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Chapter Text

  When news came of Daeron’s death in Dorne under the banner of truce, I was stuck inside a chamber near the Starry Sept, working on plagiarizing the Proverbs of Solomon, which I wished to present to the Most Devout as inspiration from the Crone. It was sometimes frustrating, trying to remember verses from the Scriptures but changing wisdom with the Crone and “G-d” or “the Lord” with the name of one of the Seven was easy enough. The Seven knows it was easier work that the time when Daeron made me ghostwrite his “Conquest of Dorne.”

  I had been pulled away from my first life at the ripe old age of four and twenty, by the very Crone herself, who was rather upset by the fact that the vast majority of her Faithful had no idea what the Seven-Pointed Star even preached. Her plan was to use me to reform the Faith, preferably by acquiring the reins of its power, not by nailing ninety-five theses on the door of the Starry Sept.

  The initial plan was to be sent to Oldtown, to study the holy scriptures of the Faith and take the vows of a septon, and then work my way to the top of the career ladder. It was quite a quite brilliant plan that I made at the age of seven years – Daeron ruling with the temporal iron fist over the people of the Seven Kingdoms, and me, with a crystal crown upon my head and a soft silk glove over the souls of the Faithful, bestowing my charity on the orphan, the widow and the infirm and seeing to septons learning to read and preach the holy writ, as the Crone bade me do.

  It did not work out as planned, for dear father had a dwarvely grudge towards the Hightower, one to great to allow me to set foot in Oldtown. Yet by the time of Daeron’s death, there I was. It was the same grudge towards the Hightowers that the sons of Rhaenyra had that led me there. My uncle Hand had sent me there post-haste, for His High Holiness had died and the Iron Throne wished to ensure that the next Sheperd of the Faithful was not of their accursed line. So there I went with great haste, to exercise the crown’s right of exclusion and ruin the career path of the Most Devout Abelar, who had the misfortune of being of the same blood as Queen Alicent. (i)

****

  The news of my brother’s death were sadly not surprising, for he had not heeded my warnings on the treacherous nature of the Dornish and his chivalrous nature prevented him from showing up in force at a gathering of truce. I had still held hope that Daeron would live, that my existence would butterfly away his fate. Yet my hopes all had come crashing down and now my fate was a crown made of gold.

  I had not married Daena, for reasons including my aversion to incest and the conflict of my mental and physical age strong enough to provoke me existential angst. My insertion into Baelor did not come with existential horror, for the Crone made me aware of the reason for my second life and I was obviously aware of the divine means of my transmogrification. Having convinced my uncle of the benefits of holding the Iron Throne and the Crystal Crown in the hands of the Targaryens, I was yet unwed and presumed to take the holy orders soon enough.

  Now that I was king, I was in no hurry to marry, even if I had no heir. Beyond the very horror at the idea of incest, Daena’s nature was so different from mine, that our marriage would have fared worse than that of Robert and Cersei. Rhaena’s piousness far outweighed my own, and while a celibate marriage between the two of us would have worked well enough, my heart would not deny her the desire of becoming a septa. I was already halfway set in my plans to name Daeron, the son of my worthless cousin, as my heir and Prince of Dragonstone once he reached the age of six and ten and won his spurs.

****

  I hurried to the Citadel to send word to King’s Landing, to stay my uncle’s hand against the Dornish hostages, until I found a way to rescue the Dragonknight from the hands of the Dornish. Oh, how I lamented the fact that the wrong cousin was in the hands of my enemies, for Aegon was a cousin who I well afforded to lose. I was tempted to pull a move from the original Baelor and recover Aemon from the Wyls, and while I was convinced that a quick S.O.S. to the Crone would have saved me from the bites of Wyl’s vipers, I had no intention to make peace with the Dornish, and so that way was shut to me. Perhaps I could find twenty good men and attempt to free my cousin, by I doubted that even the Crone herself could afford so much plot armor.

  Ravens went to the lords of the Dornish Marches, bidding them to keep their men armed and ready. My coronation in King’s Landing could wait, and soon, with five hundred men that Lord Hightower graciously provided I was on the Roseroad, riding towards Highgarden, and then Blackhaven.

  I was king now, and the Blessed Baelor would be quite a different king than Baelor the Befuddled. I had no need and reason to imprison my sisters in a Maidenvault, for I was determined to wed Daena to Lord Stark’s new heir, if yet unwed. Rhaena was to join the Faith, and Eleana’s marriage was to wait quite a few more years, though I planned to keep Oakenfist as far away from her as possible. The bastard was five and thirty year her elder, and I was sorely tempted to shorten him of his head the moment his eyes turned towards her.

  While I was the Crone’s very champion and at least an outwardly pious man, I had no intentions of following the other Baelor’s folly. The brothels of King’s Landing were the Red Keep’ sewers, for if I took away the whores from the city, Aegon would fill the palace with them.(ii)

  The king’s dole towards the poor of Fleabottom was a welcome idea, as long as it did not empty the treasury, though I judged that the “panem” needed the addition of a bit of “circenses.” The idea of using doves instead of ravens was, to me, a Terran, not so absurd, but it was hardly worth the bother and the hassle. I was king, and I would be the greatest king that the Seven Kingdoms had, for the shepherd of the flock should seek the good of their flock, and every ruler the good of the people subject to him. (iii)

  So begins the reign of the Blessed Baelor.

Chapter Text

A runner bolting on his steed

With reins clenched tight and head uncover’d

A speck arising, growth in sight

The horizons are for him too tight

With ravens croaking close behind and flapping by

To Baelor King he brings a brief dispatch

From battlefield. And hidden low In soaking togs

The hero worthiest of them all

The only sign of battle fall

And it sufficed

It’s Daeron dead! On foreign land

Brought down by wicked hand

His lovely garment white appears

But blood is dripping like red tears

And the bare chest of the now dead

B y lances is impaled

Daeron is dead, who rode the dunes?

How was he killed by wicked knaves

How die the cowards if the braves

Perish like this?

And you , who always burned to fight

Lie now and lost your might

You laughed at Stranger day and night

B ut He prevailed

In silver casket now y ou lay

F ull armor, honors to convey

Blues skies would tremor under feet

When Gods you meet *

Aemon – Blackhaven

After more than a moon’s turn spent in Wyl’s cage, Aemon was once again free. Not free in the general understanding of the word, but on his way to it. Word came to Wyl from his brother Baelor, who offered his hostages in exchange for the Dragonknight. Even the cruel Lord of Wyl, so eager for vengeance against one of dragonkin, would not wager the life of his kin to satisfy his need for blood. The fact that to refuse the release of Ser Aemon Targaryen would ensure the enmity of several other Dornish houses, whose kin were graciously housed in the black cells of the Red Keep, most obviously played its part.

Weeks spent under the scorching sun of Dorne, with wounds barely treated, left Aemon in a state of weakness. But as Blackhaven approached, instead of having his heart lightened, its burdens seemed to grow heavier. The guilt and despair of failed duty seemed now to loom more threatening, and as much as he welcomed his release, he feared facing the brother of his fallen king.

Daeron’s bones had arrived at Blackhaven a week before and had been delivered in the hands of the King’s men and sent on towards King’s Landing. His funeral rites would wait until King Baelor made his way back to the capital.

The exchange of prisoners happened beneath the walls of the Dondarrion seat. The fear of Dornish treachery saw King Baelor surrounded by what quite seemed to be the entire valor of the Marches. It is not to be said that the Dornish came few, for two hundred men accompanied Lord Wyl and the envoys of the Prince of Dorne. But under the glowering eyes of the Stormlanders, their numbe

rs seemed barely a dozen, and the Dornish lances looked uneasily and almost spooked. Vows were taken before the gods, solemn promises of drawing no swords and shedding no blood, under pain of damnation. The fact that the Stormlords view the Dornish vows as nought, but a farce escaped no one’s attention. **

King Baelor bade his men to bring forth his fourteen captives, and the Dornish brought forth Aemon. The hostages were delivered, and Baelor himself helped Aemon of his horse and helped him towards his men.

His feverish attempt to ask for Baelor’s forgiveness for his failure were met with an entreaty to silence. “Rest now, cousin, for matters such as these can await your better health. But be assured, that the fault lies not in you, but in those who break the Seven’ own bond, the truce of gods. Go see the master, and let your heart lighten, for my wrath is not for you, but for trucebreakers and those who deceive the gods.”

The king then turned to the Dornish envoys. “Lord Wyl, a word, if you will. It is good to know you value your kin so much that you forfeit your own life.”

As the Lord Wyl reached for his sword, fearful for his life, Baelor reassured him. “I am no such sinner before the gods as the break parley as you once did, for I walk in the way of good men, and keep the paths of the righteous. But know this, that only my cousin’s captivity stayed my hand against your house, and by giving Ser Aemon his freedom, you have unchained me and allowed me to see your affronts to the Seven punished. Sleep easy, ‘till you have cause, and pray for your deliverance from the Seven Hells. For the wicked will be cut off from the earth, and the treacherous will be torn away from it.” ***

And with these words, Baelor turned his horse, the deed was done, and Aemon exchanged the hold of his captors, for his new ones, for the King had brought with him a dozen healers, and he would not escape their hands for a fortnight.

Viserys – The Red Keep

The news of Daeron’s death had so enraged the Lord Hand, that he ordered the Dornish hostages to be sent to the Black Cells to await their hanging.

Such orders were soon countermanded by the new king. For all that Viserys ruled in the absence of the King, his actions were ruled by ravens. Ravens from Oldtown, ravens from Highgarden, from Cider Hall, from Blackhaven.

Baelor sent word to stay the executions, Baelor sent word to halt Daeron’s marriage negotiations with Braavos, to recall the envoys in expectance of new ones, with new instructions. Words were sent to see to the readiness of Daena’s dowry, a strange request, since Baelor just halted the negotiations for her hand. Instruction came to see that the realm’s levies and fleets be kept ready, for siege engines to be built in their multitude.

Baelor’s ravens were followed by Viserys’ own. On black wings, words were sent to the High Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, summoning them for the coronation of the new King and oaths of fealty.

Baelor’s plans were soon unveiled, for word came for the hostages to be sent to Blackhaven. Viserys’ would have raged at His Grace’s plans for peace, if his messages had not made clear that he meant but to secure Aemon’s release, not to leave the Dornish unpunished. It seemed the King’s piousness inclined him not to peace, for he viewed Daeron’s murder an affront to the Seven.

Ravens were soon followed by more preparations, for the funerals of Daeron and the coronation were to put in place. The new Septon and his gaggle of the Most Devout arrived from Oldtown, and Viserys was thankful that the unfortunate circumstances allowed Baelor to prevent the election of the wretched Abelar, that Hightower spawn. Being a Hightower was one thing but there were rumors of some youthful follies of him with some septa named Eloyse. What good would a High Septon be, if he could not even keep his vows of chastity? ****

Contrary to the established traditions of House Targaryen and given the state of the body of the Young Dragon, Baelor had sent word that he should not be incinerated, rather that he be entombed in the Royal sept, beneath the statue of the Warrior, but only once he arrived in King’s Landing. Already, master carvers had been entrusted to carve his likeness in stone, his youth retained in its eternal embrace.

Baelor had arranged the commission of a crown, for that of the Conqueror was lost in Dorne. It was to be made of a circlet of gold encrusted with rubies and polished dragonglass, with seven sharp spike of iron and two bands over the head, a seven-pointed star above them.

Several moons would occupy such festivities and preparations for war and then the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms would once again fix themselves upon Dorne, and lords and knights and men-at-arms would once again march to war.

Chapter Text

The body of King Daeron arrived from Dorne ahead of a large procession. More than a thousand lords and knights, and septons followed the Young Dragon's body from the Gate of the Gods to the Red Keep. First came the knight who had fought with him in Dorne, then various lords who had joined the procession on its way from Blackhaven. Nearer to the litter carrying the King's remains where Silent Sisters and members of the Most Devout. Surrounding the coffin where what remained of the Kingsguard: Ser Aemon Targaryen, freshly confirmed by King Baelor as the order's Lord Commander and carrying the drawn sword Blackfyre  with him; Ser Edmund Warrick and Ser Dennis Withfield.

A litter carried the bones of the fallen king, hid under a lifelike effigy, dressed in clothes of black velvet, crowned with the Dragonbane's circlet. The effigy was covered under a cloth of woven gold, above it a canopy of the same. Following the litter was Viserys Targaryen, Hand of the King, King Baelor and his sisters, accompanied by the Great Lords who had reached King's Landing in time: Stark and Arryn, Lannister and Tully, Baratheon and Tyrell.

Between the Gate of the Gods and the Red Keep the entirety of the men of the City Watch were lined with torches, dressed in cloths of black. Soon, the remains arrived at the Red Keep and were placed on a catafalque in the Royal Sept, covered with black velvet and veiled with a crimson cloth bearing the Targaryen dragon. The sept was likewise covered in the banners of House Targaryen and full of lit candles. The body was to lay there for seven days, under the vigil of both King Baelor and the Dragonknight.

When the King's body was lowered under the floors of the Sept, the Hand of the King and the Masters of the Small Council laid their signs of office over the coffin. Following such, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard laid Blackfyre, the sword of kings, over the coffin and the herald cried: "Seven willing, have pity and mercy on the soul of the most excellent, most high and most powerful Daeron, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm". Then Ser Aemon took the sword again and having risen it high, the herald cried again: "God give a long life to Baelor, by the grace of the Seven King".

The funerals of King Daeron were unlike any of the kings that came before him, the ceremony being of the new King's making. Though some maesters argue that Baelor meant to show the might and splendor of his House, it was more likely a way to honor his brother, for before the moment of his own death, he requested that his own funeral be the same as any man's, with no pomp or ceremony.

Septon Jonos, The Life of Blessed Baelor

 

The Red Keep

Small Council Chamber

Baelor

            My first meeting with the Small Council was quite the portent of change. Beyond the fact that another expedition to Dorne was to be planned, those in the Council were worried about their own seats, some more than others. My uncle was quite assured of his own power, and so did the Oakenfist. As it was the first of my meetings and because the occasion permitted, I had invited the Great Lords of the realm to offer me their counsel.

            Having seated ourselves at the oak table in the Chamber, the Hand took the initiative in starting its proceedings.

“First amongst our concerns, Your Grace, is if the Small Council will keep its members under your new reign. Have you any of your own men in mind for these posts?”, he started.

“I have no intention of changing you with a septon, uncle. As for my late brother’s counsellors, I believe they are competent enough to advise me. What needs to concern us is the fact that my Kingsguard has only three of its members, four if you count Ser Joffrey Staunton. We need not seek for a new Lord Commander, for I trust my cousin with that honor. As for Ser Jeffrey, his shameful surrender to the Dornish is not one I would forget and as such I had not bothered to ransom him from Lord Wyl. I suspect that his soul has reached the Father’s judgement, knowing his captor.”

            Lord Hunter, the Master of Laws, interjected: “Have you in mind any knights for these honors, Your Grace ?”

            “I have no men that I favor, save for Sir Olyvar Ferren, with who’s worth I do not doubt that my Lord Lannister agrees. His feats in Dorne have brought him fame enough so that he may honor his white cloak, instead of the reverse, and I find his temperament suited for one who might guard me.” I replied. Ser Olyvar was a man near forty years of few words, taciturn and melancholy, on account of some romantic misfortunes in his youth, which had turned his hair to silver. He had a tendency to drink when he was without purpose, but the man was responsible for my martial education since Blackhaven, and I had grown found of the man since.

            The Lord Lannister was quick to assent to my words, extolling the Silver Ferret’s deeds in such flattering words as if the man was his own son. The young Lord Tyrell was quite enthusiastic in naming what appeared to be the entirety of flower of the Reach’s chivalry, and Tully followed him with the suggestion of his own uncle Oscar, a man near fifty, but covered in glory since the days of the Dance of Dragons. Lord Hunter had his own nephew in mind, though he was not one to be considered, since the man managed not to find his way in Dorne during Daeron’s wars. Ossifer Plum, who held the treasury, offered the name of one of his household knights, Lord Baratheon that of his wife’s cousin, Joffrey Arryn graciously agreed with the Master of Laws, and Baratheon assured me there where plenty men among the Marcher houses that would be honored to serve me. Cregan Stark sat and said nought.

            Names were considered and discarded, knights where lauded and insulted. After long deliberations and countless names thrown around, some semblance of unanimity was reached. My counsellors were quick to assent on Ser Olyvar, eager to earn my  favor, but other names were not that easily agreed upon. Yet agreed upon they were. As such Ser Karyl, the Bat Knight of Castle More, Ser Olyvar’s cousin Ser Vallyn of Lannisport and Ser Armen Storm, the Bastard of Rain House (of whom it was rumored that he once sought to become a septon) had been chosen.

           Once that matter had been settled, I took once again the reins of the meeting and proposed that alms be given to the poor of King’s Landing on the occasion of my coronation so the smallfolk may be joyful alongside the highborn, a proposal that only met some murmurs from Lord Plumm and praises from most of the other lords. Having easily settled that, I took to matters of a more serious nature, that of the administration of the Crownlands.

            “I have no intention to speak ill of my late brother, but his attention was more often than not preoccupied with matters of war rather than peace. As such, though not of his fault, the Crownlands have suffered. It is my intent to see my lands put to rights. Thus, let it be known that I will take no men into my service whose hearts are not bent towards justice. Let it be known that for the officers of my own household, or my bailiffs, seneschals and provosts in the Crownlands, are not to receive, either themselves or through their families, any presents of anyone, save food and drink. They are not to receive oaths from those under their power, or those who seek redress from them.”

            “Your Grace, such is the custom for such men,” said Lord Hunter. “I cannot be judged for faults that were not seen as such during your father’s and brother’s reigns. May the Seven rest their souls!”

             “I do not seek to find fault in you, my lord. But in my reign, my men shall follow my will. I ask you, Lord Hunter, to send knights inquisitors to all men in my service to see if their conduct is just and honest and if they safeguard the privileges offered to my subjects by my royal predecessors, and if not, to relieve them of their offices. I mean to establish the Iron Throne as a throne of justice. Find then men of valor and send them to me so I may ascertain their worth and send them forth in my kingdom. Bid them to swear every man to an oath to render justice, without distinction of persons, according to the approved customs of the place; to swear that they would give or send nothing to any member of my own Council, or their kin, or to said knights inquisitors. And bide them to keep any disgraced men in the land of their office, until charges are brought against them, and that as such time they should appear before the Iron Throne, on pain of death.”

             “ I will see to have your will done forthwith, my king” said the Master of Laws, with a pained expression on his face. I began to wonder if he were a man I should keep in my council, if my justice pained him so. His replacement could wait though, until I had cause to doubt his good and honest service. It might well depend on if he found me twenty good men for my investigators, or men of a lower nature. If not, I would find myself good and honest septons for the matter, though I could not very well call them “knights inquisitor”.

            My uncle ended his silence and bade me consider the matter of the envoys to Braavos I recalled: " What plans you have, nephew, on the negotiations with the Sealord ? He might well feel slighted by the recall of my envoys without any due case.”

            “ I have no ill will towards the Sealord, uncle. However, I see no wisdom in offering my sister’s hand to a man whose heir would not follow him in his rank.  Let us send my cousin Aegon then to treat with Braavos and let the honor of  royal envoy wash away whatever slight they may perceive.”

            “Though Aegon is mine own son, I must advise to send men more old and wiser than him” said the Lord Hand, no doubt considering what trouble Aegon would find himself in with courtesans.

            I laughed at his hesitance: “ Fear not, uncle! I do not mean for Aegon to travel alone. Send with him men you find suitable and give them instructions as you may please.”

            Lord Plumm made to speak his own mind, but I then spoke to Lord Tully: “My lord Robin, though I know that the Lordship of Harrenhal swears its fealty to your own House, I find it wise to keep it for the moment in my own keeping, so that the coin for war with Dorne might be easier gathered. I mean no slight to you, and since you have so eagerly offered your uncle into my service, I would be most joyous to name him as castellan”.

           Robin Tully accepted the matter with much joy, for it was better for his uncle to hold the castle than another lord. Having been done with the Muppets, Lord Plumm opened his mouth again: “Your Grace, we need to speak of the coin for your war with Dorne.”.

           His luck fled him once again, for I silenced him once more: “ Let us speak of this another day, for the day has gone and I must see to my prayers”. And with such the Council disbanded, though not before I invited the Great Lords to hunt and dine with me in the morrow. I had matters to speak with them personally, and not with the Small Council.

Chapter Text

Chapter III: Have Friends

Have friends. They are a second self. To a friend, another friend is always good and wise; between friends, everything turns out well. You are worth as much as others say you are, and to win their good words, win their hearts. Performing a service for another works like a charm, and the best way to win friends is to do people favours. The greatest and the best that we have depends on others. You must live with either friends or enemies. You should make a new friend every day, if not a confidant, then at least a supporter, for if you have chosen well, some will later become confidants.

Baltasar Gracian, The Pocket Oracle and Art of Prudence

Red Keep
The King’s Chambers

I met with Cregan Stark in the intimacy of my own chambers, for my own dealings with him had need of a great deal of time and talk. Having surfaced the age of fifty, Lord Stark enjoyed, as some would say, the wisdom of old age, though unlike some, he was not eager to dispend it with a smug countenance. He was thin and reedy, his face gaunt and bluish, and his breath sometimes ran short, likely as a result of the Winter Fever that beset the kingdom at the beginning of my father’s reign. Some said that the cold and shivers never left him since, and not even the heat of the South brought him reprieve. He was the perfect portrayal of his House’s words: winter had touched him, left its mark upon him, and made him its own.

Unlike some sycophants, Cregan was not one to drown me in flatteries or eager to ask what reason I had to invite him to dine with him. He was a man whose silence spoke more than his words, for while his words could reduce a grown man to embarassement, I had seen young knights reduced to shivering wrecks by one stare from Cregan Stark, with one eyebrow raised. Stark was thus, not a man to whom you wished to make a good impression. He commanded respect even in the face of fools, and even the most self-absorbed, peacocky young men fled his presence the moment his eyebrow raised. The young Bernard Tyrell proved quite an example of it, when he praised his father’s handling of Dorne. Where some other men would disagree vehemently, all that Stark had to do was say nothing. Of course, that had his downfalls, for if Stark was silent for other reasons, men would become convinced of his own disdain, and determined to prove him wrong. They would make boasts of future deeds of arms, and in trying to win the Old Wolf’s approval, they were certain to lose it.

Such was the man that stood before me. He was a man who I would not have to deal with in flatteries, or much words. As such, I put the matter of the New Gift before him in quite a fortright manner.
“ I would say this plain – whatever elogies that maesters have brought to “the Good Queen” Alysanne are not those with which I would agree. Not only she took land from a leal lord to whom her husband brought only troubles, she displayed a lack of judgement in giving the Watch a greater burden and no means to deal with it. I would like to think that the loss of our dragons has brought us Targaryens closer to the earth. It is not in my own power to return the Gift, for the Night’s Watch is not part of the realm. The Iron Throne, however, has nothing against any such deals that House Stark’s would make with the Watch to receive these lands back.”

“ The Iron Throne is willing to renounce half of the taxes that these lands would owe to it, and see them given to the Black Brothers. The decline of the Watch and Wildling incursions have made us consider the need for a second line of defence to the North. As such, I would see these lands given the privileges of a March, provided that whatever lords you seek to install there would provide service in defending against raiders, and aid the Watch in their need. Thus, they may keep any number of men-at-arms that they would judge fitting for such purposes, and even bind every goodman settled there to bear arms for his own defence, shall be spared the obligation of providing military service beyond the borders of your own kingdom, and given the right of high justice, to hand whatever punishment the Warden of the North might wish to establish for the breaking of the peace. I judged it good that you should not appoint any higher lord upon them, but be answerable and swear only to House Stark, as their Lord-Warden of this March.”

Cregan nodded, with the ghost of a smile upon his face. “It is a settlement well thought of, your Grace. Mayhaps Lord Umber or some chieftains might not be such pleased that their lands would not return to their own jurisdiction, but they’ll nevertheless be happy enough to have some cousin or other given a holdfast.”

“While it might seem that I seek to drown you in favors, you and I know that I only seek to redress past wrongs and forgotten pacts. My uncle, Jacaerys, once promised the hand of his own daughter for your heir. Yet the Seven-in-One willed it not. My uncle’s promise still binds my house. And while your son Rickon has died in Dorne, Lord Jonnel is still umarried, as is my own sister Daena. My own honor deems me to offer the hand of my sister, and of course, a dowry according to her rank.”

“It speaks well of you to remember the words of those who came before you, Your Grace. Jonnel will be pleased to be wed. I shall send a raven to Winterfell and summon him and see the matter done before the Gods. You do not seek to have her bring the whole litany of her God’s servants with her, for I know you for a pious man, Your Grace ?” Stark asked, with the same blank face as always, but with a hint of defiance in his eyes, shivering slightly beneath his furs.

I was quick to assure him: “I worship the Seven-in-One, my lord, but I do not deny your Gods. My sister is not as pious as myself, and it is your castle, and your Gods. A sept between the walls of Wintertown would not go amiss, to bring succor to whatever Faithful might travel there, and is a matter that would please me greatly. But a sept needs only a septon, not a Most Devout and all his companions.”

And thus the matter was dealt with, swiftly and plainly. Cregan Stark downed his mead, and with parting words, announced me that he shall remain in King’s Landing untill after the coronation and wedding, and provide me with counsel on Dorne. He promised me Manderly ships and two thousand mountain men. And then he left, though a chill remained in the chambers, one that the fire would not banish, and only a new sunrise would see it gone. It brought one’s mind to the heart of winter.

I could not call him a confidant, nor even a friend. He was himself, and it bode well that he was pleasantly inclined towards me.
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The Red Keep
Godswood

Daena was water-dancing around with her ladies when I went to tell her the news. The mattter was not one I was eager to perform. My relationship with her was fraught, on account of different interests, and the manner of our dealings awkward, on account of her derision of holy things.

“Daena, if you would dismiss your ladies, I have serious matters to speak with you” I said to her. She was not inclined to listen to me, and protested quite vigurously. Her ladies where more judicious, so they left. Only me, her and poor Aemon remained.

“There’s no need to keep waterdancing. The Sealord shall find another wife.”

The abruptness of my manner raised new protest in her, and she loudly lamented:“ You mean to keep me a maiden, dear brother ? I am not Rhaena, to become a septa, to satisfy your lust for the Seven’s favor.” She would have continued so, had I not interrupted her again.

“You’ll marry Lord Stark’s heir and be Lady of Winterfell, and if it pleases you, you might leave your septas behind. You shall wed once he comes down South, and before I go to Dorne.”
Not even such pleased her. Mayhaps she worried that Jonnel Stark was a man in the same manner as his father. I had not the mood to assure her, so I left Aemon to assure her otherwise. The poor man looked at me as I had finally decided to punish him for Daeron’s death.

I fled the Godswood swiftly. Perhaps the manner of my conversation with my sister made me look like a boor, but I had no ease of manner in talking with her. She found pleasure in deriding holy things, and in mocking me, and she was all together to lively and flightly to deal with. She frustrated me, and I did my best to ignore her (though that often led her to start talking in innuendos, to discomfort me further). I might be sad at our future parting, but certainly not soon.

We were not friends, and certainly not confidants. And I knew not if she thought that I had done her a service. Mayhaps once day should be satisfied, but I resolved to pray for Jonnel Stark, and that a great deal.
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The Kingswood

Olyver Baratheon was a man built in the usual manner of his ancestors. A great man, of body, but not necessarily a great mind. At least this one knew his letters, unlike a certain other. The man delighted in war, in the hunt, and in the drink, and other pleasures, less palatable. He boasted of his prowesss in all, save for whoring, for he had the presence of mind to know that such would not put him in good favor with myself.

He was young enough, though older than myself, and that gave him a certain assureness in his conversation with me. He presumed to teach me of war, of battle and gave me a flurry of advice in dealing with Dorne. He played himself thus, because I painted my own plans as born of his own advice.

“You speak well, my lord Baratheon. I urge you to find no offense if I ask for Lord Dondarrion’s hospitality when I bring fire and blood to Dorne. I cannot conduct a war from King’s Landing. Though there might be another way, but I am loath to propose you such.”

Lord Baratheon was quick to assure me otherwise: “ Speak your mind, Your Grace. I would be most pleased to be of help to you.”

“It would please me well to have some quarters of my own in the Stormlands. Perhaps a castle, that I might give my young cousin someday something to call his own. And while his hand is settled upon, I have no doubt that Daeron has a fine impression of your house that he might desire to tie his blood to yours. You need not worry that I might take lands from your lords, to give to him. Such would be repaid in gold. And I always believed that the Red Mountains would look better if both sides were in your kingdom. And younger sons might prove themselves brave and worthy of reward in the war to come.”

“ A most judicious plan, Your Grace” said Baratheon, and made to say more. But a boar came into view, so he readied his spear and galloped his horse towards his quarry. I was briefly worried that he might end up in the manner of his kinsman Bobby, but I looked around and saw no Lannister squire carrying wine. So I eased my mind.
Lord Baratheon certainly thought me friend, and it was useful for myself to think the same. He was not a man to make confidences to, but nevertheless a man who would be assured of my great friendship towards him, unless I dealt him an obvious insult.

I sighed and whispered: “ I need to make other confidants that are not priests.”.

Ser Olyvar Ferren cleared his throat.

“Do excuse me, my good ser Athos! I have momentarily forgot about you. You are a fine confidant."

Feren growled and murmured behind me: “ Your Grace seems to forget quite often, especially my name.”

Chapter Text

It is said that when faithful Hugor of the Hill in ancient times was sent visions of the divine, that he, by his own hand, carved statues of the Father and Mother, of Smith and Crone, of Warrior and Maiden, of the Stranger. These statues served to worship the One-Who-Is-Seven and the Seven-Who-Are-One in the first temple of the gods, itself built by the selfsame hand. It is said that since these statues where carved by the hand of the Prophet himself, that the very stone was hallowed beyond belief, and that from their stony visage, the presence of the Seven was felt most arduously, watching over their Faithful.

And when the Andals came to Westeros, guided by promises of foreign land and rule, these relics remained behind on the Holy Hill, in the ancient realm. Yet the vagaries of time had their due, and the Valyrians came with their dragons and Andalos was lost to its people, and the Seven Stones were lost. Some said that the Stones burned in dragonfire, or were lost to the hammers of the blasphemous, other said that the Stones were taken as spoils and sent to Valyria and perished with the Doom.

Yet, a tale was told of a faithful septon, who in the cover of darkness took the faces of the Seven and hid them in a hollow hill where they remain to this day.

And in my sleep, vision of eyes unyielding plagued my dreams, and I sank in them like in a sea. I found myself on the shore of the Narrow Sea, and a raven black as night flew beyond the walls of the Red Keep, across the sea, past Dragonstone, past Pentos and in the Velvet Hills, where the Little Rhoyne starts flowing and the beyond to a hill covered in pines and a cave hid by bushes. And then the raven sat, and the bush set itself alight in glowing flames and a Voice said HERE, and the eyes returning, gaze almighty, and in their eyes I found an abyss, full of glittering stars and galaxies, and my soul was laid bare before the One, and music celestial was heard, notes eldritch to my ears, and I felt my mind slipping the bound of sanity and my wits cracking, for I saw what was not meant to be seen and the flesh of my body burned in agony, and a Voice said SEE MY WILL DONE, and in that Voice I heard Seven Voices, I heard the wind and gales of a thousand storms, a myriad thunders, the sound of countless rivers, I heard the waves of an angry sea.

Darkness came and covered my vision, and in that darkness cold winds and I shivered, and then a light began to burn in the darkness. And as the light found its way towards me, the darkness turned into fog. But as that fog lifted, I found myself North, sitting atop the Wall, and looking down upon the Haunted Forest. And in that dreadful dream, I saw a blizzard coming from the heart of Winter, as high as the heavens themselves., towering over the quiet trees, advance unyielding, blizzard unescapable. And in dread I looked, frozen in spot.

And then a sweet voice said Wake and I felt my mind slip into consciousness, full of oneiric knowledge.

And in my bed I sat in reverence, in wonder and in dread. My body trembled, my heart beat what seemed to be a thousand beats a minute. The threads of my mind still pulled in a hundred directions and my thoughts were muddled. I got out of the bed on shaky legs and limped to the basin full of water, overflowing like a spring, dripping rivulets over the floor, drenching carpets and glittering like stars in the night sky. I gingerly cupped my hands, took water and dumped it on my hand. The shivering of the dream seemed to leave me slightly, and an innocent laughter was briefly in my ears.

