Orys, and the others, understood that a pointed look from me meant they were giving away too much information I sat put through it all. Once it was clear that Meryn couldn't quite contain himself I excused myself, claiming I needed to see to Renly.

When we stood up Ned asked, “I would like to walk with you, Stannis.”

It took a few hours of drinking, not very heavily on my part, but the man finally seemed to relax around me. I had since acquired his 'permission' to call him Ned and in turn I insisted he do the same. Curiously, he did actually call me Ned once and it was hilarious.

“Of course, Ned.”

My small retinue of lordlings swayed and half stumbled their way across the camp while Ned and I slowly followed them. When they'd moved far ahead of us Ned finally spoke.

“I do not envy your position, Stannis. Soon you'll be in King's Landing, as the brother of the King, and you'll find yourself at the center of its...politics.”

How did he expect me to react to that? I opted to stay quiet and nod.

Ned sighed deeply, “Robert...has a lot of pressure on his shoulders. He'll be dragged from one end to another as everyone attempts to maneuver him to their desires. I fear for him, Stannis.”

Ah.

Still, it's best to stay in character. Be the oddly bloodthirsty, but naïve, young little lordling.

“He'll have Jon Arryn and everyone who fought with him, Ned. I'm not too worried.”

The silence stretched on, until we made it to the edge of his camp, when Ned spoke up again, “I hope you're right, I truly do, but just in case. Be careful and don't judge him too harshly.”

Like he did? What exactly was he warning me about?

I smiled at him, locked forearms with him, and said, “Thank you, Ned. I'll keep it in mind.”

Now I had him alone, away from all other eyes, I thought I might as well get his take on something. While Ned, despite his best intentions, probably didn't have any sage words for me that could help with courtly politics...he was truly well respected and liked by his vassals.

I might need that. So when he let go of my forearm, I kept a grip on his.

“If you don't mind, Ned. I'd like your advise on some that has been weighing on my mind.”

I let go of his arm when he replied, “Of course, ask and you shall have it, Stannis.”

I took a deep breath and asked, “When Robert called the banner only half the Stormlands rose for him. Like in the Vale, and Lord Arryn did, he had to bend a few banner-men to his cause.”

Ned nodded and I continued, “There are still a few others that never truly responded. Griffin's Roost for example still sided with the Targaryens, as did a handful other Lords, after Robert left. Do you have any suggestions on how to deal with them?”

He was silent for a moment before he responded, “My father had little troubles with his vassals, as did my grandfather, but his grandfather before him dealt with a similar situation.” Another few moments passed, “He called them all to his court and questioned them on their worries. On their hopes and dreams for their families and lands. He proved solutions for their woes and addressed their hopes.”

Alright, that seemed fair enough. I was about to thank him and turn to my camp when he continued.

“The first banner-men that was still intransigent was destroyed. His land distributed among his neighbors and his daughters married off to them. He used the destruction of that family to bind all the others closer to House Stark.”

Ned inclined his head towards and just before he walked off he said, “House Stark still benefits from that. Take it as you will, Stannis. I wish you the very best.”

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

Our trip to King's Landing slowed down significantly after we hooked up with the Stark and Tully host. Eddard Stark had together with a few of his banner-men took off, being rather cagey about their destination, and I deliberately didn't inquire about their plans. There was simply no way I would benefit from knowing how this Jon situation might unfold. The Blackfish was put in charge of army as they slowly made their way to King's Landing, and afterward straight through to the Riverlands and the North, and he was taking his sweet time.

Since it would be rather impolite of me to charge on ahead, and not to mention skip an opportunity to get to know a bunch of powerful lords, I made my cohorts slow down. Even slower than we were moving before that is. My men weren't exactly weak, not anymore, but I took care not to risk all of our recoveries. I wanted them well rested and fed.

Besides, it gave me time to sketch out dozens of ideas with Maester Cressen. The man was incredibly helpful. I expected having to cajole him into brainstorming solutions with me but he proved an adept hand at translating my ideas to workable designs. We spoke of seed drills, and their mechanic threshers, and how we could work them up. Cressen was rather taken with the idea of consistent seeding, depth and width, and ventured we might be able to increase the productivity of my lands by a factor of four.

If my professors from my earlier life were to be trusted, though, we'd be looking at increases by factors of eight, at the least. All for the low, low price of a pair of connected tubes with well placed holes and a delivery mechanism.

It wasn't the only thing we spoke of.

From what I gathered, and was able to guesstimate from various maps, the Stormlands were about the size of France with the Low Countries attached to it. Unlike France however we didn't have ridiculously fertile soil. There was a great patch of farmland to the north east of Storm's End, my own fiefdom, and most of the other arable lands were found around the coasts up to Haystack hall. Further inland there was a magnificent stretch of land in Tumbleton, several key fields around Summerhall, and a fair amount of productive land south around Stonehelm at the Dornish Sea.

The rest of the lands were either in use by vast herds of sheep, cattle and even a few wild horses. I couldn't quite work out to how better make use of them but I was certain something would come up.

That still left the mountainous areas, that Donal assured me were resource rich in minerals, and already had a decent mining operation going. Griffin's Roost was one of the main exporters of raw material in the Stormlands and now it stood empty...I had no intention of filling the vacancy. Much like Summerhall, which stood abandoned by the Targaryens for decades now, it was going to be a de facto fiefdom managed by my appointees.

“I see, Stannis. The paddle provides the movement to spin the wheel and the filter further spins, compresses and twists, the yarns together. It's quite the marvelous design but what happens when you've run out of cotton? Do you have another clever idea to produce more cotton?”

Oh, I know this. It's on the tip of my tongue.

God damn it. I didn't remember what a cotton gin looked like.

“Hmm, find me a hand roller, Cressen. I'll think on it once I've seen the mechanism.”

I really should have paid more attention to my professors droning on about the industrial revolution. But noooo, Rome was much more interesting. Of course, there were interesting bits. The steam engine for one was something that greatly excited me.

I had no interest of starting on that, or even risking the designs getting out, before I can comfortably return to Storm's End. This land wasn't like fractured Europe. If some well connecting Lord saw them he could simply force his people to use the technology. Damn their concerns. The moment I'd roll out steam engines was after I'd prepared the Stormlands to take advantage of them. Until then waterwheels would have to be my manpower multiplier.

Which left my final, and most lucrative, potential industry. Steel production. I didn't know much about it. I knew that simply melted and shaped iron was almost completely useless. I knew there was a way to use carbon, charcoal and something else I could vaguely recollect, to make stronger iron. I should have asked Donal but there's no harm in interviewing a few smiths in King's Landing.

“Stannis?”

Cressen shook me from my thoughts, “Yes?”

“What if we swap out the small horizontal filter for a larger vertical one?”

Uhm, I wasn't sure what he meant.

“Sketch it out, please. I'll follow along better then.”

“Aye, Stannis.”

While he did just that I searched the crevices of my mind for the recipe for concrete. Water, clay, something and something else. Yeah, that didn't get me very far. That was almost as bad as my recollections on glass production. Water, sand and heat. And...something else.

Experimenting it is then...

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

I'd gathered up my retinue of knights and lordlings. Decisions needed to be made now that King's Landing was almost in sight. I was keenly aware that some of my men, Ser Balon Swann for instance, managed to jump from sinking ship to sinking ship in the original timeline. While I didn't want to judge him overly harshly for saving his own skin...it was something to keep in mind.

How far could I trust them?

Especially in King's Landing. Best to keep things simple at first.

“Tomorrow we'll be arriving in King's Landing, men. A viler mixture of corruption, self aggrandizement, and posturing you will never see the likes of again.”

I kept a firm gaze on all of them. Meryn looked like he thought this was still a big adventure. Orys slowly nodded his understanding and Balon followed suit. Marius Heston, too, seemed to understand this wasn't a joke.

“You're all men attached to the brothers of the King. They...I don't know who they are but trust me. They will attempt to go through you to get to me. And through me, and little Renly, to my brother. It is imperative you trust nobody but us.”

That went over a lot better. Their muted consent came quickly.

“If they, whoever they may be, ask questions be mindful. If someone attempts to get you to act, warn me. If someone tries to bribe you, accept with a smile, and most importantly tell me. Understood?”

A chorus of, “Aye, Stannis.”

This last part might be more difficult, “Don't accept whores hired by strangers. Find your own. Do not visit the same tavern two days in a row. Assume people are watching you at all times and remember you represent not only your own Houses but also House Baratheon.”

Now, just to take the bite out of it. I smiled a wicked little grin and said, “Of course, if someone troubles you, stand up for yourselves but remember that we only have three hundred men with us.”

Marius matched my smirk and replied, “So you're saying we should kill them quickly and hide the bodies?”

I let them all snort, joined in with their burst of laughter, and continued, “No, you need to chop up the body in tiny little piece and throw it in the Blackwater Bay.”

Marius, and Orys, were the only ones to laugh with me then. Time to re-calibrate.

“Like I said, people will try to go through us to get to my brother. Let's make it as hard as possible for them.”

Another chorus of, “Aye, Stannis.”

All but Marius dispersed to the mission I'd sent them on. The second son of House Herston stared at me for a good long while before he spoke up.

“They seemed rather squeamish on the subject of inflicting premeditated death, Stannis. Surely we'll be faced with enemies that would be easiest dealt with by poking holes in them?”

I returned his gaze calmly and said, “No truer words have ever been spoken, Marius. Inevitably we'll come across someone intransigent enough and then we'll have precious few alternatives.”

Another short moment of silence before Marius said, “You can count on me, my Lord.”

His smile grew a tad sharper, “And I imagine Hugo wouldn't be all that adverse to it either.”

I didn't respond beyond returning his smile. A little while later I asked him, “You don't have to call me that, Marius. You know that.”

The Herston lordling nodded firmly but said, “I am aware but when we speak of these subjects I prefer to think of you as my liege lord.”

That was fair enough.

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

I'd sent Meryn, Balon and Orys off with a fourth of my men. They were to race ahead to King's Landing, swap out the gold I gave them for pieces of silver, and meet us back at the gates after spreading the word the brother of the King was coming. I was tickled pink I was organizing my own, admittedly very small scale, triumph through the streets of the capital. Making an entrance that way would set the cities tongues wagging while I met with Robert.

“Renly, do you remember what I told you?”

The littlest Baratheon was in an uncharacteristic mood ever since our last few conversations. I'd impressed upon the boy, or at least I hoped I did, the value of family in a city such as King's Landing. I'd asked him, over and over, and he was growing somewhat tired of it. Considering he sat on my horse, just in front of me, he really had no where to go.

“Yes, Stannis. I'm not stupid!”

I brushed my hand through his head, he violently attempted to dislodge it, while I said, “Alright, repeat it little brother.”

Renly caught my gaze, still somewhat defiantly, “Trust nobody but Robert and Maester Cressen. Never eat unattended food or drink. Assume every smile has a hidden dagger behind it. If anyone says anything strange to me, or if I hear of something, I come tell you and Robert.”

The litany came swiftly, and considering the numerous time I insisted he repeat it I didn't wonder at his chagrin, “Good man, Renly. Stay close, little brother, and smile to the crowd.”

Our small procession neared the gates when Renly spoke up again, “If I have to smile for the crowd, Stannis...what is my hidden dagger?”

I pulled him closer with one arm and whispered in his ear, “Your hidden dagger is knowing that what they see isn't the truth, little brother.”

He looked up at me, frowning, but I continued, “They will see an adorable little boy but you're far more than that.”

His confusion grew palpable but I marched on, “You're the littlest of the Baratheons, true, but you'll match your brothers, Renly. You'll be as strong as Robert and as clever as me.”

I drew him in even closer, “That's your hidden dagger, Renly. Play to what people want to see, so they won't know what magnificence lurks inside of you, little brother.”

Still confused, but with a large smile on his face, we moved through the gates. Meryn, and the others, had charged out to meet us, while the split cohort cleared the way for us. The pikemen pushed the gawkers off to the side so they wouldn't impede our procession.

The moment we passed through the gates, and honestly quite a bit before that, the stench of the city assaulted me. Even at its lowest Storm's End never stunk this badly. I hid my distaste and plastered a massive plastic smile on my face. Renly, unprompted – the wonderful lad -, waved at the gathered crowds as they cheered.

“Baratheon!”

“It's the brothers of the King!”

I waited until we passed the main road, and reached the first crossing, to do more than wave magnanimously at the crowds. When we were complete surrounded, but still cordoned off by our troops, I ordered Meryn to break open the chests of silver. The lad passed a handful to me, and to Renly, and we cheerfully threw them to the smallfolk enjoying the spectacle.

“Praise the Baratheons!”

“A hundred blessings for you, m'lords!”

Renly got into it and with great care made sure to distribute the coins fairly.

“No, Stannis, don't forget the people on the left!”

I laughed loudly at the boy, “You take care of them then, Renly.”

And I pushed the rest of my coins to him.

The crowd was loud, wild with enthusiasm, and I couldn't have been happier. When we got closer to the Red Keep we started running out of coins, and a combination of Renly's puppy dog eyes and my own reluctance to stop before we reached the Red Keep, I continued with several hundred golden Dragons. The gathered smallfolk grew more frenzied, and with a few cues of my men, continued with their loud yeers.

“Ba-ra-theon!”

“Ba-ra-theon!”

A few even yelled, “Stalwart Stag!”, but I didn't let that dim my enjoyment. I was going to find out who saddled me with that preposterous name.

They'd all best appreciate it. The next time I'd do this was after Robert, or better said Jon Arryn, got around to minting coins with my brother's face on them.

AN: Commentary and feedback is greatly appreciated!

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

The Red Keep was just as imposing as I, vaguely, recalled it was. Priceless pieces of decorations lined every wall. Great tapestries every you looked and the dragon motif was something you couldn't get away from. I'd left my men, put Orys in charge of them, and sent them off to find succor with the Red Keep's guards. I sincerely doubted anyone would give them a hard time.

Renly, Maester Cressen, and myself were taken by some nameless servant straight to Robert. I didn't forget his name out of some sort of deranged noble pride but I'd been too busy gawking at the decorations to pay any attention to him. Soon we'd walked over Robert's private chambers and found Ser Jaime Lannister on the guarding the massive doors.

As I didn't particularly want to deal with the man I mildly smiled at him, unbuckled my sword and threw it over at him a little too high, and watched him fumble the catch. With him distracted I didn't bother slowing down and walked through the doors without so much as a knock. The outer private rooms of the King were just as magnificent as the rest of the Red Keep. All opulence, decadence and more than a little bit of haughty posturing.

Robert was, oddly enough alone, and turned around at the sound of us barging through his doors. Renly did just as instructed and ran straight into Robert. The big burly man was, if at all possible, even bigger than Stannis remembered. Startling, but currently rather shocked, blue eyes were framed by dark Baratheon locks of hair. My brother had a massive frame, all around, and I couldn't help but think how out of place he looked with a small child hanging on to him.

“Robert!”

“Ah, there's the little bugger. I hear Stannis took good care of you.”

“Yes! He's sometimes tough but he's the best!”

“Oh, is he now!”, and then Renly screamed in delight as Robert swung him around for a few moments before the giant turned his attention to me.

“There you are, Stannis!”

“Good morning, Robert.”

He looked a little past me and continued, “And you brought Maester Cressen! You're a sight for sore eyes, old man! Come here!”

I nodded at Robert and stood aside for Cressen. The man stammered out a reply but even Robert was hardhearted enough make the man who taught him how to read kneel for him. From what Stannis recalls...that took quite some doing.

“Sit, sit, all of you.”

We gathered around one his hardwood tabled, sat down in delightfully comfortable chairs, and suffered some loss of hearing when Robert loudly yelled for wine. Not to be outdone I added my own touch to the order.

“And beer! Whoever Robert is yelling to! Lots and lots of beer!”

So far so good. The first few minutes were slightly tense with Robert asking questions and demanding answers. Especially concerning bits that I'd rather not have dragged up. Cressen heroically managed to distract him for a little while reminiscing on the past but eventually Robert turned back to me.

“So this business with you capturing Mace, Stannis. I've heard they story, lets hear yours!”

I was keenly aware of all three's intent gazing at me as I cleared my throat, “Do you want to hear what really happened? Or what I'll make sure the realm hears all about?”

Robert looked at me funny but snorted before he said, “Lets have both.”

I nodded at the burly man and said, “Alright. We were starving, almost ran out of rats to eat, so I fabricated a situation where I could grab the Fat Flower.”

I smiled a little wider when I continued, “I thought I could make his men send me supplies if they didn't want their Lord to starve along side us.”

The King looked a little apprehensive, perhaps even a touch sympathetic, so I barreled through, “It didn't work out that way. I made a distraction happen, threw a net over Mace, and dragged him behind my horse.”

Now Robert just laughed, and laughed, with even Cressen having a small smile on his face.

“Oh, what a sight that must have been.”

I frowned a little bit before I replied, “One his men reacted quickly and cut the line dragging Mace. So I had to turn my horse around and charge his would-be rescuers.” For dramatic purpose I fell silent for a few heartbeats, “I was outnumbered but I kept them off the Fat Flower long enough for my men to counter charge and my artillery to disperse the Tyrell guards.”

The word came out before I consciously considered it.

“Artillery?”

Oh, crap.

I just smiled wider, “A nickname, never mind it. I'm talking about the massively oversized-.” What was the word they used for ballistae again? Oh yeah, “-scorpions I placed over the gates and the on the walls.”

“What kind of shite nickname is that?”

I simply shrugged.

“Whats the other fancy interpretation of yours then?”

This is it.

“Dirty, dirty treason from the Hightowers. It was all a ploy you see... to leave their Lord Paramount, with his litter of half Hightower children, to the not so tender mercies of starving Stormlords.”

This got the big burly King laughing again. I sent off a silent prayer to whatever deity was in my corner and waited for Robert to make another move.

Another loud snort, “A likely story, Stannis.”

I shrugged again, “Then why did the Hightowers throw Tyrell levy after Tyrell levy at our walls? The dead stacked up high beneath the heavy walls of Storm's End, brother, but only after we took Mace.”

I flashed my eyebrows at him, raising them up and down twice, before continuing, “Curiously they stopped attacking right after we sallied out and grabbed ourselves a handful of their precious Hightower lordlings.”

Maybe it was just me but I still found that hilarious. I started laughing on my own but soon my drinking buddies, even little Renly – you can't exactly call Robert a beacon of responsibility -, joined in and I didn't feel so weird. After another few moments the King told Cressen to set up somewhere, and find Renly his own rooms, and I decided not to mentioned I'd prefer to keep the little bugger close. There weren't any real threats out against and maybe I was growing paranoid but this is King's Landing. Once they left Robert brought out, or more correctly yelled for more booze, and we started drinking in earnest.

In a booming voice Robert bit out, “You can't be serious, Stannis! Match me drink for drink! You look like you'll collapse if I poke you too hard!”

Wow, way to be sensitive to the brother who starved himself for you. God damn, it was getting clearer and clearer that I would have to do a lot of swallowing my feelings. I kept the dismay clear from my expression and just flatly stared at him.

I shrugged and said, “Less talk, more drink, big man. We'll see who passes out under the table, first.”

Another loud booming laugh before he replied, “Good gods, Stannis. Time was that you would have puckered up and nursed your wounded pride. You always were a little prickly.”

Again I shrugged, it felt like I was doing nothing but, and bit out, “I grew out of it, I guess. Somewhere around the time I learned something important about myself.”

Robert took a deep fucking gulp, I matched him with an equally deep sip of beer, and he said, “What would that be?”

I waited deliberately for him to take another deep gulp before I replied, “That I'm apparently really fucking good at killing.”

I was well rewarded. Robert snorted loudly, wine sprayed around everywhere, and the man started hiccuping as he attempted to laugh. The rest of the night went pretty well, from what I can vaguely remember, and I thought that things might just all work out in the end. We swapped war stories, where I acted remarkably impressed by his victories, and Robert in turn grudgingly admitted that turning away sixty thousand men wasn't all that bad.

Good times.

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

The next morning I woke up, with my sword on my chest, in an utterly luxurious room. My head felt like it was on the verge of exploding and I really only had myself to blame. And Robert. Him I blamed out of sheer spite. I took a long moment to compose myself, shuffled over to the door and stuck my head out, and yelled for someone to attend to me.

Normally I'm not this entitled but I felt like I was wading through exceptionally thick mud while my face was stuffed with cotton. Everything was muted, or the opposite whenever my hangover felt like fucking with me, and I desperately gulped down the water next to my bed. I shouldn't have mixed beer and wine.

Two knocks at the door.

“Come in.”

A serving lady appeared and asked me what I wanted.

“Some hair of the dog, women. And eggs.”

I tried to fall back asleep but the serving lady didn't leave my room, “I'm sorry, m'lord, but do you want me to shave a dog for you?”

What? Didn't they have that saying here?

I mumbled, “Just get me a flagon of wine, girl. And hurry it along.”

A little over an hour later I felt much better as I was summoned by Jon Arryn. The Hand of the King wanted me to come see him in his shiny tower. His small pageboy, I really should inquire into his name later, assured me he'd wait around for me as I got dressed. This only after I, loudly and perhaps slightly too curtly, told him that I didn't need his help putting on pants. I took a few minutes to finish getting dressed and followed the lad over to the Tower of the Hand.

We walked passed Ser Jaime, I nodded at him, and the man bit out, “Are you going to throw another sword at me, Lord Stannis?”

I couldn't contain my sort, “Nah, not today, Ser Jaime. Perhaps I'll come looking for you later.”

I probably shouldn't poke at one of the most, personally, dangerous men in Westeros but I couldn't help it. The man was just too pretty and I wasn't taking it very well. I shook off my shameful thoughts when I reached the Hand's Office and was told by the page I could walk right in.

“Ah, Lord Stannis. I wanted to come see you but you've been locked in with Robert all night.”

I tried to muster a smile but probably didn't succeed all that well.

“I see that he's kept you...busy." The Old Falcon shrugged and said, "Fair enough, you've been separated for quite a while.”

“It was quite something indeed. Where does Robert keep all that drink?”

Jon's eyes glittered with mirth when he replied, “Our august King has many talents, Stannis.”

Which was probably polite for; a drunkard on the throne isn't the worst thing in the world. Perhaps I was being too uncharitable. Either way...I was curious why the man called for me.

Lord Arryn cleared his throat and said, “I called for you, my boy, because I'd like to go over a few concerns with you.”

Was I his boy now? Was this a transparent ploy or did Arryn really think that because he raised Robert he has a claim, however small, on me? Should I just smile and politely move along?

Or was he trying to infantilize me?

I was too hungover for this shit.

The Lord Hand continued, “Your accomplishments were impressive enough, Stannis but there were some concerns that your measures have not gone far enough.”

Oh.

Was this bad or good?

“Don't look so worried, my boy. It was nothing we couldn't fix. We've had contact with Highgarden via raven and hammered out some additional terms. Getting the Tyrells a stake in the stability of the kingdom was well done, Stannis. Leaving them their Lord Paramount-ship was to be expected but we arranged for you to carry the responsibilities of Warden of the South.”

Oh, shit. I read that but the implications didn't hit me properly. That was...traditionally a Tyrell position.

I just nodded but some of my confusion must have leaked through as Arryn elaborated, “The Warden of the South is responsible for maintaining order in the Soutern most realms, Stannis. In times of peace the Princes of Dorne, the Lords of the Reach and the Lords of the Stormlands can all call on you to arbitrate their grievances. In times of war you ensure our southernmost coast lines are secure from foreign invasion.”

The man stared at me pointedly, “In civil wars the title means virtually nothing.”

That...made a lot of sense.

“Alright, I'll have more questions later, my Lord Arryn. Was there something else as well?”

The old man smiled widely and replied, “Oh, do call me Jon. And you're right. There are some other issues. Robert was...most put out when he heard of the attempt on Renly's life. I tried to sway him from this course but he seems rather set.”

Oh, god. What was coming now?

The Old Falcon got up, moved to the large but slightly damaged map of Westeros on the wall, and gestured for me to follow him. I got up, braved the slight dizziness, and attempted to focus on where he pointed.

“Robert feels the Reach, if not the Tyrells personally, should be somewhat diminished. He intends to annex several key Reach territories that would be brought over under Crownland authority. Starting from the very lowest point off to Silverhill down to just off Fawnton will be loudly, and insistently, asked to come swear fealty in King's Landing. While I thought that would have been harsh enough Robert insisted you should be allowed a piece of the proverbial...spoils.”

Was it my hangover talking or did this sound really good.

Arryn coughed and drew a line on the map. I struggled to contain my rush euphoria and it's company dizzying nausea. He was giving me a spectacularslice of the Reach. The area starting from just under Bitterbridge, containing Longtable, Grassy Vale, and Ashford. Oddly Jon drew the line at Cider Hall which would remain firmly in the Reach. It stood across the point where two rivers met and was thus the largest city in that entire area.

Huh.

Something was off here but I couldn't twig to it.

Slightly warily I asked, “That sounds like a...great deal of annexxing.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, “Are you implying you're not up to this?”

God damn it. He's pushing my buttons. I know he's pushing my buttons but its still working. I tried to focus on the issue. Arryn was fusing a large section of the Reach, around a fifth if I guessed right, on to the Crownlands and my own Stormlands. He seems oddly insistent I take up this vast bounty.

What am I missing?

All I could think to do was push back.

I narrowed my eyes at him, a stab of pain lanced through my mind, and I bit out, “I want full rights to exploit the King's Wood.”

Now Jon narrowed his eyes as well, “Son, you're already getting a lot. You may be His Grace's brother but you can't have everything you desire.”

I stayed quiet, for a given value of quiet with the ruckus in my head, waiting him out. I walked back to the chair, picked up a glass of water on the way, and slowly sipped from it. From the corner of my eye I could feel Arryn staring at me but I paid him no mind.

Either something was happening or I was being paranoid and looking an exceptionally valuable gift horse in the mouth. If he bends now I'm definitely right though. There's some fuckery afoot.

Or...

I'm being an ungrateful little shit. Eh, I'll blame it on the hangover. Moments stretched long before Arryn sighed deeply, “Fine, Lord Stannis. You've insisted on pushing an old man around. Congratulations. I'm sure you're making Robert all kinds of proud.”

What.

He broke.

No. This was Jon Arryn. The man who glued Westeros back together. I was right. I'm being fucked and I can't see how. I caught Jon's gaze and stared intently at the man. I could perceive...nothing.

Crap.

Fuck this, lets try another push. What's he gonna do me, realistically, if I overstep my bounds?

I narrowed my eyes at the old man, suffered through another streak of pain but bravely surpressed the flinch, and softly said, “And I want Royal assistance to tie these new communities together with roads.” He wasn't growing red, didn't flinch, and gave pretty much nothing away in the heartbeat I fell silent. I immediately continued, “And of course funds for repairing Storm's End for the damage done by the Flowers.”

Ah, there was a tick.

All this and I still didn't know what was happening. I needed to get out. I didn't wait for a reply, downed the rest of the water, and walked out of the room.

Arryn didn't call me back.

Yep, I was somehow getting fucked.

Welcome to King's Landing. Here...have an obviously poisoned gift you're too stupid to refuse.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

I felt much better after returning to my comfortable bed for a long nap. I woke again just before lunch and immediately drained every last drop of water in my vicinity. With the worst of my pounding headache gone I felt like I could think again. The whole meeting with Jon was surreal and I couldn't quite believe he was planning on chewing such a great gaping bite out of the Reach. Three large Lordships would full under my sway with Robert taking in another couple in his Crownlands.

What did this mean for me?

Now I'd be stuck with a significant amount of Reachmen in the Stormlands. There was no way that would go smoothly. If the Reach wouldn't rise in anger there was still all the silent sabotage they could inflict on me. Taxes might not get delivered, I'd get stuck in border dispute after border dispute, and a whole host of other annoyances. I could already see all the minor Lords petitioning me for thousands of different matters that their own overlords never granted them.

I needed to talk to Cressen.

The moment I left my rooms, which I found out were Rhaegars old rooms, I was beset by a familiar face. Ser Aemon Estermont, a cousin from my mother's side of the family, walked up to me.

“Good afternoon, my Lord Stannis, and congratulations on your ascension.”

I nodded, immediately regretted that, and attempted to plaster a smile on my face, “Thank you, you're most kind, and likewise, Ser Aemon. How have you been, cousin?”

Aemon smiled widely and said, “Rather well, cousin Stannis. It was an exiting few months. For all of us I gather.”

I gestured for him to follow me and replied, “Indeed, I imagine there will be plenty of songs played in taverns all around the Realm.”

There was a bit of small talk, with Aemon reminiscing about trips to Storm's End, and me inquiring about the state of Estermont island. It was all very pleasant but I was still acutely aware that Aemon had searched me out for something. God knows how long he waited around for me to leave my rooms.

“I must congratulate you again, Stannis. If the rumors being bandied around in town have much truth to them the Stormlands will greatly benefit from this war.”

Would we?

All I could see was a god awful amount of time wasted dealing with Lords that had been loyal to their old masters for centuries. Even if I pacified them...I wouldn't be able to rely on them. Best case scenario they only truly fall in line after my heir takes over. Their intransigence would spell doom over everything I'd be trying to accomplish.

I asked Ser Aemon, “Tell me, cousin. Where did you hear this rumor?”

Was Jon spreading it himself? Did Robert belch it out some time ago? I desperately needed more information and hopefully Aemon would give me a decent start.

Oddly hesitant he stammered out, “U-hm, tongues are wagging everywhere, Stannis.”

Why was he dodging this? I could have pressed him on the subject but why raise his suspicions. I just nodded again, much more carefully now, and kept walking.

A few moments passed before I asked him, “What do you think, cousin? Will this truly be a boon?”

Aemon gave me a brittle smile when he replied, “I'd say that a weaker Reach might benefit the Stormlands. And of course the new lands attached to the Stormlands would bring in quite the revenue.”

Well, isn't that a case of damning with faint praise. Was he just reluctant of speaking his mind to me? Did I give our any airs that worry him? Still, I wondered what he wanted from me.

“Thank you, Aemon. Your opinion is much appreciated, cousin.”

His smile grew even more brittle and he sounded like something was caught in his throat. I kept us heading towards Maester Cressen's rooms and decided to remain quiet. Lets see if he speaks up again.

A little while later he did just that, “I wanted to ask something of you, cousin.”

Ah, here it came.

“Yes?”

A beat of silence before he continued, “The majority of the Stormland forces are still scattered in King's Landing, and it's surroundings, but a delegation came to the Hand yesterday.”

Oh.

Of course, Arryn was involved.

“We were informed that we should stick around, for at least another week or two, and our petition to returns to our lands was denied.”

Or perhaps not. I knew this all somehow tied into what was being planned by Jon. I still couldn't quite figure out how it all came together. We'd almost reached Maester Cressen's room when Aemon finally got to the point.

“Our grandfather is a very sickly man, nowadays Stannis. I was hoping to prevail on you so I could send my younger brother home. I worry deeply, cousin.”

I couldn't decide anything on this and I certainly didn't want to promise anything I couldn't back up. Instead I just attempted to smile at him again and promised I'd ask Arryn about it. Ser Aemon bid me adieu and I barged into Cressen's office. I found the man bent over a desk sketching out something I couldn't make out.

“Good afternoon, Stannis.”

He tried to get out of his chair but I waved him down, “Hello, Cressen. I need a moment of your time. Please, stay seated.”

I pulled out another chair and pushed it closer to the old man. Once I sat down I leaned in towards him and told him everything that had happened. The plan to carve large bites out of the Reach, the division between the lands going to the Crownlands and to me, and finally the strange conversation with Ser Aemon. I mentioned his words on the state of the Baratheon forces and the denied petition of theirs to go home yet.

“Most worrying, Stannis. I fear a greater game is in play here.”

Yeah, I got to that point.

“Indeed, and it frustrates me that I don't see it.”

Cressen played with his beard while he fell silent for a while. After a few minutes passed the man turned to me, stared intently at me, and said, “Let us attempt to get to the bottom of this matter by thinking through the consequences.”

That was fine with me. We discussed the various ways this reorganizing could backfire. The Reach might not take it laying down. The various Lords involved might resist, in whichever capacity they could sustain, and bleed my realm dry of funds and men.

We spoke about the perceptions this would have on the rest of the realm, how Dorne might resist till the bitter end if they're faced with similar demands, and the near certainty that whatever peace was setttled would not last very long.

“I imagine there will be a vocal, or otherwise, protestations even with the Tyrell marriage, my Lord. A single moment of weakness would be all it takes for the Reach to attempt to regain their losses.”

Cressen's picture was bleaker than my own but I was inclined to follow him on the subject. The new status quo would likely not be sustainable.

“In that light, m-Stannis, let us assume that what see and have heard are not what will come to pass.”

Wait, what is he implying?

I didn't want there to be any misunderstandings here, “Could you elaborate?”

Cressen peered at me strangely when he replied, “Perhaps it is best if you give this some thought, my Lord. If this plot of the Hand isn't what it seems to be...what could it be?”

Oh great, he's going Socratic on me. Still, he's right. I needed to get a handle on this twisty thinking.

Hmm, “Rumors got around King's Landing. The plan was in play from at least yesterday if not sooner. Let's assume that Jon Arryn doesn't want to drown us all in more blood. What possible benefit could he extract from this situation?”

A few ideas came up. Perhaps this was a smokescreen and he's planning something else. I thought about it some more and thought I was being lazy. Of course it was a smokescreen. The question was what was it distracting from? Or perhaps it wasn't a distraction so much as diplomatic cover? Cressen was nodding along and then it hit me.

“Wait! I can't prove it but this might fit. What if Arryn spread the rumors, or encouraged them to spread, but then he says something else in private to the Tyrells. They'd have a hard time denying him if they are constantly bombarded with speculations they might lose a third of the Reach.”

Now the old Maester smiled widely.

“A fair observation, Stannis, but I fear we've come to end our theorizing could bring us. Without more information, and knowing what is the next priority of the King's, we'd be building our guesses on speculation.”

I returned his smile, “A fairly unreliable foundation.”

“Indeed.”

Another thought struck me. I knew what they were going to do. Robert, in the original timeline, would order Stannis to build him a fleet. At the same time he had Jon sent overtures to the Dornish, and after the Targaryens escaped, the Hand himself visited their sandy shores.

Did they make the Tyrells pay for their fleet in the original timeline? Are they looking to pump even more funds out of them?

A knock on the door shook me from my contemplation. The same page from this morning walked in after knocking and delivered his message. I was to present myself at the Small Council in half an hour. And then the little bugger fucked off again. I'd find the way myself. This might confirm my theories. If I was saddled with the post of Master of Ships I'd know that Arryn played me. But why? Why tell me these things?

Why not just be straightforward with me? Why send, or perhaps Aemon came on his own, my cousin to me? All these questions and precious few answers. I bade Cressen goodbye and walked off to find the Small Council chambers.

Yet again I was beset by someone.

“My Lord Stannis, might I impose upon you for a moment?”

I didn't recognize the young man in front of me but his coat of arms, and azure colors, told me it was a Redwyne. What the fuck would they want from me? Carefully keeping a neutral expression I asked him, “Perhaps you should introduce yourself, first.”

The youth blushed noticably and said, “I apologize, my Lord, I've had too many conflicting thoughts. My name is Ser Desmond Redwyne and my uncle, Lord Paxtor, sent me to you. I do hope you can spare a moment, my Lord.”

Huh, he's being very polite. Somehow I didn't really expect that from the Redwyne's.

“Very well, Ser Desmond. I do have to a Small Council meeting to present myself to, so please hurry.”

A massive smile erupted on his face when he replied, “My uncle knew you would be well placed to assuage his concerns! I will be quick. There's the most disturbing rumors floating around, rumors that my Lord Paxton believes to be honestly considered, despite their most preposterous nature!”

Oh boy.

“I'll be frank, my Lord. Is there any truth to the notion that half the Reach will be sundered from the other half?”

How do I respond to this? I needed more information.

I returned his smile and asked, “Might I ask, have you asked the Hand? Surely he would know?”

The boy shook his head fervently, “No, my Lord. I tried but I was told he wouldn't see anyone until after the Small Council meeting. One of his men let slip that you might know more, since you had a meeting with him this morning.”

Oh, wow. Oh, good lord. Jon you magnificent bastard. Now, do I play my part? Or do I turn this back on him? Lets try a little of both.

“Well, Ser Desmond. This morning the Lord Hand did indeed mention the possibility of ...rearranging the Reach. I imagine the subject would be discussed today.”

His eyes nearly bulged out his head, “Oh dear merciful gods. I must inform my uncle!”

He turned but before he got very far I called out to him, “Wait a moment.” The young man returned, still looking faintly frantic, “Please convey to your uncle that I will do my utmost to minimize the damage, Ser Desmond. I have no intention of standing by idly. Not when I'm soon to be married to a Lady of the Reach.”

I almost felt bad for him when pure, and utterly honest, relief came over him. The young lad thanked me profusely and sprinted off to god knows where. I made my way to the Small Council. The room itself wasn't all that inspiring, not when compared to the rest of the Red Keep, but it did have a certain something. Decisions have been made here that affected millions of lives.

I found Robert sitting at the head, looked utterly bored to tears, barely paying attention to someone whispering furiously in his ear. Arryn sat across from the massive table flanked by Varys and Ser Barristan. Pycelle, and his magnificent bear, sat off to the side of Robert. Only five advisors here. I assumed Varys was still Master of Whispers, Pycelle the representative of the Maesters, Barristan as Lord Commander of the King's Guard and someone I didn't recognize.

Arryn waved me over, “Ah, finally, young Stannis. Please have a seat. I'd like to introduce-”

Robert bellowed out, “Lets get this over with, this meeting is begun!”

The big burly King turned me to and bit out a laugh, “Hah, you look like shite Stannis.”

I chose not to respond to his barb. Instead I asked him, “Robert, what am I doing here?”

Jon attempted to speak but Robert loudly interrupted him again, “You're going to build me a navy, Stannis! A navy to snatch up those Dragonspawn little shits on Dragonstone.”

Oh, ok. I was marginally more secure in my predictions now.

Varys spoke up, “You don't look all that pleased, my Lord Stannis.”

Jon didn't quite defer to Varys as much as Robert, “Not now, Varys. Stannis, this is a formality, but will you accept the position of Master of Ships for the glory of His Grace?”

I narrowed my eyes at him and simply said, “Sure.”

Robert rounded on me, “Do try and hold your gratitude in, Stannis. I've only made you one of the seven most powerful men in the all of them Realm!”

I turned to Robert and shrugged, “Robert, I'll fall on my knees and thank you, praising you to the gods, if you gift me with a hundred whores. Dropping work on my plate merely gets the work done, brother.”

A moment of deep silence. Would he take it well? I felt noticeable relief when his booming laughter followed the silence.

Jon cut through it, “Well, since have a great deal to discuss. Let us begin with the subject already brought up by His Grace. We need a Royal Navy and I'd like to hear ideas on how to pay for it.”

Oh, Jon, you utter bastard.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

Jon cleared his throat and said, “Well, since have a great deal to discuss. Let us begin with the subject already brought up by His Grace. We need a Royal Navy and I'd like to hear ideas on how to pay for it.”

I was hesitant in speaking up first before I got a sense of all the personalities around this table. Lord Jon Arryn was a mystery and I still didn't know what his actual goals are. Adopting a wait and see approach was all I could think of on his front.

Robert is easily distracted and trying to get this over with as soon as possible. Hopefully simply presenting clear solutions, without anything complicating them, might do the trick to sway him. I'd keep this in mind as Robert's opinion is the one that matters most. And yet...I can't fully rely on him. My new older brother is, perhaps not whimsical, more than a little bit unsteady. I could easily see the last person whispering in his ear being the one to sway him.

Varys was another unknown but I didn't care to get to know. I'd arrange for his quick demise as soon as possible. Pycelle was another matter. I knew the man had proven himself to the Lannisters by betraying Aerys. I knew he was a Lannister man but perhaps I could sway him. Or at least threaten him more thoroughly than Tywin.

A thought for when the Old Lion leaves King's Landing.

Ser Barristan Selmy, still a fair bit incapacitated from his war wounds, was a touch more predictable. I had little doubt the man would offer much to this council. Perhaps a few words urging caution when things got off the rails but I didn't expect him to push through any agenda's. I'd need to check up on him after Robert's inherent laziness becomes common knowledge around here. Barristan might appreciate a strong arm guiding the realm.

The final man, the Master of Law, was so unknown to me I didn't even know his name. Robert had started the meeting before we could get past the introductions. Another one I'd have to observe to comprehend him.

Pycelle spoke first, “In my humble opinion, your Grace, I would suggest using Crown Funds for such an important expenditure. It would allow you the greatest amount of control over the end result, your Grace.”

Huh. Was the man buttering me up? Setting me up to fail after explaining that all the responsibilities of the fleet would fall on my still too skinny shoulders? Was I overreacting?

Varys responded, “I would add my support to that notion, your Grace. The Royal Navy must not be reliant on any other powers.”

Robert gruffly bit out, “What say you, Stannis?”

I let a small smile form and replied, “If we use the Crown Funds I can start immediately, Robert. Any other scheme would delay us until the gold start flowing in.”

Lets play on his urgent need to capture or as he put it 'deal with' the Dragonspawn. There was no real reason for me to buck the others on this. Not when everyone was still feeling the others out.

The King glanced over at his Hand, “Jon?”

The Old Falcon simply nodded and Robert almost snarled, “Then so it shall be. What's next?”

I could hear the impatience in his voice and with the added context provided by Stannis' memories I knew he wouldn't be able to sit still for much longer. Despite how much I wanted to use this meeting as my proverbial training wheels I couldn't justify not trying to push my own agenda before Robert's temper gets the best of him.

I cleared my throat, in clear imitation of the Hand, and said, “We must address the Tyrell, and by extention the Reach, question. Your Lord Hand told me you were eager to put them in their place, brother?”

I threw out that last bit on a whim. From the corner of my eye I kept an close watch on Jon, unfortunately his face gave nothing away, but Robert's mild confusion turning to glee answered all my questions. None of what the Old Falcon implied was true.

Would I always have to wonder whether Jon was truly delivering Robert's words? I'd have to chalk it up to a lesson learned.

“I want to do more than put them in their place! But I venture you lot would unite against me just to spoil my fun. So just tell me, Stannis, what do you have in mind?”

I looked straight into Robert's eyes and replied, “I suggest we make them pay, literally. Make them pay brother, in grain, to feed the teeming poor masses of King's Landing for as long as Baratheon holds the capital.”

Jon hawked in immediately and surprise was evident in his tone, “You want the Tyrells to feed the poor?”

I turned to the elderly politician and smiled sweetly, “The Baratheons aren't Targaryens, Lord Hand. The unfortunate masses of King's Landing have suffered long under the hands of the Dragons. Let them contrast and compare their reigns with our glorious Stag's Bounty and the generosity of King Robert Baratheon.”

Pycelle added his two cents, “While the cost would be staggering it is fitting that the Tyrells should spread their fabulously bountiful harvests around.”

Curious. So far the man has supported me twice now. Why would he? Is he expecting something from me? Should I foresee him attempting to get me alone after this meeting?

Varys however wasn't as cooperative, “And yet, much of King Robert's legitimacy comes from his, and your own Lord Stannis, Targaryen ancestry. Why set aside the symbols that united Westeros for centuries merely to entice the smallfolk of King's Landing?”

I could feel all their eyes on me.

Staring deep in Varys' vaguely purple eyes I responded, “Which symbols are we setting aside here, Lord Varys? You make it sound as if I'm suggesting we melt down the Iron Throne instead of portraying my brother's rule as one where the people won't have to suffer. Or is being a massive cunt to the people of King's Landing one of those Targaryen symbols you want to hold on to?”

Success. Robert snorted, Pycelle tittered and even the Master of Law coughed to hide his chuckle. Jon however was looking at me oddly. Maybe he was offended by my language.

Varys opened his mouth to reply but Robert cut him off, “Jon, what do you think?”

The Old Falcon just sighed and said, “I would not deny you your people chanting your name, your Grace.”

Robert snorted again, “You know me too well, old man, the Stag's Bounty indeed! It is done!”

I interjected, “And I imagine it will make recruiting for the Royal Navy a breeze.”

“Hah! Still...I want the Reach to really feel this.” The King rounded on to me and said, “Anything else in your sneaky mind, Stannis?”

It wasn't the time and place but I just had the startling realization that Robert hasn't called me, or the real Stannis, brother in a long fucking time. I shook that thought off to focus on his question.

I let a small smirk form when I replied, “Indeed there is. Have them put a bounty on the missing Targaryen's. Building a fleet takes months but spreading the word that anyone with a bit of rope can win a hundred thousand dragons only takes a moment. Not the mention the effect it would have on Dragonstone's morale that their old allies have not only thrown in with us but are actively aiding us to hunt the Dragonspawn.”

Varys responded immediately, “I would have to caution against that, my Lords. We would be inundated by Valyrian looking corpses when everyone and their dogs would attempt to collect that bounty!”

Jon joined in, “While I don't particularly approve of this scheme...I can see the benefits in forcibly cutting Targaryen loyalists off at the knees in the Reach.”

Robert loudly bellowed, “Done! If I only I could see their Dragonspawn faces when they find out their old allies put a bounty on their head!”

Was I peddling my brother's bloodlust to spin a 'light' punishment for the Reach? Sure. Did I feel bad about it? Not particularly. I thought I would...I guess that Robert doesn't tug at heartstrings as much as Renly does.

Ser Barristan Selmy spoke up, “My Lords, your Grace, I put forth the subject of the King's Guard. Currently there are five of us, your Grace, and I would argue we need two more.”

This was important and I had to jump on it. If I was lucky Pycelle would mention my proposition to his master. If I was really lucky Robert might actually listen to me. Unfortunately the Old Falcon got his say in first.

“I have a few suggestions to add to the King's Guard.”

Robert jumped in though, "The others haven't bent the knee yet, Barristan. I'll listen to your recommendations but we'll have to wait and see."

So...how do I swing this back to the Lannister. Arryn pushed a few names, some more than others, but most of them meant nothing to me. As long as he didn't put anyone from the Great Families, or the 'Second Greatest of each Realm', I had little issue with any of them. I briefly considered putting Balon Swann up but quickly decided I didn't want to lose his service. The man was an amazingly talented killer and currently he was all mine. Why would I share him?

“No suggestions from you Stannis?”

Oh, crap. I let myself get distracted.

“Nah, not really. If I had it my way I'd have a hundred Stormlanders surrounding you at all times.”

A lot more quietly I muttered, “Much like I have Renly.”

Oddly this got a big response from Robert in the way of a loud bellowing laugh. I braced myself for his scorn and getting called out for worrying but Robert surprised me.

“Will it sooth you if we get a Stormlanders on the King's Guard?”

I smiled widely at him, best to reward such attentiveness, and said, “Of course, brother. I'll go mingle with our men and send you the best of them.”

Pycelle smiled a watery smile, “A small tourney then?”

Robert jumped in on that immediately, “Yes! A tourney and we'll reward the best of the best! Stannis, make sure your Stormlanders are good enough to get through!”

Fuck!

God damn it, Pycelle. God damn you.

I just kept the smile plastered on my face, “Of course. Another point though. The Kingslayer, Robert. Will you keep him at your back?”

Barristan coughed and said, "If I could interject, my Lords. King's Guard appointees are for life. There is no precedent for removing King's Guard members."

Fuck that.

I didn't want to alienate Selmy but this was too much. I smiled at him and said, "And there was this slight taboo about killing King's as well. I don't know his reasons but I'd rather not have him with a sharp object in his hand standing over my brother!"

This darkened his mood significantly but he did respond, “You too, Stannis? Ned was on my back about it too.”

Before he could lose himself in a rant I interrupted him, “Ned has good judgment.”

Robert rounded on me, “How would you know?”

I simply shrugged and said, “I wouldn't, I only spoke with him a few hours, but all his men praise him to high heaven, brother. I'm inclined to trust his judgement. On quite a few subjects.”

With a bit more self aware than I credited my new brother with he bit out, “I'm not sure how much I like this budding friendship with Ned you have, Stannis.”

I snorted at him, “Oh, please brother. I can't even begin at estimating how much House Baratheon owes Ned Stark for keeping you in one piece all throughout your time in the Vale.”

Robert reddened slightly but Jon was the one to interject, “Surely I must have had some part in that, Stannis?”

I rolled my eyes at the old man and said, “Of course Lord Hand, but are you denying that Eddard might be the keeper of my brother's good sense?”

That, thankfully, amused the Old Falcon enough to chuckle and say, “I cannot truly deny that, your Grace. My apologies.”

Robert, seemingly having recovered, bit out, “Now we're all done picking on your King! What was your point?”

I cleared my throat again and said, “Lets just give the little Lion back to the Old Lion. Tywin will remember that and I have no doubt that keeping him on our side would be for the best, Robert.”

My brother stared at me for some time before he nodded, “I must think on this. Was there anything else? Because I'm not sure how much longer I can pretend to care about this.”

I couldn't help it. I just bellowed out a laugh, threw my head backward, and desperately tried to control myself.

Robert snarled, with an affronted tone to his voice, “What?!”

When I finally had a grip on myself, but still faintly laughing, I managed to respond, “Oh gods, I just had a vision of what the rest of my life will be like. You're going to dump all your work on me, aren't you Robert? Don't even pretend otherwise.”

My brother's expression cycled through many, many, different emotions before it settled on faintly smug, “Isn't that what skinny little brothers are for?”

And I thought, it might not be so bad.

AN: Feedback and commentary greatly appreciated!

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

The past week has been an exhausting one. I've suffered through meeting after meeting with what felt like half of King's Landing. From shipbuilders to rope-makers I've dealt with them all. Some were professional and fell into line immediately after I called upon them. Others attempted to gouge me for everything I had. I'd like to say I felt mildly ashamed of what followed but that emotion was curiously absent. More than a handful of men were whipped and chased out of the offices I had requisitioned. There was quite a bit of prime real estate ready for the taking and I gobbled up as much as I could. Any and all offices, shops and warehouses that I could reasonably claim were to be of service to me were mine now. Thank you Targaryen loyalists!

After that things proceeded much more smoothly.

Unfortunately I couldn't order the nobles to unilaterally do my bidding. Especially the Crownlanders I was forced to rely on to build the first of my ships. House Bar Emmon of Sharpe Point hemmed and hawed about the price I was willing to pay and the length of time they promised they couldn't beat. Not without other considerations, as they put it.

I smiled at their elderly representative and told him I'd consider it. I didn't have very high hopes for a cooperating with the Bar Emmon's. They were wealthy in their own right, for a House of their stature at least, and attempting to scrounge the best possible deal for themselves was to be expected. Of course...when the plan was for me to benefit as much from this Master of Ships appoint as possible I didn't want my margins to get shot to hell before I even started.

Hugo escorted him out while Marius looked at me rather amused, “I take it we won't be contacting them again?”

“I doubt it, Marius. Who's next?”

The lad, only a year or so younger than myself, pulled out his notes and said, “House Wendwater, Stannis. They've sent their heir, Lady Julianna Wendwater, to negotiate on their behalf.”

Marius continued muttering under his breath, “Not that they have anyone else to send.”

Oh, that might be interesting. I simply raised an eyebrow and waited for Marius to elaborate.

“They never recovered from the Ninepenny wars, Stannis, during which they lost most of their family. All that remains is an elderly Lady of the House and the legitimized offspring of one of their bastards. They've had some trouble marrying her off.”

I stared at Marius, “And that would be this Julianna?” I frowned and added, “And why wouldn't people desire the Wendwater estate?”

Marius' grin was razor sharp, “Yes, and I imagine it had something to do with their tumultuous relation with the Crown. I imagine the Wendwaters wouldn't be as intransigent as the others. I doubt they would want to alienate yet another Royal House.”

My own grin matches his when I asked him to let the lady in. The woman who walked into my office was certainly a shapely one. Standing at a little over five foot she wasn't very tall but her posture was straight and proud. Clothed in fine, and rather high quality, clothes in her House colors she presented quite the sight. I couldn't quite tell how old she was but I didn't think she was that much older than myself.

She curtsied gracefully and smiled radiantly when she said, “Greetings, my Lord Stannis, from House Wendwater. We are at ever at your service, my Lord.”

I gestured for her to take a seat, “It's been a very long day for me, my Lady Julianna, I hope you don't mind if we get straight to the point?”

She smiled disarmingly and replied, “Not at all, my Lord. How can I be of assistance?”

I turned a page in my notebook, wrote down her name, and turned back to Julianna, “As you might have heard, my Lady, the Crown requires a navy. My brother has bid to see to its creation and I wish to discharge my duty as quickly, and efficiently, as possible.”

She didn't interrupt or offer meaningless drivel when I fell silent. That certainly put her a rung above the other damned Crownlanders.

I continued, “As your lands neighbor the King's Wood, and House Wendwater has its own shipyard, I had hoped we could come to an arrangement.”

Julianna cocked her head sideways when he said, “If I might ask, my Lord Stannis, why not simply use the wharfs and shipyards of King's Landing?”

And she got straight to heart of the matter. I was liking this girl more and more.

I returned her quizzical smile with one of my own, “I have little interest in watching a fourth of my brother's funds disappear into the bowels of King's Landing before the first ship is built.”

She nodded but I wasn't quite done yet, “Nor am I interested in their outdated procedures. The Navy needs to finished as soon as possible. I have no use for shipbuilders that would foolishly extend their production times. ”

Julianna nodded again, a small smirk appeared, and she replied, “Outdated procedures, my Lord? Do you mean to imitate the Bravosi?”

Only Stannis' own inner reserves of willpower stopped me from flinching violently. Was I this transparent? Instead I slowly matched her grin and nodded, after which I fell silent. Lets see where she takes this conversation.

Almost a full minute passed before she continued, “It has been attempted before, my Lord. Unfortunately the initial expenses with setting up an Arsenal, and training the workers, proved too prohibitive to be feasible.” A brief moment passed before she smiled slightly wider, “But that was without the support of the Crown. Or am I missing the mark here, my Lord Stannis?”

I cleared my throat and said, “No, you're quite correct, Lady Julianna. His Grace is quite insistent I provide him with the best possible Navy.” I waited a heartbeat before continuing, “He's been convinced this is an investment for the future.”

Lets see which conclusions she would draw from that. Robert hadn't exactly been convinced but I didn't think that would prove troublesome. He wanted a Navy and I'm building him one. The fact that this would leave me, the Master of Ships, able to rent out the Arsenal after the war would hopefully only amuse him. If he ever managed to twig on to it.

Jon Arryn was easy to convince. I explained how the Arsenal would pay for itself in just a few short years. Briefly I had debated to ask him to forgive the Arsenal, or better said the small town I'd planned to build around it, their taxburden for a while. I'd try that ploy later once I had some results I could point to.

It didn't take long before she responded with a slight smirk, “Forgive my curiosity, my Lord Stannis, but which Houses have been foolish enough to deny this opportunity?”

Was she just flattering me? Did that even matter?

“More than I expected but we can count on sufficient support, I'd say. Might I assume I can count on yours?”

Julianna's bright blue eyes caught mine for a long moment. Just before things were about to get really awkward she finally spoke up, “House Wendwater will do its duty to the Crown, my Lord.”

While that was fine, it wasn't what I was looking for. Perhaps something in my expression gave it away because Julianna continued, “I am my Lady Grandmother's heir, my Lord, and she's have devolved much of our House dealings into my hands. I must admit to some hesitance on her part for our House to involve itself with courtly intrigue but I assure you, my Lord, that I see this as opportunity to prove ourselves loyal bannermen to the Crown.”

Another heartbeat or two later and Juliana's sharp grin almost matched Marius', “Especially in light of the tremendous profits the future will hold for all of us. After the conclusion of the war, of course.”

Wonderful.

I bestowed a final smile upon her and simply said, “Of course.”

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

It was late in the afternoon when I had finally worked my way through all the appointments in my agenda. I'd managed to secure the support of several key players I'd need for the construction of the Arsenal. While I was disappointed that I didn't get more Crownlanders on board I didn't dwell on it for long. They will all regret it once the gold started rolling in.

Marius, my personal detachment of Stormbringers, and myself quietly made our way to the Great Sept of Baelor. The smallfolk of King's Landing took notice, of course, but all my movement crisscrossing the city over the past week had dulled their curiosity. Not enough for them to ignore me but there was no buildup of people staring at us.

Marius pulled up to me once we got close to the Great Sept, “Stannis, can I ask since when you've become such a fervent believer of the Seven?”

I hadn't but I knew that the vast majority of this new world of mine did believe. While I was perfectly willing to buck certain expectations people put on the nobility here I had no intention of opening myself up to attacks on this front. Sitting through an hour of the High Septon preaching his afternoon service didn't cost me anything but time. In had high hopes that my new found religion would cushion me from the worst of the rumors that might inevitably follow me around. And even if it didn't...the leading Septons were highly political and I'd be a natural nucleus of power for all of them. And then they'd have to speak pleasantly about me.

I didn't blame Marius for his curiosity though. I distinctly remember Stannis bitching and whining during the siege about the lack of validity the Seven had. Loudly and often.

“There's great power in the belief in the Seven, Marius.”

There, let him stew on that. And stew he did. The lad didn't speak up again all the way through the sermon. The High Septon droned on about charity, even going as far as invoking my actions when I rode in to King's Landing, and the great rewards the gods would shower upon those who engaged in it. It would have been rather touching if I hadn't been spoiled by the eloquence of my Sunday school teachers.

When the service was over a little while later I made my way to the Most High. The High Septon wore a massive crown made of crystal and gold. An ostentatious display that was only matched by the Myrish silks he was draped in. From what I gathered the man was fairly well meaning but found to be lacking in will to oppose the Targaryens. I'd felt that was a fairly reasonable stance to have so I didn't judge him overly hard on his reputation.