And I stood there as moments passed, and minutes turned into hours, wet and afraid, contemplating the horror of the divine and the diminutiveness of my own existence. I, a king, who ruled a continent, who commanded thousands to die at my bidding, was naught but an ant, judged on a cosmic scale, found unworthy, and yet upon my worthless being was bestowed the attention of gods almighty. And in the light of day, I blinked, and in that brief moment of darkness, the Divine Eye pierced again, darkness and light and a myriad colors swirling in its iris, and in my ears a sound anew, biding me to see the will of the Seven done.

And servants came, with food and drink. I sent them back, set upon my knees and fasted and prayed. The sun crossed the sky and it was midday, and servants came again. I sent them back again.

I left then the room and found my way into the sept, my Kingsguard bewildered at my visage, for I looked half-mad and felt that way. And it was Maiden’s Day, and young noble daughters set alight candles at the Maiden’s feet and brought garland offerings. And the septon looked confused, and the maidens bewildered, for no man was to set foot inside this day. Yet he was but a priest, and I a king, and he said nought. And in the sound of songs of innocence, sung for the Maiden, I found madness fleeing.

And tears overflowed my eyes and I knelt in front of the Maiden until the sun returned to its home, and the moon glowed brightly through the windows of the sept. And I dreaded sleep, and evaded slumber, fear and horror niggling in my mind. And yet sleep took me.

I woke under a tree. I rose and saw a silver stream, and a cool wind flew forth and a pleasing chill filled the air. And music unspeakably beautiful was heard, and birds danced amidst the trees. And fawns played in the meadows. Sleeping, I dreamed, and in the dream I slept. And I woke, and my mind was whole again.

Chapter Text

Chapter V​

Baelor

The King’s Solar

My uncle was understandably confused by my “episode” on Maiden’s Day and sought clarification. It was not without an amount of cheekiness that I told him the truth. More or less.

“There is to be a change of plans. We shall go to war with Dorne, but first I shall gather a host and go to Andalos, I shall humble the Pentoshi and be a pilgrim on the Sacred Hill.” I told him, a bit anxious for his response.”

“Being pious is well and good, nephew, but what in the gods’ name made you come up with such a plan ?” all but yelled Viserys Targaryen. On his face was planted a figure of perplexity, mixed with a generous mix of annoyance and a desire to tear out the hair from his head. Probably from my head as well. “Have you gone mad ?”

“I was mad yesterday, my lord Hand.” I told him with a curt voice, a hint of laughter nevertheless hiding between my words. “I assure you I am quite sane today.”

“Then whatever reason you have for such a sudden change of plans?” my uncle inquired, pacing around my solar, and threateting to wear the Myrish carpet under his trodding feet. “I half feared that when your brother died you meant to come to a peace with Dorne. And now you seem to have a newfound thirst for battle.”

“I was mad yesterday, that’s why I mean to bring war into Andalos, uncle! I said with a tone that brooked no argument. “Please be silent, and let me tell my truth! What do you know of dragon dreams?”

“Dragon dreams, nephew? You mean to say that whatever plagued Daenys the Dreamer now plagues your resting hours? It bodes not to overthink such visions halfway to madness, nephew. Such dreams are always vague and foggy, and no amount of wise men have tried to divine the future from them, to no avail. I would not have you lost to such. Even I, quite often, dream of a wave of cold and snow coming from the far North, and feel like that the Stranger himself marches with it. But the Long Night was thousands of years ago, and whatever might come it is not to be in our lifetime if the Gods do not hate us.”

“I know what dream you speak of, for I dreamt it also, uncle, but it was not dragons that sent me dreams, but gods. The Other may not come today, nor tommorow, they may not come for a hundred forty and six years, yet come they will. But that is not what I dreamed. Whatever madness a Targaryen might found in parsing vague dreams is nought compared with what visions the Seven send. But seeing the Divine Eye would serve to crack one’s mind. Yet a maiden’s song has relieved me of madness, fear not.”

“And what did the Seven command? To wage holy war on Pentos and conquer Andalos, while the Dornish live with their treachery? Taking a Free City is no easy or swift matter. It will take years to take it and years to keep it. And what will the Braavosi think of it? Will your gods protect you from a Faceles Man come to take your life in the night, Baelor? You worship the Crone, boy, I thought you more wise than this!” Viserys’ mood grew angrier and more worried with every word out of his mouth, his pacing quickened and his hands started wringing.

“I do not mean to conquer Pentos, uncle. The Pentoshi Flatlands are wide and rich, full of orchards, farms and mines. I meant to loot and sack the estates of cheesemongers and slavemaster, and take their bondmen out of their chains. The Pentoshi has long put their noses in the Dornish matter, it is time for them to be taught a lesson. It is not conquest I am after, only a punitive expedition, if you will – whatever sellsword they send against us we will crush. (“Though my grudges are long and hopefully my life longer” – I muttered under my breath) And from there to the Velvet Hills, the road is short. It is for stones the Seven send me forth, not war. The Seven Stones, which should mean something to you, if your septon taught you well.”

“But they are lost” said my uncle, his wrath now simmering lower and his pacing slower.

“And yet the gods showed me where they are, at the headwaters of the Little Rhoyne, inside a hollow hill. I know what you wish to tell me – that one should not always trust dreams. But the Doom came after Daenys’ dreams and it is not for dreams’ sake I wish to sail across the Sea. It is for fear of dreams. If one dream brings such madness, I shudder at more. I shall see the Will done, and hope that the gods stay silent.” My will was resolute. I was informing my uncle, not convincing him. I had no wish to spend my resting hours in anxiety, fearing dreams and madness.

“Well it seems that you have sent Aegon for naught to Braavos if I have to send other men to discuss other things. Shall I summon my son back, Your Grace?” Viserys asked, his manner once again pleasing, seating at last.

“There is no reason to ruin his pleasures yet. Let him have joy of Braavosi courtesans for longer. The Seven know that I shall have lesser use of him than they.”

“Then we shall see the King’s will done, your Grace.” said the Lord Hand and departed.

And I sat and planned. Whatever the Andalosi expedition shall be, it was not to be a proper crusade. Not yet at least. Perhaps years later, when new incomes from Dorne will see the treasury fuller, and the cold dish of revenge will be served with a side of irony – Dornish gold serving the downfall of the Pentoshi.

A punitive expedition, men with fire and sword. A chevauchee, in another world’s words. I would have ten or twenty thousand men, and set fire to Pentoshi estates, take their crops and their herds, their gold and their silver, their jewels and silky garments. I would tear apart their manses, their towers and palaces, and leave them flee on foot for the safety of Pentos – if they could escape the swift horses of my knights. But most importanly, I would take their slaves. I would save what few and diminished Andals remained, take them across the Sea, return them to the loving embrace of the Faith, and in this replenish in numbers some what the Realm lost with the Winter Fever.

I would have the Oakenfist provide aid to the Braavosi, and harass the ships of Pentos. And when it was all said and done, I would yet still give leave to Westerosi mariners to take whatever ship of Pentos they might “reasonably” suspect of holding slaves, with the King’s own assent.

I would take men from the Crownlands. Arryn would surely join me, eager to prove his faith. Tyrell and Reachmen to prove their chivalry. Lannister and Baratheon and Tully to, not to prove themselves any lesser. And septons, to provide relief for the souls of the dying. The Faith would surely contribute to my expedition’s coffers – not to prove themselves unworthy. They shall give and take no loot – for septons take no spoils. And when I shall find the Seven Stones, all shall look in wonder. And the Faith shall have its spoils. And whatever gold remained in my hands, it will surely find its way to the Faith, once I found the ways to have them use it for my means – for teaching the illiterate, for healing the sick, for providing for the orphan, the widow and the infirm.

I would have a little crusade - as a treat. And one day, I'll be back. For such is the WILL.

Chapter Text

On the days before my coronation, I had left the Red Keep and King’s Landing behind and removed myself to Dragonstone and its ancient keep, where I spent seven nights in fast and quiet contemplation. The reason of my exit (not pursued by a bear), was to return. It is a quite obvious reason, but one in need of an explanation. My coronation was to begin with a procession through King’s Landing, towards the Red Keep and the Royal Sept. It was thus necessary to leave the city the day before and return to it – but I would grant no single lord of the Crownlands the honor of hosting me, and slighting the rest. And whatever place would suit more than Dragonstone, the home of my ancestors? And nothing seemed more fitting that returning for my coronation, I would follow in the steps of the Conqueror, and set foot on the mainland of Westeros, and be crowned king.

Having sailed back to the city, the natural start of my procession was the docks. But it would not do for a king to enter the city through the Mud Gate and Fishmonger Square, for some would be quite scandalized. And so I rode beneath the walls, not before I gave the captain that ferried me a gift of gold in thanks – seven times seven dragons, and entered the city through the Gate of the Gods, more suited for its purpose. The notables of King’s Landing, the high and mighty lords of the realm, the Small Council and various courtiers greeted me at these gates.

As I advanced towards the Red Keep, the Goldcloacks lined the streets, their cloaks newly furnished, for it would not do for dusty and patched coverings on this day. And with them, the people of King’s Landing too, eager to get a glimpse of their king, riding in all his finery. I would not bore you with all the displays of pageantry, orations, speeches and the like. It suffices to say that their number was many, that a great deal of coin was spent on those (though to the joy of my uncle, it was the city’s guildmasters that paid the coin), that all the mummers to be found in the city were gainfully employed this day, and that they were but half boring. I was not that self-centered that I delighted in the repeated strokings of my ego, so the final pageant was met with much joy.

And in the sounds of crowds and trumpets, I left behind dragons of cloth, and mummer who played at dragonlords, oaks dressed as genealogical trees, processions of maidens, Seven Pointed Star-gifting septons, allegories and tableaus of virtues and valor, and little children declaming speeches, and at last I entered the Keep and made my way to the sept.
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Once in the sept, I made my way to the altar, dressed in crimson velvet and robes of silk, furred with hermine and vair (a nod to my grandmother’s house). The High Septon walked before me, and before him Joffrey Arryn, made High Steward for purpose of the coronation, carried my crown (a circlet of gold encrusted with rubies and polished dragonglass, with seven sharp spike of iron and two bands over the head, a seven-pointed star above them), Olyver Baratheon carried my scepter, and Loreon Lannister with the Hand of Justice. Robin Tully was given the honor of carrying Blackfyre. Bernard Tyrell carried the royal ring and bracelets.

I knelt before the altar and the High Septon spoke: "Baelor rightful and undoubted inheritor by the Laws of the Seven-Who-Are-One and by the laws of man to the Crown and all royal dignities comes in this prefixed and annointed day to take upon him the said crown and royal dignity. Whereupon he shall be annointed and crowned."

One of the Most Devout held before me the Seven-Pointed Star and I rose and swore an oath:

"I swear that as far as it is in my power I shall maintain true and holy peace and rightful justice for the Faith, that I shall protect, defend and maintain it. I swear that I shall maintain the profession of the Seven, the Old Gods and the Drowned God, and I shall use no royal might and dignity to force upon any man to set aside his faith. I swear that I shall not permit in my Realm the worship of foreign and queer gods, unknown to my people."

"I swear that I shall profide equal and rightful justice for the subjects of the Realm, from the most high to the lowest, and provide judgements with equity and mercy."

"I swear that I shall observe the customs, laws and liberties of this Realm."

"The things wich I have before promised I will perform and keep, and may the Stranger take me if I stray."

I knelt again again and septons took of my robes, and I was annointed with the seven oils, on my hands, my breast, my back, my shoulders, my elbows on my head. And the Father of the Faithful spoke again, and thus he spoke of the sevenfold gifts of grace: "And the spirit of the Seven-Who-Are-One shall rest upon him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the One-Who-Is-Seven. Govern ye hereby and let wisdom act upon thy will, let the Crown enlighten your mind and incline you to charity. And let understanding come to you, that you may see the truth of the Divine and fortify your faith. And keep counsel with the Father, so you may judge with prudence and righteousness, and with the Mother, so your judgments be merciful. And be mighty, so you may stand firmly for what is right in sight of the Smith and in the doing of all goodly arts and deeds and provide succour to the afflicted in the name of the Maiden. Allow into you the spirit of knowledge, , so you may see men as the Seven do. Spend your days in piety and reverence, and hope for the rewards of the Seven Heavens, to whom one day the Stranger shall lead you to. And be always frightful of the One, and look upon the Seven in wonder and awe at their glory and majesty."

The Lord Tully came then forward with Blackfyre, the sword of kings, and the Sheperd blessed it and consecrated it for the defence of the Faith, and it was girded one with the words "Take this holy sword, a gift from the Warrior, with which you will strike down your adversaries." A ring of gold with a ruby, handed by Tyrell, followed, blessed and consecrated and set on the fourth finger of my right hand. And the High Septon beseeched the Seven that whatever I sanctify and bless may also be holy and blessed. Such was followed by two golden bracelets, which were to signify sincerity and wisdom.

Next was the scepter, handed over by Baratheon on my right, and and the hand of justice by Lannister, on my left. The culmination of the ceremony followed. The crown, censed, blessed and consecrated, was placed upon my head, with brief words: "Like Hugor, so may the One crown you, the Seven’s annointed."

And with it, it was done and we left the sept while holy hymns were sung. I became king when my brother died, but now I was recognised king in the sight of gods and men, before the realm entire. The day would not end then though, for I had not yet sat upon the Iron Throne and received homage from my lords. And from the sept, my steps took me towards the Iron Throne.
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I sat upon the Iron Throne, in front of the gathered crowd and a herald read my proclamation:

"Baelor Targaryen, First of His Name, by the grace of the Gods, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, to all our most loving, faithful, and obedient subjects, and to every of them, greeting.

Where it has pleased the Stranger, to call unto his infinte mercy the most excellent, valiant and mighty king, Daeron the Brave, of most noble and famous memory, our most dear and entirely beloved brother, whose soul may the Seven pardon, for as much as we, being his only brother and undoubted heir, be now invested and established in the crown imperial of this realm and sit upon this Iron Throne."

That said and done, the Lord Stark stepped forth. Having no part in the coronation itself, on account of his faith, I endeavoured to find him a place in the enthronement. He was to act as the King’s Champion, a role which would be settled upon his heirs in perpetuity, as those of the other lords in the coronation. A fitting role for the best swordsman in the realm.

And thus where the words of Cregan Stark:

"If there be any person, of what estate or degree whatsoever, will deny or gainsay that king Baelor is not the rightful heir and king of this realm, I, Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, here his Champion, say that he lieth, and is a false traitor offer my glove, am ready in person to combat with him, and in this quarel will adventure his life against him on what day soever he shall be appointed."

None dared, for Cregan Stark had drawn his sword Ice and looked upon the crown with a terrible gaze, the intensity of a winter storm visible in his eyes. Whether of fright or lack of claim, all were silent.

And then followed the homage of the lords. First where the Wardens, Stark, then Arryn, Lannister, then Tyrell. They climed the stairs of the throne, knelt and bound their hands with mine, and spoke their oaths and I accepted. I reconfirmed upon them their Wardenships and proclaimed good and faithful subjects.

Next was the Lords Baratheon and Tully and Grejoy. To forestall claims of greater prestige and mightier holdings, the lower lords and ladies that attended the ceremony took their oath in turn of their age, from the oldest to the youngest among them.

Once the last of them swore their oath, the herald came forth and cried:

"Lord Martell, come forth and swear your oath!"

"Lady Allyrion, come forth and swear your oath!"

"Lord Briar, come forth and swear your oath!"
…
…
…
"Lord Wyl, come forth and swear your oath!"

"Lord Yronwood, come forth and swear your oath!"

But none did. It was to be expected that no Dornish lord came, that no rebel wished to swear themselves to fealty anew. But such display was not without purpose. The heralds did not call forth lords amongst leal subjects that to reasons various did not attend the ceremony. The summoning of the Dornish was to make known in front of the whole realm their treachery.

I summoned my uncle forth and whispered in his ear. The prince Viserys stepped down, and thus spoke and proclaimed the Hand, in the name of the King: "In the name of Baelor of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Prince Viserys of the House Targaryen, his Hand, I denounce them, and attaint them, and strip them of all ranks and titles, of all lands and income and holdings, and do sentence them to death. And all their heirs in perpetuity are likewise stripped of all ranks and titles, of all lands and income and holding. May the gods take pity on their soul."

My uncle finished and then I spoke: "It seems to me that Dorne must no longer exist". Words inspired from the words of an ancient politician, of another world. I would not speak in Latin, for no Westerosi knew it, but that was the meaning of the words – "Dorne delenda est":. It was not genocide that I had in mind, Seven preserve me, but the existence of Dorne as an entity. Half of it would be sworn to ther kingdoms, and the other half would become part of the Crownlands, though far away from the rest.

And in the last act of the day, heralds and criers where sent forth in the city. The week in this world had, as in my previous one, seven days in one week. Seven days for seven gods. But because there were seven gods, there was no day of rest – for no god was held above all. It left me an interesting opportunity. Of course, I had consulted before with the High Septon and the conclave of the Most Devout. Furthermore, my proclamation was limited to King’s Landing and to the Crownlands.

But as royal men cried in the street, my coronation would become a day that the smallfolk would never forget. For the heralds proclaimed, in the name of King Baelor, that henceforth and for all eternity, the seventh day would be a day of rest:

"Six days you shall labour, and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Day of the Stranger. In it you shall not do any work, your, or your son, or your daughter, or your servants. For in this day just the work of death must be done, and none may labour save the gravediggers or the Silent Sisters. And thus you shall not labour on this day, but to cook your food, and tend your fire, and to your livestock, so that you may enjoy its rest."

Chapter Text

Chapter VII: Nobody expects the Royal Inquisition ​

Next, be just to those placed under you, keeping to the line of justice, and turn not aside, neither to the right hand nor to the left. And always give the benefit of the doubt to the poor over the rich, until you are sure of the truth. If someone should have a complaint against you, side with the cause of your adversary, until the truth is clear to you. In this way those of your counsel will more readily stand on the side of justice.

Saint Louis to his son ​

The aftermath of my coronation had been a trying time for me. After ceremony followed a banquet, where, it seemed, every unwed lady of consequence in the realms had chosen to attend. In fine cloth and bedecked in a myriad of jewels, making their beauty known before me, in hope of becoming queen.

The boldest of the lot was Elena Stokeworth, elder sister to my cousin's former mistress. In temperament and behavior she resembled much her sister. And it seemed, her ambitions were higher than being a mistress to a royal prince. Perhaps she wished to outshine her sister, whom ever she believed to be lesser in beauty to her.

Tired of her attentions and her company, for she was in mind quite lacking, and had less common sense than a man willing to become an Unsullied of his own will, I said to her: "My lady, I want you to call to mind something concerning yourself. It is said that you were once a beautiful lady. But what once was, now is passed, as you are well aware. You can, therefore, consider that such swiftly fading beauty is vain and useless and does not last, like a quickly wilting flower. And with all your care and effort, you cannot bring it back. Rather you must concern yourself with achieving another beauty, not of the body, but of the soul, whereby you may be able to please the Seven and atone for those things done thoughtlessly in bygone elegance."

An insult couched in pious words, and for all that I meant it, she believed that my overfondness of piety had inclined me to pity for her soul. In fact it was a rather verbious dismissal, which can be quickly resumed in the words of an otherworldly bard: "Get thee to a nunnery".

The older ladies, at least had then enough sense, to declare their suit forfeit and bothered me not with their attempts at seduction. The younger ones were more willful, and it took many lengthy conversations upon the finer points of the Book of the Maiden to rid myself of them.

That day was fortunately past now, and I had returned to the usual affairs of state. I had, some time before, entrusted Lord Hunter, my Lord Justicar and Master of Laws, to find me good men to send forth as knights inquisitor and investigate if my men in the Crownlands had done injustice or did not justly seen to their duties.

Today, I found myself before these men. It seemed the Lord Hunter was wise, or savvy, enough to bring before me men of competence. What he did not find, and mayhap I should have asked him to, were men of humility. Each and every one of them considered themselves the better and the nobler among the lot, and I was half expecting them to ask, like the Apostles Christ, who should be accounted the greatest.

Now, if men of arms could not agree between themselves who was the better of the lot and more deserving of their authority, I would have them be led by men of a different authority. As such I sent forth a servant to summon before me men who shed such worldly arrogance, and men who where known to me to masters at investigation and at digging out deeds unworthy.

And thus came before me two septons. The first of them had the name of Cad, a man past forty, who had been both soldier and sailor, a former sellsword in the Free Cities, with quite the quiver of talents and skills. He would be one of the few among the clergy of the Faith, who in the course of my reign, to whom I allowed to bear arms. The second, lacked such worldly experience, but was in no way less competent. He was short, brown of hair and plain of face, but he had an uncanny knowledge of the behavior of men, a knowledge that many did not think he possessed, when first they met him. He seemed harmless, and as such men thought themselves none the wiser when he followed them with his keen eye and keener ear. His name was Paul.

It was to these two septons that I entrusted my knights inquisitor, to lead them and command them. They knew well enough to smooth disagreements and prevent them from acting like peacocks. They knew well to instruct them in the arts of investigation. And they were honest enough to see that no one among their lot should fall to the temptation of foreign coin. They were learned in the law, and thus capable of knowing if my bailiffs had broken those, in letter or in spirit. They were to be the men I counted on, while the Knights Inquisitor were to be the muscle and veneer of royal authority that would grant them the authority and legitimacy that a simple septon lacked.

I would sent them forth, and in septs across the Crownlands, septons would make notice of their coming, so that the smallfolk may know that the King would see justice done. These knights would listen record in writing the complaints of my subject regarding abuses, injuries, exactions and services unjustly received and would, at the bidding of my septons, inquire into these allegations. The final word in the matter, until my judgement, would be that of the septons.

They were to inquire on the comportment of my officials, and how they acted in protecting the rights of the King, his possessions and the land. They were to ask if the rights or possessions of the King had been diminished. They were to investigate into how they acted in handling cases and pleas, if they received or kept any loans or deposits. They were to find out if they asked for or kept anything for making peace, for determining a settlement, or for doing justice. And, last, but not least, if they had unjustly arrested, imprisoned, or punished anyone in goods or in person.

And this I said to them: "If anyone has acted against justice, make full inquisition until you know the truth. Enquire of them, and their household, how they conduct themselves, and if there be found in them any vice of inordinate covetousness, or falsehood, or trickery."

They were to become a permanent institution in my fiefs. Four times a year they would sally forth from King's Landing to observe the conduct of my administrators, and would have full jurisdiction to investigate the uniform and just application of the law. Each party would have amongst their lot, tough not always their leader, a septon of proven piety and honesty, and not known to be tempted by worldly vices. Each year they would give account of their comportment in office, and if they were found unworthy, they were to be cast out and replaced. They were to seek out the helpless, allow testimony of any man, woman or child with their wits about them, and listen to the lamentation of widows, mothers and orphans. The sessions were to be held in convenient places and the petitioners treated with every courtesy and compassion.

Once they returned from their investigations, I would have the wrongdoers dragged before the Iron Throne, judged and condemned. The lesser cases would be dealt by them in the place of their office and the greater and vilest by myself. In their stead, I would appoint trustworthy and sensible men, who where known for good behavior and a sterling reputation, and who had kept their hands clean.

And in the days and weeks following, many of these wrongdoings were found out and brought out into the light. A seneschal that took the cattle of a village septon, a man who had his horse taken by a bailiff on flimsy and false reasoning and accusations. There where accounts of men forced to pay their taxes twice, once for the royal treasury, and once for the official to fill his pockets. There where men who seized lands, to make the fortune of the back of my subjects and men who kept the taxes owned to the Iron Throne and accused smallfolk of refusing to pay. There were many cases where men of the treasury refused to acknowledge the debts that my late brother had made in acquiring supplies for the war in Dorne.

Some men, being pauper or orphans, asked of the King to be moved by pity or mercy, and have their goods and rights be restored to them. A widow asked that the goods and rights of her marriage portion be restored to her, on account of faithful service, and blamelessness in the deeds of her late husband. When the lords themselves were involved, or profited, by my command, the Inquisitors where to treat them with marked hostility and to make known to them the disappointment of His Grace the King in their conduct.

And all these wrongdoers, once found out, where dragged to King's Landing to face my justice. Days of trials, of witnesses, of sworn oaths of innocence came and went.

But all the men who had ruined and impoverished my people where dealt with and punished, their fortune was forfeited and used to redress their foul deeds. The peasant had his chicken given back, his measure of wheat returned, and undue service forbidden. The merchant would have his coin returned, and the King his taxes which had been unjustly pocketed.

The men who I put in their stead I had them swear to render justice without distinction of persons, to not receive presents of anyone, save for their food and drink. They were not to receive loans from subjects under their jurisdiction. I had them swear that they would give or send nothing to any member of the Small Council, or to their wives or their children or the members of their household, or to those who were to receive their reports, and most important of them all, to my Knights Inquisitor. In exchange for their leal service, I promised them wages from my treasury, and to take their sons into my service if they proved themselves honest, and truthful and good and skilled men.

And such I proclaimed: "Each and every one of the foregoing, provisions, therefore, which we have thought should be made for the peace of our subjects, reserving to ourselves the fullness of royal power to declare, change, or even correct, add or lessen, we strictly will to be observed by our bailiffs and subjects."

In the choosing of my bailiffs, seneschals or provosts, or my inquisitors I preferred to take into my service knights or sons of tradesmen and master guildsmen from King's Landing, who owed their rise to me, rather than second or third sons, or cousins of Crownlander lords, who kept allegiance with their house, and served their interests alongside those of the Throne.

Chapter Text

Chapter VIII: Two Tales

"Unworthy people astutely oppose the great in order to gain a reputation indirectly that they don’t merit by right. We wouldn’t be aware of many such people if their far superior opponents hadn’t paid them any attention. There’s no revenge like oblivion, which buries them in the dust of their own insignificance."

Baltasar Gracian, The Pocket Oracle

King’s Landing

Viserys

The Lord Hand was very busy these days, on account of whatever plans his nephew had the bad habit of coming up with these days. And now his affairs became ever more complicated It seemed that the Pentoshi had somehow gotten wind of Baelor’s plan, and had sent envoys to warn him from his folly. They were younger than usual diplomats, and seemed to be sons of magister, wannabe bravos who had more boasts in them than wise words. Neither of them had the usual politeness of an ambassador, and they seemed to be so prideful that they, the sons of cheesemongers and flesh traders, thought themselves to be able to speak to a son of the House of the Dragon as equals.

And now they bothered him, asking him to meet the King, all the while professing insults and various threats. It seemed that whoever ruled as Prince in Pentos had no notion that diplomats should be, well, diplomatic.

These envoys asked an audience of the Lord Hand and all but demanded that the King see them at their pleasure. They strutted around like peacocks, self-assured of their worth and prestige, as if they weren’t anything but glorified messenger boys. Viserys knew their lot from the early years of his youth in Lys – they were nothing but baboons dressed in fine cloth, who though their fathers’ coin gave them some sort of consequence in the world. Eager to get rid of them, Viserys had sent a guard to inform the king of their arrival.

Minutes passed and the guard returned, with the king’s message: “Let them wait!”. Viserys thought that Baelor had needed time to ready himself for the audience. After another half an hour, in which Viserys tried to assure them that the king would see them once he takes care of some urgent business, he grew himself impatient and sent the guard again.

And the guard returned with the same words: “Let them wait!”. Viserys began to grow wroth at his nephew’s untimeliness. He would have to suffer these fools longer than anticipated.

After the half hour turned into a full hour, the Lord Hand decided to go himself to the King. And so, Viserys went to Baelor’s chambers, only to find the king still in his nightshirt.

With natural indignance, Viserys asked his nephew to clothe himself and see to the envoys who had bothered him for the better part of the morning. And finally, Baelor agreed. He asked that the Pentoshi be led before the Iron Throne, where the King would receive them in audience.

Yet his nephew was ever willful, for when the herald announced him, he had came to the Great Hall still in his nightgown, with a nightcap over his head instead of his crown. And he climbed the Iron Throne, and addressed the envoys: “Gentlemen, here I am in my own home and at my own leisure! I am no spineless spirit, to be summoned forth and harried by my lessers. Begone from my sight and I shall call you when I’m in need of fools to brighten my boredom.”. And he rose from his throne and returned to his chambers, the sound of his retreating footsteps drowning in the Pentoshi’s cries of indignance.

Viserys would have been more indignant himself at his nephew’s actions and lack of diplomacy. But the fact that they had first proven themselves undiplomatic and had thought themselves worthy of discussing as equals to Targaryens inclined him not to their side. And he set his sights on more important matters, like finding a goblet of wine to drown his political headaches in. That would have to wait though, until the peals of laughter that came from his throat ceased. It was not wise nor prudent to treat envoys such, but Viserys did not found it in his heart to care. After all, what is life without a little levity in it ?

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Fleabottom

Hendrick the Halfwit was halfway done with his patrol through the streets of Fleabottom when he, once again, found himself in a tavern at high noon. The day was hot, his mouth was parched, and there was no sergeant or captain to watch if he had done his duty or not. Not the epitome of duty was he, but neither him nor his sergeant were the most dutiful of the goldcloaks. The heat that made him sweat like a pig had no better cure than a few tankards of cold wine, straight from the cellar. And it seemed that on this day he was not the only one that craved drink, for in the winesink he stumbled into, there were another two of his comrades.

Joyful of the company, he drank with them for a time. Of the two men, the elder, which was called Athos, seemed to drink with a practiced ease, the younger drank, but seemed to find the quality of the wine unappealing. He went by the name of Wart and looked like a green boy. The boy asked him if he had the coin to pay for his drink.

The goldcloak answered sincerely: “I have no coin”. The young man, quite bewildered, inquired then: “Why do you drink then, if you have not the coin for it?”

“I shall pawn my sword then” informed him the goldcloak. “It is quite common among our lot, until we receive again our wages”. It would not be the first time he had done so, and it would not be the last. The Goldcloaks with the habit of drunkenness used to do so, and replace their blades with wooden swords.

The following morning, Hendrick was woken from his bed in the early hours. It seemed that his Grace, King Baelor had decided to inspect the barracks of the City Watch. As such, every man of the Watch was to present himself before His Grace, his uniform and arms as spotless as they could be made in a hurry, and stand at attention at the King’s pleasure.

The goldcoaks were lined up in front of the King. He rode up back and forth and back again. And then His Grace pointed his finger at one of the goldcloaks: “That man shall be beheaded, by the will of the King.”

The poor, unfortunate soul began to quiver in his boots, fearful of his life and uncertain of his crimes.

The King spoke again: “Have Hendrick there chop off his head”. Hendrick advanced, fearful himself, for he knew that he had only a wooden sword in his scabbard, to replace the one that he pawned for his cheap wine. The fact the king knew his name filled him with more fear and dread. Perhaps the king had come to know him from some tradesmen he asked bribes of, and the man had sought royal justice, or perhaps other of his misdemeanors had come to light and the King wished to shame him in front of his company. He did not know the punishment for pawning his blade, and was not eager to find out. And suddenly, as if the Crone up high just decided to aid him, an idea struck his brain.

Hendrick advanced, with a serene face that did not belie his turmoil, put his hand on the pommel of his sword and cried: “Oh, gods. Many miracles have you made in this world… If this man be innocent, I pray to thee, let my sword turn into wood.” And he drew his sword, and it was wooden.” He put on his face a figure of mock wonder and piety and looked to the king, hopeful that his sudden artifice had saved him from his fate.

In the sound of the wondering whispers of his comrades, the King summoned him at his side. And Hendrick looked up, and he saw the King’s face and he recognized it. The King, magnanimous, said to him: “I forgive you this day, goodman, but do not pawn your sword again. And henceforth let the people know you as Hendrick Sharp-Witted, for you have outwitted a King”.

And from that day, Hendrick Sharp-Witted resolves never again to drink in taverns with strange men. Yet he was not ashamed to tell the tale in the years following, to eager men, in exchange for some wine or ale. He never pawned his sword again, for the King had done him a favor: he could now buy his drink with but a tale. If the tale grew in the telling, and Hendrick made himself to be more a clever man than he was, and one tale became three, and three became nine, and Hendrick began to spoon fables of how to king was known to sometime seek his counsel, that is neither here nor there.

Chapter Text

Chapter IX: The Young Wolf and the She-Dragon

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As soon or as late as some might have hoped, the day of the wedding of the Princess Daena Targaryen, daughter of the late king Aegon the Third, and that of Jonnel Stark, second born son and heir of Cregan Stark, came at last. He had woken up with a headache, and dearly wished to sleep an hour or three more, but his father had all but marched him into the hall to break his fast.