Much like the Popes, from back home, these High Septons were charged to leave their old identity behind. The Popes simply chose different names but over here they were only to be addressed by their titles. Quite like the Maesters, and their traditions to drop their last names, it didn't help curb their political influence all that much.

“Ah, my Lord Stannis. It warms my heart to see the King's brother pay his respects to the gods! I shouldn't speak badly about the old...” He trailed off but found his voice again, “I'm simply pleased the gods saw fit to bring us hope again.”

I didn't really know what to make of him. I liked the way he praised me, and in turn made the other Church-goers stare and whisper about me, but I was willing to wait and see what he wanted. So far the man hadn't made a single request of me. I was far more comfortable with relationships where both parties were clear about the terms. This was a strange break from all the politicking I have to do.

I churned up the charm and grabbed both of his hands, “That is very kind of you to say, our Most High Father.” I close the distance between us, “Between the two of us, I must say that your sermons make it easy to believe.”

The man blushed deeply, grasped my hands, and said, “You're too kind, my Lord, for this humble servant.”

I suspected the man liked me, a little too much perhaps, but I had no issue taking full advantage of it. Perhaps this was why his family shipped him off to the Septons decades ago? I found I didn't much care, either way.

I let my touch slightly linger, smiled widely as I let go of his hands, but before I could speak up the Most High did.

“My Lord Stannis, I have given a great deal of thought to your suggestion. To my shame I must admit that your words ring true and I have prayed long and hard, my Lord.”

Oh, come on. Say you're in. Say you're in!

“I have written letters to the seven greatest monasteries in the Crownlands, my Lord. They've agreed to send as many Septons and Septa's to your service, as they can spare.”

I smiled, even wider than before, and replied, “Thank you, our Most High Father. Words cannot describe how pleased I am at having your support!”

The man's cheeks still hadn't lost their glow when he responded, “It is I who cannot express his gratitude at playing my part in the gods great plans!”

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest

Robert liked eating lavishly after a long days of drinking and whoring. I'm not sure why I thought the man had slowly degenerated into the caricature of a drunken lout. Clearly he always was one and now he simply didn't have anyone around to tell him to do otherwise. Jon looked faintly disapproving but it was obvious no mention of Robert's drunkenness would be coming from his lips. I wasn't really sure how to feel about this.

I felt a pinch of sympathy for the serving ladies who fell into Robert's orbit. I didn't give a fuck about any of the court nobles who attempted to match him drink for drink. I cared even less for Pycelle's vaguely absentminded expression. But when I caught sight of Renly's downcast features, as I walked into the Great Hall, I felt a stab in my chest.

What happened? What did the big lout do to him?

I ignored all the stares, including Robert's unfocused gaze at me, as I crossed the Hall and made way for Renly. The little bugger looked up at me, a smile broke free from his earlier sad expression, and he came rushing to me. I extended my arms widely, caught the boy in mid air as he jumped at me, and swung him around. Again I ignored the chorus of court ladies tittering, ooh-ing and aah-ing, and whispered in little Renly's ear.

“Hey little man, what's wrong?”

I could barely make out his response, “S'nothing.”

Well, that was clearly bullshit. I abruptly turned around, ignored Robert's yelling, and walked straight out of the Great Hall. I'd deal with the fall out of this some other time.

The littlest Baratheon needed me.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: the Vipers Nest: Renly Baratheon – The Littlest Baratheon

Balon made us stop too soon. I'd told him we still had half an hour before dinner but he wouldn't hear any of it. We almost made it to the deepest bowels of the Red Keep. Armed with a piece of charcoal and a big notebook, accompanied by Balon and Stannis' men, we explored the secret passages lurking seemingly behind every corner. Did the old Kings build them so their kids to play hide and seek?

I'd ask Maester Cressen later.

For now I would do as Stannis said. Copy the hidden hallways down in my notebook. I'm not sure why he wants me to do this but I didn't mind. It was a little dirty, and sometimes a little scary, but it was fun when it wasn't. Sometimes the Stormbringers even let me race ahead of them, after they cleared the way, but they'd always catch me quickly.

Balon didn't approve but then again, he approves of very little but my brother. He even has his own notebook and laughed at me when I showed him mine. The other men usually just did what I wanted but the Knight wasn't like them. He would just smile, ruffle my hair, and tell me not to disappoint Stannis. As if I would!

Well, I do sometimes. I'm not perfect.

Almost perfect. Yes, that's more like it.

We left the hidden passages, taking a shortcut across the Red Keep, and come out near our rooms. My room was just across from Maester Cressen's but when I knocked on his door nobody answered.

“Come now, little lord. You need to get dressed for dinner.”

I just sighed and dutifully followed him into our rooms. Balon had taken residence in my ante-chamber and despite my complaints to Stannis that I didn't need to be watched when I slept...there he remained. I put it out of my mind as I quickly washed my hands and face. Put on my courtly, but simple, outfit of black and gold with a large crowned rampant stag on each arm.

Our Baratheon colors.

Stannis always looked pleased when I put that emphasis on our name. And I liked him smiling. Balon wore his own colors, of House Swann, but honored my brother with the inclusion of a small stag motif.

We headed out to the Great Hall, again flanked with my brother's Stormbringers, and I took care to remember to straighten my back. Chin slightly up and a smile, or a nod depending on their rank, for everyone I walked past. Some people smiled brightly at me and I distrusted those because Stannis said so. Other simply nodded and walked past me. I didn't trust those either.

They weren't Stags and they weren't our men. Well, they aren't my men either. Are they Stannis' men or would they listen to my other brother? I think they would but I wasn't sure.

I'd have to ask Cressen about that too.

“Ah, there's the littlest Baratheon!”

I almost narrowed my eyes at the loudest of my brothers. Robert was big, very big – bigger than Stannis, big-, and when he yells you can feel the rumble in your tummy. He was already, again, red around the face and I knew what that meant.

He would either be really nice or really mean. And you could never tell which one was coming. Stannis just said to always be polite either way.

So I was, “Good afternoon, brother. How have you been?”

Robert took a deep sip of his flagon and almost burped out, “It's good to be me, little Renly! I'd offer you a drink but Stannis got right prissy last time I did that. The prick.”

But it was different when he was mean about Stannis.

This time I did narrow my eyes at him and said, “Stannis isn't a p-prick!”

Oh gods, I almost stumbled over that word. That would have been embarrassing. Robert grew even more red as he laughed loudly, the sound piercing through the Great Hall.

“You would say that wouldn't you, you little shit.”

I shouldn't have pushed harder.

I knew it was a bad idea even as the words came spewing out, “Maybe you should drink more. Perhaps you'll be nicer later!”

Dead silence all around us. Suddenly I became aware of all the eyes on me. I felt myself flush but didn't look away from Robert. A tense, and awkward, moment passed before he responded.

“Ballsy little shit, aren't you? I guess Stannis did something right with you.”

After which he laughed loud and hard. The others in the Great Hall followed his example but I didn't feel like joining in. Balon put a hand on my shoulder and I remembered Stannis' words.

I stood up and apologized, “I'm sorry, your Grace. I shouldn't have said that.”

Still laughing Robert replied, “Don't worry about it, Renly. Children are supposed to be little shits. You're too little to know but Stannis was a right little prick when he was you're age.”

This time I managed to bite down my response. Robert continued, “He grew out of it though. Oh, did he grow out of it! Turning back sixty thousand swords on his lonesome!”

There it is again. Robert goes from mean to nice and I don't know what set him off. I just turned to my food and poked at it. Some fish or other but I wasn't that hungry. I just wanted to go back to exploring the secret passageways.

One of men drinking with Robert, a large redheaded man called the Blackfish, bellowed out, “Apparently a lot less than sixty thousand when he was done with those Flowers, your Grace!”

I swallowed the fish down and quick responded before Robert could, “Fifty two thousand and five hundred!”

Such a big number but I had seen, and smelled, the corpses. When Stannis ordered them burnt they almost made me feel hungry. I'm never sharing that thought with anyone. Except Stannis, maybe. If he finishes the story he's thinking up for me.

The Blackfish, a famous Knight who was of an age with our parents, turned to me and said, “Good with numbers are ya?”

Robert chimed in, “Stannis alternately spoils or works that boy to the bone! There's no middle ground with him!”

Before I knew it the words slipped out, again, “He doesn't spoil me!”

“Oh? Then why does he have fifty, fifty, men running after you, boy?”

Because according to Stannis I'm the most important boy in all the land. But I knew better than to say that. Robert would just get mean again. So I just ate some more fish.

Balon answered for me, “Your Grace, Lord Stannis takes young Master Renly's safety very serious.”

Robert immediately barked out, “Is he claiming my keep isn't safe?!”

Balon didn't back down and continued with a square glare at Robert, “With all due respect, your Grace. Lord Stannis entrusts Renly's safety solely to Stormlanders.”

“And what am I then, Ser Balon?”

Deadpan Balon responded, “A King, your Grace.”

I risked a glance up to Robert and found him staring strangely at Balon. I didn't like it one bit.

He return a glare to Balon and said, “Stannis certainly has you lot wrapped around his fingers.”

The old man next to Robert, Lord Jon Arryn, spoke up, “Come now, Robert. Let them be.”

Another tense moment passed but eventually Robert turned back to his drinks. I focused, once again, on my food so I could get out of there as soon as possible. I wanted to back to the tunnels. Slowly I worked my way through the fish, and vegetables, before I turned to Balon and wagged my eyebrows.

The Knight snorted, finished up his drink, and looked to be getting ready to get up. We couldn't leave though. Only Robert could excuse people.

I cleared my throat and loudly asked, “Your Grace, may we please be excused?”

He turned back to me, slightly confused looking, and said, “Why are you asking me?”

Huh?

Didn't he yell at me just yesterday when I left without asking him? He must have remembered again because he coughed awkwardly and said, “Ah, off you go then lad. What are you planning, Renly?”

I smiled at him, because that almost always works to keep him nice, “Exploring the Red Keep! Maybe go play with the gold again, in the treasury.”

Robert jerked his head backwards and laughed loudly before asking me, “And? Did you find anything interesting?”

I nodded and replied, “The armor of the Dragon Knight!”

Robert leaned over to me, messed up my hair, and said, “I bet you'd like to have that, wouldn't you, once you grow some muscles?”

I smiled at him, again and even wider, “I rather like Valyrian daggers more! Stannis said that if I asked you nicely, and you agreed, that he'd make swords out of them for us!”

Please say yes! Please say yes, Robert!

Robert didn't say yes. Instead he frowned and asked, “Oh, did he know?”

I nodded furiously and replied, “Yes, he said he'd make one for you first, and if there was anymore steel left over he'd make me one too!”

My biggest brother frowned even harder before raising a single eyebrow, “You'd think he would just ask for it himself. I'm rather easily found, after all.”

Oh.

What was I supposed to do?

Thankfully Robert spoke again, “Tell him he doesn't have to make one for me. I'll never wield anything but my trusted warhammer. But you're still too little to be swinging around metal, boy.”

He looked over at the Blackfish and continued, “Perhaps I'll even ask the Blackfish to squire you, once you grow some meat on your bones. And from your expression I think you might enjoy it! There, now don't you dare say I was anything less than kind to you, boy!”

I felt the thrill of excitement at that thought. I'd be a squire! Almost a knight! But then I thought what it would mean.

I turned to the Riverlander Knight and asked him, “Will you be staying in King's Landing, Ser Brynden?”

The man shook his head sadly and told me, “I cannot, child. Lord Arryn has convinced to take up an important post in the Vale. If you're to be my squire you'll have to join me there, lad.”

I just nodded but I felt a twist in my stomach. How was I supposed to do that without Stannis? He'd be weeks, no months, away from me and we'd only have letters. What if he doesn't write to me, often?

What if he forgets me?

Right then he walked into the Great Hall and I raced off the table to him. He always looked happy to see me, and extended his arms wide, and I jumped into them. He swung me around, faster and faster, but he eventually asked me. “Hey little man, what's wrong?”

I softly answered him, “S'nothing.”

I burrowed into his neck and just stayed there as Stannis carried me out of the Great Hall.

I whispered just off to his ear, “Aren't you hungry?”

Stannis didn't respond until we reached an alcove where he sat me down. He stared at me for a while before asking, “Don't lie, little man. Tell me what's wrong.”

I looked down at my feed and softly said, “Our brother said that he might squire me off to the Blackfish.”

I quickly looked up at Stannis to see how he would take it.

He just smiled at me, and I reflexively return his smile, “Oh, Renly. That's a few years from now. Lets not worry about it until then, alright?”

Stannis picked me up again and said, “Did you find anything interesting?”

And I launched into a detailed, or at least as much as I could remember, description of what we found. Stannis laughed when I told how I managed to hide for a little before Balon tracked me down. Balon still looked faintly disapproving behind us.

I stuck my tongue out at him and he winked at me.

“Oh! Robert said you can make me a sword for when I grow up!”

Stannis laughed loudly again and I felt his chest rumble all around me.

“Is that so? Well then, lets go loot the treasury. Did he want one too?”

I shook my head, “Nope!”

One of those weird words Stannis used. I kind of liked it and made sure to pop the 'p'.

A little while later we walked, or Stannis walked – I just hung on to him for dear life -, right into the treasury. Some of the chests of gold were displaced, and I wasn't going to tell Stannis why, but Balon smirked at me.

Oh, no. He's going to tell on me!

I quickly distract Stannis by pointing at the stash of shiny blue and black weapons.

“There!”

He put me down on the ground, while he examined a few of the daggers, and I joined him. I found a weird looking black rock, stuck to another dagger, and I attempted to pull it down. When it wouldn't budge I looked up at Stannis who had a strange expression on his face.

“Oh...my...god.”

What?

What was happening?

“What's going on, Stannis?”

Stannis picked up the dagger, with the black rock, and ripped it off. He let it fall back on it, and I saw it stick the dagger – even when he held it upside down-, and Stannis let out of loud whoop.

“Hahah! Hahah! Oh, god! This is amazing!”

What! Why won't he explain? I'm not stupid!

“Tell me!”

Stannis picked me up again, almost crushed me to his chest, and then gripped my face with one of his huge hands.

“This, Renly, is what I will use to make the greatest Navy this world have ever seen! Balon, please collect all the Valyrian steel you find. I'll have Marius come pick it up.”

“Aye, Stannis.”

I still didn't understand but it was alright. Stannis was smiling so wide his face might split in two! All was well.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions & Arsenal Woes

Dead quiet in the Great Hall as I slowly get to my feet. Ladies stopped tittering, men ceased muttering with their neighbors, and suddenly all eyes were on me. Today was the day that Robert promised to bring us an answer on the King's Guard question. After much deliberation, or so the big man claims, he has come to a conclusion and called a Royal Inquest into the matter. Fancy speak for; this is some weirdness and I'm putting the burden of figuring out how to kick Ser Jaime out without any hint of unlawfulness on you Stannis.

I let my gaze wander over the nobles in attendance. Lord Tywin graced us with his presence, obviously, as did a few other Westerland nobles. A decent handful of Crownlanders, the vast majority of the Riverlords and Northmen Lords, and more than a few Valemen. The Hand was of course present, and looking faintly smug for some reason, as were the other members of the Small Council. Robert sat on his ludicrous throne, idly playing with the sharp edges, and looked even more smug.

Was I the butt of their joke now? Did they think I would stammer my way through this? That I wouldn't figure out a decent way to untangle this mess without it backfiring on me?

Fuck 'em.

I smiled a razor sharp grin at Robert, and winked at Jon, before turning to Ser Jaime. The King's Guard stood at attention, dead center in front me. I'd found myself sitting behind a table, just in front of Robert's obnoxious throne, all by my lonesome. Nobody else in the Small Council wanted to touch this. Oddly enough, not even Pycelle. Perhaps he wasn't Tywin's man yet, not fully anyways, or perhaps he didn't wish to broadcast the fact that he was.

Fine, I can do this.

I, theatrically, cleared my throat. Once, and then again, all while smiling at Jaime. I risked a glance over at Tywin, learned absolutely nothing from the closed off expression on his face, and turned back to the disgraced King's Guard in front of me.

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister. You find yourself standing before King, and court, in order to judge your position in the King's Guard. Before we get started, is there anything you would like to share?”

I heard a soft snort behind me, probably Robert, and resolutely ignored it.

“My actions are known, Lord Stannis. I have nothing to say.”

And suddenly tension, so thick you could cut it, fell over the court. This time I didn't bother looking back at the gathered nobles. Right about now they should all be wondering how much shit would cling to me after I got done with this.

Hah.

I stared Jaime down, slowly shook my head, and said, “There is a quiet honor in holding to your secrets , and those of the King, but in these proceedings that is rather unacceptable.”

I deliberately stayed quiet for a handful of seconds before I continue, “As I said before, the purpose of this inquest is to ascertain your legal position in the King's Guard, Ser Jaime. I am rather of the opinion that this is not a legal matter, however.”

The tittering of the court nobles began to annoy me. I snapped my fingers, several of my Stormbringers and other Palace Guards, started bashing the ends of their spears on the ground. I needed to remember thanking the Master of Law for his loans.

In a quiet and cold tone I spoke, “Silence! I will have the next person to disrespect Ser Jaime's moment before the throne spend the night in the Black Cells. Silence, I say!”

Excellent. It almost felt like they were all holding their breaths. Quietly, and in the back of my mind, I prayed that Robert wouldn't be the first to talk. That might make things awkward. Jaime stared at me strangely before simply nodding.

“As I just said, I do not believe this to be a legal matter. Instead it is one of honor. I hold that Ser Jaime of House Lannister chose to sacrifice his personal honor, for the greater good of King's Landing, and for every single soul our King's capital.”

Now Jaime's expression grew almost as closed as that of his father. From the corner of my eye I barely caught the Old Lion leaning forward, as if to catch every last word, and I had to fight down a smile. This was supposed to be a serious matter.

“Ser Jaime. Share with this court the final few moments of the Mad King's reign and the terrible sacrifice you had to make to become King's Landing' Savior.”

I was a testament to my reputation that the court didn't break down in frenzied whispers. I found I liked having such power. Perhaps it was for the best if I examine that part of my nature. Or perhaps that would just...you know. Never mind.

I hoped Jaime would simply bend my whims and start spewing his story. If he wouldn't...I'd have to march out the dozens of senior Alchemist Guild members in front of the court. Come on, you unfairly handsome bastard. Just answer me.

Jaime cleared his throat, -was he mocking me?-, “The city was in chaos. The forces under control of my Lord father, Tywin Lannister, had just made their way into King's Landing. Aerys...” He stumbled a little over the name but continued onward, “Aerys summoned his Master of Coin and ordered him to light the vast supplies of Wildfire that were hidden around the capital.”

A single Lady of some House or other exclaimed loudly, “Oh gods!”

I snapped my finger and two of my meanest Stormbringers 'escorted' her out of the room. The renewed silence was wonderful. Although I did feel slightly bad about the way they manhandled her I had little choice in the matter. I'd made a threat. I had to follow through on it.

“Please continue, Ser Jaime.”

The golden knight looked down at his feet when he continued, “Aerys...burned him when the Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted, refused to follow that command. I...I tried to get the k-Mad King to reconsider but he didn't listen. Chelsted burned and while he still screamed Aerys called for his Hand. The Head of the Alchemists Guild, Wisdom Rossart, bent where Lord Chelsted refused to break. It was at that moment I decided I had to put a stop to it.”

Jaime straightened his back, looked squarely at me, and said, “I ran Aerys down with a stab to his back. Rossart died moments later. Lord Eddard Stark found me standing in this very hall.”

Still standing I nodded, slowly to Jaime, and loud spoke, “As this court just heard. Ser Jaime made a difficult decision, one of the most difficult ones I can imagine, but in doing so he saved us all. What kind of King would let half a million of his subjects burn? When he gained nothing from it?”

I allowed for another short moment of silence, gazed over the crowd gathered behind me, and said, “Only a monster would be so petty. Only a Dragon would be so cruel to inflict such useless deaths.”

Another very short quiet moment, “Ser Jaime, on this day I speak with authority of the Crown. In the name of His Grace King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, Roynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm I extend the gratitude of a Kingdom to you Ser Jaime.”

Jaime's clear blue eyes never left mine, even as he nodded once again.

“With that same authority, however, I must remind you that your sacrifice must indeed come with consequences. In the name of His Grace King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, Roynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm I charge you to return your White Cloak to the Lord Commander of the King's Guard. Your service is at an end, Ser Jaime, and I return you to your family. May you find your way in the world, ever pleasing.”

Yet another tricky part of the proceedings. If Ser Jaime refused to drop his cloak off things would really get awkward. Which is why I framed it as a sacrifice. He gets to be a hero but only if he heroically loses his cloak as well. I made sure not to pat myself on the back before Jaime made his way to Ser Barristan.

The two quietly shared some words, Ser Barristan accepted the cloak, and Ser Jaime turned back to me.

I simply pointed him to Lord Tywin and the section of Westerlander Lords.

“I, Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the South declare this Royal Inquest at an end and in my brother's name I charge you all to be merry and celebrate! For King's Landing is safe and all the Wildfire has been collected!”

Robert loudly roared, “Hear hear! Send for the wine and lets drink to our savior Ser Jaime!”

A little dickish but I didn't mind. Robert couldn't ruin this.

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions & Arsenal Woes

Hours later I found myself in my ante-chamber with Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime. The festivities raged around us as we departed the feast but we had business to discuss. Or, at least, Lord Tywin wished to have a word or two with me.

We all sat down, I dismissed the loitering servants, and waited for a few of my men to get into position. While I did that I poured out a glass of brandy for each of us. A few moments after I was done pouring Jaime's, last glass, I heard the signal.

THUD. THUD THUD THUD. THUD THUD.

Tywin and Jaime looked curious but I just stayed quiet. They could either figure out what was happening or not. There was no reason to explain anything to them. The passageways around my rooms were cleared. Ever since Balon informed me that Renly, and the knight himself, were done mapping them I rolled out this protocol. Whenever, and wherever, I'd have high stakes conversations I'd make sure there weren't any of Varys' little mute children running around.

Soon I'd have to deal with that situation but first...I must milk the Lions.

Lord Tywin spoke up first. Any difficulties I had at seeing as Tywin Lannister, instead of Charles the actor, flew out the window when I heard his voice. Much like Bolton an intimidating air hung about him and his calculating eyes never quite left mine. Somehow he managed to make an utterance of gratitude feel menacing.

“Lord Stannis, you have my deepest thanks as well as that of House Lannister.”

I just smiled, a plastic unmoving smile but still...a smile, and said, “You're welcome, Lord Tywin.” Since I didn't believe the man would appreciate any dallying about I charged straight to business, “You said you wished to discuss certain matters?”

A small, almost invisible, smile played around Tywin's lips when he said, “You have given me my son back, Lord Stannis. Not only have you done that, you've also mitigated the...consequences of his actions. There would be very little you could ask of me, at this moment, that I would not be inclined to give.”

Jack. Pot.

Oh, all the things I could ask for. I could make him give me a literal mountain of gold. Perhaps I could even make him pay for my planned road constructions, connecting all the major settlements of the Stormlands, but I already had something else in mind. The roads would come after I rolled out a constrained and carefully managed industrial revolution.

A canal however...is something that would be a money drain for me. One I'd have to save for, to prevent the work from sitting idly unfinished, and that would be money that isn't helping kick off my miniature revolution.

I kept the same plastic smile plastered on my face when I asked him, “That is what I anticipated, Lord Tywin. You are the Lannister of Lannisters and there was no doubt in my mind you would discharge your debts.”

A little bit of flattering wouldn't hurt. The Old Lion only nodded in response.

I continued, “There is but one thing that I wish. One thing I believe would serve me the most and quite upsetting it is something that would have to wait many years before I could implement it.”

I deliberately waited a heart beat or two to see if Tywin would speak. When he didn't I bullied onward, “And, of course, there my lack of...interest in marching to my future good-brother hat in hand.”

Jaime made his presence known, “I've heard about that. Very...practical of you to tie your House to House Tyrell.”

I shrugged and said, “Grudges are for people with Dragons, Ser Jaime. Since House Baratheon lacks those I'm inclined to look past old grievances.”

But if that Tyrell bitch attempts to shank me in my sleep I'm going to burn the Reach to the ground. To the fucking ground.

Tywin's smile grew ever so slightly wider. It somehow looked completely out of place on him.

“A commendable stance but you were about to state your fondest wishes, Lord Stannis.”

Oh, what a dick. Did he have to put it that way? As if he's doing me a favor? I couldn't really insist either way. I did need him to do this for me.

Still with that plastic smile on my face I replied, “Indeed.” I took a deep breath and said, “I want your help building a series of canals, Lord Tywin. I already have the men, and the material, but not enough gold to see the project through. At least, not if I'm unwilling to drain certain funds that are best left for emergencies.”

Tywin nodded firmly, as if he expected this all along, and said, “Might I inquire where you're planning these canals?”

I stood up, walked over to my desk, and rooted around for a simple map. Once I found it I returned to our corner, slid the map over to Tywin, and said, “I wish to extend the Blueburn offshoot of the Mander to the Wendwater straight through the King's Wood.”

Now Tywin raised an eyebrow, “Through the King's Wood?”

I smiled, slightly wider, and replied, “Yes, I've been given over all rights over the part of the King's Wood that falls in the Stormlands.”

“I see. Quite the ambitious proposal but you are right. I am a Lannister and this very world would crumble around us before I see our debts unpaid. You will have your gold for your canal, Lord Stannis.”

I wasn't going to thank him for it.

“Excellent. Was there anything else, Lord Tywin?”

The Old Lion fell quiet for a good long while before he spoke again, “I've heard rumors that you've set a renowned smith to work on a pair of Valyrian swords.”

Oh, ho ho ho. If we have enough for a third sword I'm making him pay for another canal.

“That particular rumor would be true, yes. Tobho Mott claims that he is one of three men who can rework the steel. I'm certain it'll be reflected in the price if that's true.”

Jaime grinned but Tywin replied, “How many swords were you able to commission?”

“Well, we managed to acquire twelve daggers and few other Valyrian steel odds and ends. Honestly, even a pair of razors, which makes me wonder at the sanity of whoever commissioned those.”

Jaime grinned some more.

I continued, “So far Mott claims that he can beat out two swords for me. We'll have to see how much remains and whether or not it's enough for a third weapon.”

Lord Tywin stood up and Jaime followed suit almost immediately. The imposing Old Lion made his goodbye's but just before he left the room he turned and said, “Should that be the case, do let me know, if you would, Lord Stannis.”

Now my smile was entirely natural, “Of course, Lord Tywin.”

When the two Lion's left I almost sagged into my chair. Thank fuck he didn't ask me about a Master of Coin appointment.

AN: Feedback and commentary is greatly appreciated!

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: Missed Moments

“Motherfucker!!”

Reflexively, I drew the short blade I kept under my pillow and wildly stabbed at the shadowy figure that shook me out of my sleep. In hindsight I should have known that someone who doesn't kill you while you were asleep probably wouldn't attempt to kill you after they woke you up. In the moment though that thought simply didn't penetrate my sleep deprived mind. After a flurry of near hits I kicked off at the wall and launched myself at the figure.

“Ahhhhh!”

That was a mistake.

He was strong.

“Shit! Snap out of it Stannis!”

I wasn't listening. The blade had somehow gotten lost in the scuffle and I furiously tried to break the grip this monster of a man had on me. Elbow after elbow shot connected with a bearded face, the back of my head clashed violently with something, but it was for naught. One moment I was held immobile in the air. The next I flew through it and landed hard against a wall.

"HOLD STILL DAMN YOU!"

I was dazed, completely disoriented but somehow I managed to scramble back to my feet just before a massive hand gripped me by my throat. Immediately I let myself fall down and miraculously the figure tumbled down with me. I kicked as high up as I could, heard an incredibly loud bellow, but kept ferociously kicking.

And then darkness.

It could have been minutes, or hours, but eventually I woke up after someone splashed water over me. Before I could react an enormous weight settled on my chest, forcible keeping me down, and slowly but insistently spoke to me.

“Please cease struggling, my Lord.”

A face I recognized, Hector – one of my sergeant squires -, took up most of everything I could see.

Frantically I spat out, “Hector! Did you catch the cunt??”

From somewhere off to the side I heard a rage filled voice yell, “Call me a cunt one more time Stannis and I'll do more than throw you against the fucking wall!”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

I reached up to slightly push Hector's face out of the way and my sneaking suspicions were confirmed. Robert had, for god knows what reason, come in to my room to do god knows what. A thousand ways to play this off and I'm too rattled to pick a sane one.

I replied in equally biting tones, “Fuck you, Robert! Do you want to get stabbed in the gut? Because this is how you get stabbed in the fucking gut!”

I ignored Robert's hateful response and looked around. A good twenty odd men, Stormbringers each, had found their way into my room. I spotted Ser Barristan as well but it seemed I had local military superiority. I shooed off Hector, scrambled back to my feet, and finally got a good picture of Robert. Dried blood caked all over his face and a murderous expression that wouldn't be out of place on a battlefield.

I interrupted Robert's stream of profanity, “Why did you try to kill me in my sleep!?”

“If I tried to kill you, you'd be dead, Stannis! What in the Seven possessed you, you utter piece of shit!”

I yelled loud enough to match the big man raging at me, “Then why the fuck did you attack me?”

Robert's response was completely incoherent.

Ser Barristan somehow wormed his way between us and almost too softly to be heard said, “Please stop this folly, Stannis, before you force me to make you. This is a simple misunderstanding, my Lord.”

I'm not sure whether it was the casual threats of a living legend, or the Palace Guard streaming in to my rooms, or the disapproving gaze of my sergeant Hector. I slowly raised my hands over my head, as if placating police officers, and simply quieted down.

“Thank you, my Lord. His Grace simply wished to wake you for a sparring session. I'd venture he didn't quite expect your enthusiastic early participation.”

I...

What?

I looked out of the window and it was barely daybreak. Still too dark to truly make out things. This didn't make any sense. Robert hasn't ever done anything like this. Why does he suddenly come wake me, personally, to come spar with him?

When he has god damn Selmy on his payroll?

Deadpan I spoke, “What.”

Before Ser Barristan could speak up Robert cut back into the conversation coldly, “Get dressed Stannis. We'll...resolve this on the field.”

And then he just walked out of the room.

Again I said, “What...”

Perhaps Selmy took pity upon me because he explained, “My Lord, your brother has recently become aware of a consequence of his ascension to the throne.”

This meant nothing to me. I licked my lips and tasted the bitter and metallic taste of blood all over them. I had long since calmed down but it didn't seem to help my understanding any.

Hector took over for Ser Barristan, “His Grace believes that everybody in this Kingdom will hold back when fighting against him. Everyone except yourself.” After a brief pause he continued, “I would suggest you don't, my Lord Stannis. Even if only for your continued well being.”

Oh, fuck me.

283 AC – King's Landing: Missed Moments

I knew I had to present myself to the gathered Stormlords sooner or later. Obviously I chose sooner and sent runners to have the Stormlands host meet me near the Blackwater rush. The organization was quite the challenge but Orys and Marius were up the task. I'd broken open my personal funds, drew some from the Treasury on the premise I'd pay it back, and set up camp in style. Whole gaggles of cooks were busy preparing the feast. A legion of carpenters set up a makeshift sports arena and crafted our blunted spears.

The stage was set for shock and awe.

The Dondarions came rolling in first and were soon followed by the Coles and House Caron. House Estermont brought with them my own Storm's End levies and Marius sped off to have them properly outfitted. The thousands of Tyrell scale and mail armors we pillaged from their dead would do me no good rotting in Storm's End. I'd had Marcel send them after me as soon as possible.

House Swann positively swaggered in, the Rogers brought a host that belied their fairly small lands, and House Staedmon of Broad Arc came out in full force. One by one the Houses all streamed into our came and Orys diligently seated them around the massive arena. At several points chaos threatened but with a few subtle, and not so subtle threats, Orys manhandled the Lords to their respective areas.

It took a little over an hour but eventually I found myself the center of attention. I had my personal retinue scattered around the host, with copies of my speech who would relay it, and stared speaking.

“Welcome my Stormlords! We find ourselves at the eve of a glorious new dawn! My brother, Robert Baratheon – First of His Name -, sits comfortably on the Iron Throne!”

I quieted down for a moment to let their cheer pass and continued, “Our future looks bright, my Lords, and I intend to make it brighter! They say that the spoils go to the winner and nobody all the Seven Kingdoms can deny that we are the winners!”

While they politely cheered earlier now the gathered Stormlands host went wild. When after long moments they finally piped down I raised my bullhorn again.

“So where are our spoils?”

A sudden quiet tension filled the arena. I could almost feel their collective gazes weighing me down as their curiously stared at me.

“Did we get to sack King's Landing?”

A loud roar of a 'No' came crashing over me.

“Did we get to pillage any enemy lands?”

Another tremendous 'No' rocked the arena.

“Have we even fought on land that didn't belong to us? Or our allies?”

A chorus of, “NO!”

I let the silence drag on for a good long while before putting the bullhorn to my lips again, “We gained little from the war, my Lords, that is the gods honest truth.”

Another short silence before I continued, “If we didn't profit from the land and can't expect my brother to shower us with riches...we only have one recourse, my Lords. We must win the peace!”

A weirdly tense few moments passed, “We are the fifth wealthiest Realm in Westeros! We are the sixth most populous Realm in Westeros. We may have the best gods be damned fighting force in all the land but that doesn't fill our halls with riches!”

The tension in the air was thickening and the gathered host was growing tense.

“I will remedy that situation!”

Oh! I'd hoped the men would cheer but I was hesitant to expect it. I shouldn't have been worried. The gathered Stormlands host was loud and energetic in their agreement.

Good.

“I don't ask that you follow me blindly. I don't require your abject submission. That may work in the Westerlands but my Stormlords are made of sterner stuff! I ask that you watch me. I ask that you keep a close eye on the developments in Storm's End and my lands.”

The tension was still there but I loved their cheering.

I smiled widely, knowing they couldn't see it, and said, “By this time next year my lands will quadruple in productivity, at the very least, through several innovations. By this time next year Storm's End will dominate the global export in textiles! Our mines will spew forth riches before the next two years are done! But all that is counting coppers and I have no doubt my clever Lords will follow right along with the developments are they come.”

Still smiling I continued, “And yet...we all love wealth and any man who denies it needs a good slap across the face.”

I braced myself against the odd echo of the hosts laughter and kept up, “Soon our Royal Navy will be outfitted and I will welcome every ambitious Stormlander who wants a piece of the action to apply! We'll sail the seas, crush the last Targaryens, and take every ounce of wealth out of the fucking pirates in the Step Stones after that!”

My heart was pumping almost as loudly as the men cheered. Somehow I thought that recruiting might be easier that I'd thought.

“But I will only take the very best, my Lords!”

Oh, I was far too excited for this.

My men knew their cue and the three hundred Stormbringers rushed to the center of the arena. I kept Balon hanging back with Renly but got the man's assurances he didn't mind that. Perhaps he was angling for a King's Guard appointment. Who knows.

“Today I show you the best the Stormlands has to offer. My Stormbringers will face any equal numbers you Lords can bring to bare! Who is brave enough to go first?”

If I thought they were loud before....good lord. I ignored most of their clamoring and cheering. Instead I focused on the frantic waving of Meryn Buckler attempting to dissuade his Lord Father. I saw Marius literally grabbing Lord Heston's by the arm and pulling him back to his seat. Orys simply stood in his front of his father and shook his head.

House Dondarion took the field first.

All that training. All those many empty hours in the siege, with motivation that would likely never be matched again, spent preparing. Every stolen moment I spent working on my small retinue in King's Landing. I thought I had things under control but suddenly a frightening realization took me after my Stormbringers caught the Dondarion's charge, broke through it, and almost reflexively stomped the poor sods that got trampled underfoot.

I didn't bring enough Maesters.

283 AC – King's Landing: Missed Moments

I lost track of the number of feasts that Robert put me through. The man seemed to get personally offended if I didn't at least show up and I couldn't justify staying away. The feasts start blending into each other and I noticed I was having the same conversation. Over and over and over.

Oh, the Flowers? Yes, they died like fucking flies.

No, Betsy the Squire did indeed kill a hundred of them with a single shot.

Yes, we almost starved.

No, we didn't eat people.

Yes, the Hightowers are dirty cunts. Don't look at me like that, ask Lord Tyrell.

There was usually only one bright side to the onerous events but I wasn't sure if it really counted. It was stupid, clearly a mistake, and yet I couldn't help myself. The ladies that attempted to catch my eye were either far too obvious, so indirect I got bored, or just simply didn't fit my type. It was bad and I knew that somehow Robert was to blame.

Which is why it was so fucking surprising that I actually got along with Cersei Lannister. Oh, I knew her father sent her to attempt to steal me away from the Tyrells. That was as clear as day but there was a comfort in knowing someone's angle. I'm simply too new at this to fully comprehend the other actors in Robert's court but I knew her. She's nuts, completely and utterly broken, but she has balls the size of Belarion.

Of course, when she's around...all the other Ladies of my brother's court leave me the fuck alone. We've never actually said it out loud but it was clear we were using each other. Her father wouldn't send her away from the capital as long as there was a chance that she'd manage to snag me. And I...I found myself a guardian that inspires dread in all the hopeful attendees of the feasts.

It probably wasn't healthy but the flesh is weak and sooner or later I'd drag one of them to my chambers. At least with Cersei I knew I'd always be thinking with my big head. Hopefully.

“You know, I could tell your war stories for you if you can't even pretend to care anymore, Stannis.”

I raised an eyebrow and said, “I have war stories now?”

She flutters her lashes, extremely exaggerated, and says, “The Stalwarts Stag's fierce defense of his ancestral, and never before breached and perfectly designed to repel thousands upon thousands, keep and his furious defiance of the Flowers! A story for the ages, I'm sure.”

Was she sassing me? She was sassing me.

“Hah! Is a daughter of Casterly Rock whining about my keep making its defense easy?”

She just shrugged while I desperately kept my gaze away from her jiggly bits, and sarcastically replied, “I'm a proper Lady, Stannis, and I wouldn't know much about matters of the sword.”

I just snorted and said, “With Jaime as your brother? Why do I get the feeling that you've sneaked a sparring session or two past your Lord Father?”

She narrowed her eyes and suddenly smirked, “Would a proper Lady do that?”

Now I was the one shrugging, “A proper Lady? Probably not. Then again, we are talking about you.”

A rather frightening glint appeared in her eyes once she recovered from that barb, “Now we've run out of pleasant things to say, lets dance.”

Before I could even reply she continued, “I'm not beneath spreading rumors that the great war hero is too shy to dance.

The way she put the emphasis on war hero told me just how little she cared for my ordeal. Every night she attempts to get me to dance but I've usually managed to talk my way out of it. Today though I could positively feel the eyes of all the other ladies on me. Sooner or later they'd gang up on me.

Probably on orders of Robert.

I snapped my fingers at the musicians, they picked up the tempo a little bit, and my sharp grin could cut diamonds. I pulled her in close, closer than propriety dictates, and whispered near her ear, “Fine, Cersei. Follow my lead.”

I, slightly forcefully, lead her slowly through the steps.

“One, two, three, four and step. One two three, turn. One two three four five six seven eight, step.”

Once we got through the entire pattern twice Cersei surprised me. The girl attempted to start leading herself, smoothly worked her way through the waltz perfectly, and only after a subtle game dominance wrangling did I get her back to follow me. We started spinning faster, turning harder, and crisscrossed the dance floor almost bulldozing the others out of the way.

The crowd parted and soon we were the only ones twirling on the dance floor.

I softly said, “Well, Jaime certainly looks like he wants to cut me up.”

Cersei smirked and simply replied, “What? No bluster that you could easily take him?”

I shrugged, matched her grin, and said, “Nah, I've heard he's pretty good with that sword of his.”

A faux frown and pursed lips later, “So you wouldn't even attempt to fight for my favor? I can't say the Stalwart Stag is impressing me today.”

Another shrug, “Why? He might be an amazing swordsman but he's not better than a crossbow bolt to the face.”

Cersei almost slipped, recovered near instantly, before quietly saying, “Sometimes I can't reconcile the Stannis, bleeding heart and champion of the smallfolk, with...you.”

She was referring to my impromptu triumph and my wranglings to get the Tyrells to feed the poor. Oh, she's just precious.

I flashed her a sharp grin, “That's adorable, Cersei. Is this the part where we pretend a Lannister doesn’t understand the concept of gold and grain being weapons?”

God damn it. When she smiles she's just too pretty. If only she wasn't such a wonderful 'foppish hangers on' repellant. Perhaps I should look into Lady Wendwater filling that role for me?

I'm definitely playing with fire here.

And I'm not liking the way Tywin is staring at me or the way Robert is grinning.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Missed Moments

Robert was fast and he was strong. It was completely and utterly unfair that he was this much better than me. I had one advantage. One single advantage that came from long hours fighting on the wall. My endurance was simply better and as long as Robert didn't break anything I'd be fine.

And I'd been keeping him at bay for minutes now.

His hammer came swinging down obliquely but I managed to slap it away from me before it connected. My gladius didn't give me much of a range advantage but it took the damage from Robert's attacks wonderfully. Robert stepped into my range and crashed his shield into mine.

Completely lost in his battle fury Robert raged, “STAND YOUR FUCKING GROUND!”

Fuck...that.

“Nah.”

The force of his shield battering me pushed me down, hard. I barely managed to balance on my knees, twist out of the way of his follow up strike, and swept my leg through his. I took advantage of his collapse by skittering back to my feet and kicking his hammer away. Just after I had Robert disarmed, but before I could jump on him, the bastard threw his shield at my face. Desperately I raised my shield but the distraction was long enough for Robert to get to scramble to his feet.

As fast as I could I closed the distance between us to bash his face in, Robert managed to grab on to the shield, but I held the gladius at his face.

With the sweet relief of victory I snarled, “DEAD.”

Oh, this felt amazing. The bastard had been throwing me around like a rag doll for weeks now. We'd fallen into a rhythm of sparring, to my horror...each and every morning, and I was wondering when Robert would settle the fuck down. Each morning Robert would start out fresh, completely dominate me for an hour or so, until he started slowing down enough for me to make a mockery of his offense.

The big lug simply pushed me back and out of breath bit out, “Again!”

I shouldn't have laughed.

“Don't be a sore loser, Robert. You never win after you get tired from swinging that massive hammer.”

Just as Robert was about to reply, no doubt to horrifically insult me, Ser Barristan chose that moment to cut in, “Your Grace, there is a Small Council meeting planned for an hour from now.”

I'll save you my brother's rant of profanity but he calmed down soon after. His page, some Crownlander kid, came rushing over with two buckets of cold water. Almost as one the two of us picked them up and upended them all over us. One of these days I'd have to ask them where they get this cold water from. Completely refreshed from the impromptu shower Robert turned to stare at me.

“What?”

“In a real fight you would have been dead many times over, Stannis.”

I just shrugged and replied, “In a real fight I'd shoot you in the face.”

Contemptuously Robert snorted and bit out, “You would say that, wouldn't you? Making a mockery out of honest combat.”

I just silent at that. Honest combat? Did it slip his mind how he tore up a continent to get revenge? Where the fuck does he get off judging me?

“Honest combat? No such thing, Robert.”

Robert pointed at Selmy and said, “I bet he would beg to differ.”

“Life isn't a fucking song, Robert, regardless of how many they made about Selmy.”

The big lug flushed red before almost yelling, “When did you become such a frustrating little shit!?”

Again I simply shrugged and said, “I grew up and you weren't there to see me do that.”

Robert turned on his heels to face me properly but I continued before he could speak up, “We both remember the children we used to be, Robert, but the truth is we grew up...and we don't really know each other.”

“And that's my fault?”

“I'm not blaming you or anyone else. It's just what it is, Robert. Every time we talk it's either about the realm or your drunk out of your mind.”

That seemed to have jarred the man. Instead of responding he walked over to his hammer and put it back on the weapons rack. I thought he'd turn around to reply but then he simply strode out of the training yard.

283 AC – King's Landing: Missed Moments

I closed my notebook and put it in one of the pockets I had sewn in to my cloak. It had been a long and rather tiring morning of pleading, persuading and outright threatening the shipbuilders of King's Landing into releasing some of their employees to me. The last of the annoying Guildmasters finally walked out of my office, leaving me along with Hugo and Marius.

I gestured for them to take a seat.

Out of everyone in my coterie of minions I felt that these two had the best dispositions for King's Landing. Orys was wonderful in his own right but the lad wasn't sneaky enough to survive it here without my supervision. Meryn was someone I used when I needed to wrangle foppish Lordlings. The happy youth always had a smile for everyone and I had no problem taking full advantage of his charming ways. Balon seemed happy guarding Renly for me, and from what I could tell he was becoming almost as attached to the little bugger as I was, and I was perfectly fine with that.

Storm's End was in excellent hands with Marcel and Sebastion, despite suffering from a stick up his arse, was a capable young man who could be trusted to execute my agrarian reforms on my personal demesne.

Marius, however, was sneaky and twisty in all the right places. He could generally tell what my goals were, even if I never stated them out loud, and his feedback on my plans was invaluable. Hugo worked exceptionally well with the lad and neatly covered the holes in Marius' upbringing. Despite his talents...Marius was still a lordling and almost completely blind to the dangers non-nobles presented.

“You two might have wondered why I keep you close. Why I involve you in the majority of my dealings in King's Landing...”

Hugo only nodded, not that was strange for the quiet man, but Marius spoke up, “I didn't want to bring it up but it does seem like you're granting Orys and Meryn more...independent assignments.”

“I'm keeping you close so I can introduce you to the...strategically important people in King's Landing. I'm involving you directly in my doings because as Lord of Storm's End, and Warden of the South, I cannot remain in King's Landing forever. I'm planning on entrusting my affairs here in your hands. Both your hands.”

Hugo softly spoke, “Thank you for your trust, my Lord.”

Marius, not to be outdone, immediately after replied, “I will not let you down, Stannis.”

I smiled widely and said, “Of course you wouldn't. We've been through far worse and neither of you broke. King's Landing is a different beast from a siege but I have no doubt you'd adapt.”

It couldn't hurt flattering them some. I could have kept going but at that moment a dainty little bell could be heard. Our guards standing at the front door rang the bell for visitors. Hugo got up and raced downstairs to escort them to my office. Marius went off his desk to make his notes and observations.

“Lord Stannis, a pleasure to finally meet you.”

I kept my trusty plastic smile plastered over my face as the Lord of the Arbor sauntered into my office. It threatened to completely slip off my face though when after Lord Redwyne...Davos stumbled in behind him. The man looked like shit. He was gaunt, his skin had a sickly parlor and his hair stuck to his head awkwardly.

I inclined my head and said, “Lord Paxter, likewise.”

It really wasn't. What did the man want from me and why did he bring my smuggler?

“My son brought me the news of your...tempering influence on His Grace. As a show of appreciation I thought I'd give you back your servant.”

My servant?

Did they question him?

“Hugo, if you could take good care of Davos for me.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I...”

The quiet squire nodded his assent, pulled the smuggler with him, and I knew he'd ensure that Davos would get fed well. Perhaps a shower, a shave and new clothes as well. There were many ways I could play this but I guess there was still a residual anger for the Redwyne cunt in front of me.

With a tone devoid of any inflection I spoke, “Did you break him, Paxter?”

I could tell the Lord of the Arbor didn't quite know what to make of my response. Did he assume I'd be grateful? Did he think I'd see this as a thawing of our enmity?

“I must admit that my men have been somewhat rough on him. Nothing that would permanently lose you his service, I'm sure.”

I dropped the subject, not that I could very much about it, and instead inquired about why the Redwynes would send their patriach to meet me. There was little risk of my hurting him...but all the other Houses either sent their Heirs or simply a designated representative.

“Very well.”

And then I just fell silent. Lets see what Redwyne will do. A quiet, but rather long, moment passed before the man finally spoke up.

“I had hoped to offer the services of House Redwyne to you, the Master of Ships, but I get the sense that might not be in the cards. If that is the case, I would appreciate your bluntness on the matter, Lord Stannis.”

“In which capacity would that be?”

The old man stared at me for a good long while before he said, “You seem to have demonstrated a disliking for the shipwrights of King's Landing. Perhaps you might prove my amenable to those in the Arbor?”

No.

Fucking.

Way.

“I'm afraid I'm not, Lord Paxter. The construction will remain under my direct supervision but that doesn't mean we cannot work together.”

Was he offended? Should I even care if he was? The moment I married that Tyrell lass I could safely ignore the bastard. Now though...his three hundred ships could probably take Dragonstone on it's own. And yet...I didn't want to do that before I had a sizable Navy of my own. Not out of any misplaced reluctance to share the glory but simply because I wanted to take advantage of trade picking up after Dragonstone fell by launching a trade fleet to Pentos, Myr and Tyrosh.

I wasn't about to give first dibs to the fucking Redwynes.

“Oh? In what way did you have in mind?”

I let the plastic smile slip on my face again, “I would like to borrow a handful of your captains, Paxter, to assist in recording the shores of the Westeros on some high quality nautical maps.”

283 AC – King's Landing: Missed Moments

Seeing a pretty noble lady dressed in riding gear did things to me I'd rather not look into deeply. Back in the real world I had a knee-jerk reaction to 'horse girls' but I couldn't rid myself of the thought that I should make Robert order all his court ladies to wear riding pants.

“I can't believe you just had that poor Lady of Staunton carted off like that!”

I didn't think she actually cared. At least...not if Julianna's smirk meant anything. The Lady of Wendwater joined me in surveying her lands around the river, of which either her House was named after or the other way around, for suitable locations for my new Arsenal. Spending time with one of the few friends I'd make in King's Landing didn't hurt either.

“I warned her, Julianna. Fairly explicitly, in fact.”

She spurred her horse a little closer to mine when she softly said, “Perhaps she thought you could be dissuaded by her dainty and fragile good looks.”

I couldn't keep the snort in, “She could have been the Maiden come to life. I told everyone to stay quiet and she chose not to. The consequences are hers, Julianna.”

“It didn't sound deliberate...”

Why is she defending her? Were they friends?

“So I should have given her a pass because she can't hold her tongue? For that manner of incompetence I'd like to think her Lord Father might even appreciate me culling her from his family tree.”

Now she was the one laughing and what a lovely one it was. I had to actively keep reminding myself that she was completely off limits to me. I didn't quite have the heart to keep flirting with her and I certainly wasn't about to pull a Robert. There wouldn't be any little bastards running around for me. Regardless of how smart and pretty their mother might be.

Mostly though... because I couldn't bare the thought of any of my children not knowing me.

I hadn't brought up the idea of arranging a marriage for her, with her consent of course, but there couldn't be a hint of impropriety involved. No good would come out of it and I really didn't want Marius to feel cheated if I offered her to him.

“Very well, Stannis. On to some other subjects then. My grandmother informs me you've been writing her?”

Well, I couldn't put it off any longer. In fact, I was mildly impressed she kept it in for so long.

“Indeed I have, Julianna.”

“She seemed fairly tight lipped this morning concerning the contents. Should I be worried, Stannis?”

I was about to reassure her when she continued, “Or rather pleased?”

Oh...

I looked over at her and couldn't quite shake the sensation of this being a fairly important moment. Only the thought of a hundred thousand angry Tyrell swords kept my mind from wandering to what 'could be'. As far as I was concerned this simply wasn't an option. Even Cersei, and boy was that another barrel of crazy, would be more understandable than a daughter of the tiny, and fairly unimportant, House Wendwater.

Perhaps she could decipher my sullen expression because she continued, “Oh, I see...”

“Jul-.”

“Please Stannis, can we just enjoy the ride?”

I nodded and we fill silent for a few moments. I couldn't quite remain so. Eventually I just bit out, “A hundred thousand Tyrell swords, Julianna. Have you ever seen a hundred thousand swords?”

“I can't say that I have. Have you?”

I smiled a brittle grin and said, “No, but I imagine it's much like sixty thousand swords and then some.”

The Lady of Wendwater laughed but suddenly it didn't quite feel so lighthearted anymore. I knew it was just a stupid infatuation but it was a pleasant one. Hell...I didn't even know if she actually gave a fuck about me or just had her eyes on the prize.

It didn't matter and it wasn't something I could judge her for.

I, too, had my eyes on the prize. A hundred god damn thousand Tyrell swords.

They best be worth it.

=-=

283 AC – The Rose's Road: Janna Tyrell – Bride to Be

Alerie was being a complete bore. All she wanted to talk about these days was how Mace was pulling away from her. She'd moan and whine that it was all so unfair and then Mother would try to shut her up. I had to admit though that the situation would be somewhat worrying, were I in her place. Not that I would ever allow things to go this bad.

“But why can't he see-.”

Mother proved to be a lot nicer than I expected, “Perhaps if you stop complaining, and instead focus on a solution, the problems you have would seem much less daunting, Alerie.”

Of course, that is merely for a given value of nice. Mother doesn't do nice. She does cutting, hurtful and more than a little bit of malicious but almost never nice. Alerie, the stupid ditz, of course doesn't comprehend the branch of peace my Mother extended. Instead she turned to me.

“I've tried to find a peaceable way to get along with my Lord Husband but he's adamant!”

I, valiantly if I may say so, resisted the urge to strangle her. Why can't she see the easiest solution? All she really needs to do is to stop writing to those half-treasonous brothers of her. She needs to stop singing those Hightower lullabies to her children. She needs to stop teaching little Garlan about her ancestors.

Or at least be clever enough to not get caught doing any of those things by Mace. I didn't hold out much hope for that last scenario. How do I get her to turn her attentions back on Mother? Hopefully without Mother in turn focusing on myself.

“Have you tried wearing his favorite outfit and charming him back into your marital bed?”

There. Insipid and empty gestures would do the trick. Mother rolled her eyes, Alerie quieted down for a precious few moments of blessed silence, and I could focus on the only thing that truly mattered. Making sure that Stannis Baratheon picks me over Mina. I cast my mind back to everything I knew about the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

He armed the women in his keep and let them fight along side the men. From what I heard he also sent them home with their weapons. He kept his men, as far as I was aware, from losing faith in him for the better part of a year and in dreadful circumstances. Not that Mace was putting much pressure on him, but still. From the rumors we heard back in Highgarden the man swayed his brother from sundering the Reach.

I didn't put much stock in that. Clearly it was a ploy. Why else allow such sensitive information to 'slip' to a realm that could re-muster their men and match the King's forces? At least in the short term. The fact that the actual ramifications of Mace's war were far lighter, or at least more palatable, even if they would still be exceedingly expensive proved otherwise.

Honestly, feeding the teeming masses of King's Landing and throwing coin at them to buy their affection. What are we? Old Ghiscari come new?

I spoke, at length, with Mace on the subject of the Stormlord. I didn't take all his observations for honest truth but from what I gathered my brother seems to respect him. He dislikes him, of course, but I get the sense that it's merely for form. He seemed rather excited to meet with him again. He's the source, not that the Hightowers don't seem to obliging him, of my brothers newly antagonistic relationships with that second most powerful Reach House.

What else do I know about him?

Mina shook me out of my thoughts, “What do you think the King's brother is like, Janna?”

What I think he's like? Does it matter?

He's my way out the Reach that doesn't mean I'll be reduced in stature. Out of Mother's domineering grasp and no longer reliant on Mace. He, and apparently Jaime Lannister now, are the only marriages that would give me some semblance of independence. And between those two men I'd still lean towards the one that armed women to fight for him. Anything would be preferable to getting sold to a small, and nonthreatening, House in the Reach. Especially with the way that Fossaway Knight has been buttering up my brother.

Either the Stormlord is a rather open minded man or desperation forced his hands. Even then...it seems like he is willing to bend in whatever direction is most prudent. Much like the way he handled Mace. I'm sure the man might have even preferred a Greyjoy wife over a Tyrell one but here we are.

I can't deny that I, too, am more than a little bit excited to meet him.

“I hope he's nice and likes to dance. Can you imagine living in the Royal Court, it must be so grand!”

Was I too obvious there? Is Mother narrowing her eyes or is she just squinting to read her book?

“I heard they have Dragon bones in the Great Hall! I wonder how big they'd be?”

Oh, good gods. Do I need to arrange for Mina to have some sense slapped into her? The Dragons have been slain and it does nobody any good to linger on the subject. Thankfully Mother stepped in.

“Dragons, Mina? What's next, sweet child? Will you ask the Furious King Robert if Rhaegar bled fire instead of blood?”

The color drained out her face but I didn't have much sympathy. Whatever Mace's problem was clearly seems to have been inflicted upon Mina as well. Perhaps Mother wasn't careful enough with her lovers and some beautiful but empty headed sod's seed took before she could deal with it?

It would explain so much if not for the doubtful way it had to have happened to Mother, twice.

“N-no, I mean-”

“What you mean doesn't matter. I may be an old women, Mina, but I'm not done living yet. Perhaps you are, sweetheart, but in the future do attempt to pick a subject that only offends the new dynasty on your sole behalf. The Tyrells have gone through far too much to be squashed because of the inattention of a sweet but fairly simple girl.”

“I-I...”

“Although there is something to be said about you airing your delusions in the comfort of this wagon. Perhaps you'll run out of dreadfully tasteless, and not to mention dangerous, subjects of conversation before we reach King's Landing.”

This is the part where you focus on your needlework and pretend this conversation never happened. A glare from Mother did the trick and poor Mina did indeed turn back to her needlework. Oh, sweet Mina. You wouldn't last a week alone in King's Landing. That being said...I'm not sure how well she'd do in Casterly Rock either. That is if Mother can convince both the Old Lion and Mace.

Not that growing up in Highgarden was all that easy with Mother's gaze upon you. The trick was to consistently only slightly disappoint her. That way you didn't have to deal with either her upsetting favor or chilling disfavor.

Sometimes it feels like I'm the only sane person in Highgarden.

I delicately clear my throat and mindlessly offer, “Speaking of dangerous subjects. What of this Dorne situation, Mother? Will Mace have to go off to war, again?”

I actually was curious about this. Mace had raced off ahead of us to visit Horn Hill, and several of the other Marcher Lords, and deposited a decent chunk of the might of the Reach on the borders with Dorne. While I didn't think the Martells would be foolish enough to continue a fight they cannot possibly sustain....we are dealing with men and their pride.

Anything could happen.

Mother faintly stared at me for a long moment before she responded, “Well, we do have a martially inclined King that has rather broad support in the Realm. And not to mention said martially inclined King's brother that quietly sent off his own Marcher Lords to the border with Dorne. Interesting times to be alive, I'm sure.”

I didn't know that last bit. I wasn't about to waste time trying to figure how Mother knew, that way lay only madness, but I did turn my mind to the new information. If Stannis Baratheon sent his men off to the border and my brother did the same it would send a clear message to those sandy deserts.

Mother continued, “I imagine the Martells comprehend that the full might of the Tully's, Starks, Arryn's and Lannisters are mustered in the Crown Lands. And I have no doubt they won't fail to see the opportunity present for the Old Lion.”

Ah.

Poor Martells. Their family gets massacred and the realm is rather intent on forgiving their brutal enemies. Even worse, the new dynasty did all they could to seduce the Lion's to their cause. Rather effectively I might add. I could, of course, sympathize with the Martells but there was a point where stubborn resistance doesn't get you anywhere.

Mother still wasn't done, “Of course there is the possibility of their hostages being valuable enough to the King that he may be paralyzed into non action. In which case a favorable surrender might be on the table. We'll have to see.”

I didn't have enough information about that to draw any meaningful conclusions. I couldn't guess at the value of the hostages or at the agenda of the Martells. Would they attempt for independence? That seemed fairly unlikely. I doubted that a new dynasty would allow such an ignominious start to their rule.

What else would move them? Mercantile interests? Would they dare attempt for another marriage tying them to the Iron Throne? A marriage proposal distant in the future for the heirs of the King and the Martells?

The next hour or so went by in blessed silence, save for the rocking of the carriage. When even that started annoying me less I knew we'd arrived on the King's Road. King's Landing wouldn't be far off from here.

Aleria spoke up, “Lady Olenna? Might I benefit from your experience? I fear I...am not up to the troubles.”

Oh, that concession must have cost dear Aleria something awful. It it however rather telling that she seems to value her relationship with Mace, when it's on good terms, high enough to come crawling to Mother. If only she just asked nicely earlier.

“While Janna's advice might be somewhat relevant...” She looked over at me, far too amused, and continued, “You would be best served by pinpointing the exact cause of strife between you and my son.”

Aleria fell silent for a good long while there, fidgeted around uncomfortably – but who could blame her with Mother's heavy gaze upon her -, until she finally replied, “He mislikes my ties with Hightower.”

Mother simply raised a singular eyebrow and I almost winced in sympathy.

Stuttering she continued, “Or is merely the fact that I am a Hightower the concern?”

Oh, you dolt. Now it comes.

Mother frostily replied in turn, “Oh, this is news to me.”

Auch.

Aleria looked around at us for support but even Mina was canny enough to dodge her gaze. Mother simply continued staring at the little Hightower flower until she threatened to wilt.

“I-I...I used to be.”

A small, almost unnoticeable smile tugged at the ends of her lips, “Come on now, Alerie. You're almost there, girl. We still have a few days before we reach the Court. I have every faith you'll reach your personal enlightenment before we arrive.”

Again, auch.

Oh, how I wish she could just stop being so dense.

“Does he wish me to sever ties with them completely? Would he truly be so cruel?”

No, you daft girl. Even if I don't think you should ask that of the man's Mother it's still a foolish question. Of course it wouldn't be forever. Just long enough for his sons to grow up without any silly notions of loyalty to that House.

“You're his wife, dear.”

“But surely this is all a misunderstanding? I only seek his rectify this, my Lady.”

Oh, gods. Even Mina would have gotten it by now. My sweet sister seemed to be lost in her own thoughts though. Perhaps Mother shook her too much and now she couldn't find her way back? Oh, wouldn't that be a sight to behold. Even with addled wits she'd still be worth a hundred of Alerie though. Is that why Mother picked her? So she could continue her reign undisturbed?

It didn't matter.

I was getting out. All that remained was executing my escape.

I already knew I wasn't riding into King's Landing inside the carriage. A man who is comfortable letting women fight on his walls might be impressed by a Lady riding into the town by herself. Or at least alongside Mace.

Or perhaps he wouldn't. It was a risk, sure, but when wasn't life one?

There was still the niggling sensation in the back of my mind that Stannis might not appreciate reminders of that fairly harrowing time in his life. Perhaps he only resorted to such...against the grain behavior concerning the usefulness of women when surrounded by enemies and in dire need of assistance?

If it came to that...I could work with it. There wasn't a dearth of enemies in King's Landing. Real or otherwise imagined.

AN: Commentary and feedback is greatly appreciated!

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

I was in my office, a few blocks from the Great Sept of Baelor, when I heard the news. Ned's tactical infiltration of Dorne hadn't gone like I imagined it would. The reports were muddled, confusion abound, but the gist of it was that the Martells held both Eddard and Lyanna Stark. The runner, one of the many quick-footed children I employ, also shared the less surprising news of Lyanna's pregnancy. It suffices to say that I did not, in fact, immediately race of to the Red Keep.

There wasn't enough gold in the world to make me face Robert's rage. And I had no doubt that Arryn would spins things just so to force me to bear the brunt of it. Fuck him. The Old Falcon can whisper of caution and restraint while Robert burns through most of his anger. Eventually though, a few hours later, I received an official summons to the Small Council.

“Stannis! Where in the seven hells have you been?”

Ah, Robert was still in a mood.

“In was in my office, Robert, when I heard the most appalling rumors. Tell me they're just that.”

That obviously didn't fool any one of the others Council members but Robert was still flush with rage. The big lug wasn't thinking and tore into my reply almost immediately.

“Pox on that, they aren't rumors! The desert cunts have Ned and Lya! If they hurt so much as a hair on their-.”

The Hand cut in just as I took a seat.

“Your Grace, we've been through this. Please let calmer heads prevail, my Liege.”

Oh, wow. Arryn was being rather formal. I guess everyone was on edge around this table. Except for Pycelle and his imitation of a doddering old fool. He looks like he can barely keep his eyes open but we'd have to see if that was enough to shield him from Robert's random outbursts.

Varys simply nodded at me once I walked in, raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow when I distracted Robert, and smiled beneficently at me. I looked forward to stabbing him in the face as soon as possible. So obviously I, too, graced Varys with a bright smile. If only I could get that man alone somewhere where nobody knows he was meeting with me.

Ser Barristan was his usual silent self, the man almost never brought anything to the table that didn't have to do with his precious King's Guard, and would likely prove utterly useless as an adviser. The Master of Laws, a fairly forgettable man, was staring daggers at me.

Yeah...

I kind of humiliated his daughter. And used his own men to help me do it.

That relationship probably wasn't salvageable. Unfortunately for Symond Staunton this meant that he, much like Varys, was on my list. Over the past few weeks we'd been having a little shadow war where I attempted to get men into the Goldcloaks and Staunton attempted to stymy me.

I didn't mind. It was mostly a long shot anyways as I lacked the funds to truly throw my weight around. Staunton in turn couldn't afford it either but every play I made for one of his subordinates, often with as little provocation as a dinner invitation or two for them, was enough to send him scrambling for replacements. I assumed he never quite believed them that we only spoke of their duties and experiences.

A rather costly endeavor for him. Much less so for me.

It did also mean that he was less focused on my attempts at suborning his armed men in the Red Keep. The man couldn't revoke his permission for his men to train with mine, not without heating up our little cold war, and I was having some success there. The Palace Guard obeyed me when I gave them orders. Would they do the same if Staunton gives other orders?

“Fine! How we get them back, Jon?”

Arryn cleared his throat and said, “We must come to terms with them, your Grace. Your rule cannot start with a defiant Dorne.”

Robert's reply came quickly, “We'll see how defiant they are once we march on Sunspear!”

Ser Barristan surprised me by answering, “Your Grace, a renewed war with Dorne would be costly enterprise. Even Daer-.”

Robert simply interrupted him, “Well I'm not him!”

I thought that was my perfectly cue, “Indeed, and it wouldn't be a war either.”

Suddenly all eyes were on me but before Varys, for he got that glint in his eyes, could speak I continued, “There would be no engagements. No splitting of the armies. One massive host that chews through Dorne as we sack settlements, towns and cities alike. Let them scurry to their hills. What are they going to do once they have no more cities left?”

Dead quiet.

I continued with a small smirk, “How long will Dorne resist after we tear down keep after keep? Of course, this is all predicated on them not giving up their hostages in good order.”

Varys chose then to reply, “Would you have your brother rule over ashes?”

A simply shrug later, “We'd rebuild in Robert's image. Plenty of second and third sons in the Stormlands and the Reach.”

The other members of the Small Council, save for Varys and Pycelle, seemed mi;dly disturbed but once I saw the grin on Robert's face I knew I'd hit the right note.

Jon coughed one before replying, “As Lord Stannis says, let us reserve that for the possibility that Dorne proves to be unbending.”

Did he really have to put it that way?

Robert bit out, “They better not be. I wouldn't mind being the cause for the Martells to change their fucking House words.”

Yup, I was definitely hitting the right chord with Robert.

Pycelle seemingly woke from his self imposed slumber and croaked, “Perhaps it would be best to allow the Marcher Lords of the Reach and the Stormlands to defend the passes?”

The burly Baratheon of Baratheon's contemptuously replied, “Because Dorne would send out its broken army out into the other Realms?”

Varys added his two cents, “It wouldn't be specifically to keep the Martells trapped in their deserts, your Grace. It would send a strong message to Sunspear that the Crown is unwilling to be toyed with.”

Robert nodded firmly and said, “Done. Stannis, send half our men to their castles and make the Fat Flower do the same.”

What else could I do but say, “Done.”

Of course Staunton had to speak up then, “Do you hold such sway of the Lord of the Reach, Lord Stannis?”

All eyes were on me again. What was this ploy about? Did he want me to brag about dominating Mace so he could make sure those words reach him? Or was he genuinely curious? I discarded the second options almost immediately.

“Lord Mace is a reasonable man, Master Staunton.”

And then I shut up. Let him make of it what he will.

“I would certainly say so, Lord Stannis.”

Oh, what he did want now? Varys was doing that unsettling smiling thing of his again so I just knew I was getting fucked somehow. What was he alluding to? He couldn't actually be referring the rather generous terms the Reach received, right? Not after the way Robert let him keep his fucking Master of Law appointment?

I stared the Staunton representative for a bit before replying, “He knows where his proverbial bread is buttered. If only I could say the same for other recalcitrant Lords.”

Varys' smile just got wider. I almost got the sense he was acknowledging my hit on Staunton. Considering the latter shut up after that I thought I had it well pegged. Immediately after that thought I vowed to disregard it. I'd rather assume everything Varys does is malicious.

It would probably help keep me alive.

Arryn once again spoke up, “We must discuss our proxy for the negotiations. Who would we send to Dorne?”

I could have waited and seen which way the wind blows. Varys always did that, as did Pycelle, but as the brother of the King I have a little bit more leeway.

“I would suggest our Lord Commander. He's widely respected, on both sides, and his position carries the implication that there shouldn't be too much negotiating. Ser Barristan would simply be accepting the terms of whatever surrender we hash out with Dorne.”

Varys piped up, “Which terms would you suggest, Lord Stannis?”

Did he think I minded being put on the spot? Every single Small Council meeting has gone like this. Either Jon pushes something off on me, Varys tries to get me to defend my suggestions, or Robert straight up asks for my input. Considering I do not come to the Small Council meetings unprepared...what were they thinking?

I couldn't be the only one to notice that more often than not things went my way.

Why would they keep doing this?

Was I missing something horribly obvious?

God damn it, I'd have to see what my impromptu think tank has to say about this. Marius, Hugo and Cressen could generally come to some startlingly accurate conclusions. With some work I hoped that Davos would prove a boon with his experience in muddier waters than politics.

“In a perfect world?”, I mused.

I scratched my chin, “The Martells hand in their title of Princes of Dorne together with their hostages. In return the Martells get to keep the Lord Paramount-ship of Dorne, after they bend the knee and come swear their allegiance in King's Landing, and count their lucky stars.”

Robert scoffed, “I like the idea of ripping away their special titles but not letting the Martells walk away, free.”

Before anyone else could interject I did, “Make their eldest a hostage with the largest bannermen of theirs that submits earliest. And then spread rumors we're looking for replacement Lord Paramounts if the Martells are involved in anything that even faintly whiffs of treason.”

Varys stared at me again, “And keeping their eldest girl with their own bannermen would make her a hostage...how?”

I shrugged again, “That's not the point. It's about keeping her away from Doran. I don't actually expect her to get her throat slit if any Martells make a move. I expect the bannermen to marry her off to his sons and claim the Lord Paramount-ship of Dorne. If they are strong enough....”

This time Staunton responded, “And if they are not?”

I turned to Robert, with a wicked grin plastered over my face, and said, “Then I imagine they'd require a lot of help from the Iron Throne to keep their position. Dorne wouldn't be a concern for a generation or two, at least.”

That thought seemed to please the King. Unfortunately silence fell around the table as we reached an awkward subject. The rather destabilization fact that Lyanna Stark was pregnant and everyone here knew who the father was likely to be. This sort of shit should be Arryn's bailiwick but even he was dodging Roberts gaze.

At that moment I thought that I might, perhaps, score brownie points by not flinching from the subject. I could already see the red bubbling up on Robert's cheek so I knew a loud castigation of our collective cowardice would be coming soon.

I sighed, deeply, and simply turned to Robert, “What everyone here seems afraid of mentioning is the other half of the awful rumors, Robert. What are we to do with the half Stark half Targaryen growing in Lyanna's belly?”

Would simply mentioning her name, and the babies status as at least part Stark, be enough to make Robert see reason. It appeared not.

“Do you want a pat on the fucking back for broaching the subject, Stannis?!”

I valiantly resisted the urge to roll my eyes and said, “This is what happens when cruel princes keep pretty ladies locked up in towers, brother. I can't advise you on what to do...not in this.”

Robert snarled back, “Then what fucking good are you?”

There were precious few good outs for me. If I came out swinging, and he decides to not horribly offend the Starks, I'd be the bastard that tried to snuff out poor little Jon. If I hemmed and hawed I'd look foolish but I could likely recover from it.

Or I could try something else.

“It's a terrible situation all around, Robert, but I'm assuming you knew that Rhaegar was a cunt. Instead of letting this divide you from all of the Starks, brother, how about we attempt to see the smallest glimmer of good that comes out of this?”

Oh, this would be tricky. I had no way to know how he would respond to this.

“Well? Bite it out then, Stannis!”

Yeah, he wasn't pleased. Who could blame him?

I cleared my throat and said, “If you can accept keeping the little Stark bastard around...”

I waited for just a heartbeat or two and when Robert didn't lose his cool I continued, “We can round up all your Baratheon bastards. I wouldn't mind being surrounded by more family, Robert. Especially if they are as adorable as little Mya Stone is, from what I gather.”

Again, dead silence. I risked a quick glance over at the others. Arryn looked faintly disapproving and thoughtful. Staunton looked confused, Selmy was inscrutable, and Pycelle pretended he was deeply in thought. Varys was the only one to look mildly impressed. I ruthlessly crushed that tiny, almost insignificant, amount of fanboy-ism down. Repeat; I do not care about Varys' opinions. In fact; I will stab him in the face as soon as feasible.

Robert was as still as a statue for a good long while. Finally he replied, “The small amount of good, huh? Who would take care of the little brats?”

“I'd find someone and I don't mind letting them spend time in Storm's End either. Every Baratheon, even if they don't carry the name, should call our home...just that. Our home.”

Was it working? Was Robert softening?

After another long moment Robert again said, “I'll think on it. Is there anything else? I grow weary of this.”

He sounded almost defeated. Gods, this couldn't be good for him. Even with his nightmares of killing Rhaegar every night...This must feel like Rhaegar winning to him. Poor guy.

Arryn played with some parchments before speaking up, “The matter of the vacant Master of Coin position, your Grace. I've prepared several suggestions.”

Oh that sneaky bastard. Saving that for last...

Was that the reason why he was so quiet today?

“Well then?”

“On the top of my list would be Lord Hoster Tully. A seasoned and experienced man, an avid supporter of yours, and I believe a most deserving one of this honor.”

Lord Tully...the Trout Lord.

Would I benefit from his old boney ass sitting on the Council? Probably not. The man served with Arryn in the Ninepenny wars. I had no doubt they'd be thick as thieves. And that didn't even mention Arryn's new Tully wife. Even if she did hate them both. I wondered how I could take advantage of that particular situation. Before I could fully consider the ramifications Varys' once again made his presence known.

“How about Lord Tyrell? I imagine that a wealthy, and reasonable man, would be a fine addition to this Council.”

What. The. Fuck. What is Varys' game here?

Selmy stayed quiet on the subject. Staunton backed Arryn's suggestion, which slightly worried me about the closeness between those two, and Pycelle made vague noises. It was unclear who he supported and disgustedly Robert told him to shut up.

“What say you, Stannis?”

“Do we expect the Master of Coin to cough of coins of their own in the exertion of their office?”

Robert looked confused and Arryn answered for him.

“No, generally the...opposite happens.”

I turned to Arryn, “I imagine that you do not think Lord Hoster would sully himself, so? Not that I believe someone as wealthy as Lord Mace would need to stop that either.”

Arryn stared, and stared, but eventually simply said, “Indeed.”

I turned back to the King, “I'm with the Hand then. I'm sure Lord Hoster would make a fine addition to this august body.”

A little overdoing it, maybe. As much as I liked the thought of having a solid, or at least a sort of solid, ally on the Council...I didn't want Mace to play the game for himself. I wanted him to rely on my influence. He was simply too wealthy and powerful to contain otherwise. Perhaps I could stand him in this Hall after Janna is well and truly wed and gave me an heir or two.

By then he'd be family and we could discuss sharing power.

Now all that remained was the niggling worry that Varys had learned more about me...than I had about him.

That can't be good. I should speed up my plans to see him drifting upside down in Blackwater Bay.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Jaime Lannister – The Golden Knight

No, he said.

That smug little shit just outright forbid me from competing in his precious tournament. What's the point in competing if they won't let the best swordsman enter? When the winner will inevitably know, look at me, and narrow his eyes at the realization he's only beaten second rate-.

“Do stop brooding, Jaime, frowning doesn't become you.”

I just rolled my eyes at Cersei. It wasn't enough that she was what lurked most often in my mind. No, not for Cersei. So when it wandered away from her she must interrupt my sequence of thought.

Of course.

I deliberately stayed quiet as we walked to my father's accommodations. I had hoped that not being summoned by him this morning would mean I'd get one of my rare free days. Those precious few hours where I don't have to follow my father around like a lost puppy. He claims he's preparing me for my future duties but I think he derives enjoyment from having me lurk behind him as he goes about his errands. Instead I was summoned midday just as Cersei managed to extract herself from that smug little shits arm.

“What do you think Father wants, Jaime?”

I can almost hear her capitalize Father.

“I imagine he has orders to bark, Cersei. Maybe he'd like for me to glower at men behind his back or for you to prance around like a little-.”

Cersei interrupted me again, “A little what, Jaime?”

I wisely chose to remain quiet and my sister seemed content to turn up her nose. A few moments later we walked into father's room, where as always he sat behind his desk, and awkwardly stood around until he deigned to take notice of us. It always managed to annoy me when he did that. He summoned us here. Presumably it then wouldn't come as a surprise that we, indeed, arrive before him mere moments after he called for us.

And still he makes us wait as he scribbles his many letters. When he finally shuffled his papers around and deposited them in his desk he said, “Sit down, there have been some developments.”

As always Cersei braved father first, “Is this about the Dorne situation?”

Father stared at Cersei for a short while before asking, “And what would you know about the...Dorne situation?”

Why did he have to prod her like this?

Why couldn't Cersei just let it go?

Instead of doing that she immediately replied, “I know half the Baratheon forces are withdrawing from King's Landing, and all of the Tully-Stark forces went along with them, to the marches of the Stormlands.”

Calmly father said, “A particularly dimwitted child could sniff out the movements of thousands of men, Cersei. No, what I speak of is our own involvement in this opportunity.”

I knew this was my cue, “Opportunity?”

“As it stands...the Martells are an intractable enemy of ours. One that I do not foresee will change that orientation of theirs any time soon. And now there are thousands of swords at their borders.”

Cersei connects the clues first, “You mean to have them destroyed, father?”

He doesn't even deign to reply to her. Instead he continues speaking to me, “This is too great an opportunity to miss, Jaime, and correspondingly I cannot entrust it to you. Not solely to you, at least.”

Thank you for that wonderful statement of support, father. Honest, my stomach is aflutter.

“Tygett will lead our host and he knows my mind. You will obey him as you would me, Jaime.”

Ah, so I am to go war then. Or at least be bored on the borders of Dorne until the drunk King manages to barter for his precious Northerners back. Almost immediately after I thought that the realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

There truly are no lines father isn't willing to cross.

“I understand, father.”

Now he finally turned to Cersei, “I understand that despite your new found...closeness with the King's brother you are no nearer to turning his head towards you, Cersei. Will you cease your efforts now you know them to be futile or must I have Septa's surrounding you at all times? There are far better uses for you, child.”

Wait.

Didn't father order Cersei to...I looked over at my beautifully treacherous sister and know by the way she dodges my gaze that I'm right. Father didn't set her on the Baratheon boy and Cersei was acting on her own accord. Clearly father approved, seeing as he didn't have her locked up, but now he has incentive to intervene.

Without looking at me she responded to father, “As you said, I am close to the brother of the King. Would that truly be such a disappointing use of my time, father?”

Unlikely enough that quieted father down. The moments stretched on as the silence took on a life of own until father finally broke it.

“And what have you discovered, Cersei? What have your efforts wrought?”

My sister took a deep breath before replying, “Quite a few things I imagine you, yourself, have also heard. A few, likely, that you haven't. What do you know about Stannis Baratheon?”

Is she questioning father? What has gotten into her? I tried to catch her eyes again but still she dodged my gaze.

“I do believe I-.”

She interrupted father next, “Please indulge me, father. I would not have you think me silly by recounting all the varied, but perhaps not all that useful, tidbits I picked up.”

Another lengthy moment of silence before he spoke, “Very well. I know the boy has been forging ties of friendship and marriage with various Crownlander Houses. Notably those with lands that border his own. I know he's attempting to mimic the Bravosi in their shipbuilding style. I know he's behind the bounty on the Targaryens, the Reach being made to pay to feed the capital, and that he's quarreling with the Master of Laws.”

Cersei nodded firmly and said, “Are you aware of his involvement with the ongoing negotiations with the Dornish?”

He does. And yet he shook his head. I knew he did. He spoke to me about it just yesterday. I can only surmise he wants to trip up Cersei. Perhaps I'd feel bad for her is she wasn't in one of her moods. Or if she hadn't been lying to me.

“He's the one who brought Ser Barristan Selmy forth as the diplomat, father. He claimed, while he was somewhat in his cups, that the White Bull doesn't have a political bone in his body and would, with a straight face, threaten to burn Dorne to ground before begging the Martells to reconsider.”

Father slowly raised an eyebrow.

Cersei continued, “He's not bluffing father. If the Martells deny his terms he will. I saw it in his eyes. They lit up at the thought of rebuilding Dorne from the ground up!”

Father nodded once and asked, “Anything else you'd care to share?”

Cersei frowned a little but eventually replied, “His...antagonism towards the Master of Laws is perfunctory. He cares nothing for the man and claimed he was using him for practice.”

Oh.

Somehow that both completely disgusts and impresses me. The smug little shit...

Cersei saw father nodding again and kept going, “He loves the Lady Wendwater and his sworn sword, Marius Heston, knows this.”

Why is this relevant and why is father looking so interested now?

“Do elaborate, Cersei.”

With a wide smile she said, “He's arranged for his man to marry her, a rather big step up for the Heston boy, but I thought this was something you might want to keep in mind. Perhaps there's an opening there to exploit?”

How very kindhearted of you, Cersei. The more she attempts to be like father the less I like her. If I didn't love her so very much...

“Anything else?”

My sister was momentarily crestfallen by father's non reaction but continued, “I suspect that he's not done working over the Hightowers. He's set the ransom for their son for two hundred thousand dragons and when they attempted to negotiate it down he raised it to two hundred and fifty thousand. I've yet to find out why he reconciled with the Tyrells, Tarly's and the Redwyne's, but continues to agitate the Hightowers.”

All of which father already knew. He sent me away after a meeting with Lord Leyton Hightower but when the old man burst out of his office I understood enough. At least it meant I wouldn't be marrying one of his daughters. Hopefully I wouldn't marry anyone but I doubted that father could be swayed. I'd just have to close my eyes and imagine it's my beloved.

Father's expression was entirely unreadable when he asked, “What of the Tarly's?”

Again my sister smiled and said, “He's been in regular contact with him but I couldn't say why. I'll attempt to needle it out of him soon, father.”

“Very well, Cersei. You're excused.”

She stood up, turned around, and strode out of the room without even looking at me. Despite my best attempt at ignoring this I still felt the twinge in my chest.

“Father, why did you pretend she gave you any news?”

Father sighed softly and spoke, “Cersei is many things but as clever as she imagines herself, she is not.”

Before I could ask for an elaboration he continued, “I will send the Mountain and Ser Amory Lorch with you, Jaime. You are to assist their mission once Tygett creates an opportunity for them to slip away. Assist, Jaime, just assist. You are not to join them.”

As if I would willingly spend time with them. They might be our bannermen but they were vile animals. According to father they were useful vile animals but I didn't care for them. If I ever do become Lord Paramount of the Westerlands I will string them up as my first and final act before dropping Casterly Rock on Tyrion. I'm sure he'd enjoy that.

“All right, father. I understand.”

I tried to find a way to steer the conversation back to Cersei but father must have sensed my curiosity.

“If I wanted you to know, Jaime, I would have told you. Now, do cease you fidgeting. Read that stack of letters and let me know what you think.”

And then you will spend the afternoon explaining just why I'm horribly incompetent and stupid, and wrong about everything, ever. Or what father likes to call, bonding time. If only he would realize that Cersei is the one who might actually enjoy these lengthy tutoring sessions in the arts of cruelty. Or as father put it; the duties that come with being the Lord of Casterly Rock.

I firmly believe that I have the right of it.

Before I touched the papers I asked father, “What about the Tarly's father? What do you know?”

The man just raised an eyebrow before dropping the letter he was reading. Another deep sigh and he said, “The man is leading a petition to retrain all the men together for combat in Dorne. I imagine that, if Stannis' recent history is any indication, that he's finding a way to make a favorable deal with Lord Tarly's considerations in mind.”

“If I didn't know you better, father, I'd almost think you liked him.”

Father rooted through his papers for a moment before replying, “As of yet he is, indeed, still inoffensive to me.”

Keeping fathers standards in mind...that meant that he would hesitate for a few heartbeats before doing terrible, terrible, things to him should that change. As opposed to the immediate fire and revenge if someone were to do something as stupid as antagonize father.

A few weeks ago I might have said something about my father becoming soft in his old age. Since then I'd found out that he has no issue getting the Mountain to 'train' with me. Not that the man managed to lay a single finger on me but I'd rather not go through that again.

I wouldn't mindlessly poke father.

Instead I prodded him with a goal in mind. Why not benefit, for once, from having him as my Lord Father.

“Even with the way he's been acting towards me?”

Again he raised that annoying single eyebrow and said, “Oh, what has he done?”

“He's banned me from entering the lists, father! Without any appeal or ceremony. He simply ordered the seneschal to make sure I didn't compete!”

And then Stannis told me that playing at pretend war was for fools. I almost stabbed him for that. He must have noticed because the annoying shit just smirked and ordered the seneschal that any mystery knights attempting to compete were to be shot in the knees.

And then my blood almost froze in my veins.

Father smiled.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

It's a difficult thing to come to grips with the limits of your abilities. It's even worse when those limits rear their ugly heads and forcibly remind you of them. I really should have had a better grip on my ambition. The day started as any other. I went about my business, sent off more men and supplies to the outer edges of the Wendwater estate, and attempted to smooth talk Tywin Lannister into selling me copper and tin on the cheap. It's odd to consider that dealing with the Old Lion's was the last pleasant moment of the day.

Soon after that I got a message from my pet Pyromancers.

The Alchemists' Guild had been working on the rudimentary sketches of a steam engine on my behest. Their new Wisdom, the head of their organization, was more than amenable to my demands and most keen to prove their useful to the new regime. Wisdom Floris and his band of pseudo wizards convinced me that using charcoal, or regular coal, would only slow them down. With the benefit of hindsight I should have simply told them to shut up and get to work. Instead I foolishly went along with them, seduced by their whispers of the brilliance of their wildfire powered steam engine, and lost in my own dreams of a semi-mechanized Royal Navy.

Wisdom Floris led me into one of the warehouses I gave them leave to use. Within the massive building had sprung up a rudimentary workshop that was positively buzzing with activity. Except for the far right corner of the building where the Alchemists' Guild set up their steam engine.

I still can't get over how promising it all seemed. How clear Wisdom Floris' arguments were of the lengths he went to in order to ensure maximum safety.

“You see, my Lord? We attached the spinning wheel to the paddle and the results have been promising!”

The man was too lost in his own euphoria to wait for a response. Instead he simply carried on and gave the order to fire up the engine. Not that he called it that. In Wisdom Floris' eyes the machine was simply 'the device' and I was just fine with that. If it worked properly I'd attach some spiffy storm related name to it.

The engine puffed away, slowly at first, but after a ridiculously short while its pace picked up. The paddles attached to the output of the engine kept pace and I could already envision them powering my ships. The piston's rattled and I could hear the hiss of water rushing into the steam tank to induce enough of a vacuum to displace the pumps.

“We have yet to test it in other circumstances, my Lord, but I have high hopes for this!”

I was about to respond to him when several things happened at the same time. The first was a loud bang that shook the senses. The second I noticed was the confused look on Floris' face as he crumpled to the ground. The third was all the blood that covered me.

And then came the smoke and fire.

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

I woke to pain.

My throat felt like it was on fire, I could barely move my tongue with sharp spikes of pain rushing through me, and my breath came in rasping waves. Nausea rocked me and even though I hadn't moved a muscle I felt like the room was spinning out of control. My first actual thought was 'I'm alive'.

The second was 'Am I still on fire?'.

A quick look around let me know I was in my own room. Another quick look, and frantic patting all over my body, let me know that I was probably in one piece. And not on fire, despite the way my nerves are screaming at me.

I could only recollect vague impressions of what happened. I remembered Floris collapsing to the ground, and then there was blood everywhere, and then the world caught fire. No clue how I got out and nobody around to inform me. I tried to call out for someone to attend to me but all that came out of my throat was a croak.

Quickly I gave up on that idea and settled in to wait for someone to walk in. Hopefully that someone would be Cressen and not say...Pycelle. Not that I thought he'd conspire to do me in, at this point, but you could never tell. My mind wandered and since I didn't have anything else to do I let it. As I lay there in the dark of my rooms I thought about the string of decisions that led me here.

On first glance I couldn't exactly pinpoint a moment where my ambition for the future took hold of me. All of my actions seemed reasoned, usually well thought out, and I though I had a firm grip on my new life. There was still that faint sense of unease at the back of my mind that I mentally referred to as my 'Stannis Imprint'.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think I'm sharing a mind with Stannis. I just think there's a echo left of him. Usually I just ignored it as it flared with up certain people. I paid absolutely no mind to the faint distaste for Robert. I ignored the discomfort of speaking in public as I knew I had no such issues back in the real world. There's no way I could have done my job if I did. The only remnant I agreed with was his burning need to keep little Renly safe.

Perhaps I went too far in disregarding Stannis' perceptions? Had I grown too contemptuous of him and his memories?

I ignored the shudder racing through my very being and thoroughly considered all the actions I'd taken since arriving in this world. It's been a little over five months now and I'd like to think I've done well for myself. Better than Stannis had at least which was one of the reasons I was ignoring his echo. Now, though, I carefully considered the path my new life has set for me.

And I was shaken.

I came into this place with what I can only call...misconceptions. Just because the previous owner of this body never gave any inclination to meddle in the courtly games doesn't mean he didn't understand them. Calling on his memories, experiences, and that faint sense of echo of his I attempted to force myself to look at things from his perspective.

The perspective of a local.

And it wasn't pretty.

Stannis would never have approved of me and I couldn't quite tell why that shook me so. The squiring of Betsy was something that had cost me precious credibility. Not using the King's Landing shipyards had inevitably made me enemies. My disregard of court life, and spars attendance of Robert's feasts, left the impression that there was a breach between us. I let my men call me by first name, which looking back on it they've never done in public, which wasn't 'done' here.

My impromptu rivalry with Master Staunton, something that was fairly easy to have avoided, was a waste of my political capital. I screwed up my first impression with the Hand of the King. Who is getting his old friend Hoster god damned Tully on board with the Council. With the upsetting way I squandered an insecure Small Council member...all I'd done was hand another ally to Lord Arryn. Varys is still breathing when I probably should have just stabbed him in the face already.

I never made a move on Pycelle.

And I could go on and on.

I would have been crushed under the weight of errors and miscalculations if I hadn't, inadvertently or not, made a few key strokes of brilliance. House Lannister was firmly on my side. That was good. What wasn't good was the fact that I hadn't started construction on the canals immediately. The only thing stopping that from being yet another error was the fact I called on the Old Lion, just earlier.

From his perspective I must have been keeping him dangling ever since our initial agreement. How bad would things have gone if I hadn't needed his copper and tin? Jesus Christ...how disrespectful must I have looked wasting his time?

My budding relationship with the Faith of the Seven was another stroke of good judgment. Quite likely it is the only reason why more people aren't grumbling about my disregard of what it means to be a noblemen in Westeros. I've never gone hunting with Robert or anyone else. I've never accepted any offers to spar with people, save for Robert. Good gods...how many people have I offended by not accepting their invitations? Considering the way these invitations have been tapering off lately...

And I thought that was a good thing...

I've been seen with Cersei a lot which I'm sure staved off plenty of other rumors. Still, whoring was one thing that I wouldn't be stooping to. I like my genitals just the way they are and I'm not interested in the rolling the die on them.

Looking back on all of that it's a wonder I got anything done. The social isolation I had inadvertently put myself in must have cost me dearly. I had to actively repress a wince at that. My only saving grace on that front was Meryn Buckler. The happy youth was positively dripping with charm and his silver tongue smoothed over more than a few ruffled feathers. Ser Balon Swann, while wandering the Red Keep and minding Renly, clearly did me more than a few favors as well.

This couldn't continue.

I was bleeding political goodwill and influence because I've been looking at all of this wrongly. I'm not a manager in some corporation nor am I an upjumped crime boss. I'm the Lord Baratheon of Storm's End and the brother of the god damned King. These people expect me to be the pinnacle of nobility and I've been proverbially spitting in their collective faces.

Oh god, I would have to eat so much crow.

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

Maester Cressen was the first one to notice I'd woken up. The old man fretted over me for a while before presenting a strange yellow concoction.

“Small sips, Stannis. It will sooth your throat.”

Too weak to resist, even if I wanted to, I did just as the aged Maester asked. The effect was almost instantaneous. A coolness took hold of my throat and for the first time since I woke I could breath just fine. I pushed my luck too far though and convulsed in painful coughs.

“It will take a while for the swelling and agitation to cease. Don't rush it. And it's probably for the best if you refrain from speaking for the day.”

And again the yellow concoction was placed at my lips. Again I slowly sipped at it and simply let the soothing sensation work its way through my windpipe.

“Your brother's are-.”

Before the man even finished speaking Robert barreled through the door with Renly in his arms. A stab of pain, completely unrelated to my injuries, coursed through me as I saw how pale the little bugger was. His eyes were red from tears and I had never seen him look so out of sorts. Even after the attack on him in Storm's End he wasn't this disheveled.

I tried to say something but all that came out was a length coughing session that once again wracked my body with convulsions. Cressen pushed me back down on the bed and this time presented some clear water. Gratefully I slurped up some as I looked over at Robert.

He looked worried which was...good. I was rather thankful my disregard of him hadn't entirely pushed him away from me yet. The massively muscled bastard on the edge of my bed, carefully kept Renly back from launching himself at me, and I could hear him whispering at the little bugger.

“You wouldn't want to hurt him, would you?”

I almost laughed at how quickly Renly shook his head. The overly handsome King then quietly muttered, “Even if he might deserve it.”

He shook his head and asked Cressen, “How is he?”

The Maester inclined his head and said, “He'll be confined to bed rest for a while but he shall make a good recovery, your Grace.”

Robert nodded, clenched Renly a little bit harder, turned to me and said, “Well, Stannis, what do you have to say for yourself?”

What?

The King leaned in closer and continued, “Did I hear this right, Stannis? Were you playing with the fucking Alchemists?”

Cressen, bless his heart, intervened for me, “The damage to his throat prevents him from speaking, your Grace. I fear he can't quite respond.”

Oddly enough Robert only smiled a little wider, “Good. I have a few things to say to him and I could do without him questioning me.”

Maester Cressen, the vile craven, took that as a dismissal and promptly left me alone with my siblings. A few moments passed as he gathered his supplies, left me some ink and parchments, and quietly exited the room.

Robert gave it another few heartbeats before he said, “Half your force of Stormbringers have camped in my hallways for the past two days, Stannis. Twenty men pace through this wing of Maegor's Holdfast. Another twenty patrol through the hallways and your precious secret pathways. I spotted a group camped out in the courtyard and a few climbed on to the roof for something they called Protocol Twelve!”

How was I supposed to react to this? They were obeying my orders.

Did he disapprove?

Robert continued, “The rest have been crowding Renly and me!” A heartbeat later he said, “What or who has you this worried? You're making it look as if I can't protect you! As if my brother feels unsafe in my fucking Keep!”

The King progressively get growing louder as he spoke, “Does it have to do with this attack? Was it an attack? Why haven't you come to me with any of your concerns? Did you think I'd just let you writhe in fear?”

Robert grew red in the face but checked himself once he saw Renly fold in on himself. The burly King ran his hand through the little buggers hair, bent over to kiss him on the crown, and stared straight at me over Renly's head.

I reached over for the parchment, attempted to squash the nausea but failed miserably, and collapsed back onto the bed. Renly extracted himself from Robert's grasp and darted out to collect the parchment and quill for me. I took it from him, smiled as widely as I could, and started scribbling things down.

Robert took the parchment from me, frowned, and said, “Varys? Do you think he's a danger to you?”

I nodded and gestured for the paper again and wrote, 'Varys is a threat to all of us. Dragon Loyalist. Helped smuggle Dragonspawn to Dragonstone.'

“What!”

Was this a risk?

Sure.

But the opening was too great to simply let pass. Especially with the way I've been squandering those. It was clear that Robert seemed on board, if I could trust the way he was barely restraining his fury, and I'm suddenly unsure of why I didn't simply ask for Varys' head from him.

I wrote some more, 'Can't prove it. One of two reasons he still breathes.'

The burly King narrowed his eyes and gestured for me to continue, 'He knows important things. Plan was to attempt to interrogate him. If not possible...crossbow bolt to the face.'

Robert scoffed and said, “The plan should have been informing your liege, Stannis.”

What could I do but nod?

I wrote a bit more, 'Still can't prove Varys is Dragon loyalist. Can't prove he tried to kill me. Where are the Alchemists?'

“Most died, a few haven't woken, and the rest seemed to have disappeared. The Goldcloaks are looking for them now.”

I couldn't contain the scoff and paid for it in painful coughs.

“You don't believe they'll find them?”

'Staunton is a fool. Not in control of Goldcloaks. Me and two unknown others are.”

Robert frowned some more, “I can't do nothing about this. Even if Varys isn't involved it still looks like an almost successful attempt on my surly brother's life. I'll have him locked up while we-.”

I must have looked upset because he said, “Stop trying to frown. You look stupid doing that without eyebrows.”

Oh, you asshole!

I scribbled some more, 'Use men you know. Break Varys' limbs. He's DANGEROUS and will escape otherwise.'

Robert rolled his eyes, closed in to me, and said, “If you'd let me finish instead of pulling stupid faces I could have told you he wasn't making it to the Black Cells. I'm a rage filled brute, remember? Who's going to be surprised I let my temper get the best of me?”

Again I erupted in cough. I shouldn't have tried to laugh.

The burly King deposited Renly on my bed and told him, “I'm putting you in charge, Renly. Make sure he stays in bed, alright? I'm counting on you.”

“I will! Don't worry!”

Robert nodded at me and went off to go kill Varys. I tried to catch his attention but my flailing about didn't help. Renly's cry for Robert, however, did.

“What?”

I scribbled my response, 'I'm curious. When you catch Varys. Ask about Aegon smuggling out the city. Ask about Illyrio Mopatis – Pentosi Magister Ally -, ask about Jon Connington' escape. Ask about Doran Martell involvement in Myr, Lys & Norvos.'

“Good gods, Aegon? How do you know all of this? And what does the squiggly thing mean?”

Oh, oops.

'Been building own network of spies. [&] was a mistake.'

“Seven Hells, Stannis...you know what! Fine. I'll make sure to ask him.”

I smiled at him and collapsed back on the bed with Renly laying next to me. All that plotting and looking for an excuse to get rid of Varys. Turns out all I needed to do was nearly die of smoke inhalation.

Oh, Westeros.

AN: Feedback and comments will be taken into account.

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: Marius Herston – The Stag's Left Hand

He was making me wait.

My own father was making me wait in the communal areas of his inn. Clearly he still hadn't gotten over that misunderstanding. Not if the treatment he was subjecting me to was any indication. Why is he blaming me?

It isn't as if I angled for that reward.

Or well, I did, but only because I knew Lord Stannis was looking for someone to secure his Arsenal. But father doesn't know that.

Or does he?

I gave it some thought but eventually comforted myself with the knowledge of the unlikeliness of father's disposition having been an act for the past nineteen years. Another few idle moments passed by, where I considered what Orys might be doing right about now and if I should keep a closer eye on him, until one of my father's pages came to collect me. I followed the little blighter up to my father's rooms and tried my best to ignore the brat's excited babbling.

I came face to face with him in his study. Hair more grey than black but his eyes were still as piercing as ever. Sheer confidence bolstered his aging body and only his stubborn nature supporting it make him able to keep up in arms with some of the more dangerous swordsmen I know.

All in all. Not a man to upset.

His office was an extension of his stubborn nature. As ostentatious as our middling House could afford to maintain in King's Landing and only with great effort does the Inn he built around the place pay for most of the expenses.

But of course House Herston must have a presence in the capital.

Whatever will the Errols say about us if we don't?

“Ah, there's my half Stag son. Well, do you have some more of your masters words for me, boy?”

Isn't he your master too?

I ruthlessly beat down the stab of annoyance and plastered a smile on my face.

“Good afternoon, father. How have you been? I've been quite well myself, thank you for asking.”

Did too much of my frustration with the man leak into that? Probably, but I found myself not caring overmuch. My brother wasn't around and mother hadn't left our estates. There was nobody I'd need to pretend for.

Of course, father too, made that realization.

“Stop being a prissy child and get to the point, boy.”

Fine. If he wanted to distance himself from me, so be it. All this for his petty ambitions. My brother whoring himself out for that elderly knight who's estate borders ours and now his mad dreams of unified everything below the Wendwater.

And he's not even acknowledging the Master of Ships proxy pin on my collar.

I shook the disappointment off and said, “Have you given any considerations to the proposals, father?”

He fell quiet for a good long while before finally stirring. My father leaned in over his desk sporting a faintly contemptuous expression. Immediately I knew I'd wasted my time coming here.

“He asks too much and gives too little.”

No, father. You just refuse to see the bigger picture. Which while it does make me a somewhat ungrateful son...it also benefits me a great deal. As long as I'm the only Herston on board with Lord Stannis I'll reap all the rewards. Lord Stannis is eminently practical and I've made more than a few friends in what passes for our small folk councils across our lands. They could be induced to move to my new estates. I guarded my expression carefully as I waited for father to continue. When a few long moments passed I simply nodded and excused myself.

“Aren't you at least going to attempt to sway me, boy?”

Why would I?

I refrained from rolling my eyes and said “Would you like me to, father?”

He scoffed and while I was about to take that as my dismissal I couldn't.

Father continued, “This vile city has gone insane with the rumors floating around but you're not acting as if your master is near death. What gives?”

We'd all decided on how to respond to this. Orys, despite my initial concerns, appears to be more than a pretty face who can lead killers. Always nice to be pleasantly surprised by your allies abilities. Especially when they pull a mass prayer out of their asses at no notice.

I'd need to top that, soon.

Lord Stannis doesn't allow for undercutting but he positively delights in us outdoing each other. Annoyingly... knowing that our Lord, a lad younger than myself even, is playing us makes it no less effective. If I wasn't entirely convinced that excellent service came with equally excellent rewards I might resent him for it.

Of course, the other side of that coin is that Orys is getting rewarded just as much. And yet, I feel as if I'm getting the better of the situation. Orys doesn't.

I ruthlessly quashed an errant impulse to hysterically giggle.

Orys doesnt... because Orys hasn't actually met Lady Faylyse Stokeworth yet. She's delightful in the same sense that the Lady of Wendwater is repulsive. Admittedly...my own match came with some concerns. And yet I'm rather hopeful that Lord Stannis doesn't mean to have Lady Jullianna put horns on me.

Still maintaining a bland smile I turn my attention back on my father and replied, “We're all praying for his continued good health. If you would like to join us this afternoon, the High Septon will lead a sermon in the Red Keep.”

Father snorted this time and bit out, “Aerys raised that man to his position and now he's bending over backwards for the Stags. Heh. Heh. Bending over indeed.”

He wasn't scoffing there. He just said 'heh'.

Twice.

My father.

I refraining from shaking my head and simply smiled at him.

“Go simper somewhere else, boy.”

Gladly.

283 AC – King's Landing: Orys Bollin – The Stag's Right Hand

The fat eunuch looked terrible. His Grace, King Robert Baratheon, wasn't exactly gentle with him when he dragged him out of the Great Hall. Oddly enough the man impressed me with his handling of the situation. The King sauntered into the Great Hall, spent a few moments with Lord Arryn, and continued towards the Lords Pycelle and Staunton.

It was only natural for him to consult his Master of Whispers but when he reached the eunuch...

The King gripped his throat with one hand, pulled him up in the air, and threw him on the table. The air was forcibly knocked out of Varys and soon after the King once again raised him over his head. The dazed Master of Whispers this time crashed against the wall while the King quietly talked at him.

In a hair raising tone devoid of inflection but filled with malice he bit out, “You tried to kill my brother, you Dragon loving fuck. If he wasn't so insistent we should pull what you know out of your mind...”

A short pause, the entire court straining to hear, and he continued, “I'd crush your bald head with my bare hands.”

The King stepped closer to Varys, who was trying to regain his footing, and whispered something I couldn't make out. His retinue, mostly known as his fellow lovers of wine, quickly rushed in to secure the Master of Whispers and lead him off to god knows where. The revelation was peculiar.

Almost immediately the implication hit me and I contorted my expression into an appropriately horrified one. I knew for a fact that my cousin had commissioned some dangerous invention from the Guild. Those insane sorcerers inevitably screwed up and he paid the price for it. Stannis was playing a game here and from the looks of it he was winning. I contained my inner glee and tried to work out what was going to happen next.

The court seemed appropriately riled up, with the majority furiously whispering with each other. The others, in my estimation the clever ones, looked just as riled up but firmly kept their gaze on me. Well, on me and on every other man with the silver Stag pin on their chests.

Before I could catch the gaze of the others the King pointed at me.

Curtly he spoke, “You there, Bollin. Follow me.”

What could I do but nod and follow him?

I did, however, as I turned towards the King give the hand signal for acquiring new orders. If even a single one of them noticed, which I didn't doubt, they'd spread the message and report back to our Headquarters. I repressed a chuckle at the name and briskly strode ahead to keep up with the King.

I knew better than to speak up first though.

Before long we arrived at the Black Cells, secured Varys to a chair, and one of the King's men forcibly removed the cloth from his mouth. Immediately Varys attempted to speak but the King backhanded him something fierce.

“I have not yet given you leave to speak, Varys.”

None of that malice was directed at me and yet I still felt a chill run across my spine.

“I should have known better, truly, but Jon's words were sweet as wine.” His Grace chuckled softly and continued, “You can't be seen as the Mad King, Robert. You can be a better King, Robert. Find the mercy in your heart, Robert. Let all these craven cunts keep their castles, Robert.”

His voice grew ever louder, “Don't destroy the Reach for their treatment of your brothers, Robert! Sell your brother to them, in fact, Robert! Be merciful, Robert. Don't declare all the Lords of Dragonstone outlaws, Robert! Don't burn Dorne down to the fucking ground, Robert.”

Louder and louder, “Welcome these craven Dragon sycophants to your court, Robert! LET THEM KEEP THEIR FUCKING COUNCIL SEAT, ROBERT!”

Suddenly he stopped raging and quietly continued, “I know they all talk, Varys, about how Jon keeps a leash on me. About him being my...” Another chuckle, “better half.”

The King slightly hunched over forwards, “It's all true. I wish I could be even half the man he is. But I'm not, Varys. Not in the slightest.”

Now the King simply smiled, “Do you know what Jon said about this? About you?”

The King inched closer to Varys, “He has no powerful noble backers, Robert. No great Lords to ask questions. Not even a wife to raise a stink. No son to pledge revenge. Have at him, Robert.”

Another utterly chilling chuckle, “My brother wants what's in your head. Answer truthfully and your death will be clean and quick.”

His Grace turned to me and bit out before stalking across the room to hand me a piece of parchment, “Guard him like you guard Stannis.”

Well, that was ominous. I almost winced at the implication. From his perspective we must look like we let my cousin get hurt. Time to change the subject.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Could you leave behind a few men until the Stormbringers arrive, your Grace?”

The King quirked an eyebrow at me, stayed quiet for a few mind numbingly long moments, and finally said, “Do you imagine you'll have much trouble with a tied down eunuch?”

Oh, wonderful.

Without missing a beat and with a winning smile I replied, “Not at all, your Grace. All the men he doubtlessly hired to free him in case he was caught after his attempt upon Lord Stannis though...”

This time the King just lazily winked at me and strode off after telling a handful of knights to stay put. I wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Suddenly a chill came over me that likely was entirely meant for me.

Why was my cousin underestimating this man again?

283 AC – King's Landing: Marius Herston – The Stag's Left Hand

A runner came up to me almost as soon as I arrived at the Red Keep. The frantic messenger delivered his missive and rushed off to the next person on his list. The child, with a small wooden Stag pin of his own, didn't even bother to wait for a coin or two but that wasn't an issue for me. I ripped into the letter, quickly glanced through it, and made my way to the Black Cells.

On the way towards them I came across a patrol of Stormbringers and bade the Squire Sergeant Hector to follow me. The men fell in line immediately and soon we found ourselves in the dark recesses of the Red Keep. I wasn't one for dark and cramped places and the dungeons were nothing but cramped and dark. A shudder raced through me at the thought of even spending a single night here and I moved as quickly as I dared.

“Ah, there you are Marius.”

Oh, joy.

Orys had made it here before me with what appeared to be another full patrol of Stormbringers. And Lord Varys tied up looking like a mess. I wouldn't give Orys the pleasure of asking him what was happening. It all seemed rather obvious. I felt a smile bubbling up as I considered the way Lord Stannis was taking advantage of the situation.

I knew that there were tensions on the council. Perhaps I would have thought he'd point the finger at Staunton but this, no doubt, would work just as well.

“Has he started talking yet?”

The lad simply shrugged before his eyes caught on to the extra pin in the shape of a ship on my collar. I cherished the small wince that sent an errant muscle on his face off twitching. Upsetting enough he recovered near instantly and said, “Nah, he puckered up after I asked him some questions. You should have seen how pale he got.”

I raised an eyebrow and waited for Orys to elaborate.

He did not.

Perhaps the knowledge that I'm to be Lord Stannis' proxy on the Council, while he recuperates, instead of the boy who claims kinship with the Lord of Storm's End, is making him surly. Or perhaps he's hit by one of those realizations he undoubtedly has when he compares our looks.

Poor Orys.

Instead he gestured for Fairfield's squad to tilt Varys backwards, placed a wet piece of cloth on his face, and slowly tipped over a bucket of water on the tied up eunuch's face. Orys would let a rush of water fall piecemeal on the cloth, wait for Varys to splutter and choke, and then release another splash of water. This mummer's drowning continued for...a while. Some of the sounds the eunuch made were truly horrified. Combined with these upsetting surroundings I wasn't looking forward to whatever might come next. I had little trouble making a man bleed in combat but in these circumstances...

Perhaps that's why the Stormbringers report to him.

The process repeated itself until another runner came down to the cell we'd found ourselves in and handed me a message.

'On the questioning of Varys the Master of Whispers; hereby follows a list of curiosities I require you to extract from him. Orys has been informed on the manner of extraction. Consider them a number facts, highly likely to be true, to be used to make him believe we have corroborating sources. Once read and memorized; destroy this parchment. L.S.B'
Unconfirmed facts:
Varys is from Lys and a suspected Blackfyre bastard. Claims to be an orphan.
As a child he was bought/stolen by a Sorcerer from a band of mummers that cut off his genitals for a spell after which he was dropped off on the street, naked.
Resorted to theft, prostitution and begging in order to survive.
Afterward he fell in with Illyrio Mopatis, at the time a sellsword, and they ran cons together. Chiefly; Varys would steal sensitive letters and Illyrio would gain the trust of those that were stolen from before/after 'recovering' them as well as get paid for them.
Suspected ties with the Golden Company. Perhaps others; Brave Company, Second Sons.
Illyrio Mopatis is currently a Magister in Pentos and heavily involved, still, with Varys.
In Pentos Varys learned how to train his little mice to sniff out secrets. They don't last long. Where are his current ones? (little Birds)
In King's Landing Varys uses small children, which he purchased in either Volantis or Astapur, that have their tongues cut off as his spies (Little birds). Our patrolling of the secret passages put a stop to this.
Varys helped Rhaella Targaryen escape with Viserys Targaryen to Dragonstone by manipulating Aerys.
Varys attempted to manipulate Aerys to keep Lord Tywin Lannister out of King's Landing.
Varys claims to have smuggled out a fake Aegon Targaryen (possibly a Blackfyre from the female line) out of King's Landing to Illyrio Mopatis. Further speculation on the child being a bastard of Illyrio and Serra (suspected Blackfyre, lover of Illyrio)
Jon Connington, in disguise by dyeing his hair blue, is currently with the fake Aegon. (Do not let on you know this)
What?

What?

Good gods...

I've been with Lord Stannis near every moment of every day. When then, in the name of all the damn gods, did he find all of this out? Suddenly the notion of making light of his lesser years struck me as the high of folly.

Should I preemptively apologize?

I probably should.

Completely losing track of decorum I rushed over the piece of parchment to Orys. The Bollin lad read it over quickly, by the light of a torch, and I could see his eyes growing ever wider. Orys then hands the parchment back to me, removed the cloth from Varys, and calmly asked him after Varys' labored breaths slow down, “So...are you a Blackfyre?”

Which set him off coughing again.

Interesting.

Not the least of which was that it apparently took him mere moments to memorize the parchment.

Shit.

283 AC – King's Landing: Orys Bollin – The Stag's Right Hand

That utterly infuriating piece of shit. I knew there was a reason that my cousin kept him close. In hindsight it was rather obvious he was being prepared for it. And here I was...cheering for myself that I'd been put in charge of the Stormbringers and a wife that's filthy rich. I resisted the urge slap the smug off of Marius and focused back on my task.

Varys spluttered some more but eventually he was coherent enough to say, “T-these accusations are ridiculous. I'm not a Blackfyre! Why would I serve Aerys if I was?”

I callously shrugged and said, “Who knows, really? If it was on my list I'd make you tell me. Now though...I find myself not quite surprised by Aerys' slip into insanity...that oddly matches your introduction into the court.”

Another shrug, “What I do want to know is where you put your mummer's Aegon?”

That got a response from him.

A stammered one, but still.

“I...I, a mummer... No.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, “No?”

The tied up eunuch firmly shook his head, “I'm done talking to you. Do your worst. Bring your furious King if you must.”

Oh, he shouldn't have said that. Nor was there even the slightest chance of my involving His Grace before we drained every piece of useful information out of that mind of Varys'. I wasn't about to allow the eunuch the chance to enrage the King to the point of receiving a quick death.

I let my smile grow impossibly wide and snap my fingers. One of Fairfields men, Edric, hops to, rushes over to the bags to collect the milk of the poppy and a funnel, and quickly handed it to me. Since Varys had no hair to clutch his head backward by...I had to improvise.

Varys' angry eyes followed my every move.

I ripped a piece off of my shirt with my dagger, cut it all around me, and wriggled out of it while firmly ignoring Marius' mocking grin. I tied it around the baldies head, and around the top of the chair, and twist it as tight as I can make it.

The funnel got mashed into Varys' mouth, the milk soon followed, and once he gulped it down the next load came quicker. For some reason my cousin was oddly pleased when Maester Cressen proclaimed that you couldn't die from ingesting too much of this. I suppressed a smile at Cressen's immediate insistence that he should not attempt to disprove that knowledge.

Varys gulped down squirt after squirt of the poppy and promptly threw it all up once I removed the funnel.

Marius erupted in mad laughter.

I, heroically, resisted the urge to strangle him. Them. Both of them.