Jonnel Stark could hardly eat anything when he broke his fast the morning of the wedding. Neither the meat, or bacon or eggs, the fruits, or the wide variety of cakes served seemed to please his tongue on this day, though the flagons of mead and wine seemed to wink out at him. But it was unwise to get drunk on the morning of the wedding, and even more so under the ever watching eyes of his father. Such things were suitable closer to dusk rather than dawn. The wedding breakfast was one of the two. It seemed that the groom’s party were to break the fast in one hall and the bride’s party in another. So he had only his father, his elder sisters and younger brothers for company, with the bannermen of his father, joined by some other Southron lords and knights. He could count among them Bloody Ben Blackwood, and Oscar Tully, the Lord of Riverrun’s uncle and newly named castellan of Harrenhal. They were his father’s friends, from the days when the dragon’s danced, they where his brother’s friend, who he had made when he rode with Daeron in Dorne, and who had come rather in honor of his late brother, than his wedding.

Jonnel knew not why all wedding guests could break their fast together, but thought it just another queer southron customs. And it was Southron customs that would be the bane of him this day, for Baelor had insisted that they wed under the sight of the Seven, a wedding ceremony of whose customs he was blisfully unaware. His father had done his best in drilling him on his expected behaviour, but niggling worries still remained in his thoughts.

He hardly knew his future wife, on account of the swiftness of the King’s marriage negociations with his father and his arrival in King’s Landing scarcely a forthnight before the wedding. They had met briefly a few times, but their conversations had not went as well as he hoped, being stilted and ackward on his behalf. She had seemed altogether to flightly and wild for his liking. And he believed she herself did not like him that much, for she looked half displeased whenever she saw him.

He knew though the importance of this union, the culminance of his father’s ambitions stretching back thirty years. It was the Pact of Ice and Fire, though not the same that was put forth so much time ago. Then, it was his brother’s due to have a dragon princess for a wife. But now, Rickon was dead, and Jonnel was to have the wife, the castle, and the lands that where his elder brother’s due.

He had always looked up to his brother, though he had not given him much attention. Rickon was two and thirty when he died, a great gap in age to his own six and ten, now seven and ten. There was scarce to be had in common with an elder brother so … elder. He was no childhood companion that he could frolic around with in the godswood and play the game of youth. He was no companion in lessons with the masters. He was no comrade in arms, for his brother preffered men of his own age for friendship. The most moments they spent together were when he had the inclination to supervise his lessons in arms, and gave him council on how to use a sword, or the rare moments when he dragged him for a week or two in the Wolfswood, with nought but the clothes on their back and their weapons, to teach him hunting and “how to be a man”. When Rickon died, Jonnel grieved more an uncle rather than a brother.

Jonnel never imagined himself as lord of nothing. He contented himself to serve his father, then his brother, in whatever manner they would chose to use him. He thought to do his duty, and enjoy his life with hunting, which he enjoyed well enough, and songs, which his sister sung quite well, and the legends that Old Nan was so found of. It was those legends that gave him a purpose. He often traveled to Castle Black to consult the old books and scrolls there (and his father had sent him to accompany maester Kennet when he investigated the barrow fields, graves and tombs of the North. And when they returned home, it was he who penned page after page of the Passages of the Dead, for the maester’s eyesight was poor. It was a present and a future he would have been content with. And it seemed the gods had decided to laugh at him.

It seemed he had much more in common with his future goodbrother than with his soon to be wife. He had asked about the contents of the library at Castle Black and had deigned to give him advice on the excavation of barrows and tombs, and well-thought advice at that.

Once all of his party finished their breakfast, his father gave him the wedding cloak he would rather put around his bride. He thought it much unlike Daena’s maiden cloak, for it was in truth a fur. The fur had been taken from a direwolf, more than a hundred years before, by Lord Alaric Stark’s wife, a Mormont lady, who had hunted the beast herself and had its skin sewed into a cloak. Unlike some others, there was no house sigil embroidered upon it, for it was easy for any man to see to wich house it had belonged. Instead, it was to be fastened by a brooch of silver, with the head of a direwolf engraved upon it.

Soon he would be wed, and hopefully, as the years went by, some semblance of mutual understanding would arise between the two of them. He had no wish for a home full of quarrells, and he would do his best to avoid such. And if those were unavailable, he could always venture forth and dig up a tomb or a barrow for a turn of a moon or two, until his wife’s wrath or displeasure would dissipate.

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Daena had grown up, all but knowing she was destined to marry one of her brothers. It was ever the tradition of House Targaryen to marry brother to sister. If that wouldn’t do, then to an aunt or an uncle. And if that was not possible, a cousin could always be found.

And when se grew up more, she always imagined herself to be the future queen, wed to Daeron. After all, Daeron was always preferable to Baelor. Baelor, who was always with his nose in a book, or praying in the sept, or having long and boring conversations with his pet septons and maesters. It was Daeron who she dreamed of, brave and valiant and gallant. Daeron with his dreams of conquests, of glorious deed and fame everlasting. For the greatest king, she could only be his greatest queen.

When her father died, she was sure that Daeron would wed her as soon as the mourning would end. But he had war foremost in his mind, rather than domestic felicity. And he had other plans for her, meaning to marry to a Sealord of Braavos. The wife of a Sealord was not a queen, but with time she grew complacent to her fate. After all, if her husband was the ruler of a Free City, she would have the adoration of all its people.

When Daeron died in Dorne, she thought her brother would do the duty of a king, and wed her and bed her. But he had choosen not do so, and even broke whatever tentative agreement was made with the Sealord. Instead, she was to wed the Lord of Winterfell’s heir, a boy scarce an year her elder. The boy was boring, on account of his youth, and quite shy, and cold in face and demeanour, though not as cold as his father, the man they called the Old Wolf. He had not fought in Dorne, was no famed warrior or gallant knight to sweep her of her feet. He was honourable, and dependable, and polite, and all the qualities that any lord hoped to found it his heir’s behaviour. To repeat herself, he was boring. He had complained to her brother that he was more interested in ancient artefacts rather than her, but he had replied in his usual dismissing manner: “But sister dearest, such a man is the best husband any woman can have; the older you get, the more interested in you he shall became”.

It was twice now she had lost the chance to be queen, twice now that her brothers had thought her not worthy of such. And now she was to be sent to Winterfell, to the frozen and barren wastelands of the North, to shrivel and die there. All because that was her brother’s desire. And she was not to be the lady of the keep even. Lord Cregan was hale and healthy, and could live even to the end of the century. And he was wed, so not even the househeld would belong to her, always having to defer to her goodmother.

First she had thought that Baelor would marry Rhaena in her stead. Dutiful, pious Rhaena would have been the perfect wife for Baelor. But as time passed, and her jealousy and resentment of her sister grew, she began to see that her brother had no such intention. Then she thought of her other sister, Elaena. After all, maybe Baelor desired an equal in intellect, not in piety. But she had seen how Baelor made Elaena and Daeron play together, had seen that their lessons be held at the same time, with the same tutors. Then her thoughts drifted to her cousin Laena, the Oakenfist’s daughter. But Baelor had paid her no close attention in all the days she attended court.

It seemed to be that her brother meant to be both septon and king. And great warrior besides. He meant to go to war with Pentos and reconquer Dorne. Dorne, who Daeron lost. And Baelor thought he could do a better job than the Young Dragon. He, who had barely taken a sword in hand before becoming king. He, who had always had his note in a book, or a musty scroll from Old Valyria, or his knees in prayer for hours on at end. Daena wagered she was a better warrior than her brother, and whatever host her brother gathered would have better luck if she was the one to lead it.

It seemed to be that her fate was not of her own desire. At least Baelor had not decided to give unto madness, and lock her in her chambers to keep her a maiden forever more. She looked upon her maiden cloak, made of satin and embroidered with the three-headed dragon of her house, with a clasp made of ruby. Soon she would shed that cloak, and become a Stark of Winterfell, though Baelor allowed her to keep the rank and title of a princess. She would leave all she knew and loved, and go live in a strange land, with strange customs and even stranger weather. At least Jonnel seemed a husband she could rein in well, though perhaps not before his father’s passing. She had no desire to see Cregan Stark’s cold gaze descend upon her.

Maybe she could even instill some adventureness in him, or do something to make him less boring. If she could not be a queen, she should at least not be bored for the rest of her life. Mayhaps she could even prove herself the best lady of Winterfell that ever was, and prove to her brother she could have been a finer queen than Alysanne herself.

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At last, the sun took its pity upon Jonnel and it was midday, and the Stark party made its way to the Royal Sept, where the wedding ceremony was to take place. He had been dressed in the best of clothes House Stark could afford, that is the best that could be found or made by the tailors in the kingdom. He wore a doublet of grey cloth, the bridal coat of fur clasped upon his shoulders.

The princess Daena was dressed more ostentatiously, to show in her luxuorios garments all the power and might of her house. A white dress, made of ivory silk, and embroidered with cloth of gold and rubies, with a golden diadem on her head glittering with gemstomes – ruby, emerald, onyx, jade, opal and pearl.

Soon, they were to take their vows, as bid so by the High Septon with his crystal crown. They swore vows that their union shall bring forth children and that their every quarrel shall end up in peace, as to please the Mother; that such children shall be brought up in fear of the One-Who-Is-Seven and their Holy Name and taught right from wron, so that they might not displease the Father. He swore an oath that he would defend his wife and children, with the might that the Warrior shall give him, and Daena swore that her children shall be brought up to be brave. And then it was the turn of the Smith, in whose name they swore that their shall build a home and a hearth and their every quarrel shall end up in peace. They swore in the name of the Maiden that their broughter shall be brought up in all innocence, and that neither shall defile their marital bed with perversions or adultery. They swore an oath to the Crone, that they shall temper their marriage with wisdom. At last, they swore upon the name of the Stranger, that their union shall last until the end of their days and none shall tear it asunder.

And then it was the turn of the High Septon to bless them with seven blessings:

“O One Almighty, Eternal and Everlasting, send thy blessing upon these man and this name, and may they be blessed in thy Name.”

“O God bless, preserve and keep them, look upon with favour upon them.”

“O One-Who-Is-Seven be merciful unto them, and bless them, and bestow upon them your light.”

“O Seven-Who-Are-One, bless thy servants, so they may in their every deed fulffill your commands, that by obeying thy will, they shall always abide under thy love and thy protection.”

“O Holy Name, we beseech thee, that you may bless these man and this woman with children trueborn and brought up in faith and virtue.”

“Look upon them with thy Divine Eye and fill them with benediction and grace, that they may so live together in this life.”

“Let them be blessed so that they may perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made.”

“And may the will of God be one, in the Seven Heavans, in the world, and in the Seven Hells.”

And Jonnel and the princess spoke then as one: “ I take you to have and to hold. I promise to be true to you in sickness and in health. I take you for better for worse. I take you for rich or for poor. I promise to love and honour you all the days of my life. I pledge to you my faithfulness. And this promise I shall hold until the Stranger would us part.”

After the promises, they were to listen to the wedding song, sung by a choir of septons. And they stood in front of the High Septon, while around them sacred melodies rang forth: Who shall find a woman of virtue… The heart of her husband trusteth in her…Strength and fairness is the clothing of her… and the law of mercy is in her tongue… Her sons rose up, and preached her most blessed.

It was then time for the challenge to be heard, for any man who had any knowledge, of any reason, of secular or religious law, that he and the princess should not wed, to speak forth and make his case known. Men from both the groom’s kin and that of the bride would speak forth and summon forth any man who had such claims. For this wedding, from the princess’ kin came forth the king. For him, came his own father. Two men than no sane folk would decide to challenge. The challenge went unanswered.

King Baelor removed his sister’s maiden cloak and Jonnel approached her, unclapsed his direwolf fur, and tenderly draped her and fastened it with the silver direwoldf. And with that, she came from the protection of House Targaryen to that of House Stark. Amd they knelt in front of the High Septon and spoke the last words: “With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife. With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.” And then it was the High Septon’s turn:” Here in the sight of god and men, I do solemnly proclaim Jonnel of House Stark and the princess Daena of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

And they were wed.

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And then came the feast, with its multitude of food and drink. Such variety had rarely visited Winterfell’s own tables. Jonnel had chafed under the heat all day, so he had welcomed the chilled wine and ale, and most of all, what the king had come to call “sweet-snow”. Baelor had asked his father to send a ship’s worth of ice from the North, which had been stored in the cellars of the Red Keep. Combined with cream and sugar and a variety of fruits and spices, it was an enjoyable way to keep the warmth of the sun at bay.

And the hall was full of merriment. There were drummers and piper and fiddlers and countless other singers and bards, there were jonglers and tumblers and fools making their fun. Among them, most peculiar was the fool Bastyen, a former solider who had found himself in royal employ in a very different line of work. The king had allowed him to bear arms, and he carried a rapier, a blade with which he has quite skillfull. He had the custom of dueling whatever lordling or knight that found offense with his humour, and he never lost. For the occasion the jester had dressed himself in the manner of the king, and ventured forth between the guest with the manner of a king, giving his hand to the ladies to kiss.

Some lord who had not the good sense to leave his petition for another day sought to speak with the king, bemoaning whatever indignities his neighbors had brought upon him. The jester was quick to make himself known: “My lord, it seemed that you know not the true king from the false. You speak with Bastyen, my jester.” Baelor took it with good humor, being quite fond of Bastyen’s wit.

Beyond the merriment, the whole feast seemed to a statement of the royal house that they were still at their full strength, even dragonless, and a warrior king dead in Dorne. There were a thousand guests attending, lords and ladies from all the Seven Kingdoms, envoys from most of the Free Cities, save Pentos and Lys. The hall was draped with long silks in Targaryen red and Stark grey, embroidered with cloth of gold.

He busied and amused himself by watching the crowds, having little apetite for food, and being wary of too much wine. His wife instead seemed to indulge herself in food and wine, the spirits easing her manner. At least the food was not that much. The lord Hand insisted that seven and seventy courses be served, to show the wealth of the royal house, but neither the king nor his lord father were inclined to such extravagance. They settled for seven courses for the bride, and seven for the groom, fourteen in all. The money that would have been spent on the others had been used, at Baelor’s command, to provide a feast for the smallfolk of the city. It was not the first occasion when they had benefited from the king’s generosity – on every day of rest he had a hundred and forty four from amongst the poorest of the city given a meal of bread, and wine and meat in a lesser hall of the Red Keep, sometimes waiting upon them, to teach himself humility. He had fourteen old men and criples dine at his own table every day, who partook of the same dishes as he.

Soon the wine and ale worked their charms and the men became rowdy. Soon they would call for the wedding. Jonnel knew that Baelor did not favour such display, and as he looked he saw the men-at-arms and the Kingsguard clenching their fists. It seemed that the king wished to instill piety and modesty in his subject with the strenght of his men’s arms. After all, it would not do for steel to be drawn at the wedding – in Westeros they were more civilized than the horselords of the Great Grass Sea. The king has spoken with him at length about this plan – he abhorred bedding ceremonies, and the loose morals that surrounded it, and thought to teach a lessen to each man who thought to put his hand on a princess of his house.

And when they came , drunk and lecherous, to put their arms around his wife and undress her, telling bawdy jokes, the men sprang forth. The lewd lords were pummeled by the fists of the guards. And when the northmen and crownlanders saw that the usual fun was not the be had, they thought to please their leige lords, and have a different kind of fun, slinging their feest at lecherous riverlander, libidinous westermen, lustful valemen, salacious reachers and debauched stormlanders. It looked quite much like a melee. The women did not venture forth to have their fun with him, for fear of some stray fist ruining their beauty.

The younger children, the few who had attended the feast, saw the merriment and thought to make their own battle, running and hiding between tables, slinging food and cakes and each other, drenching one or the other. Meanwhile the king had made his way from the days, and climbed upon the Iron Throne, where he looked upon the crowd and laughed, while his jester gave news of what happened in the hall, as if he was regaling tales of some tournament. It was an interesting lesson in morality, and one that would stick better than the dry sermon of a septon.

Tommorow, the king would sent small gifts to every guests, showing that he meant no harm to them, but at the same a subtle acknowledgemnt that the “melee” at the feast was of his own doing, and they had better straighten their morals, and lessen their sins. They would go home knowing that their king was no sermonizing septon, but a man who wielded the authority of his rank at the fullest extent, and to whose house they owed their utmost respect. Older lords and slower men, who had not the occasion to swarm the bride before the fists started swinging, would think themselves the better of the lot, and laugh at their peers, and praise themselves for their good behaviour.

And uncombered by the guests, he and his wife made their way to the bridal chamber, though he sensed some resentment from Daena about how Baelor decided to distract the guests’s attention from the newlyweds. Perhaps she felt overshadoweded by her brother even at her own wedding.

Chapter Text

BRAAVOS

HERMAN HARTE

Ser Herman Harte was the second born son of Ser Denys Harte, a second son himself, but distinguished in royal service, and part of the diplomatic mission to Braavos some thirty years past. Herman had first entered royal service, in the footsteps of his father, more than ten years ago. His ties of kinship with the Queen had found him a post under the offices of the Master of Ships. That did not last long, for the Queen was quick to have him promoted to lead the household of the young prince Baelor.

Herman had become, in the following years, both the prince's most loyal servant, and a friend and mentor. And now, it had served him well, for since the Young Dragon had died, he was known at court to be among the few who held the new king's ear. Baelor was quick to make new use of him and had sent him to Braavos as an envoy. While Aegon's rank entitled him to call himself the leader of the mission, he had no more use than a figurehead at feasts and balls, and other festivities, while he had been entrusted the real matter.

His mission came to the Secret City with unpleasant news for the Sealord, whose all but promised princess for marriage became nothing but dreams scattered among the fog of the lagoon. While that had its effect on the Sealord, who was understandably upset and unpleasant about the matter, it had the opposite effect on the keyholders and magisters of the city.

For a Sealord of Braavos to be wed to a daughter and sister of a king spoke of a great ambition. And with such often came great hubris. Braavos had no desire to find himself with a son of heir of House Prestayn raised by a mother who had only known titles held by virtue of blood and with the might of Seven Kingdoms by his side. It endeared the King to the Braavosi that he set aside such plans.

When Baelor sent forth new instructions, and wrote him of the planned expedition to Pentos, he would have torn his hair from his head at the complication, where he not as bald as any man could be. Whatever deals he propose and flatteries he had spent with abandon and feasts he had attended were not enough, and he was to charm anew the Braavosi, and incline them to look with a friendly eye to his King's plans.

He could not say that he did not understood why Baelor wished for such a war, for he had wrote him in great detail. Baelor had said that he knew such war to be justified. The royal letter was always on his table, and he had reread often the words of his king:

"…I had thrice thought of the justness of this war, cousin. And I have found it just, on account of its cause – for Pentos had sough to act against my kingdoms and the common good of my realm…"

"…as for its purpose, it is both to prevent the cheesemongers of Pentos of their might and power that allowed them such impunity, but a cause infinitely more just and divine than mere earthly quarrels. Was not in the hills of Andalos, that the Seven had proclaimed slavery to be abomination in their eyes?... And it is not in the same hills and fields that the remains of Hugor's tribe labor in shackles under the yoke of the Pentoshi?... The High Septon had proclaimed me King of the Andals, and I must see to their common good, no matter what side of the Narrow Sea they are."

"… so with a just intention I shall sail across the sea – to free the remains of Old Andalos, and even destroy the chains of slavery in a Free City and make its name truth. And if I humble Pentos, so they may leave the Dornish to their fate, by denying their fleets and their armies, it is not this the most beautiful embrace of divine revelation and the reason of man?"

"… As for revelation, I would speak of it to you some other time, when I shall see you in person and I would have vindicated myself further."

"… if I know you well, my friend, I know your worries. And I must ease them. For I have no plans to make war with the whole of Essos to release all its slaves. I know it myself it is not prudent to wage heedless wars."

" Of Dorne we have spoken before, though these new conquest it is a new matter than that of my brother. My brother's conquest, if it were one purely for the glory of his name, would have been a war I would not have quickly called just. But go to the Marches and you will see that for centuries the Dornish had wounded the common good of the people of the realm. Open a book and read of the Vulture Kings. My brother sought to defend his people as much as to punish and conquer Dorne…"

"… my war is one who can be called just more easily than the previous… when Daeron entered Dorne, he defeated his enemies and bade them swore him fealty… and now, when I shall enter Dorne anew, I come to discipline unruly vassals and sinners under the sight of the Seven."

"… I shall handle Dorne as a maester handles a putrid limb, cut the evil out of it and bind the wound so that my realms shall not bleed again."

"… and yet some worries still keep my sleep away and my nights full of prayer… We both know that evil and good both lie in a man's heart… If my wars are meant to be just, I must see that my men not become sinners themselves. I must prevent wickedness in my soldiers' heart… It is of the Reachers that I fear the worst … they could seek to make Dorne an eight hell if their fury could not be restrained and bring death and depredation both to the sinful and the innocent. I find it better to allow some sinners to live than run the risk of killing innocents."

"… but the Reach has called itself the heart of chivalry, and I must hope they shall be just, defend the young and innocent, and protect all women."

"… and while remaining on the subject of Dorne, the young Tyrell might find himself with a she-wolf for a wife and blame me for making the Old Wolf his goodfather."

Herman thought it would do to have the letter preserved, for in a century or three, the maesters might very well use it to teach their pupils on the just waging of war. But he could not speak of this to Braavosi, for he had to appeal to their purpose and pride foremost.

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PRINCE AEGON

Aegon had always thought that the best cure for a hangover was more wine. Wine and women, he thought, where the best things the gods had put in this world. If Daeron did not seek to conquer Dorne for Dornish wine and the Dornishman's wife, he would have certainly been a fool.

At least, Daeron was a man, a conqueror, unlike his wimpy cousin Baelor. He could not call him a man, for he had neither drunk himself into a stupor, bled a man to death or bedded a woman. Baelor was half a septon, who desired nothing more than to become an entire septon. And he had become king. If the gods were good, he would father no children and the crown would go to a more suitable person. Him.

Aegon and Baelor never suffered each other's presence. And as soon as Baelor became King, Aegon was shuffled off to Braavos as an envoy. At least, Braavos was the home of the famed courtesans, so he would not bore itself. As for Baelor's mission, he could not care less what his cousin wanted. He let that blasted Harte and the others handle the matter while he drank, ate and visited the courtesans.

For all the rumors about the courtesans, Aegon found them nothing but pretentious whore, and he did not shy to say it to his companions. At least Baelor had allowed him to bring some of them along. When he left, the Kingsguard was not at full strength, so his father and cousin permitted him to bring some knights of his choosing to guard him.

The Poetess was to fond of her books, always spouting some love poem when all he wanted was to bed her. The Nightingale was all to found of compliments about her beauty before she permitted anything. And Aegon was not a patient man, nor particularly creative with his flattery. The Moonshadow always asked for a song, and was not pleased by his voice, ill-suited for singing. The Merling Queen did not permit him to bed his young mermaids alongside her, not unless they were more grown.

And as he was not fond of them, they were not fond of him. When he first arrived, they were eager to welcome a Targaryen prince in their beds. But now, they refused to accept his coin, and he was forced to make use of common whores from brothels. Were it not for the insult, he would not care as much.

He had spoken at length in a tavern about their sorry lot, drinking and laughing alongside his companions. They had decided to return on foot to their manse, singing loudly and merrily on their way.

As they passed by the Moon Pool, a large group of bravos approached them. They picked his companion one by one, and asked the usual question for which they were known: "Who is the most beautiful woman in the world?" Drunk and uncaring, neither of them answered to the bravos' satisfaction. And in the sounds and sights of the water dance, each of them fell bleeding in their turn.

Before he realized, Aegon stood alone, a dozen or more bravos surrounding him, with their blades drawn. Aegon made to draw his own, but there was none to do so. He had forgotten in a brothel or tavern along the way. Each of them asked him the same question "Which is the most beautiful woman in the world?."

Some prudence of thought found its way into his mind, and Aegon chose to answer with what seemed to be the most obvious choice and safest bet. "It is the Nightingale."

But the answer satisfied but half of them. The other showed their displeasure at his answer, with a multitude of shouts. "It is the Veiled Lady, you fiend.". "You lie barbarian, it is the Merling Queen". And so on.

And as they made known their displeasure, their slender sword made their way into his flesh, blood gushing forth. Aegon tried in vain to change his answer again and again, but no answer would please their entire company.

As he felt his blood slowly leaving his body and his consciousness slip, his last thought was for more wine, to dull the pain.

As the approaching darkness beckoned him further, he faintly heard cries in the crowd that had gathered: "Make way for the First Sword of Braavos!"

Chapter Text

Chapter XI: Epistles​

“As you have now received news by word of mouth concerning the grave matter of the attack on the Prince Aegon, I write now to you of think best left to ink than to tongues than can be loosened by drink. As you would know, the Prince yet lives, though he stands on the brink of death, the Stranger always looming behind the door of his resting chamber. It was wisely done by the Sealord’s First Sword to send him as quickly as it could happen to the House of the Red Hands, where he yet remains in the care of its healers. It is certain though that the line of your house now rests upon your royal personage, your uncle, the Hand, and his princely grandson.

The attack upon his august person seems to be one of impulse, the impulses of young and foolish men, who could not let insults heaped upon courtesans go unanswered. Yet the matter is a grave one, since these foolish men had no household of their own and were as of yet subject to the authority of their father’s household. And their name are prestigious – Volentin, Prystain, Antaryon, Reyaan, Zalyne, keyholders and magisters and rich merchants all.

Their names seem to have held no import following the ambush of those honourless curs upon the Prince. What men the Watch apprehended had the happiest of the lot, for they were detained, and now are under our own power.

For those who fled, the gods had a harsher fate in mind. From what have my men gathered, it seems that by decision of some shadowy council, they have been sentenced to death without trial and their execution handled with great haste. They have not taken upon themselves to pay Faceless Men to deal with them in an underhanded matter, rather they had them assaulted in whatever house they fled, thrown out of windows, stripped naked and beheaded and their corpses dragged before the Hall of Truth.

Civil peace seemed to have fled Braavos, for once word had come that one of the perpetrators had been some distant cousin to the Sealord, the ambitions of some houses grew, and the usual politics took a bloodier approach. When the Sealord summoned the Council of Truth, to investigate the matter most thoroughly, he was stabbed thirty-three times in the Hall of Truth, accused of conspiring to murder Prince Aegon, to mend his wounded pride for the loss of his dragon bride.

As time had passed since, a new Sealord was elected. The young Cosym Fregar has assured me of his utmost desire for peace and of the mendingof these wounds between the brotherhood of our two nations. It seems that this matter has been understood, in all Braavosi circles of power, to be the possible beginning of a feud between the Iron Throne and the Free City of Braavos.

As such, the Braavosi are now ruled by fear in their approaches to me, as Your Grace’s envoy, rather than the usual ambition. Fregar has appointed, in the usual manner of solving feuds here, an agent for Braavos, with authority to negotiate a peace and accord with Your Grace and provide satisfaction for the injuries and offenses dealt to the person of your royal cousin.

I write to you then cousin, to ask and to receive instructions for the further affairs of my mission here and ask if the Iron Throne is willing to entertain such and under what terms.

The men that have been commanded to gather news and word of the happenings of Essos even now wander the harbors, taverns and playhouses of Braavos. Their findings have been sent to the Master of Whispers.

I remain your most devoted servant.

Ser Herman Harte”

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“To my most loyal cousin,

…

On the matter of the health of my cousin Aegon, I urge you to see him returned to our shores as soon as his state allows. Impose upon your hosts that a dozen or two healers should accompany him to King’s Landing, chosen from the best of their lot. They may even find further employ here.

My uncle’s wrath has grown cold since he heard of the incident and should grow colder once the surviving perpetrators will have reached the Black Cells. But he is not in the least bit pleased that the most noble personages of Braavos have sought to take the justice from the aggrieved party’s hands.

Regarding the terms of the peace and agreement that should form between us and Braavos, to ensure peace and our continued freedom, with council from my most trusted advisors, we have convened of the following. For the matter of my cousin’s wounds, a blood price must be paid, from the coffers of the fathers or brothers of those accursed bravos, that they may each in turn pay a prince’s ransom into my cousin’s hands, or if it be the Stranger’s will, into those of his widow. If you must entertain their rivals in ensuring this, do so. Play their houses against each other but ensure that the keyholders of the Iron Bank prove themselves favorable to you in their majority.

…

The Free City of Braavos must agree to the payment of a subsidy that shall cover the costs of our expedition to Pentos and commit itself that it will not sue for peace with the City of Pentos, unless agreed with ourselves. The terms of the peace must ensure that they shall disband their standing hosts and fleets of war, and that they should abolish the infernal institution of slavery without compensation, and graciously accept the entwined protection of our two nations. Further terms shall be discussed later.

…

The matter of the Stepstones, upon which our sovereignty has been agreed upon almost thirty years ago, must be revisited, and our sovereignty recognized one more and enforced by Braavos’ fleets in a forthwith manner that will ensure its use in our quelling of the rebellion of the accursed Dornish oath breakers, clearing the islands of the infestation of the pirates.

I leave the subtleties of the negotiations to your deft hand and silver tongue.

May the peace of the Seven be with you,

Baelor, by divine grace, King, ”

Chapter Text

Chapter XII: Sorrows, Sorrows, Prayers

​

BAELOR

THE RED KEEP

Cousin Aegon's unfortunate incident had led the House of the Dragon to be limited to one male who could father heirs, for now. Daeron was young, my uncle unlikely to remarry, Aemon sworn to celibacy. My only hope was that providence would have Naerys' children survive, with so much changed. At least, among the worries and uncertainty that followed, my cousin Naerys and me found some semblance of delight at Aegon's misfortune, though we both managed to hide it from the ever-watchful eyes of the court.

Soon Naerys was to give birth. And if the Seven willed it and they survived, I would wait until they were blessed in the sept before I set sail for the Pentoshi shore. There were a few other family affairs to be settled until then, and the opportunity to do so presented itself soon enough.

My sister Rhaena, with all the confidence the age of four and ten bestowed upon a girl and princess, had come to inquire after her fate, in the wake of her elder sister's wedding.

"Brother, I have heard rumour that you wish to see me wed to Lord Bernard. Please say it is not so." she told me, with all the graveness she could muster. "I have come to tell you that I wish to swear myself to the Maiden, and as a faithful and pious man, you should not suffer the breaking of such an oath."

"Have you sworn yourself yet, without asking for my leave? Me, in which whose wardship you remain yet, may I remind you. Or you merely mean to do so?" I asked, half-fearing that her impulses had driven her to such haste.

"I did not, brother. I would not disrespect you so." she answered meekly, her face showing the truth in her words. "But you of all, know the calling of the holy life. I do not wish to wed, I would rather join the motherhouse in Stony Sept. And I had hoped that you would allow me to do so."

The mention of Stony Sept had enlightened me of what hopes and desires she entertained. And as much as it pained me, I had to crush them, for allowing such to fester further would only bring her pain and anguish in the years to come.

"You would not find your mother again by joining the Faith, Rhaena! For all the love she bore us, her heart is too broken to love us again. You know how father was, always grim and silent, never laughing and never loving. All the love he bore was for our uncle, and perhaps a semblance of it for mother. And he did not love more because all he once loved was lost. It is easy to blame him for ignoring us, but many children do not survive their infancy, and he cared not for any more of which he loved to be lost. And for all that mother loved us, when she lost father, the same pernicious thought must have burrowed in her mind. There is nothing in her heart but grief. And Daeron's death must have hardened her more."

"You cannot know that, brother. Just let me see her at least" she cried, and her anguish made me want eagerly to acquiesce to her demands. But I knew better.

"She would not have you! I went to see her when Elaena cried herself to sleep every night. But she would not receive me. They named her Elder Sister, as befits a Queen Dowager and she drowns her sorrows in her tasks. She was too "busy" to receive me. She bade me seven blessings and sent me on my way."

"But she's my mother." cried Rhaena, tears spilling on her cheeks.

"Not anymore. I am sorry, sweet sister, but we might as well be orphaned of a mother too, for all that she still lives. It pains her too much to love us further. It is better to leave her to her lightning of candles and her prayers."

" Then I will join another motherhouse, maybe at Gulltown, or Oldtown, brother. Just please, let me do so."