I pointed at another of Fairfields' men, Duncan this time, and said, “Go collect some more. This time from Lord Pycelle and ask him for ways to force feed people. Be sure to glare insistently at him.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

Now I turned to Marius, “Get it off your chest and spit it out. I'll allow it just this once, Marius. Just fucking once.”

He stared at me for a moment, smiled widely, and then he fucking shrugged.

Is the shit imitating me?

Son of a bitch.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Meryn Buckler – The Silver-tongue

I'm not often wracked with nerves but today of all days seemed to warrant it. The task ahead was daunting to say the least. The furious temper of Ser Harbert Baratheon was well known, and I'd faced it more than once during the field drills, and the thought of admitting defeat intruded upon me far more than I'd ever care to admit. Lord Stannis asked too much and yet he did so with an absolute certainly I would rise to his standards.

How could I possibly not even attempt this?

And if I had to try...why not do it right?

It had taken a great deal of preparation, of laying the foundation for a horrifying conversation, and I was finally willing to entertain the notion that the scheme might well succeed. I found myself waiting in the ante-chamber of Lord Stannis waiting to collect the last...piece.

“Good luck, Meryn.”

Ser Balon didn't have a duplicitous bone in his body so I knew he was not being glib. The knight was, in fact, wishing me well and yet it still rankled me. I adopted a bright smile, nodded towards the massive knight of Swann, and offered him my thanks.

“Much appreciated, Balon. I have every faith it will all come together, my friend.”

A completely empty headed smile was Balon's only response. My wait dragged on and on, only occasionally interrupted by a loud yell coming from Lord Stannis' room, until finally little Renly Baratheon opened the door and beckoned me inside. I made sure to ruffle the lad's hair as I walked in past him and smiled at his indignation.

“Ah, thank you for coming so quickly, Meryn.”

Lord Stannis looked better than he had a week past but I knew better than to bring it up. His skin had lost the angry red glow and it was obvious the man had regained the ability to converse.

“As always, I'm at your service, my Lord.”

And just as always Lord Stannis waved the sentiment away. Instead he turned the corner of the room, where I had somehow missed the King softly cooing to the small babe I was supposed to collect, and valiantly resisted the urge fall into mad giggles. The sight of the big lumbering warrior gently entertaining the child, as it tore at the King's beard, while amusing...probably wasn't something I should draw undue attention to.

“There will almost certainly be some grumbling, Robert. Are you sure you wish to proceed?”

The King rounded on Lord Stannis immediately, “You're the one that convinced me! After all this you would reconsider?”

Firmly shaking his head Lord Stannis replied, “Nay, but I do not want to push you into this, brother. You have to be fully behind this. You have to want-.”

King Robert interrupted him with a quietly menacing tone, “I have to want to keep her safe? Is that what you were trying to say, Stannis? Have I given any indication I would do otherwise?”

Oh...

Should I really be here for this? I could not melt into the background, or quietly retreat from the room, so I employed the next best safety guard I could find. I slowly moved over to little Renly and sat down next to him as he painted on some strangely brittle parchment to his hearts delight. See...I'm not intruding on this obviously highly emotional conversation between my betters. But I wasn't a fool and despite Renly's interesting scribbles I did, in fact, keep aware of my surroundings.

Lord Stannis softly spoke, “You left her in the Vale.”

I hunched over a little bit closer to Renly as I tried my best to seem unobtrusive. The silence stretched on, seemingly forever, until it was broken by the entrance of Lord Jon Arryn. The Hand of the King walked into the room, I quickly weighed the benefits of rising to greet him and rapidly discarded the possible, and slid even closer to the child.

Was that supposed to be a brim hat on a knight?

Lord Jon didn't even slow to sit down before he began speaking, “Is it true?”

The King, still somewhat snarling, replied, “Is what true?”

The Hand sighed and with a weary cadence simply asked, “Must I say it, Robert? Are you planning on legitimizing that child?”

“Why don't we ask Stannis?”

This time Lord Stannis sighed, “Yes, the plan was for Ser Harbert to naturalize the child as his heir.”

I quickly ventured a glance at the Hand and the man seemed to age decades before my eyes. Still, the proud Valelord rallied quickly and said, “You must know how this will be seen, Stannis. I cannot believe that-.”

Lord Stannis interrupted the man, “Robert, Renly, Harbert and I. That's it, Jon. That is the entirety of House Baratheon. And now Robert is King over a fractured realm that we all bound together fresh with the blood of Dragon-loyalists. The child’s place in the succession would be incontestable behind all of Robert's heirs.”

Ever the diplomat the Hand replied, “And I do understand, Stannis, but the child would still be a daughter of Robert. How could you reasonably deny that she would not be used by others?”

Oh, I knew what was coming now. The only way to neatly draw the conversation, permanently, away from that topic was to bring up the Stark bastard.

Instead Lord Stannis opted for, “Because I'll help raise her, Jon. She'll be cared for, her future would be secured, and clearly I would never any allow anyone of my blood to be harmed or used by others.”

Lord Arryn certainly had his reasons for opposing this whole mess. The last time royal bastards were legitimized...the realm suffered from it. Both my Lord and His Grace were marching against several centuries of custom. Not that it ever seems to so much as slow Lord Stannis down. Unorthodox would be a mild word to describe him in that respect.

The Lord Hand had fresh objections, “And what about the others? The ones that would inevitably-.”

I saw it happen from the corner of my eye. The glint of anger in Lord Stannis' eyes, the slight tightening of the skin around his temple, and the beginnings of a smile tugging on the sides of his lips.

With enough malice in his voice to match King Robert he responded, “If Robert wishes to spawn forth an entire army from his loins I'll find lands and opportunities for every last one of them. You'll find that I have precious few scruples when it comes to my family, Jon.”

That...certainly was an understatement. I briefly wondered if the Lord Hand knew the lengths Lord Stannis would go to.

The words hung in the air for a long moment when King Robert spoke, “He's right.” Lord Jon looked over at the King as the latter caught the former's gaze, “We bled the realm white of Dragons and now we must hold it together. And you're right, Jon. Taking this path is ill advised, I'm well aware, despite my best efforts at drowning out Maester Cressen's history lessons.”

Another few moments of silence before His Grace continued, “And yet I find myself not caring. Keep her safe, Stannis, and don't you dare fail me in this.” The King snapped at me, “You, young Buckler, best be certain to convince the Lady Mistwood. If this doesn't end with her acceptance this entire notion would be worth less than a mummers shit.”

What else could I say but, “Aye, your Grace.”

With a slightly wry and brittle smile he continued, “That is if you get great uncle Harbert to agree with you. There is nobody else that mad old women would be swayed by.” The King walked over to me while shifting the child to a one armed hold, gripped me tightly – and more than a little bit painfully – on my shoulder, and said, “Perform well and you shall have your Hayford legitimization.”

I knew better than to inquire at the cost of failure.

283 AC – King's Landing: Meryn Buckler – The Silver-tongue

The child seemed to like me. Its piercing blue eyes kept glittered with delight and every so often it made a faint giggling sound when I moved too quickly through the hallways. It could have been worse. The small bastard babe, for however long she would remain that, could have made this much more difficult. At least it hadn't soiled itself all over my chest.

I rolled over the babe to the nape of my neck, knocked on the door I'd come to, and hoped the sound could be heard over the racket coming from the room. A little over an hour ago I had arranged for Ser Bryden Tully, the Blackfish, to get Ser Harbert pleasantly drunk. From the sound of it the man had more than succeeded.

I'd certainly owe Ser Nestor Royce for this.

Eventually the ruckus died down and a merry Blackfish opened the heavy oaken door. A wide smile broke out on his face as he nodded, winked at me, and quietly made off out to the hallway. I steeled my nerves, took a deep breath, and briskly walked into Ser Harbert's rooms.

“You're not Brynden.”

Good, so the man was in his cups.

“Nay, Ser Harbert. I'm-.”

The aging knight simply interrupted me, “You're Ralph's nephew.” With a slight smirk he continued, “The slowest among my own grand nephew's men.”

Oh gods, he just had to bring that up. How is it my fault that forced marches do not agree with me?

Before I could speak up the man blathered on, “Of course, considering the sorry state of the other hosts, it might be a somewhat of a harsh-.”

I couldn't let the man dictate the pace of this conversation. I simply had too much at stake to relinquish such an advantage. I'd thought long and hard on how to convince this man. King Robert attempted to order him and the old knight simply smiled as he threatened to bend the King over his knee.

Lord Stannis tried much the same only to end up with similar results. Ser Harbert could not be swayed with honeyed words. Even from his kin.

“I'm not here to discuss my failure to meet you stringent standards, Ser Harbert.”

The whitebeard tilted his head slightly sideways and said, “Nay, you've come with a small babe hanging off your arms. Don't tell me that Stannis-.”

This was it. If honeyed words failed...perhaps angry ones would succeed. And should they not...well, that's a concern for another day. Now I needed all of attention on this very moment.

“While my Lord Stannis is disappointed in your lack of cooperation he has, in fact, asked me to give you another chance. For the life of me I cannot comprehend why they do not simply lay your head on a chopping block.”

The temperate in the room must have dropped significantly. Or perhaps all the hair on my arms rose for other reasons. I refused to give it much thought.

“Excuse-.”

I shook my head before he was even finished, “Nay, you are not. Why are you refusing to do your duty to your blood?”

The man almost reflexively thundered,“Boy, if you think-.”

I hissed my immediate reply, “I should thank you not to scare little Mya, Ser Harbert.”

An angry red flush overcame the aging knight but I wasn't about to let the man recover, “Have you seen her, Ser?” I twisted the babe slightly towards him, “While I may to be too young to have met Lord Steffan, both of his sons agree that his eyes stare at them through little Mya.”

With remarkable restraint the knight refrained from screaming, “As you seem to hold a position of some trust with my grand nephew I shall ref-.”

Again I did not allow him to finish, “Explain thoroughly why you wish to throw your life away while your kin yet has need of you?”

Before he could reply I continued, “Do you imagine to be a noble ancient Northerner going out for a hunt in the middle of winter?”

“Boy, this will not end well for you.”

Oh, gods. I might even agree.

“Or is it mere spite that you did not continue as castellan of Storm's End?” No reaction. I continued, “I did not think so. Clearly you simply wish to be skewered by some Dornish spear. A last burst of misplaced youthfulness-.”

Now the old knight could not contain himself, “One more word, Buckler, and I swear-.”

Was he angry enough yet?

“I seem to have your great grand niece in my arms, so whatever it is you feel like threatening me with shall have to wait until I am rid of my current Baratheon specific immunity.”

Don't smile.

“Would you care to find out how well I could skewer you without harming a hair on the child's head?”

I shrugged, played at little with the babes hair, and said, “Big words. Bold words. Everyone, and this includes our King, dances around your pointless fury. I'll brave anything you would care to bring to bare, Ser Harbert, but I shall have my answers.”

I carefully spit out, “Why are you refusing to do your duty to your family?”

Dead silence.

If the man thought that holding still would cause me to break it he'd be in for a surprise. I spent the next few minutes carelessly, but gently, playing with the child. Its gurgling laughter filled the silence and quieted down the last remnants of my nerves.

There was little else I could do. If the impertinence of a young lad, such as myself, doesn't shake him from the fatalistic desire to lead the Baratheon forces into Dorne, in case of war, then very little else would. The cold blue gaze of Ser Harbert never quite left me.

Finally the man spoke, “Even Jaehaerys never stooped to such insolence, boy, and he was my good-brother. And King.”

The lumbering whitebeard slowly moved towards me, even slower scooped up the child from my arms, and nearly disappeared it within his massive arms.

Ser Harbert caught my gaze again, “I can see you shaking, boy. Clearly you posses some sense. What priceless reward stirs you to this madness, Buckler?”

Perhaps I needed to push him once more.

I shrugged, “What possible price would be too much to pay for your kin?”

I steeled myself for another angry outburst but none came. Instead the man seemed to collapse into himself as he spoke, “I have paid plenty! Overmuch some would say! Even Ormund would not ask me to face Lady Mistwood again. Not after all that past.”

Oh gods.

Was that it?

All this nonsense because he cannot bring himself to face his past?

In an effort to match his own forthcoming words I responded, “A Lordship. Haystack Hall. And one for little Mya in Mistwood. The Lady has no other kin.”

Ser Harbert's response was as furious as it was swift, “Do not presume to inform me of her unfortunate situation, boy!” The babe bawled in response to the loud noise and immediately the aged knight softened his tone. With a slight note of curiosity the man continued, “One might think that such a crass land grab was beneath a Baratheon.”

What was he asking?

“Stokeworth, Wendwater and Rosby. And now...Haystack and Mistwood. What else will we be gobbling up, Buckler?”

Should I tell him?

I probably should.

“The Antlers, but Lord Hoster Tully seems exceptionally opposed to it as of yet. Stonedance is on the table as is Chelsted. Perhaps even Long Table should the negotiations with Lord Mace Tyrell...prove useful.”

“Not Summerhall and Griffin's Roost?”

I shrugged again, “Lord Stannis is still attempted to sway his brother the King to grant Summerhall to their younger brother. And King Robert has already spoken on the subject of Griffin's Roost.”

It was still a matter of some strife among the Stormlords. The lands surrounding Griffin's Roost were to split up between Grandview, Crow's Nest and Felwood. Only the gains for Crow's Nest have gone by uncontested. The lands for Grandison and Fell however were heavily grumbled upon.

The entire Stormlands host was well aware of the latter two's checkered loyalties.

Why should they get rewarded when others suffered infinitely more? Lord Sebastion lost his father, House Dondarion has been reduced to a single Lord, House Swann lost a full two of their branches and even my own uncle, Lord Ralph Buckler, was still recovering from his many wounds.

And yet Grandison and Fell get rewarded. It was enough to churn your gut.

Ser Harbert however, still fairly agitated, but seemingly lost in the blue eyes of baby Mya finally relented.

“Tell Stannis that if the lad attempts this ploy once more I will publicly thrash him. His current sorry state nor his fledgeling transformation into Ormund would stay my hand.”

Almost under his breath he muttered, "And Ormund would undoubtedly vex me by taking the little brat's side."

Don't smile.

“And I expect you to march with me to Mistwood. You'll be carrying the child.”

I probably should have remained quiet.

And yet..

“Her name is Mya, Ser.”

Again anger flashed through his clear blue gaze but his expression softened significantly when the child gurgled again.

“Aye, you'll be carrying Mya. Now, leave me with my new daughter. And fetch me whatever it is small girls need, boy.”

I nodded, thought better of it and bowed, and said, “I'll have someone sent, Ser Harbert.”

Now the man thundered again, “Are you hard of hearing, boy? You will do so yourself.”

Oh, wonderful. The babe once again let out a tremendous wail.

“What are you waiting for, boy?”

I quickly made my wait out of the room and sighed deeply the moment I closed the door behind me.

The first two steps were done. Now I just needed the rest to work itself out.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Squire Captain Hugo the Quiet

Over the past few months I strove to keep myself perpetually busy. To keep my mind off of the way the short stubby nose of Jasen's wrinkled up when he smiled or his laugh that rang like bells to me. Lord Stannis once told me that grief allows you to come to terms with your loss. That for the foreseeable future my son's pale blue eyes would be the first thought of my day. Until they wouldn't be. Until those painful realizations are the second wakeful thought in the morning. And as the days go by the pain dulls, but never truly goes away, and you might even make it through a whole day without feeling your stomach churn with upset.

Pretty words, aye, but at the time they meant nothing to me. Now, though, I've come to appreciate them somewhat. And yet I prefer the remedy of drowning myself in work. Right now I just about to finish up a fairly momentous meeting with Lord Walys Mooton.

The slight and gaunt Riverlander Lord had fallen silent for a good long while. I'd like to think that the man was merely weighing his options but in all likelihood it was his complete and utter disdain for me leaking through his carefully polite facade.

Facade.

Look at me using big words.

With a quiet whisper Lord Walys finally replied, “In principle I find the offer most reasonable, Squire-Captain, but perhaps we could reconsider the acreage this Royal Fleet Base would require?”

While Lord Malys had spent the better part of this meeting steadily acquiring 'better' terms to Lord Stannis' proposal I still had plenty to give. My lord was precise in his instructions and I was well aware of the necessary of gaining this lords cooperation.

His liege-lord, Lord Hoster Tully, had recently made some thinly veiled complaints about my own lords...activities in the Crown Lands. The Lord Paramount of the Riverlands had even gone as far as attempting to meddle in the arrangements for the Antlers. His hand was clear in the sudden involvement of the Vance's of Antranta in the matter.

Appeasing Lord Walys was part of the plan to expand Lord Stannis' personal influence in the Riverlands. Lord Hoster's gaze would soon be drawn inwards, and happily enough out of the Crownlands, if House Mooton threw in the Baratheons.

Directly so to speak.

With my small smile, which I steadily carried throughout the conversation, as vapid as ever I said, “Certainly you would be quite handsomely paid for the loan of the lands. It's but an insignificant portion of your vast lands, my Lord. Would you truly push for more?”

And yet there was still no reason to let the man get away with dictating the pace.

I waited a few heartbeats but before he could reply I continued, “Lord Stannis is seeking allies, my Lord, not...”

I deliberately let my voice drown at the end. The meaning was obvious and if I had a decent sense of the man he would rather strangle himself that admit, to me, that he might be considered a hindrance. Even an angry retort would give that far too much attention than it would be 'worth' in his eyes.

His only reaction was a slight tightening around the lips. Stills softly speaking he said, “In the interest of building bridges I could be persuaded to drop the material concerns.”

Oh gods.

What else would he want now?

Placid smile still firmly plastered across my lips, and faintly constipated looking -which I'm told comes across as confusion-, I fell silent. He'd bring it up himself and silently stew about having to spew it forth.

And behold.

“My son, William, has shown some interest in service at the Court. Would Lord Stannis be prepared to act as his sponsor?”

Oh.

Loosely translated from noble-talk that meant the lad would not be representing his father. Interesting choice for his heir. I'm sure my lord would have something pithy to say about it.

“Aye, my Lord, he most certainly welcomes ambitious young men.” Another vapid, and backhanded, compliment to finish this up, “I have no doubt your son would flourish in the care of Lord Baratheon.”

Utterly contemptuously, but perfectly polite, the man bade me fair well and soon I'd made way for another important appointment. I was running somewhat late, but since I was still working in my public character I didn't need to bother looking around for people watching or following me, I made good time to the ostentatious residence of House Chelsted.

In days gone by the house would certainly not have been as abandoned and quiet as it was now. No longer were the Chelsted's the most prominent of the Crownlanders at the Royal Court. Precious few people would willing associate with the House that was twice burned. A reference in admittedly fairly poor taste to their recent tragedy.

Lady Dowager Clara Chelsted, the elderly matron of the House, had lost a son and a grandson fighting for the Targaryens. Their Lord Father, at the time a prominent adviser to King Aerys the Second, was acknowledged for the loyal service his House provided to the Crown. In reward the King made him his Hand.

Soon after the King burned his Hand.

The House was still somewhat slightly scorned by the Baratheon rule, perhaps even to set up this very moment, and bitter with the loyalists of House Targaryen. Lady Chelsted didn't bother with any pleasantries when she sat me down in her office.

She peered at me intently, narrowed her eyes, and almost bit out, “I hope you'll forgive an old crone for her rash words but I must know, squire. Can you give me back my granddaughter?”

That was something I had little hand in myself but I knew the circumstances. Her last remaining grandchild, Quella -after fairly scandalous circumstances-, became a sworn Septa in Oldtown, attending one of the many, many, Sept's in that city. And Lord Stannis was known to have the Faith eager to assist him.

Which might be worrying for the future.

I smiled at the Matron and nodded, “My Lord Stannis has already arranged for it, my Lady, on the understanding he has your enthusiastic support.”

Her relief was palpable but she recovered quickly. A glint of faint amusement appeared in her eyes as she retorted, “Might you perhaps be over emphasizing the tone of the request, squire Hugo?”

Perhaps just a touch.

She continued before I could reply, “Not to worry, the arrangements will be honored. Your nephew and his Septon shall, of course, have to attend me. It wouldn't do not to know my daughter's betrothed.”

When she said that I could almost believe her. And yet I knew it was a sign of the desperation of her House that she would consent to such a lackluster match. I care for my brother's son a great deal but I imagine the greatest draw of the match are the ties it signifies to my lord and Logan's willingness to take the Chelsted name.

Of course, when she says 'getting to know' what she means is thoroughly poking and prodding him until he fits her image of what a Chelsted aught to be, precisely. This too has been carefully agreed upon. I felt a small tinge of sadness that all which remained of my father's children there was but my brother's wife, his son and myself. And now Logan wouldn't even be the boy my brother remembered.

Was this worth it?

283 AC – King's Landing: Squire Captain Hugo the Quiet

With my 'official' meetings done with I readied myself for the more interesting parts of my night. After carefully looking around for any prying eyes I ducked into an abandoned building, found the bag of clothes that had been deposited there for me, and quickly changed into my disguise. With only few well chosen accessories I had transformed into Edric, the disgraced half-maester, who likes to visit expensive brothel's. A fake beard, charcoal residue around the eyes, and puffed up red lips go a long way to distract casual onlookers.

Soon I'd found myself in Chataya's, a brothel run by a Summer Isle' Madam who goes by that same name, and provided it services to the idle nobility in King's Landing. Which made it just perfect for meeting the right people without attracting the attention of eager third parties. I was quickly spotted after I sat down, a drink was bought for me, and with a large smile on my face I wandered over to the man who sent it.

For a few chilling moments I strode past the elder Lord Buckler animatedly speaking with the newly arrived Lord Sebastion Errol but my disguise held. The gazes of both men flickered over me, from the corner of my eyes I watched their expressions curl into disgust, and safely made it to my appointment. The man was stoutly built, viciously scarred, and only the extravagant jewelry he was bedecked in stopped his presence at the establishment from raising uncomfortable questions.

“Edric, you kept me waiting, boy.”

Carelessly I shrugged, slid up close to the sellsword, and said, “You know what they say about absense, Dremek...” and trailed of huskily.

At moments like this I question the decisions that led me here but I lacked options. I came across the men a few days ago as I tried out this new character of mine and the sellsword promptly fixated upon me. Throwing this opportunity away would have been the height of folly.

And I've done much worse than this.

The man forcefully grabbed my arm but I resisted, kept my balance, and gracefully fell into the seat next to him.

“You tea-.”

I interrupted him, “I need to know Dremek, it's just so off putting. Do I need an escort home later?”

Dremek's scarred face soften even as he growled his response, “I don't know how that cunt escaped the Black Cells but he won't trouble anyone but the shit in the Blackwater. Don't you worry about it, it's all taken care of by yer man, sweetie, not that I would min”

As his hand crawled on my thighs I smiled wider. I wasn't worried, especially since I was the one that freed the murderer. He wasn't that bad a sort either. Unfortunately for him the murder was of a Gold Cloak and that wasn't something they could allow to pass unchallenged. The poor sod was quickly caught, sentenced, and Master Staunton used rapid success to soak up admiration at the Court.

It would all turn rather sour once the festivities for the nameday of the Hand's wife, Lady Lysa Arryn, concluded and morning came to the find the man set to be executed gone. Lord Stannis was no longer in the mood to toy with the Master of Law. His days were number and Lord Mooton was getting ready to gather favors for his bid to that Small Council seat.

It wouldn't be as the search for the murderer wouldn't bare fruit. Dremek, now he'd become useless to me, would be seen to. In the next few hours he'd bump into some Stormbringers, without our distinctive colors, and die before he'd land on the ground.

Again, not the worst I've done.

As the sellsword because more demanding by the moment I swiftly extracted myself, whispered a few sweet words to him, and told him to wait for me. As far as he was aware I had something to discuss with the proprietress.

He be waiting for a while.

Once again I passed the two Stormlords, this time without them giving me so much as a glance, and walked over to the stairs past the bouncer. The massive bloke nodded, he'd been paid well enough, and let me pass without incident. Soon after I found myself in the small Turret Room that led to the secret tunnel under the Silk Street.

I'm in the dark as to how Lord Stannis knew about but I was tasked with bringing Madam Chataya around to the idea of close cooperation. As she lacked any sort of solid benefactor, beyond her patrons, gold and copious threats were sufficient to keep her quiet. The single time she attempted to negotiate for better terms I'd had a few ruffians grab her daughter, held her for a few hours, and sent her on her way.

Well fed and more than a little bit scared but Chataya likely wouldn't trouble us again.

Not my proudest moment. And yet, by far, still not the worst thing I've done.

Once in the tunnel I shook out of my half-maester costume and dumped it into a bag, slid into the attire of a fairly successful looking sellsword I retrieved from the bag, and half crawled through the tunnel after grabbing the torch provided for me. Apparently the tunnel was made by a Hand of the King who was far too dignified to be seen frequenting an establishment such as Chataya's.

Now I used it for nefarious purposes. On behalf of my lord, to be sure, but still...fairly nefarious. The tunnel wasn't very long, just a few hundred yards, but it still took a while to cross its length. In the clammy passageway I prayed my last ploy had paid off. The interrogation of Lord Varys had been going on for some time now and Orys regularly reported some new piece of information.

The most recent revelation was a cache of notes, coin and a few suspicious small bottles. Likely some highly poisonous concoction. I left it to Maester Cressen to identify but Lord Stannis took a hand in deciphering the Spider's notes himself.

Apparently the bald eunuch used a 'transposition key'. The word meant little to me but I understood the process. I didn't quite understand the clear confusion of Lord Stannis once he seemingly managed to crack the secret language of the Spider. With the assistance of some few handful captured 'little birds' it wasn't difficult as much as time consuming.

Perhaps my Lord was or still is expecting too much of the Spider?

In any case, I soon reached the end of the tunnel. Crawled out of it, and after carefully checking the room, settled into waiting for my accomplice to find me. The tunnel came out to the back room of the stables, those right next to the Tower of the Hand, and I had to admire the temerity to move all this earth just so someone's reputation wasn't tarnished.

By their own actions no less. Strange creatures these nobles.

Long moments stretched on endlessly until finally I could hear someone approaching. Soon after the door opened to let in a puffy looking scribe carrying a large pouch. The man was sweating, and likely not from exertion, and I could tell he was shaking in his boots. When the scribe tried to speak his throat contorted and only a vaguely pitiful screech came out.

The man cleared his throat and tried again, “I-I have it. All of it! Please get it back before the morn! If you do not I fear that I-.”

With a sharp grin I interrupted him, “Then I suggest you cease your prattling you fool and hand the pouch over.”

I quickly retrieved the large leather pouch that was stuffed with documents from his twitching arms amd hid the pouch under my puffy shirt, wrapped a length of rope around it, and resigned myself to another uncomfortable trek through the tunnel.

I turned back to the puffy scribe, “Go home, do not get drunk, and forget this happened. Be here at an hour before dawn and you'll get the papers back.”

I got closer to him, close enough to swing my arm around his neck, and clench him to me.

“Don't worry, Regett, I wouldn't let you down. If the papers aren't here in the morning...then pray tell, my friend, how you would repeat this profitable trick of yours a fortnight from now?”

The scribe flinched violently and attempted to stammer something at me. I was having little of it.

“Son, you've been doing this for Varys. You can do this for me. Unless you'd like for both of us to hang?”

He seemed to regain some of his fortitude when he snorted, “I don't even know your name.”

I pulled the man a little closer and whispered, “It rhymes with; I'll kill everyone who ever smiled at you if you're ever late.”

I smiled as widely at him as I could, abruptly turned away from the man, and disappeared back into the tunnel. Oddly enough the scribe didn't have a proper response to that. Not that it mattered. As long as I didn't scare the fool out of remembering to close the door behind him.

Once back at Chataya's I confidently strode through the establishment, in my sellsword gear and blotchy dirty skin but with tremendously shiny jewels, and left the brothel unmolested by anyone. The trip to another abandoned building, a few streets from where I lived, I took as slowly as possible. Anyone following me would stick out like a sore thumb in the small alleys I passed.

Another quick costume change later, and a tense few moments waiting for the alley to clear out, and I was well on the way home. Lord Stannis had given me a residence, near the Red Keep, which likely cost more than the entire village I grew up in.

Nay, probably half the villages in a few days ride as well.

And he just gave it to me.

My dear good-sister, of course, feels that this is not enough. She had enough decency to wait until I finished eating the dinner she presented once I got home, drank a well earned glass of wine, and sat down next to the fireplace. The large home was far too large, despite what Shella thought, for just the three of us and I'd put the top floors to good use. A good twenty seven 'little birds', the unfortunate mutes that Varys employed and with his demise left destitute, found a place to sleep there as well as regular meals.

For that, and a few coins here and there, the lads and girls would spent occasionally work for me. Such as tonight. They'd been asleep for most of the day so they would be fresh to spend the night copying down all the correspondence, notes and other interesting documents our bribed scribe pilfered from the Hand of the King. I'd read it in the morning after returning the originals and report to Lord Stannis if something stood out.

I'd managed to ignore Shella, as she droned on and on, but eventually I could no longer simply pretend to listen.

“For the love of the Seven, Hugo! Lord Stannis has been throwing out Lordships left and right! When will you finally dare ask for your own reward, good-brother?”

For all the annoyances she brings me, varied and many as they are, she did have the admirable trait for genuinely looking out for me. When she pushes me to reach higher she wants me to do well. I'm sure she knows she'd benefit from my success, and her son with her, but it was touching nonetheless.

Her concern was a balm to at least some of my pains. A happy and prosperous Logan would take care of the rest. Perhaps Lord Stannis might be proved right and some day my first waking thought wouldn't be of my beautiful boy.

Perhaps it could make way for the expression on Shella's face once I tell her the news.

AN: Feedback and commentary greatly appreciated! Let me know what you think

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

My airways had long since healed, the concussion had cleared out, but most importantly my eyebrows have started growing again. I could pretend I was being overly cautious by staying put in my rooms in Maegor's Holdfast deep inside the Red Keep but that wasn't true. My skin had finally regained it regular tone and from my reflection in some buffed up silver I thought I looked somewhat presentable.

Which, clearly, meant I was ready to get more shit dumped on me. Hugo had just casually dropped a bomb on me and I had the sneaking suspicion that precious few people knew about it. The Dornish standoff had been altered and I had no idea how Robert would react.

My squire-Captain patiently responded for what must have been the third time, “The official word the Martells are sharing is that the King's Guard managed to make off with the bastard. They got on board of a ship to that we know is headed towards Pentos.”

No. Fucking. Way.

Even in the midst of this clusterfuck I could appreciate how well Hugo was taking to the 'polishing' classes I had set up for him. Every day he sounded a little less like a country bumpkin. He wasn't all that pleased about it.

Right. Dorne clearly let them slip and now they're hoping simply sending the Starks back would save their skin. God damn you, Doran fucking Martell. The Dornish Prince had, seemingly, played a fairly strong hand. With assurances he would bend the knee, or rather his brother would swear the vows in his stead, and returning the Starks he probably gets to keep Dorne.

Unravished.

At the same time the absolute bastard hedged for an unlikely Targaryen restoration. Should, miraculously somehow, they manage to Crown the little half-Stark they'd likely be welcomed back with open arms. The North would probably side with it, I'm sure the Greyjoy's would do some heinous shit, but I couldn't see them sway anyone else. The Lannisters were obviously out, the Reach was marrying me, and Arryn's Vale wouldn't side with another Targaryen.

I doubted the Riverlands would dare declare for the Dragon's either.

“How do we know this?”

Hugo whipped out a small book and said, “We uncovered most of Varys' old network. While we...dealt with the senior members there was little call to distance ourselves from the more junior associates. I do not believe they were ever in a position to be warned, or even take any notice, of our...culling.”

Ah.

Slightly frowning I replied, “I'm assuming those junior spies wouldn't actually know their superiors?” Immediately afterward I continued, “And you didn't answer me, Hugo.”

With a small smile the tanner turned spymaster said, “Late last night we received word, via a known deposit location, that a little bird had a song to share. I arranged for a meeting and found out it was a intermediary looking for his next pay.”

I nodded and gestured for him to continue, “After some...” He hesitated but continued, “Negotiations we verified the information.”

Since I had informed Robert about my 'personal' spy network, and boy did I regret that, I had the sneaking suspicion that the big man would order me to be his Master of Whispers. Or at least, perhaps more likely, fulfill that position unofficially. In an effort to prepare I was willing to work with a slightly unreliable network in order to not get called out on my 'sources'.

If I got burned now I might decide to just deal with all of them.

Finally I sighed, “I have to speak to the King about this.”

Hugo simply shrugged and softly spoke, “We all have our burdens to bear, my Lord Stannis.”

Cheeky bugger.

Not deigning to respond to I changed the subject, “Anything else I need to know before this meeting?”

“Perhaps, there are a few urgent matters. House Darry has been making substantial investments in Braavos. Property, mostly, and representatives of theirs have been buying up influence in that Free City.”

I just had to ask.

The spymaster continued, “Velaryon ships have been spotted in Pentos and it appears that a Magister from that particular Free City has been buying up sell sails and swords. The Second Sons have responded, with Lord Oberyn Martell being currently with them, as has the Golden Company. The Brave Companions have broken an agreement with Tyrosh, so there is a chance they, too, would muster to Pentos.”

Motherfucker.

They were making big fucking moves. The Golden Company was currently led by Myles Toyne, who Orys confirmed was partisan with Varys and Illyrio, which likely meant the Blackfyres might be coming again.

A shudder past through me as I considered what the Velaryon presence could be. Were they negotiating with the Black Dragons on behalf of the Red Dragons?

Something of my annoyance must have seeped through and Hugo said, “And lastly...there have been reports of heresy in Old Town. House Hightower has clamped down on it, rather viciously, but it seems the 'heretics' leadership managed slip away.” A delicate cough followed, “Of course the Great Sept believes them to be misguided and manipulated lost children rallying against the opulence, and disgraceful corruption, of the Starry Sept.”

Religious tensions? And the Great Sept of Baelor was levying an accusation of opulence against Old Town? Holy crap, did I do this? Is the King's Landing Patriarchy of the Faith emboldened by my 'piety'?

This wasn't supposed to happen. Fuck me sideways.

“Everything else can wait until the current situation is deal with, my Lord.”

Before he even finished speaking I quickly got dressed, feeling that despite my recent reflection upon proper noble behavior I wasn't willing to let someone else dress me, and strode off to see Robert after asking Hugo if he knew where the King was. I firmly ignored his slightly snarky response that he'd be a poor spook if he didn't.

Luck would have it that I could find him at the Tower of the Hand. On my way other there I considered just how to bring up the fact that the Dornish fucked us. Were they attempting such a ploy because they knew that we just lost Varys?

From their perspective I'm sure it must look like we're flying blind. And they don't know about Varys' questionable loyalties. Still, this was a fairly ballsy move to make. Claiming an escape, from a fairly well secured Sunspear, the King's Guard, regardless of their reputation, couldn't possibly have dodged all its defenders.

All to soon I found myself walking into the Hand's office. Robert was quietly talking with Lord Hoster Tully, Pycelle sat doddering in the corner, Jon Arryn looked extremely tired, and Staunton was pretending he was invisible. I had to clamp down on the urge to giggle maniacally.

Staunton was still sat firmly in the dog house.

Robert finally noticed me, “You got here quickly! I only just sent for you!”

Jon was more diplomatic, “How are you feeling, Stannis?”

I bestowed a wide smile upon him and responded, “Quiet well, Jon. Thank you for asking.”

There, that was as flowery as I was willing to be. Now, what could Robert want? Did the Dornish message arrive already?

Robert, slipping into King Mode, bit out, “Enough. Stannis, listen to Pycelle.”

The aged Grandmaester became slightly more animated, which didn't take much, and said, “My Lord Stannis, we have received word from Dorne that Lord Stark and his sister Lyanna have boarded a ship to King's Landing.”

Oh, Pycelle. Always playing it safe.

Robert cut in again, “Not. That.”

“Ah, yes your Grace. Prince Doran shared that the King's Guard, that would be Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswald Whent, have absconded with the Stark bastard.”

Again Robert jumped in with a strangely quiet menace, “He's gone, Stannis. The bastard that is. Dorne is offering surrender and begging for leniency for their disgraceful incompetence.”

Clearly they didn't put it like that. I was however impressed with how well Robert was taking it. No temper tantrum, no raging drunkenness, just setting a quietly intense tone. Well, at least he wasn't jumping for joy. I would have hated having to be the asshole that tells him his wonderful luck is a farce. Still, I couldn't justify not bringing this up. A slight tingle of nervousness bubbled up but I forced myself to push through.

Just as Robert spoke up again I interrupted him, “They're going to Pentos.”

And suspenseful silence hung around the room.

Before any resistance could be mustered I carried on, “I've been informed that the King's Guard, and the babe, slipped off with Dorne's blessing. Doran is fucking with us.”

Well, I didn't expect that rush of emotion. Anger bubbled up in me at the thought of that old Dornish cunt trying to screw this fledgeling state of mine. Well, somewhat mine.

Soon, mostly mine.

Hopefully.

“Explain.”

Curt, but fair enough.

“From more than a few sources I've pieced together what likely happened. The story Doran tried to sell us would have us believe that the King's Guard made it out of Sunspear, with the child, slipping away in the night past all their men.”

Bull. Shit.

Even if I wasn't informed by Hugo I could have called that. Then again...Barristan Selmy managed to slip into Duskendale and retrieve Aerys...So there was precedent for unreasonable skills shown by the King's Guard.

“Velaryon ships have been spotted in Pentos. The Free City has also recently bought the services of the Second Sons, the mercenary company of Oberyn Martell as well as the Golden Company and the Brave Companions. The latter of which also belongs to the Martells. They're making a move, Robert.”

Lord Hoster recovered first, “How do you know this, Stannis?”

Wow, calling me by my first name when you're trying to stifle my influence in the Crownlands. Fuck you Hoster. Fuck you on principle. Still, I bore it but before I could reply Robert blurted out, “That isn't important right now. Is it reliable, Stannis?”

Oh, please don't fuck me, fate. Just let this be real.

I nodded firmly, “Yes.”

Admirable he held on to his anger and softly continued, “Do you know if the other Dragons are still on Dragonstone?”

No, and again the King impressed me. His mind must have gone in the same direction as mine. Were we to be besieged with dragons that stopped bickering to focus on the Stags?

“Not for certain but I can endeavor to find out.”

Lord Hoster tried again, “A fair feat, but with the vacant seat of Master of Whispers we surely would require more confirmation before we act on this?”

The Old Falcon joined in, “Aye, we now know that Dorne is attempting some chicanery and we shall be wary. We'll know more once we speak with Ned and Lyanna come back with Ser Barristan.”

Because two prisoners, and diplomats, will know more than their captors would allow them. That's how it works.

Pycelle awoke again from his half slumber, “Lord Stannis seems a dab hand at these matters. Perhaps he should, temporarily, hold the seat while we search for a suitable replacement?”

With more than a little bit of haste Jon spoke up, “Is that wise?” The man turned to me, “Would you feel up to that, Stannis?”

Is he putting me on the spot? Implying I couldn't do it? That I was too weak, or too busy, or anything else? Or was he pretending to give a damn about me? I couldn't read him and it bothered me.

Robert shared his opinion before I could, “No, more than anything I need my navy finished. Lord Gunther Estermont, grandfather to Stannis' and myself, just arrived to the city. He shall take up that burden for me while my brother builds me my navy.”

I just nodded, “Aye.”

Why did Pycelle put me forth? This was yet another moment where he seemingly pushes for prominence on my behalf. Did Lord Tywin put him up to this? Did he simply see an opportunity to get in my good books?

Why did I always gain more questions than answers from any of these meeting?

Fucking Westeros.

Looting the treasury and fucking off to Essos seemed more and more appealing by the day. I doubted I'd get away with it though. And somehow I doubted I'd do better than anything I'd have right here. Yup, wealth and power were corrupting me.

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

Life still goes on, even if all the Small Council could agree to was to wait and see while pretending to accept Dorne's submission. Once we had that we could give them direct orders, that seemed reasonable, but put chip away at Martell influence as best we could. We had a little 'impromptu' event planned for dinner this evening but I wasn't entirely sure that it wouldn't slip Robert's mind. He's been steadily drinking but unlike his usual gregarious self he appeared to be quietly contemplating matters.

The rest of the court was taking their cues from him and there hung a subdued atmosphere in the Great Hall. Even I knew that this was bad news. Robert was supposed to put on a brave face, drink himself silly, and challenge his men to arm wrestling contests. Now everyone and their dogs knew something was up.

Soon word would spread.

I couldn't focus on any of that though. I had my hands full with Lord Mace Tyrell. My future good-brother was seated next to me on the grand dais and looked pleased as peaches to be hobnobbing with royalty. Renly was enjoying himself next to Robert.

Lucky bugger.

“Lord Tarly isn't quite pleased with the situation on the Dornish borders.”

A small smile played around my lips as I responded, “I imagine he isn't, Mace. But that's the nature of compromise for you.”

The Reachlord of Reachlords smiled brightly as he replied, “Ah, but the trick is to leave everyone equally disgruntled. Lord Tarly feels slighted.”

Unfortunately my good-mother, Lady Olenna Tyrell, occasionally joins our conversation. She was another one of those people I'd preferred to steer clear from. She and I simply did not get along.

“Tarly hasn't been pleased since sometime around his knighting. Any thought given to appeasing his preposterous ego is a thought wasted. And young men can't quite afford that.”

Mace's smile was perfunctory and he clearly wasn't entirely comfortable. Fortunately for him I had little issue scorning the Queen of Thorns. She might wield a terrifying influence in the Reach but at the end of the day matters are settled by Mace. Ingratiating myself with him seems like the prudent move. And that doesn't even touch upon how much easier Mace would be to deal with.

Worst case scenario; Lady Olenna almost certainly has to forgive me after I present her with grandchildren.

I didn't respond to Lady Olenna and instead replied to Mace as if she never spoke, “Then Lord Tarly can have it out with Lord Tywin. Did he sincerely believe that the Old Lion would abide by being second in command to him?”

Mace frowned slightly, as if he was confused, before he spoke, “In that light I might well have to concede to your point.”

Lady Olenna interjected again, “Would he have stood down for you, Lord Stannis?”

Probably not, but that wasn't the point of her asking. Now I'd have to either confidently state that yes, Lord Tywin would accept me as a battlefield commander, or concede superiority to the man. Since the former was right out, I wasn't going there, and the latter wasn't much...I'd have to sway and swerve.

“I imagine Lord Tywin would do his duty to the Crown, Lady Olenna. As would I, of course.”

That should have been the end of it. I alluded to Lord Tywin's current higher standing, when compared with the 'rebellious' Tyrells at least, and their own unstable participation in the realm. At least until they've properly incorporated me into their family, and vice versa. She should have been chastised, somewhat.

But it wasn't to be.

“Of course, Lord Tywin is known to be an eager servant of the Throne, no matter the services.”

Nope. Not touching that.

Mace jumped in, “I've heard you've been doing some interesting things, Stannis. I'm most curious about this rapid communication project?”

Did Cressen leak this? Or was it Sebastion Errol?

The lad had, just this week, arrived in King's Landing to give me an update on the progress of Storm's End. While he hasn't come up with anything new, Errol did manage to discharge his orders superbly. A census was sent out across my personal domains. Lands were surveyed, heads were counted, and now after two long months I had a solid idea of the extent of my holdings.

Errol was also charged to manage the construction of whatever designs Cressen and myself sent him. The most successful of which was the mobile semaphore platforms. Together with plentiful Myrish spyglasses, three man teams per mobile platform, and approximately seven miles between the stations worked out to seventy five stations in total.

It took roughly fifteen minutes to get a message from Storm's End to King's Landing. The semaphore stations were easy to construct, dissemble, and reassemble wherever clarity was best served. In this case we stuck close to the King's Road and as such I needed no permission from anyone but Robert. Not that the nobles would have been difficult. Bronzegate was all that stood between me and King's Landing.

Bundles of code pages have been sent out that would do until I figured out a better system. There was a distinct limitation on what we could convey but so far we had covered everything from forest fires to pirates and bandits.

It had to have been Lord Sebastion. Now, did it simply slip or did he do it deliberately?

“Well, testing so far has borne fruit. We can get basic messages across faster than ravens can.”

Lady Olenna spoke up again, “Only in certain directions and lacking the privacy of mail by raven. Clever.”

Lady Janna surprised me by finally joining in, “It seems promising as a warning system, my Lord Stannis. A wonderful design and far more elegant than the Mallister's Bells.”

Mace leaned in, “Might you even show us, Stannis?”

How could I not?

I smiled widely at the Flower and said, “Of course, Mace.” I looked slightly past him at Janna and continued, “Perhaps you could join us, Lady Janna. I hear you might well enjoy a nice ride.”

Mace was oblivious. Olenna rolled her eyes and Mina giggled. I couldn't tell you Janna's response as Robert chose that moment to bellow out for attention. Without any prelude he suddenly stood up, plastered a massive grin on his face, and waited for everyone to stare at him.

“Being a King has proven to be more...well, more than I expected in any case. The last holdout realm, the Dornish, have given indication that they, too, tire of this conflict. Dorne shall bend the knee.”

I broke the silence by applauding, others joined in, and soon screams of Baratheon echoed through the Great Hall. Robert winked at me, after basking in the reflected glow of his glory, and after a while calmed down the court.

“Dragonstone and Driftmark shall fall soon. My brother, Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End, and his many titles, shall most certainly see to that.”

Well, that was a touching display. And completely off script.

Damn it, Robert.

This time the applause was for me but I knew better than to bask.

“While the Throne is uncomfortable as it should be, for no one should rest easy on it, there are still some few benefits to being King of the Seven Realms. Occasionally I get to shower gifts upon those I deem fit.”

Another short pause before Robert spoke again, “Today I deem my brothers, Stannis and Renly, as such. Attend me!”

I got up, just slow enough to not be seen as over eager, and calmly made my way to Robert. Renly had made it there before me and it was obvious the lad had a difficult time containing himself. If I was his age I too would be burning with excitement. His bodyguard, Ser Balon, trailed behind him.

“To Renly I give: the Valyrian short sword - Fury! The new pride of House Baratheon!”

Valyrian steel was light. It was one of its magical properties. Super light, super strong and it never loses its edge. But Renly is barely six years old and no matter how light couldn't carry a sword. Ser Balon Swann accepted it for him. Renly's sword was ornately decorated. He was insistent he wished for blue jewels to encrust it sapphires to match it's dark blue tinge.

“Thank you, your Grace! I won't shame you, brother.”

Robert broke out in smiles and ruffled Renly's hair as he sent him on his way. Next the burly King turned to me. If I detected even a hint of a smirk I might have desperately looked for a solution. Robert knew the name I wanted for the sword and he best not screw me.

“On my brother, Stannis, I bestow; the Valyrian short sword – Argella's Plight. May you do her honor, Stannis.”

My sword was far less ornate. It was plain, with a high quality undecorated handle, and dark blue steel that ran slightly towards black. It was perfect. Robert made fun of me for the short gladius but I knew better. I was never going to be a master swordsman. I could however carry a big fucking shield and forcefully stab my gladius in anything that comes near me.

Little skill required to bash someone in with a shield and follow it up with a stab.

I bowed toward him, accepted the sword, and said, “Thank you, your Grace. I'll offer up as many Targaryens as I can find to her, brother.”

Robert bellowed out a loud laugh, slapped me on the back, and pulled me in close, “Clever name.” A heartbeat later he continued, “We'll try the swords out tomorrow. I'm sure Renly won't mind lending me his.”

If I lose to Robert when he's not swinging his hammer I might actually cry.

So I shamelessly lied through my teeth, “I look forward to it.”

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

Holy shit. I don't think I've had this much fun in a long time. Robert was swinging Fury like a baseball bat and I was throwing fruit at him as hard as I could. Perfectly severed in twain fruit was worth one point. Slightly dented fruit was a mere half point. Misses actively cost you points.

Robert was losing badly.

“Throw them straight, damn you!”

The next one I threw at his face.

He chased me for a while, swearing vengeance on his upstart sibling, but after I proved elusive and nimble enough to dodge away from his enormous hands he seemed to give up.

“I'm a fucking King and I'm chasing my little shit of a brother. What's wrong with this situation, Stannis?”

I thought he suddenly felt the sharp twang of royal dignity denying him some lighthearted fun. Less then a year ago he was just careless bungling through life. Secure in the knowledge that life was wonderful and he could do whatever he wanted. I, too, felt a small tinge of sadness for him.

“Ah, we do look somewhat undignified don't we?”

The burly King smiled, walked a little bit closer, and said, “The Crown does indeed lie heavy, Stannis.”

He got even closer, “But that wasn't my point.”

I frowned at him and asked, “Oh?”

With a sharp grin he responded, “The King wasn't winning!”

I had little time to react before bastard jumped me and...showed his displeasure. God damn Robert Baratheon is strong. After that particular incident was settled, and neither of us were thankfully sporting much damage – the bruises could all be covered up -, we went back to cutting up things.

Valyrian steel cuts right through wood where other blades get caught up. That was nice to know. Castle forged steel swords only hold up for about twelve swings. Sixteen swings if someone is actively catching the downward strike properly. Also excellent to know.

Stone...stone just crumbled. The only interesting thing I found out was that Valyrian steel actually doesn't chip and go blunt. After beating on rocks for a little while it was just a sharp as when Mott first presented it to me.

Tests with mail, scale and other pieces of armor just told what I already suspected.Cutting through them was something that Robert might feasible do...if our swords were like Ice. With the short length even Robert had trouble cutting through them. Cutting into them was a lot easier which meant I might actually survive open combat when I'm thrown into it next.

When...because this is this Westeros.

Unfortunately the earlier experiments with wooden beams led me to some overconfidence as I strode up to a tree. I swung up wide, threw my entire body into it, and cut with all my strength into the poor tree. Which set off Robert in an almost madness inducing hysterical laughter. At the time I didn't know why.

I quickly found out when I tried to recover my sword.

We had to cut down the tree in the end. Robert was still laughing when I got my sword back.

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

Westeros was proving entirely resistant to my pitiful attempt at ushering in an industrial age. My engine driven dreams of a mechanized navy ruling the seas, even with my currently nonexistent naval prowess, have crashed into my very real lack of technical expertise. Faintly knowing how they are supposed to work isn't enough and now I've lost the people who could spend the next few years figuring out how it might work.

The Alchemists had sailed for Volantis and I dread, when I have time and energy to spare on the matter, what might come of it.

On a few fronts I can, with tremendous relief, state I found some odd successes that chained nicely into each other. I was pleased with my adapted wine-presses that served as quick and dirty pseudo printing press only for me to run headlong into the problem a lack of key supplies to make use of them. From the deepest recesses of my mind I managed to conjure up enough details to produce a facsimile of the paper I remember. It's coarse, more than a little brittle if it doesn't dry properly, but it's still a cut above the local supplies of parchments.

It sold insanely well. Initially I set the price too low and entire days worth of production would be bought up before I could blink. The many Septons of Great Sept of Baelor, while setting an example for all the other religious organizations, were repeat offenders. With cheap writing materials the average Septon, looking to make a name for himself, could churn out sermon or speech after another hoping to get noticed by sending out dozens to all that would receive them.

After some consideration I racked up the price and set about increasing production. This...proved stunningly divisive and caught me by surprise. Nobody complained, too much in any case, about the price hike. It appeared nearly everyone had something to say about large scale production. It took a while for the complaints to begin, and it didn't start with my budding paper empire, but vicious opposition came nonetheless.

Anyways, it turns out that the creation of a small town and a fledgling Navy base produce a metric shit ton of left over wood. Squire Davos, the ex-smuggler, had been selling it off to woodworkers to help defray costs but I put an immediate stop to it. After publicly commending him for his ingenuity and throwing some gold at him. Now it got systematically collected by the various workshops and other building stations to be sent off to the warehouse. After which it gets pulped up by a shredder which took six different iterations before it finally worked. It all gets powered by a waterwheel, which also contributes to the presses, in the Wendwater a mile off of the navy base near the currently unnamed town.

I wasn't about to let this enterprise fall on the wrong side of the King's Wood.

With paper and printing presses mostly sorted, the Guild of Scribes nearly soiled themselves with excitement and took over their management, I crashed headlong into the problem of ink. There wasn't enough of it and what little came in through the blockade, and the King's Road, was already spoken for. The Guild of Scribes, with exemptions to churn out ink, was exulting in their sudden skyrocketing profits, and much like myself kicked up their prices, and were proverbially ready to canonize me as their patron saint. I inquired about the process to make ink but it didn't quite lend itself to large scale production without technical chemistry skills.

Which I lacked.

So all that was left was to pool my money with the Guild and pressure the suppliers to increase they production with whatever small tips I could give them. Knowledge of proper production management, and division of labor, seemed to be the only skills I had to offer which could be directly applied to Westeros.

Still, as I spoke with the Masters of the Guild of Scribes the subject of dyeing came up. One of the men was somewhat informed, on account of in-laws in that profession, told me of its production. As the man droned on, and on, I could almost envision my future extravagant wealth.

A little while later I'd made a visit to the Guild that ran the dye business in King's Landing and proposed to cut them a deal. At the time I didn't pay much attention to how my actions were seen. I'd just arrived in the city and muddled around in things I didn't fully comprehend. Apparently that since I'd arranged for a sweet gig for the Scribes, the Dyers surely deserved similar considerations. My reassurances that I did not, in fact, collude with them fell on deaf ears.

In hindsight it was obvious that I rather heinously insulted the Dyers. After charging the Scribes for little, beyond having them man my presses, and having them profit so spectacularly the Dyers hoped for more of the same. I wasn't quite ready for that though since, unlike with the Scribes, I was intensely aware of how profitable the dyeing business is. In short...I asked for shares in exchange for my help.

They balked at the insult.

I saw my dreams of extravagant wealthy evaporate before my eyes. Again, in hindsight I could have let them cool down and explain my position properly. I chose to simply screw them and keep all the profits to myself.

Apparently I don't play well with others anymore. Not now I've grown accustomed to people just doing what I want. So I sent Hugo to find me someone with dyeing skills who felt scorned by their guild. Precious few were to be had and all of them utterly useless. They were ridiculed for good reasons. Hugo did, however, manage to track me down a Myrish family that was still applying for membership to the Guild. They'd sent off their sons to them, together with a sizable 'donation', and were eagerly awaiting word.

They'd been denied and I found the vehicle to my robber baron dreams. From there it was simple to requisition large warehouses, several dozen steaming pits to boil the dyes, and set up a pulley system that stirs the textiles around. Unfortunately power had to be supplied by hand, for the pulleys and the drying process, but they didn't seem to mind. Still, it bugged me as the drying and pressing of the textiles was far too labor intensive for me.

So this time their group of sons were sent off to my nameless town in the King's Wood and with some help from Davos set up aquatically powered processes. With far more space to do as we wished...I decided to heavily invest. Dozens of large workshops litter the Wendwater now and money found its way into my treasuries. The first few in King's Landing are kept around to experiment with new bright colors. So far we've tried anything we could get our hands on. Interestingly colored flowers, insect husks, random things we fish out of the sea and even crushed up rocks.

Only two recipes have proven unique and viable enough for sale but with our current monopoly on them we could afford to keep throwing weird shit into the dye vats. That was a month ago. Now money found its way even more aggressively into my pockets.

At the same time I've also incurred the undying hatred of the Dyer Guild.

Which led me to a standoff at my factory/experimental workshop in the city. I managed to think far enough ahead to keep it well away from the little neighborhood of dye shops but evidently I should have gotten them out of the cit. A group of elderly men were causing a ruckus in front of it. There were more than a few younger men as well but none that could be called young. The Gold Cloaks present made no attempt to disperse the crowd.

Which didn't bode well as it meant they were bough by the Guild.

I strode up to them, relieved that my paranoid precaution of never going anywhere without a double patrol of Stormbringers was paying off, and caught their attention.

Loudly I spoke, “Gold Cloaks.”

They turned to me as one. The protesters/budding rioters didn't quiet down at the sight of me but instead became orders of magnitude louder.

Even louder I yelled, “Remove them, now!”

Fuck these Dyers.

The order jolted the Gold Cloaks and they rapidly followed the example my Stormbringers gave. They strode over, in two ranks, and simply pushed the crowd back with their shields. Anyone resisting too much got punched with a gloved fist. The crowd called all manner of viciousness upon me but once again I was all too pleased with my highborn status. Even if I wasn't the brother of the King...I was still a Lord Paramount.

These people had little recourse to pretty much anything I could do to them. In fact, I was sure more than a few lords might even chastise me for not seeing to them properly. And permanently. But I had little appetite to be called a tyrant so I kept things firmly in check. And if some of the Gold Cloaks were a little rougher on my behalf...so be it.

Soon I'd found myself in the beleaguered workshop face to face with the middle aged immigrant.

“You have my gratitude, my Lord. I feared that arson was all we had to look forward to today.”

With a wide smile I replied, “I would have sent troops regardless but I was, already, nearby. It seems the Dyers have gotten more bold.”

Maero of Myr simply nodded carefully, “They have, my Lord, and yet I cannot quite blame them. Even if I do condemn them.”

Not loving the attitude but I had little intention of alienating the man.

He continued, “As we have been growing there has been a need for more workers. There is only so much you can do with untrained folk, even if I am hopeful they will be useful sometime soon, and you desired more workshops, my Lord...”

He trailed off as if vaguely worrying I might take that the wrong way. I was quite well aware that I was to blame for the situation but I hadn't thought it became this volatile. I gestured for the man to proceed.

“The incoming funds from sales have been high, and with the stags we bear the prices we pay for supplies are low, which leaves us with the admirable problem of too much money. We've already secured supplies for the next few months, and busily acquiring more, and every other aspect of the work has been tended to.”

Why was he being so dramatic. Just tell me.

Perhaps he sensed my mood change because he spoke up, “So we increased our offered wages, and offered funds to move, to target the youngest members of the Guild. They've responded in droves and the Guild hasn't been pleased with the development.”

Oh.

Wow

I was extremely impressed with the man. I loved the modern cutthroat approach. Even more so when he continued, “It is however the highest we can currently offer and while we have seven more workshops settled while another two stand by idly still.”

That seemed acceptable, for now. I needed answers next and I decided to be blunt.

“In your opinion, Maero. How can we settle this without backing down?”

The man looked faintly uncomfortable when he replied, “Are you more amenable to bribing the Gold Cloaks now, my Lord?”

Oh, crap.

At the time I just didn't want to be caught bribing the Gold Cloaks. Not when I'd so mindlessly pissed off the Master of Laws, their nominal leader. But with some reflection, and despite the faint contempt emanating from my inner Stannis, I just gave him the go-ahead. Robert wouldn't give a shit and the Guild was clearly funding them to turn a blind eye.

If Maero couldn't swing it I'd step in politically. Can't let my cashcow get culled.

“Very well. The Guild has no reach to interrupt anything near our workshops. If you can make it so the Gold Cloaks are invested in keeping this factory unburnt, I won't stand in the way. Just...try to not get strung up for it.”

The man suddenly showed a brightly white smile, “Myr, Braavos or King's Landing. It's always the same, my Lord. Though your worry is most welcome we are quite safe if measures are taken. There still remains the concern of the enmity of the Dyers, though. Already they've set the tongues of other Guilds wagging.”

Oddly enough I didn't mind the brow nosing but his concern wasn't all that worrying.

I smiled again, “They won't much longer. I happen to rule the people that, and it wouldn't be much of an exaggeration to say, own all the sheep. They'll come around after the next shearing season.”

Which should be more profitable in its own right. While my complicated dreams of engines, trains and steamboats likely wouldn't happen without a few miracles...other simple things weren't denied me. Scissors for one.

Simple scissors didn't exist and sheep shearing was currently so inefficient that with the hundreds of thousands of sheep wandering my hills...only a fraction of the total available wool gets harvested on a timely scale. Just enough to settle orders, fill demand, while the rest of the sheep get to grow thicker in fur. The other millions, millions, owned by my bannermen and smallfolk alike too couldn't be entirely processed.

To compound the situation...untold magazines of wool sometimes rot with mildew.

Madness.

Especially since introducing rot proof storing means would be trivial. That alone would bring in staggering funds.

The Stormlands still produced enough raw wool to fill demand on both continents. Which meant that I simply had to process it myself and take those sweet value added markups. With crude spinning devices, powered by wind mills in my personal lands, and the rush of the Wendwater in my new town the first step was taken care of. The infrastructure was in place, and it was almost exponentially faster now, it wasn't living up to my expectations.

I wouldn't be churning out standardized clothes just yet.

I'd give it more thought later on how to improve it. Somehow I just...expected more from it. Perhaps I was spoiled by those child labor videos of children working in textile factories that my middle school terrorized me with. I likely wouldn't reach such output any time soon.

Still, any edge will do, for now. In the land of the blind the vaguely informed is King.

“I imagine that would help, my Lord.”

Alright, now I was just waiting my time. I bid the Myrishman goodbye but not before asking him a final question.

“Will you have time for the informal council?”

He responded positively, “Yes, my Lord, I shall be introducing my eldest.”

Fair enough.

The informal council was what I dubbed the collection of influential factors and other wealthy merchants. These were the men that forged the trade routes that kept King's Landing supplied with anything it might need. From the very beginning to the very end of production chains they were involved. They bid on the harvests of large landholders, made favorable deals with the local powers, and transport the goods to where they can be sold. The same would be done for the bounty of mines, wood-works, liqour and every other produce you could think of.

All in all...they were people I desperately wanted to keep on my side. Until I could set up my own trade routes, which I would have to at some point, I was stuck with their service. Calling them difficult to replace would be the understatement of the century. These people had ties with almost all the minor and major Houses that were closely involved with trade but unwilling to dirty their hands. The sheer logistical nightmare that is needing to have every single Lord through who's lands you mean to pass with your goods alone guarantees their position in King's Landing.

They were important and undervalued.

In other words, my people. Suddenly I could appreciate how Littlefinger managed to swing all that he did.

Unfortunately for me, the members of informal council were officially under the authority of the Master of Coin. That person being Lord Hoster fucking Tully spelled all kinds of trouble for me. Unfortunately for Hoster, business is my thing and I speak their language fluently. Admittedly..I wasn't doing my reputation any favors, running around with merchants, but I was willing to bite the bullet on the matter. The gold it brings in would recoup any lost influence.

Perhaps I'd go hunting and feasting extra often to offset it.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that I was exulting in the glory of Robert's court fawning over me. We, that is Robert and I, had arranged for a spectacular unveiling of my semaphore line. Grandmaester Pycelle was charged to write down the message that Robert publicly dictated. At the same time I had Sebastion write another letter once the King was finished. The two messages each contained a question regarding House Baratheon. I inquired about my grandfather's name while Robert questioned the name of the grandson of Argilac the Arrogant, the Last Stormking.

No soul in the Stormlands could fail to answer them.

Each message was rushed out of the Great Hall. Pycelle's would go with him to his tower to be sent off by raven while Sebastion would forward his to the final semaphore station on top of the Red Keep. Those in the know were eagerly awaiting the swift return of 'Ormund' and were greedily taking up bets with the backers of 'Davos'.

Mace leaned in closely, “The Reach must have these towers of yours. We'd never suffer an Ironborn surprise ever again! Just name your price, Stannis!”

Jackpot.

Of course I could ask for a silly number of dragons but that just wouldn't do. Sooner or later everyone would figure out they could just copy me. Perhaps they would struggle with the communication codes but I can't imagine each and every one of my men being incorruptible. Besides, the end game was always to connect all the lands of the Realm to King's Landing. If I frame it right I would have all the lords clawing over each other to accept the semaphore lines in their lands. Mace was being wonderfully cooperative on that front. Much like his acquiescence to liberally throw silver and gold around at the arrival of his family.

And just like that we've established an unofficial tax on the Great Houses. The first one to balk at it would be ridiculed via a strenuous, and malicious, whisper campaign. I didn't expect them to resist overmuch. These proud lords with their massive ego's would go out of their way to avoid any hint of loss of face.

I mightily resisted the urge to giggle and replied with a straight face, “Of course, Mace. If you would take care of the upkeep for the towers, I'll connect you to all your bannermen. I'm hopeful the new lines that go to the Dornish front will be done shortly.”

With the look of someone gleefully getting their way, just as we discussed, Mace replied, “Excellent, it's a deal.” He paused for a moment before winking at me, “Now if only we had a way to stop my sisters from attempting to have tea time gossip sessions across a continent.”

Lady Janna and Mina harrumphed and I couldn't contain a snort. If I wasn't careful I might start liking Mace. Lady Olenna refrained from any commentary but I could positively taste her annoyance. For some reason she was against 'Stormlander encroachment upon the Reach'. Fortunately my policy of utterly disregarding her in favor of Mace paid off when the man complained to me about her. The Queen of Thorns might be a formidable enemy but Mace is an equally useful ally.

When handled properly.

Lord Kevan Lannister, the brother of the scariest Lion, took that moment to interject, “I'm sure my brother would agree that such warning towers could benefit the Westerlands, Stannis.” He somehow managed to convey seething fury when he shrugged next, “Our coasts too have long felt the scourge of the Ironborn and the cravens mostly manage to flee before we even get word of their deprivations.”

I was already counting on their interest, much like I'm sure the North wouldn't mind having them, and hopefully the other regions would follow suit. Still, I was unsure how to deal with Dorne on that regard beyond placing whatever they request at the lowest possible priority.

I smiled at Kevan at said, “While I wouldn't mind the Ironborn keeping to their islands, it is probably for the best we prepare. I'll have my people rush more towers for you Kevan.”

The blond Lion nodded in acknowledgment and replied, “You have our gratitude, Stannis, and the Westerlands, too, can easily carry the burden of supplying the towers. We shall do our part.”

I got the sense the Lannister actually meant what he said. Still, probably best to keep a fake smile plastered and at least a tenth of my spies keeping an eye on the Lions.

Just in case.

A few short moments later Lord Sebastion Errol strode back into the Great Hall and delivered his response to me. Robert, finally sticking to his script, loudly laughed and shared his warm slash fuzzy feelings regarding the accomplishments of his younger brother.

Of course, it couldn't last, and he promptly walked off script, “The words of the Royals haven't ran across our Realm this fast since the last Dragon withered and died. Our world, our own corner of this world, has both shrunk and enlarged today, my people. Wonderous days are ahead! I cannot wait to meet them with you and rise to whatever challenges may come!”

He really was something. I know I, occasionally, underestimate him but Robert is not that bad at this. Not bad at all. It made me infinitely more determined to disallow his degeneration into that fat shell of man I know he might end up as. There was relatively little I wasn't willing to risk to keep that from happening. Everything I've planned, every last little thing, would work a thousand times better if I had an energetic King to work with.

The good news on that front was that Lyanna and Ned Stark were coming, soon. The bad news was that Lyanna and Ned Stark were coming. Soon. I had no idea what they might bring with them but there was the niggling sensation that bad things were ahead.

Was Lyanna kidnapped? Even if she wasn't, would she still have affections for the man whose actions helped bring harm to her family? Would she see marriage to Robert as penitence? Would she even be willing to entertain the notion of marriage to him?

Good gods, what if she just told Ned she wanted to go home? He'd never stop her and Robert was liable to simply follow along with her.

What if things were even worse? What if she marries him, is obviously unhappy, and brings down Robert with her? Would he spiral out of control even sooner?

God damn it.

Things have gone too well for it all to crash down now and I couldn't involve myself directly. Neither Robert nor Lyanna would likely appreciate that. Was the Northern wolfish girl even worth all of this? Could I not work together with Tywin to bring Cersei enough to heel so she doesn't tear down Robert?

God damn it.

The things I'm contemplating are costing me my appetite.

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

It didn't last, thankfully. With the last of the food being carried away the merriment was set to start. We'd just had a mummers show during the feast itself and now the floor was being opened to various entertainment acts. Acrobats contorting themselves in strange positions and tumbling across the Hall. Singers with lutes, flutes and a whole host of other instruments.

Suddenly, after the last artist was finished, a loud voice carried through the Great Hall and all turned towards its origin. An unassuming old man, with the whitest of hair that covered most of his face, and in understated dress confidently walked to the center of the massive room.

The man twirled his lute in his hands as he loudly continued, “Lo, your Grace! And behold, I, the famed singer Vaemyr of Lys. I have composed a grand song about your war upon the Dragons I wish to present before your mighty court, O King Stag!”

A long moment of silence broke sharply when Robert bellowed out, “Go then, Vaemyr of Lys, and sing. You best be as good as you claim if you wish to profit from your presumption.”

The aged singer mockingly bowed, just a touch too slow to be sincere, but promptly rose with a great wide smile on his wrinkled face. From the distance it was difficult to see clearly but I was pretty sure his eyes flashed purple.

Oh.

This could just be completely unrelated to anything vaguely...Targy, but I doubted it. Still...I couldn't be seen to be afraid of a fucking song. Even if he was some sort of strange loyalist, we'd simply throw him in the black cells to cool him down.

Or was that what he wanted?

To be near to Varys?

Was I really this paranoid that I was concerned about a singer with vaguely purple eyes?

“I shall give you that which I give freely to all, your Grace. My very best, and now...I shall get on with it.”

Vaemyr cleared his throat, strummed his lute, and soon his dulcet tones were heard all through the Great Hall,

“Once they all believed in dragons
When the world was fresh and young,
We were woven into legends,
Tales were told and songs were sung,

We were treated with obeisance,
We were honored, we were feared,
Then one day they stopped believing--
On that day, we disappeared.

Now they say our time is over,
Now they say we've lived our last,
Now we're treated with derision
Where once we ruled unsurpassed.

Then we were broken, divided and weak.
The Dragons so strong, brought down to their feet.”

Should I stop this?

My feeling that this wasn't what it seemed just grew stronger but I couldn't find a compelling reason to act if even Robert could just sit through this. The court was hushed and quiet to better hear the words. The words that I'm sure are leading to something horrible but I still couldn't bring myself to rush him out of the Hall. The singer's voice momentarily broke before he rallied, albeit softer and quieter, in a manner that fell between singing and talking.

“Tonight is the night all the dragons
Awake in their lairs underground,
To sing in cacophonous chorus
And fill the whole world with their sound.

They sing of the days of their glory,
They sing of their exploits of old,
Of maidens and Knights, and of fiery fights,
And sacking vast caches gold.
We'll grow to ancient heights.

Red or black, it matters little more.
In the face of the Stags we all abhor.”

Thunderously the singer raged and his seething anger could be so clearly heard by all. Robert never moved a muscle but I knew the man. He was almost shaking with ill concealed wrath but he was held by the same unseen force that stayed my own hand. If we put a stop to this we would be acknowledging the strength of the words. That they hold enough merit to oppose.

That could not be allowed to happen. I resolved to thoroughly question this man after we pay him and 'send him on his way'. Of course, now that my paranoia has been somewhat vindicated...he won't come near the Black Cells. I had access to plenty of other quiet places. The man bellowed out his final lines, having long since given up the pretense of song,

“Enter darkness! Leave the light!
Here be nightmare! Here be fright!
Here be dragon, flame and flight!
Here be spit-fire! Here be grief!
So curse the bones of empty reprieve.

Curse the creeping Kingdom-thief!
Curse much worse the dragon-slayer!
Curse his purse and curse his prayer!
Curse these words and curse their sayer!

Fire and Blood, Red or Black!
All the Dragons, as one attack!”

From the corner of my eye I saw Robert urging one of his men closer but before his sworn sword even reached the high table Vaemyr preempted whatever response was to come. From somewhere on his person he retrieved a small razor and traced it through his throat after one final scream.

“And all the Dragons, as one attack!”

Blood splattered in an arc around Vaemyr of Lys even as he, himself, spun down to the ground. Complete and utter silence held the Great Hall hostage and I knew I had to do something. From the deepest recesses of my mind I desperately tried to think of something funny. It didn't even have to be truly funny. Just enough to jar people out of the malaise they'd suddenly found themselves in.

With the relief that only an ex-class clown can feel when they're put on the spot and need to the deliver I slowly stand up and start clapping even slower. I ruthlessly pushed down the lingering awkwardness of Stannis objecting to being the center of attention.

“Wonderful show! I could scarcely have arranged for better! And they were so kind to warn us too!”

I knew everyone was staring at me so I had to truly sell it. I turned to the King and yelled out, “Robert! The Dragons are coming at us with songs! Should we loose a response in kind?”

The smirk on his smile must have come off as legit to the court but I knew it was empty. He was furious but still managed to hold on to his temper. With a slightly wider grin he replied, “I remember your singing, Stannis.” A heartbeat passed before he continued, “I wouldn't wish it upon even Dragons.”

Holy shit, well done.

The court finally lost its feel of repressed anxiety and cheerful laughter once again sounded through the Great Hall. Robert nodded at someone to get rid of the corpse and I thought that would have been the end of it. Of course it wasn't as Lady Olenna quietly, but just loud enough to hear for me, said, “Oh, poor Stags. Perhaps they lost their penchant for singing when they exchanged it for war?”

She had an annoying habit of not entirely offending you. Her backhanded compliments were just upsetting enough to needle you but could still easily be played off as an overreaction on my part if I tried to call her out. Hence my general policy of ignoring her.

Now, though, there were still too many eyes on me to do that. I slowly sat down, turned to Olenna, and said with a wink, “Perhaps true, but it doesn't mean we lost any hint of artistry in souls, Lady Olenna.”

Her response came quick, “Oh? Have you been hiding a talent for painting perchance?”

Mina spoke up afterward, “Or music? Do you play an instrument, Lord Stannis?”

From the very first time I met her she never quite relaxed around me. Perhaps she's taking herself out of the running, deliberately? I quickly glance over to Janna just as she said, “I do hope it's poetry, I've always admired a quick turn of phrase...and tongue.”

Yup.

Screw calling for my violin, I'm going to quote some poetry. For a long, utterly horrifying, moment my mind was blank. Nothing came up and I started to panic. Thankfully long forgotten words bubbled to the surface which left me with another worry. What if I forget words when I'm in the middle of reciting? Even Robert was staring at me looking vaguely amused and kept an eye on me. I couldn't choke now and Robert Frost would always do in a pinch.

I cleared my throat, smiled widely, and loudly, enough to carry across the long table, and confidently spoke,

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

The reception was, well...polite, but not as grand as I expected from Frost. The was my standby and today he wasn't delivering. Or, at least not as much as I hoped for.

Mace softly comforted me, “That was very nice, Stannis.”

Great, but I wasn't looking to impress him.

Janna smiled widely though, her intense gaze never leaving me, and asked for more, “Have you more for us, Stannis?”

While I wasn't all that enthused about being their entertainment monkey I knew that I needed to keep the attention of the court on me. My, apparently mediocre, poetry was enough for that at least. Even as I was worried out of my mind about what was brewing on Essos a new poem bubbled up but I couldn't remember who wrote it. Considering the subject; a terrible irony.

“My poem may be yours indeed
In melody and tone,
If in its rhythm you can read
A music of your own;
If in its pale woof you can weave
Your lovelier design,
'Twill make my lyric, I believe,
More yours than mine.

I'm but a prompter at the best;
Crude cues are all I give.

In simple stanzas I suggest -
'Tis you who make them live.

My bit of rhyme is but a frame,
And if my lines you quote,
I think, although they bear my name,
'Tis you who wrote.

Yours is the beauty that you see
In any words I sing;
The magic and the melody
'Tis you, dear friend, who bring.

Yea, by the glory and the gleam,
The loveliness that lures
Your thought to starry heights of dream,
The poem's yours.”

William, something something. It'll come to me at some point. Annoyingly this poem got a much warmer reception and I had clearly grown shameless enough to enjoy the approval of tittering nobles. If the 'me' from five months ago could see me, he'd be disgusted.

Janna smirked in a way that was fairly appetizing but Lady Olenna spoke up, “That was rather nice, young man. I do believe I can enjoy the sentiment.”

Huh, no backhanded compliment this time?

Across the table I locked gazes with Robert and he nodded once, firmly. It really shouldn't have such an affect on me but his approval, for some reason, meant a lot to me.

Oh god. He was 'Robert-ing' me! Is this his magical charisma?

AN: Alright. So this clearly got out of hand. Uhm, I promise I won't let this turn into a weird song fic. Commentary and feedback greatly appreciated! Lotsa things happened: please let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

The outer fortification of the Red Keep is vast but its innards, Maegor's Holdfast, was only designed with the comforts of the Royal Family in mind. Correspondingly it was fast proving too inaccessible and spacious for me to conduct my business. I still keep my personal rooms there but I've moved my work space out to the outer edges of the Red Keep. In addition to the location being much easier to access, both from and to the city proper, it cut down on the grumbles I accrued of allowing minor nobles to attend me in Maegor's Holdfast.

Taking advantage of a careless remark by Robert I took hold of an entire hallway worth of chambers, right near the entrance of the Red Keep. I had the majority of the rooms, those intended for the retinues of visiting dignitaries converted into offices. Robert still had plenty of space left for the hangers on of his court nobles but they would all have to get used to the noises of honest work in the morning.

My day usually begins an hour after dawn when I'm woken by my page, Beric Dondarion, the six year old Lord of Blackhaven and current best friend of my littlest brother Renly Baratheon. Generally, soon after being woken, Renly comes rushing into my room to have a quiet breakfast with little Beric and myself. It depends on Renly's own busy schedule whether he sticks around to follow me in the mornings. I have the lad running from tutor to tutor, together with Beric, interspersed with copious 'play time', which I tell Robert is actually Renly's inexorable march to dominating the youngest generation of court nobles, which amuses Robert enough to abstain from interfering in his education.

The page was a relatively recent development. Poor Beric had lost every single male relation he had and his grandmother wasn't in an position to take care of him. Traditionally this never works out well for Houses, or the lonely children in charge of them, so I took a hand in seeing them through. I sat with him through the funerals, introduced him to Renly, and made sure to shower the poor kid with affection.

Today is no different save for Renly and Beric's appointment with the Ghiscari history tutor. As I made my way to my offices I found myself fairly rapidly accosted by this or that lordling. My system of signing in for an appointment with my staff was grossly disregarded on a regular basis. Mostly they wished for naval commissions, which I steadfastly refused, and would grudgingly accede to my assurances that their kin would be accepted on the same terms as everyone else. It was yet another area in which I was pissing off more than a few people but I refused to entertain the notion of bought commissions.

Now it was my grandfather, Lord Gunther Estermont, the newly confirmed Master of Whispers on the Small Council. I hadn't exactly avoided the man but I'd certainly not gone out of my way to connect with him either. Perhaps it was the lack of information I had about the man, or maybe I was giving way to Stannis' vague disliking of the man, but I'd only started speaking with him after Robert gave him the Small Council seat.

“Stannis, how fares your morning?”

I return his extended hand and reply with a bright smile, “As well as can be hoped, grandfather. I hope your night hasn't been overly disrupted of rest?”

With a quick wink he said, “Good for you, Stannis, breaking free of the discomfort of asking your aging grandfather whether his wife still performs!”

Oh, you son of a...

I didn't let my smile waver when I replied, “I was, of course, referring to the noise of last nights festivities.”

Another wink, “Of course you were, my boy. Now the pleasantries have been attended, I should like to discuss certain matters with you.”

We turned around a corner leading to my row of offices, stumbled into Lord Jon Arryn and Lord Hoster Tully talking to my staff, and immediately worrying thoughts racked through my mind. What the shit do those two want? They seemed to be asking questions, gawking at the busy hallways and the high volume of scribes running around, and trying to figure out what their tasks were.

Almost absentmindedly I asked Gunther, “Such as?”

His reply came swift, “When you intend on surrendering your unlawfully network of spies to me, of course!”

What.

As I was dealing with that mess dropped onto my lap it seemed that the two other elder statesmen focused on me and loudly greeted my grandfather and I. Did they all set this up? What makes Gunther think I'll hand over anything to him?

“Lord Stannis, Lord Gunther, good morning to you both.”

Lord Arryn's sentiment was echoed by Lord Tully, “Likewise, my Lords.”

Guther gregariously thundered, “I'm walking the halls of my grandson, the King's, Red Keep. What do you think, Hoster?”

I did my best to tune out the nattering of the old men and after extending my own greetings I turned to the Stormbringers standing at guard. The nearest man, a lean but tall fellow, looking the poster child for massively muscled black haired and blue eyed Stormlanders nodded at me.

While I might not know the names of the entire ten thousand strong levy of Storm's End, I have managed to memorize those in my personal retinue, “Good morning Lomar Strongarm.”

Their reactions when I address them as always good for a laugh. Most men had gotten used to me chatting with them but a few, like Lomar, still somewhat stuttered when addressed.

“L-likewise, m'lord.”

If only I could put the lot of them through elocution classes. Still, there was nothing stopping me from bringing the conversation to more solid ground. There were plenty subjects all men could converse about. From the highest lord to the meanest peasant.

“How is your family settling in, Lomar?”

The beginnings of a smile danced around his lips as he responded, “Really good, m'lord. Mari, my wife that is, is enjoying her new duties, m'lord.”

Wonderful. With the arrival of Lord Sebastion Errol came a veritable horde of wives, sons and daughters, of all my Stormbringers in the capital. More than a few brothers, cousins and nephews tagged along as well to represent those Stormbringers who remained in Storm's End.

Storm this, storm that, I'm starting to regret the naming patterns.

Each of them soon found a position working for one of the hundreds of enterprises I've set up. The majority have moved into the paper industry, which has fairly preposterously expanded along the Wendwater and into the town I've been building, and has started chewing up more lumber than my fucking navy. Obviously, this was one of the things Robert shouldn't know about it.

“Excellent.” I smiled even wider at the man and continued, “From my reports I'm hearing that little Reina is doing rather well in her classes. She's taken more than a few prizes home.”

Now the spearman's smile threatened to break his face, so vast it was, “Aye, m'lord. Me and Mari are very proud of her! She learns so quickly it makes my own effort look pale, m'lord!”

I couldn't help myself, “Maris and I, Lomar.”

The man blushed again but nodded and said, “Aye, m'lord.”

“You'll be alright, Lomar, keep doing what your doing.”

Again he responded, “Aye, m'lord!”

Finally I turned back to the collection of elderly men who'd been staring at me for a while. I felt more than comfortable enough to calmly finish my conversation with the Stormbringer and they'd gotten used to my idiosyncrasies by now. Gunther simply smiled and pointed to my own office with another wink. They all followed me in and I quickly made my way over to my desk to read through my mercantile reports.

Was I throwing my weight around?

Hell yes.

Was I still pissed that Lord Hoster tried to get Renly fostered in Riverrun?

Fuck yes.

Unfortunately my pretense at getting up to speed on news was undermined by my grandfather's casual perusal of my office. The man confidently strode up sliding walls I had erected and bared the mess of tangled webs behind it. The wooden fixture bore a somewhat crude map of Essos with pins and threads connecting various important locations. I had tried to fill out as much information as I knew about the continent, its power players and various factions in Free Cities, and the relationship they all had with each other. Cross Free Cities or otherwise.

It painted a chaotic mess of intricate and ever shifting alliances but I was satisfied there was little chance of a unified Essos any time soon. Or even a plurality of Free Cities looking to expand west. Lord Hoster and Jon followed suit with Gunther and loudly speculated about the possible meaning of the threads.

Clearly my ploy to seem busy and important failed utterly. Damn you Gunther.

Jon Arryn coughed delicately and said, “Forgive me if I'm reading this wrong, but are you claiming there is an invasion underway to Myr?”

I gave up my pretense and replied, “Yes, the convergent sell swords in Pentos are marching on Myr, soon. They'll have great support from Tyrosh and some nominal support from Lys. Oberyn Martell has gone missing from the Second Sons but everyone else of note seems to joining the march. Then again, the Martell couldn't really be seen hanging our with the Dragons anymore.”

Jon piped up again, "Are you sure?"

That they are Mopatis' Dragons?

"As certain as I can be. I'm always keeping an eye on Essos."

Gunther spoke up next, “Which brings me, at least, to the reason for my visit, Stannis. When should I be expecting the remnants of the spy network of Varys the Eunuch to report to me?”

I quickly looked over at Jon and Hoster, neither seemed surprised but that might not mean anything, and turned back to my grandfather, “I was under the impression you were to set up your own for your office, grandfather?”

His response came quickly, “Would you truly make your aging grandfather start from scratch, my boy?”

I smiled as I said, “Ah, it might come across as cold, grandfather, but you'll be the better for it.”

Almost word for word what he said about Stannis' childhood pet. It clearly had some effect on him as he was taken aback but quickly rallied into a loud bellowing laughter.

“I imagine you've been sitting on that remark for a while now, Stannis.”

With a wider smirk I replied, “Eight years and change, yes.”

Gunther's voice softened significantly when he said, “Do you still hold it so against me, my boy?”

What could I do but shrug?

A deep sigh followed but Gunther rallied again, “Even so, you do understand you're not entirely backed by either custom or law? By all rights the Royal Information Network should report to the Master of Whispers. Nobody here is trying to get you to fork over your own men, Stannis, just the ones you pilfered from the Master of Whispers.”

Hoster joined in, “Unless of course you're eager to keep such power in your own hands?”

Was this the part where I fell over myself to show my loyalty to Robert?

I fixed Hoster with an empty smirk and said, “What if I, in fact, do want to keep such power firmly in my hands, Lord Hoster? I would have thought that all and sunder would have soured on the notion of a singular spy master?"

Lets see how they respond to that challenge. I needed to figure out why they were doing this. It seemed fairly unlikely they'd assume to receive full and complete control of something as easily malleable as a spy network. I could have them satisfied with droplets of information, much like Varys did, and have it seem that my lord grandfather is in control.

Surely they realize this?

This time Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, was the one sighing deeply, “Stannis, I'll be frank with you. Robert enjoys the idea of keeping a separate collection of little birds singing of secrets but for the interest of stability I would ask you to relinquish the remnants of the royal spy network.”

Before I could respond Gunther spoke up, “You're unduly strengthening the office of Master of Ships, my boy. The town you've built, Godsgrief, is fast approaching ten thousand souls that all work directly for the Arsenal. Those...” He hesitated for a brief moment, “Factories of yours line unending the Wendwater and from what I gather you also own most of the commercial ventures in said town.”

It was evidently Hoster's turn, “You've sown chaos in King's Landing, quietly taken over the western Crownlands, made common cause with the merchants and lowborn alike.”

The barrage just kept coming as Jon took over, “You've set up strife in the Reach causing the Tyrells to lean on you, courted the Westerlanders and Riverlander lords alike, and sent off your quarrelsome bannermen to tire themselves out on the Dornish borders while you took a personal hand in training your remaining lords.”

What is this? A list of my 'wrong doings'? I stayed quiet to see where they would take this even if I wanted to point of the army went to Dorne on behest of Robert. Not that I didn't take advantage of it. All the difficult Marcherlords are busy fortifying the border, and fortunately ignoring their hinterlands, while the remaining Stormlords, those east of Summerhall, I kept under command of Ser Harbert Baratheon.

Hoster slid in to the conversation again, “Somehow you've wrapped the Septons around your fingers and you've been stealing my people from me!”

Before I could even begin to formulate a response to that Jon calmed Hoster down, “We aren't here for that, Hoster, and he broke no laws.” The Hand turned to me, “And yet it is another instance of you accumulating wealth, even if its in souls.”

Now I started to worry a little bit. I did, actually, send out men to the ravished areas of the Riverlands to go recruiting for smallfolk willing to emigrate. It wasn't exactly illegal but it was heavily frowned upon. Far more than anything else I had done.

Was this what set them off?

Did I finally push too far?

My grandfather was seemingly next, “As these two venerable, but aged old men, seem unwilling to broach the main thrust of the matter, I shall. You've been growing powerful rapidly Stannis and they don't like it. Especially since Robert is nowhere near as energetic as you are and they're starting to feel their ages.”

Hoster muttered, “I've only got but a single nameday on you, Estermont.”

Now, wait a minute.

I decided to break my patient silence with a quiet but chilling reply, “Everything I do has been in his service, Lord Gunther. Unless some highly upsetting accusations are about to be made?”

Jon replied quickly, “No, nothing of the sort, Stannis. Even if your actions look, on the surface, to be highly unorthodox. I've seen nothing that would indicate any maliciousness or that you would ever harm your family.”

Then what's the fucking problem?

Gunther took over again, “Taken as a whole your actions are worrisome, my boy, but not upsetting. Nay, what brings us here is your ruthless campaign against the Lord Trout himself.”

“I object to the charact-.”

Gunther waved Hoster away, “Oh, gods be good. Hoster, you're upset Stannis is, rather successfully, undermining you in the Riverlands. Jon is worried that this growing enmity between the two of your will spill over to others.” He waited for a heartbeat or two before he rounded on me and continued, “And you, my boy, have neatly sown up the Reach and the Westerlands in your own grip.”

Oh. Suddenly the picture this whole ambush painted was growing ever clearer. Hoster fucking Tully had gone to Jon fucking Arryn to complain about my effective, but underhanded, means of securing allies in the Riverlands. Over the past two months I'd reached out to the Mootons at Maidenpool, the Mallisters at Seagard, and Ser Wilhert Knight the of Stoney Sept. All of them urbanized areas with nearly access to major rivers or outright access to the sea. I intended for these lands to become another center of economic pull and the beginnings of trade routes set up by yours truly. Once you run out of materials and your workers sit for days waiting for the next shipments to come in...you become more than a little bit proactive at securing resources.

It was an extension of my deal with Tywin Lannister. The canal he'd help me build would cut the travel time to Lannisport by weeks and I was less so hopeful for the Riverlands.

Lord Tully clearly did not enjoy my efforts and more than once proved his mettle in attaching higher prices to my ventures than I'd otherwise would pay. Be that in tariffs, legal shenanigans to delay property exchanges in the towns, and even subsidies for competitors if they stuck to their old paymasters.

I'd made great stride and kept the Trout's gaze firmly on his rivers but, far too often for my liking, he'd strike back in the Crownlands and suddenly walk away with portage rights in Duskendale. Or with a competitors bid for marriage into Buckwells at the Antlers. Or a grant of land, near Riverrun, to a second son of the Brunes at Dyre Den leading me to lose priority shipping in yet another port.

It got...messy and admittedly wasteful.

Jon sighed, again, and said, “Our grand alliance has been sundered in two, Stannis, and we cannot afford anything that could possibly threaten the stability. Not in the face of Dorne, the Dragons, and whatever else may come in the future. Tell me you see how precarious the realm is balanced?”

I still didn't get it, “Which requires me to hand over a significant portion of my hard earned network of spies? Nobody else seemed interested in the remains of Varys' little birds. Even when I was otherwise engaged.”

Fancy way of referring to almost dying via Varys. Or...at least if they buy into it. Neither Jon nor Hoster had made any indication they knew anything shady was going on. Best to keep it that and remind them that I did, in fact, bleed for them

As far as they knew.

Gunther answered, “It would be but a gesture that you're willing to work with the Hand or others and not around them, my boy.”

This must be some cultural clashing at play here. Was I being willfully blind or did they have a point? Was I really such a chaotic mess? Still, lets see what they are willing to offer for the 'empty gesture' of handing large slices of Varys' men to Lord Gunther.

“And in return for...soothing certain personalities, I would get?”

Hoster harrumphed loudly but Jon waved him down, “Lord Hoster would refrain from interfering in the Crownlands, which you would, officially now, administrate on behalf of Robert until the final conclusion of the war, and you would gain a reasonable say in naming the replacement for Master Staunton as Master of Laws.”

Well, for the little loss I was taking it seemed superb. Which clearly meant I was missing something here. The mention of the duration perhaps? The knowledge that Jon could overrule me at will?

Instead of point those things out I nodded and asked Gunther, “Let me see if I understand. You're all worried that I am...rocking the boat we call the Seven Realms too much?”

“Aye, Stannis.”

“That I'm doing too much without...what? Attempting to work within the established means? ”

Jon replied this time, “Precisely. Forgive me for saying so but you're unpredictable, even more than Robert ever was, and as his brother...few would dare deny you overmuch. Which means they all come to me, Stannis. I assure you, you've made quite the impact.”

Hoster once again made himself known, “What I would like to know is how precisely I've offended you, Stannis! You've been nothing but good to the Lannisters, to the damned Tyrells, and everyone who was scorned by the Dragons. Why have you so fixated upon me?”

That was easy.

“You tried to take Renly.”

And it took the wind out of his sails immediately. Only for him to rally and thunder, “Are you implying that fostering Renly would be too good for me!?”

I narrowed my eyes and bit out, “You went to Robert, Lord Hoster. Robert. As if I haven't been a father in all but name to Renly!” I stood up and glared at Hoster, “You're one of the more dangerous Lord Paramounts, Hoster. I know the others don't see it or refuse to see it, but I do.”

Dead silence.

I continued, “I would have little issue with allowing Renly the opportunity of observing you up close, for a good long time, but then you tried to simply rip Renly out of my hands.”

Another bout of silence. This time broken by Gunther, “Well, lets ignore the implication that you'd send Renly to sniff out Hoster's weaknesses but it sounds like this is just a misunderstanding.”

Hoster attempted to reply but Jon took over, “It does seems so, shall we set aside the past as bygone and allow for better relations from now on?”

What does that even mean?

As far as I'm concerned they are trying to tie my wrists behind my back. What happens the next time I do something they don't like? Admittedly...the prize is still appetizing. Public acknowledgment that the Crownlands must deal with me while Robert finishes up the war?

All but getting to name the next Master of Laws? I'd almost immediately call up another five hundred Stormbringers, send five hundred levies home, and set them up in the Gold cloaks. I'd never have to bribe them again.

Should I still continue with Mooton? Meh, probably. He's still receiving a Royal Naval base near his town. I might as well keep leveraging my ties with him. The thought crossed my mind that I could reach out to Mace or Tywin but I quickly discarded it. It's too soon for that and Jon already seems to have acknowledged me as a fulcrum for them.

It's probably best not to let them find any purchase. Now I just needed to make sure they didn't sniff out my reluctance by appearing to honor my deal with Lord Mooton.

I looked straight ahead at Hoster, “How reasonable will you be if I need something from you?”

The man raised an eyebrow and said, “As reasonable as you shall be, should I.”

That meant less than nothing.

“In practical terms, Lord Hoster, I plan on ensuring Westeros becomes prosperous enough to stem the tide of gold flowing to Essos and hopefully reverse it some time in the future.”

The man nodded and said, “Convince me on the necessity and I will not stand in your way.” A heartbeat later he continued, “Your dealings with my Riverlanders?”

“Provided you do not penalize those that have already made agreements?”

He hesitated slightly but nodded again, “Aye.”

“Consider them done. Your backing of the Vances for the Antlers?”

It burned. Losing to him that is. Well, I wasn't losing, per se. But I certainly wasn't winning either. Still, if I had a correct read of the situation this was simply the first step of reaching out by the older lords in front of me. I was, more than a little bit, aware of what might happen if I didn't choose to play ball here.

Would they have escalated?

Hoster quietly acknowledged it and asked, “Consider it evaporated. Your-.” Next he bit almost bit out, “Agents working in the Riverlands?”

This one hurt considerably enough that I was unwilling to give way. The war, Robert's Rebellion, had devastated the Riverlands. I imagine that Hoster started reconstruction but plenty of smallfolk lost their homes. The man even put two different settlements to the torch in the aftermath. All in all...plenty of refugees looking for homes and I've been building plenty in Godsgrief.

“Those people were already on the way to King's Landing. I can't apologize for affording them better opportunities.”

Lord Tully twitched around the temple but slowly nodded, “Very well. Lord Mooton?”

This, too, I'd invested too much in. Maidenpool was too important for my plans and I was unwilling to give up the opportunity. Besides, they seem somewhat concerned with keeping me on my good side. Lets see how much I could extract from this.

“Construction hasn't begun yet on Maidenpool...which would give you plenty of time to mend your own relations with the man.”

Heh, unlikely. I don't know why he hates Hoster but he does. I plan on taking as much advantage from it as I can. Before the Riverlander Lord Trout could formulate a response someone delicately, but insistently, knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

A head of one of my scribes peeped through, “Forgive my intrusion, Lord Stannis, but you commanded we let you know once the shipments came in?”

“Ah, have they, Emyr?”

“Aye, my Lord. The armors, save for Grandison-Fell and Cafferen, have all come in. Those others are still being worked up, my Lord.”

“Alright, thank you.”

“Most welcome, my Lord.”

Gunther was the first to speak up, “Armors?”

I briefly debated not telling him but quickly decided it wasn't in keeping with the new 'peace' we'd just arranged for.

“I found a smith that can imprint House sigils into steel, in their correct colors, and with small crowned stags on their shoulders. I've had them made for every last Stormlander House, knightly or otherwise, that fought for my brother and myself.”

All three elder Lords quickly exchanged glances with each other until Jon said, “That sounds like a mighty expensive venture, Stannis.”

He wasn't implying anything untoward was he?

Only if you don't already have access to thousands of high quality plate armor. They just needed to be modified.

I shrugged, "Indeed."

Gunther just smiled, “Sometimes I forget that you and Robert are, in fact, cut from the same cloth.”

I chose to ignore that and instead focus on my new circumstances. Did I bring this on myself? Did I really have them worried or is this but a ploy? Was Jon actually working for the benefit of the Realm or did he see an opening to cut me down? Did I benefit on a whole from this?

I'd have much to contemplate but it appeared I wasn't getting the time as Jon and Hoster made a move to leave. I couldn't let that happen without testing the boundaries of my newly acquired limitations.

"My lords, one last thing."

The Hand of the King was the first to respond, "Yes, Lord Stannis?"

Lets see how willing to share information he is, "Robert has been rather resistant to giving Summerhall to Renly. Any idea why?"

His pokerface was perfect but it was the smooth transition from impatient and curious to 'carefully considering' that gave it away. Holy tits, it's him. He's the one whispering in Robert's ears.

Motherfucker.

He cleared his throat and said, "Robert wishes for more time to consider giving it to his heirs, should he be blessed with superfluous sons."

Motherfucker.

I smiled widely, just as plastic as Jon's own, and replied, "Fair enough. Say, in the interest of our concerns freshly aligning, a small personal boon might not be too much to ask?"

He hesitated, his gaze flicked over to Hoster, before asking, "Such as, what?"

Plastic smile still firmly plastered on my face I say, "Robert has already given me comprehensive rights over the parts of the King's Wood that fall in the Stormlands. Since I've been extensively...developing those lands and could reasonably claim to perform my lordly duties for them, I'd like to have this ratified. On paper. With your seal and Roberts."

Not that big an ask but I was thinking ahead to Roberts heir. If 'sortofJoffery' would prove to be a giant cunt I wanted the law on my side as I denounced him for being tyrant. I saw the skin on Jon's forehead tighten but beyond that he didn't react, "I'll bring it up with Robert but I don't imagine this will prove an obstacle."

Now I smiled even wider but Lord Gunther interjected before I could, "Ah, clever, Stannis. Keeping it in reserve for little Renly I see."

Hoster noticeable relaxed but Jon's expression might as well be carved from granite. I wanted to direct my next small boon to Hoster but Gunther spoke up again, "I imagine we've settled what we came for. Now, if you two old men could leave me with my grandson. We have fond memories to comprehensively reminisce about."

Foiled.

The two men made their goodbyes and soon I was left with my lord grandfather.

"Well done there, Stannis. Truly, I especially enjoyed the spanner in the works you threw when you claimed Jon couldn't see how dangerous Hoster was. I imagine both of them will be looking askew at each other for a while. Couldn't have done it myself, so natural your act felt."

What?

Is he claiming to be on board with me now? Looking back on the conversation, as annoying as pledging to play nice was - and the crushing reminder that I had plenty of peers with powers on par with mine-, Gunther seemed to have shepherded it neatly.

I shrugged and said, "He is dangerous. If you knew half the horrors I do know about him you wouldn't be so chummy with them."

Gunther sighed deeply, and theatrically, while shaking his head, "Oh, I do know which is exactly why I am so 'chummy' with him. How else would one keep an eye on him?"

The way I do. By liberally bribing the families of his men. Much, much softer targets than his men themselves. But I got his point. The question was now, would he point out his actions have been to help me or wait for me to make that realization.

"Regardless, you came out of this well enough."

I shrugged again, "It's going to be rather difficult to enforce any of this."

Now Gunther shrugged as if mimicking me, "Which would be the point. Neither of those men is interesting is limiting the power of Lords Paramount. This was the lightest possible rebuke I could arrange, Stannis, I do hope you know that."

I nodded, "Yes, grandfather. I have indeed surmised that and yet I'm still troubled. We've accomplished little today beyond establishing that all the old men who fought together in no less than two wars are still closely tied."

"Nonsense, the complete opposite in fact. Grievances have been aired, addressed, and mostly smoothed over. Not to mention the precedent that's set about your reasonable and practical approach to governing. What I do feel compelled to mention is that you brought this on yourself. Why would you antagonize Lord Tully when he could have been your loudest supporter?"

I frowned but Gunther continued, "A man surrounded by disloyal vassals would be certain to look to the crown, but you've wasted that opportunity. I see now that you've paid far too much attention to your granduncle Ser Harbert, fine a warrior as he is."

What's happening here?

"I really should have taken a closer hand. Let us go over your recent actions, Stannis, and I'll point out where you've gone horribly right or wrong since there seems to be little middle ground with you."

What-.

"Perhaps you should tell your attendants you'll be busy today. The Starks are coming back, my boy, and you need to be ready to catch Robert before that girl of theirs spins him out of control."

=-=

283 AC – Godsgrief: Lord Gunther of Estermont – The Tour of the Stormlords

After long talks with my grandson I finally had him convinced he should play the game, on established terms, at least when he is dealing with lords. Each of them, no matter how small or inconsequential their holdings might be, are prickly and prideful. Every last one of them would hold grudges that could be avoided and it was that last argument that seemed to sway him.

I was under no delusion that I had wheedled out most, or even a significant portion, of his goals and ambitions but I did have a solid grasp on his most immediate. His mind was firmly set on acquiring a certain level of conformity among the Stormlords and he was at times eloquent enough to sway even me. Unfortunately his proposed methods would alienate far too many aged, and prideful men, lords who needed to be courted. Courted and seduced, and bribed as well as fawned over. And then they might all fall in line without certain demonstrations.

Stannis wasn't pleased in the slightest.

But eventually he agreed that diplomacy should, indeed, must be the first step. Which brought us to this spectacular outing. It was on remarkably short notice but there wasn't a lack of interest. Every Stormlord in King's Landing, and a few of the more malleable younger Crownlander lords, boarded the Argilac's Pride. August figures such as the Lord Cafferen, Lord Buckler, Lord Penrose, the young Lord Errol, and even the little Lord Dondarion and many more were all present. Most of the eastern and southern Stormlords themselves were eager to get to know their new overlord that has been so generous to their sons.

Too generous by some of their standards.

Despite Stannis' enthusiasm for sailing with his band of younger lordlings I convinced him they were best served manning the other clippers. I'd seen the clippers in the harbor but standing on them you're truly struck by their sharp angles. They are not much larger than the new war galleys but a great deal faster. Stannis insisted on calling them clippers but could not explain why when pressed. Another one of those little peculiarities of his.

According to him they were the end result of many hours of cooperation between various prominent shipbuilders, architects from White Harbor and the Arbor, and a liberal helping of certain drawings. Of the latter he would only say he drew his dreams. I've informed him he should keep that to himself before men start whispering the Smith speaks to him in his sleep.

I didn't like the smirk that followed.

Lord Aenys Bollin of the Point, a young man of age with my eldest son, couldn't help but note, “Well, the Evenstar is certainly taking his words back.”

I smiled widely in return, “Aye, and lose his gold as well. I've certainly learned not to bet against Stannis when he speaks of the workings he helps craft.”

Aenys merely raised an eyebrow, keeping the rest of his vaguely Baratheon features amused, “But on any other subjects?”

I wasn't about to entertain this line of thought.

“In turn, he too, is learning valuable lessons.”

The Lord of Bollin nodded and seemed content to let the subject lay. The object of today was more than merely showing off Stannis' new ships, their construction site, or his new town. Today was his opportunity to convince the greatest part of the Stormlands strength that his way was simply put better for them.

And then to quietly step back as they collectively rushed headlong into whichever direction Stannis would care to send them in. On the way to King's Landing I'd already visited the budding town of Godsgrief. Once they see the surroundings, the many many carved Stags and other Stormking influences, all would feel the faintest stirring of ancient hopes with the subtle shades of black and gold. The busy town with its teeming market places and singers accompanied by musicians, paid for by Stannis, that sung of days long past when all was well before the Dragons came.

It was a pleasant fiction, and one that would only hold fast for the smallfolk, but I got the sense that Stannis only wished to convince them of certain matters. Such as his innovations merely being a return to past glory rather than a complete shift in the workings of our world. To help smooth their fearful natures.

Even if I was of mind to halt its changes I wasn't willing to oppose my grandchild. Nor was I entirely convinced we could. Not as long as Robert would look at the new ships, both new clippers and enlarged galleys alike, with remarkeble fondness. And again, I wasn't willing to wish Stannis ill fortune even if I knew quite a few of the lords wouldn't mind seeing him humbled.

The Evenstar of Tarth came upon us, somewhat subdued, “Fourteen knots! And Lord Stannis claims it can do better once the sailors get used to the vessels handling! Good gods!”

Lord Tarth, slightly mystified, continued, “Our fastest galleys can hold at six knots for a full day. This vessel doesn't even have oars! We've even left those new wargalleys, those that do have oars and sails, behind hours ago...”

Lord Sebastion Errol lightly cleared his throat, “Its speed is derived from a few points, my Lords. Its sharp angles for one, the twenty two different sails all working together to make the most of the wind, and the copper sheeting lining those parts of the vessel that lay underwater.”

Lord Fell loudly asked, “The ship is plenty fast, aye, but it can hardly carry more than two hundred men and handles less cargo then most others. What would you use it for?”

Lord Errol replied, “Lord Elias, you're right in the sense that these clippers will not hold overmuch cargo. Thus their limited space shall be put to use for what Lord Stannis calls 'small volume, high profit' trading goods. It will mostly be various dyes, spices, teas and other produce that are light and small of nature. With these ships our merchants can sail from King's Landing to Volantis sooner than the old vessels could reach Gulltown from King's Landing. Speed is everything, my Lords.”

A light applause rang across the deck as Stannis took over, “Of course, their uses for war cannot be underestimated. The new wargalleys might be, in their own right, faster than anything else on the seas but these clippers will let us send our navies further than ever before. A fleet of them could sail to Qarth a full year faster than is possible now. We could trade directly with Norvos and Qohor on the other side of Essos in the time our current ships would take to reach Braavos fighting against the currents from King's Landing.”

His smile sharpened into a grin when he continued, “I assure you all, my Lords, that I will greatly profit from all of this. My grandfather urged to come with honeyed and gentle words but I must admit that is simply not in my nature. My father taught me that Stormlords follow strength and wisdom. I cannot claim wisdom, that will come with time and advice from my elders, but I dare any of you to test my strength.”

Oh gods, must he look so predatory? What are you doing, Stannis? A quick look around told me that the gathered lords were all looking intrigued but I didn't think it would last if my grandson missed the tone. Since I couldn't do anything else I simply sat back and waited.

“I neither want, nor need, men who are convinced by gentle and meek talk. We need the might of the Stormlanders and Crownlanders alike and the bravery of our united people! For a mere three centuries does not unmake the past! We need the will to take risks for all that we want! This...” He waved around with his arms and pointed to the ships, “Is merely the beginning. The world is ours for the taking, my Lords. For the first time in our long, long, history we carry all the advantages on the seas.”

Another theatrical pause came as he gazed upon his lords, “All of our knights and levies already train to work together as one army and their united discipline is magnificent. Men have always spoken of the courage of our Stormlords but now we can honestly say even that even our well armed men-at-arms are worth a dozen of any others.” His smirk became even sharper, “ Our future glory in Westeros is all but guaranteed by my regal brother but I stand before you and call on you to grasp for our glory on the seas! All the seas! Every last fucking one of them!”

This is exactly what I cautioned him against. Why must he be so damned forthright? Granted, the Stormlords are nowhere near as gallantry obsessed as some of the other great lords but is some decorum too much to ask for?

Must everything be a great endeavor for my grandsons?

Still, the applaud was loud and the cheering was convincing. Even the sailors, momentarily caught up, unleashed some terrific howling. I even found myself braying along with the others but still I worried. He's quite unnecessarily setting a high bar for success. Now the poor lad must perform.

How many wars will we dragged into?

I looked across the desk and was struck by the thought that only the men I came into my lordship with are holding back. The others, those younger – even if that is a relative term for me-, seemingly had little reservation. Wonderful for Stannis but it would only bring me headaches.

Stannis nodded to Lord Errol who in turn smiled widely and loudly spoke, “We can build one clipper every seven days. War galleys, the new ones we saw earlier this morning, can be made every three days. Certainly we've not yet reached the fabled speeds of the Arsenal of Braavos but we're getting closer by the ship. When Godsgrief is fully finished the town will provide all the labor for our own Arsenals and I have no doubt that someday we'll outpace even Braavos.”

The lad fell silent for a moment, drawing attention just as I had seen Stannis do dozens of times, and theatrically continued, “One day, my Lords, we'll be spitting out multiple ships every..! Single! Day! Lord Stannis is right, the world is changing! No longer will we look to Essos and wonder when they will come for us again. Let them, my Lords, and we'll catch them on the seas on our terms.”

Only with the most iron of wills did I manage refrain from bending Stannis back over my knee. Why did I spend hours talking to him if he still won't listen?

Now Godsgrief best not appear underwhelming. The high morale of the Stormlords might not last if it did.

Suddenly I was shaken out of my worries are Stannis waved over his head, thrice, and loudly bellowed out, “Hold on, my Lords, and my captain shall show you how fast the clipper can turn around! Don't let go! We're about to heel deep!”

Oh gods, he wasn't lying and I held on for all I could.

283 AC – Godsgrief: Lord Gunther of Estermont – The Tour of the Stormlords

We were almost at Godsgrief. The town that sprang up overnight and set the tongues of Crownlander and Stormlander alike wagging. Even before you reach the town you're struck by the sheer oddness of it all. On one end of the river workshops, so called factories, dot the Wendwater with their imposing wheels spinning and churning. The river boat we all gathered on was oared and making decent pace getting us up the river.

On the other end of the Wendwater a most peculiar mode of transportation played out. Long lines of copper, though I'm told it is most parts wood covered by copper, rounded planks lay next to the river. Upon these planks, rails they call them, interconnected wagons are pulled by teams of horses at fair pace.

Though none faster than a regular horse and wagon I could appreciate the astounding volume of cargo they pulled with them. The produce of these factories, whatever they might be, are thus carried to either the Wendwater port or Godsgrief where they can be sent off to their final destinations. My grandson was walking around with a faint smirk as the other lords tittered about the various uses they could find for this.

I chose to ignore that.

Marius Herston, Lucius' second son, continued with his elaborations, “Roughly three tons of supplies, of whichever nature they might be, are transported by this particular rail network. Others tie Godsgrief together with the Arsenal with a different kind of wagon designed for the shipbuilders.”

Of course his cantankerous father couldn't help himself, “What happens when some ruffian breaks a rail or two?”

The younger son nodded in acknowledgment and replied, “Then it shall be repaired with the many spare parts we have in storage. The...ruffians would get caught by the Stormbringers and sent to the mines, the wall or the gallows.”

Another titter of approval came from the Stormlords of the plains but it seemed this one didn't quite manage to draw a smile from Stannis.

Interesting.

Lucius, however, did not yield to the argument, “And yet this network would fall flat until it has been repaired. Whereas our rather tried and tested methods would keep going without a worry.”

I glanced over at my grandson again to see how he'd take the challenge but he moved nor spoke. His silence however did speak to plenty of confidence that Marius would handle matters. And indeed the boy responded.

“Hollowed wagon wheels shaped for rails still perform adequately for short distances, father. Unless you're claiming...ruffians would take miles and miles worth of rails without being noticed?”

That would be quite the feat indeed. Fortunately the elder Herston quieted down after that and the younger continued, “Further line construction has begun in Storm's End, Haystack Hall and Bronzegate. We're very hopeful networks will tie off into each other before the year is done.”

Next I knew we'd come across the Woodworks. A large enclosure in the King's Wood that provided the majority of the wood for both Godsgrief and the Arsenal. When I asked Stannis why he wouldn't simply use the woods around his town he answered far too frankly. I immediately urged him to find another reason rather than keeping it looking nice and appealing for the townsfolk.

Sometimes I wonder what's gotten into that boy. Was the siege truly that horrific? Save for the brief moments of battle, none of those involved tend to speak about it. Perhaps I should look into it some more.

Marius spoke up again, “This, my Lords, is the Woodworks. An enclosure like no other. Trees get cut down, stripped and cut into standard sizes, and stored for the teamsters to transport to its destination. Everything in either Godsgrief or the Arsenal that might require wood sends for it from the Woodworks.”

Stannis chose then to interject, “Several innovations, the two-man swing saw, among other types of steel blades and new practices make logging, faster and more profitable. The might even be, if not safe than at least much safer than previous practices. Since we Stormlanders don't have all that many smallfolk, I believe we shouldn't waste those we do have, and keep our experienced men around to teach their sons.”

I mightily resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He had to know that such sentiments wouldn't be respected?

And indeed Lord Cafferen, the onetime loyalist, challenged him, “Are the smallfolk those you're basing your strength on, my Lord?”

A hush came over the riverboat but Stannis didn't let it linger, “I'm basing our economy upon the smallfolk, as all of you do. If they prosper, we prosper.”

I could tell he was losing them but Lord Morrigan jumped into the fray, “I've heard rumors, my Lord, that your workers have a stake in your endeavors? That you have made them your partners?”

Oh, darn. I was so hoping to get to that over dinner. Not out in the open here.

With a damnable wide smile Stannis blithely responded, “Aye, they share in a small fraction of the profits so that they may feel more invested in my undertakings. After all, men work harder for what is theirs. Why do you ask?”

Lord Morrigan shrugged and said, “Men already call you the Merchant-Prince, my Lord. Will they call you the peasants-Prince soon?”

A deep silence feel over the barge that put the previous one to shame. Thankfully Stannis didn't let this one persist either, “How many men does Lord Mace Tyrell command, Lyonel?”

Oh, I admit. That might work.

Lord Morrigan, ever a grumpy and stubborn lord, spoke, “They say a hundred thousand, if all his banners respond.”

With an incongruous smile on his face Stannis replied, “When only six out of even ten of their men came to our lands, Lyonel, and the vast majority of our host met them at Ashford...do you recall what occured?”

Stannis didn't let him reply, “Even with a skilled commander such as my brother leading our thirty eight thousand? We came upon their front guard, of equal numbers, and were driven off, Lyonel. Imagine if the full might of the Reach came upon us?”

Now my grandson turned around to the other nobles and said, “Would mere pride have kept our fields unburnt? Our people not ravaged?” With burning contempt he continued, “We're outnumbered by the Riverlanders and the fucking Vale both of whom can raise ten thousand more men and afford to equip them better than we can. The Westerlands have an army that never disbands and always grows in strength! The Reach dwarfs us and could take us apart on a whim.”

Stannis stared at his gathered lords intently with a burning gaze, “In the face of working against that, what do a few errant whispers matter?”

Next he continued, “Let them call me whatever the fuck they want, Lyonel, and I'll sleep just fine knowing that when the next war comes we'll be a hundred times stronger. I'll tell all of you now that I care little whether I have to beg, borrow or sack cities in Essos for the coin to remake our strength!”