"If it is piety that drives you so, oaths are not the only way to be faithful. You are young still, to swear yourself so. Perhaps in a dozen years or so, if no man would find your fancy. Serving the Mother is as worthy as serving the Maiden, sister. But I would not wed you to any that you do not wish to. As long as they are of a suitable station, and a character I find suitable, I'll leave the choosing to you. And see that he should lack ambitions of rank and power, I do not need him making trouble for me." I answered her.

"Meanwhile, with our mother gone, and our sister wed to the North, there is no one to take charge of the alms from the Red Keep, save Naerys, but she is bedridden in anticipation of her birth. You will take charge of the matter until Naerys is in better health, upon which you will share this burden jointly. Perhaps you shll find your heart soothed by helping others."

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BERNARD TYRELL

THE RED KEEP

The young Tyrell rose was concerned when the King summoned him to his solar with no anticipation of what he wished of him. He knew, from the whispers at the court, that His Grace had raved often in his council at what he termed his late father's "stupidity". And for all that a son should love a father, Bernard inclined to agree with the king. He had indeed loved his father, but often he had watched his mother cry when she heard of his latest mistress, or the rumour that he imposed himself upon the daughters of Dornish lords.

The King received him in his solar and, with an unreadable and solemn face, bade him sit down.

"I have heard rumors of rumors that I seek to wed my sister to yourself. Have you any insight on how such rumors might arise, my lord Tyrell?" asked the king, with a cutting edge to his words and a severe glint in his eyes.

It seemed that, unwittingly, the new lord Tyrell found itself in the same situation with the king as his father, a situation that he was eager to rectify.

"I have not spoken of such, Your Grace, I swear on the Seven. But my mother, in her widowhood, seeks to see me well settled. She is ambitious and overeager. I pray, my king, to pardon her folly. I know I am no knight of valor, to be seen worthy of the Princess Rhaena's hand in marriage."

"All is forgiven, my lord. But you may know, and your mother also, that not being of the age of majority, as your sovereign, I have the right to oversee your marriage."

"And have you a maiden in mind… Your Grace?" asked the young lord, hoping that the king did not hold a grudge severe enough to see him wed to some ugly and barely noble chit. He was still a Tyrell after all, even if, as it seemed, not in the King's good graces.

"Fear not, Lord Bernard, you have nothing to fear from your future bride. Perhaps from your future goodfather" said the king, with mirth in his voice.

"Your Grace?"

"What think you of the lady Sansa Stark, lord Bernard?" asked the king in kind.

The lady had attended her uncle's wedding and seemed not overly displeased on being displaced as heir by the Old Wolf. Cregan Stark had explained, when a few knight had offended him with insinuations, that he did not wrong to his grand-daughter, for in the House Stark, a child came before a grandchild. The young lady was beautiful, even if not in the striking fashion of one with the blood of the dragon and seemed quite ladylike. He had not conversed with her at the feast, or with any other Stark for that matter since he was fool enough to boast without valor at his back before the house's patriarch and be shamed for it with naught but a look.

"She seemed a pleasant and beautiful young lady. Your Grace is quite wise to have chosen her as my bride. Will…will Lord Cregan attend the wedding?" Bernard asked, quite anxious.

"He will but fear not" the king laughed. "It is year before you shall wed. For now, the lady Sansa has remained at court, among my sister's ladies in waiting. You would do well to get to know her better. But I have taken enough of your time, you have my leave to return to your affairs."

Bernard rose from his chair, eager to return to his chambers. But as he made to leave, the king interrupted him: "I have still one or three things to tell you. Leave the Street of Silk out of sight and mind if you do not wish to anger Lord Stark. Tell your mother that she should emulate her goodmother, for she was wiser in her inaction than her in her actions. And, last but not least, when Dorne shall fall, your house shall have leave to do with the Qorgyles as you will, as long as you do not anger the gods."

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VISERYS TARGARYEN

THE TOWER OF THE HAND

The Prince Hand was busy with the vast and varied burdens of his position, foremost among their lot the last of the preparations for the expedition to Pentos. Its cost were north of two hundred thousand dragons – for horses, grain, arms and armor, and whatever else they might need. At least the attack on Aegon had some bright spots, for Braavos had been forced to finance this war, to save face. Hundreds of merchant ships were requisitioned, a host of seven thousand men gathered, all but awaiting the king's orders to set sail. And he would soon order so, after Naerys gave birth. Baelor had even set up a Court of Chivalry that would be responsible for the organization and discipline of the host and oversee the complaints about the spoils of war. Seven knight, old and experienced and known for their knightly valor had been given this task.

He had deplored Aegon's folly since the boy first started drinking and whoring. He should have set him straight, punished him harder. But he had not, and he now saw the result of his inactions. Aegon, barely six and twenty, would father no more children. And worse, he was a eunuch now, the laughingstock of the court. He had only a grandchild, and one more on the way, perhaps two, if the Grandmaester was right. Baelor had told him in privacy that he had no interest in matrimony, and that he wished to have Elaena marry Daeron and have them jointly as his heir. He would have argued harder for Baelor to marry, but since his own line was to rule after Baelor, he was not overly eager to do so. He had quibbled some time, about making Daeron heir before his grandfather and father. But he knew he was not likely to outlive Baelor, nor Aegon with his drinking and manifold poxes. Unless Baelor died at war. But now he knew that Aegon was no longer fit to rule, and if Baelor were to die, Seven forbid, he would rule as Regent and later Hand, without needing to take the trappings of the crown.

As if the gods knew, or cared, that he was thinking of his own legacy, a servant came: "My prince, the princess has begun her labors".

After hours of anxious waiting, he was to see his grandchildren at least. Both boys, if the servants spoke truth.

They were small and frail, but they lived. And Naerys too lived. A quick prayer to the gods was on his lips, when he heard the child's breath in his arms cease. And then that prayer turned into a curse, as yet unspoken.

Amidst Naerys' cries of anguish, as the maesters tried and failed to revive the children, for it seemed that the Stranger wished to take both, Baelor arrived. After a quick look around the chamber, Baelor turned to the master and ordered "Give me the children". Viserys meant to yell at the king in his grief, for Baelor was no healer. But Baelor's command rang again, his voice stronger, and none would gainsay him.

The Grandmaester handed him the first boy, and Baelor took it in his arms, made the sign of blessing upon his forehead, and murmured a quick prayer. And the boy began to breathe. The maesters were quick to hand over the next child, and he too, after a blessing and a prayer, began to breathe again.

Baelor returned the boys to their mother's arms, and, with a smile, asked his cousin what names she had chosen.

"Aelor. And Daemion" she said, her smile shining on her tearstained face.

And Viserys looked upon Baelor as if he was another man, as the servants whispered among themselves and called the king "Blessed".

By midnight, tales had sprung in taverns of how the king had given battle to the Stranger, and had wrestled the two young princelings from his skeletal hands.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER XIII: HIS GRACE'S MEN

SER JONOS EDGERTON

HIGH HILLS OF BRAAVOS/ANDALOS HIGHLANDS

Ser Jonos had been entrusted, along with the two hundred horsemen under his banner, to escort the envoys that Braavos had sent to join King Baelor’s host during his great raid. It meant that he would miss out on some of the plunder and looting of Pentoshi estates, but he valued service to his King above all else.

Jonos was a tall, and broadly built man of two and twenty, black of hair and with a birthmark the shape of a marten under his left eye. Though young, he had spent the better part of a third of his life in royal service and had seen rewards for it. He was the fifth son of Manly Edgerton, Lord of Moorcastle and Master of the Horse, as his forefathers had been since Aegon’s Conquest. His brother Symon was to take these duties one day after his father; his brother Damon, a merchant, also served the king, as part of the envoys to Braavos. Another brother, Criston, was the King’s Counter, and his ambitious wife hoped that one day he would become Master of Coin.

He had been born his bastard son, his mother a novice at Maidenpool who had broken her vows and died in his infancy. His uncle, the Elder Brother at Quiet Isle, had fostered him with Ser Nicol Colman, the Master of the Hunt, where he learned the rudiments of swordsmanship and hunting from the man’s two sons, two giants known as Omer Stone-Crusher and Samwyle Tree-Breaker.

He had first set foot in his father’s castle at the age of nine, when his sire had sent from him. The Lady Edgerton had thought him a fosterling, until she had noticed the birthmark under his eye, and in a moment of panic began to count how many times she had given birth, momentarily unsure. She had accepted him though, saying “The Seven have marked him so, so I might be his mother instead of the one who perished, whoever she was and wherever she was.” And soon, he had become her favourite son, the child of her soul.

He had fought in Dorne with the Young Dragon and had earned his spurs and name from the late king himself, after, with the impetuosity of youth, he had rode to the gates of the shadow city of Sunspear and had boldly requested that their Prince should hand over the keys to his fortress. Since then, he had served as he was bid to. He had led the sand steeds that King Daeron had acquired for the royal stables. He had at the behest of his king and his father, been quite busy acquiring all the necessary horseflesh for the expedition to Pentos. After that, King Baelor had entrusted him with the duty of raising two hundred riders from Crackclaw Point, and he had been occupied since with teaching them all the tricks of riding and taming their half-wild nature.

He was escorting the Braavosi from their coastland to the meet the army of the King. Seeing that his men were few and far away from the rest, they had not the opportunity to loot extensively, for they could not carry the plunder with them.

They had passed through the northern lands of Andalos, were the power of Pentos and Braavos had been waning and waxing across the centuries. No magisters had manses and estates here, for the lands were hilly and forested, and full of tribesmen, savage men. The vagaries of time and the current political situation held to the wisdom that these High Hills, quite debatable lands, now belonged to the Braavosi, but their power had not been often felt too strongly among the people. The Andal remains that dwelt here were more alike to the Crackclaw riders who formed his banner – stranger and unruly to every power but their own, than to what a Westerosi would think Andal to mean.

They had been halfway through these lands when they had met one of such, a lone rider clad in a bear’s fur, carrying with him a cloth of parley held on his spear.

“Hail” he yelled, in an Andalic dialect that Jonos had, with some difficulty, understood, for his brother’s lessons on Old Andalic has rooted deep in his mind. “Are you men of the dragon king?”

“We are His Grace’s men” answered Jonos. “What business would you have with us?”

“I am Argos, son of Armen, come on behalf of the knight, Ser Qarlon of the Shady Vale. He would welcome you into his village and host you through the night. Come and he shall tell you what he seeks from you.”

“I would not think it wise.” interjected Galeo Zalyne, one of the envoys, ”These men are known to be raiders, and I would not like to be robbed and slaughtered in the night”. The man seemed to speak out of his own ignorance, for these Andal tribes had never raided the Braavosi, only the Flatlands, and had even served as warriors for Braavos a few times in the so-called brigand bands, according to the other envoy.

Argos, looking upon their whisperings, intervened again: “My knight would offer you the salted bread, to honour you as guests, as it be your custom across the Sea. I would swear this sevenfold.”

“I see the man keeps the Seven and has offered us guest right” answered Jonos to Zalyne. “I would hear the man, and if he proves false, I have two hundred good men to keep you alive through the night.”

After a long ride, they had arrived at a vale, hidden deep in a forest, were they found a hamlet. Protected by a ring of wall made of earth and wood, it held maybe two or three hundred houses within and corrals for their sheep and goats. The most striking were the blacksmith’s shop, a sept which was one of the few buildings made of stone and a bastle house made of stone, which seemed to be the home of their knight. On the slopes of the hills were fields of barley and turnips, eking out whatever existence the land would afford them.

They were welcomed by a tall, fair-haired man of perhaps thirty years of age, with a seven-pointed star carved upon his forehead. He introduced himself as Ser Qarlon, “Knight of this Vale”. The knight welcomed them into his hall, full of similar men with stars carved upon them, though he insisted on speaking with Jonos alone.

After Jonos and his captains had been fed, Ser Qarlon made his plight known, speaking in the Common Tongue, though strangely accented: “I have heard tales, last I was in Braavos that your dragon king across the sea, gathered a host of knights and warriors to make war upon accursed Pentos. And now I have heard word that across the Flatlands, a great army marches alongside your king, dragging the magisters out of their estates by the beard, and breaking the chains of my people. Is this what I speak of true?”

“It is, I am one of the knights in His Grace’s service and I now go to join him to war.” said Jonos.

“I am a knight and warrior among these hills, and with me I had gathered all the great warriors of the land. In all, we could gather four or five thousand men to join the king in battle.” offered Ser Qarlon.

“His Grace has a great deal of swords and lances, men bled in conquest, and has no great need of your men, nor does he know what purpose you seek by helping him in war.”

“Does he not call himself King of the Andals, and do we not thus owe him our service? Has he not been crowned by your High Septon to rule over your people and mine?” the warrior argued slyly. “As I had been judged worthy and made a knight by the septon, has not he been judged worthy by the Voice of the Seven to lead the Andal people?”

Jonos had grown uncomfortable with the man’s talk, for he was no envoy to have authority to treat with these men, and no septon to argue if the King had been crowned to rule over Old Andalos. He had no intention of overstepping his bounds and said as much: “My king has given me no leave to treat with you, and I can offer you nothing in exchange for your service. If you would wish to join my king, you could speak and treat with him yourself.”

The warlord conferred with his comrades through the night, and by the morning, Jonos’ party had more envoys to bring forth to the King. He hoped that the King could disentangle this new, wretched knot, and would ask him to use him only for war, for he had no mettle for diplomacy. And onwards they went, towards the headwaters of the Little Rhoyne, where word had come they were to join the rest of the army.

Chapter Text

Chapter XIV: A Letter to Braavos

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"To the illustrious magister and our beloved cousin Terro Volentin, the most respectful and grateful greetings sends Moredo Lornel. Let it be known that from the sumptuous Palace of Truth we have now arrived in the lands of Pentos, under the most valiant escort of King Baelor's warriors, led by the incomparable Ser Jonos Edgerton.

We have passed through the Highlands of the Andals and Ser Jonos has been given hospitality in the house of one of their warlords. I have not been privy to their discussions, nor has the valiant knight seen fit to make their discussions known to myself.

From what little I have seen and heard, I can say this much: the warlords in the hills have gathered all in the village of this warlord Qarlon, and he has been sent forth to treat with the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and has thus joined our warband alongside most of his companions. I can only assume that the Andals wish to gather their brigand bands and join the war against Pentos. For plunder and cattle or for more loftier ambitions, I cannot say. But "Ser" Qarlon has not sought fit to call himself king of their lot, so his desires must not grow so high as conquest.

I am far away from the comfort of our palazzo in Braavos and am now forced to spend my nights under a tent and share my meals from the rations of Ser Jonos' soldiers.

Ser Jonos is a young man and quite devoted to the king. He is one of the three knights leading this troop, the other two going by the quite ferocious monikers of Stone-Crusher and Tree-Breaker. And if you take a look at those two giants amongst men, you will be tempted to believe they are more than capable of performing those deeds.

Ser Jonos is a man both experienced in battle and with a honed mind. We have conversed extensively about the war, about his deeds in Dorne, but also about the king's steeds and matters of their holy faith, of astrology and poetry. He has spoken to me of his brother, a maester turned septon, who is of the belief that one the seasons were of a uniform length, unchanging. I would be most pleased if you were to inform your factor in Oldtown to acquire a copy of his book, if possible, which, I am told, goes by the name of "The Measure of the Days."

Ser Jonos has told me of another of his brothers, a merchant by the name of Damon, now among the Westerosi envoys to our illustrious city. I must urge you to invite him into your house, so he might show good will to him. His father is among the dignitaries of the court, as Master of the Horse, and another of his brother serves in the treasury, and Ser Jonos is surely to rise high in the king's esteem.

Although I have never been before a great rider, I have, at Ser Jonos' instruction, grown skilled in the matter. It is a sad state that I would not be able to make use of it among the canals of the city. On the matter of horseflesh, Ser Jonos, may be able, with the king's approval, to allow me the purchase of a fine Dornish sand steed to be used for breeding at your stables outside the city. I would urge you not to balk at the price, for his foals would be worth even his weight in silver. According to the Dornish they never tire, and are able to run a day, a night and another day. They are smaller than warhorses, and as such could not bear a weight of armour, but we do not have, or have no use of armoured knight in our employ, so it is no ill to us.

Ser Jonos has one for his own mount, a steed dark as starless night and with a mane red like a flame, chosen from the royal herd itself, He rides it as if he were a centaur, the man and horse melding into one will. He has named it Black Brother, in jest of the men of the Night's Watch and he has joked that the horse has never obeyed his supposed oath of celibacy. He holds it as a dear friend, though head to break his unruly spirit afore he first rode it.
The king's late brother has acquired the sand steeds for his herd as prizes of war, for the Dornish would not part lightly with them. It is said they love their steeds equal to their children, a knight even stabling them in his very own hall.

Ser Jonos's men are, as I have been told, from the blood of the First Men of Westeros, though they leave in the Crownlands. They live in half-wild places and are, by consequence, the same as their land. The two hundred men are light cavalry, called hobelars, wearing gambesons of padded leather, a few among them chainmail and each bearing sword, dagger, and lance to war. They are as such more suited for the kind of campaign the Iron Throne wishes to wage than their fabled knights.

These men hold fiercely to their own will and accept their knightly captains only because they were proven in war. Even so, the two Sers Colman have had to deal with insubordination among them. Said dealing involved taking the man by his coat and throwing him into the air from one to another, until the poor man lost his meal.

We have come on the road across an estate of a Pentoshi magister, and Ser Jonos has given leave to his men to share in the plunder that the rest of the army must assuredly partook in. The magister was not at home, nor his family. It fell upon its steward to stand and watch its ruination. Ser Jonos leads his men with an iron hand, for the raping and pillaging has resumed only at pillaging.

Ser Jonos was almost struck down by one of dozen Unsullied that were kept at the manse, yet such an encounter fazed him not. He did not pray to their warrior god before slaying them, but to their god of death. I have told him of our Braavosi saying, "Valar Morghulis", and that the Stranger is but one side to the Many-Faced God and the knight elaborated on his house words. Their words and war cry are "Steadfast in unsteadiness" but they are the short version of it. According to Ser Jonos, these are their words in full: "As restless as the wind and still as a stream, Steadfast in unsteadiness, We rejoice only in death, For then we contemplate the face of God." Ser Jonos, unlike many warriors, has an inclination for mysticism, and signs and portents. His loyalty to his king is half owed to his oath and half to the tales of his saintly deeds that have spread.

I have heard that he decreed the seventh day to be one of rest, that he returned from death the two sons of Prince Aegon. But the men are a superstitious lot, prone to believing and spreading all manner of folk-tales. At night, at their campsites, they speak of creatures named squishers, which they described to be human in appearance, with large heads, and scales instead of hair, with webbing between their fingers and toes, and rows of green, needle-like teeth They are damp and smelling of fish and are said to steal children by night and eat them – which shows their existence to be but a lie to put unruly children to sleep. Their appearance seems similar to what sailors have told of the people of the Thousand Islands, far in the East.

Every slave has had his chain struck and was given the offer to follow our band to the king, an offer that all were glad to accept, fearful of Pentos' reprisal. I know not if this is the custom in all the estates of slaveholders, but the slaves were kept in miserly condition. They were men without hope afore we met them. During the day they were worked to blood and sweat and whipped hard and often, for their overseers were particularly cruel, even more that is usual among them. Between the two Colmans, their doom was swiftly dealt, and I must confess some morbid joy when I saw one of them rip the head off a particularly unremorseful one.

At night the slaves were kept chained together and kept in an underground prison, without light, for fear of revolt or flight, or simply because of the tyranny of their overseers. They laid at night on straw, kept in darkness absolute, in small cells, so that they might not plot against their masters. One hopes that the domestic slaves were kept in kinder quarters, but the master has taken all of them to Pentos.

If the gods are good, we are not to face much trouble on our way to the king. Once I have arrived, I shall write again and send a courier to you. I pray we shall meet again before the year is passed, and report before the Sealord and then await at your pleasure. I have acquired, as my share of the plunder (a pleasant and unexpected pleasure) some trivial trinkets, which I have sent to you, as gifts for the children.

May the gods keep you,

Your humble servant, Moredo Lornel"​

Chapter Text

Chapter XV: Wars, Words and Wonders

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The lands of Pentos were rife with many estates to be plundered. Vast fields of grains, numerous orchards with of a multitude of fruits, manses full of luxuries and fripperies, ill-trained guards, and craven slaveholders. The provisions for the army and their horses and for the beasts of burden were as such not a concern to our host.

The bounty taken from the wealth of the magisters was enough to awaken the greed inside men – gold, silver, jewels, spices, Myrish laces, Volantene glass, silks, jade, and porcelain from YiTi. The rich men of Pentos’ forty families enjoyed such wealth at the expense of the multitude of slaves that laboured every day in fields and mines, without the slightest reward given or pity given. And what they had earned by foul means was now taken by sword.

Pentos had no concept of a slave gaining his freedom, and a magister could only gift his slaves to the state through his will, and not release them, save for those that worked as domestic help. One could free the tutor of his children, or their wetnurse, or his cook, but for the many fieldhands that laboured under the sun, or the miners that toiled under the grounds, such relief was not allowed.

The Pentoshi had no respect for the bounds of marriage or family of those who considered lesser, tearing them apart in search of a quick coin, or bidding them to lay with each other as they wished, in order to breed new generations for the flesh-markets. They had every right over the life and death of their slaves and exercised it with the utmost cruelty.

The smallfolk who could be considered free had a somewhat kinder life, but not a fortunate one. The lands of Pentos belonged to its wealthy, with no exception, and the manifold slaves left no place for them to find work there. So many of them lived at the outskirts of towns and cities, becoming singers and tumblers, debasing themselves before the great and wealthy, to earn a meagre living.

The proximity of Pentos and Braavos and their many wars did nothing to ease the state of slavery in this so-called Free City. It was as if in their pride, the magisters made slavery much crueller to spite their Braavosi rivals and their First Law.

I had landed a host of almost seven thousand men and fifteen thousand horses on the shores of the Flatlands and advanced, raiding and burning, towards the Little Rhoyne were the purpose of my quest laid. I had divided the army in three columns, as to bring fire and sword to a wider expanse. In turn, these columns sent forth smaller forays, and the width of destruction was as large as fifty miles. We advanced around fourteen miles per day, but our return would undoubtedly be longer, courtesy of the Valyrian road between Ghoyan Drohe and Pentos.

We stumbled across some sellsword companies, which Pentos was quick to employ, but they were a meagre lot, and time was not on the side of Pentos to employ the better one, for the Disputed Lands were far away, and many a sellsword was under contract to one or another of the Three Daughters. We came across some smaller towns, weakly fortified, who were more than eager to ransom their way to safety. Yet their entreaties were for naught, and their weak walls fell under our assaults.

Since the Braavosi had so kindly “offered” to pay our expenses, my own share of the plunder was to make its way to the royal treasury. As king, it was my right to keep a fifth of all movable property taken and the most valuable of the loot. I had made it clear that every book found was to find its way to me, and the same to every piece of Valyrian steel weaponry or jewellery save for blades taken from the hands of a foe slain in combat. Of my own share, I intended to set two thirds aside, as to make a seventh, to await a day a new sept would be built in King’s Landing, one fit to hold the Seven Stones themselves. What the Royal fleet took upon the sea was all mine to keep, for from my treasury the ships were paid, the provisions and arms were purchased, and the men onboard were paid wages from my purse. What ships of his own the Oakenfist brought to battle would have their plunder find its wat into his own coffers, save for the fifth that was owed to me.

The days thus passed as we advanced, occupying us mostly with bloodshed, and plunder, and the breaking of chains. As every war since the world began, not all men behaved themselves as their conscience bid them to. Often, I had to have such men punished according to their crimes. A man who would not obey his captain would be struck with the shaft of a lance, or if he proved obstinate, he was tied to a rope by the tail of an ass and walk behind the army. Men who drank and then fought with their comrades were struck from the rolls when it came to the sharing of bounty. Thieves would have their ears cut.

A knight of foul renown lost his arms playing dice and left his armour as pledge for a barrel of Arbor Red to a companion of his. He then furthered his infamy by attempting to force his attentions on a maiden freshly freed from her chains. To him I dealt the greatest infamy. Every knight could make a knight if the other were capable of deed or reason. The king himself, or his heir, had the same authority, though they were knight beforehand, even if they had not held a sword once. And many knights were dubbed in centuries and millennia past, but none undone. Monsters in human flesh, made Sers by virtue of a pouch of gold exchanging hands, held their titles until their dying breath. The same with men who spat on every notion of chivalry and behaved like the foulest sellsword. This young knight served as an example that would, hopefully, be followed.
Ser Alyn of Oxcross had the ill fortune of being awoken by all my four and twenty serjeants-at-arms that I brought with me to war, dragged out of his tent and bade to put on his arms and armour, which were retrieved from where they were ill-placed. And he was taken before my royal presence.

In front of all my commanders and captains, of famed knights and warriors I cut his baldric cut with my dagger and took the straps of his spurs. I unsheathed his blade and broke it on his helmeted head and spoke his sentence: “You are no longer Knight but Knave. You may not bear the title Ser or be appointed in any service on the crown’s coffers, you have no right to accuse or challenge any knight. Go now and tell your shame.”
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***​

Our march through the Flatlands attracted not only the attention of Pentos. The Khal Jhogo, with his ten thousand riders, sought to add to the misfortune of Pentos, and led his warriors into the Flatlands, for gold and slaves. Fortunately, our raiding parties had found of their advance, and we had the time to gather the host to its full strength before we were to give battle to them.

We gave battle at the fords of a river neither army bothered to find the name of. The Khal’s screamers charged across the river into a rain of arrows loosed by archers from the Marches, felling them by tens and hundreds. And they charged into the shields and pikes of the infantry, arrayed before them, and more of them fell. When the wits of my men began to waver, the knights and hobelar charged against the horse lords, and blade meet blade, blood was shed, and by nightfall, the day was won. The savage horsemen died in their thousand by arrow, lance, pike, and sword or drowned in the river. Those who fled were chased and found the same doom as the rest. A pitiful remain fled then, returning in shame to the Grass Sea.

Khal Jhogo perished at the hand of Hendrick the Sharp-Witted, after his horse was slain, his head crushed by Hendrick’s foot after he had failed to extract his sword from the stallion. Hendrick, it seemed, had grown brave on account of his own tall tales, resigned his post in the City Watch, and had taken arms and sailed across the Narrow Sea to win glory and renown. It seemed the gods held him in their favour, that such fortune should have struck him.

As befits one who had slain the commander of an enemy army, I had the man knighted, gave him fifty dragons to acquire arms and armour and a mount worthy of his new station, and promised him a village in the Crownlands to lord over. As much as his great deed was one of luck, to reward him would bolster the heart of my men, making them more eager to prove themselves in battle in hope of a reward.

I had slain myself mayhap half a dozen riders, charging forth with three Kingsguards by my side and two dozen knight following me closely. Not a deed of arms to be remembered in tales of glory, for they were poorly armed and armoured, but enough that men would see me for a warrior. It was my first taste of real battle, and as I laid that night to sleep, I could still remember the stench of the dead, the screams of the dying, the carrion crows feasting on the flesh of the slain.
***
Once we had reached the shore of the Little Rhoyne, the army camped in a small town, freshly sacked. It was there that the Braavosi observers, escorted by Ser Jonos, joined at last our party.

Ser Jonos, in his usual boisterous manner, had his riders take out their helmets and yell out “Long live His Grace” as I walked out of my tent. I thanked him for his service and greeted the envoys with bread and salt, as it was their due and it was to my surprise that there were more than I expected.

Once I had met with the Braavosi according to the usual courtesy, I invited the Andal war chiefs that had come this far to join me and my council in my tent, to ascertain the purpose of their arrival.

Once I enquired of their desire, Ser Qarlon was more than eager to tell it: “We have heard, o great king, of your army coming from across the Sea, to humble the slave masters and break the shackles of our people and we greatly desire to join your host and show our worth in battle alongside you."

“And what you ask for your service, brave knights? For you owe me no fealty, or loyalty, or debt to be repaid” I answered them. It was time for prudence, for I had not foreseen such before I started this conflict, and I had no desire to complicate it beyond its purpose.

“We only desire to fight by your side in your liberation of Andalos, Your Grace. And as for what do we owe you, did the High Septon not crown you as King of the Andals, and are we not Andals?” said the knight with cunning words.

“If you would speak to me of Faith, does not the Seven-Pointed Star speak of Westeros as the promised land. There is no sacredness to the land of Andalos. I have come to give battle against the enemies of my realm, not to conquer Old Andalos. I have a kingdom to reconquer at home and godless men to punish. If I break the chains of the slaves, it is because the Seven abhor slavery. I have offered to give them passage across the Narrow Sea, in the land that the Seven promised them, in my own lands, so they might live as free men.”

And negotiations continued. If Ser Qarlon saw that I did not seek to conquer Andalos, he asked for help to establish anew the old kingdom and promised to swear fealty to me any my heirs. After consulting with my own council, and countless hours, I settled upon an offer for them:

“I give you my leave to bring sword and fire to everything north of Pentos and keep al plunder to yourself. If you wish for it, I will give to you and yours the same offer I give to the men I free, come across the Sea and you would have lands of your own to rule and to live. If that is not your desire, then I would give you weapons and armour, and the horses of the expedition when we return to our home shores. I would send to you septons and maesters, and gold to wage your war for Andalos. I would welcome your sons into my household and make knights of them and find husbands for your daughters. But I have not the inclination, nor the time to gain conquests in Essos, and our esteemed Braavosi allies would not look kindly upon such. It is my advice then, to seek an audience with the Sealord, and put before him your plans, and if the Seven smile upon you, they will find wisdom in carving a kingdom from Pentos and weakening their magisters. But it was not for such that the One-Who-Is-Seven sent me here.”

I met then with the Braavosi again, to ease their worries. They sent new messenger to Braavos, to seek new instructions. I sent my own messengers, carrier pigeons eager to return to their dovecotes at the red keep. There were no maesters and castles here, to send ravens forth, and so I indulged in an experiment of my own. I had sent words by messenger too, who knew the matter more in depth, to bring knowledge of these negotiations to my uncle.
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***​

In that evening, a stag appeared on the hour that the sun set, white as driven snow, and I rode to hunt it, alongside a small party, Ser Oscar Tully, Ser Jonos Edgerton, Ser Olyvar Ferren, and Ser Qarlon the Andal among them. We rode long amid the ever-encroaching darkness, and yet the stag seemed as further away as it had at the beginning, leaping away as soon as we approached him.

It became night, and in the cloudy sky, only the Crone’s Lantern light shining through, guiding us on our path. And it became morning again, and we had lost it from our sight, save for the muddy tracks it left behind, courtesy of the rain. Drenched to the bone, Ser Oscar advised me to return to our camp, and abandon the hunt. But I had an inkling that the omen meant much more than a night that ended in folly. I sent messenger to tell the captains that I would only return with the white stag felled, and sent for beasts of burden to carry supplies, and many more with no burden, for I suspected the Seven guided me to a treasure greater than we had acquired since we set foot in Essos.

And so, the hunt continued in the hills, following the stag to the headwaters of the Little Rhoyne. And in the morning of the seventh day, we saw the stag again.
In the shadow waters of the river, now but a creek, the white hart entered a cave inside a hill. I dismounted my steed, and with a motion of the hand, bade the rest of the hunt to remain in their places. And treading in the water, I followed the beast into the cave.

A long tunnel awaited me, the stones slippery from the stream. I walked slowly and patiently into the ever-growing darkness, nought but a few rays of sunshine peeking through. As moments passed while I ventured forth, I saw a shining light in front of me, as if from a lantern. Soon, I reached a cavern where the purpose of my quest awaited.

The cavern was full of wondrous light, as if it was midday. And in that cavern Seven Stones awaited. Roughly carved from stone, a wizened and bearded man, carrying scales of iron. A warrior, covered in carved mail, a sword in his hand, a shield at his feet. A craftsman, with a hammer in one hand, his handle of petrified wood, and head of steel, a chisel in the other hand, with a foot upon a plow. A woman, her face kind and motherly, with a gentle smile. A maiden, in a stony dress that flowed around her as it were silk, a wreath upon her head, made of ceramic flowers. A crone, her face wrinkled, a lantern in her hand, the fount of the light in the chamber, a raven carved of jet stone perched upon her shoulders. And in the middle of them all, of blackest stone, but not the molten stone of dragon lords, nor the oily one of Yeen, a dark figure in robes and hooded, his face a skull as white as snow.