He quieted somewhat down when he continued, “However strong my brother's throne, at some point we will we be called upon to defend our claim. I will do whatever it takes to ensure that the Stormlands can stand among all the others and fear none of them.”

He slowly, ever so slowly, stalked up to Lord Lyonel of Morrigan until he stood face to face with him, “Will you let matters of pride and pathetic whispers stand in the way of that, Lyonel?”

The middle aged Lord of the Crow's Nest didn't retreat but certainly didn't seem at ease either. A fact that was rather well noted and perceived by the other lords.

“Nay, but I-.”

Stannis simply interrupted him, “Empty words from those who are neither Storm nor Crownlander? Tell me, does that truly mean so much to you?”

“Nay, my Lord.”

Satisfied my grandson turned around to the others, “We have a Baratheon for a King and for the first time in centuries a true place of power in the Realms. Those of you who have sons that served with me in Storm's End during the siege, and later in that vile nest of King's Landing, know how generous I am to those that serve well.”

Slowly he looked from Lord to Lord and continued, “I won't order a single one of you to mimic my endeavors but I'm more than willing to lend a warm and welcoming hand to those that will look to the future with me.”

He ended it with, “Those that are timid and prone to seek refuge in glories of the past will have little of my compassion once they see their braver neighbors prosper.” With he smiled he finished, “Ah, we've reached the Glassworks, Marius.”

The young Herston lad nodded and smoothly took over, “Here for the Glassworks we've acquired samples of any and all fruits, vegetables and other produce from as far as we could reach. Dornish bloodoranges, apples from the Reach, and everything else you can think of can be grown in these. Through pipes containing heated water, and various implements we call sprinklers, we can mimic the circumstances of most climates. It's a progress in the works but we're confident that soon we can expand these enough to feed the rapacious appetites of King's Landing.”

It wasn't a perfect transition but it certainly caught the attention of the lords. Again, this was entirely predictable, to the point where I specifically told Stannis. Why does he have to be so headstrong?

How many of these challenges can he weather?

“On the other side of the Wendwater you can see the Stoneworks.” The Herston lad chuckled and said, “The names aren't all that imaginative but better ones will follow. Still, they tend to be plain descriptors. In any case, this is where the sand and mud are cooked into flat, square pieces of tiles. Due to some over enthusiastic production we've had to hurriedly sell to King's Landing to get rid of our surplus. Since then we seem to have whet the appetite of King's Landing for more than food.”

At least the promise of abundance rings true.

“Next we'll come across the Dye Factories, our most priceless gems. They produce most of the colors that can be found in Tyrosh, in the same quality, though not for all, but with much higher volumes, and more color recipes are found every day. A tenth of a tenth of the factories do nothing but tinker with various combinations and have already rendered us many unique colors that are unmatched elsewhere in the world. More than anything it is these ventures that pay for most of what you see.”

With another chuckle he said, “The rest of the gold seems to go to shiny armor for your heirs, my Lords.”

With their laughter the last of the unease finally left the barge and I breathed a deep, but silent, sigh of relief.

283 AC – Godsgrief: Lord Gunther of Estermont – The Tour of the Stormlords

We'd been shown most of the town and even I had to admit it didn't disappoint. When you recall that its barely been three and a half months since construction began you can't help but be impressed with what already stands. The streets are broad, extremely so, and every set of buildings are laid out in squares. Every group of sets of buildings lead to small open clearings, which like the streets are paved with baked stone, and are used for market places or a variety of other endeavors. Musicians play on every corner, in what I can only call a gross showing of opulence, for the benefit of the town folk. And yet I could not deny the good cheer that pervaded the streets.

Lord Morrigan, still somewhat chastised, whispered to me, “Are those Stag eyes following us?”

I couldn't contain a snort but quickly reassured Lyonel that his eyes were playing tricks on him. On most corners man-sized statues of metal rampant crowned Stags graced the streets. They were each painted with black, and a marvelous imitation of gold, and served as a reminder that my grandson was keen on his family sigil.

I'm sure he has his reasons, which would undoubtedly be somewhat compelling if I let him explain, but it tasted of sheer arrogance to me. Still, they were lovely to look at and a damned sight better than the monstrosity that dominated the center market place. A truly massive statute, that was still under construction, and was supposed to represent the last of the Storm Kings Argilac the Arrogant. Wisely, few of us mentioned that the visage looked remarkably like Robert Baratheon. Other decorates that lined the walls of buildings were massive paintings, made on wooden panels, that depicted scenes from the storied past of the Stormslands. I'm hopeful their quality will improve in days to come.

Lord Erwyn Wylde of Rain House quietly made his way over to me to ask, “Why are all the buildings the same? And I mean, precisely the same?”

It appeared my grandson heard him and explained, “It was easier to build them as such.” A heartbeat passed before he continued, “And I told all the builders and carpenters that they would get to pick their own homes last.”

That was amusing enough for me to join in with the laughter of the other lords. Suddenly bells loudly rang, simultaneously across Godsgrief, and my grandson urged us to head for the keep. We soon arrived in what seemed to be a sparingly decorated garrison fort but it wasn't likely to hold off much more than errant bandits. Then again, asking for a full fledged keep in less then five years seemed a fair bit much.

When we were all seated comfortably on the third floor of the main building we learned just why Stannis ushered us inside. Only a little while had passed but suddenly the streets were absolutely filled with workers.

Marius was the one to explain matters this time, “The bells are a sign that the workers are allowed their break. They all hop on the wagon rails and have two hours free to eat with their families. The various learning institutions and trade schools, ran by the Septons or the Merchants Collective, let their students home for the same period.”

Stannis took over, “When their parents go back to work the children are sent to several places. Some go the fields for them to play ball sports in, in tournaments organized by the Septons, as well as music classes or other activities, group or otherwise, which are overseen by either Septons or Septas. The tremendous profits from the dye trade pay for most of these indulgences and it keeps the peace in the town when even the children are too tired to pester their parents at night.”

Again I joined in with the laughter.

“Of course, the benefit of having plenty of children who can read and write, do their numbers, and have been taught by their parents that House Baratheon is responsible for their improved lot in life cannot be overstated.”

With a sharp grin he said, “If, at some point, your own smallfolk start making comparisons between our lands I urge you to remember my words. Keep them fed, keep them happy, and give them the opportunity to provide better lives for their children. You will never find better servants.”

Many looks were exchanged but I got the sense there was little in the way of opposition to the sentiment. Were they simply waiting things out or was another out burst coming?

Either way, Stannis managed to head it off by arranging for all the youngsters, and all of the Crownlanders, to go hunting with him. The other lords, those that simply claimed age or tiredness, stayed behind and I was well aware they were my target. Darn you, my stubborn grandson. He simply expects me to smooth out his messes and I'm going to just let him. When all the energetic lordlings made their way to the stable I made my rounds, to figure out how the elder lords were taking matters.

I noticed that Bollin, Musgood and Fawnton had few concerns and were watching bemusedly at Cole and Herston arguing about 'the affront to noble dignity which our liege lord is intent to inflict upon us'. Interestingly enough Lord Morrigan was not part of that particular debate.

It let their argument rage for a while, took note of those who appealed to the sentiment of giving our energetic young lord a chance, and of those who were reluctantly willing to as such. More worrying were those that proffered to wait and assess whether Storm's End would benefit from Stannis' innovations. They seemed more than willing to take the initial loss to benefit in the longer term from Stannis' actions. Both from his mistakes and successes.

Those men were my targets.

I cleared my throat until they all looked over at me, “Let me share with you some of my insights regarding my grandson. You've all seen how stubborn he is, which is nothing new, but you haven't understood how that boy's mind works.”

What little I understand of it, at least.

Lord Fell scoffed and said, “Are you telling us we should be worried?”

I smiled a brittle grin and replied, “In short? Yes.”

He didn't expect that. I took advantage of his momentarily distraction and went on, “He's right when he said you're all damned well aware of how open handed he is. Yet, have you taken note of how he deals with those he deems enemies?”

I had all of their attention but I needed a way to make them see without making them entirely fearful. None of them respect merchants, save for those with close connections to King's Landing, but all understand them to some extent. It would have to do.

“A while ago my grandson came up with one of his inventions. A way for scribes to churn out books by the dozens in hours when previously they would take months. He's made the Guild of Scribes one of the wealthiest in King's Landing in less than a month.”

I slowly let my gaze wander over theirs, “Many other Guilds have benefited from a relationship with him. One of the recurring factors in any deal my grandson makes is that both sides tend to profit, extremely so in fact. Which brings us to the Dyers. They got greedy and Stannis destroyed them without lifting a single sword.”

Lord Buckler knew this story as did Lord Tarth, Wagstaff, Mertyn and Herston. The others however I knew I held entranced.

“He started by taking their members, offering them better terms than the Guild ever could. When they agitated and attempted to take a violent turn he simply had them watched, at all times, by his men and the Gold Cloaks. He gave them no rest or time to recover while he took over their contracts from their buyers.”

If I wasn't careful I might start enjoying this, “Devoid of young men to work their vats, without the contracts upon which they base all their plans and policies, Stannis finished things up by paying their suppliers to cease supplying the Guild! Now they lay enfeebled, lacking any means to regain what they once had, and finding themselves without any friends. Unable to get even a modest loan or extension on those they already labor under.”

I let a smirk creep along my lips, “In less then a month a half...a Guild that held sway over King's Landing since time immemorial was broken and encumbered with crippling debt. Stannis purchased their inventory, buildings and everything else they owned for a tenth of a tenth of their worth.”

I made sure to slowly lean back into my comfortable seat, take a swig of my wine flagon, and watch with mild amusement as the message started sinking in. I knew one of them, probably Cafferen or Fell, would push one last time before we would move on to making practical plans.

And indeed it proved to be Lord Cafferen, “I do not doubt his ability to cow merchants, Gunther, but we are Stormlords.”

"No, we are not merchants, my Lord of Cafferen. And yet, you and those of your opinion, do not like the manner in which my grandson acquires funds for the benefit of his people. And do not misunderstand me, he is certainly not spending it on himself. Tell me, my Lord of Caffered, would you prefer if he held more to the mold of his late grandfather, Lord Ormund Baratheon?"

Loudly Lord Fell brayed, "Aye, we'd not worry about men calling him the Merchant-Lord! And we'd be led well!"

I waited for the precious few lords that agreed with him to settle down and continued, "Ormund would have simply taxed you. Taxed us all, until we paid for his roads. For his ships. For everything Storm's End could need. Do yo recall those temporary hikes in taxes? Those to pay for the Dragon King's campaigns in the Step Stones?"

Coldly I asked him and by extension the others, "Have they been temporary?"

Fell remained quiet, as did Cafferen, but the others loudly booed.

I let my grin grow wider, "Let us be content that our liege is finding coin elsewhere, and let us not cause him to grow irate with our complaining. Let us be pleased we have a Lord of Storm's End that takes his duty seriously and if in his mind he extends those duties to his smallfolk...so be it. And besides, what does his behavior matter when Stannis already owns the hearts of all our sons and grandsons?”

They were confused but soon I saw comprehension dawn when Herston bit out, “Aye, he does. My son has grown bold in his service.”

I shrugged, unwilling to uncover the annoyance in his voice, and said, “They'll grow more than that. My other grandsons, too, labor for Stannis. Don't tell me you all have not noticed. How our sons come to us and ask what we think about these many changes?”

A loud hum agreement followed, “How excited our boys are and how they carry those stars in their eyes none of us seem able to extinguish?”

“Aye!”

“Indeed!”

I let them shout for a moment but soon they calmed down, “My Lords, we are already lost.”

And that took the rest of the wind out of their sails. While they still lay confused I struck again, “How long before our boys look at Stannis, compare him with ourselves, and wonder to themselves why we oppose him?”

Lord Aenys Bollin immediately spoke up, “We don't oppose him and I resent the-”

I waved the man down and interrupted him, “My apologies, I did not mean how things are. I meant how they will seems to our heirs, and for some of us, and our heir's heirs. Will they not take note of our lack of enthusiasm?”

Another veritable chorus of agreement.

“Will they not see us hesitate and wonder to themselves what we are so blind for? You all know the nature of young men and even though it has been a long while...we still remember. I know I do! I remember King Jaehaerys Targaryen braying for Blackfyre blood in the Step Stones and I've never felt more alive since!”

That too was loudly hailed.

“My Lords, Stannis is just that to our sons and grandsons. They shall look upon him, even as he stumbles and learns from his mistakes, and see their own glory reflected in him. He likely meant every single word he spoke on top of his marvelous vessel. One day our heirs and heir's heirs will look upon us and only see old men. Old men standing in the way of their glorious future. And they will wonder.”

The silence that followed was damning but effective.

Eventually Lord Gower spoke, “Damned if we do, damned if we don't, change we must. I already hear Marcel quietly whispering with his friends why his father is so intent on shackling his glorious House to the past. When did we get so old, Gunther?”

Lord Herston bitterly bit out, “When did our sons grow so gods be damned ungrateful!? I certainly didn't raise a half-Stag!”

I smiled at the Herston Lord and said, “I did.” I shrugged, “It's not so bad. My grandson is King, you know.”

And their pained grimaces and groans as I gave my final, deliberately clumsy, attempt at humor resounded through the large hall. My next quip didn't land so flat though.

“Now, where's the bell that calls the servants? I'm out of wine and Melynda is not here to moan about my consumption.”

And there was their laughter again. Oh, my people. Predictable until the end.

AN: Long chapter, I got carried away. Feedback and commentary appreciated. Please let me know what you think!
AN2: The clipper isn't actually a clipper. It's the best approximation Stabby can make and its still faster than everything else. Nowhere near as fast as potentially 18/20 knots, but still an improvement.

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

With my ornately decorated oaken doors firmly shut I could barely hear the hustle and bustle of my staff going about their business. Which was good because it let me focus fully on my visitor. Lord Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion of the West, in all his quietly menacing glory stared around at my office with a detached eye for details. Once his gaze came across the giant map of Essos painted on a wooden slab affixed to the furthest wall I caught the barest whiff of interest.

I lightly cleared my throat and said, “Would you care for some beer, Tywin?”

Despite my best intentions I couldn't quite help twigging at the Lion's tail. I knew damned well he wasn't one for beer but that never entirely stopped me from offering it. His gaze flicked over to me, to the large jug of cold bitter, and accepted it with a quiet nod. The man was even less one for being impolite or ungracious.

The middle aged Lord sipped once, twice, and a third time before he asked, “From your new brewery, Stannis?”

Oh, so he is keeping an eye on me. Excellent.

“Indeed, its almost where I want it, but I'm sure my brewers will keep trying.”

He stared at me over the rim of his cup and replied, “Might I suggest you make them work harder?”

Auch, my Lord. Right in the chest. I didn't let my smile fade but nodded my head in acknowledgment.

“I shall, but I fear we have more pressing matters.”

I firmly returned his gaze when I continued, “Lord Jon has ordained my lack of involvement with the Dornish...return to the fold, so to speak.”

Another nod from the Lannister, “I am aware, yes. A fairly straight forward ploy to keep the Dornish sweet, I'm sure.”

“And rather more pliant to the Lord Hand's soft and soothing words. Either way, the war is done for, and we've all rather neat won it.”

Before I could continue though Tywin offered, “And what about Dragonstone? Or Driftmark.”

Yeah, Robert raged for seemingly ever when I delivered the message to him. The Dragon's had taken flight from their ancient refuge and were, already, safely ensconced in the Oligarchy of Pentos. It was more than a little bit frustrating, the whole situation as well as having to weather Robert's fury, but I knew better than to hang around the King for now.

Was it rather unfair of him to blame me?

Yup, without a doubt. And yet what recourse do I have?

“The Velaryons have left everything behind in their blind loyalty and my men have already secured the surrender of the keep of Driftmark. Dragonstone itself is a touch more resilient but my captains assure me it shall surrender soon. Most of their fleets are harbored in Pentos but I did manage to requisition a fair handful.”

Again the aged Lord nodded. Briefly I considered why the Velaryons might do so. Did they in canon? All I could think of was an opportunity for them to tie their bloodlines, as they had a few youngsters, with all of the Dragons.

“As I said, we've won the war. Now, Lord Tywin, I would like to win the peace.”

Ah, now I got his attention. Honestly, I thought he would have simply sat here, unmovable, until I pulled out the Valyrian bastard sword I had made for him. Since Robert wasn't exactly in the mood to talk to me right now...I was lacking in opportunities to ask him for permission to barter the sword. If his anger held some validity I would have simply waited until he inevitably cooled down. Now though...I decided that asking for forgiveness was probably better than asking for permission.

Then again, I wasn't entirely sure that Robert even knows about the sword. Twelve daggers and a few other odds and ends, even though I kept the razor for myself, had yielded far more metal than I'd initially expected. In the end Mott had managed to extract a fair chunk of metal, likely keeping a bit for himself, and both short swords – Argella's Plight and Fury- both were light enough to have plenty of material left.

Which was worked into one Lannister bastard sword, complete with their heraldry, another gladius type short sword. The latter one was sent to Storm's End to collect dust for me. Just in case I lost my own sword in some hellish circumstances. The former, of course, was to be bartered for with the Old Lion.

Tywin gestured for me to continue, “I am ten and eight years old, Tywin, a young man by any account. And yet the Essosi came for us within my lifetime. You, and many others, fought and bled on the Step Stones to stop them.”

I took a deep breath and continued, “I have no doubt they'll come again. I would like to improve the stature of our business interests across that continent in order to attain...more of a grip on their purse strings.”

It was difficult to fully express myself when I can't use modern jargon. So much of what I wish to say simply does not have an equivalent word the Westerosi Lords would understand. But I'll simply have to muddle through.

“Of that, too, I am aware, Stannis. Much has been said about your recent, and from what I gather profitable, endeavors.”

Hmm, he wasn't pushing for me to get to the point. Was I already losing him?

“Indeed. However, their goals are more than simply fetching coin for me. Each and every one of them represents a change, a tremendous turn in reality, for us as a whole. For uncountable eons gold, silver and raw materials have crossed the Narrow Sea to Essos. For practically ever the Essosi have sold their reworked goods, goods made from our resources, back to us.”

Now I sent a glare of my own at the Lion Lord, “Were it not for the unending gold mines of Casterly Rock and the silver mines of the Manderly's...we would have been devoid of any meaningful wealth long, long ago.”

A slight frown creased the skin over his eyebrows, “Explain further, if you will. I've never quite heard anyone so blatantly refer to that reality.”

Oh, was I waddling into some muddy waters?

“All right.” I took a deep breath and grabbed for some writing material, “Our economy, the complete accounting of property and trade of worth within our borders, consists of the produce of our land. Minerals from the Westerlands and Iron Islands, harvests from the Vale, Riverlands and Reach, wool and wood from the Stormlands and the North. As well as everything else you can think of that our lands and seas produce for us.”

I kept going, “It includes everything from the barest threads on the backs of the meanest peasants to the most exquisite gowns on the ladies of the court or even the cloaks of our men. From the smallest market towns in the Riverlands to the moneylenders in King's landing, to the factors of Lannisport and Old Town.”

“All of these things, and services, are bought and sold. The cloaks start off as wool in the Stormlands, are sold to King's Landing and other towns to be worked or sold onward again, until they eventually end up as cloaks. Every last chain of events that must occur for that to happen requires gold and silver.”

The Old Lion looked intently focused as he nodded, “Quite right.”

Well, that was...short.

“The process of gold and silver exchanging hands...is the force behind it all. Without constantly moving gold and silver...orders don't get filled. If orders don't get filled nothing new can be made. If nothing new is made for too long a period...the particular field of trade withers. This isn't a problem with things like wool, and wood, which can be stored. But what happens if such a situation unfolds in more pressing areas?”

Now Tywin simply impressed me, “In which case the total economy grows smaller. I imagine that if the circulation completely stills we would see a return to smaller scale bartering. The opposite, however, is much worse and rather more difficult to repair.”

He must have seen my slightly shocked expression as he continued, “It is a reality the Lords of the Rock have lived with for a long time, Stannis. We've always been aware of the effects of spending too much gold at once. Eventually it starts to lose its...ability to buy similar, or at least predictable, quantities of goods. Sooner or later the value drops as people ask for more and more gold for the same goods. Which never bodes well for our, or those belonging to others, reserves.”

Holy shit.

They know.

I mean, this was still preposterously simplified but it was true nonetheless. I could barely contain my glee.

“Yes, exactly! The flow of gold and silver is too important an issue to allow merely in the hands of the merchants and petty lords. Especially as every last Free City has fully funded financial centers of their own.”

Tywin flatly interjected, “You desire a bank and likely my families reputation.”

Well, nobody ever claimed the man wasn't perceptive.

“In short, yes. I believe we can benefit from a bank to help foster economic development in every part of our domains. From the smallest settlements to our largest cities.”

Another frown as he replied, “And how do you foresee this helping in your stated goals?”

This was it.

“I've already rounded up most of the money lenders in King's Landing. After some furious negotiations I've found out they, together with my own efforts, can raise a little over one million three hundred thousand dragons. Once the upcoming waves of weddings are done I'll dedicate some considerable effort to setting up several financial services. But that isn't the undertaking I would most like your support in.”

Ah, now I'd surprised him.

“Oh?”

“Even more than I desire a bank, I wish for a proper Merchants Collective that spans the entirety of Westeros. Have you been appraised of my new ships?”

“Your 'clippers'. I've indeed heard some whisperings. Are they truly as fast as men claim?”

That depends on who you've heard talking doesn't it?

“They can travel from King's Landing to Pentos in less than two days. Tyrosh is a full three away and Myr half a day longer. Lys, due to the islands in the way, has now become a five day trip. Volantis, and its many hinterland towns – each larger than King's Landing -, are roughly a week and a half from our capital.”

It was a subtle change that came over him but I caught it. The barest hint of an upturn playing around the edges of lips, a slight tightening of the skin around nose, and the piercing gaze that almost burned into me. I think I have him hooked.

“You're claiming your ships are three times as fast the current galleys?”

Technically true, but not in the way he thought of it.

“The clippers have no oars and once the sails are set require little fiddling. With staggered shifts of sailors manning the vessel it can keep going long after any rowers would have collapsed in on themselves.”

“I see.”

Oh, I had him. I could tell from the renewed calculation in his eyes. He wants my ships and perhaps I wouldn't even need to show him the sword to get him on board.

“I've already made moves to break the monopolies of Tyrosh and Myr. Sooner or later I'll come up with solutions to the issue of the others Free Cities. Still, even if I couldn't, the speed of the ships alone would let us dominate the seas. We could easily dodge pirates, even if we do not decide to burn them out of the Step Stones, and now we can trade with even the furthest shores of Essos.”

I firmly matched him steely gaze for steely gaze and continued, “The Summer Isles, Qarth, and perhaps even further out beyond the Jade Sea. We can sail to all of those places on our own.”

“An appetizing future, I agree, but still I fail to see why you've brought this to me. Do you expect me to pay for a fleet?”

I barely restrained a scoff, “Because of the investments I've already made, Tywin, new ships cost me almost nothing to produce. Once my stores of seasoned wood become ready for use, I would already own every separate chain from the woods for the planks to the rope for the sails. All it would cost me is labor. No, I want your political support.”

And another slight surprise for him. I continued immediately, “I wish to set up a company, with merchants from across all our lands, who act in cooperation. I wouldn't dream of forcing unwilling participants into it, even if all would benefit, but there are still some concerns. Such as their safety and possibly....volatile and intractable ports.”

Did he see it yet?

He did, “You wish to foster similar relationships the Braavosi Sealord has with his traders? His steel backing their trade?”

Close enough.

“Something along those lines, yes. Can you imagine, a Merchant Navy backed by good steel and better marines. Conquest is expensive and in the end almost always ruinous. Especially if one must content with dislike towards their rule. Instead I suggest we empower the merchants, under careful leadership by our more restless and youthful lords, to wage small scale conflicts on their own.”

I knew this was the hardest bit. No noble would look kindly upon losing some of their precious privileges. A monopoly on violence was a major one. Could I swing this as if it wasn't an intrusion Merely an extension as a way for their sons to learn about counting coppers and waging war?

“To which end?”

“To the acquisition of favorable terms, small enclaves as outposts for supply and resupply, and actors in Essos that report to us.”

Then the man fell silent for a good long time. The minutes crawled by ever so slowly before he finally quietly responded, “How would it work, in practice?”

Now I was one thinking carefully.

After a few moments I replied, “We have hundreds of thousands of men, armed and dangerous men, that we've taught to take whatever they wanted. The vast majority of those men want nothing more than to go home to their families and regain their lives.”

Another short silence, “I want the others. Before they resort to alternative means of paying their way.”

Tywin sighed softly, “I understand that part, Stannis, but I was referring to the merchant navy. In which circumstances would they work best and why?”

“For instance; lets say Tyrosh makes some noise regarding my infringement upon their monopoly of dyes. They still have spices that we want but in retaliation they may decide to increase the prices. Or simply not sell them to us, forcing us to acquire them from Myr or Lys. A merchant fleet could punish such a decision by quietly preying on Tyroshi vessels, blockade their ports at will, and would soon be wealthy enough to independently bribe or otherwise influence policy within Tyrosh to reconsider.”

I shrugged, “We'd have a naval force that isn't explicitly tied to, or at least isn't a solid representation of, our Kingdom. We could work our will across Essos, wherever we might need to, with a certain level of distance. If things get...costly we can always point the finger at greedy merchants. If we lose the entire fleet and the men on them...we didn't lose overmuch and the merchants would rebuild.”

“A catspaw. All of this for a catspaw that isn't all that convincing?”

I smiled widely, “You'd be surprised how difficult men are to convince about certain truths. Especially if their livelihoods depend on them not grasping those truths.”

“You truly believe the profits will be that vast?”

Another shrug, “One of the larger concerns is ensuring that no single merchant family grows too wealthy. So...yes. I expect returns that would dazzle us all.”

Tywin nodded, exceedingly slowly, “I must consider this but I must say I am...intrigued.”

That is probably the best I could hope for, at the moment. I didn't doubt I'd gain the Lion's approval sooner or later but until then I could quietly sound out the others. Mace and his Redwyne cousins, of course, and perhaps even Hoster. I sincerely doubted that Jon - high and fucking mighty – Arryn would agree to sully his precious noble hands.

“Excellent!”

Tywin reached for his beer mug again and slowly started sipping it. I wasn't about to be bring up anything else but I was ready for the Lion to do so. Should he bring us the bank I could give him the sword for it. If not...I can slowly build upon my network of money lenders.

Already I had begun to set up several Hawala type offices across the board. Soon I'd have offices in every major settlement and my wealth would legitimately start to build. No longer would merchants, or Lords and sometimes even Septons, have to physically carry around their cash when they travel. Or even accept ruinous short term debts just to satisfy their expenses.

Eventually they could pay with my writs or simply withdraw their cash, upon showing verification – in the shape of letters, seals and a message sent through the semaphore lines- at any of the offices provided they dumped similar funds, minus expenses, at any other office of mine.

It would grow into a fully fledged bank at some point in time.

Fortunately for me the elder Lion Lord did bring it up, “Might I inquire as to your plans regarding your...financial institution.”

Oh, look at that. He's picking up the lingo!

I was careful not to smile as I responded, “It's the other side of the proverbial coin. If too little coin is bad, and too much coin is worse, then we require an even distribution of wealth. I have plenty of uses for the bank, some more obvious than others, but I refuse to charge outrageous interest rates.”

Now Tywin's brow shot through the roof.

“And yet, I was under the impression that was precisely how banks make such profits. Are you perhaps a touch too kindhearted for such endeavors?”

Was he poking me?

Yes, he was.

What else could I do but laugh uproariously?

It didn't look like the man was taking offense but still I cut it short, “Greedy banks make their money of the banks of their clients. Greedy banks, in the mold of the Rogare's, suck the economic activity out of any given region. They contend with lack of repayment, the seething and unending hatred of their rivals for the limited supply of men in need of loans, as well as the specter of the Iron Bank hanging over their heads. I have...other services in mind.”

Again the utter asshole shocked me to my core, “An investment oriented bank then?”

He continued, “I must say, Stannis, I do not enjoy watching the surprise etched into your visage.”

With a brittle smile I replied, “My apologies, usually I need to explain quite a bit before the various Lords grasp my meaning. It appears I have grossly misjudged you.”

Tywin still looked a little touchy but I thought it was best to continue, “But you are right, I want an investment bank. Loans, if there will be any of them, will be low interest and conditional on being underwritten by sufficient property.”

“How shall you decide that?”

“A tenth of the value will generally do, as land and property will almost always yield more over longer periods of time than gold does. The issue that could come up is one of a difficult to actually recover the underwritten property. But as the brother of the King and a Lord Paramount in my own right...I don't imagine I'll run into overmuch trouble.”

“I'm surprised you didn't come to me sooner. I would have thought that the reserves of Casterly Rock would have been first and foremost in your mind?”

I shrugged and replied, “A bank isn't something I can set up in my free days, of which I've had none. All my other endeavors only required my initial supervision but such a financial institute would require a lot more. And now the Stark have returned and I doubt my brother won't be insensate for much longer.”

Did it work, was he distracted?

Or could he simply not afford to let this opportunity pass by?

“Ah, of course. But now the war is over, surely your duties would allow you more leeway?”

I smiled widely now, “Which is why I'm meeting with you, now. The Merchant Navy is currently more important to me, but its not too early to bring up the idea of the bank.”

Again the elder lord nodded firmly and said, “How much involvement on my part are you expecting?”

“That depends on you, Tywin. I must admit I'm intent on milking you for as much as you're willing to allow.”

That brought an actual scoff from the Lion Lord, “Ha! I cannot recall the last time someone simply asked that of me. Even if it comes after a few detours, do you expect me to make this easy for you, Stannis?”

I smiled even wider as I stood up, walked over to the chest behind my desk, and retrieved the dark – almost purple – blue bastard sword from it. I slowly turned around, withdrew the sword from its scabbard, and presented it to the aged Lion Lord.

“Yes, I do, Tywin. I do, indeed.”

283 AC – King's Landing: Ambitions and Arsenal Woes

The noises from the feast filled the Great Hall and from the joyous atmosphere you could scarcely tell that someone, who shall remain nameless, has assaulted the regal personage of the King. Robert sported a faint black eye, cut but still thick lips, and a slight lisp as he cheered and toasted. Nobody quite seemed to react, or even mention, the King's state. Nor has anyone mentioned my black eye, cut lips and the bruises around my throat that faintly resembled Roberts hand prints.

At least I wasn't the one lisping.

Jon leaned in towards, for today I sat in between him and Lyanna Stark, while Robert sat next to her and her brother, Ned.

“You are aware that he could hang you for your...actions, Stannis?”

Oh, please. Even in the frigid relationship between canon-Robert and canon-Stannis things never quite progressed that far. Then again, I'm pretty sure Stannis never quite jumped Robert.

Softly I replied, “Better to be hanged than falsely bear Robert's fury.” A heart beat passed before I continued, “And best to sort things out through fists rather than let it fester until we spar again. I'm pretty sure he'd try to do terrible things to me.”

Clearly not soft enough as Robert bellowed, “Thwy! Hah! Thwy he thays!”

Every time. Every time he spoke I couldn't help but laugh.

Jon put a hand on my shoulder when he next said, “Perhaps its best to quiet down now, Stannis.”

Fine. The feast had barely begun, and I'd only seen Robert interact with Lyanna for the briefest of moments, but I could already tell that the big man was completely lost. From what I gathered he could barely sit still as Lyanna recovered from her travels and didn't even let Ned get bathed before peppering him with questions.

Now...now I wanted to get a handle on Lyanna. I didn't exactly know what to think of her. Plenty of rumors were swirling around the city and each more outrageous than the last. Some say she's a tragic victim. Others claim she was the one behind everything. Yet others even got, to what I was assuming, was the truth. That she went somewhat willingly in the beginning but quickly grew to regret it. Something rather recurring was her 'heathen'-ness. Few people could truly accept that. Especially since, in the same breath, they sigh with relief that at least one of the King's brothers is a pious man.

Perhaps that was why she kept her distance?

Unfortunately I couldn't exactly figure out the details. Northmen are notoriously tight lipped, especially about their precious Starks, so I would have to hear it from the horses mouth. Somehow I didn't see that happening.

Which wasn't that big of a deal. I wasn't about to bring it up either but I had acknowledge that Lyanna would be a remarkable influence on Robert. I, absolutely, needed her on my side. Already I working out ploys but the easiest way was to simply charm her into liking me.

To do this right...I needed to establish a few things. One, that I'm trying to be nice to her as she might be my brother's bride. Two, that in the process of doing that I establish that I started to like her as a person in her own right. And finally with three being, bamboozling her into finding a cause after which I'd 'help' her attain it. Or more likely, waste her time fixating on harmless matters. Maybe I can eventually get her on the literacy boat and get some use out of her?

I turned towards her and said, “I haven't been able to say this yet, but I am truly sorry for your loss, my Lady.”

Lyanna looked down, in a mockery of shy-ness, and replied, “Thank you, my Lord Stannis, but I cannot claim to the only one who suffered. I can only pray everyone recovers, my Lord.”

Well, that's a point in her favor.

I nodded and said, “The actions of the Dragons have been felt by all, my Lady. Even if what they've taken from me isn't as recent I still feel it.”

She looked rather curious when she responded, “I...I wasn't aware-.” She firmly cut herself off before she tried again, “I'm sorry you've suffered, my Lord.”

Robert looked around her at me, fairly questioning so I elaborated, “When we were little we saw our parents vessel sink, right in sight of Storm's End.” Lyanna's eyes slightly widened which left me wonder why she didn't know the story, “Only the fool made it out alive. I could have borne it. My parents perished on an important mission for the King, I believed.”

Slightly my voice increased but the residue of Stannis must have made colored my emotions, “I thought that surely, finding a suitable bride for my cousin would have been a high honor. One that the King would have acknowledged, even if he didn't reward its failure.”

A small bubble of quiet hung around our end of the table, and more than a few eyes were on me, but I continued on. Establishing some emotional grounding for Robert's hatred, and my own it appeared, for the Targaryens was rather important. Especially for the woman who might marry him.

“King's Landing is but a two weeks away from Storm's End. I thought that the King, my father's cousin, would have come for the funeral. He...did not.”

I looked down on my drink, chugged it in one go, and continued again, “The funeral came and went without a single word from the man who sent my parents off to die for him. Months passed before he brought it up. Months!”

Again the Lord Hand tried to calm me down but it was in vain, “Then finally I received a raven from King Scab. Robert had gone to the Eyrie by then and I didn't bother sharing it with him, at the time.” I turned to Lyanna again, “He told me that my lord father, his cousin, shouldn't have tarried in Volantis as he tried to get my mongrel mother with him behind the Black Wall. Perhaps he would have outrun the storms then.”

He wasn't quite that coarse but it was close. Besides, he was dead and couldn't defend himself. Fuck him. Gasps were heard all across, Lyanna's visage softened significantly, and Robert looked like he was ready to start breaking things again.

He looked rather intently at me so I responded to his unasked questioned, “If I told you, Robert, you would have tried to kill the man and I would have helped you. And then we would have died.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Robert nodded. Once.

I fell silent for the next few minutes. I hadn't quite expected the outpouring of emotions. Perhaps I wrongly assumed that I'd already explored most of Stannis' issues but this was apparently an unmarked, and private pain.

Eventually Jon leaned in again, “I didn't know, Stannis.”

What?

Of course he doesn't. Why would he?

My surprise must have been obvious as he continued, “I thought you were just...playing things up. I can scarcely believe I was so wrong. Please accept my deepest apologies, Lord Stannis.”

Again, what?

I wanted to turn back to Lyanna but I couldn't let this go.

I faced Jon and softly but menacingly bit out, “You thought I was fanning my brother's hatred for my own gain?”

Now his discomforted visage was the one that was obvious. Should I feel bad about pressing this point? Or should I just ruthlessly steam ahead?

Heh.

Fuck 'em.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

Oh, gods.

I could barely get through the entirely unrealistic court room dramas my sisters were so very fond of. Lately, when I've come face to face with the real deal, I found myself even less interested. Jon and Hoster may have not tried to screw me, but I was feeling fucked over. It turns out that with duties over the Crownlands came not only opportunities for enrichment, but also infuriating responsibilities. The various highborn lordlings of the Crownlands were pacified enough in the wake of Robert taking the throne, and not to mention my own dabbling in their affairs, but their less lofty vassals felt entirely unburdened by such sentiments.

Over the past few weeks I must have heard over two hundred cases. Each of them presented with the same urgency as if they were of the highest national interest. I'd quickly learned not to act hastily. Even the mildest border disputes had a way of escalating outside of my purview and I had little interest of allowing these petty little tyrants access to Robert.

Their petulance was grating.

Still, I had to personally hear each one of their complaints. Of course I wasn't quite foolish enough to attempt that without making a token effort to familiarize myself with various precedents. My job would be a thousand times easier if I could simply point out similar situations and render mostly identical judgments. And save me the trouble of having to appease irate little lordlings.

Almost immediately, I came to the awful conclusion that there was no general repository of documents. The Church of the Seven, as I mentally referred to the Septons, held its fair share of witnessed documents. As did the Maesters in Old Town. There was a decent archive in the Library of the Red Keep but beyond that...there was nothing. The Master of Law, that utterly useless cunt of a Staunton, glibly informed me that I should follow the diction of the unified codex of Jaehaerys. Which helped me with nothing as it would still force me to interpret those laws!

I found out that accusations of cattle theft once levied and acknowledged carried a death sentence. As did horse theft, the killing of cattle, burning of fields in peace time and most worryingly something which can be best paraphrased as 'actions running counter to the King's Peace' which could be interpreted as pretty much anything the judge wanted.

Thank fuck I wasn't born a peasant here. Or even a landless city dweller.

Things were just brutal for them.

With precious few other duties to occupy me, since the Stormlands seemed oddly quiet, I slowly worked my way through the backlog. While I was the presiding judge, the Lord Steward of the Crownlands, nobody said I couldn't outsource most of the mundane work to my staff. Over the past few months I'd slowly usurped most of the Guild of Scribes. With my, initially fairly unthinking, generosity to them I'd quickly won them over. Accidental or not, it worked out marvelously for me.

With my cautioned words, and prompt production of a printing press, I managed to convince them that their old way of life was over. Together with my allies in the Faith I helped them expand their, already highly effective, means of turning the illiterate into literate and more productive members of society. I'd come to various agreements with their Guild Masters, mostly the taking of their heirs as squires for my lordlings, and solemn assurances I wished to incorporate them into every aspect of my business.

Scribes from the Guild staffed my Master of Ships offices, most of my business ventures, and acted as a general pool of recruitment for anything I might require. Their skill set has even been somewhat expanded to include general bookkeeping and the art of being my bureaucratic lackeys. Lately, I'd been heavily leaning on them to assist me with the Realm-wide census of the Crownlands as well as having them collect any and all relevant information for my various duties.

I had high hopes that one day I could simply dissolve the Guild and absorb it entirely.

Even with all their help, it still took me eighteen days to work through the most pressing cases and those cases that were brought by those who lived close enough to make a rapid appearance before my person. For the rest I'd already resigned myself to having to seek them out myself. It wasn't too much of a hassle and the opportunity to glare at those Lords that were attempting to bar my scribes from performing my census might even be the pick-me-up I needed.

All in all, it was annoying but far too profitable to sneer at. Even if I gained nothing out of this, the opportunity to test out my policies in the Crownlands before implementing them in my own Realm was worth more than any amount of gold in the world.

Ser Hector of Galewind shook me from my thoughts, “Where to next, my Lord?”

My old Squire-Sergeant, now a Knight-Captain of the Stormbringers courtesy of his heroics in cracking open High Tide, the last keep on Driftmark to hold out, was turning out to be quite the investment. When people, and by that I mean useless court fops, complain about the squiring of so many of men, I could simply point at Hector. 'Look, he was the first over the walls of High Tide and got Driftmark to surrender peaceably. What have you done?'

“We'll swing by the first village council and then we're off back to the Red Keep, Hector.”

The knight responded quickly, “Aye, my Lord.” He turned around to the other Stormbringers, “You heard him! Pack up, form up and move!”

In between hearing court cases, I tried to familiarize myself with the lands that Robert held directly. Those pockets of royal land fell under my supervision, and it was within them I experimented to my hearts delight'. These lands were wealthy, safe and their villages positively teeming with people. It turns out the smallfolk vastly prefer living directly under their Monarch's gaze. Kings are too busy to interfere in their lives, unlike Lords that stare at you from out of their tower keeps.

They weren't entirely pleased when representatives of the King, in this case myself, came knocking on their doors, but they resigned themselves to it fairly rapidly. Especially once it became clear I'd arrived bearing gifts and wonderful promises. Shortly before the Starks' arrived in King's Landing, I'd arranged for Lord Sebastion to lend his newly acquired expertise in turning fallow land productive to the various councils.

I say I arranged it. What I did was tell Sebastion to send off his staff to them, which he did.

I followed them with wagon loads of steel seed drills, carriages of horse drawn plough, and plenty of live horseflesh to be distributed evenly. My own staff of scribes complemented the group that Sebastion Errol had trained up, for similar purposes in Storm's End proper, and despite a few costly setbacks we'd arranged for a workable agreement with the councils.

Perhaps I'm internalizing Lord Estermont's words and I've learned to get people on board with my 'wacky' ideas. Or perhaps I'm simply allergic to 'busy work'. Either way, I had dropped the news on the various council elders. Now I'd come to see how they felt about it.

As always, the elders chose to meet me on an open field at stone's throw distance of the village. Representatives had arrived from as far as the Antlers, to Hayford and the Whispers. The only things that move faster than rumors are proclamations of the Royals, and these matters clearly held the force of both. Each of them knew I wished to offer their surplus neighbors newly claimed, and developed, lands that had lain untouched for years. Or in most cases, simply weren't ever developed because either the Royals, or noble Lordlings, were hesitant in allowing it. Apparently, hunting grounds for themselves and lush valleys with creeks for their noble children to frolic in were more important uses of the land.

Well, that nonsense was over now.

Together with my Stormbringers, I came upon the elders, and unflinchingly worked my way through the pleasantries, until we finally got to the heart of the matter. Whether or not these venerable elders would make their people fall in line and do my work for me.

“My regal brother's long standing tenants! Have you come to a decision?”

I desperately wanted their support, so I could dump the work on them. I had precious little interest in having to micromanage this endeavor. The global overview was simple, surplus villagers, second sons and the like, would get to work fresh lands if they give up their claims to their current lands. In that way I'd instantly get a decent labor pool for the newly developing lands, without alienating anyone, and enough good will to enforce the end of communal grazing.

The land, which was left behind by the shifting tenants, would hopefully be enough to bribe and cajole the remaining villagers into consolidating their properties. Unseasoned wood for fences were cheap, even if their transport wasn't.

This was a turning point for all that effort.

The most aged, and likely venerable, of the men spoke up, “Aye, m'lord. But I fear we have some concerns.”

Oh, no no no. Come on!

I blinded them with an empty smile and replied, “Please, share them, if you would.”

The white beard hesitated for a moment but quickly rallied, “M'lord, it is the matter of the common grazing lands. We have held those rights since before we can properly recall, m'lord.” The man trailed off with, “Their loss would be most keenly felt...”

Fair enough. In my own world, enclosures caused a lot of strife, with some historians claiming that it was nothing short of class warfare, but this wasn't the crowded and cramped British Isles. Land was plentiful and only the Reach had thoroughly cultivated all of their lands. Every other realm simply could not support the effort, even if the gains would be momentous. This wouldn't create the same landless poor and I had high hopes it would elevate the remaining tenants from their current subsidence farming levels of poverty.

“In return I must ask you, how did you find the seed drills?”

The white beard looked somewhat perplexed but answered, “They are fine, m'lord. We can well see the benefit of precise seeding.” He sighed deeply and continued, “Much as we value the carriages and their steel blades as well, m'lord.”

Why was he sighing?

He went on, “Will you ask us to follow you in this solely on faith as well, m'lord?”

Well, he certainly has my number.

I slowly nodded. “Nobody will lose any lands, you have my word that I will make up for the lack of grazing lands for the first few harvests, and I've tried my hardest to be fair.”

A small shudder went through the gathered crowd but I continued, firmly focused on the man in front of me, “I am not mindlessly ordering you to do this. I believe, firmly, that this will be the best for you all and for my brother.”

I trailed off to let me gaze run over the crowd. They were still hesitant but some of the boldness has leaked from their postures. Surely they must know that any other lordling would have simply taken their shit from them?

“And should I be wrong, I can well provide, for all of you if need be. I take my duties quite seriously, tenants, and I will brook little opposition in this. I truly want to work with my brother's tenants rather than summarily order you, like many other lords might do, but I can only do so if I have your cooperation.”

The old man attempted to speak up, “Aye, m'lord-.”

I simply interrupted him, “I've given you the equipment for free! I've given the horses and other draft animals to hold collectively, for free! I have kept the foppish lords of King's Landing from taxing you too highly, even after my workings will bring you better harvests.”

Now I fell silent. The spell held long enough for me to breath in deeply and continue, “You, all of you, will be the example to all of the other farmers in our united realms. No longer will you have to work yourself to the bone, simply to see enough harvest to barely feed your own.”

I pointed at one of the bystanders, “You! Have you worked, or seen these gifts of mine used?”

A somewhat heavyset aged fellow mutely nodded. I asked the farmer, “How much time and effort will they save?”

He mumbled a response that boiled down to 'a lot'. Either way, his words had the others nodding along with them. And so I turned to the eldest elder, “So, yes, I am asking you for blind faith. Will I have it?”

It turns out I did.

Because in the end, I am a Lord Paramount. And they are not. Fuck 'em, they'll either sing my praises soon enough once their children stop starving through the winter. Or they won't. What little remains of my conscience won't even so much as twitch.

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

I've braved sieges and the stormy oceans that they call the Narrow Sea. I've fought enraged Kings, even if its in jest, and sparred with Barristan the fucking Bold. But nothing quite made my heart thump in my chest as the sight in front of me. It was visceral, upsetting and shocking all at once. If I could have quietly withdrawn from the gardens, I would have. Just my luck, for attempting to use them as a shortcut to get to Maegor's Holdfast. I should have simply retreated, but they noticed me. They being Cersei Lannister, Lyanna Stark and my fiance, Janna Tyrell.

Cersei spoke up first with an impish smile, “Good afternoon, Stannis.”

I could tell Lyanna was slightly surprised by the familiarity of it all, but Janna took it in stride. Even if I saw her eyes flash dangerously at the blond Lady Lion.

I nodded to her. “Likewise, Cersei.” As well as to the others, “My ladies of Stark and Tyrell. I hope you are all quite well today.”

Cersei raised a singular, well manicured and oddly dark, eyebrow and replied with a smirk, “As opposed to how you feel about us any other day?”

The thing with Cersei is that you can never give her an inch. She is ferocious, but perhaps not as insane as she might one day be. Still she is never to be underestimated. If there was a way in which she perceives some superiority, she wouldn't even consider letting it go. I doubted the very thought of it would even occur to her.

So I smiled in return, just as sharply, “A polite figure of speech, Cersei. You might attempt something similar one day.”

Janna delicately snorted, but Lyanna could barely contain her shock. Unfortunately neither of them spoke up to interrupt the incoming collision.

Cersei didn't take it laying down either, “Flimsy politeness is for those who might fear accidentally insulting others, Stannis.”

I couldn't just let her say things like that.

“Clearly nothing a daughter of the Old Lion might worry about?”

Another perfectly manicured eyebrow rose, “Have you ever said that to his face?”

I shrugged before replying, “No, but I have told him I was coming for all his gold.” I faintly narrowed my eyes. “He seemed oddly fine with that.”

Cersei's eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, which meant I just had to poke her again, “Then again. I may have also implied that he was as stupid as the average lordling. Which took some backtracking, I must admit. It was an interesting afternoon, nonetheless.”

Excellent! With Cersei distracted, I turned to Lady Janna. “My Lady, might I have a moment of your time?”

With a curious smile, she replied before Cersei could recover, “Of course, my Lord Stannis.”

I quickly addressed Lyanna, “My apologies for dragging her away, Lady Stark, but Cersei is more than amusing once you realize her barbed comments are the way she expresses affection. She's a very sweet girl!”

Now Janna snorted even louder, Lyanna covered up a laugh, and Cersei managed to choke a strangled screech in her throat. Thankfully, Janna grabbed on to my offered arm and quickly retreated with me into the maze. Lyanna would just have to suffer Cersei's company for a while.

Once my fiance and I made it some ways into the maze, I finally spoke up, “I'm not a very...romantic person, Janna. And not inclined towards grand gestures.”

Sporting a faintly amused smile, she simply gestured for me to continue, “But none of that means that our marriage need be cold, my Lady. If I'm painfully honest, forgive me, but I'd rather we discussed things out in the open.”

The Flower of the Reach nodded along but didn't respond until we came upon a lovely little clearing that was decorated with dragon sculptures spewing torrents of water around. I took a mental note to have them reworked into stags.

When she finally spoke up a faint tinge of cold accompanied her response. “I can appreciate the difficult circumstances that led to our betrothal, my Lord Stannis.”

Oh, great. She was taking it the wrong way. Then again, she was somewhat right. My bannermen had a hard time accepting this marriage. They might have quietly ignored a Reach marriage to a somewhat powerful house, but this Tyrell match had set them on edge. Only the near certainty that things could have absolutely gone tits up for House Baratheon made them even the slightest bit more pliant to the notion.

Not to mention the fact that Robert keeps giving Mace, or any other Reach Lords really, the stink eye. At least my more regal sibling drew the line at that. He never actually spoke up against it. Renly, however, was seething with quiet fury whenever 'the flower lady' was brought up. I'm sure Janna noticed it.

Did I do the right thing by exposing him to the horrors of the siege?

Or was it, much like most of my other moves, almost entirely self serving? Perhaps it was the relative calm now most of the war was over, but I found myself somewhat introspective of late. I couldn't help but notice how utterly callous I've become.

Is it the power and the responsibilities? Or is it me?

This probably wasn't the time for that though, so I forced down the notion that I was only going through the motions. That even my internal monologue is pure rationalization. I like being Stannis. Even with the whole 'shitting in buckets' thing.

I tried not to sigh and replied, “Regardless, my Lady. I'm not trying to be cruel. There are more than a few concerns, but for what it's worth...” I trailed off while looking straight at her. “I like you a lot more than your sister.”

Oh gods, that came out terrible. Oh well, onward I march.

I halted, reached out for her hands, and said, “Look, Janna. I'm going about this all wrong.”

Now she smiles.

How do I delicately explain that I'm not looking for love?

“I'm looking for a partner I can trust and respect, Janna. I'm not going to lie, it helps that you're clever, beautiful and I look forward to getting to know you.”

Alright, the smile didn't evaporate. So far, so good.

I return the smile. “This is the part where you're supposed to say something nice about me.”

I can never quite help myself.

She snorted, somewhat indelicately this time, but quickly rallied and said, “I like that Tywin Lannister goes out of his way to come to you. I like that you can simply ignore my mother, even when she keeps singling you out. And I like that you kept your brother from groping my sister. Is that nice enough?”

Well...it certainly gave me a lot to work with.

With a small smirk I answered her, “Its wonderful, but surely you expect more than that?”

When she shrugged, I had to call on all my willpower to maintain eye contact. Janna was exactly as advertised and highly distracting. Especially considering this conversation is rather important.

“What do you expect from me?”

Now I shrugged and said, “That depends on how involved you're willing to be, my Lady. I have a great many hopes and dreams, Janna. The more I could trust under your supervision, the better.”

That shook her. Even a fool could tell.

“Truly?”

Again I shrugged. “Unless you desire to simply manage our court and home?”

It was a subtle, but fairly interesting change that came over the Tyrell Lady. Suddenly, all of this felt a lot more intense rather than simply nerve wracking.

“What would you have me do?”

I smiled sharply at her for a long moment before I spoke, “I'll be the brash young prince stretching his might across the Seven Realms if you'll be the the adored princess that soothes ruffled lordlings?”

Her reply came quickly, “You would have me be an image? A decoration that complements you?”

Was I just doing this completely wrong?

Before I could elaborate though she giggled lightly, “I jest, my Lord, but I have heard the rumors. You don't like to take refusals for what they are, it seems.”

Oh, sweet relief.

“That seems silly. Someone who refuses me is merely someone whose mind I have yet to change.”

Another giggle. “I agree.” A heart beat later she continued, “My mother would too, in her own way.”

I nodded along with her. “Oh, yeah. She is plenty dangerous. Thank all the gods she continues to antagonize your brother.”

And that got an actual laugh out of her. Yeey! Back on track! We spent the next few minutes discussing practical concerns until we came upon a rather specific one.

“I'd like to know, my Lord, how much my brother deems me worth.”

Oh, great.

“Your dowry, you mean?”

She just nodded. When I remained quiet just a touch too long, she blanched and asked, “Is it truly that little?”

No, no, no. This was definitely going the wrong way.

“No, my Lady, the opposite in fact. Your brother was intent on showing off the wealth of Highgarden, but I made a request of him for something truly priceless.”

I could tell I had her back on the hook when she said, “Such as?”

“Alright, before I explain. It's a hundred thousand dragons, on credit at 'Stag Pride and Rose', and it'll be transferred to your name once we're married. But I asked Mace for something far greater.”

Besides. She doesn't need to know that I'm paying it right?

I smiled widely, pulled her in, and whispered near her ear, “Mace will temporarily steal me the library of the Maesters.”

Janna fell quiet for a good long while.

“Books?”

I slowly nodded, “Knowledge, my Lady. All of it, in fact.”

Her eyes narrowed when she repeated herself, “Books?”

I shouldn't have asked, “You can read right?”

I admit. I probably deserved the glare she gave me next.

“Yes.”

Oh, one word replies. I really need to grab a hold of my tongue.

“Right, forget I ever said anything. A hundred thousand dragons is still a fine dowry, surely?”

“I shan't complain about it. Overmuch.”

Oh, shit. Now I'm the one with some slight buyers remorse. I probably shouldn't hold it against her. Precious few people here seem to enjoy, or even appreciate books. Which is surprising because she claimed to like poetry.

Then again, I barely understand the average male noble. I'm not even going to pretend to understand her. And yet, I couldn't quite let it go.

“You are aware that the Maesters do not have a monopoly on knowledge right? Mace is helping me break millennia of custom so our entire realm profits from it. I have to admit I expected more of a reaction.”

“Well, yes, but-.”

“No more will those books rot in dusty towers being read solely by even dustier men. There are thousands of worlds worth of knowledge locked within their towers and they've shared nothing.”

I was building up steam now, I saw myself escalate, but I couldn't stop it, and this truly bugged me.

“In only a few months, I've come up with dozens of innovations! Each of them exceptionally simple once you gave the issues some thought. And I only had the Storm's End Library at my finger tips. Can you imagine what might happen if I round up all the clever lords? All the clever knights, and squires, and merchants and gods know who else and open the full Maesters' Library to them?”

To her credit, she didn't flinch and quietly kept pace with me.

“The wonders this world might see if I can expand their minds and make them dream? Make them think?”

I stepped a little closer and took hold of her hands again, “Even if you don't see it, my Lady, the generations to come will. But I'm selfish and I hope you'll come to see it yourself.”

An oddly comfortable silence fell as we meandered our way around the maze.

Finally though, Janna broke the silence with a bright smile, “You are passionate. I like that too, even if you are a little silly.”

I totally had a sweet comeback but she chose to cheat by distracting me with a kiss. I'm unashamed to say that had more than a little bit of an effect on me, and for what certainly isn't the first time, I cursed this second tail end of puberty.

Thankfully, Janna just smiled and asked, “How is Mace to do that? I don't mean to disparage my brother, but I imagine the Maesters closely guard their secrets?”

Happily, she chose to gloss over the somewhat awkward moment, I responded, “Sure, but they are mostly protected by ancient custom. And the Hightowers. The latter of which don't dare to move against your brother's wishes and the former is easily overcome with steel bearing men. Your uncle is the Commander of the City Guard of Old Town and it seems he wasn't difficult to convince. All most of it took was a pointed letter to the Hightowers to feast the majority of the Maesters while a few hundred men transport the books to Highgarden.”

She sighed and replied, “And what happens afterward? When the Maesters are drunk no more and find that their books, scrolls and whatever else have all gone?”

I grinned at her, “My brother will be heard proclaiming loudly, and repeatedly, that the Maesters have had thousands of years to collect and hoard their knowledge. And that he is certain their immense experience would prove them more capable than any upstart half-maesters attempting to educate themselves.”

Janna lightly frowned, “Which might sway a substantial few, but others will be affronted!”

I shrugged. “Why would that concern me?”

Now the Flower of the Reach looked slightly panicked when she asked, “Don't you see? The Maesters have friends everywhere! In every keep and castle, my Lord! They would certainly not appreciate this!”

I didn't want it to sound as if I was simply dismissing her.

So I nodded slowly and said, “We have considered that, but upon questioning the Grand Maester and several others I trust, they assured me that plenty of factions within that ancient order feel stifled. They would welcome a new home even as their colleagues would attempt to move heaven and earth to put a stop to that. Once the books are out though...”

Less panicked but still visibly worried she asked, “But it would certainly leave you with many Maesters that might counsel their many Lords against you?”

“True, but most of those Lords also have Septons whispering in their ears. And I've made sure the Most Devout and the High Septon will benefit from this. In fact,-” I smiled so widely it was almost grotesque, “They are the ones buying most of the books. It appears there is a growing consensus that calls for deeper involvement with their communities. And of course...they are salivating at the thought of uncovering the secrets of healing.”

I think the last part, more than anything, was what finally settled her down.

“I'll trust that you shall manage to handle whatever outcome this may yield.”

With a firm nod I assured her of just that. Worst case scenario? Robert still, kind of, loves me and probably wouldn't let the Maesters call for my head too loudly. Either way, massive changes were coming and this was one of the key points I needed to benefit from them. I clearly remember fuck all from the real world and I need all the help I can get. This library would be a short cut to having to teach my staff, and others, myself.

And you can always count on the Church to be grasping and envious of other long lived institutes.

A few moments later, Janna asked in a painfully serious tone, “How would I be received in Storm's End, my Lord?”

Ah, this I could answer easily.

“I can see how that might be a concern. Not to worry though, my Lady, for you see...” I leaned in close enough to count the freckles on her nose, “You're my war-bride.”

And then I was the one unfairly distracting her.

AN: Feedback and commentary appreciated. Next chapter start! Fairly whimsically chosen but still. Let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Davos the Smuggler

It was dark, wet and tiring work.

What am I doing?

I'm supposed to be getting rudely woken by my wife. I'm supposed to be drowsily stumbling to my children's room to rudely wake them up, in turn. In these early moments just before sunrise I should not be paddling this rickety old vessel up past the rocky ways toward Spice Town. The cold water of the Blackwater Bay splashes over me, but at least it doesn't hit the covered cage with the embers. As long as they stayed burning to ignite the ships everything would be fine.

I'd left the Royal Fleet behind far enough that I could no longer see them. The imposing shore of Driftmark was approaching fast and it seemed my prayers were answered.

Not all of them.

Just the most pressing one.

There currently were no patrols out and the remnants of the Loyalist fleet was moored within the docks of Spice Town. That did not mean the walls were unmanned. Or that a patrol couldn't come rushing out at any moment. But it was good enough.

I'm an old hand at this. Sneaking up, unseen and unheard, is simply what I do best. I've heard it said that there are bold smugglers...and old smugglers. Rarely will you ever hear of an old, bold smuggler. And yet, here I am. Paddling away towards Spicetown in the wet and cold with a cargo that's almost as likely to kill me as the enemy. Of course I don't do this for coin. Not for that. That isn't something a sane man should do, but for the opportunity. For all the hopes and dreams I have remaining.

Each and every one of them for my family. Despite whatever nebulous ambitions I sense that Lord Stannis has for me. All I want, I've already been provided. A little voice in the back of my mind nearly screams out, 'Stop your senseless worrying! Just get in and out. In and out. Remember the out.'

I wholeheartedly agreed with it.

Get in and out.

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Lord Paxter Redwyne

I never quite know what to do with myself in the moments just before a battle. When all the orders have been given. When every task has been seen to. When there is only the long wait left. Fortunately, as it almost always does, the unease passed when the signal flared up. A frightening display of green seemingly engulfed the distant island of Driftmark. Perhaps the trust Lord Stannis puts into his pet smuggler wasn't entirely misplaced.

The flames of bright wildfire served the dual purpose of drawing men away from the walls to deal with the destruction as well as ensuring the remaining men would be too worried to hinder our naval assault. Beaching our fleet on the stoney shores of Driftmark would prove troublesome enough. Having to beach the fleet without such a distraction was almost inconceivable.

From the depths of my chest I bellow out, “Forward! Double speed!”

Almost before I finish speaking I could feel my ship responding rapidly. The oarsmen were trained, and trained well, and the orders were relayed to them quickly. From my own deck, to beneath it, to all the other ships by the loud ringing of the gongs. My ship lurched forward, the sails were all dropped and secured, and the attack was now well on its way.

We had a excellent opportunity here to take Spicetown before its defenders rouse themselves from the shock of their docks burning. The marines on deck were eager to get to their business and it was my duty to enable them theirs. Once I get them safely on Driftmark their own leaders would take over. As much as it burned me to defer to these half-smallfolk, I knew I shouldn't push matters. Acquiring the further goodwill of the Baratheons was paramount. I could bear almost any insult to avert their furious gaze.

After we land on the beaches the marines must form up before the defenders of Driftmark sally forth from their positions. Our ships will be stuck, there will be no retreat possible, and it will be a most dreadful moment of weakness that must not be exploited by the enemy. The notion that they were allies mere months ago meant very little to me. If the Dragons wanted to keep my strength for themselves they should have kept theirs.

Besides, the Baratheons were generous and seemed more than willing to share the designs of their new ships. With that in mind, suddenly the possible hardship of losing significant portions of my fleet became bearable. Especially considering the discounts they would engender for me at the Godsgrief Shipyard.

As the beach grew closer and closer, I knew this was the moment I had to earn my proverbial keep. The moment that called for an instinctive knowledge of the sea, resolve of steel and a willingness to brave the margins. Any old dolt could order his oarsmen to slow down and glide to a comfortable landing on a beach. All the while giving away the advantage of surprise and more often than not fail horribly as the defenders come rushing to the beaches. Precious few could order them to do the same without wasting their precious time coasting to the beachhead.

I sucked in deeply before I made myself be heard over the wind, “Oars! Half speed!”

Again, the ship lurched. Its speed noticeably slowing down, even as the beach grew imposingly close. Orders where shouted, relayed and obeyed. Men scurried all around the deck, all focused on their tasks.

Another few moments passed.

The anticipation grew.

I smiled.

“Backward! Double speed!”

Another lurch.

A slight tilting of the vessel.

“Oars, release a third!”

Quickly corrected.

A tremendous roar of wood creaking, but not failing.

Beached.

My smile only grew wider.

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small

The massive wargalleys shook, rose high and low, and moved in entirely unnatural ways over the familiar waters of the Bay. People say that Stormlanders are supposed to be sailors, but I couldn't fathom it. Gods, this is all terrible.

I hate the fucking sea.

Hate. Hate. Hate it.

So, when the ship crashed into the beach with a final lurch I was the first cohort leader out of it. Impatience to get land under my feet doesn't describe half of what I was feeling. I took hold of the knotted rope, precisely in the middle, and then merrily threw myself overboard. The plan was to catch myself against the side of the ship, kick off, and roll down to the ground. It...didn't quite go that way. Still, I recovered quickly from the collision and managed to get to my feet without delaying anyone else.

Nobody saw that, right?

Squire Sergeant Fairfields fucking grin told me otherwise.

Shite.

While the rest of my cohorts were flinging themselves down the ropes I couldn't help but scream, “Are you waiting for an engraved fucking invitation? Get your fucking boots on the beach, NOW!”

It, strictly, wasn't necessary. At this point though, they've rather become accustomed to my abuse. It wouldn't do to deprive of it. Not when they need all the help they can get. Or, perhaps that's just what I tell myself. Either way, I'm the sergeant. They aren't. That's leadership, yes?

Again I bellow out at the top of my lungs, “Form up! Six man deep! Crossbowmen on flanks, stiffened with a tenth!”

Off in the distance I could hear Hector bellowing, “Skirmis---! Screen the fuc-- g- g- go!”

It was a small miracle I could even hear that much, but the orders were clear. My cohort holds the approach to the beach, Hector's will take our flanks, and Betsy's will impede any foolish cunt getting in the way of her.

The next few moments passed with only intermittent commentary from myself.

Heh, intermittent. Look at how fancy I talk.
One of the men, Emery the millers boy – now known as Emerys the Stoneheaded -, made himself known, “Nobody is coming out for us, sir.”

Oh, gods. Are any of us dying? Bleeding from sudden arrow holes?

No?

I squint at the boy, only partially because of the rising sun. “Thank you, for that fascinating fucking insight Stonehead! Eyes ahead, and don't lose the fucking pace!”

There, suitably chastised. I speed up down to the front, all the way shaking my head at Stonehead's foolishness, and keep an eye out on the cohesion of the cohort. All these fancy new words and all they mean is keeping the men moving together.

“Derrick, keep your fucking sword in your scabbard. Don't go tiring your arms before the battle, you sorry fool.”

What is he afraid of? That the enemy will cross the hundreds of yards between us before he gets a chance to pull out his fucking sword?

Sheepishly the lad replied, “Aye, sir!”

How am I supposed to keep these fools alive?

Just before I move on again I snarl out incredulously, “Hendricks, where is your fucking helmet?”

By the Seven! Have I sinned so truly I deserve this?

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye

Thank the gods I don't have to deal with the Crownlander detachment. Or even with some of the other Stormlords. No, my only job is to bring the Stormbringers' crossbowmen to bear at anyone stupid enough to face us. Any other troops would balk at taking orders from the wench with the crossbow. At least the Stormbringers know better. Much...much better.

It gets weary, occasionally.

Having to nick overly frisky men-at-arms. Leaving my mark on their...cheeks.

Don't get me wrong. It's not the violence I object to. The more lessons I can teach these fools, the better I say. No, it's that inevitable moment where I have to explain myself to Lord Stannis. But none of that is important right now. I've marched these men up and down the entire Crownlands by now. They know to simply obey.

Right now, our mission was to clear and take the hills. So far they all appeared to be completely undefended. Which obviously meant that something was about to go horrifically wrong.

I bit out to the man on my flank, “Two-Times, split off every third man and sit your ass on that ridge!”

“Aye aye, ma'am!”

I turned to the next, “Grinder, likewise! Take the treeline. Don't you dare move for even the fucking Warrior, understood?”

The asshole had the gall to smirk when he replied, “Aye, ma'am!”

Someday soon he's going to cross the line. All I need is one thing. One thing I can lay at his feet that would satisfy Lord Stannis, and he'll be decidedly less pretty.

As pleasant as those thoughts were...now was not the time.

I screamed at the others, “The rest of you! Just try to keep up with me!”

And right then all hell broke loose.

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant James Fairfields

Don't think of the bodies. Don't think of the smell. Don't think of home.

“Keep pushing! For Storm's End!”

For just a brief moment the screams of Storm's End overpowered those made by the dying. The cavalry had come out of nowhere. Where were the fucking skirmishers?

Where was the main detachment of crossbowmen?

Oh gods, they almost broke through. A particularly driven knight crashed through the first three ranks by ruthlessly sacrificing his horse. The opening left by the furious knight was slow to be filled and other knights came rushing in through them. My lads can't stand up to knights. Not for long.

Not when the ranks already broke.

Now he's made it to me.

I screamed incoherent and bashed him with my shield. And again. And again.I'm not going to chance crossing blades with a fucking knight. Not when I don't have to. Another shove, the heavy reinforced shields weathered the equally heavy blows of the knight. My kick to his knees, however, tilted the balance to me. Even over the screams of men and horses all around me I could hear the sickening pop of bone. A strangled sound tried to escape the knights throat and I helpfully tried to assist him.

It turns out the strangled sound was blood.

I know.

I tire myself too.

“Bash the fucking knights! And PUSH BACK!”

Another knight appeared before me. And another.

And then they were through the ranks. Quickly followed by a sword through me.

Where were the crossbowmen?

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye

Aim. Loose.

Windup.

You quickly fall into a rhythm, gutting the approaching forces. We'd only spotted them at the last moment. The half cohort that went with Two-Times was decimated before they even reached their destination. The very ridge they were supposed to take erupted with hundreds of men. In their eagerness they did not wait for the rest of us to join Two-Times on the ridge.

That may be all that will save us.

“Rank one, then two!”

Two volleys should have utterly wrecked the approaching men. Their thick shields took the bolts. A few men collapsed, but were quickly replaced with others. The chilling thought that we were facing a detachment of knights on foot nearly froze the blood in my veins.

I could have stood my ground. I could have whittled down the knights as they slowly approached, trust in our own shiny armor, and met them head on. It could have worked. With knights you only need to get lucky once. Gut their leaders and they collapse. Except then the thundering footsteps of cavalry came crashing around. Either of them could be dealt with.

Combined...

Where did they get all these knights?

“Rank two, then four.”

While they loosed I continued, “Fall back, to the tree line! Drop caltrops!”

It was our only chance.

Please, gods. Let them follow us into the trees.

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small

Fairfields is down. I swear I saw his cohorts banner dip.

Shit.

“Pike, move back! Half step! To the hill!”

Retreating.

Gods, be damned.

We're retreating before the fight even properly started. Half the men are yet to fully form up. We're it. We must hold the fucking beach. With every passing moment the hills leading to the beach head came closer. Ever closer. I could sense the troops did not like this. Fairfields' men were only half a mile ahead of us. Why did he have to show off?

Why did he have to push to fucking far?

We might have been able to support them, but the cavalry already bit right through them. Even if we rushed ahead double step, all we would have accomplished was to give the cavalry new targets. Their grumbling meant very little to me.

“Embed stakes! Double layer caltrops!”

I stared off into the distance, where I could still see the cavalry making short work of Fairfields' men.

Fucking Dragons.

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Ser Balon Swann

What was the fool thinking? I shook my head clear of the frustration and turned to my men.

“We have one hundred sixty horses between us, and we'll be facing at least double. They already clashed with our own vanguard. All that means is that they will be disoriented and disorganized. We strike as one and they'll fold like mummers Dragons! For Storm's End!”

From a hundred different throats I could hear their response,“Storm's End!”

Once the men fell silent, the footfall of the horses was almost an echo of itself. My chest surged with pride at the cohesion of my men. Ten men in a row, every row four men deep. Four such groups all working together as one. At a moments notice any single one of them can peel off. Long months of training finally showed it value as my mass of troops stayed coherent.

“Merryn! Round the hill!”

“Aye, ser!”

And Buckler's detachment split it self off without any fuss. They would double time their way around the hill, and hopefully arrive on time to catch our prey in their flanks. We already had them in sight. A veritable host of horsemen bearing down on us, waving the Targaryen three headed Dragon around.

I stood as high as I could and screamed once again, “Storm's End!”

And promptly sat back down, firmly settled myself, and with the loud screams of 'Storm's End' behind me I was the first to clash with enemy cavalry. With a final adjustment I swerved just past the first challenger, crushed my lance against the second, and the cut the head off of a third.

This is my day!

If I had any time to think about it I would have congratulated myself. And probably promptly died. Fortunately, training and instinct took our. All this was merely a massive melee. Only cooperation wasn't frowned upon here. Nor was there anything like cheating.

So it was much like a melee.

The next few moments were a blur. At times we pushed on, at other times we stubbornly resisted their counter charge, but always we kept their attention firmly on us. Every so often, after particularly resisting knights refused to simply die and had to slowly dismantled, I looked around for Merryn.

Where was his flying detachment? He was supposed fall into the rear of our opposition.

No matter. We were winning, I think. It's difficult to get a clear picture of things, especially when pesky Loyalists try to unhorse you. Just as I dispatched the latest challenger, I yelled out, “Storm's End and Stonehelm!”

I couldn't help it.

I'm still a Swann.

I must have laughed like a deranged lunatic when my men took up both my chants.

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small

Gods be damned. Don't make me do this.

“Swiftblade! Fall the fuck back into line!”

“I-.”

“Shut the fuck up and turn back!”

Gods! Damn all of them! Just obey, you cunt. Just do it!

“They're throwing oil-.”

I think I might have found something I hate more than the sea.

This time I interrupted him with a dagger to the throat.

As his sword and shield clattered to the ground I bellowed out, “Charge you sorry sons of whores! Charge!”

For a long, excruciatingly long, moment the men seemed frozen. My heart was busily beating its way through my chest, sweat dripped out of every part of me and I could barely keep my breath steady. Only when I sucked in deeply once more to chew the men out did they lurch forward.

Through the breached gates.

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye

My cohort had managed to retreat in good order to the treeline. In fairly good order. I still had the majority of my men, even dispersed as they were, with me. This forsaken island wasn't heavily forested, but those woods that were present were impenetrable for cavalry.

Even my own men had difficulty with the undergrowth.

Fortunately, that didn't stop the knights pursuing us from wasting their time. As the Dragon loyalists were bearing down on us, slowly making their way towards us, we hit from every direction.

We shot at their horses.

We shot at their eyes.

And yet they kept coming.

Most discarded their horses. Others rode around looking for a more forgiving entrance into the woods, but all of it was disheartening. We weren't killing them fast enough. They would reach us, and when they did we would surely collapse.

So when I noticed Lord Merryn Buckler coming in, charging just around the treeline, I nearly fell down to my knees to thank the gods. Or at least offer up my firstborn to the man himself.

That was a concern for another day, though.

Now I screamed, “Forward!”

283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Davos the Smuggler

Who volunteers twice?

Truly. Who?

And yet, here I found myself.

I yelled out to the sailors behind me, “This isn't our duty. We've done our duty.” I waited a few long moments as my words were absorbed by the men, “This is our pleasure!”

I barely believed the words myself, but they seemed to sufficient to the task. The men were roused, they fell in behind me, and together we made it through the breached gates. The Stormbringers, together with the other Stormlander and Crownlander detachments, had led the assault on High Tide. Once through the gates they were supposed to hold the walls, the outer keeps and the main passageways leading to the inner keep.

But long moments passed and no word came from the men inside the keep.

And so, here I found myself.

A ravaged sight unfolded before us. Bodies, burnt or otherwise, littered the ground. Ungodly stenches accompanied them, but crucially there was no sight of our men. Or any of the defenders.

I turned back to my men, “Jonas, take a third of the troops and-.”

An arrow brushed past me, close enough to warrant a less than manly gasp. At least I had my answers now, even if they came at the cost of poor Jonas taking the arrowshot meant for me.

“Spread out and clear the alleys!”

And the men did just that. A mad dash followed as they ran from building to building, crossed behind them to get to the cramped alleys, and settled in to the long process of clearing out the enemy troops that managed to surround our men already in the overlarge castle. Almost every corner cleared cost another life, but my men were sailors. Death was ever present in the life of a sailor.

Occasionally, we would run into larger groups of defenders.

Then more people died.

For long hours, or at least what felt like it, this process repeated it self.

We take a few hallways.

We lose a few men.

We take a few hallways.

We lose a few men.

Until we came to the inner keep that bristled with Targaryen troops. Behind them we could make out the Stormbringer's standard still standing proudly, but the relief I felt was short lived.

Now we needed to cut through these final men.

And we'd lose a few more men.

After which then there still is Driftmark Castle, and not to mention Dragonstone.

We'd certainly lose a few more men.

=-=-=-=

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

The crowd on the sides of the parades were cheering themselves hoarse and I didn't throw them so much as a single coin. Their elation was one of pure relief at the end of the war. They'd scream themselves hoarse for the Targaryens had they won their war.

I found that their screams meant very little me. I had other things on my mind.

“Seven blessings for Prince Stannis!”

I couldn't keep my mind off of the body. The images of scorched remains, the cut up limbs and the vile stench of refuse have yet to release their hold on me. I keep trying to convince myself that it was no worse than everything I'd already been through. That after all the death I'd seen, and more than a few times caused, this shouldn't be bothering me so.

I've only truly known him for a year.

“Praise the Baratheons!”

It wasn't working.

“Prince Stannis!”

Certain realizations have been forced upon me this past week. For one...there is a rather large difference in defending yourself on your walls and going out to actively harm people. I'm not claiming the Siege of Storm's End didn't affect me, but nothing like this. Not even the small raids I dared could have prepared me for this. I had brought a little over six thousand men with me to the battles in the Blackwater and I managed to bring five thousand three hundred back.

Five thousand three hundred out of six thousand.

I lost seven hundred men.

Seven hundred.

Why did Robert put me in charge of this? I already knew the answer before I thought the question. Who else was he supposed to send? And I even knew his answer, if I ever cared to ask it. He'd tell me to stop whining and remember those losses happened by assaulting a well defended position, twice. And an open battle.

“Down with the Dragons!”

And yet I still feel that this should bother me more. It's only made worse by the fact there was this nagging traitorous voice in the back of my mind telling me I knew damn well that the only casualty that mattered to me was Merryn. His suddenly aborted scream was stuck on replay and I couldn't get rid of it. Even attempting to bury it deep fills me with a deep sense of disquiet. Perhaps I deserve this.

Perhaps I owe it to Merryn to suffer it unflinchingly, because the gods know I didn't give it all that much thought while it happened.

I was busy dealing with the people responsible for it.

All the death, all the destruction...the horrors that happened after Dragonstone fell should bother me more. That should be what keeps me up at night and yet I can't find it within me to care. Most of the casualties came from Redwyne and Crownlands troops. My own Stormbringers didn't get through it unscathed either, but even their deaths seem to weigh rather light on my shoulders. As much as I pretended not to play favorites, fastidiously so in fact, I was quietly pleased that a great many of my most competent men survived.

It just that one gurgle. That one gurgle in particular. Its hold on me seems unshakeable.

“Hail the Stags!”

They say you can see the light go out of someones eyes when they die. That you can sense that final moment just before death, when it all becomes so irreversibly real. I wouldn't know.

I was too busy stepping over his quickly cooling...

I snapped out my thoughts when I reached the dais the King stood upon in front of the Red Keep and knelt down in front of him. Whoever was responsible for this spectacle was attentive enough to lay down a carpet for me to kneel on. The privilege of rank at work, I guess, because my men didn't get the same treatment.

Now matter how shiny their dress whites, or impressive their accomplishments. No fucks were given for the shiny medals gleamed that I already had worked up for them. I'd have to fix that at some point. Naval service needs to become a fucking staple in Robert's court. Next on the dais to Robert stood his aging Hand, both flanked by their respective squires, whose gaze seemingly burned a hole in the back of my head. I heard my captains and other officers kneel down behind me just as a hush of quiet falls over the gathered crowd. Despite expecting it, it still baffled me how easily Robert could quiet an entire crowd simply by raising his hands slowly.

With an energetic and booming voice he bellowed out, “Ten days ago, on the blessed day of the Warrior, I sent my brother to deal the final blow to the last remaining Targaryen bastions within our Realm. Driftmark and Dragonstone refused to surrender. Despite my fondest wishes they settled in for one last act of defiance on behalf of their absent masters.”

A solitary voice rang over crowd, “Bless the Good King Robert!”

Ever the entertainer my Kingly brother smiled and waved. Short after he continued, “It took three final battles, but our war is over my people! The Dragon's repugnant specter no longer haunts us. Victory is ours! Peace is ours! A new dawn has come upon us, my people! A new dawn!”

The tremendous roar of approval from the crowd rocked me almost with physical force. Their screams came crashing over us and I could tell Robert was cherishing the moment. My overly muscled brother slowly raised a hand and once again the host of onlookers quieted down as if by magic.

“Rise, my noble brother. Rise, and come take your place of price beside me!”

I slowly got to my feet and came to the awkward realization I would have to back around to get to the stairs leading to the platform. Robert smirked wickedly at me as he took note of my annoyance. Great, now he would get to paint himself the benevolent older brother.

Bastard.

He really is quite good at this.

Robert, still smirking while looking as if he was magnanimously honoring me, extended his hand towards me. I gripped him by the wrist and suddenly found myself flying towards the dais. Unsteady I grabbed hold of Robert to keep from falling over. I mightily resisted the urge to grab for my own shoulder.

Motherfucker. That's going to hurt for a while.

Despite the annoyance I kept up a firm plastic smile, put my arm on Robert's far shoulder, and turned to the crowd gathered before the steps of the Red Keep. I cleared my throat and loudly projected, “The Targaryens left Dragonstone many moons ago, but shamefully hid this from their men. I did not fight bloodthirsty monsters. I did not slay scores of vile beasts...”

I, too, know a little bit about theatrics. I stayed quiet long enough to see the host ever so slightly leaning in. And then just that little touch longer, “I fought brave men! Honorable men, who were tragically misguided by their betters! Who were horrifically abused by their lords! Damn the Dragons!”

“Baratheon! Baratheon!”

Robert and I suddenly waved simultaneously at them, and I heard the arrogant bastard lightly chuckle.

When the crowd quieted down I continued with a loud and sombre voice, “I fought brave men who wanted for nothing more than to protect their liege. Please, people of King's Landing, join me in silent prayer for all that fell in this harrowing past year. Pray with me for our lost kin and friends.”

Another, this time much shorter pause, and I finished with, “Pray for everyone the Dragons cost us.”

My chin slowly hit my chest, my hands interlocked in front of me, and within moments an eerie quiet hung over the city. In distance seagulls could faintly be heard, but almost miraculously all the other sounds of the metropolis seemed to fall away.

After a long few moments I faintly I heard Robert whisper, “Good gods, how long are you going to drag this out?”

Perhaps I'm an asshole, because even with all the terrible things on my mind I couldn't resist. Without moving my lips I replied, “Until I get the feeling in my shoulder back, Robert.”

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

Almost before I stepped into my room I was assaulted by a particularly small blur. Renly launched himself at me and I caught the little bugger just in time. Within moments I had my littlest brother crushed against my chest with Renly making a fair attempt at doing the same with my neck.

Renly craned his head back a bit before solemnly saying, “Thank the gods you're back, Stannis.”

Oh gods, he was just so earnest when he said that I could swear some unseen assassin had managed to stab me in the chest. I didn't really have an answer for him, so instead I just put my forehead to his and smiled.

“Have you been good, little man?”

That didn't exactly get the lighthearted response I was looking for. Instead Renly paled and suddenly diverted his gaze from me. What could that possibly mean? I walked, with Renly still attached to me, over to my bed and sat down on it.

Renly still hadn't spoken a word and I was getting rather worried.

“Little man?”

The only response I got was the sudden shaking that came over Renly. It didn't take long for me to realize my little brother was sobbing against my chest and mumbling something. I ran my hand through his hair and gently pushed his head back.

“I-I'm s-sorry S-Stannis.”

What happened?

All could think of was that little Renly thought he must have disappointed me somehow. Instead of attempting to question him I just quietly pulled out my handkerchief. I cupped his small face with one hand and wiped away his even smaller tears with my other. Afterward I settled in to wait him out, knowing from personal experience that pushing small children just doesn't work.

Impulsively I asked him, “I can't accept your apology if I don't know what it's for, little brother.”

Renly quickly glanced up at me, but even quicker cast his gaze down before softly speaking up, “I...” Another long moment of silence passed before Renly breathed in deeply and continued, “I shamed you brother. I...I tried to stop that....that...”

Again he fell silent. He soon rallied though and I swore I could detect a whiff of anger in his tone, “I tried to stop you from..,marrying that Tyrell woman.”

Oh...shit.

What could he have possibly done?

I frowned a little and asked him, “How?”

Renly finally looked up at me again before saying, “I lied, Stannis. I lied to the King! To Robert, so he would stop you from marrying the Tyrell!”

Elation that Renly tried, in his own way, to be help me warred within me with the annoyance that was he might be getting in the way of the best chance this Kingdom has of staying in one piece. This marriage was important.

Once again I ran my hand through his hair and gentle nudged him to continue.

“Grandfather was so angry when he found out, Stannis. He wouldn't speak to me for days...”

When he trailed off something in me snapped. How dare that piece of shit toy with Renly? What kind of a person ignores a child! Lord Gunther fucking Estermont. Only worry about what Robert might have done stopped me from running out to give the old bastard a piece of my mind.

“And Robert?”

Renly paled again before replying, “He sent Ser Marius to collect the pension lists from Storm's End.” The little bugger gazed down when he continued, “He ordered me write apologies to each of the families that lost someone in our service. He...he said I risked adding more people on the list. I'm sorry, Stannis, I didn't know!”

Well, damn. I have to admit that Robert keeps impressing me. Perhaps I really am rubbing off on him, because I sincerely doubt he gave a shit about all the people dying in the original time line. I mentally put the rather insidious punishment out of my mind and planted a kiss on the little bugger's forehead.

“I see. I'm not exactly pleased with you Renly, but Robert already punished you and I'm unwilling to add to that.”

The bright smile that the little blighter flashed me was utterly adorable. I couldn't help but ask though, “So...what did you lie about?”

Renly took a deep breath and replied, “I claimed I saw the Tyrell woman kiss a Reach knight.”

Wow.

Wow.

“Sneaky.”

Again he diverted his gaze down, “Who did you pin it on?”

Renly looked confused for a moment before replying, “The Green Fossaway.”

What. Holy shit, was that just a wild guess? Wasn't Janna to be married to a Fossaway if I hadn't messed things up? How could Renly possibly come up with this?

Desperately trying to keep the shock from my expression I asked him, “Why him?”

The little blighter simply shrugged and said, “He looks at the Tyrell woman the same way Robert looks at Lady Lyanna.”

Oh, well then. Faintly chuckling I told Renly, “Perhaps you should stop calling her that, little man.”

Renly frowned, but almost immediately responded, “I understand, but I will not call her my sister.”

I probably shouldn't have started laughing.

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

I was counting down the minutes until the feast was done. A veritable tidal wave of praise and compliments were thrown my way and I was getting tired of having to field empty smile after empty smile. Renly and little Beric had already been sent to their respective beds, but I would find no such reprieve.

Lady Olenna Tyrell just wouldn't shut up, “I must say, that was a fairly surprising turn of events. Young men generally are loathe to share the glory, so to speak.”

What's her point?

She continued, “Why aren't you?”

I just shrugged and replied, “Why wouldn't I? Lord Redwyne discharged his duties superbly.”

Lord Gunther Estermont couldn't help himself, “Rewarding excellent service has always been a Baratheon staple, my Lady.”

Sensing that this particular subject has come to an end, Olenna simply pivoted.

“Speaking of duties, pray tell Prince Stannis. Who shall take over your duties in the Crownlands?”

Gods be damned.

She's putting me on the spot. I haven't even discussed this with Arryn, or any of the others yet, and now the Queen of Thorns is trying to get me to stake out a position.

“I imagine, my lady, whomever is most suited to the responsibility.”

She rolled her eyes. She actually just rolled her eyes and replied, “What an exquisitely empty answer. Shall we try again, my Prince?”

This, Olenna, is why people do not like you. I had to actively resist the urge to simply tell her that. Then again, I felt like that pretty much all the time...at every god damned feast. Now I'd have to admit point blank that I did not know who might replace me.

Or did I?

Instead I flashed a delightfully empty smile at her and responded, “Hmm, I think not, my Lady.”

Boom.

Turns out...I'm a prince and I can occasionally afford to do things like that. Even if it almost certainly convinced everyone around the table that I was, in fact, entirely uninformed. The Lady Olenna slowly, ever so slowly, arched a single eyebrow in some misguided attempt to shame me. As if I care about her personal opinion after the week I've had. And now everyone was staring at me.

I found myself not caring all that much. Not tonight.

Thankfully though, Mace picked up the slack and distracted everyone around the table. “I have heard the most queer rumor, Stannis.” The Rose of Roses slightly leaned in and continued, “Have you truly lowered the rate of your taxes?”

What?

Oh. Great. I see how they might think that.

I cleared my throat and replied, “I wouldn't precisely call it that, Mace.”

Would he leave it at that? I doubted it.

“How else would one describe it, Stannis?”

I forced myself to resist sighing deeply. I felt I couldn't exactly be rude twice in a row. There are still certain limits even I must observe. Mouthing off against my soon to be goodbrother, right after doing the same to my future goodmother, was one of them. And yet, none of that precluded me from slightly messing with him.

I flashed him another one of my empty smiles and said, “From my point of view I have raised taxes, but my subject will indeed be paying less in taxes.”

Mace's expression turned ever so vaguely confused, but Lord Tywin was the one to speak up, “That strikes me as a fairly curious statement, Stannis, and begs for an explanation.”

Hmm, was Tywin calling me by my first name because Mace was? I filed that observation away for later. My grandfather, Lord Gunther, apparently felt the need second that motion, “I must say, I too am rather curious about this, my boy.”

That too I filed away for later. Was he aware how pissed I was at him, currently? And how come he was unaware of this? Or was he just pretending? What a thoroughly vexing man. Yet another empty smile, “I must admit there is little to explain. I have simply done away with the office of tax farmer, at least within my personal lands.”

I got the sense that Gunther was desperately trying to keep his eyes unrolled. Tywin however jumped in again, “And by which means do you intend to replace them?”

I resisted the urge to shrug and turned to Tywin. “By men that merely draw a salary, Tywin, backed by a small contingent of my troops. Once my subjects figure out they'll get to pay less, I imagine over time there shall be less need for shows of force.”

Lady Olenna just had to make her opinion know. God damned, I was growing so tired of her.

“Would men such as those not be rather inclined to...appropriate funds to their personal benefit?”

This time my smile was decidedly sharper, “All change comes with a slight amount of disruption.” Next I shrugged and continued, “Again, after a few thorough examples I imagine such concerns will lessen. Besides, I am quiet well aware of the extent of the wealth of those that work for me. Should any of them suddenly dress remarkable better...”

Now however Gunther seemed pleased. Why? Why was he looking so pleased? Am I missing something? Motherfucker. Was he just happy I'm coming across as some mob boss? Although, I would have to admit being a lord and a mob boss had quite a few similar aspects.

Gunther spoke up, “Do your have any plans to extend your reforms to the rest of our Realm?”

My grin was entirely genuine when I replied, “Not in the slightest, grandfather.”

Clever lords would copy me as soon as the results came in. By cutting away tax farmers, and replacing them with my nascent bureaucracy, I eliminated their margin. They might make life easier for lazy nobles, but that shit wasn't going to fly. The convenience of predictable tax returns was, in my mind, not a good enough reason to allow tax farmer to keep what they manage to threaten on top of my taxes.

Why would I let come cunt purchase a license from to farm taxes on my behalf These vicious parasites would squeeze every last fucking coin they could from my people. Coin that could be spent purchasing my shit. Which I could then tax twice or more depending on how many hands it changed.

Again Olenna felt the need to poke, “Which seems fairly surprising, my prince. One might even be forgiven for believing your'better nature' might ache on behalf of the commons across the Realm.”

Now I was the one slowly raising an eyebrow, “Ah, I can see why someone might believe that after a superficial consideration.”

Her response was prompt, “Oh?”

As was mine, “Yes, I couldn't care in the slightest about your smallfolk.” A short heartbeat or three of silence before I smiled wider and contined, “Stipulated on nobody breaking the King's laws, of course.”

I wasn't even exaggerating that much. There was, practically speaking, very little I could do to make life considerable better for people outside of my borders. Hell, I didn't even have clear authority to tell my own bannermen how to treat their people.

I could cajole them, bribe them and promise the world to them. If I was desperate, I might even threaten them. I couldn't simply order my Lords to unilaterally do my bidding. Let alone force the hand of lords outside of the Stormlands. Great or small.

Every lord was a miniature king, who only truly obey the big King. Soothing my, of late, much put upon conscience is simply not worth butting heads with most of the Realm. Sensing that this subject too has run its coarse Gunther asked, “On a rather more pressing subject, Stannis. I understand you only returned this morning, but a response must be made for Weeping Town.”

A little forceful, but he was right on the money. When the fleets of the Redwyne's, Gulltown Arryn's, even a few converted tradeships from Duskendale, and of course my own Royal Fleet distracted...someone took advantage. That someone being suspiciously cohesively acting pirates.

Pirates of the fucking Step Stones.

Organized pirates of the fucking Step Stones.

I quietly bit out, “I quite agree, grandfather. Orders have already been dispatched and Mistwood men have secured what remains of the town. It will, of course, be rebuilt with funds from Storm's End. And a response...well, that must be discussed with your other grandson.”

I didn't think my mood could get worse. Of course, I had to pay for it. I was the one that made that delightfully parochial seaside town a target by constructing the beginnings of another Royal Fleet Base there. These pirates weren't stupid and they could see what was coming.

Why else would a resurgent Westeros and with a freshly minted dynasty create a port there? Which made a...shortsighted sort of sense. Could one expect long term planning from a pirate? Because surely they must know a response is coming. Did they think they could outrun me? And on top of all of that...there was the question of who was truly behind it, because despite how plausible it sounds...I can't help but think either Lys or Tyrosh must have been involved someone. If I could prove it...

Until then though, the best I could do was face their cats-paws and suffer the annoyance of knowing Lys and Tyrosh would come out ahead, regardless. Either I miraculously lose, in which case it's happy days for them. Or I win and incur losses, which is also great for them.

Would they risk attacking me while I'm busy in the Step Stones?

Before we could continue the subject however, one of the servants pressed a note into my hand. Subtly, I unfurled it under the table and tried to mask my incredulity. Lady Lysa Arryn wished to speak with me, at my convenience. What in gods name could she want from me? I've barely spoken a word with her, but any excuse to extract myself from this conversation was welcome.

I slowly made my way across the Great Hall after excusing myself, getting accosted by all and sunder all the way through, until I finally made it through the monstrous gates. Right across from them Lysa was waiting for me.

“My prince, thank you for granting me an audience. I do hope I did not inconvenience you, for I would greatly mislike doing so.”

Well, she's laying it on thick, “Not at all, my Lady. Please, what can I do for you?”

Lysa fidgeted around her cloak for a moment before asking, “Perhaps we could take a short walk, my prince?”

Well then...

“Of course, my lady.”

I extended my arm, she hooked one of her dainty little hands around it, and walk we did. We did not go very far, but when we reached the outer parts of the Red Keep I was met with a startling sight.

“My prince, I would like to introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine. You...” Lysa looked up at me and continued, “You have a reputation for seeing the best in people, my prince. I would call on your best nature and hope to sway you to hear my friend's plight.”

A young man, with intense blue eyes and an easy smile gave me a practiced smile. He was younger than I expected, thin as a rail but there was an understated confidence about it. Before he even opened his mouth I knew who he was. Thankfully I recovered from my shock rapidly enough to shock the bastard in turn.

I gave him my widest fake smile and said, “Ah, Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers.”

Perhaps he flinched was because he was a young man. Or simply because he couldn't fathom my awareness of him. Or perhaps he was playing me before he even said a word.

Either way, he recovered quickly.

Far too quickly.

Fuck these complications, what was I to do with him?

AN: Feedback and commentary is greatly appreciated. Please leave a review and let me know what you think! ;)

Chapter Text

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

Attending court is simultaneously one of my most lucrative duties and the most horrifically boring of them. Occasionally some truly interesting game is afoot and everything shifts into focus for me. Something that helps me shed the bone deep weariness that accompanies the perpetual effort spent in pretending to give a shit about the court fops. Usually I enjoy these breaks of monotony. Because court is monotonous, and silly, and mostly a giant waste of time. What these people consider entertainment, gossip and scandal mostly, fails to keep my attention. Why would I care that Lord random of random defiled the daughter of Lord never heard of him of what, where the fuck is that? Or that the wife of some other Lord is currently banging someone not her husband.

I mean, I suppose I could blackmail them. Technically. Why would I though? Anything I can get done through blackmail, I can fix with gold and the promise of royal patronage. Anything gold and honors won't fix...subtle threats would. If even that fails, well...then its time to start enriching their direct rivals and neighbors. Usually that brings even the most recalcitrant of lords to the table.

Of course, with the way I tend to breed enmity by the sheer virtue of being myself...I tended to shy away from shady shit. There was precious little reason to engage in such matters. Obviously, when I judge it necessary I'm perfectly willing to play in the mud.

Usually it isn't.

My lack of reaction to such scandalous matters has set some tongues wagging. Apparently half the court approves of the way Prince Stannis holds himself above the fray. Unfortunately, the other half argue that the open contempt of a princeling is never a good thing. Oddly enough, I sympathize with the latter group. I can see how I ruffle some feathers here and there, but there is a limit to my patience.

Gossip isn't interesting.

Now, rumor on the other hand is. Despite my semaphore lines, and the various raven networks operated by the Maesters, information still moved slow. Don't get me wrong. It still moved faster than anything else in this world, but I've grown accustomed to the modern methods of global communication. To me...this world may as well stand still. And that very fact means I'm always continually bored.

Until something like this happens.

The young Vale Lord in front of me recovered quickly and with a brittle smile responded, “My prince, I see you already know of me. I must admit some confusing as to how that came to be?”

Shit.

Should I have let that on? No matter, what's done is done. I may as well keep pushing.

I let my grin grow a slight shade sharper and replied, “I do like to keep aware of my brother's capital, Lord Baelish.”

His response came quickly and with a studied grin in return, “One might say as a dutiful younger brother should.”

Still no particular reason to play his game. I felt silly worrying this much about what amounted to little more than a particularly clever fifteen year old. The kid had, save for Lysa Arryn, precious few allies and resources to speak of. At the moment he wasn't a threat to me.

So why not go directly for the jugular?

“Indeed. Well, my Lady Lysa, if you would leave us to it?”

She clearly didn't expect a dismissal, but it seemed Petyr did. “You have my warmest regards, my Lady.”

Well, wasn't that a conversation-ender?

She smiled radiantly at Petyr, “You are most welcome, my Lord.” And even graced me with her bright smile, “My Prince.” Before she slowly walked back in the direction of the feast. With Lysa gone, and unable to further intervene on his behalf, I had Petyr alone.

I lazily twirled my hand to direct the kid to my offices and set a brisk speed towards them, “Is this your first time in the Red Keep, Lord Baelish?”

It seemed he might, “It is indeed, my Prince, and I must admit to some trepidation. The Red Keep certainly is marvelous, but one shudders at the history these walls must have witnessed.”

Before I could reply he continued, “Both wonders and horrors I must imagine.”

I held in a snort and responded, “You certainly wouldn't need to imagine. Not when certain walls of the Red Keep curiously hold on to their coloring while others have so sadly paled.”

The walls and the floor of the Great Hall are super, super fucking red.

We walked past some of my Stormbringers guarding the hallways, waved them off, and entered my office without a fuss. Occasionally, midling Lords attempt to ambush me and sneak through a private meeting. I've been getting better at enforcing my appointment based scheduling practices, but still people attempted to wiggle past them.

“Do have a seat, Lord Baelish.”

With a sharp grin Petyr said, “My thanks, your Grace.”

And then he fell silent. Well fuck, so much for my attempt at getting him to spill.

“Lady Lysa has informed me your are looking for suitable employ.”

There, that should do it. And it did, “Indeed I am, your Grace.” The young man sat up straighter and looked me straight in the eye, “I am young enough to learn that whichever you deem fit, your Grace. Lords and merchants alike may grumble about the changes you brought to bear, but I must admit my own curiosity and interest. My strength and wits are yours to command, your Grace, for as long as I may call you my liege.”

Now the lad seemed to slightly shrink into himself, “If it should please you, your Grace.”

Well. Well...

That was smooth. If it was anyone else. If some random lordling had said those words...I would have chucked them into my bank immediately. Or maybe even into the fledgling Merchants Collective of Westeros.

Unfortunately, this wasn't just any man. This was a potential threat.

It was also a sixteen year old boy, who so far...has done absolutely nothing wrong. His antics in Riverrun are just that, teenage antics. If Brandon Stark tried to be the adult in the situation...steel would have never been bared. If Lysa hadn't raped him while he was recovering...If Catelyn had just been a touch more insistent. If Edmure wasn't such a disloyal little shit who actually sided with the grown ass man over the boy he grew up with as a sibling...

If the man he saw as a foster father hadn't unceremoniously thrown him out of his keep...

Lots of 'ifs'.

Maybe... Maybe if my formative experience in this world hadn't come with a dose of hellish siege I might have been swayed to let it slide. To see whether I could benefit from this brilliant lad in front of me. With plenty of checks and balances in place, of course. But the siege did happen. And it did get ugly. And then Dragonstone happened. I've found myself running out of sympathy.

Poor Petyr.

Things won't end well for you. I could try lying to myself and claim this is some form of preemptive self defense, but it isn't. I don't fear this boy. I wouldn't fear a full grown version of him either, based solely on the idea that he's only dangerous to people who trust him. With some selective auditing, a few whispers here and there, I could easily keep him from becoming relevant.

No, Petyr is dying because I'd rather he die, than I want to even mildly upset either Tully or Arryn.

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

After Baelish left my office, I waited a few extra minutes before I walked out as well. As soon as I received confirmation he left the Red Keep itself I made way to the lavish suites surrounding Maegor's Holdfast. It wasn't all that far away, but the nature of the visit dictated I couldn't be seen. I wanted absolutely no tongues wagging about tonight.

Maybe the lengths I'm going to are ridiculous. Was, in the larger scheme of things, Lysa's support worth the effort I expending? Merely to ensure there wasn't the slightest hint of collusion between her father and myself?

Yes.

She's a Tully. A Tully with ties to two other regions. A Tully that will birth the future heir of one of those regions. The Lord of said region...was an old fucking man. I'd likely be dealing with Lysa far longer than with Jon. Even if she doesn't decide to cut his existence short. As long as she didn't do it before Westeros becomes somewhat stable.

I exited the secret tunnels, took a quick right turn, and found myself in from of the Lord Trout's room. I didn't enjoy having to sneak around like this, but the matter is fairly urgent. A few knocks on the heavy oaken doors later and they swung open.

A servant peeked through the door way and exclaimed, “Prince Stannis! I mean, your Grace! How may I serve you?”

Was it a good sign I was enjoying being addressed as such?

I smiled widely, even as I added the servant to the list of people who were 'aware', “I've come to call on Lord Hoster.”

If I was anyone else I would have had to add 'is he available?'. Fortunately, social niceties like that simply didn't apply to me anymore. No wonder Royals occasionally get mad with power. It's intoxicating as fuck. The girl muttered a vapid response, but soon opened the door widely. I quietly walked into the ante chamber, slow enough to give the lass a chance to opened the other door for me.

Again, this Prince gig is awesome.

Lord Hoster fucking Tully was seated behind a massive desk, but from a glance you could only see the tip of his head. Stacks and stacks of books obscured the man from sight. Not so much his companion though, because of course Lord Jon fucking Arryn had to be present too.

Great. Just great.

“Prince Stannis, what a pleasant surprise!”

I'm sure it is, and with the way he said it...so does he.

I nodded at both lords, “Lord Hoster. Lord Jon.”

This was traditionally the part were the inane and mindless drivel gets spewed, so imagine my shock when Arryn showed some good sense.

“I can't imagine this a visit of pleasure, is there something you've come to discuss?”

Should I bring this up now? With Arryn here? I quickly cast my mind around for anyone subject to broach. Any other subject that wouldn't seem out of place. Shit.

Fuck it. I may as well bite the bullet, “Indeed, my Lord. I've just been visited by a young Valelord in search of opportunity. Usually, I wouldn't bring such matters to either Lord Hoster or yourself, but there are...complications.”

Eerily in unison they both replied, “Oh?”

“Yes...I was approached by one Lord Petyr Baelish.”

Their reactions were interesting. Hoster, having slid a little past the books, went tight around the fact. I could tell I had his attention, in a bad way. Jon didn't seem to be aware of the lad, but did catch on to the sudden tension in the room.

Hoster said, “I see.” A few heartbeats later he continued, “How, might I ask, did you respond?”

Was he going to take this badly?

I cleared my throat and replied, “I've set him to work on my canal together with the Lannister presence in the King's Wood. It seemed...out of the way and convenient enough for the time being.”

I considered involving him in the reconstruction of Weeping Town, but came to conclusion that he could do the least of amount of damage in the King's Wood. Unless he sets it on fire..

Hoster kept up his intense gaze, but eventually slowly nodded. Arryn on the other hand, “Baelish...of the Fingers?”

Hoster answered him before I could, “Aye, Jon. I would venture his Grace brought the matter to me on account of Lord Baelish' wardship in Riverrun.”

Oh, the man slipped there. The word Lord came out a hiss and I could tell he regretted it immediately. Lord Jon looked actually interested now, which couldn't have sat well with Hoster. Did the latter not inform the former on the subject of Baelish? Or did Hoster just remain vague in his assertion of Lysa being...spoiled.

In which case...crap.

Lets see if we can recover from this, “Quite right, my lord. I had some inquiries regarding the lads character. Should he perform adequately I should like to heap some responsibility on his shoulders.”

Alright, tell me you understand what I'm doing Hoster. Jon is already suspicious. If he doesn't know, I already gave away there was something about Baelish that would complicate my relationship with you. Don't react badly.

Don't react badly!

Instead, the man smiled ever so slightly and said, “Ah, I can see why you might be concerned, your Grace. There is indeed more than a hint of scandal surrounding his stay, and while I cannot condone his actions...there is something to be said about understanding the circumstances.”

Hoster made a sound as if he was sucking in lemons when he continued, “If you have the time, I would be more than pleased to explain, your Grace.” The Riverlord turned to the Valelord and sweetly asked, “Perhaps we could finish our conversation later tonight, my Lord Hand?”

Jon, with his ever present poker face, replied, “Of course, my Lord. I shall be either with the King, or in my Tower.”

There was a little bit more insipid chatter before the man finally left, but I was already operating on autopilot now the worst of it was over. Hoster fucking Tully didn't tell Jon about Petyr. No wonder Arryn gave him a job in Gulltown and later actually brought him to King's Landing. At least one good thing came out of it.

Now...

Now I have leverage.

“I take it you're rather more informed than our Lord Hand?”

I had to actively resist smirking.

I caught the Lord's gaze and said evenly, “I know Baelish thought of you as a foster father. Of your family as his family, and that certain inappropriate lines were crossed because he mistook his place in Riverrun.”

There, I absolutely couldn't put it any more diplomatically. As far as I'm concerned, this is a testament to how much I've grown. Or my self interest has simply gotten sharper and more pronounced.

Before Hoster could reply I continued, “Which brings me to this. Baelish will be working deep into the King's Wood for the foreseeable future.” I slowly stood up and brought a light smile to bear, “Should he find himself hale and well, say... a year from now, I shall take it as a sign old grievances have been forgiven and buried.”

I waited just long enough for the man to nod before all the smirks I've saved up came out, “I must say, I'm glad I patched matters up between us. This could have gone much, much worse. Don't you agree, my Lord?”

And there was that facial tick again. Because at the end of the day, I'm still a bit of a dick.

=-=

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

On my way to the Maegor's Holdfast I walked alongside one of my more powerful bannermen. The aging Lord was still well built, still held an air of casual danger around him and he seemingly lived to disagree with me. Sweet flattery held little sway over the man, subtle threats only made him scoff and the clattering of gold only moved him when it suited him.

All in all, he was a thoroughly disruptive influence to my plans in the Stormlands.

It wasn't just him.

The same applied to every last one of my Marcherlords. And yet, I needed men like him on board with me. I would greatly prefer them to be fully on board, if at all possible, but I'll settle for grudging acceptance. As it stood now, I had reasonably asserted control over the Eastern and Southern Stormlands. Everything from as far north as the King's Wood, to as far east as Stonedance, and all the way down to Storm's End was well in hand. The Lordships of the Mistwood peninsula were quarrelsome among themselves, but all fell in line at my command. All the lands west of Griffin's Roost, right up until Summerhall, likewise were eager for my favor.

The Marcherlords on the other hand were like a bunch of overly powerful miniature kings. They barely acknowledge Royal influence, are only marginally more receptive to orders from Storm's End, and were more than willing to safeguard their quasi-independence by whichever means necessary.

Fortunately for me, there was one subject that never failed to twig on their heart strings.

“I hope you haven't been too put out by the treaty with Dorne, my Lord?”

A thoroughly distasteful grimace flickered across his face before he replied, “Once again we let slip an opportunity to scourge the dusky cowards, my Prince. None of your Lords are pleased with this, nor should they!”

The hatred for the Dornish ran deep in the Stormlands. Even the Reacherlords never quite inspired the same depths of animosity from my Stormlords. It wasn't a new development either. This particular hatred is ancient on a scale that makes the Blackwood-Bracken rivalry look like a petty disagreement over who got the last cup of Arbor Gold during last night's feast. I certainly did not mind taking advantage of these sentiments.

Princes have used fear, bigotry and hatred to good end since the dawn of civilization. If the price to gain internal cohesion in the Stormlands was to bring the anti-Dornish sentiments to a boiling point, I was more than willing to pay it.

I abruptly stood still and slowly turned to Lord Caron, “My Lord of Nightsong, do not – for one moment – believe that it does not vex me likewise. A humbled Dorne is a good Dorne.”

Lord Caron sported a dangerous grin, “The only good Dornishmen are dead ones!”

I knew how this particular story went, “Hear hear.”

Next the aging Marcherlord surprised me, “Well, my Prince. What precisely might you be buttering me up for?”

Well, crap. Was I this transparent?

I held in a sigh and replied, “You are the first of my Marcherlords, Lord Caron. Your words carry weight where it matters and I have need of your wagging tongue.”

Slowly the man raised an eyebrow, but he chose to remain quiet.

“Our Lord Hand feels that the Dornish matter can be settled.” I continued with quite a bit of overt contempt, “He believes that turning an enemy into a friend vanquishes the enemy.”

I stared straight at the Marcherlord and kept his gaze hostage, “I told him my Stormlords would call the Dornish bandits friends when he invites his mountain savages to his table.”

The big burly warrior threw his head backwards as he let out a whoop of laughter, “I cannot imagine that would sit well with the Old Falcon!”

I simply shrugged, “Apparently, my Lord, I am a bloodthirsty warmonger.”

Another one of the man's razor sharp grins flashed at me, “Much like most other Lord's of Storm's End then?”

Now I was the one throwing my head back in whooping laughter, “I shall take that as the highest compliment anyone could wheedle out of you.”

Ah, crap. I shouldn't have tried to compliment him. The amusement didn't entirely drain from his bearing, but it was a close run thing. “You are yet to share what you desire of me, my Prince.”

Alright, no more dancing around the subject.

“I want the Dornish out of King's Landing.”

Lord Caron shrugged and replied, “A worthy cause, I'm sure. I would go as far as to say that Iwant them out of Dorne, but I fear it might not be that simple. We're at peace and our King Stag pledged their safety. They are untouchable and you shall have to forgive me when I say I do not foresee upsetting the Demon of the Trident. Unless he might prove willing to look askance on our behalf?”

I let none of my frustration show when I responded, “I'm afraid not, but that is solely because the Martells have cloaked themselves in the airs of an injured party. Any...direct action towards them would fail, or set too many parts of the Realm against us.”

Another slowly raised eyebrow, “I imagine you have a clever ploy at the ready?”

Why did he have to say it distastefully? I'd ask, but that would just derail me.

“Not all that clever, Lord Caron. Simplicity at its finest, in fact. All we need do is remind the Realm just who the Dornish are.”

Now the Marcherlord frowned, “I'm afraid I do not follow, your Grace.”

Not only is this stubborn bastard one of the few men willing to tell me to go to hell, he wasn't shy about asking for elaborations either. All in all, a thoroughly difficult man to deal with. I much preferred my Lords prideful and easily led by their ego's.

“The Dornish are scorpions in your bed after they've surrendered to you. The Dornish are pits of snakes for the likes of King's. The Dornish are broken parleys and deceitful betrayals. The Dornish answer good graces in the same manner they answer steel. That is Dorne.” I held my hand up before he could reply, “The Dornish are not meek victims. The Dornish are not blameless. What goes around, comes around., and as for the Martells...their time came.”

A particularly slow crawling smile crept up on Lord Caron's face, “You have a particular turn of phrase, your Grace. What goes around, comes around...”

I matched the man's grin, “This is what I need from you, Lord Caron. Forcibly remind our Lords of this fact and slash through whatever haze of lingering pity deludes them. Remind them all of what the Dornish really are.”

And while that message worked its way across the Realms after it makes the rounds in the Stormlands, I would try to push the new reality that Dornish interests and those of House Martell are no longer one and the same.

By hook or crook.

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

Absolute chaos reigned in the the small Hall within Maegor's Holdfast. A cacophony of loud and insisted voices clashed with thumping noises of fists on tables. Thanks to my upcoming wedding, and the tremendous tournament my brother is hosting, every single Stormlord of note was gathered in King's Landing. It was both a priceless opportunity as well as a massive headache. My Stormlords were prickly, loud, and so stubborn as to be nearly unyielding.

It didn't help that the vast majority of them didn't quite know how to deal with me. From their perspective I must look so odd. Especially considering the other Baratheon son out there. Robert was everything a Lord of Storm's End was supposed to be, in the eyes of my vassals. Martial in the extreme, generous in victory and best of all...completely disinterested in the private affairs of his men. Compared to him I'm an anomaly and I am quite well aware of it.

Of course, none of this means they don't respect me. They do, or else they would not entrust me with their sons and grandsons. And yet, it's rather clear there is a wariness which I will likely never be able to shake. It's all a touch unfair from my perspective.rely, I too have some decent military accomplishments? Does my generosity not ring across the Realms?

Apparently none of that matters as I distinctly do care quite a bit about what my Lords are up to.

In fact, I was quietly studying each of them as they shouted themselves hoarse. Lord Caron's booming voice dominated the far corner of the Hall, the Evenstar of Tarth was calling for retribution in haunted tones, and Lord Cafferen was insistent we should have set sail yesterday. My grandfather, the Lord of Estermont, was likewise occupied watching the show unfolding in front of us. Our gathering had only started and it had degenerated rapidly.

I knew who to blame.

Lord Buckler was no longer an eager supporter of mine. Not that I could blame him overmuch, but it was yet another hurdle I had to navigate. Another anchor around my neck dragging me down in the dredges. At moments like these I wish I had a fraction of Robert's magical charisma. Instead, I had to content myself with my own brand of theatrics.

I caught Renly's gaze and had him beat a stick against a makeshift gong. The little bugger was absolutely ecstatic that I included him in these proceedings. The poor lad had no idea what was going on, but since I brought little Beric Dondarrion with me...I felt I couldn't quite shame Renly by keeping him away. Besides, there was always the hope he could passively learn from the experience. It took a few moments, but soon all eyes were on me as I slowly got to my feet. The crowd of Stormlords quieted down and despite my private worries...none of them jeered at me.

“My Stormlords, I've heard your words. Now, hear mine.”

I let the silence stretch for just a touch too long before I continued, “While passions run high in our people, we have a duty to carefully consider the best course of action. I will not settle for a perfunctory raid in the Step Stones.” Another slightly too long silence, “Our lands have been assaulted, one of our towns has been put to the torch as has the Royal Navy base it supported. A thorough response must be made, I agree.”

I slowly let me gaze wander over the crowd and let loose a fraction of the anger boiling within me, “Pirates have burned down Weeping Town to the ground! Pirates have taken the populace of that poor blighted settlement.” I accentuated my tone with a loud bang on the table, “Pirates fucking took my people!”