And their eyes were on me, no matter if I stepped forth or backwards. I saw their eyes looking at me, felt them at the back of my head. They were the judging eyes of a father, come to scold his child for an ill deed. They were the kindly eyes of a mother, giving comfort for a scraped knee. They were the patient eye of a teacher, looking upon a pupil eager to go out and play. They were the bold eyes of a knight, throwing a challenge against overwhelming odds. They were eyes full of wisdom, looking down at the foolishness of men. They were laughing and loving eyes. They were the cold eyes of death, unblinking.

And in their godly presence, I fell upon my knees and prayed. Slowly, my companions emerged from the tunnel, looked upon the carved faces of the Seven in wonder and wave, and fell prostrate upon the cold stone floor of the cave. None saw the white hart leave the cave or pass them by on their way inside. No tracks were found of it from then. It had disappeared without a trace, his god-given purpose fulfilled.

Once the divine presence no longer overwhelmed us, we left the cave and took the Seven Stones with us and carried them back to camp, upon the backs of our mules. Seven days we rode back to camp, where worried men awaited us.​

Chapter Text

Chapter XVI: Curious Daeron

DAERON
RED KEEP

When cousin Baelor left with his fleet to go to Pentos, Daeron was inconsolable. He had begged his cousin to bring him on as a page, so he could gain fame like the knights of old he read about. His grandfather had told him he couldn't go since he was the future of House Targaryen. Daeron thought that was stupid and his grandfather was wrong. His dead great-uncle Aegon and cousin Daeron were the past of their House – since they were dead. He and his younger brothers were the present, being very much alive. And his mother's future kids were the future, since they weren't born yet. He had told Baelor that, and had told him he should probably change his Hand, since his granddad had become a bit dumb, probably because he was so old.
It was nice to be old though. Nobody told his grandfather what to do. And he could even yell at Baelor, even if he was the king. And he yelled a lot at him, and tore out his hair. And then he calmed down, sat at his desk writing messages to a lot of people, telling them what do, muttering under his mustache.

And because he was a kid, everybody told him what to do. He had to have a lot of lessons, and they made him play with Elaena sometimes, instead with the squires at the court. And Baelor was always trying to teach him about ruling. But Daeron wasn't his child, so it wasn't like he would ever become the king. Daeron thought that was because Baelor was older, and he grew a bit dumber. And he hadn't even brought his uncle Aemon with him, who everybody knew was the greatest knight ever. He said he was still sick because Lord Wyl put him in a cave, so he wanted to let him recover. But kinghts in tales never stopped to rest, so Daeron thought that his uncle didn't that much rest. At least, Baelor said he could be his uncle's page when he became healthier.

Daeron wished he would have been older, so he could do whatever he wanted, but he was afraid of growing dumber. But perhaps some people didn't become as dumb as they grew up. And some became very dumb, like cousin Daeron who died because he was dumb enough to trust the Dornish. "Never trust a Dornishman when death is on the line" his dad told him once.

The court used to be more fun when there were a lot of knights around, before Baelor left, who told him lots of tales about their deeds in battle. Now he spent most of his days in lessons, which were interesting enough, sometimes; and in the training yard, learning how to wield a sword. But he did not like the fact that his tutors often insisted on how a prince should act. "You most not do this, or that! That's not how a prince ought to act!"

'How would they know?' thought Daeron.'They weren't princes. A blacksmith doesn't offer advice on how a knight should comport itself because he doesn't know.'. It all made sense in his mind – only a prince should know how a prince ought to behave, so that means he should only listen to uncle Aemon, or cousin Baelor, or his grandfather. Or his father perhaps, but he's father did not offer him such advice, the few times he spoke with him. And father was sick now, sicker than uncle Aemon. His grandfather told him that some very bad people hurt his father in Braavos. Some of them were even brought to King's Landing to be executed. He snuck out to see one hanged, but he had night terrors after for a fortnight.

When he wasn't at his lessons, he played with his companions, sons of lords from the Crownlands, which were pages and squires for the knights at court. And he played with his cousin Elaena, which they made him do. But she was useful as a princess in a tower when he play-acted as Davos the Dragonslayer, or Serwyn of the Silver Shield.

When he grew tired of playing, he went to the library, not for lessons, but to read of the heroes that lived long ago. It was better to hear tales, than to read them though. He had pestered Lord Cregan for stories of the Dance of Dragons, but he was old and scary and would not tell him anything. His son, Jonnel, was friendlier, and he told him lots of tales and legends of the North he learned from his old nurse, Old Nan. He told his grandfather that they should bring the old lady to court, so she could tell him stories. But Jonnel said she doesn't want to leave Winterfell. At least he promised to write all the stories in a very big book and send it to him to read, but only if he was well-behaved and attended all his lessons. So Daeron had to, even if he didn't want always.

He told cousin Daena to check up on Jonnel, see if he was lying or not. Because if he did, then he would tell it to the king, and he would make him write it. Because Baelor always said that men should keep to their oaths. Daena promised to do so, but Daeron couldn't tell Baelor if she broke his promise, because Baelor didn't say women had to keep their oaths. Daeron thought that was stupid, and everybody shouldn't break their promises.
Baelor also told him stories, before he left. Lots of fairy tales about many things, like a prince who traveled to his uncle with a talking and flying horse, that ate hot coal; about another prince, who had to guard golden apples; about a boy born with a book in his hand; about a knight who brought back the sun and the moon, stolen by an evil giant; about a very clever sheperd, who tricked a lot of knights and married a princess. Stories about a man that traveled to the land of giants and to that of tiny tiny people, and to one of talking horses. About a princess that lived on a mountain full of evil imps, who was saved by a miner boy and had a very old grandmother. And there was one about a boy made of wood who dreamed of becoming one of flesh and bone, another about a young squire who went looking for a fallen star.

***
Daeron heard that Baelor send a messenger to his grandfather about the war in Pentos, but nobody told him what was in the letter he brought. Impatient, he went into the secret passages in the Red Keep. His uncle had showed them to him. He knew that if he went into one of the tunnels from a chamber with a mosaic of a dragon. The tunnels was a shaft, which one could climb up to his grandfather's solar. So he went through there, climbed all the way up and hid there, so he could hear what the messenger would talk with his grandfather.

When he heard the door open, he sat still and did not make a sound, so they would not find him. He heard his grandfather saying "Welcome, Ser Jonos. Sit and drink. I have the best of the Dornish vintage, brought by my nephew Daeron, may the Seven bless him. Or if you would not partake in such, I have Arbor Red, which Lord Redwyne has gifted me at princess Daena's wedding. Drink and tell me what news you bring of war and of my nephew."

"My many thanks, Lord… Prince Hand" said the knight. Daeron had to stifle a laugh. "It is my greatest joy to report to you that the king has been ever victorious. Our raid has seen no great obstacles, the pitiful sellsword companies that Pentos has bought have been scattered into the four winds and our army has crushed a khalasar beneath its lances, and His Graces has distinguished himself most bravely."

"A khalasar?" asked Daeron's grandfather, somewhat surprised. "It was to be expected. I suppose. You mention there was no trouble. Am I to assume that Braavos' envoys have arrived without trouble?"

"Do not insult me, my prince" replied Ser Jonos."I always do my duty with the utmost dilligence. Though our travels have been surprising."

"Pray tell me" said the Hand, bemused.

" We came across war chiefs of Old Andalos, more than eager to reconquer the old homeland in the name of King Baelor."

"Tell me he has not entagled himself so," said his grandfather, suddenly alarmed. Daeron didn't know, hidden where he was, why his grandfather was so upset. Nobody was upset that cousin Daeron conquered dorne, or Aegon the First the Seven Kingdoms. If Baelor conquered Pentos, wouldn't that mean he was a great king?

"Fear not, my prince. His Grace has limited himself to giving them his leave to raid as they please, and has promised them only arms and armor, horses, gold, maesters and septons. It is not a pittance, but if they wish for conquest, they must look at Braavos for aid."

"Praise the Seven then."

"Speaking of the gods, my prince, I am most joyous to report that His Grace, guided by their hand through a with hart, has discovered the Seven Stones carved by Hugor. I have seen them with my own eyes, and the presence of the gods in them is undeniable."

"It seems that his dreams were not folly after all" laughed his grandfather. "Have the heralds announce it in the city. Tell the grandmaester to spread the news to the realm, firstly to the Starry Sept. And you have a leave of a sennight. Visit your mother, spread the joyous news."

Once they left, Daeron carefully snuck out. At dinner that night he asked his grandfather what was special about the Stones. He shouldn't have done so, because his grandfather grew suspicious on how he knew such, and at last, got the truth out of him. Maybe he wasn't that dumb for an old man. Or maybe he wasn't that old.

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The shores of Pentos burned. The fields of Pentos burned. The cities of Pentos burned. The people of the Seven Kingdoms had come with fire and blood and punished the Pentoshi for the gall of involving themselves in a war not their own.

On land, King Baelor and his great host had wreaked such damage that the magisters of Pentos would have preferred a dozen khalasars over them. For khals could be bought, but Baelor's knights could not.

On the sea, it fell to Alyn Velaryon to wage war against Pentos, to destroy whatever warships the Free City had left, and seize or destroy all their merchant ships. Sailing under his orders were the king's own ships and the ships of his native Driftmark - his own ships.

Alyn Velaryon, the Oakenfist, preferred to lead his own ships to greater bounties, disregarding the risks. He would suffer nothing if one of the king's ships were lost and not of his own – but neither would he gain much. Of the bounty captured by the king's ships, he was entitled but to a seventh, his due as admiral. Of the bounty brought by the Velaryon sails, he needed but to give the king his fifth, for it was he who had the ships bought or built, it was he who paid the wages of his sailors, it was he who paid for their arms, it was he who paid for their supplies.

And as the sails of the Sunset made war against those of the Sunrise, he enjoyed the great sight of the coffers of Driftmark filling up with gold and his warehouses filling with the cargoes of the merchant ships, now profiting him and not the cheesemongers of Pentos.

It was no great a fortune to rival that of the Sea Snake, but to return Driftmark and House Velaryon to its former glory would have been the work of generations. He was not Corlys Velaryon, to weep at the sight of a house fallen on its knees.

He was the Oakenfist, Master of Ships and Lord Admiral, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark. He had long ago been content with whatever fate would give him, since he had thought to claim a dragon and suffered for his folly. But if he happily accepted what fate would give him, he would not throw away the chances that the gods offered.

So now he sailed from Driftmark, boarded some ship or other, deplored the poor show of their men before he killed them, took the ship for his own, and returned from Driftmark, unsatisfied. There was no great glory to be found, not since he had sailed at first too late, for the Braavosi had already destroyed most of Pentos' power at sea. Yet he yearned for the greater valour of his earlier deeds, of the time when he crushed the Braavosi in the Stepstones. He whished to lead his great fleet to a grand battle, and like a commander charging with his knights, joust his seahorse, his ship, and fell the enemy from its mount.

Perhaps striking anew at Dorne when the time came would satisfy his need for renown. If not, he would turn Driftmark to his daughter, and sail to the Jade Sea, beyond Asshai and past the Saffron Straights, or to the ends of the Shivering Sea, or sail round the world, surpassing his own grandsire – exploration rather than deeds of war winning him undying fame.

His daughter was not so jaded, her joy was easier to be found. Laena had named her own ship Moondancer, for her late mother's late dragon. And when she sailed, she did not seek some great deed. She sought to board a ship and wet her sword with the blood of the enemies, singing in joy at them falling before her, never to rise again.

And now she was gone with her ship, and he, thanks to some godsdamned Pentoshi sailor, was home at Driftmark, nursing a wounded leg, and watching from the window of his solar, hoping to see a glimpse of Moondancer's sails. He would listen then to Laena's tales, and accept that paltry replacement for sailing forth himself. He had no shortage of duties to address, overseeing the repairs of ship, the purchase of supplies and their repartition, going through his correspondence from the many ports of the kingdom. But he had little desire now to attend to such.

He was but five and forty, but his wounds made him an older man in truth, and his pains made him tired, tired enough to doze on his chair while watching the sea.

He knew not how much he slept, but his rest was disturbed by one of his men, coming with great haste and much noise, disturbing him from his slumber.

"Milord, the Lady Laena has returned, and with ill news indeed!" said the guard, and bade his lord join him to the docks, to meet his daughter and hear of it in detail.

So, Lord Alyn, with great pain, hobbled over to the docks, cursing the stone steps as he came down from his tower, gripping his cane tight and grinding his teeth. His daughter should have been more dutiful, and should have come to him, not him to her. But he was not a lesser man to show himself too weak to climb down from his castle's tower, even if it ailed him to do so.

His daughter was amid many captains upon the shore, speaking and gesticulating animatedly, a new scar upon her cheek to show of her bravery, or perhaps lack of care.

He called to her: "Laena, come and greet your old father. Pray tell, what grave news you bring that I may be summoned in such haste and with such lack of decorum?"

Hearing his voice, Laena turned her head towards him, and a moment passed, and she ran into his arms, hugging him with her usual exuberance.

"Oh, father! Our prey was paltry, as usual. Few merchants dare to venture forth from Pentos' harbours now they lack warships to escort them. Their offerings are paltry, their men disappointing to fight."

"Those are disappointing news, not ill tidings, Laena" said the Lord Velaryon, suddenly irked. "Should I have you returned to your maester's lessons, so that you might learn the proper use of words?"

"No, father." Laena said gravely, her prior exuberance gone without a trace." When we turned our sails for Driftmark, we glimpsed Lyseni warships sailing north. We gave no battle, for we were too few, and sailed with great haste home."

"Lyseni? Are they fool enough to challenge me? Or perhaps they thought that Baelor meant Pentos' doom for them afterwards." replied the Oakenfist.
He then sat still a moment, a thoughtful gaze in his eye, raised one hand to his eye, gripped his wrist with the other, and moved his wrist and fingers left and right, an aid to declutter his thoughts. Then the moment passed, the silence broke, and the Master of the Tides broke into a loud booming laugh.

He made to speak but laughed again. He made again to speak, but the peals of laughter allowed him not. At last, his bout of sudden hilarity ended and he spoke, trying to make his tone grave: "The Lyseni are masters of their own damnation. They aided Dorne because Daeron thought to ally with Braavos. And when Baelor went with fire and sword to Pentos, they thought they were next and thought they should not stand idly by and await their fate. But they prophesized their own doom and by bringing ships against me, their deeds fulfil their destruction, for I shall sink them into the abyss, the Merling King shall claim them as his thralls, and thank me for the gift."

That said, the Master of Ships turned to his duty: "Summon the captains present for council" he said to his daughter. "Call the maester to my solar, for I mean to write to the Hand" he barked to a man-at-arms. "And someone fetch me a map of the Stepstones."

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A realm does not stand idle in absence of its king. A war is still waged even if a high commander is elsewhere. And so it was, that while King Baelor sowed death beyond the sea, in the Dornish Marches, blood was still shed. Once again enemies, the people on both sides of the Red Mountains had returned to their customs – raiding each other, driving cattle and sheep and killing anyone that stood in their way.

But these were no simple raids. His Grace had proclaimed war to the death against the Dornish, and commanded his loyal men to bear the red banner, which is the sign of death. There would not be mercy to be granted, save at the hand of the king himself. There would be no prisoners to be taken and ransomed, save those that the king wished to spare. And thus Reacher and Stormlander raided the Dornish, talking goods and lives with impunity.

But the Dornish proved themselves no lesser. Knowing that doom would soon approach them, they crossed the border and attacked with the self-same ferocity as their ancient enemies. The Wyl of Wyl, facing the unrelenting wrath and hatred of the house Targaryen, and the displeasure of his own prince, and knowing that the day of reckoning was near, had forsaken whatever oaths he still kept and proclaimed himself Vulture King, intent on being a greater malefactor than the first who bore that accursed name.

In Nightsong, the castle of the Lords Caron, a great gathering of nobility was held. Long claiming the title of Lord of the Marches, the Caron were now blessed by fortune, for the king had named their Lord as Warden of the Storm March for the duration of the war.

Yet the proud marcher lords, who had long rejected the dominion of Caron over them, had taken time to appease. But appeased they were at last – Dondaririon and Selmy, Swann and lesser ones like Elotte and Stormstone, Ridderk and Syward. And in that castle, they put their sign and seal upon a paper, binding their words on a parchment that said thus:

We undersigned, inhabitants of the Storm March of this kingdom of the Stormlands, understanding how it has pleased His Grace, our sovereign and our Lord Paramount to make and constitute Lord Royce Caron of Nightsong Warden and justice over all the march,

Acknowledging how we are in duty bound to service by our counsel and forces, to be employed in assistance of said warden in all things tending to the good rule and quietness of said March.,

Therefore we are bound and obliged, that we should serve the King and our liege, and obey and assist the said warden, and shall concur with others in giving of our advice and counsel, or with our forces in pursuit or defence of the said thieves, traitors, rebels, and other malefactors disobedient, or disturbers of the public peace.

If we shall be found remiss or negligent, we are content to be repute held and esteemed as favourers and partakers with the said thieves, traitors, rebels and malefactors in their treasonable and wicked deeds, and to be called, pursued, and punished therefore, according to these laws in example of others.

Lord Royce Caron, the old and grizzled warrior, had led once another host against another Vulture King, some year past. But now it was not so simple a matter. As Warden, it was laid in his hands to defend the Marches, but also to deliver justice.

And many cases came before him, traitors all. Opportunist Stormlanders communing with Dornishmen to bring depredation upon their own neighbours. Half-Dornish peasants harbouring reivers they called kin. Green boys so foolish as to wed Dornish maidens in time of war. Men without scruples warning the bandits of the Marcher lords' exploits, for a few coins. Greedier men, who sold bread or corn, or iron, or weapons to Dornishmen. Men who received in their homes pilgrims from Dorne – who the king had ordered to be turned away.

He had not the time to sit in long judgement over them, and by the words of trusted men, they were found guilty, pronounced traitors and felons, and swiftly hanged – a show of kindness, for he could have very well had them hanged first and sat in judgement after. They were to examples, a testimony that there will not be peace with Dorne until it was ground into dust. The King had proclaimed, far and wide, that the Dornish had spat on the banner of parley, after swearing on the Seven to obey the truce. They were now to be found oath-breakers, rebels and traitors, cunning serpents plotting against the peace and common good of the realm. They were to be denied ransom when taken prisoner, and no man should offer them bread and salt, or share his meal and hearth-fire with them.

One of the Most Devout had come and pronounced a great curse upon the Dornish. He cursed them in rest or labour, in food and drink, at home and outside. He cursed their wives, their children. He beseeched the gods to bring ill upon their crops, their cattle, their sheep, their horses, and all their livestock – which Caron would have quite liked to protest – he wished their livestock healthy, but inside his own stables. The septon then wished ills upon their halls and castles, palaces and towns. He called forth all the malevolent wishes and curses he knew, committed them to fire and sword.

He then parted them from the Holy Faith, delivered them to the Seven Hells. Barred them entrance to any divine service or holy rites, forbid the absolution of their sins – until they were humbled and their rebellion crushed.

He forbad all faithful and pious men and women to have any company with them – eating or drinking, speaking or praying, or in any other deed – under pain of deadly sin.
He discharged all bonds, acts, contract, oaths made to the Dornish by any persons, in sight of the Seven – than no man should be bound to them.

At last, the Most Devout proclaimed that when their candles shall be snuffed by the Strangers, their souls shall be turned from the face of the One, and they shall make satisfaction and penance in deepest pit of hell.

When Royce Caron did not spend his days in court, he gathered men and fought Dornish. Either he fought the Dornish reivers off, come to burn and plunder villages of the Stormlands, or he led himself forays in Dorne, doing the same to their lot.

When it was the first, he hunted Dornish with horse and sleuthhounds, with great speed, caught them and hanged them.

When it was the second, he burned villages and drove cattle and ship, riding on small hackneys, hiding during the days in glens, and sallying forth at night. It was to be their last hurrah, and the Marchers partaked in it with great appetite. Soon, Dorne would be humbled, and the very lands they raided would fall in the hands of second sons of Marchers and a way of life that survived centuries would end.

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Lord Wyl
The Boneway

When words came to him of a grand host of Stormlanders marching along the Boneway, bearing the red dragon banner, Wyland Wyl knew that the day of reckoning was near. Even so, he was no craven to await his doom patiently, and thus he gathered his banners, and sent men to ambush the Stormlanders along the mountain pass.

He had gathered his most able men, whatever he had left of them after wrestling enemies for the Stone Way twice now. He had even taken men of his own garrison, for they could be swiftly returned if the Stormlanders did not relent. He had also taken his own son, some men grown and forged in war, some younger and still green, leaving naught but his daughters at his castle. It would not do for the younger ones to grow with softened hearts behind castle walls.

For weeks he had troubled the Marchers, ambushing them day and night – with arrows and stones and logs thrown upon their heads, as they marched along the treacherous path. Though they lost men everyday, those stormy bastards never relented and made their way back.

It was only after a turn of the moon that Wyland realized, with growing unease, that his enemies were in no haste, their advance slow and meticulous, stopping to siege or storm every watchtower along the pass.

The sun set, and in the night a messenger came, and told him of his own folly. He had taken most of what forced remained to him, had crossed the river Wyl and had marched against the obvious enemy. And now word came of King Baelor, that wretched dragon, landing an army at the mouth of the river and besieging his castle.

He had cursed the messenger for not riding faster, and had him whipped for his tardiness, even if he were not so. His men had been roused from their slumber, and they made haste to return to his stronghold, to salvage what he could.

Yet as he rode back to his home, he saw his lands ravaged by his enemy, burned and looted, leaving naught for his horse and his men. It was stricken with hunger that his men arrived at last, only to see a great army surrounding his castle, and hidden behind another row of fortification – hastily assembled wooden ones, but enough that he could not simply strike at them in the night.

And most grievous of all, across the roaring rapids of the river, the sturdy stone bridge he had once used to ride for war was absent, and that which had allowed him his way forward did not allow it backwards. His castle was built south of the river, and he cursed his ancestors – each by their own name. His men needed to ford the river, and whatever ford they reached, soldiers would surely await them.

At last they reached a suitable ford to cross the river, and as they were in the process of it, what he surely knew befell him – dragon men struck forth those who passed the river, dragon men struck from behind – for Baelor’s ships allowed him to put men on the other side of the river. Besides the latter, Stormlanders who pursued them attacked, as they had advanced with great haste through the suddenly undefended pass.

And upon that ford, the Ford of Wyl’s Folly, Lord Wyland, Wyl of Wyl, once infamous through Dorne and Westeros, saw his host defeated and broken. Half his sons were slain, their red, gleaming blood gushing forth in the waters of the stream, quickly washed away to the sea. It was later said that the river drank so deeply of the blood of the fallen, that when the Lady Wyll had seen the river sudden turn red, he knew that her sons and husbands had fallen, and her cries of woe were heard far and wide.

Ser Walter Waters - a knight of Dragonstone
Royal camp outside Castle Wyl

They had landed in front of the castle, unopposed, for the meagre garrison left had no desire to sally forth and die upon the shore.

They had quickly made camp, and preparations for the siege had begun. Great war engines were being built, sappers began their works, soldiers looted and burned the countryside to deny supplies to returning Wyl forces.

It took some time for that accursed Lord Wyl to figure out the trap he had nicely sprung itself into, a device sprung from the mind of the King itself. At Wyl’s Folly, that wretched lord had been captured, with whatever sons he had left. The king had taken one look at him, but not decided yet his fate, and had ordered him and his brood returned as prisoners but asking them to be careful that their presence in the camp should not be known to the garrison. All were to behave as if the fighting men of that House had perished at the ford. Save for the youngest of the brood – Wyllard Wyll, but one and ten of age, who had served as his father’s squire, and who seemed to be the least steeped in the cruelty of his bloodline.

The Castle Wyll was a powerful stronghold, and even if stormed, the defenders could easily hid in the caverns and tunnels beneath the castle, and continue their resistance. Rooting them would mean a lot of blood shed.

It was thus no surprise that the king had offered the Lady Wyll, who commanded in absence of her husband, terms for peace.

His Grace had dragged the lady’s youngest son beneath the walls of the castle, where a scaffold had been hastily erected and threatened to hang the boy:

“My lady, if you would not cease your unlawful rebellion against your sovereign and surrender the castle into our hands, you leave me no choice, for all it grieves me to do so, but to hang your son, the last of your line. But if you would cease this strife, I am willing to offer life and exile for you and your son, although you shall be stripped of all title, land and income.”

The lady’s heart was not as black as her husband, and the love she bore her son was great indeed. The castle was swiftly surrendered, the garrison disarmed, and the lady in the custody of royal man, now tearily reunited with her son.

It was then that the king sent his men to bring forth the Lord Wyl and his other sons. Upon seeing them, the Lady Wyl was greatly surprised, and with an accusing face, turned towards the king and spoke:

“It is such the behaviour of a king? To lie and peddle falsehoods of the death of my husband and my other sons?”

The king laughed and explained himself, to the amusement of his commanders and lords: “What lie I have told you, my Lady Wyl? Is not your son born youngest of your womb and thus the last of your line brought in the world? Aye, I have hid the fact that your husband and elder sons have survived the battle from your sight and hearing. But I had no intention of sparing all House Wyl for their castle, for your husband’s crimes were most grievous. I judged that your heart was mellow enough that you would surrender but for one of your sons. And I had judged right.”

“You foul-minded fiend! You accursed wretched rascal!”

“Someone gag that miserable bitch” the King responded, his words unusually foul. He then turned towards Wyland Wyl, bound in chains and spoke again:

“Do you remember my words, Lord Wyl? For the wicked will be cut off from the earth, and the treacherous will be torn away from it. So I spoke then, and so will be your fate.”
He turned then to men-at-arms and commanded them: “Bind him to four sand steeds and let his body be torn apart by the horses.”

In frightful agony, his screams horrid and loud as a harridan, Lord Wyl met his doom. The horses being willful, the horses were long in disconnecting the sinews between his body and his limbs, and long were his pains. At long last his limbs were torn, and the lord still yet lived.

The king took his dagger, plunged into the villain’s heart, and then ripped out his heart with his hand, raising it high into the sky: “Behold now his false heart! And know that I am bound by my words, hear them and ponder them!”

The man dead, the king gave new instruction: “Have his body cut into pieces and send heralds with each of them to the strongholds of Dorne to proclaim this: When they shall sight my banners on the horizon, the time for mercy would be long past.”

After speaking such, the king made to return to his tent, but was stopped by Ser Jonos Edgerton, one of His Grace’s confidants, and high in his counsel: “What about the lady and the sons of Wyl, Your Grace?”

The king turned his head and spoke: “Throw them into the pit of vipers and burn their corpses, save for the youngest. I promised him and his mother life and exile. Have them sent to that wretched island, Ghaston Grey, were they are to remain for the rest of their lifes and waste their years. That is exile enough, I believe.”

As he looked upon his departing king, Ser Walter fell in deep thought. He had not thought Baelor Targaryen to have such a hardened heart in matters of warfare. In his brief tenure as Prince of Dragonstone, he had showed a disregard for skill at arms, more content to spend his time writing and reading. Yet, he thought, grief has a way of hardening the hearts of men, and not even the blood of the dragon is spared such.

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To my lord and brother,

You have my congratulations in finding a knight at court in need of a squire to foist your son on. But if it is your ambition, as I most accurately suspect, to use his squiring as the first step of raising him to a higher position in court and in the king's favour, I fear there is much more work you will need to do.

You have praised at length your son's martial skills. But these skills alone would not find enough favour with King Baelor. The Young Dragon is dead, and all the young knights eager for glory are not our new king's friends, for they have not proven themselves beyond the shedding of blood. A place for such men can no longer be found even among Prince Aegon's retinue, for since his incident, he shuns knights for jealousy of their manliness. He only keeps the company of drunkards now, and that is a fate I do not wish upon the young boy.

One could say that there are several factions at court, though some people could be considered part of more than one. It is to men high in such factions that your son should seek to attach himself.

The oldest of these factions, to which I belong on account of being appointed as one of the Keeper of the Keys a dozen years ago, is that of the Hand of the King, Prince Viserys. Our days of glory are long past, even if king Daeron, and now king Baelor have kept many of their uncle's appointments. There is no security in our positions anymore. The king has changed men solely on account of corruption or incompetence, of which misdeeds I am not guilty. But when the Stranger shall take the Lord Hand in his bosom, we can only pray that fortune shall keep smiling bright.

From our faction, the position of Lord Hunter, the Master of Laws is the shakiest. The king loves greatly justice and disapproves of the haphazardly manner in which it had been dealt before.

The Master of Coin is secure until a more skilled man is found, and the few times he has shown a matter of incompetence, the king has threatened to give his position to his sister, the Princess Elaeana. This is surely a jest.

The king's uncle, Lord Velaryon steadfastly remains in favour, for he has proven himself time and time again at sea. Save for the granting of the Stepstones to his line, his star shall shine no brighter. He seeks not a greater influence at court, save for the affairs of his office. The king has pondered, it seems, to hand over the office to his cousin, the Lady Laena, if the gods take the Oakenfist, but has changed his mind, for he does not wish to keep the lady from the sea. When the times come, only the gods know who shall take the post.

The second faction is that of the King's Men. These are men appointed in posts by our new king, and have caught his eyes on account of competence, wisdom, and honesty. Chief amongst them is Ser Herman Harte. He does not owe his positions because to kinship with the king, for our sovereign has denied power to a closer cousin who has proven himself unworthy. He has served the king well in Braavos and now as deputy to the Master of Ships, and rumours abound that upon the passing of the king's uncle, his star shall shine the brightest in this constellation of courtiers.

Second and most martial of them is Ser Jonos Edgerton. Proven in service in Dorne and in Pentos, he keeps no steady position at court or in the king's employ, but he is ever the king's favourite. His father, the Master of Horse is a man whose council the king does not shun, even if he holds his office by hereditary appointment. One of his brothers is the King's Counter, and through this kinship his fortune shines bright. He might be our next Master of Coin. Alas, the gods do not smile upon me.

Among the same faction we count the septons closest to the king, who advise him in many matters, the septons Cad and Paul. The first knowledgeable in many worldly matters, the second of a most inquisitive nature. These hold a measure of power of some of the King's Men, the Knights Inquisitors. They are men honest and competent, ever eager to root out misdeeds among the king's officials. But some of them are accomplished in arrogance and that might be their downfall.

The strangest man of this faction is Bastyen, the king's fool. He entertains the king with his folly, he speaks with wise words in counsel to our king and is a more accomplished swordsman than many knights. He now rides to war at the king's side, and I am told he has yet to prove himself a craven.

The third faction of which I shall write, now growing stronger since the Holy Passage, is that of the Faithful. We are all faithful, but these are men that have earned the king's favour through their piety. It is curious a fact that these are the most martial of the royal favourites and that their captain is the self-same Jonos Edgerton. He now commands the Holy Hundred, which had guarded the Seven Stones, and which the king has decided to keep on. The Holy Hundred itself counts among the Faithful. But these are not only martial men, for the king is interested in conversation with pious men that hold some degree of intellectual acumen, to not bore himself with them. As with the King's Men, some are useful to the king for service, some for wise counsel.

Of all the king's favourites, Ser Herman and Ser Jonos are the most likely to benefit from the humbling of Dorne, and we might someday call them lords.

If your son is not particularly skilled in matters besides that of arms, I counsel him to read attentively the Seven-Pointed Star, be ever a pious man, and later seek admittance in the number of the Holy Hundred, of whom many shall undoubtedly die in Dorne. These men are not a company in the usual manner, for the king might send them to some errand of the other or grant them offices grander and farther than the Red Keep.

So, if your son has not taken to the vices of drink, gambling or whoring, has not spoken impious words, that is the path that the Crone's Lantern enlightens for him. Find him some septon for a tutor before you send him here. I shall be glad to receive my nephew.

Your ever loyal brother,

Balthasar Grell

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It is said that since the Seven Stones have crossed the Narrow Sea, the people of the southern kingdoms have grown more pious. That is certain of the smallfolk, which came as pilgrims to King's Landing in their droves.

Thousands, then tens of thousands made the journey to see for themselves the holy relics. From the Fingers of the Vale and the many river valleys of the Riverlands, from the Westerlander mountains and the fields of the Reach, from the Rainwood of the Storm lords and the mouth of the White Knife in the North. From Dorne came few, and only those who had acquired some license of safe conduct from a Marcher lord or the other, and thus risked not their life in crossing the Red Mountains.

Processions, miles long, led by barefooted septons, advanced upon the multitude of the roads in the realm. Men and women, young and old, filled with holy fervour. They were ordinary people, desirous of closer company with their gods. They were septons and septas, seeking the slightest measure of divine guidance and revelation. They were wretched sinners, of untold and many crimes, seeking repentance – at the behest of the village septon, sent here to do their penance.

They carried with them staves - wooden sticks with iron toes. They wore long, coarse tunics and scrips - pouches of leather, strapped to their waist where they kept their food and coin. The villages and the septs, septries and motherhouses along the road offered roof over their heads, the fire of their hearts, water, and fresh bread, knowing that the gods would reward them sevenfold. Lords sent their men-at-arms to escort them along the way and keep them safe from robber bands, and the most pious built large guest halls for the purpose of providing hospitality to the pilgrims on their way to the capital.

Still, not all had good in their hearts, for many an innkeeper profited of a pilgrim's plight, offering them cheap wine, bad fish, putrid mean, filthy beds, and hard bread for the road. Yet their punishment would surely come, for many of the pilgrims cried to the heavens against those who had thus defrauded them.

Some had joy in their hearts and upon their face, eager to be so close to something so holy. Some had terror and trepidation, the penance of confession in a place as close to the gods they could be frightening their heart and wits, and their rest was plagued by night terrors most sinister, playing upon their guilt, and making them wake having imagined more sins that they had indeed committed.

The innocent prayed to the Crone to light and guide their way to King's Landing, and the guilty tearfully beseeched the Stranger each night to spare their lives another day, so that they may do their penance, and acquire thus the chance of lessening their damnation, of making it into the lesser of the Seven Heavens, or even in the lesser of the Seven Hells – for it was the fate of those who had failed to confess and atone for their sins until their dying to be cast into an ever-deepening pit, where sinners suffered extremes of cold and heat, of ice and fire, their cries drowning under the sinister laughter of demons. The first hell, where people were gnawed at by venomous worms, sounded far more pleasant than that, and the seventh hell - where sinners would boil in fire and brimstone for eternity in that oven infernal, was a fate that none desired.

There was a septon seeking guidance from above, for a lightning had struck the village sept, and rumours and whispers of the punishment of the Seven abounded. There was a party of village elders who had seen a red sky at night seven times each following another, and now sought the truth of that omen.

There were others, who sought a different kind of relief. Driven by new rumours of the king bringing back his cousins' sons from the precipice of death, and by elder ones, of the king's father visiting those stricken by diseases, they sough the touch of King Baelor's healing hands. Septons spoke of the seven oils of anointment at the king's crowing, and how such imbued the royal touch with healing power, by making the king himself holy. And so came the blind, the deaf, the infirm, soldiers seeking relief from the pain of old injuries, people suffering from a myriad diseases, but carrying in their hearts and souls the slightest of hopes.

There were even others, who had brought along their children, healthy as they could be, not to be healed of some illness, but in hope of a king's blessing, so that their child might grow up a worthy one.

A heavy rain stopping the advance of one day was thought to be the work of some malignant, demonic power, come straight from the seventh hell, to prevent this exercise in piety and damn their souls. It only emboldened them further.

The most holy of relics were though to hold such divine might as to bring the desired joy to the pious and succour to the penitent and the sinful. Carved by the sanctified hands of the Blessed Hugor, the King upon the Hill, and in them residing the presence of the Seven themselves, the Seven Stones were the hope of many.

Besides the septons and the smallfolk, came wealthy merchants, dragged on the pilgrim's path by some wife or daughter with exceeding piety. Lord and ladies came also, but who can say that they came by reason of a pious heart or not to prove themselves less faithful than their neighbours?

And they arrived, and set their sights upon the Seven Stones, and fell prostate in adoration at their sight, praying and crying and singing hyms of praise. Some made to approach the statues with handkerchiefs and aprons to take some divine grace to heal their sick. Some took the dust on the floors of the Dragonpit. Each according to their wealth made offerings of coin to the almshouses and sept of King's Landing, as tithes to the Gods, in gratitude or penance, or in hope of a blessing.

The pilgrims sought the slightest glimpse of the king and great crowds formed every time the king rode through the city, hands seeking the royal touch. Those whose ills were lessened or cured, praised his healing hands, and those who saw no relief saw themselves to sinful, or where shamed by their fellows for not showing enough penance for whatever misdeeds they commited in life. More than once, King Baelor had to unclasp his cloak and throw it to the crowds, for they made to tear at it, as if the clothes of a king held the same power as his hands.

Once the seven moons had passed, and the Seven Stones where returned to the Royal Sept and the King took his Holy Hundred and marched to Dorne for war, pilgrims came still. The highborn came to give coin to the king's new almshouses where septons and septas were in service to the poor and the sick, the old and the infirm, the widow and the orphan. Whetever they did so out of pious inclinations or seeking royal favour, only they know in their hearts.

The smallfolk kept coming for a different purpose. In ages past, the Poor Fellows from their lot had wandered the roads of the Seven Kingdoms, escorting pilgrims, carrying axes and cudgels. Now came artisans and craftmen, masons, stonecarvers and woodturners, blacksmiths and goldsmith, and people of many other professions, or those only of hardworking hands, that sought not the favour of the Warrior, but of the Smith. Wearing habits of course wool or hairshirts, they came and swore the service of their craft to the king, and called themselves the Confraternity of Holy Works, or the Smith's Apprentices.

For the king, once the seven moons had passed, had ordered the clearing of the ruins of the Dragonpit, intent upon building there a Great Sept, one whose like none had ever built or seen. He sought to make holy again the place that had been desecrated by Maegor, when he burned the Sept of Remembrance in dragonflame, and to build a suitable house for the Seven Stones.

The sept was to be built on the foundations of the Dragonpit, from the pale red stone that could be quarried close to the city, and clad in white marble from the isle of Tarth. It was to such a great and holy work that the the Faberards gave their service. The king housed and fed them at his own expense while they worked, and, loath to see their works go unrewarded, gave them wages from his own coffers. Though some would not accept it, King Baelor accepted no refusal, and as such, some gave the coin received to alms, and some kept them, but accepted only coin with Baelor's face, using them as amulets to ward of accidents or illness.

Chapter Text

Yronwood would not fall as easily as Wyl did. The siege had gone on for more than a fortnight, the royal troops ferried by the king's ships while the Stormlanders laid siege to Skyreach, hopefully with aid from Reachers coming up the Prince's Pass, though Kingsgrave was still in their way.

In the king's pavilion, amidst the lords gathered in council of war, one was fool enough not to think a plan through, and fool enough to make it heard. Though no lord of fame and bold deeds, nor commander named by the king, he had somehow found his way into the councils by dint of how many lances he had gathered to battle in his name. He went by the name of Albin Peake, and an office of some worth held previously in King's Landing was the reason he was not presently amidst the hosts of the Reach.

Instead of giving counsel on the taking of the castle, the knight spoke of matters outside such purview and greater than he ever had right to give counsel:

"Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to offer Lord Yronwood dominion over Dorne, if he renounces his rebellion and begs for mercy and renews his fealty. Surely, he has allies of his own amid the Dornish, and the Bloodroyal have always made claim of paramountcy south of the Red Mountains. It would surely help us pacify this kingdom, if Your Graces names one of their own as lord over them."

Amid the jeers and lords calling the unfortunate fool craven, the king banged his fist upon the table, asking for silence, and with a measured voice, answered him:
"I had thought of a plan myself, if you would care to learn it?", he said, and the knight could only nod. "Let us gather our host and go round the walls of the castle once for ever six days, seven priests singing hymns to the Warrior before our men. And upon the seventh day, we shall go round seven times and then all men shall shout with great shouts, and make blasts out of trumpets and horns, and the walls of the castle shall fall down flat."

Murmurs arose in the council, and none dared to speak about such an audacious plan. At last, Ser Jonos Edgerton dared to ask the king: "Sire, was this deed revealed into you in a vision in the night by the Warrior?"

"By the Seven, no, Jonos" cried the king, with sudden anger. "I know you to be pious but use your wits for but a moment. Nay, it is but a jest. But having heard the words of a fool drip into our ears, I had thought we were making fun, not speaking of a serious matter. To name Yronwood Lord Paramount of Dorne instead of the arch-rebel Martell? He has with equal measure rebelled against us, fought against his rightful liege, and knew of the planned treachery that led to my brother's death – I will show him no mercy, for I hold the most violent and deadly hatred against him. So, I had thought to make my own joke, so monumentally amusing that none would take it but for such. It seems I was wrong. So tell me, Ser Albin, are you such a fool that you do not think before you speak, or you are a different sort of fool, a jester who tried to lighten our day with your buffoonery?"

Ser Albin thought for a moment but had not the heart to confess himself foolish in matter of politics or warfare, so he confessed himself to be a jester, and apologized for the misplaced levity of his words.

"Well, if buffoons we must have among our council", said the king, "I could have summoned one of my own employ. Begone from my sight, Ser Albin, and summon before me the fool Bastyen. Perhaps he'll speak wiser words. And you would do to remember that now we're waging war, not settling peace."

And wiser words Bastyen spoke. The king's jester knew the moment for levity, and the moment to speak of serious matters. And having once sold his sword in the Free Cities, he knew of warfare.

Sitting amid lords and generals more highly elevated than he, he spoke sound advice: "It seems to me, sire, that for all your late brother, King Daeron, has said that the Dornish could summon fifty thousand men to war against him, this is no longer the truth against you. Some say that your brother has exaggerated his words, and they numbered less, but many fell against his might, castles were sieged and fell, fields and orchards burned. The Yronwood no longer have the might of their full banners, their castle has been slighted in a previous siege, and your royal brother had wisely refused to allow the Dornish to repair their castles."

"And from what I have heard of the whispers of Maester Rowley, Your Grace's Lord Confessor, since the Submission of Sunspear, they had not the time to fill their granaries for a long siege. They had not done so when they feigned loyalty, as to not seems suspicious in the eyes of Lord Tyrell, and they have not done so since they treacherously cut down your brother, for they viewed your surrender of the hostages as the abandonment of all plans for Dorne. And their false sense of security only grew when you made war with Pentos instead. Only of late have they sought to prepare for sieges, but the time of the harvest was not near and so they had little success in it."

"This is my advice then, Sire. If you wish to starve them out, it shall not take too long. If you wish to storm the castle, it will fall easier than most castles, for lack of repairs. And Yroonwood has no tunnels or caves where the defenders might hide. I judge either decision to be a wise one – for we can be resupplied at sea, and we have also asked fines of produce from the villages of Yronwood's lands, and they have sent victuals to our camp, to save themselves from looting. And they do not seek to give aid and countenance to their liege, for they hold dear their immunity from war."

No one of the council saw fault with his words, and by the king's decision, the next day, Yronwood's castle was to be stormed.

The next morning siege towers were prepared, tens and hundreds of ladders readied to escalade the walls. The walls had been mined under in the previous days but had not collapsed yet. The other engines of war now stood silent and resting, for if they were to storm the castle, it would not do to hit their own men.

Among the men that volunteered to be first upon the walls were many knights and lords of the Crownlanders, men who bore the livery of the Holy Hundred, chief among them Ser Jonos, joined by his brother Symon, and the two fools, Bastyen, and Ser Albin, the latter eager to wash away his shame in blood.

Men gathered in files in front of the ladder, climbing one after the other. Man after man fell under bolts and arrows, under boiling oil and under rocks that smashed the helmeted heads of soldiers and threw them into the moat. From the king's own archers, some fell from the siege towers to their doom – damnation or salvation in the next life. Not all died, but some limped away with grievous wounds and burns.

It was a day of corpse-making, and blood flowed freely as the battle waged on, under the watchful eyes of King Baelor, sat upon his horse a safe distance from the walls, the Kingsguard gathered around him.

But not all that died were of the king's men. Symon Edgerton was first upon the walls, slaying half a dozen defenders, before one had grappled him upon the wooden hoarding and thrust a dirk into his eye. At that sight, Ser Jonos, who had come second after him, carved a dozen or two more Dornishmen with a great axe, as if he were a butcher slaughtering piglets for a lord's feast. After him, was the third man, Bastyen the jester who showed no lesser a valour that many a great knight that fought for the king.

The king had a great more men that he could afford to lose than Lord Yronwood and by nightfall, the castle was taken. His men had entered the castle by climbing with ladders on the walls, but King Baelor entered it through the open gate, to find the Yronwood bound and awaiting his sentence, surrendered men-at-arms kneeling around him, disarmed under the sword and spears of royal soldiers, and his hall burning behind him.

"Tell me, my lord Yronwood", asked Baelor, "why did you have to pain and wound us so? Could you not have kept your oath and stayed in your castle while Dorne rebelled? You might now be ruling Dorne by my generosity if it were so. But my cousin Aemon spoke of you joining the treacherous curs that betrayed my brother under sacred banner. Why choose such folly?"

"I am the Bloodroyal! Why should I bend before you, son of an abomination of incest?" spat Yronwood. "I have the pride of my line to uphold. Kill me and be done – you'll hear no penance from me."

"Yet you knelt before Martell as if you were a pup taken from the bitch and raised with milk by his own hand. You have humbled yourself before him far more than you would have done before me or my brother. And for no gain."

"You see the banner that stands behind me, Yronwood?"

The Dornish lord tried to keep his silence, but the armoured fist of Jonos Edgerton and a few missing teeth washed away his stubbornness. "It is the red banner of war without mercy" said he, with gritted teeth.

"It is more than a hundred years. Some maesters say it was a white one, until Maegor the Cruel drenched it in the blood of the Faith Militant. Perhaps I shall need to use another white banner, and being a royal one, dye it with the Bloodroyal."

The king turned to one of his men: "Fetch me the linens of Lord Yronwood's bed." Once they had been brought forth. The king took them and threw them on the ground. He grabbed Lord Yronwood by his long hair, took his dagger and cut his throat, the blood dripping upon the fabric, pale white turning to bloody red. Once the last of the blood spilled upon it, and the traitor's corpse was carted away, the king asked that the linen be made into a banner, to be carried from now in war.

His attention now solely upon the remaining prisoners, he ordered the hanging of the remains of the garrison. Lord Yronwood's sons, good-sons and grandsons faced two fates. Those who none present witnessed being part of the great treachery that led to the death of Daeron had a chance at their life. If they begged the king for mercy and confessed themselves traitors, they were given the chance of taking the black, spending the rest of their lives as brothers of the Night's Watch. Those who were present at that murderous meeting, or those too prideful to beg for mercy had their throats slit, a deed for which Ser Jonos and his father, Lord Manly Edgerton were quick to offer themselves. In that deed, they imitated the king, but instead they dyed in blood white surcoats, and swore that they would wear such bloody garments on their armour until all of Dorne were pacified and they would have returned the bones of their kin to Moorcastle, to the grieving lady Elissa.

The daughters, good-daughters and granddaughters of Lord Yronwood were to join the silent sisters. A fitting fate, for half of them had been already rendered mute, witnessing the cruel fate of their male kin that was the king's will.

And then the king and his army marched towards the Tor. In the weeks and months following, news came of the fall of Kingsgrave and Skyreach, of Blackmount, Starfall and High Hermitage.

The Stormlanders, after leaving garrisons in the castles they took, embarked upon the ships of the royal fleet, eager to once again join the king. The host of the Reach split in twain, half braving the dunes of the Dornish desert, to wreak vengeance upon the Qorgyles, and half marching up the Brimstone River to take the Hellholt. None envied them, for their part in war would be the hardest of all.

After the Tor, Ghost Hill had Spottswood had fell, king Baelor and the Oakenfist joined and soon ravens would feast upon the flesh of the slain all along the Greenblood. Meanwhile, the longships of the Iron Isles reaved all across the southern coast of Dorne. But the Dornish coast was hundred of leagues of whirlpools, cliffs, and hidden shoals – hardly a place to make a safe landing. The Ironborn who made it to the shore were half likely to drown with their loot upon their leaving, and many said that such was precisely the king's intent upon unleashing those murderous reavers.

Chapter Text

Digging hundreds of graves on the Milkwater, seeking the ancient tomb of Joramun, and his fabled horn, could become pretty boring after a while. Fortunately, the lands beyond the Wall proved to be one of the finest hunting grounds on the continent. Snow bears, shadow cats, mammoths and elks.

His party had made camp at the Fist of the First Men, from where they ranged forth periodically, while being occasionally harried by wildlings, though not in numbers so great as to overwhelm them. Jonnel thought that the wildlings were more curious than hostile, wondering what men wearing the direwolf livery sought so far north, when no one north of the Wall had called itself king.

When they had made their camp amidst the ruin of that ancient ringfort, one of his men had found a old, cracked war horn amid a bundle of weapons of dragonglass – daggers, spearheads, and arrowheads. Jon Umber had spoken in jest, claiming that they had already found that fabled Horn of Winter. Jonnel believed him not, but had kept the war horn, out of an abundance of caution.

When Jonnel tired of watching over his men digging grave after grave, he went hunting. He had already faced a great snow bear, and won his pelt, which awaited now in his tent for the day he'd gift it to his wife. In their camp were also a multitude of other pelts – from wolves, a few shadow cats, and mammoth ivory taken from those they had stumbled across. Their meat had already made its way into his men's bellies, though choice morsels were being kept in brine, to be taken to Winterfell.

It had been two months when they had stumbled upon the grave of what seemed to be a great chief or king among the giants once – for his skeleton could not be that of anything but one. Amid his remains were a golden ring, a silver brook, bracelets of gold, a belt buckle of the same, and silver armbands graven with runes. Most striking of all though, was a war horn, eight feet in length, black with golden bands, and engraved with ancient runes. He had studied the runes, and they seemed to be suitably old, and spoke of words of protection.

The Stark heir was not entirely convinced that this was the fabled treasure he sought, but his mean had grown weary and tired of digging, his wife was soon to give birth, and he would not return home with empty hands. That horn would do.

That night, Jon Umber had drunk too much ale, and a most unwise thought (given the legends surrounding the horn) entered his head. He gave way to those thoughts, in his addled state, and took the horn and blew it. A great sound, loud and piercing blasted all through the camp, and a foreboding feeling filled the hearts of all. Some even worried that mayhap the Wall had fell, as legend spoke, and counselled sending men to check upon its state. But at last, the men had calmed and went to their rest.

That night, at the hour of the ghosts, disaster struck. A great ruckus woke up Jonnel, and as he went out of his tent, in the light of torches, he saw giants with enormous clubs striking at the makeshift palisades that surrounded the camp and crushing men beneath their feet. Twice the height of a normal man, covered in shaggy fur, their clubs made short work of men-at-arms just woken from their sleep, unarmoured and barely armed.

Jonnel looked around and saw Umber, with a dumbstruck face. Remembering the moments of their earlier revel, he yelled at him: "Umber, you dumb fuck, you should have listened better to your nurse's stories. This is all your damn fault."

"What? What the fuck did I do?" asked Jon Umber, more dumbfounded.

"The Horn of Winter was used by Joramun to wake giants from the earth. I guess we've found the right one, but your lack of wit just doomed us to our deaths".

Jonnel could have argued longer with that fool of an Umber, but the strike of a club just a foot behind him reminded him of the current situation, and he began to run. And run he did, with naught but his shirt and breeches, a fur covering him, and a sword in his right hand. Yet a strike from a giant still met him.

Thrown away what seemed to be half a hundred feet, his ribs bruised, maybe broken, bleeding from his head, and limping, he managed to find his way to the forest.
He did not know even in which direction he went, but as the hours of the night went by, the pain and the cold became unbearable, so he stopped, wrapped the pelt tighter around his body and went to sleep.

When he awoke, after what seemed an eternity, he was no longer in a forest. In the darkness, he saw the face of a creature, with dappled skin, and gold and green, catlike eyes, her fair full of wines, twigs, and flowers.

"You're one of the children" he said, in wonder.

"Our true name is those who sing the song of earth, human" answered the creature. He gave him a bowl, full of a blood stew, with barley and chunks of meat, and bade him eat.

"I'm Jonnel Stark, of Winterfell" said the boy, mindful of the courtesies instilled in him at Winterfell. If but for a moment, he thought he saw satisfaction in the face of the singer, but it passed as soon as it came, and his visage returned to its previous state.

"My name is in the True Tongue, which man cannot speak." was the singer's reply.

"But then, by what name should I call you?"

"You cannot speak my name. Why call me by another?" retorted the singer, and in his state of health, Jonnel could not find a fault in his logic.

He looked around and saw white roots all around him, and that he was laying on a bed of moss in a cavern, the floor around him full of bones – of bird and beast, skulls – of beasts, of men, and mayhap of giants too. In the distance, he heard the sound of rushing water and a song of earthly tones.

"We found you in the forest, half-dead and delirious. We brought you here and healed you," said the singer.

"And for that you have my undying gratitude," said the Stark. "How might I repay you?"

A quick look of satisfaction flitted across the singer's face; this time mixed with incredulity. It passed as sudden as it came, and Jonnel gave it no further thought.

"Come" he said and would speak no more. Jonnel rose from his sick bed and followed him. They passed a river swift and black, and he saw passaged going deep into the earth, bottomless pits and deep shafts. until they reached a tangled nest of roots, where another singer laid enthroned, amid a score of others, who looked mostly dead.

The half-corpse spoke: "You asked of a reward, Jonnel Stark. We ask of you nought but to give us, when you return home, what you did not expect. But you are but a man, so I will ask an oath of you."

"When I shall return to Winterfell, I shall give to you or yours that which I had found and expected not. This I swear, by the Old Gods of Forest, Stream and Stone." That was Jonnel's oath, given quickly and without much thought, the boy prickly at the perceived insult towards his honour.

When at least the time came for him to leave the cavern, the singers gave him the war horn he had wandered beyond the Wall to find – the ornate one, and the old and cracked one, and bade him keep it safe with solemn words. And by the same token, a direwolf bitch, fat and pregnant, followed behind him, and the singers counselled him not to turn her away.

It took him a week to find his way to Castle Black, and as he reached the Wall he was met by Jon Umber and by Edwyn Stark, his father's cousin, now a man of the Night's Watch.

"We thought you dead and buried, cousin. Well, not buried, but eaten by some wild beast. A snow bear or a shadow cat. Maybe even by a pack of wolves."

"Or perhaps a direwolf" smiled Jonnel, and the bitch came from the trees to the cries of the black brothers.

"Something like that, I suppose. She's big enough to eat you whole, though I wonder how long you'd keep her fed."

"I will keep her fed 'till her dying day – I'm taking her with me, to Winterfell. It does not do to ignore such a good omen from the gods." answered Jonnel.

"Cease that talk of death and beasts feasting on the flesh of the fallen, Lord Edwyn. You have not told Jonnel the joyous news." intervened the Umber lad.

"Aye, I forgot for a moment of that." said the Lord Commander. "Your princely wife has given birth. Guess to whom?"

"There are only two guesses are there not. Do I have a son, or a daughter?"

"You have a son, Stark," said Umber. "Healthy and hale, black of hair and grey of eye. The rumours are he looks just like your lord father."

"Praise the gods then. It was high time for Daena to give birth."

"There is more news" said the black brother, "one's you'd least expect". And at those words, Jonnel's face paled, and his knees began to tremble.

"You have another son – this one silver haired, and red eyed, which is most peculiar. I had thought the Targaryens had eyes of purple, not red."

Jonnel sat in place, struck dumb and only one word found its way beyond his lips: "Fuck!".

"What's so bad about it?" said Jon Umber, utterly clueless. "You've got an heir and a spare the first time."

Chapter Text

Chapter XXVII: Pandemonium in Oldtown

To my lord and brother,

You have no doubt heard whisperings of the comings and goings of Oldtown, most probably warped by going from mouth to mouth. Allow me to humbly inform you of the truth of the matter.

The king’s uncle and brother to Lord Hightower, Ser Martyn had died when marching with Daeron into Dorne, leaving the lady Rhaena widowed with six orphaned daughters. She and her daughters had remained in Oldtown, the lady judging the city a healthier one than King’s Landing, ever mindful of her daughter.

Emboldened by rumours coming out of Planky Town of the death of Baelor at the hand of an assassin, Lord Lyonel Hightower saw fit to bypass the word of the king he now thought dead, and betrothed his eldest niece to his heir, and made plans to hold the wedding with great haste.

The High Septon, mindful of the king and his wishes, barred the doors of the Starry Sept before the Hightowers and their party, forbidding the wedding to go through. In rage at such an affront, Lord Lyonel found a drunken septon and forced his niece to speak the wedding vows. No doubt, he thought, that by outliving one High Septon who did not approve of his deeds, he would be likely to outlive another – and indeed he did, but not in the manner he expected.

Alas, at the news of Lord Hightower’s folly, the High Septon’s heart gave out, and the Faith remained without a head. In his daring, the lord of Oldtown gathered all among the Most Devout in Oldtown and shut them into the Starry Sept, intent on them choosing his kin Abelar, and ignoring the requisite wait of seven and seventy days for all of the Sacred Conclave to gather, and denied them any victuals until they at last made their choice.

It took them a week to make it, and the choosing was as great as testament against the Hightower as it could ever be. They had chosen a Valeman out of their lot, and not that wretched Abelar.

But once the doors had been opened, Abelar came out – feet first. The new High Septon claimed that his frail constitution could not survive the seven days of fasting that Lord Hightower had imposed upon them. No sane man would accuse the Voice of the Seven of lying, but witnesses claim that it was clear that the body had been rotting for days, and marks of strangling were visible around his throat. It is my own belief that that Stormlander giant of a septon among the Most Devout had given way to his rage and dealt with Abelar, and the rest of the Conclave had sworn itself to silence on the matter.

Not even Lyonel Hightower would dare slay a High Septon or the Most Devout, but his anger was great indeed, brooding in his high tower and continued to claim the marriage of Alyssa Hightower and his son as legitimate.

Some time later, Knights Inquisitors, carrying a decree of our Prince Hand, came to escort the king’s aunt and her daughters to the Red Keep, Prince Viserys’ writing making it clear he did not recognize the marriage of the eldest.

Lyonel Hightower most assuredly knew that he had overplayed his hand, and that, since Viserys did not call himself king, our blessed Baelor was still alive. He dared to raise his hand against the most holy, but not to rebel against a beloved king. He relinquished thus his nieces.

But the Lady Rhaena and her brood did not leave alone. The High Septon and the entirety of the Conclave present left too for King’s Landing, claiming a wish to oversee the work of building our king’s sept, leaving the Starry Sept into the care of an Arch-Septon, in an unprecedented decision. Never had that Great Sept been governed, in the absence of the High Septon, by any other than one of the Most Devout.

More unprecedented than that, by the whisperings at court, I believe that the High Septon has no intention of ever returning to Oldtown, into the grasping hands of Lord Lyonel. Furthermore, he has, after “careful consultation” of the sacred texts and the casuistry of sacred law, came to the conclusion that the marriage between Lord Lyonel and Lady Samantha was invalid and thus every fruit of their union illegitimate. Lady Samantha was proclaimed a fornicator and commanded, as penance, to join the Silent Sisters and Lord Lyonel to make a barefooted pilgrimage, in a hairshirt, to the Seven Stones.

The matter of Lord Hightower’s sons is not that one easily unknotted. They had been born in the years when the Lady Samantha was still his paramour. They had been legitimized from bastardry in a separate decree by a High Septon agreeable to the Hightowers and could not so easily be called bastards again. But our High Septon has so cunningly concluded that a decree of legitimisation, having effects upon the fiefs of the realm, required further royal approval to be valid, and since the seal of Aegon, Third of His Name, was not present upon it, its words and proclamations were moot. And so the legitimised became base again.

And if those young men cry: “Why bastard? Wherefore base?” they have but their father to thank. The lady Alysssa, her marriage annulled, since her vows were spoken at sword point, is now the heir to Oldtown – the second born topping the firstborn, and already many lordlings are gathering around her, seeking her favour.

Lord Hightower now suffers to effects of his folly, and time will tell if he relinquishes his “wife” (or whore?) to the Faith and make his pilgrimage. But his pilgrimage will be the least of his trouble, for after facing the wrath of the sacred, he will face the wrath of the secular. King Baelor, by the will of the Seven still living, shall return from Dorne and all at court know he never held any fond thoughts for the brood of Hightowers, who brought such strife for the realm, and only his fair cousins have ever found favour in his heart.

For all that the Hightower did not fall that high from grace following the Dance of Dragons, now they shall fall further, and those who had once sought to put a half-Hightower upon the Iron Throne, will find a half-Targaryen of Daemon’s blood ruling in Oldtown. If I stand still, I can hear the cries o dismay of Alicent Hightower and her father all the way from the seventh hell.

Your most loyal brother, Balthasar Grell.

Chapter Text

Once the Oakenfist had secured the Planky Town, our army had made its camp there, awaiting further orders. The Tor, Ghost Hill and Spottswood had fallen, and they had sailed past Sunspear to first take Planky Town. Part of the army was sent towards Lemonwood to secure it and allow no thorn in our back. Once that was done the castle along the Greenblood would find themselves besieged - Godsgrace and Vaith would fall in their turn. The Ironborn, against all odds, had managed to take Saltshore, and had killed the Gargalens.

Gathered one night in my pavilion along with my captains, lords Caron and Velaryon, ser Jonos Edgerton and Ser Oscar Tully chief amongst them, we argued back and forth over my decision to parley with the Orphans of the Greenblood, to make sure our advance up the river would not be hindered, and other matters alongside.

Lord Hayford, who had not yet distinguished himself enough to warrant a great reward, proved himself reluctant to my plans regarding Dorne:

“It is wise, Your Grace, to unmake Dorne so utterly and attaint every lord and house without mercy? The lords of the realm might grow weary of such ruthlessness. I do not deny that Wyl and Yronwood and Martell are deserving of their fate, but your advisers that argue for no mercy might be guided by other things than good counsel.”

Lord Caron rose, and with a grave voice, accused: “And you, Hayford, do you not speak from envy? You claim that I desire honours so I counsel the king to be as cruel and unyielding as he can be? It is not greed that moves me so, my lord. It is hatred, the uttermost hatred. It is not greed that is my mortal sin, milord Hayford, though envy might be yours. It is wrath, unyielding, everlasting. If Wyl and his ilk had not fallen at His Grace’s hand, and instead died peacefully in his bed, I would have descended myself into the Seventh Hell, by whatever foul deed I would need to commit, and begged its demons to allow me to torture him myself.”

“I was a young boy many years past, playing with the smallfolk children from the village under the shadow of Nightsong. We were playing men-at-arms and reivers, fool children as we were. My brother Willem – he was the firstborn, my father’s heir, and the apple of his eye – he was one of the reivers, and I played the lord of Nightsong, gods damn me, defending my lands. In our game, we caught him and tied a rope under his armpits and hoisted him up an old oak, as if we were hanging him. He was laughing, like any young child playing with his friends.”

“Then the true reivers came. To my everlasting shame, we fled, one and all. We left my brother behind and ran. My brother did not laugh anymore – he yelled after us, he sobbed, he cried to be let down. I can still hear his screams in my night terrors. When I reached the safety of the castle’s walls, I was quick to tell of it to my father. He rounded up his household knights and rode forth to slay the reavers.”

“It was darkest night when he returned – the witching hour. His face was cold as the heart of winter, unmoving as if carved from stone, silent tears glistening on his cheeks. In his arms was my brother, shot by a hundred arrows, dead.”

“From that day, my father never looked upon me with love, or pride, or any kind of kindness. I put away the misdeeds of childhood, listened to the septon and maester. Learned the martial arts dilligently from the master at arms. And when I grew and my jousting was better, I rode in tourneys for glory. For glory, but a glory that would get me a kind, or proud word from my father.”

“Not even on his deathbed did he show mercy to me. He died and I remained, unforgiven. The only words before his last breath were to ask to be buried under that oak tree – with his son.”

“After I lowered him into the ground, I swore an oath. An oath that I would take one of Wyl’s kin and hang him from the same oak. In the year since, I have been great in wrath against the Dornish and their reivers – as every Marcher can attest – unmerciful, cruel, unyielding. I have judged even the innocent guilty in my great zeal, have killed men without judgement, showing disdain for the king’s justice. I have spent many nights in drunken stupor, cursing the gods. When Daeron came to conquer Dorne, I relished the opportunity. But it was not meant to be – Wyl bent the knee. When the Dornish rebelled, I hoped again. Then Daeron died by perfidy. Then the king came, and Wyl’s doom was the king’s vengeance, not mine.”

“And here I must ask His Grace’s pardon. When my king asked that Wyl’s sons be thrown to the scorpions, I snuck away one of them. My men took him to Nightsong and hung him upon the oak. I judged it that the king would be more forgiving if I hanged one of the boys he wished dead, and not the one he swore will be spared – for if the youngest would have been the only left alive – I would have slighted the king more greatly and stormed Ghaston Grey to fulfil my fell oath. I have now fulfilled my oath, and I can only subject myself to my sovereign’s mercy. I am old and weary of my days and prepared to face my doom in the Seven Hells.” he said and knelt before me.