That got a considerably better response than I expected. A mindless roar of anger and frustration came crashing over me in a wave of sounds. Instead of quieting them down I simply screamed louder, “Not since Aegon's fucking landing have any pirates dared assault us. Us! For they knew!” The next bit I almost growled out, “They knew the Storm would come for them!”

In turn, the crowd got even louder.

I hopped on to my seat and from it jumped on the table. “Punishing the craven fucking pirates is not enough! Hunting them down and butchering them is not enough! We are the Lords of the Stormlands and our people belong to us! How dare these Essosi fucking scum come for them!”

The roaring got even more unintelligible.

Now I was screaming at the top of my lungs, “I pledge myself, before all of you! Before all my Stormlords! I will get our people back. I will retrieve our honor! And we...all of us, will remind Essos of the strength the Stormlands can rouse itself to!”

Holy shit. It's working.

As much as I loved the enthusiasm, I needed their focus. I raised my hands outwards and slowly brought them down. As if by magic the roaring of the Stormlords faded away.

When the Hall fell quiet I spoke, “It has been three centuries since King Argillac brought low the Free Cities of the Disputed Lands.” I continued with a grin, “Three hundred years is a long time...for an Essosi.”

I cut through the laughter and went on decidedly more grim, “Unlike my ancestor we cannot let our anger control us. This heinous insult will be answered, but we shall do so on our terms. Ours is the Fury, we ride the beast my Lords. We do not let it ride us.”

Lord Caron boldly yelled, “You do not know my wife, your Grace!”

Well, fuck. I barely held on, but I desperately wanted to laugh with the others. Instead I grinned even wider, but before I could respond Lord Buckler spoke up. “When did we decide to assault the Disputed Lands, my Prince?”

Motherfucker. Why couldn't he just go along with it? I was rather backed into a corner. I was building up steam and I wanted to ride it all the way to the end. Now I needed to explain...

“The pirates are but a cat's paw. We will strike at their paymasters, or else Lys and Tyrosh shall have us inundated with more sell-sails with impunity. We shall cut off the Serpent at it's head, my Lord Buckler.”

Rather than slink back, the man doubled down.

“A fine suggestion-.” Suggestion?! Was he really trying to undermine me here? Did his grief run this deep? Or was simply not inclined to place nice anymore? “-, my Prince, but surely Lys and Tyrosh would not be short sighted enough to let their hand be spotted?”

God damn it. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to this? I didn't have 'proof', but I did have common sense. Pirates simply do not behave as they have in the attack on Weeping Town. For an excruciating moment my mind was blank. I was almost at the point of bluffing when Marius stepped up to the plate. The young Herston spare, and one of my most trusted lieutenants proved his mettle when he loudly responded, “Certainly, we are facing no fools. Even if we might have cause to think so, for their folly in challenging us.”

And with two sentences he had the group eating out of his. He continued, “His Grace, Prince Stannis set up a spy ring that dwarfed the one span by Varys the Spider, my Lords. That was months ago, since then...”

He looked over at me, looked down as if in shame, before spitting out, “I feel it is not my place to discuss the depths of his well of information. If anyone could deftly pick out the subtle interplay of Essosi powers, it would be our Prince.”

My Grandfather spoke up next, “And should my worth still hold any meaning, I must admit that my grandson has a singular talent for gray world of information gathering.” With a merry glint in his eyes he went on, “Among his other, more surprising, talents.”

And suddenly the Lords laughed once again. What was that about? Either way, I was well enough pleased that my reputation was working out for me, for once. I cleared my throat and loudly spoke, “We shall not be alone in this endeavor. From the Crownlands we can count on the support of the Houses of the Narrow Sea. From the Reach we shall have the men of House Rowan, Cuy, Redwyne and Tyrell.” The last few didn't go over so well, so I rapidly continued with a sharp grin. “As Warden of the South I could compel more troops, but then...” My grin grew ever wider, “Then we'd have to share to spoils!”

And that got them all back on board. They knew I took next to nothing from all the sacks I oversaw and that most of it went to the fighting men.

283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment

Behind me, and slightly off to the right, I could hear Lady Olenna tutting her disapproval. It took all I had to keep ignoring the women, even as snippets of her conversation reached me. Suspiciously, she spoke just loud enough for me to pick it up.

“Trust a Baratheon to turn a three day tournament into a two week debacle! Don't we already waste enough precious time placating the pride of young men?”

Argh! Thankfully Mace proved less annoying when he leaned in and whispered, “Don't mind her, I think this is excellent. All the mediocre swordsmen get eliminated leaving us solely the finest men!”

I bestowed a wide smile upon him when I replied, “Precisely!” I leaned in a little closer, “And it neatly shows us who is worth recruiting away from their Lords.”

My future brother in law sniggered, but before he could respond I called out to a familiar shape walking by us.

“Lord Umber!”

The Northern Lord of the Last Hearth could have been born a Stormlander. The man was wide in the shoulders, black of hair and blue of eye. Only the bear pelts adorning him, even in the sweltering heat of King's Landing, marked him out as a Northerner. The burly man had a quick smile and responded, “Prince Stannis!”

Cheeky bugger.

I smiled even wider and loudly replied, “I've put five hundred gold Dragons on you, my Lord! You best make it to the final sixteen!”

A loud and rumbling laugh was his first response. Next he bellowed out, “You honor me, my Prince, but surely you should be betting on your own men!”

Now I was the one laughing, “Hah! I've put thrice that on Ser Balon Swann!”

Renly enthusiastically joined in, “Ser Balon is the best!”

Only to be followed by little Garth Tyrell, “Nuhuh! Uncle Garth is the best!”

Which Renly seemed to take as a mortal insult before Ser Balon quieted him down with a soft pat on the head. When he seemed to get ready to disregard that I had to add one of my own.

“Hey!”

Tiredly I said, “Come on, Renly, be polite.” Just as Mace did the same, “Do behave, Garth.”

The little bugger just stared at me morosly before quietly, almost inadaubily whispering his apology. The depths of my littlest brother's rage against the Tyrells occasionally still shook me. While I was more than pleased at how Renly was shaping up, I felt more than a little bit queasy at his stubbornness. Perhaps I should have a lengthy talk with him about it.

Lord Umber wandered off after a fairly short and inane conversation, but I didn't mind. I was simply establishing communication with him. I'd already decided that Stark, Manderly and Umber were going to be the Houses I'd deal most with in the North. The Lord of the Last Heart was already reasonably well inclined towards me, especially after he found out about my shipments of food and steel to the Night's Watch, but better ties were always useful.

Mace quietly whispered, “Is there anything I should know about him?””

Should I tell him?

I shrugged and replied, “Lord Umber is one of the finest swordsmen around and despite his size...people still underestimate him as a Northern savage.” I smiled at Mace, “He'll do wonderful in the rankings.”

Renly looked up at me and asked, “Who do you think will win?”

Hmm. I winked at the little man and said, “I can't quite say that, but I do like to think I can guess who will be certain to appear in the final sixteen.”

This got Balon's attention, “My Prince?”

Another smile, this time for Balon.

“I have every faith in you to represent the Stormlands, but we're not the only ones to produce excellent swordsmen. From the Vale I imagine Ser Mandon Moore will make an excellent showing. The North will be taken by Lord Umber, the Westerlands will either present Lord Brax or Crakehall. Ser Brynden Tully will almost certainly push through as well, and the rest...”

I shrugged again, “Is up for grabs.”

Lady Olenna chimed in, “No insight into the Reach, your Grace?”

I only had a bland smile for her, “I imagine they'll perform well in the lists, but I'm afraid that doesn't quite hold my attention. Us Stormlanders like the sword better.”

Not really, but I wasn't in the mood to be dicked around. The rest of the trip to our elevated seats around the Tournament Grounds went by without much trouble. Matches played out in front of us, usually the favorites one, but occasionally upsets occurred. Such as when a young, and relatively unknown, knight of House Fossoway managed to completely dismantle Lord Jeor Mormont.

Of course, the latter wasn't using his Valyrian sword, but still...

On my left Janna was still being annoyingly quiet. We'd talked through Renly's little intervention, and I sincerely hoped that nonsense was over, but there was still some lingering awkwardness. Hopefully spending a few days together before the wedding would settle things down. For now, maybe some light conversation. Unfortunately, I was distracted by the Lannister clan taking their seats in the rows just in front of us. Mace, annoyingly enough, chose to poke their golden haired heir after the pleasantries were done.

“Ser Jaime, I could have sworn you would have participated in this glorious event!”

With his teeth almost audibly grinding Jaime responded, “Perhaps next time, my Lord Tyrell. For now, I am content to watch.”

Well, he clearly wasn't. I vaguely expected Cersei to say something to me, but when she remained aloof I had to actively remind myself that a little distance between us was probably for the best. Feeling slighted that my verbal sparring buddy wasn't up to the task probably wasn't a good idea.

Jaime on the other hand did focus on me, “Prince Stannis-.” He continued with a simpering smile, “Might we see you perform?”

Asshole.

I shrugged at the golden haired shit and replied, “Perhaps once my brother has a few spare heirs.”

Lady Olenna scoffed, but I could hear her whisper, “Hmm, a fair share of prudence. How droll.”

Once again I resolutely ignored her.

Renly however parroted my earlier words with an arrogant upwards tilt of his chin, “And it simply never pays to share with the world just how good my Princely brother is at dealing death!”

I half had to resist the urge to abruptly face-palm or to pick Renly up and cheer him up. Lady Olenna snorted indelicately, Lord Tywin looked on vaguely approvingly and Cersei glanced towards us before abruptly turning back.

Did her gaze linger on Janna? Did Janna frown at her? Did Cersei fucking dodge a confrontation??

What the fuck happened there?

Despite my curiosity I let it lie and enjoyed the demonstrations of martial valor. Everything mostly progressed as expected, until Ser Fossoway won his final bout of the day. The Green Apple bowed to the audience seemed pleased as peaches with his inclusion in the final thirty two. Robert was getting ready to loudly proclaim his admiration for the feat when the lad suddenly walked towards me.

What?

Why would he break protocol like this?

All I could do was sit and wait until I grew more and more certain something horrifying was about to happen. Call it an instinct, a vague awareness something was off or even just plain paranoia. I didn't like it when things didn't progress as expected. When the Fossoway knight reached us, he uncovered his helmet and let it drop to his feet. The man was intently staring at me, no not at me...at Janna, and the crowd...fell silent.

Completely fucking silent.

What??

And then he spoke. And as he spoke...I grew angry. And horrified.

What the fuck is he doing? Is this really fucking happening?

I was faintly aware of Mace snapping the armrest of his chair in his death grip as splinters flew all around. I vaguely noticed Janna latching her hand onto her mouth after a loud gasp. I was rather disquieted by Olenna's whispers of death and destruction behind me. I was marginally pleased with the way Janna kept shaking her head back and forth. God only knows what Robert was doing. My attention didn't reach that far. I was many things, I felt many things and I was fucking frozen. I knew I should have derided him. I knew I should have insulted him until he walked off the field in shame. There were a hundred different things I could or should have done. Thousands of scenario's flashed through my mind, but all of them lead to the same end.

This Reach-cunt needs to die, but all I could think of was to slowly rise and loudly scream, “Fetch my fucking armor!” I looked down at my future brother in law, “Mace...do you require this man to live?”

Growling with a menace that was entirely out of place on him he said, “Would that you could kill the fool twice.” A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, “Do not play with him, just end it.”

Still seething he continued, “Perhaps not that quickly.”

For once, Mace and I were entirely on the page. Later, much later, I'd wonder if I lost my mind or if this was truly happening and I did - in fact - degenerate into a local that flies off the handle when his honor is challenged. In that moment though...all I knew was that Fossoway needed to die.

And I was the one to do it.

AN: Please drop a review for some feedback ;)

Chapter Text

283 AC – King Robert Baratheon – The Demon of the Trident

On that fateful day in the Vale, when Jon proved a true foster father, I did not have this in mind. When Stannis isn't nagging at me for one thing or another it's Jon. 'Robert, read this!' and 'Robert, why haven't you read this yet?' or even 'Robert, I'm not the fucking King, just read it!' haunted me day in and day out. Endless meetings with Small Council and no matter how much they wag their tongues, more problems bubble up by the meeting. If it isn't the Reach burning with zealots it's fucking pirates raiding the Stormlands.

Absentmindedly I played with one of the new Crowns. The golden coin, bearing my face, never ceased to bring a small burst of contentment. But even this wasn't enough to pierce my lethargy. Once again my mind was dragged to the way it never stops and the papers on my desk keep piling up. Setting a small cadre of clerks and other officials of the Royal Court to sorting them out for me...inevitably ends up with either Jon or Stannis one again yelling at me.

I was not made for this.

“So your response is to declare war on the Disputed Lands?”

Huh, what?

I could have sworn I just heard...

Stannis responded with a sigh and said, “Only on Lys and Tyrosh. As the intelligence packages you've all received indicate, they are the primary powers behind the raid on my lands.”

Well, isn't this interesting?

I promptly satisfied by curiosity by telling my rather unhinged brother, “Do elaborate, Stannis.”

Another deep sigh came forth, together with what I'm sure is the realization that I had yet to read his intelligence package, Stannis replied, “The pirates that assaulted Weeping Town first attacked the budding Royal Naval Port, despite having little by way of portable wealth.”

Nothing to steal, I gathered from that.

“Once done, they continued onwards to Weeping Town. They attacked a fortified city, continued attacking after encountering stiff resistance, and massacred its garrison. Pirates don't behave like this. Pirates don't attack hard targets, they prey on soft defenseless settlements.”

Now Stannis gazed around the table, in some futile endeavor to find someone who read his intelligence package and continued, “I've reached out to a few notable pirates, even before I left to Driftmark, and their words have been uniform. Lys and Tyrosh have been recruiting them heavily. If we simply blow through the Step Stones, we're letting the world know we're blind to catspaws.”

Yet another deep sigh, “It will cost us, I agree, and yet it's a lesser cost than than the one our people will bear if the Essosi think they can keep weakening us like this, unchallenged.”

As far as I'm concerned, that's as good a reason to go to war as any.

Lord Myles Mooton agreed with me, it appeared. Of course he did. He may as well be wearing one of my brother's ridiculous Stag pins, “Tyrosh may be a hard nut to crack, but I imagine Lys has little by way of defenses. Once Prince Stannis wipes away their navy, our men could simply stroll onto their beaches.”

From what I knew that was true, but it's best to confirm with a glance to Stannis.

With a bland smile he whispered loudly, “Tyrosh still has its original Valyrian made walls. Lys has never had those, as a mere pleasure island.”

Lord Hoster spoke up first, “Setting aside the lesson in history, what is the state of their defenses now?”

This time Stannis reached inside his cloak, produced the little black book he so painstakingly guarded, and paged through it before responding. “Lys has roughly two hundred and seventy five war vessels and Tyrosh has a little under two hundred. As it stands, we're outnumbered two to one...if I count the Redwyne Fleet.”

That...sounds like a particularly challenging clash. Could Stannis perform?

“Can you beat them?”

I regretted saying it almost as soon as the words came tumbling out of my mouth. Fortunately, Stannis seemingly developed a thicker skin since the days of our youth and there was a suspicious lack of frothing at the mouth.

“If I catch them separately, maybe.”

Jon spoke my thoughts next, “And should they not cooperate in that regard?”

Oh gods, I know that galling smirk. Something was coming and I already knew I'd have to play arbiter between Jon and Stannis. Again.

“That possibility is why I sent negotiators to the Iron Islands, Jon. With them we shall have parity on the sea and I'm confident we can face both fleets, if need be.”

The Ironborn.

His clever plan is the Iron...Perhaps I would gracefully disentangle myself from this particular discussion and push it onto my foster father. “Jon, will this work?”

Instead of responding, the man frowned and took a good hard look at Stannis. A few moments passed by before Jon asked, “The Ironborn are notorious for their...ways and rather unpredictable. Are you willing to risk the entire endeavor on their participation?”

Another one of those damnable smirks, “Forgive me, Jon, but allow me to elaborate.” Our aging Hand nodding in return and Stannis continued, “What I meant to convey was that I reached out to Victorion Greyjoy to bring with as many ships as he could manage to come raiding with me.”

Hoster reacted quickly, “Why?”

Abrupt, clear and concise. If only the entire meeting was as such.

Now my slightly unhinged brother frowned as if he didn't understand, “Because he's their best captain?”

In turn Hoster frowned deeply before biting out, “Why do you imagine this will go over well with Lord Balon?”

“Oh.” Another confused frown, “I'm honoring his brother and giving him an opportunity to show Greyjoy strength.”

Usually our grandfather is one the one to talk sense into Stannis, but today I reacted first. “Seven hells, Stannis! Did you circumvent Lord Balon to call his brother to arms?”

Now he got it.

“No! The messenger goes to Lord Balon. Why would I do that?”

Lord Hoster, Jon, Gunther and myself all exchanged looks at that. Why does he have to make everything so difficult? Before he could speak up again, Lord Hoster challenged him once more. With the tired tone the Riverlord asked, “Very well, ignoring the fact that the Ironborn brazenly attacked the Reach during the Rebellion. Ignoring the fact that the Ironborn are untrustworth...How do you imagine they would respond to such a call? From a 'greenlander' no less?”

Stannis replied with a frown, “I did not address him as a greenlander. I offered him no royal writs, no favors, gold or glory. I merely stated I was cracking Tyrosh like an egg and asked whether his brother might be willing to help carry off Essosi spoils.”

Silence all around. He does that from time to time. Say something so thoroughly outrageous that it takes all who hear it a few moments to recover. In this case, Lord Gunther recovered first. “The pirates that attacked the Stormlands were backed by the Lyseni and Tyroshi. Stannis plans on fighting them, and his Grace has a tendency to perform well, which leaves us with the final question. Is this the course we commit to?”

The man has a way of reducing the chaos of the Small Council to something manageable. Even if he wasn't my grandfather I could always appreciate such a man on my councils. Once he decides to retire to Estermont I shall have to find someone similar. Or perhaps, since Stannis appointed the last vacant seat, fob off the decision to Jon. As long as he sends someone who isn't long winded.

Lord Mooton replied quickly with an 'Aye', as did Lord Pycelle, Ser Barristan and surprisingly Lord Hoster. Jon frowned momentarily before adding his own acceptance and I rounded things out with a loud, “Done. What else do we have?”

Perhaps we should have saved this subject for last. Surely whatever follows would only send me to sleep...

“Oldtown is burning.”

What?

Lord Gunther of Estermont continued, “The strife in the Reached has boiled over to Oldtown. The rebellious smallfolk were once again caught in a religious fever and gathered in large enough numbers to temporarily overwhelm Old Town's city guards.”

I felt a brief jab of remorse after I thought 'this is more like it'.

“How are the Hightowers faring?”

Stannis certainly seemed interested as he leaned in to hear Gunther's words, “Once again they've reasserted control and they've managed to quell most of the fires. Unfortunately, their docks and harbor have caught the worst of it and remain unusable for the time being.”

I guess not. If it was handled, why bring this up?

Lord Pycelle asked, “Do we know the cause of this strife?”

My Lord Grandfather responded, “Not precisely. There are outcries concerning corruption in the Starry Sept, but I cannot fathom why this sparked such an outrage.”

Lord Hoster asked in turn, “Was it perhaps worse then usual? Are there any particularly egregious incidents?”

Gunther cleared his throat, “As far as I know, there was some trouble regarding an Septon...and a particularly well loved young girl. Once the matter was brought before the justiciar, little came of it. All of the other incidents happened well after, and this seems as likely a motive as any.”

Jon slowly raised an eyebrow and added, “I have heard whispers of the smallfolk of the Hightowers being seduced to emigrate...to Godgrief.”

What was Jon implying?

Stannis matched Jon with a singular eyebrow raised and responded, “I admit to some involvement, yes. I thought that offering the troublemakers a fresh start on my lands would solve the issues.”

Jon continued, “Both Oldtown's harbor and docks burned down.”

Surely he doesn't believe Stannis has anything to do with this? My brother is a tad softhearted, ever so slightly deranged, but I refuse to believe he would break the King's – mine now I suppose - Peace in such a flagrant fucking display. Slowly Stannis nodded and said, “And I happen to have a few of those. “A heartbeat or two passed before he went on, “I would also benefit from those smallfolk with experience in those matters coming to my lands. Which is why I sent my agents there after Oldtown burned.”

Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun joined in, “A coincidence perhaps? One that only your august person seems to be benefiting from?”

Jon once again took over, “Against a House that's publicly known to be your enemy?”

This was going far enough.

I asked Stannis straight to his face, “They're worried you started this mess. Did you?”

His sole response a curt, “No, your Grace.”

Argh. Can't he see I'm simply trying to finish the subject?

“Good. What else do I need to know about?”

An annoying silence fell over the table until Lord Mooton broke it, “The shipments of grain and other foodstuffs have arrived this morning, your Grace. It's currently being shifted to the storage warehouses in and around the capital.”

Lord Gunther of Estermont added, “Is that all the Master of Laws has to share?”

Lord Mooton narrowed his eyes briefly before adding, “Lord Stark has requested permission to stiffen the Gold Cloaks with some of his men. I told him I would consider it.”

Why did Ned to that? To protect Lyanna? Does he think I cannot? And if Mooton was considering it...did that mean that Stannis told him to delay?

“Is there a problem, Lord Mooton?”

Smoothly the man answered, “Lord Stark left two thousand men in the city, your Grace.”

What?

Mooton continued, “The Gold Cloaks have already swelled to a shade over four thousand and the current budgets simply could not support it. I was simply deferring the decision until Lord Hoster releases more funds for their pay and residence, your Grace.”

Oh.

“Why can't we fire everyone in the Gold Cloaks that got their position under the Dragons?”

My Lord Grandfather once again spoke up in answer, “Prince Stannis has already seen to that, your Grace. Each of these men owes their position to the Stags.” He continued slightly under his breath, “Or the Lightning Lords.”

Dondarrion men?

Curious, but not curious enough.

“Lord Hoster, see to it that Lord Mooton gets paid. Stannis, stop filling up the ranks with your men. We're already feeding and hosting plenty of those for you.”

All three of them simply yielded to my whims and nodded. Good, apparently it was a subject neither one of them cared overmuch for. It could have been worse. If only one of them cared deeply I'd couldn't play them off against each other. Stannis cleared his throat and said, “Which brings us to Dorne.” Annoyingly he waited just a touch too long before he spoke again, “We killed their princess and grandchildren. They will not remain docile forever, brother. Kindly tell your Hand to stop interfering with my efforts at keeping Dorne divided.”

Oh good gods. They are supposed to help me, not continually come to me. Why can't they just bicker among themselves. Whoever wanted it more would generally push their will through. More often than not, this was Jon. For some reason it appeared Stannis just wasn't willing to push his measures, most of the time.

At some point I need to consider what that means.

Jon in response cleared his throat even louder and replied, “Not only has Dorne been united for a millennia, we cannot callously and continually antagonize them!”

“Why not?” Stannis responded, “What are they going to do? Go to war with us?”

Jon slapped his still meaty and strong hand on the table, “When will you cease creating this pointless friction!”

Equally loud and insisted Stannis yelled, “When you cease foisting this inevitable war off on our heirs! This war will come regardless, so why wait until it inevitably happens when we are weak? Why not ground them down one small step a time in preparation?”

Immediately Jon replied, “Which would cause this war you seem to worried about! Why do you not grasp that we may not count on the support of a united Realm in this? Especially if you so blatantly cause this strife!”

“Why would we need anyone beyond the Stormlands and the Reach?”

“You believe your people could fight alongside each other for longer than a few weeks? If the Dornish avoid you, your army would collapse long before you do any meaningful damage!”

Now Stannis simply snorted, “Against the Dornish? We've fought the Reach since the Dawn, my Lord Hand, and yet all of our Marcherlords' keeps face the Dornish. This goes for the Reachlords as well!”

“So you're simply attempting to satiate ancient grievances?”

“No! I'm trying to put the rest of Westeros, my brother's Realm, in a better position than Dorne! I'm killing no one, I'm starting no wars on my own! All I do lightly attempt to break Dornish internal cohesion! So that when this war does happen, the Martells only have their Salty Dornishmen at their backs!”

Now I was the one bringing down my meaty hands on the table. And what a sound it made.

“Enough! My Lord Hand, you are right. We should not invite this particular conflict. Not while we have enemies in the Disputed Lands.” Before Stannis could speak up I continued, “And you are right, Stannis, in that this inevitable conflict will either be fought by us or our heirs.”

Both of my pillars of support still seemed to be seething, the rest of the council desperately tried to stay out of it, but I needed this settled.

“In that light, what do you have in mind, Stannis?”

Again he pulled out that little black book and said, “This is a list of Dornish Houses with their eldest heirs a women. This is a list of younger brother's most put out with it. And finally this, are all the Stoney Dornishmen that wouldn't mind an Yronwood overlord. All I wish to do...is strengthen ties with these individuals and Houses.”

I could already hear the rest of that thought. 'For now.'

Fortunately, the rest of the meeting was far less volatile. Matters were mostly resolved, until I found myself alone with my Lord Grandfather inside the Small Council Hall.

“Well, that certainly was an interesting meeting.”

I sighed deeply and simply bid him, “Let us not relive it, grandfather.”

The man nodded firmly, shuffled over to where Stannis sat, and picked up the notebook that was seemingly discarded. Already the hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight. Stannis never let this book out his sight. Whenever he almost forgot the damn thing you could always count on him to storm back into the room to collect it. What could he possibly be hiding in there?

Gunther paged through the little black book, his expression souring as he went on, when he finally said, “I cannot read this.”

Huh?

I almost ripped it out Gunther's hand when I took the damned little book.

I couldn't read it either.

“Seven hells...what language is this? I could have sworn I've seen this squiggly lines somewhere.”

My Lord Grandfather and I found Stannis before he was set to speak to our Stormlords, but after Gunther insisted Stannis should handle those on his own. I did not like his assertion that he created a new language, just to keep his thoughts secret.

Surely this was just some obscure Essosi languages? But if so...where did he learn it? And if not, how did he create a language?!

It was yet another thing that set my brother apart from the little shit I remembered in Storm's End. I resolved to get him as drunk as humanly possible after the Tournament. One way or another, I'd get the answers to all my burning questions.

Because...you can't just create a language...

Right?

283 AC – King Robert Baratheon – The Demon of the Trident

This! This is the life.

The first few days of the Tournament were dreadfully boring. Occasionally a few interesting matches were to be found, but all in all it was rather disappointing. Until we reached the final thirty two participants, and the stakes noticeably got higher. As did the quality of the swordsmen, it should be said. Fortified with the finest wines of the Arbor I could see myself doing this for the rest of my life.

If I have to bare the annoyances of Kings, I should also get to enjoy the benefits of them. In between the fights usually other entertainment took place. Occasionally its a particularly talented set of tumblers, maybe a few bards that sing some tunes or even a sword swallower or two playing with fire and sharp weapons. Now however, one of my brother's peculiarities took the field.

Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawkeye.

I'd seen her shoot before, I know exactly what Stannis sees in her...and yet I could not bring myself to approve. Women have no place on the battlefield, for all they helped defend Storm's End. My brother's occasionally strangely soft heart was once again asserting itself. One day that poor women would come to a horrific end.

Perhaps that will teach him.

The Squire-Sergeant, a Daughter of Elenei, was helped by a handful of other Stormbringers. The retinue my brother sprang up from nothingness a few months past. They've acquitted themselves fairly so far. I was mildly curious how many more Stannis would recruit before he'd find himself with a standing army.

As if he's some Old Ghiscary Master.

The Squire-Sergeant quietly whispered something to the Stormbringers after which the latter unveiled the stack of chests they brought. A few of the retinue of Stagsmen stood beside the Hawkeye, loaded crossbows at the ready, which the others opened the chests one at a time. Out of every chest a raven flew, or a dove, or even a goshawk once or twice. One by one the Hawkeye caught a crossbow lobbed at her, swung around, and neatly perforated the offending birds. I found myself impressed enough to loudly join in with the applause that followed when she finished the last haw off.

Not impressed enough however to grant her a knighthood. That was simply not happening. Instead she'd have to settle for a load of gold. Stannis' men, and women I suppose, love gold don't they?

Finally the next match came, and quickly went. Lord Greatjon Umber utterly decimated Lord Gyles Cuy in what had to be the single shortest bout of the day. From start to finish it took maybe a hundred heatbeats before the eldest son of House Cuy was reduced to a twitching collapsed mess.

I thoroughly approved. These Northmen are good men.

Lord Jeor Morment, another Northron that performed so far, unfortunately did not fair as well as his fellow Northern Lord did. The man lost to a Fossoway knight, the name of whom eluded me for the moment, but at least the latter made a good showing.

Perhaps I was seeing the start of a reputation being built here? I was about to honor the man for his accomplishments, as I had been doing most of the afternoon, when the man did not present himself to me. Instead, the Green Apple, as I had resolved to name him, veered off to the side. Far to the side. Until he come to a standstill in front of my brother. No, not my brother...his betrothed? Oh gods...this cannot be happening.

With a loud and booming voice the Green Apple spoke, “My Lady Janna! I look at you and my heart pounds, when for years, I don't think it beat at all. You fill the cracks and crevices, take away the emptiness. And when you're not by my side, the loss is unimaginable! If all my life could be like the moments we shared in the Godswood I would count it bliss.”

It is.

Almost without thinking my hand feels around for my hammer until Jon tightly gripped it.

“Your Grace! Please, settle down!”

I bitterly whispered under my breath, “How! Look at this! Look at him!It's happening again!”

From behind me Ser Barristan, later I reasoned it to be likely at the behest of Jon, gently pushed me down with unrelenting might. Later, I blamed that on my distraction. In the face of those two men I backed down, sat back in my large chair, and silently prayed for Stannis to disregard his softer instincts.

Surely...he couldn't?

He wouldn't let this go?

The Knight continued, “I love you my Lady, and I will love you until I die, and if there truly is a life after that, I’ll love you then. Cast away your shackles and-.”

And then it happened.

It finally happened.

Stannis roaring with every part of his being. The type of roar that starts in your belly and ends up dazing your enemies. The type of roar that silenced the fool of a knight immediately, “Fetch my fucking armor!”

I faintly hear Ser Barristan whisper, “Take heart, your Grace. Your brother shall prevail, I firmly believe.”

I whispered back, “Should he not, I shall lock you in a tower with him until he improves!”

Perhaps the final few words came out as a hiss. Who could blame me? This twit of a Reacher knight was doing it again! What is wrong with him? It mattered not. Whether this was to first blood or not, I could hear it in Stannis' voice. That Reacher knight is not walking away from this. Not in one piece, in any regard.

The long – oh gods, so fucking long, how much longer will this last- moments of painfully awkward silence simply kept bearing down on us. Nothing louder than a furious whisper could be heard and there was a tension pervading my city that I decidedly did not enjoy. Jon kept whispering things in an attempt to keep me quiet and I let him.

Hurry up and end this Stannis.

Until a clear voice rang out just as Stannis walked onto the field. My brother wore his black and gold armor well, with the customary antlers sticking out of his helmet, and his antique tower shield. Likewise of black and gold, together with what I knew to be his Valryian short sword, Argella's Plight.

Stannis' betrothed, Lady Janna of House Tyrell, sister of Lord Paramount – for the moment – Mace of House Tyrell spoke up, “My Prince! If this Ser Fossoway claims to pursue his deranged desires in even our life after this one, I beseech you...nay, I beg of you, remove his tongue so he may not speak of or with me!” A heartbeat later she surprised the dazed crowd, “For all our sakes!”

This...Fine. Perhaps she might not make a terrible Lady- no Princess now – of Storm's End. The gathered crowd certainly seemed to approve as loud laughter run across the stands. As well as below the stands, when you consider the hundreds...perhaps even more people that had suddenly decided the Tournament was interesting.

Stannis, seemingly calmer now – although such things are difficult to determine of a man in armor, simply nodded and accepted her favor. He should have laughed and insulted the crestfallen Reacher knight instead, but perhaps that would be too much to ask.

I know I certainly would not have words in his position.

But I am not.

So I cleared my throat, disregarded Selmy's feeble attempts at quieting me, and said, “Just take his entire head, Stannis! Show the sorry fool what happens when you rouse a Stag of Storm's End!”

I probably shouldn't be saying these things as King, but I cared little. Jon could voice his disapproval some other time, when he wasn't drowned out by the yelling of our Stormlords. And surprisingly our friendly Reachlords.

=-=

283 AC – Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen – The Queen Who Finally Was

It's difficult to wrench myself away from my children. Little Elaena and Jaeherys were sharing the crib the Magister procured and Viserys, my sweet King to be, lay on the hammock right next to it. They all seem so peaceful when they are at rest, as if the world's ills cannot touch them. Simply letting my eyes feast on the sight is doing wonders for my own inner peace. Whatever shreds of it remain.

Ser Gerold coughed lightly, but plenty impatiently, “Your Grace, Lady Serra wished for me to convey her invitation to dine with her. How should I respond?”

It's interesting how these invitations always come right before our impromptu council meetings. Lady Serra – curious, how she styles herself a Lady – seemed to act in perfect accordance with the Pentoshi Magister. I had yet to divine why she continually imposes herself upon me, but I was certain it would become more clear with time. For now, she seemed content to merely inform me of her husbands words. The Cheesemonger's words. I nod my assent at the solemn Lord Commander of my son's feeble King's Guard and turn towards Ser Bonifer Hasty, “Would you kindly accompany me, my good Ser?”

Bonifer's ever present smile grew even wider when he responded, “Nothing would please me more, your Grace.”

It was a calculated insult, keeping the Lord Commander slightly at a distance, and yet I felt it necessary. For as long as that man refused to distance himself from the debacle of the past few years I would refuse him any honors he felt himself entitled to. If only I could reasonably strip him of his position, but the traditions that we all cling to on these foreign shores forbid me.

I also told myself Bonifer's smile had little to do with it.

Almost immediately Ser Gerold's expression soured, but he has learned to hold his tongue. I would credit myself with that success, but alas...he has yet to learn to only venture where he is wanted. When the towering knight made moves to follow me, I slowly turned around. Equally slowly I let my gaze wander over him, over towards the the children, and back the knight. It took a moment, but the lumbering Hightower finally understood.

“That was ill considered, your Grace.”

He means well, he truly does, but this isn't the time.

“I shall take that under advisement, my good Ser.”

Thankfully, Bonifer is quite a bit sharper of wit and fell quiet immediately. We were neither alone, nor could I afford having any of my men – or any men at all – challenging my decisions. Especially not those that already spawn so very many rumors. The fact that most of them are true is, of course, entirely beside the point. Soon the two of us made it to Lady Serra's tent and shortly thereafter...two became one. I trusted Bonifer, but the poor man drinks.

That too was a concern for another day.

The Lady Serra was a bright character and if I did not know better that alone would have taken me in. She reminds me in parts of Joanna Lannister with her sheer exuberance for life, but there are hints of the darkness she shares with Loreza Martell. Despite how much she reminds me of my friendship with those two formidable women, I knew better than to allow this to sway me.

“Your Grace, I did not expect you so soon! Please, have a seat.”

Of course you did not. Why would I let you hold all the initiative?

None of my sentiment reached my expression however when I smiled warmly and spoke, “All the children are taking their afternoon rests at once, it was a priceless opportunity.”

Lady Serra's own smile was equally devoid of any true warmth, “Then I must thank you doubly so for spending your time with me, your Grace.”

Best get on with matters.

“Has your Lord Husband any news to share, my Lady?”

Will she answer? Or will she dance and dodge until just before the council meeting is set to start?

It appeared she was not in a mood to delay, “Indeed, your Grace.” She leaned in closer, “Illyrio has found some able hands in King's Landing. Hands...that will ensure there shall be no peace for the Stags.”

It took all the strength I had not to sigh deeply. To cover for my disappointment in the vague information I reached for a drink and carefully sipped twice.

Fortunately she continued, “Nor any heirs.”

Had I been any less careful drinking the cool beverage I would have surely shamed myself. Is this was matters have come to? Will I be party to poison now?

Lady Serra went on, “Hands...with a strong personal stake at the continued well being of us Dragons, your Grace.”

And yet, none of these reservations would sway me. I would drown the entirety of Westeros in blood if need be and I was starting to suspect that might indeed be necessary.

283 AC – Orell Eaglesight son of Skavis Bearclaw, son of the Black Hawk

The kneelers kept coming and I could tell father was not pleased. Never in a hundred winters would he have believed the kneelers would ever keep their word to the Free Folk. I could hear him ranting all week and when I shared with the clan that my eagle sighted yet another ship coming into Hardhome it spelled the end of his resistance. Nobody would enjoy what was to come, but it had been half a year. Every moon, usually early in the month, a sleek and tall ship would appear at Hardhome carrying food, wine and cloth. Every moon the crew of the ship would share the same message.

'Prince Stag wants skin changers to help stop the Slavers. Spread the word. We will keep bringing food for a single year.'

The Elder of our clan, Torrhen Blind Owl, called for us all with his booming voice. Its sound would run all around the valley and if you listened closely you could hear his words long after the man fell silent. A curiosity which one day I would understand. I looked up at Sharp Eye, watched with pleasure as the animal soared high over me, and made my way over to the gathering spot. At the place where lightning struck so long ago our clan would gather and head the hard earned wisdom of the Blind Owl. Hundreds huddled around Strikepoint, around the many fires in the convenient rock formation,

“Hear ye, Hear ye! A great question lies before us!”

I looked around the gathered men, women and children and I could tell everyone was equal parts excited and fearful. This was something different, something entirely new. The kneelers don't behave like this. The kneelers do not like us.

So why would they bend so very far to our whims?

Before Blind Owl could continue however Duna Brighteyes scoffed and spit at his feat. Immediately tension ran across the clearing and those closest to the two kept their distance.

“No. We will not work for the kneelers. No matter how many of your ingrates enjoy their wines!”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say.

Immediately the loud roar came from the people, “Shut your fucking mouth!” “Be quiet wench!” “I make wine out of your blood if you fuck this up!”

Six months. It took six months to get my people used to these Southron Andal comforts. Couldn't they see it was already too late?

Blind Owl spoke up again, “The kneelers have been clear! All they want are a few skinchangers to cease the Slavers that come in the night for our children!”

Duna responded quickly, “The skinchangers are ours! They bring the majority of our-.”

Blind Owl chose to interrupt her, “How is this different?”

“Of course it's different! They would not lead our hunts! We'd be blind without them! What happens if the Thenn's decide they wish to take our new supplies? What happens if the Lord of Bones tries to take our new fishing vessels? All this wealth is useless and it's making us soft!”

“We fight!” “We run!”

Duna turned to the crowd, “How would we run now we carry so much shit! If we try to carry it with us we'll be slow and we'll get caught! If we leave it behind...why not do that now and go back to our woods! Why should we stay on these cursed shores?”

Now the crowd seemed to have shifted back to Duna's side. I wasn't sure which way I leaned, myself, but I knew this moment was...well...momentous.

283 AC – Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen – The Queen Who Finally Was

Occasionally I wonder to myself how this all came about, until I remind myself that my worries have never amounted to much. Nothing, save for the torments that were inflicted upon me and those I inflicted upon myself. If father could see me now, from the beyond where he rests, would he pity me? Or would he blame me?

Would he be wrong to do so?

I've always thought of myself as the daughter of the Dragon. As the sister of the Dragon first and later as the wife of the Dragon. Why have I never considered myself the Dragon? Was I not of the blood? Was I not prepared by the greatest Targaryen King in a century?

Why did I do so little?

I shook my head twice to clear my thoughts and once again resolved to simply do better. Neither of my children, or grandchildren – an involuntary shudder racked through me, not grandchildren, only a single grandchild – have anyone but me.

I must be better.

I was shaken from my internal castigation by the booming voice of Ser Bonifer Hasty heralding the arrival of Myles Toyne, Harbin Mudd and Jon Connington. All exiles, although some considerably longer so than others, and all were as the Magister claimed...exceedingly motivated on behalf of my grandson. I could well see it in the gaze of the Connington lad, but the others required further thought. The Magister himself, of course, was nowhere to be seen. As always the man would stumble into the council meetings at the last moment as a testament to his personal sense of importance. Was he simply conceited or did he truly believe no decisions can be made without him? Either way, the insights the Magister shared were useful, but I would not commit the folly of trusting that man. Instead I went over all I knew in regards to the mercenary captains that made up my sham of a council.

Myles Toyne was a third generation exile, ever since his grandfather lost their lands in the Stormlands after backing a particularly ill considered Blackfyre rebellion. He was, beyond any shadow of a doubt, the ugliest man I ever had the misfortune of meeting. He was also a gifted commander, the men of the Golden Company hung on his every word, and if I had my guess right...he did not trust the Magister either.

Harbin Mudd, if that actually was his name, on the other hand was a bit of a mystery. Few men in the Second Sons spoke about his ascent to his position as their commander. There were rumors aplenty -when are they ever not? - and a dark cloud of suspicion hung around the captain. He was feared, exceptionally so in fact, and he was obeyed without question. But...was there an opening perhaps?

Could I get one of -what I tentatively call...my men, perhaps even Ser Bonifer – in his position should it become vacant? Unlike Toyne, I did not believe there would be much of a clamor should that process be sped up. Perhaps his troops might even thank me for it.

“You were a fool, Connington. You had the Usurper to yourself for a month and you did nothing!”

It seemed like every third word to come spewing out of Mudd's gullet was hissed with a frightening intensity. Was the man truly on the brink of giving in to his rage, or was this yet another manipulation? Perhaps now I am the one clinging to paranoia, and yet...I cannot claim to be at ease with the man. There is something about him, something that goes beyond the casual cruelty he inflicts on his subordinates, that doesn't speak of mindless rage. Of mindless lashing out...

Something ephemeral, barely noticeable, and yet ever present.

Toyne's attempts at menacing were not to be dismissed though, “Certainly, I would not have been too difficult to burn down the settlement? Whether the Usurper burned or came out to face you, at least it would have been decisive.”

Men.

Why do they keep thinking that escalating violence is always the answer?

Before Connington could reply I put on my bravest face and said, “Perhaps.” When I had all their eyes on me a moment later I continued, “Or perhaps my cousin would have forced his way past you.”

As always it infuriated the captains when I refused to stoop to their pettiness.

Mudd lashed out quickly, “Why must you continue to grant him that which you deny your true kin?”

I showed the slightest hint of a shrug, afterward a small smile, and replied, “The Baratheons are my kin.”

Now the unfortunate redheaded Connington could not help himself, “That does not seem an attitude they share with you, your Grace.”

Oh, dear boy.

“Why should that matter, good Ser?” I responded.

When the poor lad gaped in confusion I was reminded of all the time Rhaegar spoke of him. Despite my most fervent of pleas, my dearest child would simply never heed my words. Jon Connington was a possessive child and precious little of the scant maturing he has done since made that issue any less urgent. As always, Rhaegar was deaf to my concerns. It was yet another way in which he reminded me of my husband. All he cared about was what he perceived, and what he saw was a dedicated friend who asked for nothing but to be at his side. If only my dearest boy saw the enormity of that request, for where Jon Connington and Rhaegar went...precious few followed. My precious boy, utterly blind to the cost of his friend's affections.

Princes are not supposed to have only one friend, let alone Crown Princes.

“How can it not, your Grace?!”

With another small smile I replied, “Sentiments, no matter how disheartening, do not change the truth. The Baratheon's are kin, and there is nothing that can change that.”

Toyne, with his beady eyes and burning gaze, quickly changed the subject, “You were offering your opinion on the Stoney Sept debacle, your Grace?”

Ah, there's the interesting side to Myles Toyne. In my mind I reckon the man akin to a starving and feral dog with a particularly appetizing horse-bone. When something caught his attention he would focus on it as nobody else could. I imagined this served him well at times, until it would not.

Another lever to use perhaps?

“Perhaps such a brutal response from the Hand of the King might have cowed the Lords of the Realm, or perhaps it would have driven them ever closer into the grasp of Lord Arryn. Certainly my late husband did our reputation no favors.”

Mudd's response can swiftly, “I believe you may be overestimating the bravery of your Lords, your Grace. I find that men, whoever they are, usually react with compliance after a suitable showing of force.”

No hissing this time. I took note of that.

Toyne added in, “And with Robert gone, who could be the face of the Rebellion? His brother perhaps? The child who had done nothing in that pretty castle of his, at the time?”

Oh, Toyne. I can hear the envy in your voice. Can the others?

I briefly looked over at Mudd and quickly came to conclusion he, at least, could. It appeared that Jon could as well, “Sitting still in that pretty castle of his-.”

Toyne however did not let him finish, “I am willing to entertain many things, Jon, but commentary from a Connington that turned against Storm's End is meaningless.”

Jon's less than admirable face twitched in all manner of displeasing ways before the lad managed to respond, “How dare you, you hypocrite? You! You whose ancestors did the same for far more petty-.”

“Argella Baratheon was supposed to be my grandfather's. Why is it that when Lyonel Baratheon gets upset about such a deliberate insult a rebellion is justified, but a lowly Toyne dares to express-.”

“I imagine that-.”

Couldn't any of them let the others finish? At this pace we would get absolutely nothing done. I briefly looked at the only man I entrusted my safety to and could see Ser Bonifer's rolling his eyes at the bickering men. Good, he's paying attention. No matter how sweet his affections for me were, he does me little good if he couldn't keep his gaze off of me and onto my enemies.

Of which I'm surrounded by. Little new there.

283 AC – Maego of Myr –Pet Essosi to the Stag of Storm's End

My two companions could not be any different. One was young, painfully so in fact, brash and confident to the point of arrogance. The other was of a respectable age, with intelligence burning brightly in those golden eyes of his, but seemingly without a shred of personal ambition. Of course, both my companions would object to being characterized as companions. Surely, in their mind, I am but a lowly servant sent to keep a close gaze upon them. Never mind that I was the only one that spoke fluent Myrish. Never mind that neither of these men ever conducted any business in Essos, nor had extensive ties to the ruling caste of our society.

The younger lad's laugh echoed into the night as we got off the docks, “Tell me, my lord Morwyn, where shall you lead us to find succor on these foreign shores?”

He cannot have forgotten this is my home.

Lord Morwyn Tyrell rolled his eyes in quiet contempt and responded, “I believe that shall be the purview of our guide, Ser Gerrion.”

Ser Gerrion Lannister was as green eyed and fair haired as any of his Westerlander kin. From what I gathered, that perpetual display of disdain for the world and a soaring confidence of their illustrious place in marked out as much as it did the rest of his relatives.

“Well?”

I smiled an empty grin at the young lad and simply gestured for him to follow me. We were headed towards an old dear acquaintance of mine, who I was certain would take us in. Maeron Belaesys, a friend from another life, had managed to survive the scandal that had seen my family cast out of Myr relatively unscathed. The poor man had lost none of his outstanding contracts, but was only permitted a few of his lucrative long term deals with the Temples On The Square.

Even the Conclave had occasional bouts of sympathy and piety.

On the way to Maeron's villa Ser Gerrion couldn't help but comment on all he saw. Did he truly want answers to his many questions, or was he simply constitutionally unable to cease his blathering? Despite my most fervent of urgings, His Grace simply would not abide by my words. I freely admit that I do not perfectly understand the society of the Sunset Kingdom's, but surely a Prince need not bow to the whims of a Lord?

No matter how powerful?

“Ooohh, what manner of tree is that?”

I muttered something ill mannered under my breath before answering, “That would be-.”

Before I could answer the lad cut me off yet again, “Good gods, does that statue have sixteen teats? It's difficult to make out in this twilight. You shall have to show me again in the morning, Myrishman.”

Only hard won experience with the peculiarities of Westerosi lords prevented me from exclaiming something untoward. All that kept me from screaming internally, however, was the reception we might get at Maeron's home. Would these Westerosi lords understand that a Magister of the Conclave has no need to bow to their petty pride?

Soon we came upon the villa, but before we reached it the gates swung open.

“Maego!”

Ah, he was exactly as I left him. Gregarious, loud and ever willing to disregard propriety.

“Maeron, my friend. It has been-.”

Before I could even finish my greeting I felt my friend's arms around me. Perhaps he had gotten a little meatier, but it felt as if no time at all had passed. It felt like home and hearth. As if my very being just knew this was the place for me. “Come! Come inside, my friend! We have so much to discuss! How are your children? You should see little Vaella and Paedro! They've grown so much since they last embraced their Uncle!”

And then Maeron pushed me inside, completely disregarding the two Westerosi lords we left behind. I felt a small stab of something gnawing at me, and I knew I would not be able to shake it if I didn't at least attempt at placating their finicky honor. I had little appetite for disappointing my greatest patron, even if he might prove to be understanding.

“Please, my friend. Allow me to introduce my illustrious travel...companions.”

I waved over at the younger first, “This is young Ser-.”

Unfortunately Maeron simply waved it all off, “My friend, I beg off you. Do not force me to pretend to care for these barbarians from the Sunset Kingdoms. I can scarcely muster the wherewithal to do so in front of the Conclave!”

Oh gods.

The Lannister lordling looked rather taken aback at the notion he was of little importance while the aging Tyrell Lord was simply smiling bemusedly. Perhaps this wouldn't be all that bad?

I was almost immediately proven mistaken, “What did you call us, you Essosi-.”

Fortunately Lord Moryn Tyrell intervened by grabbing the younger lords arm forcefully and quietly stating, “Perhaps we should not give the Magister of the Conclave more cause to believe us that, my good Ser?”

This was going to be a long night.

Servants, for that is all I would dare name them in the presence of these prickly Westerosi, came streaming out of the villa to secure our baggage and see to the needs of the lordlings. Meanwhile, I had actual business to attend before we all presented ourselves to the Conclave.

“Your friend is rude Myrishman.”

What could I do beyond placidly smile and nod at that? Fortunately the elder lord seemed to understand the situation better by the moment. I'm not sure whether it had to do with the rude dismissal by Maeron Belaesys or if he had come to realization that they had precious few friends in this city. Myr, while exceedingly lovely, is never kind to those without friends. While the Westerosi lords entertained themselves, with presumable one of the boys or girls suited for that task, I followed my friend into his study.

“We've never danced around awkward subjects, my friend, so I shall not tonight.” A heart beat or two later he continued, “The Conclave will likely accept the proposal put forth by your Prince. Particularly those that offer cheap and plentiful armors and weaponry in exchange for the experienced sailors of our navies.”

Oh.

I did not believe that matters would have resolved this easily. Surely there was some catch?

When Maeron's expression turned sour however I felt a deep, bone deep, chill.

“There is however the matter of the developments in your Prince's new...port town.”

Ah, the Glassworks.

I cleared my throat and said, “I understand where this weariness would come from, but between you and I...” I shrugged and continued, “The quality of their glass is rather disappointing. They truly should not be a threat to Myrish interests.”

Now Maeron's expression turned even more sour, “My friend...the Conclave remembers you. They know of your talents. If you wished it, you could bankrupt the entirety of Myr by the secrets and skills you hold. It was different while your were but an exile, now however...you've acquired the ear of powerful men.”

The deep chill suddenly got more intense.

“For what it's worth, I am sorry, but despite our fair city's even fairer weather, it has been truly cold for me. I wish to come in from the cold so to speak. To do that...”

Maeron pulled on the bell-rope hanging from his ceiling, “I must prove myself.”

From one moment to the next, men suddenly filled the room. I found myself to my feet, staring at Maeron with a heartache that couldn't be truly described, and asked him, “I have done nothing, shared nothing of note with the Prince. Why would you believe me to be a threat?”

But even as I said it I knew it was irrelevant. This wasn't about anything I'd done. This was about everything I might do in exchange for a Lordship.

Before I was dragged away I tried another tactic, “Surely you do not believe Prince Stannis would continue to ally himself with you if I...disappear.”

Maeron responded with a broken voice, “Yes, Maego. The Conclave believes so, goodbye my friend.”

283 AC – Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen – The Queen Who Finally Was

The Cheesemonger finally appeared after what seemed like an eternity of male posturing. Together with the Pentoshi Magister, Lord Monfort Velaryon stepped into our rapidly crowding tent with an extraordinary wide smile. Presumably it was for my benefit.

“Your Grace, how does our Queen fare today?”

Pompous lordling, “Quite well, my Lord. Might I inquire as to the same?”

I let the man's response pass me by, only taking care to return his sentiments, and focus on the Magister. The man was slightly pudgy, but it was obvious he was a warrior of merit in his youth. Even so, the added weight that comes with age did not seem to encumber him. Especially not if any of the rumors regarding his proficiency with the rapier carry any truth.

“Your Grace.”

“Your lordship.”

At least the Magister does not attempt to flatter me. Perhaps because he knows it would not succeed or perhaps because he truly does not care whether I like him. I am not certain which of those options I would prefer. Quickly after the greetings the meeting began, but it took a while for the truly interesting subjects to come up. It appeared the Magister was intent on setting House against House in the various contested regions. The focus of his efforts seemed to be on the Reach, the Riverlands, the Crownlands and Dorne. The latter wasn't a particular surprise, nor were the Reach and the Riverlands. The Crownlands however have never truly bent to anyone who does not hold the Iron Throne. Their entire way of life is built around that infernal seat and its authority is the only one the various Crownlander Houses respond to. Why would the Magister believe us to have allies there?

His response came quickly, “It has become rather apparent that the Usurper and his attack dog of a younger brother have thoroughly ravaged the Crownlands. There are more than a few Houses willing to passively assist us, if not come out before we manage to land a sufficient army on their shores.” The Magister smiled widely when he continued, “All we need is one coastal House that will not contest us landing on their shores.” Another heart beat of silence, “Until it's too late of course.”

Lord Velaryon asked the next question, “I must, yet again, broach the subject of alternate ports. We cannot keep sitting in the shade of Pentos forever, eventually the Usurper will force the matter.”

Mudd bit out savagely, “And just where would you have us go, Seahorse?”

Lord Velaryon contemptuously responded, “Anywhere that is more than a week from King's Landing, for the moment.”

Connington jumped in, “The Usurper will be able to fight us no matter which Free City we take refuge in. In that light, should we not attempt to tie ourselves to the strongest of them?”

That...was a surprising turn, Jon. Did you come up with that by yourself? I would have to wait and see who echoes this particular sentiment.

Mudd spoke once again, “Let the Stag come. We can yet match his strength on the sea and perhaps even take out his feral sibling. Surely this would be a worthy feat?”

The Magister simply rolled his eyes and said, “Perhaps, but all that would cause is the galvanization of the Seven Realms. At the moment all the various Lords of the Sunset Realms wish for is peace. Should we present ourselves a credible threat, they will find their will to fight.”

I could not let that go by unchallenged. There were already precious few instances where I could stymy the Magister. I was not going to waste this opportunity.

“Please, Master Illyrio, enlighten me. Why then have you announced our...alliance so publicly?”

This time the Magister chose to smirk, “Should rumors have spread, they would not have appeared credible. It was better to remind the Court of the Stag that we live and thrive while at the same time appearing entirely nonthreatening.”

Which is done by compelling that poor bard to take his own life?

Perhaps he understood what just flew through my mind as he continued, “What did we do beyond a song, a vague threat and a piece of theatrics? If the Stag responded badly we could have leveraged his response. If he simply ignored it, we reached our goals without overmuch loss, and all the while the Realm is reminded of the lure of the Dragon.”

Or they simply continue to see us as butchers.

Toyne shared the next matter, “I find myself agreeing, no matter how distasteful, with the Connington. The Usurper will not follow us into Volantis, nor will it risk rousing that beastly Free City.”

The Magister responded, “Do you imagine the Stag would dare cross the Elephant and the Tiger?”

Toyne simply shrugged, “Not if he's distracted.” He narrowed his eyes when he continued, “Which I recall you taking up as your duty.”

Now the Cheesemonger smiled brightly and said, “Very well, it appears I must show my hand to extend a measure of trust.”

This theater would bore me if it wasn't so dangerous.

“The Stags will indeed be distracted. Indeed...they already have been, considering that foul attack on their budding new port on the Sea of Dorne.”

Connington spoke up again, “That's it?”

The Magister shook his head slowly, as if condescending to a child, and continued, “I have arranged for careful messages to reach the ears of the younger Stag. The elder Stag's attack dog has the fortunate tendency to believe rumors should they be confirmed by various different sources. Despite his many...talents, I imagine this is a lesson one only learns from experience.” A heart or two later, “I certainly have.”

What is he implying?

Mudd once again hissed, “So you've infiltrated his network of agents, I've still heard nothing to convince me that the Usurpers gaze will not fall upon Volantis.”

Once again the Cheesemonger shrugged and replied, “Surely you do not expect any specifics?”

Another hiss that almost made me flinch, “Yes.”

Now the Magister sighed – yet another piece of theatrics -, “Very well. The Stags have been made to believe the assault on their port has been financed by the Lyseni's and the Tyroshi Archon. Their gaze will not reach beyond either of those cities.”

Connington added, “Will they attack them?”

Toyne asked, “Can they beat them?”

The Magister responded, “Does it matter? We shall be in Volantis, enjoying the hospitality of the Old Blood while we entrench ourselves in the city.”

Lord Velaryon asked the question I wanted answered, “And how would we do that? I only wanted to settle somewhere else in the short term. Surely even Volantis wouldn't be a deterrent to the Usurper?”

For a long moment the Magister looked intensely disappointed before he replied, “What is stopping them now beyond a lack of will to chase us? We shall not be a concern to the Stags until our children grow into true claimants.”

And what am I then?

I found out shortly after.

Lord Velaryon once again asked, “And how would we embed ourselves in such an alien land?”

The Cheesemonger looked as if someone just told him as his competitors cattle died a horrible death, “I believe, my Lord, that is it time for Volantis to once again have a woman at the helm. A century without a female Triach is entirely too long, wouldn't you say? Perhaps all they lacked was one of suitable lineage?”

Oh.

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