Suddenly, I heard a harsh and loud voice that said “Beware.” Startled, I jumped to my feet and drew Blackfyre forth from its sheath, the lords bewildered – thinking I would slay Caron then and there. A sudden gust of wind blew in, and the candles guttered, and darkness came. A cold shiver went through me and a shadow flowed forth through the doors of the tent and flew straight at me. It was fortunate for me that Caron rose and turned, and it flew straight at him. Once he fell dead, the shadow dissolved upon the wind, one life all it was meant to take.

Once the candles had been lit again, the lords and commanders clamoured: “What was that?”, “A demon!”, “That thing came straight out the Seventh Hell, I swear to you.” “The Martells consort with demons now?”.

“Silence” I yelled over their loud blathering. “That was the work of a shadow binder, no doubt a red priest of R’hllor, the so-called Lord of Light, and God of Flame… and Shadow.”

“The shadow city of Sunspear has a Red Temple,” said Ser Jonos. “My father told me of it. It is most certainly the work of a Martell.”

I turned towards the Oakenfist with orders: “Find learned men to write down my words, and send letters to my seal to every port in the realm: Any red priests that sets foot in our realm, shall be slain without judgement, for they are consorters with demons, masters of malice that seduce good men from the Faith and corrupt the morals of the innocent. On further thought, have them thrown back into the sea – their god is one of flame, let us throw them in water, to the sea and its gods instead.”

“And if they learn to swim?” asked Bastyen, now present in every council, to sanction any possible foolishness spoken aloud.

“Then we’ll tie a mill stone to their feet before we throw them to the fishes” I answered him, returing his jest, before reverting to my prior, sombre demeanour.
I turned then to Aemon: “Find me that red priest, or priestess with all haste! Whoever they were, they could not have fled very far. And once we take Sunspear, that Red Temple needs to be destroyed. But burn it not by fire, for their Red God loves his fire, smash it all to nothing.”

I returned my attention to the council of war and spoke with them: “Lord Caron is dead, putting himself in front of his king to defend him. Naught but good will be spoken of him. I need men for an escort of honour to Nightsong. Let his bones be buried under that oak and mayhap he’ll find some peace.”

“Tell his son to burn that tree – it’s fate is fulfilled and tell him that I will buy that land from him and build there a grand septry out of my own coin, their brothers forever bound to pray for Lord Caron’s soul.”

“And, my lord Hayford, I shall hear no unkind word from you of him. Lord Caron might have been a great sinner, but no doubt there were such among your line. Even my father was guilty of that great sin of sloth, not of body, but an indolence of the mind – that melancholy that led him to refuse joy and lack of care for his duties towards other, lack of feeling about others. He ever lived in a winter of discontent.”

“I myself have shown myself a sinner in this endeavour of war, for I showed great wrath in my vengeance, and shall make penance for it for the rest of my days. If you would judge Lord Caron a great sinner, my lords, judge me no lesser of one than him.”

Chapter Text

The fact that, on a sudden whim, I introduced to this new world the game of chess had hilariously worked against me. I knew the rules of the game, where each piece on the board should be. What I did not have was any particular talent for the game, the mind for chess strategies or the knowledge of them – I had scarcely played the game when I lived before.

My uncle, who had taken a great liking to the game, had at first been eager to play with me, thinking that if I “invented” the game, I would be proficient at it. But after his many and repeated victory, he sought a better partner. Of course, that genius of chess, who had captivated his free time since, was my sister Elaena, and that was quite humbling for me. But Elaena took those opportunities with her uncle, emboldened by me, to ask of him, in the curious manner of children, of the affairs of the realm, and he was more often than not content to indulge her.

I had returned to the game during my campaign in Dorne, for the most sycophantic commanders had taken to portray their proposed battle plans in term of chess, as if to endear their ideas to my mind – but they were more skilled at it than me. And it was a pleasant enough pastime to whittle away at the many hours of boredom that accompanied the multitude of sieges. And many they were. It was said among the soldiers that Daeron had come to battle with the Dornish, and I to siege them, he had made short work of the Dornish, while I was more found of “prolonging their sufferings”.

Even now, I fiddled with the game, while awaiting a response from the Orphans of the Greenblood, to whom I sent envoys.

At last, I saw the ornate, carved and painted pole boats of the river nomads approach Planky Town. My brother had once called their homes “hovels bult on rafts”, but he most likely had suffered from the blazing sun a bit too much and had not seen straight, or it had been a needlessly untruthful, and malicious jest.

The Orphans had always held themselves separate from the rest of the Dornish, and in their blood flowed the purest of Rhoynar blood. They sailed up and down the Greenblood, singing laments for the cities of the fallen Rhoyne. Laments were not all that they sang. If one stood on the banks of the river on a clear and warm night, one could hear the songs of courting couples, lullabies, and dancing melodies, and bask under the starry and enjoy the pleasant tickling of one’s ears.

They called their laments “the songs of the Rhoyne” and they sang of their old princes and princesses; of the Mother Rhoyne, the Old Man of the River, and the Crab King. They sang of lost and fallen cities: of Ar Noy, Chroyane, Ghoyan Drohe, Ny Sar, Sr Mell and Sarhoy. They sang of the Rhoynish Wars and Garin the Great’s curse, and of the ten thousand ships of Nymeria.

I could understand their yearning for their lost past. I had walked past the banks of the Little Rhoyne, were Garin’s curse did not reach, and it was a wondrous river. I had seen Ghoyan Drohe with my own eyes, and even if the canals were choked with reeds and mud, and pools of stagnant water were filled with swarms of files, one could still see the broken stones of temples and palaces, sinking back into the earth – the few and paltry remains of old glory. Few and paltry they were, but when I looked upon them, I could see the beauty and the skill that had been brough low by my ancestors and their beasts of war.

Then there were the sweet-water songs, songs performed in rhythmic talking or chanting by men, and with flourishes and elaborations by women. They were often improvised, singing of love or marriage. They were sung between courting couples, or at weddings – the man singing a couplet, and the woman answering, and so on – songs that could go on and on, often for hours. The weddings were full of songs – to welcome the gods and men to the ceremony, songs to invoke good luck upon the bride and groom, and the highest point of the feast being the attempts to encourage the bride to sing a bawdy song.

The Orphans more often that not duelled with song, not blade. Instead of insult that referred to one’s lack of martial valour, or cowardice, they levied insult concerning one’s lack of repertory, or ability. They then competed in their skills, singing all the songs they knew – the one who had exhausted his songs first was the loser. This song-battles led to one’s rise in prestige, and often were conducted in the presence of the fairest of their maidens.

They also sang while rowing, and working, or at feast – nostalgic songs sung by elder men of the halcyon days of youth. They sang of lovers departing – bemoaning their abandon, bidding them to stay, or cursing them for their obstinance in leaving.

The now-wed maiden departing the house of their parents sang her parting song to her parents and kin, them answering in kind. She sang of wifely duty, of the wretched pain in her heart at the thought of leaving home – her mother giving her advice on wedded life in verses sung.

Then there were the laments of present pains, of death of kin, of friends or lovers. This were the most natural of song, unbound my usual structures, words and music flowing freely from the pain in one’s heart. Heart-wrenching melodies, mournful words sung by choirs of women.

That is not to say that singing was all they did – their way of life was not but of word, but of deed too. Many of them were fishermen or worked on the fields and orchards along the banks of the river come harvest time. The Rhoynar who had come with Nymeria had been skilled in metalcraft, but the best of them had made their living on land and sand, and among the Orphans you could find but tinkerers – their trade more useful though to the smallfolk than the skill in crafting the best arms and armour in Westeros.

Yet even their skills as tinkerers they held close to their blood, taking apprentices but of their own blood. Not unlike the Orphans, the best of the Dornish smiths had the purest of Rhoynar blood, for they wed among their guild and took as apprentice but their firstborn sons, whom they married to the daughters of other smiths, keeping the secrets of their trade close and safe.

At last, word came of their agreement. But it was I who was supposed to go to them, for they would not treat on land, but on water. My knights protested, but I prevailed over their will and, joined by a few of my Kingsguard, I found myself in a houseboat with their chiefs. They were clad in colourful clothes, the richest among them wearing satin or silk.

They were understandably reluctant in treating with a “dragon prince” as they called me, though the fact that the first words I said were “Εὖ ἰδεῖν, ὦ τιμητοὶ ἄρχοντες.” (“Well met, honoured chiefs”). They had laughed, and replied “Φύλαξον ἀπὸ δράκοντος καὶ ἐν τῷ φέρειν δῶρα.” (“Beware of dragons even when bearing gifts”). Yet they did not reject my gifts, for the gifts were not a Trojan horse, but ancient manuscripts of their own culture, some bought centuries ago from Ny Sar itself, before its fall.

We conducted our talks in the Rhoynish language, which I was fortunate to know, having learned it for the purpose of studying whatever remained written of the works of the Rhoynar, to see what influence they had left on the sacred writings of the Faith, when in ancient times Andals and Rhoynar met. It was also a show of goodwill towards them, for it was the dragon prince who spoke their language, while the Red Princes of the blood of Nymeria had forbid their native tongue.

My offer was simple. I asked of them to do naught to hinder the advance of my army in the Greenblood Valley, to not aid, through word, or deed, my enemies in Dorne and to accept me as their ruler. For that, I offered to strike down the odious edict of the Red Princes, allowing them forevermore to speak freely their language. I offered to name no lord over them, to allow them free reign upon their river, to pay their taxes to the Iron Throne only, and to grant their chiefs the permission to bring their pleas for justice before the king – they would answer only before the king of the Rhoynar and his men. I offered not to burden their trade and trades with manifold taxes and customs, and not to summon them for war – allowing their peaceful nature to flourish.

I claimed myself in front of them king of the Rhoynar, as it was my title, to allow them such privileges, but I did not count among them the Dornish, in whom the Rhoynar blood was lesser – more among the Salty ones, and paltry among the Stony. I had come to claim the lands of Dorne and fashion them anew, but I left the water of the river to the Orphans of the Greenblood – but they were not to deny those living upon its shore the right to sail it or to fish in it, though those who wished to ferry goods upon it were required to pay a fee to the Orphans.

I had called myself king of the Rhoynar, and the Orphans the Rhoynar to allow them to worship their Mother without trouble or septons preaching and raving about heresy. The Andals had their Seven, the First Men their Old Gods, and the Rhoynar would be free to worship Mother Rhoyne.

It took me many hours to convince them of the truth and sincerity of my words, or of the power I held to make it the law of the land:

“We may trust your oath, dragon prince, for we have heard you hold great love for your seven gods, and they shall surely strike you down if you prove false. But your grand castle is far beyond the Red Mountains, and the lords of Dorne close to our waters. You might leave, Valyrian, but the great men who hold the lands of the river valley have long been accustomed to fine us for speaking what our mothers taught us and we have grown tired of singing our work songs in a foreign tongue. Does your sword arm reach across the Red Mountains to strike them down?”

“I am the prince who decides the destiny of rolling rivers, I keep on the straight and narrow path the righteous who follow the One’s counsel. If I fix a fate, who shall alter it? If I but say the word, who shall change it?” I replied to them. But fine words as they were, taken straight from an ancient tale of my old world, they were not enough to calm the worrying hearts and minds of their chiefs.

“I shall break and sunder Dorne, give the Red Mountains and the Desert to other kingdoms and keep the lands of the Greenblood for my own. I have struck down and I shall strike down the rebel Dornish lords, those faithless, treacherous, despicable dogs. I shall name new lords from my own lands, who know and obey my will, and over them shall rule in my stead a man whose blood is kin to me and holds dear to his heart my words and edicts. They shall be my hands that shall keep the peace, the justice, and these promises that I would swear to you and yours.”

They had argued long and loudly among themselves, before agreeing to my proposal. The long and tedious hours of our summit were enlightened for but an hour, as a chieftain had just now though the time and place proper to challenge another to a song-battle based upon some perceived insult. Instead of singing old songs, he had made a melody and lyrics improvised then and there, spoken and sung at great speed, throwing at him further and rhythming and rhyming insults, the other answering in kind.

At last, they were all of one mind, and I swore an oath to them to keep forever, me and my heirs, the privileges I had granted them, and they swore oaths of fealty on behalf of their people and kin. And our oaths and promises were written down, with my seal and their signatures upon them. Thrice they were written, as insisted by them – once in Rhoynish, the language of the Orphans; once in High Valyrian, the language of the dragon prince; and once in the Common Tongue, for all the men of the Seven Kingdoms to understand and abide by.

It was done, and I broke bread and salt with those in Dorne who once had greater reason of undying hatred against me and the Valyrian blood that coursed through my veins, and my path up the Greenblood was clear, without need for the Oakenfist to force it.

Chapter Text

Marching through the Red Dunes was a torturous task. They marched to Sandstone, who had the only source of water around for fifty leagues in the dunes. Many had perished of thirst, or from the scorching sun, of scorpion bites and tales had spread through the camp of the Noonwraiths, creatures and demons of myth, that caused heat stroke and brought madness in the minds of men, taking the form of a cloud of whirling dust and carrying a scythe, appearing at midday.

The desert and its many horrors were not the only foes the Reachmen faced, for Lord Qorgyle often sent his spearmen to harass the host. Yet, the Reachmen advanced, even if they dwindled by each day. The Tyrell's wrath was no lesser than that of their king, and Lord Qorgyle had invited his doom, which slowly advanced towards him.

Some could say that Qorgyle's doom advanced at the pace of a snail, but on that day when Qorgyle treacherously killed Lord Tyrell, winning the "liberation" of Dorne, that snail was birthed, and inexorably lived and breathed with but a task in mind – to bring about the ruination of the Lords of Sandstone, be it now or in a hundred years hence.

Lord Bernard Tyrell had not joined the host, having lived too few years upon the earth. He remained at court, the effect of being claimed as a royal ward, getting to know his betrothed, while in Highgarden, his mother and a lord seneschal named by the king ruled and administered his lands and incomes. The king had decreed that since the usual holder of the Wardenship of the South – by blood and custom – was not of age, and the military might of the South was called to arms – that a man of age and equal rank, coming from the same district of arms, was to hold the office for seven years.

Fitting that condition was only one man, and so did the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands become Warden of the South, if but for a time. Lord Baratheon had not joined the king's army in the war.

King Baelor's army had been composed of Crownlanders and valiant knights from the rest of the kingdoms, and banners from the Stormlands who had easily subjected themselves to Lord Caron's orders.

But the lords of the Reach were a quarrelling lot, and prideful, each desiring command over all, if their lord were not to come to war with them. There was only one man who had authority over them and was no lord of the Reach to awaken a feud old or new amid the many houses that claimed descent from the Greenhand. And so did the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands lead an army of the Reach into Dorne.

At last did the armies of the Reach gather under the walls of Sandstone. And the castle fell, for the last time.

Seven days did Lord Baratheon linger at Sandstone, and Lord Qorgyle was to be delivered to Highgarden, for no Tyrell was present there to demand a vengeance of some manner – Lord Bernard's kin being busy trying to claim some measure of influence at Highgarden while he was still underage.

Lord Olyvar had not claimed the chambers of the lord of the castle, preferring to sleep outside in the chill of the night. While in the day, Lord Qorgyle was present in chains before the Baratheon, at night, he had been given the courtesy of sleeping in his own bed, albeit his doors were heavily guarded.

Six nights did Qorgyle spend in his own bed, under that heavy velvet canopy, a sash near the pillows. Qorgyle thought, perhaps not entirely without reason, that the same death he had given to Lyonel Tyrell would no doubt be his.

Each night he spent awake, exhausted and alarmed, awaiting the dozens of scorpions. His breath deep and rapid as if the room was devoid of air, his heart beat fast as a galloping sand steed, his limbs trembling and slow to move. He grew dizzy and pains wracked his body while his head felt it was going to burst, he was sweating from every orifice, he was feeling like he was chocking. He remained awake, expectant of his death, frightened and terrified.

And in the morning, he looked upon Lord Baratheon's face, serene and joyful and wondered if Wyl blood was coursing through his vein to torture him more with his life than with death.

By the fourth day he begged from dawn to dusk for death, and Lord Olyvar had to order him gagged.

In the seventh night, upon the ending of the Stranger's Day, he once again sat awake in his bed, waiting for his doom. In the impulse of a moment, as the hour of ghosts drew nearer his hand reached the sash and pulled.

Suddenly he felt his chest squeezing and a hundred ghost daggers stabbing him, all at a time. His heart burst as if into flame, the pain flowing from heart to throat. His breath grew shorter, and he felt fainter by the moment, a cold sweat drenching his body, nauseous beyond compare.

He felt his chest and left shoulder wracked with pains, the pains flowing to his arm and to his jaw. He felt his consciousness slipping. And then his heart burst and the Stranger came for him.

But the scorpions never came.

Beneath the walls of the shadow city of Sunspear, Baelor's war in Dorne would end. The news of Sandstone's fall had come and Martell, the arch-rebel, stood alone in his defiance.

In the king's camp, lingering near death from a poisoned spear in the taking of Lemonwood, Manly Edgerton, the lord of Moorcastle finally entrusted his soul to the Stranger, serene in the face of death, his last words reminding his son of the creed of their house: "As restless as the wind and still as a stream, Steadfast in unsteadiness, We rejoice only in death, For then we contemplate the face of God."

It was with renewed fervour that Ser Jonos assaulted the walls of the city, the Dornish in turn sallying forth in one last stand. It was well pleasing for a lord or high commander to be first in the attack, armed, upon his horse, unafraid, for he makes the men take heart by his own show of bravery. It pleased the men to see that strong city besieged, the broken ramparts caving in, the army closed in all around. The men followed him, smiling – for no man is worth a thing till he has given and gotten blow on blow, as the minstrel sang. And thus did the marten of Moorcastle spoke:

"Now, men, to sword and shield and horn!
'Twas bad enough that we were born;
But he is free to go whose fright
Makes him too dastardly to fight,
And if there is someone foresworn,
Let him avoid our sight!"

Maces and swords and painted helms, useless shields cut through were seen. Men-at-arms striking and wandering wildly, and every man of spurs or noble blood thought only of breaking arms and heads, for a man is worth more dead than alive and beaten in the songs and tales of glory afterward.

They screamed "There they are! Let's get them!" on both sides, and riderless horses neighed in the shadows. Men fallen and falling cried "Help! Help!" in the ditches, little men and great men, stumps of lances fixed in the flanks of their corpses.

Lords and knights that had not joined the king in war would have pawned their castles, their villages, and their cities for the chance of being there, in that day of glory.
But for all his might and his wrath, Ser Jonos was not the first to enter through the gates of the city. It was the king's fool, who found himself swept away by the forlorn hope, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the abruptness of his situation did not hinder him, fighting most ferociously, his skill with a blade shown to all.

Second was Ser Jonos the Sharp-Witted, of whom the common men of King's Landing spread word all through the Crownlands of the uncommon luck the gods had blessed him with.

The two of them were entitled to a grand reward: the best house of the common men in the city, a thousand gold dragons for the first, and the second-best house and five hundred gold dragons for the second. Once the city had been secured, the two of them had taken to wandering the streets, debating amongst themselves, in good faith or not, on which was indeed the best house or second best to which they were entitled.

The three massive Winding Walls, the narrow alleys and hidden courts would have taken several days to be won. But to the Old Palace the threefold gates were lined up in a straight passage upon a brick path. And once it fell, the resistance in the city would be moot. For the cause of the Dornish had drawn its last breath.

But the armies that advanced had orders to bring as much ruination upon the city as they could, making it an easier job after the battle to clear out the many hovels built against the walls – allowing for a true city to be built anew by the king's men.

Once the city and the palace had been captured, in the Tower of the Sun, the king sat upon the high seat of the Princes of Dorne. Or upon one of them – for one had the Martell spear inlead upon it, and the other the blazing Rhoynish sun, and the king chose the later.

Before him were dragged the captures sons of the House Nymeros-Martell, some whimpering and afraid, some defiant to the end.

The Prince of Dorne's bastard sister, who thought herself once a warrior equal in valour to Nymeria of old, and took arms in defence of the city, was among the later:

"You're naught but a tyrant, and Dorne shall never yield before you, as long as Rhoynish blood flows in the veins of our people. We will hide in the desert, and one day the last of you shall perish under the scorching sun, and Dorne shall be free. Murderers, rapers, villains!!" she spat at the king.

Seized by a sudden wrath, the king rose in great fury and took the maiden, or not a maiden most likely, grabbed her by the hair, and with a quick move, drew his dagger from its hilt and cut her throat, watching impassively as the blood flowed freely, her mouth moving but failing to speak, as her limbs trashed about and life flickered out her eyes. He sat again upon the throne.

"Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword. Fine words they were, but she spoke not of oaths sworn, of broken faith and perfidy. The liberty of Dorne died in the laws of gods and men at the Submission of Sunspear. She called me a tyrant, but the Prince of Dorne proved himself thus by ordering his banners to fight and die for a forlorn cause. I only crushed rebels and dealt justice for perfidy, for treason, for offense against the Seven. "

"She spoke of unyielding resolve, but only warriors and lords showed such, and barely half of them. The lowborn pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. They care not who are their high lords, as long as they are left in peace. And I mean to give them peace."

"She spoke of Rhoynar and blood, but those with purest blood and custom have made peace with me gladly."

"Prince of Dorne, I have set my vow to tear the pride from your heart, the laurels from your brow. Prince of Dorne, your house calls itself unbowed, unbent, unbroken. But you bowed and bent your knee once, and now I've broken you. And you'll be broken even more upon the wheel."

"The sigil of your house is a red sun pierced by a golden spear and you shall die impaled by a wooden spike underneath the scorching sun of this land." he finished and ordered him taken away and punished."

Then he addressed the gathered crowd in a grave voice: "I have broken Martell and I have broken Dorne. There is no more Dorne. There is the Red Mountains, the White Desert and the Red Dunes, the Greenblood and the Broken Arm."

"The Dornish are no more. There is no Dornish. I am the king of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar. Call yourself thus, but not Dornish."

"Accursed be Dorne and Dornish. Speak not to me that foul name. Strike it down from your parchment – let it not be written down. Perfidious Dorne slew my brother, and now I slew it. And I shall make a better thing of it, if the Seven will it."

Then in a more cheerful voice, he adjourned court and said "It is time to choose my plunder out of Martell's library.", but as he rose his limbs acquired a rigour as if of death, and he fell beneath the throne, his face ecstatic, and none and nothing could wake him.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the fall of Dorne, the kingdom beyond the Red Mountains was changed beyond measure, the old customs, laws and great houses thrown into the crevices of history.

To the Marcher lords were given the greatest of bounties. Three castles for the Stormlords: Wyll, Yronwood and Kingsgrave were given to lesser sons of Caron, of Dondarrion and Swann, all houses of the Marches, though lesser fiefs were carved of them to reward a knight of House Buckler and another of House Fell.

The Reachers were given Kingsgrave and Blackmont, Starfall and High Hermitage, and Sandstone. The younger brother of Lord Tarly lords now over the former lands of House Blackmont, the black vulture replaced by the huntsman. Kingsgrave is now ruled by the second son of Lord Alan Beesbury, Starfall by a grandson of the late Sea Lion of House Costayne, High Hermitage went to kin of Lord Meryweather. Sandstone was given as blood price to the Tyrells, for the Qorgyle’s treachery. Astute men would recognise that such honours followed the allegiances of decades ago, and those who do not wish to offend with their words, say only that that part of the Red Mountains blackened in spring, instead of blooming green.

These lands became part of the kingdoms of the Stormlands and of the Reach.

Hellholt upon Brimstone became seat to Ser Oscar Tully, who among his new honours counted that of Grandmaster of the Order of the Holy Hundred.

The rest of the former realm of the Martells remained under the direct authority of king Baelor. The great castles were given to loyal men, proven in battle, though some of their lands were carved up, parts becoming direct domains of the king, administered by his stewards. Scores of villages were granted to newly built motherhouses and septries, though their feudal rights and duties were held by proxy by neighbouring landed knights and lord, while the brothers and sisters of the Faith enjoyed but its incomes.

House Edgerton benefited most greatly of all from the king’s war. For his many and valiant deeds in service to His Grace, Ser Jonos Edgerton, that knight of great renown, was given choice of remaining lands and castle. As a further example of his loyalty to his king, Ser Jonos choose the Tor, for its proximity to Ghaston Grey, vowing to keep an eye for escape attempts from its prisoners. Chief among these prisoners was the Wyl boy and his mother, and the young sons and the daughters of House Martell, who the king judged to dangerous to entrust to the Night’s Watch or the Faith, and had instead send them to that dreary place to waste their days.

For the losses of his father and brother in the war, the king showed a great favour to his house, granting Ghost Hill and Spottswood to his brothers Damon and Criston.
Ser Herman Harte, who had not fought in the war, was also rewarded, becoming Lord of Godsgrace, the rest of the lands and castles being given as rewards to noble sons and knights of the Crownlands.

The lands that remained under the direct administration of the king were known now as the Greenblood, after that great river, or Chroy Ychor, as the king took to call it in the Rhoynish tongue.

Ser Herman Harte left his position as court for Sunspear, where he ruled as the King’s Palatine of Sunspear, being entrusted with administration and justice over all of Chroy Ychor, with power as great as a Lord Paramount’s, though the title remained the king’s to give and take.

Lord Jonos Edgerton was named Warden of the Greenblood and given authority over its banners and the men that remained garrisoned in its many castles, the two hundred hobelars from Crackclaw Point that he had once led in battle in Pentos acting as his guard, each rewarded with a knight’s fee.

Lord Edgerton was given also the office of Grand Inquisitor over these lands, with power to appoint and replace the Knights Inquisitor who would serve under him. His brother Criston was given the office of Lord Treasurer of Chroy Ychor, under the authority of Herman Harte.

His brother Damon, once a merchant and envoy to Braavos, served now as head of the House of Trade. The royal designation of Sunspear as a staple port for all spices and luxuries flowing from the Summer and the Jade Seas, diverting many merchants from Oldtown, served as the opportunity to found this new institution.

The House of Trade collected all trading taxes and duties, approved all voyages, licensed captains and administered the Law Merchant. Lord Damon was entrusted with the mission of building a fleet for it, one that would escort merchant ships in convoy in exchange for a third of the gold, and which would embark on expeditions of its own – mainly to the Summer Isles, to which the king reserved as his right to trade iron and tin.

Lord Damon also had in his charge the yet to be founded factories in these isles, which would serve as markets and warehouses, and gathering places of Westerosi merchants, and would trade on behalf of the king. Their settlement would have to wait until after the king’s envoys had settled terms with their princes.

Lady Laena was named as Lady Admiral of the Summer Sea. She had stood a night in vigil in the sept before King Baelor had summoned her into his presence, and she had come in rich garments of silk. His Grace had put a ring upon her right hand, as a token of the honour conferred upon her, presented her with a sword, bestowing her authority, and had placed in her left hand a standard, emblazoned with his personal arms – the seven headed white dragon, the seahorse and the Crone’s lantern.

She had promised that she would not shun death in defence of the realm, and in the aggrandizement of the rights and honour of her king, and the common benefits of his country; and that she would perform all her duties according to the best of her power.

The king had long praised her seamanship, lineage, valour and loyalty to those who had voiced their doubts. His Grace’s praise of her gave rise to rumours among the flighty maidens and ladies at court, eager to hear of a romance, real or invented, that the king held more than fondness for his lady cousin. That he would have ten thousand swords leap from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult.

They spoke of blossoming love between the dragon and the seahorse, of the king offering to make her his queen. They spoke of her tears and her heart breaking, of the call of the sea louder than that of the heart. They spoke of the king overheard in private conversation, saying that he did not wish to shackle her to the binding of queenship, of preferring her free amid the waves, happy and carefree, not miserable in the Red Keep. They spoke of two realms dividing them apart – his of earth, hers of sea. They called her the sun and him the moon, who chase in vain after the other, and when at last they are together the moon would only eclipse the sun.

Who can find the lore of truth in such a tale? What is truth and what is rumour can never be found, for the king neither spoke, nor wrote of it, and neither the lady Laena. Such did not stop the bards and minstrels to sing of it, or noble maidens to sigh over the tale. I’ve heard tell that even in distant and misty Braavos the tale had spread, and it has been played upon the stage in their great mummer-houses to great acclaim.

One thing is certain – after being proclaimed admiral, Laena Velaryon set on the first of her journeys, to seek the island Elyssa Farman had once discovered, and the only thing that openly marred her joy was the fact that her father denied her desire to travel across the Sunset Sea while he still drew breath.

Chapter Text

From the throne of Martell, I had fallen into a dark and misty valley, in which I walked, guided by a lantern’s light, to which my feet led me, never reaching it. And I came before a great black and gloomy gate, and the voice of wizened wisdom proclaimed: “Thou shall behold the people dolorous.”

And I entered that great and dreadful cavern, its great doors opening before me and the miserable sounds of the damned – sighs, complaints and words of anger and agony – reached my ears, and from on high, a luminous figure descended to guide me.

With crown of seven stars, a warrior great in stature and clad in iron plate bade me follow him into the darkness. As I beheld him, I could but think that he was the Blessed Hugor of the Hill, of ancient deeds and fame.

“Come and behold the fate of the sinful, the wages of sin, the wrath of God that falls upon the wicked. Your journey is by the Crone ordained – it is so willed that you should come – and question this you shall not.” he spoke with grimness in his voice and entered through the gates.

We walked upon rocky and abrupt precipices, upon river stones that made a way across a great Stream of Sorrow, and I was bade to drink deeply of despair so that as living I might pass. And we passed through a great gathering of the guilty, depraved souls awaiting their doom – all hope lost of looking upon the heavens, their teeth gnashing together and they weeped bitterly.

And Hugor spoke: “Those who perish unforgiven and unrepentant, shall face the wrath of the Unmoved, and pass beyond the river, and shall be dealt the justice of Heavens.”

We walked into the first of Hells, where people were gnawed at by worms venomous, and I beheld the fates of the least of the sinful – of those whose minor and manifold sins had, unforgiven and unrepented, reaped the harvest of punishment. This was the doom of those who had never contemplated good or evil but had lived and had committed no great or fell crimes, but showed a wretched disregards for the words of the Seven-Pointed Star.

There too were the Lustful, who in their life gave their will to passion, malefactors of the flesh, swayed by temptation from reason. In a terrible storm they wandered without rest, the winds fiercer and biting and smiting – ripping flesh from bone, for the defilers of innocence, who has sated their lust through the unwilling, and had condemned maidens to sinful practice. There too were those tempted by ill desires, by temptation towards kin, and those who in the pursuit of Passion, had abandoned the laws of gods and men. There too were those whose lust were not of the flesh – but those who lusted for power, or for the inflicting of pain on another.

No hope of comfort or repose was there for them.

“Fear not”, my guide spoke, “for thou have mortified thyrself against flesh and its passions, and you shall not fill the biting touch of this infernal hurricane.”

From this dismal land we thus advanced. And into the second of hells we walked, were the gluttonous wallowed into a freezing rain, cold and heavy and unending, a great storm of putrefaction. Here were punished those that grovelled through the mud of their world, to sate their appetites. I briefly wondered in which of these two hells Aegon would find himself.

“Fear not of the icy drops of snow, of hail, of frozen rain” Hugor spoke again, “for tou have mortified thy flesh, and many times in fast denied thine appetites, shunning the intoxicating fruit of wines and the many delights of food wrought by man’s hand.”

And then we descended into the third and beheld the punishment of greed. Here were the miserly and avaricious, the hoarders, and the prodigals, who had squandered wealth born of industry. They were punished by labouring at great and tiring works that undid before their eyes, for they had gathered or squandered the efforts of the work of many, and now they laboured manifold eternally over that which they had not worked for once.

“Fear not” the warrior of the seven stars proclaimed, “for thou have mortified thyself against greed through a simple life and through your many alms and charitable deeds. You have eased the works of the needy, have neither hoarded nor wasted, and you shall not labour without reward.”

Deeper into the foul abyss we went, and we descended into the fourth of hells. Here did ice and fire give battle, heat giving way to cold, and cold to fire – a marsh half frozen, half burning – the sinful half-sunk in boiling water and in ice, angry and smiting at each other. This was a place of hatred and wrath.

And with a terrible look and a commanding voice the Blessed Hugor turned to me: “O king and sinner, behold now the souls of those by anger overcome. Now fear this fate, fear, tremble, shiver, and despair. And repent, for in the sin of wrath greatly thou have fallen. It falls to the hand of the king to deal death to those who grievously have acted. But a king’s justice only sends a man to the Mover’s justice or mercy. It was not for thee to turn grief into anger and wrath and turn punishment into cruelty.”

And trembling did I walk on, following in the train of that great king, descending yet again, into the fifth of hells. Here laid those given to sloth in life, of body and of mind. Those who refused the rewards of good work, and the joy of the words of the One. They were in a great pit of snakes, strangled, and bitten again and again, their very blood turned to poison that brought great pain and uttermost agony.

Hugor spoke to me: “Here would have been thine father – for he was indolent a father, and too much given to melancholy, to sluggish thought and lack of feeling, despair and grief. But the Father beheld that he did not neglect the duties of charity and of rule, and that great pain had gathered in his heart, and he has received his just reward, and dwells among the blessed.”

“But fear not, for greatly thou have laboured, and in rightful pursuits, and thou need not fear the bite of the snake.”

The sixth hell awaited, and even lower we descended, I and my conductor. I did not look upon to foul place with envy, for there were most grievously punished the envious. This was the place of men and women that looked with hatred and desire upon other’s men gods and good fortune, who greatly wished in mind and deed to deprive other of them, those who were livid at another’s happiness. Their eyes were sewn shut with iron wire, and they’re backs bent with heavy burdens as they walked a rocky land, w led only by the feeling of their fingers, falling into a myriad abysses, their limbs of rotten bone broken, and under the whips of demons forced to climb again.

“Fear not” I heard again, “for never did thou look upon thine brother and desired his crown and the wretched throne of swords, even if by the Stranger’s will it has come to thee. This doom awaits you not.”

Then the nether, seventh hell awaited. Were in great cauldrons of fire, of boiling blood and brimstone were punished, boiling and burning ever and ever. Here were the prideful, the vainglorious, the ones who had scorned peace and not led by the sin of wrath, but by foul desire and feeling had brought violence upon the innocents. Here were the murderers, plunderers, and tyrants. Here were the arch-heretics, the blasphemers.

For the most grievous of sinners – the breakers of guest rights, of truce, the slayers of kin, of maidens pure and mothers most loving, of children unmarred and the servants of the Divine, a different punishment awaited. They were roasted upon great fires, and their flesh carved by demons, only to grow again, to be brought to the Lord of the Damned sat upon a throne of bones, who feasted eternally upon their bodies, and they felt uttermost agony as the Arch-Demon bit into their flesh.

And I was led before his table – and from the throne of Martell I was now in front of the throne of Hell, and that great beast spoke: “Who is this that without death goes through the kingdom of the people dead?”

“It is by the biding of the ones on high that I led one of the living in the realms of the fallen.” cried Hugor. “Neither he, nor I lay in your power, and feast upon us you shall not – for we have not fallen prey to this deadly sin of pride. Now let us depart, lest thou be smitten and take share into the doom of the damned.”

And depart we did, as we turned back on our way, and passed through the Seven Hells again and reached the Gates of Damnation and entered again the Valley of the Shadows of Death.

I was grabbed tight by the ancient king and from this deep valley we flew, aided by a most mighty wind higher than the clouds beyond the sphere of the Earth. I would not speak nor write of the Heavenly Spheres, for those sights of marvel are only for the reward of the blessed – no mortal is permitted to portray what he has seen. I am most humbled to have seen those sights, for I judge myself least of the worthy.

I dearly wish to speak of the music of the spheres – but words fail to describe the sounds, and not even the most skilled of bards cannot pluck the strings of a harp to bring forth melodies a thousand thousand times lesser. A sound filled my ears, so loud and sweet, produced by the impetus and movement of the sphere themselves, blending sharp tones with grave and in unvarying harmony made changing symphonies. The highest of the spheres moved with sharp sounds, the lower with deepest imitations – which bards of skill copy with their instruments. And I fear that from such heavenly harmony my ears have dulled forevermore to the sounds of the living. Only the earth remained unmoved – silent and still.

In this realm beyond the living, but not of death I met the Crone. She was not embodied, but I felt and heard her presence amid the darkness and the star – ominous, with wisdom greater than the ages, her presence greater than the world entire. In the croaking of ravens and the shadow of death did I hear:

“Hear my words that I might teach you -The servants of the One have silenced the words of Our wisdom – out of folly, out of neglect, out of malice, from greed. They have sat upon their throne and their words of guidance have sat silent in their throats. The shepherds of the Faithful have slumbered in drunkenness, well feasted, and the sheep had fallen into the maw of the beast, hungry and circling.”

“They ordain deeds with tongue of men, proclaiming revelation. They have denied and abandoned wisdom for the envy and pride and vainglory of men. They have cloaked themselves in silks and gold, in finery and jewellery and forgotten that all should hear the words of wisdom.”

“Now hear my words and write and proclaim them, for unto you I call, and my voice is to the sons and daughters of man: How long shall you delight in the scorning and hatred of knowledge? Heed my words of reproof, for I make known my words unto you!”

“I have stretched my hand and called forth my instrument. You shall call upon me, and I shall not heed your prayer. For the instrument of wisdom, that which roots out that which is rotten and corrupted lives among you, and those who have not heeded the word shall obey the sword and the crown – for counsel I gave onto him as reward – by me does the king reign and decrees, by me he brings sound judgement and peace.”

…

“.. incline your heart to the wisdom which written it is and from written word spoken, turn your heart to understanding, seek for the path as one seeks great treasure, for from heaven comes wisdom, and the path of the fools is the path of damnation.”

“…. keep the path of the just, do not rejoice in the doings of evil, and deliver the Faithful from the way of the malefactor. Preserve the paths of the blessed, in righteousness and good judgement."

“And banish the fool and the foul and the wicked, and cleanse the house of the One from the mold of damnation...”

…

“Let seven pillars of wisdom be hewn, and a house of the wise to be built… eat of the bread, and drink of the wine of the wizened and wise…”

“Gather the brother, the sister, the mother, the father and heed the words of your ruler... for his heart is in the hand of the Crone – I turn it however I will, and his eyes always follow my lantern… Tear out the ruins of foul deeds upon yourselves fallen, tear out the tare from the wheat – for you have torn away name, but not ties to the world.”

…

“Heed these my words, repent and build on the founding stones and let the capstone be made out of marble most pure.”

“Let not those devout fornicate with the world and the worldly, for the Faith’s doings are serenely divine. Take out the staff and the crystal from the place of imprisonment and be pilgrim to gather in sight of the One and the Seven…”

“Blessed is the one that hears and obey, and one who hates me damnation embraces.”

And at long last the harmonies of heaven were silent, and She spoke no more, and I awoke, but the vision that was planted in my mind still remains, within the sounds of silence.

Chapter Text

168 AC

"Today marks seven years since His Grace's coronation. Do you think there'll be a feast tonight? Or he might knight you at last?" asked a young lordling an even younger prince.

"I am very much in doubt. It is the sixth day of the week, and my cousin always fasts on the day of the Crone – it would not do for the court to feast while the king fasts. He'd rather be holed in his solar with his septons, listening to one of their lot recite the Seven-Pointed Star, or ponder on the meaning of one word of Old Andal in some ancient manuscript of the Scriptures, or discuss again the matters of the Synod." answered the young prince Daeron.

"As for knighthood, you forget that I should have stood vigil last night if it where to happen today, and I have not. And His Grace has sworn not to grant me my spurs until I could recite the Book of the Warrior from memory at every time of the day or the night. Alas, I have failed to do so until now, and I grow weary of Ser Olyvar waking me at the hour of the wolf and bidding me to recite it." he continued. "I am half-convinced that cousin Baelor was only jesting, but Ser Olyvar likes to take the king's jests seriously, if they're likely to provide him some entertainment."

"Do you think he wishes to knight you on your sixteenth name day mayhap? When you are a man grown?" inquired his companion, curiously. Walter Caron was his fellow squire, but while Daeron's knight was his uncle, the Dragonknight, young Caron's was the Ferren Kingsguard, and the boy had spent many hours hoping to listen to deeds of arms from him, but instead was regaled with tales of woe and lost love. He did not care for it, but a word spoken without care had led to his sister to know of this, and now, as a dutiful brother, he carefully penned every word of the knight's tales to his sister and send them dutifully to Storm's End, where his sister was handmaiden to its Lady.

"It might be so, though he told me not. But even my great-grandfather, of great fame and greater infamy, was not knighted before that age, and so were the Old King's sons. I have certainly not proved myself better than them, and I am no equal to my namesake." said Daeron, his words forlorn, and mixed with resignation.

"Well then", Caron said, "if there's no chance of a feast or a knighthood perhaps the Lord Hand might be persuaded to let you hunt in the Kingswood. We will tell the king we shall give the meat to the poor – after all, they still feast from his coin when he fasts. He will not think long on it – for he is always concerned with the affairs of the Synod these days. Seven years of reigning and we get no tourney, no feast – it speaks poorly, as if there were nothing to be celebrated."

"Cousin Baelor had nothing against a tourney. But alas, Lords Edgerton and Tully of Hellholt had affairs that take to long to settle, and most of the Holy Hundred have offered themselves as escorts for holy men and their Grand Inquiry. A tourney without them would make a poor showing, and a poor showing is no way to mark seven years of a great reign. Let us hope that when they are ten in number, the gods would smile upon us. We would be knights then, and our joy would not be in admiring greater men than us but showing our own mettle."

"If there's no fun to be had at court today then let us make merry – go to a tavern or a brothel." suggested the mischievous boy.

"The king and grandfather would surely smell the drink on me and the Goldcloaks are the most eager of snitches. As for brothels, you know it well that when Father tried to make me sample of such pleasure, the king granted a dowry to every whore in King's Landing to allow them to marry well – and the brothels remained derelict, with nobody to allow me to fall into temptation. Nor the notables of the city, nor the masses would thank me if I forced the king's hand again." replied the young prince, secretly amused at Caron's various suggestions of staving off boredom.

"And if Ser Olyvar hears you speak of whores and brothels, he would scold you and tell you again his past romantic misfortunes and that old advice – It is better to have loved and lost… "

"… than never to have loved at all," said the young squire." I have heard it a thousand time. Though if my sister would hear it a thousand more, she would still sigh over his words. I thought courtly romance was the realm of knight who cannot attain the love of a lady – but my sisters sighs over a man whose love she can never win. And he is thirty years her older. Perhaps I should tell mother, so she can send a couple dozen suitors to needle her. That would certainly earn me her ire. Speaking of our fun though – you did not gainsay hunting. Would you ask the king or the hand for their leave, or you would rather bore yourself until the sun sets?"

"Then let us go, and bother the king and his business, to ask permission to make our fun." was Daeron's mischievous answer.

"I did not mean that we should go. It would not do for me to go into the king's presence without asking for an audience." stammered his friend. "I meant for you to intercede with your royal kin. While I await on the other side of the door."

"Do not speak such folly." said Daeron, as he dragged the young Stormlander by the arm. "The king would be quite eager to hear your petition. Or I should tell him of your other proposal – you know how my royal cousin looks upon such vices."

And so, they went towards the king's solar, one eager for a well thought jest, one reluctant and dragging his feet, but too afraid to flee. Ser Karyl, the white cloak trailing the prince, snickered in their wake.

In one of the castle's many corridors, they stumbled upon the king's sister, the princess Elaena, and Daeron could not help but play another jape (for japes were never too many):

"Dear cousin, have you heard the news?" he asked his cousin with a voice sickeningly sweet.

"What news, Daeron? Has the king granted you your spurs, or you and Caron here will keep brooding around the castle awaiting that blessed day?" she answered in the same vein – with words of honeyed poison.

"No such thing. Alas!" said Daeron, smiling broadly. "His Grace, your brother has ordered that an addition to the Red Keep should be built – and a beautiful one, a house of whitest marble, a vault to safekeep the greatest of his treasures."

"And why does such concern me?" asked Elaena, her mind confused.

"It is kin not the greatest of treasure?" replied Daeron. "And since you have become a maiden grown, many knights and lords have tried their suit for your hand, even if it is promised, but the know it not. As such, our king, in his gracious and great wisdom, has decided to safeguard you from evil intent and built a home for you, far away from covetous eyes and men with ill intent. Despair not, dear cousin, it is but two years before we wed, and you might at last escape your confinement." In truth, the king had ordered an addition to be built to house his greatest treasure: his ever-growing library – books from all corners of the realms, scrolls and manuscripts of Old Valyria, of fallen Sarne and Rhoyne, and the oldest manuscripts of the Seven-Pointed Star.

Elaena's face paled: "Surely Baelor has not thought of such? I will strangle him with my bare hands and no white cloak can stop me." Seeing her intended try in vain to stifle his bouts of laughter, she realised Daeron's jest – "I will strangle you, you half-witted buffoon.", and gave chase.

Elaena either grew tired of the many corridors and stairs, or her septa caught up with her and scolded her. But what was certain, was that the two boys reached the King's Solar unfollowed.

They were joined there by the Grand Maester, who was in a hurry, his breath laboured.

"Have you too a princess hounding your steps that you hurry so, Grand Maester?" laughed Daeron.

"No." he answered, slightly confused. "I come here with ill tidings."

At those words, Daeron became sober. He knew when time for jests was and when it was not. His companion was not so wise, so he had to punch him in his side to stop him from speaking without thought.

They were received together by the king, though Caron was to wait outside. His grandfather was there, no doubt discussing some grand affair of state.

"Your Grace, we have received a raven from the Eyrie." said the Grand Maester with solemn words and a grim face. " The sea was turbulent of late, so the Vale delegation took the mountain road. They were beset by mountain clans, and half their number were felled. It seems uncaring to say it in the same breath, but the Grand Inquiry has survived intact. The hill tribes are not interested in coffers of parchments, and had no inkling of what they contained, as to make them burn it out of spite."

His cousin Baelor rose from his seat, his face contorted with rage. He did not speak though but banged his fist on the table and gritted his teeth. Suddenly, he trembled as if a shiver went through him, and in the next moment he took a handkerchief and wiped his brow, who had become inexplicably sweaty.

He sat down into his seat, for a moment or three, which seemed more. At last, he spoke, his voice deceptively calm: "Lord Arryn most assuredly roused his banner in retaliation. Yet there are two sides to the Mountains of the Moon."

"Uncle, send word to Frey, Charlton, Erenford and Haigh, to Roote, to Hawick and to Harrenhal – I want their banners gathered at Harrenhal where they shall await their commander."

He turned towards Daeron: "Daeron, you shall ride to Summerhall and gather the knights sworn to it and then march to Harrenhal. They are Marchers, they know their way around the mountains and if you'll do well to become closer to them. Ser Olyvar will join you."

His grandfather made to protest: "Surely the boy is too young to be given such a command. He has not even earned his spurs. It is folly."

The King silenced him with a raised hand: "He will go. My brother was his age when he went to war with Dorne and led and fought must admirably. I hope that my cousin shares his valour besides his name."

Daeron preened at the compliment and at the authority Baelor had bestowed upon him. He imagined great battles and tales and songs that will long be told after his death – like how they spoke in taverns of the king returning from Dorne with the skulls of Martell, of Wyl, and of Yronwood, and laying them under Daeron's tomb, with the words "Daeron, your work is done."

Baelor continued: "When you shall return, you will have your knighthood, which you so greatly crave. It is better to have gained it in battle than how I did – a formality, to allow me to be crowned as a knight. Before you leave – do not forget to ask for Elaena's favour publicly – it would fit for a minstrel's song. Now be off."

Daeron left the room. Walter Caron was lounged against the wall – he sprang up at his sight: "Did the king grant you leave to hunt?"

"Aye, but I was given another quarry. We're to hunt the mountain clans in the Vale – they've slain and robbed two dozen septons, after we gather Summerhall's knights. But first I must find dear Elaena, beg her forgiveness, and ask her favour – the king fancies to make the maidens swoon over my deeds of arms."

"That was not wise nephew" said prince Viserys. "Daeron is still a boy, still prone to jests. He has no experience in command."

"Fear not uncle, I shall not deprive you off a grandchild. Let the people of the realm think he led the host. Aemon and Olyvar shall join him. They will command in truth, not him. But it will be well for the future Protector of the Realm to have a reputation akin to my late brother."

"When he shall return, I shall knight him and invest him as prince of Summerhall along Elaena as princess of Dragonstone and shall announce them betrothed before all the court."

Brother,

You had your son squired and knighted at court – that is well. He has gained no position or office and no friendship of worth – that it is not so well. The king sent Prince Daeron to lead a host of Rivermen against the wildlings of the Vale. Quickly send the boy and a dozen men-at-arms with him to join the host at Harrenhal. Blood and battle make more lasting friendships than peace, and Prince Daeron would rise quite high in future years. Do not let this opportunity pass you by – your son must grasp it with both hands.

Your always leal brother,
Balthasar Grell

Chapter Text

“The envoy of the Free and Most Exalted Republic of Lys, Tregar Moraqos, comes into the king’s presence!” the herald announced in a great booming voice.

In came a man who had seen mayhap thirty years pass him by, his appearance Valyrian in every aspect: the pale skin, the silver-gold hair, the lilac eyes. He was clad in purple robes of silk, a heavy chain of gold wrapped around his neck, made of figures of naked maidens holding hands. He wore no sword, his belt, of finest leather and silver gilding holding nought but a pouch. He was luxurious in every aspect, and arrogance showed upon his face, though the twitching of his mouth and the fiddling of hands showing a certain amount of dread. He was an envoy who desired to show to all the might and wealth of his nation, but knowing the precarious position of it – a castle built of parchment, looking mighty but soon the be blown away by the next wind. He hated to come begging, yet he would have to accept what was offered.

He came forth before the throne of the king of the Sunset Kingdoms. He craned his neck to look up – for king Baelor sat ten feet above upon a seat made of twisted steel, jagged swords and knives tangled up and melted, and beyond all – uglier to look at than a maiden with greyscale. He wondered how the king could sit upon that seat – uncomfortable and dangerous.

King Baelor, looking down upon him, was clad in his finest armour – plate as black as night, a silver, seven-headed dragon emblazoned upon his chest, his crown simple in compare – but a single band of gold. They shared the same look – pale, silver-gold hair, and purple eyes, though the shades differed. He had heard the common people talk of the kindness of the king, his compassion – but he saw none, for the king was a vision of grimness, looking down upon him as he was vermin beneath his feet. A thought, anticipating failure, passed through his mind, and a shiver went up his spine. The king was far handsomer than his throne, but to look upon him inspired fear ten times greater.

“What does an envoy of the Most Exalted Republic of Lys seek from us? Have you come against to protest the reprisal of our ships against the trade of your city? We have told you again and again, they have done so by our leave. Since the first unjust action of the Republic of Lys, we have not been bound to observe truce to it, our permission for reprisal has been written on parchment by the hands of our clerks and sealed with our own seal. We have not done so lightly, for we have inquired in the matter, and sworn testimony we have gathered on the actions of your city against our ships, our trade and our interests. We shall not surrender such men to your justice, for it is but justice they seek, to recuperate goods lost through the perfidy of the Lyseni. Not once you have offered redress, and as such we have not decreed the reprisals forfeit.” came the words of the king, biting and harsh as the winter wind.

He answered poisoned tongue with silver tongue: “Most Illustrious King and Serene Majesty, the Conclave and the First Magister of the Free and Most Exalted Republic of Lys have entrusted me with this embassy so that we might settle upon legal redress and restore the peace and friendship between our two nations.” His own father had lost two score ships to Westerosi privateers, pirates clad in robes of legitimacy, and however much it pained him to speak these words, this was what had to be done for the good of Lys.

“This is not a matter to be swiftly decided upon. We shall take in the advice of our council and shall grant then an audience to you, so we may establish the terms of this peace.” was the king’s dismissal, and the envoy bowed deeply, and bent so, he backtracked his steps, as he had been instructed – that no man could turn his back on the king. But it seemed that by ignorance, or malice, he had been taught wrong, for the laughter of the courtiers were answer enough. It pricked at his pride, but to turn his back now would shame him more greatly – perhaps he could claim later that it was a custom of his native city.

At last, he reached the doors, which were swiftly shut by the word of the king, and he fled to all haste to his appointed chambers.

“For what reason have the Lyseni have so suddenly turned towards peace. For years they have showered themselves in pride and watched with arrogance their merchant ships sunk and their trade whittled to nothing. And yet they persisted in their folly. What has changed?” I asked the master of whisperers.

Lord Velaryon answered instead: “I judge it obvious. No doubt the last of the sellswords in their employ have turned cloak after another ship carrying the gold and silver for their purse has been captured by our daring privateers. I wager that the last of the Lysene holdings in the Disputed Lands have been captured by the Myrish or the Tyroshi, and now that they have been cut down to their island, they humble themselves at last.”

“Lord Velaryon speaks truly” interjected Maester Rowley. “But there is more to it than that, as my whisperers have just now informed me. Since the Lysene war fleet has been sunk by the Master of Ships, the Lyseni had barely a moment of respite to rebuild their warships. The Conclave have unwisely decided, two years ago, to employ the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles to escort their ships and provide protection, even allowing them into their own harbour. Our privateers have adjusted their tactics to address this development.”

“But the events in the Disputed Lands have changed the calculations of the corsairs, who have seen the star of Lys dulling and falling from the sky. They attacked the city of Lys, but did not manage to take the Valyrian walls, inside which the magisters sheltered with their wealth. They were enraged enough to loot and pillage and burn everything outside the walls. Every palm and fruit tree on the island has been cut down and burn needlessly, every vineyard trampled under feet, every manse and palace outside the wall has been made ruins. Once they made their desolation complete, they left with their plunder.”

“Once they judged who was guilty, and the last one of them had his wine poisoned or had been stabbed to death by a pleasure slave; once they had played their games of power and had stabbed and poisoned another few magisters and their household, the Conclave settled upon another First Magister, to whom this envoy is kin. They have judged that it is for the greater good of their Republic that peace be made with the Seven Kingdoms, so that they may recover their fortunes with their trade unhindered."

“Give me leave and I’ll take the fleet and conquer the city, Your Grace.” said the Oakenfist, his eagerness visible upon his face. “Let us deal with this pest once and for all.”

“As much as I abhor Lys and their practices more than that of their other city – for they have reduced slaves to only one purpose – to satiate their lusts and perversions, and as much as that city has for centuries endeavoured to be the perfect portrayal of the sin of Lust, I do not think it wise. The walls were built by dragonlords and not easily taken. And Essos would not look kindly upon the city being conquered by the Iron Throne. Not when Tyrosh and Myr and even Volantis look upon that prize with greedy eyes. They’ll sooner submit by their own will to one of the three than to us, for it would allow them to keep to their ways.”

“What then it is the path you propose?” asked the Grand Maester. “The lords of Westeros still remember the Lysene Spring and the fall of the Rogare Bank, and to merciful a peace would not be looked kindly upon.”

“Worry not, maester, I have no intention to sell peace so cheaply.” I said, smiling widely.

Tregar Moraqos was invited into the chamber of the Small Council by the king’s cupbearer. At that ornate table sat the king on one end and counsellors at his left and right. A seat was left empty at the other end of the table, left vacant by the Grand Maester, who went about his duties.

But the Lysene envoy knew it nought. He advanced with a bravery that he knew not, and sat upon the chair, thinking that a position at the other end of the table entitled to him – as a representative of a foreign nation, come to make peace.

“Have you forsworn your mother and father, and your city, turned your cloak and sworn yourself into my service? Have you shed the sinful customs of your land to seat so eagerly upon that seat?”

“I beg Your Grace’s pardon! My loyalty remains unimpeachable, and it is most insulting for Your Grace to claim otherwise.” spluttered the envoy.

“That seat on which you sat belongs to my Grand Maester. All those who seat at this table sit to provide me counsel, are my friends not my foes. You know what a maester is I presume? I know the concept of celibacy and chastity is viewed with great horror among you Lyseni – my mortification of the flesh must seem an abomination in your eyes. If you are not here to counsel me, then stand, good man. Stand straight, not hunched, you are an envoy.” the king baited him.

With barely repressed rage, the Lysene stood up.

“I have been given counsel by my small council and we have agreed that to not complicate the matter of peace with long negotiations, investigations and inquiries, we shall ask the Republic of Lys to make amends to the sum of three hundred thousands dragons a year for the next ten years.” said the king.

“The Conclave thanks Your Grace most profusely for your understanding.” said the envoy.

“I am not finished” interrupted king Baelor. “That is not our only demand. Since in the unfortunate events that resulted in the fall of the Bank of Rogare have led to its assets seized by Lys, we demand that restitution be made to our people who have lost the coin entrusted to its care. It is most fortunate that the documents of its branch in our city have survived in their entirety those tumultuous years.”

“We shall make peace, but I do not offer our hand in friendship. We shall allow Lysene ships to trade in our ports. But they shall pay a tariff equal to the value of their goods. Our officials would inspect the ships and assess the worth of your goods, and you shall pay the tariff before you shall be allowed to sell your goods.”

“Furthermore, the library of Lysandro Rogare, which passed into the hand of his daughter only to be seized shall be gathered together once again and, given that the last of the Rogares have perished, shall be given to the last of their blood, our cousins. I have in my own library a catalogue of the works it once held which I would most happily lend to this cause.”

“And last of all, we desire Truth.”

“Your Grace, I have come here in the utmost sincerity, I assure you.” the Lysene defended himself.”

“Truth, the Valyrian steel longsword of House Rogare, my goodman! Did your sire send you here half-taught?” barked the king at him.

Tregar Moraqos was hesitant to answer: “Your Grace, I have not been sent here to offer such terms for peace. I must consult with the Conclave.”

At that moment, the doors opened and the Grand Maester returned, with news: “Your Grace, a raven has arrived from Bloodstone. The Moondancer has come ashore, with Lady Laena.”

“Gods be praised!” yelled Velaryon. “Your Grace, I must ask your leave to sail and meet my daughter, for many years have passed since I last saw her face.”

“Go with my blessing, milord Velaryon.” said the king joyously. “But I must ask you to take half the Royal fleet with you, and Moraqos here, and after your reunion, to go to Lys and kindly remind them that it would be wise to accept our terms of peace.”

The Grand Maester cleared his throat loudly, and all faces turned towards him: “That is the best of news, which I thought to share first. But a missive came from Lord Tully. Lords Blackwood and Bracken have started their feud again, and neither is willing to submit to their Lord Paramount’s judgement. Lord Tully is prepared to make war upon them but thought it wise to refer the matter to the Iron Throne lest he be accused by the malicious of breaking the King’s Peace.”

The king sighed, then banged his head on the table. At last, he spoke: “I suppose that only cutting all their damnable lot in twain and sewing them together half-Blackwood and half-Bracken would stop that damnable feud, but then I would wager the right foot would spite the left and the sword arm shall cut the other. Yet man was born to suffer – I shall have to ride to the Riverlands myself to get rid of this headache.”

Chapter Text

Blackwood and Bracken had once again broken the King's Peace. They had called on kin to the fourth degree, on vassals and on friends bound by alliance, had claim another slight upon their honour and rode to war. No friends came to their aid, for they had tired of this unending, eternal feud thousands of years ago.

As for neighbours – it was because of one that the feud turned once again bloody. A landed knight whose fee of Woodhedge bordered both those lordships had but one daughter as his heir. Said daughter, unwed, had grown heavy with child. Out of rage or shame, the old knight's heart gave out and he met the Stranger. The daughter had died in childbirth, having named no father.

Edmund Blackwood, a cousin to Bloody Ben, the Lord of Raventree and Otho Bracken, cousin to Lord of Stone Hedge had each claimed to be father to the boy and claimed custody of him and his land. The steward of the castle had not surrendered the boy to neither Blackwood, nor Bracken, and shut the gates, preparing for a siege, and sent a raven to Riverrun.

The Lords Blackwood and Bracken had each mustered their men to aid their kin and had fought battle after battle under the walls of Woodhenge, each trying to deny the other the prize.

It was this mess I had come to unravel, having marched with half a thousand knights and three thousand men-at-arms, a host joined by another thousand led by Robin Tully. I did not fear neither Blackwood nor Bracken, but I judged such a show of force necessary to cower those two feuding houses.

I sat now in the lord's seat in the wooden hall of Woodhenge, Blackwood and Bracken submitting to judgement at my arrival.

"State your claim, each in your turn. Let me hear whatever quarrel have led you to break the peace this time." I said and gestured towards the Bracken knight, to forestall another quarrel about whoever was to address me first.

"Your Grace" exclaimed Benjicot Blackwood, to aid his cousin's claim. "Surely you shall not take into account the words of a Bracken over a Blackwood. After all, it was Blackwood, not Bracken who flew the black banner, and it was not them that proffered friendship to your august royal grandmother. Pardon me, Your Grace, but I cannot tie my tongue in the presence of such perfidious folk." he finished, casting a dark gaze towards the Bracken party.

Angered, I answered him: "Lord Amos Bracken answered with his life for his treachery, lord Blackwood, as both of you should answer now if you have any sense of honour! You have broken the King's Peace. You disgraced yourselves, both of you, you shamed yourselves! A man who breaks the King's Peace loses the king's friendship, milords! By the law of the Conqueror, you are equal in rebellion and treachery. I ought to attain and hang you all, but I am a merciful king. But I assure you, there is no doubt that you will answer for this."

"Before I adjudicate this folly, let me show you that while I am merciful, I am not without ruthlessness. You, Ser Lyle, are now but Knight of Stone Hedge. And before you crow in joy, Benjicot Blackwood, you are now but Master of Raventree. Neither of your or your heirs shall retain the right of pit and gallows. You will be lesser in precedence than the rest of the Riverlords – Frey shall be held greater in title and distinction than either of you. Let that mark your shame!"

"Now Ser Otho, say your piece!"

The Bracken knight came forth, and spoke: "Your Grace, I have lain with Sheira of Woodhenge, and fathered a child upon her. It is my right as his father to claim him and govern his lands for him in his minority. But the treacherous steward has no doubt conspired with Blackwood to claim the boy and the lands for themselves, with false testimony."

"Those are lies, damn lies and slander, sire!" yelled Edmund Blackwood. "All who look upon the babe's face can see that he has my raven hair, and his mother's blue eyes."
The Bracken knight laughed: "Your Grace, Blackwood cannot think of a better lie. The boy's eyes, and his nose are mine, writ small. All who knew his mother know that her hair was as dark as a raven's wing. That Blackwood here has the same hair signifies nothing."

I addressed then the maester, asking for clarifications.

"Alas, the girl has said nought about the boy's father. In truth, he looks in all aspects like his mother. But as the name would attest, her house was born of a union between Blackwood and Bracken, and there is no surprise that one could find either Blackwood or Bracken in his features. We have no way of knowing the paternity of the boy."

I had an inkling of a solution to the matter, so I asked that the boy be brought forth. I drew Blackfyre from its scabbard and said:

"One says 'This is my son, and the other is a liar', the other says 'Nay, this is my son, and he the liar'. Perhaps I should divide the child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other."

I had hoped, that like in the tale of Solomon, the true parent should renounce the child, so that he might live. But alas, it was not to be so. The hatred had festered too deep into their hearts, and mayhap the girl had lain with them both, and a whisper of doubt in the minds of both Blackwood and Bracken bade them stay silent, rather than to allow the boy and his inheritance to remain in the hands of his despised foe.

I waited a moment, and then another, but neither opened his mouth to protest. So instead of them, I spoke:

"A plague on both your houses! Neither of you would ask would relinquish the boy to the other, so that he might live, and in your foul hatred you would allow your kin to be slain, to be made worm's meat. You shame the Father by your silence, villains."

"Ser Olyvar, take Blackfyre from my hand and cut those two vermin in twain, split them from head to bowels. They are more deserving of that fate than a boy who has done naught wrong in this life, but to be born – and even that, not of his choice."

"Do not draw your swords, Blackwood, Bracken" I called to them, "lest you invite doom upon the rest of your houses!".

The white cloak obeyed my orders, and before the divided corpses of those two, I passed judgement: "The boy shall go to neither Blackwood, nor Bracken. He shall hold Woodhedge. Further more, so that you might not find further cause to quarrel, the boy shall have the east bank of the Widow's Wash, from Crossbow Ridge to Rutting Meadow, Grindcorn Mill, and Lord's Mill, Muddy Hall, the Ravishment, Battle Valley, Oldforge, the villages of Buckle, Blackbuckle, Cairns and Claypool, and Mudgrave, Waspwood, Lorgen's Wood, Greenhill, the Teats and Honeytreee. If I missed some village you have quarrelled over, I no doubt Lord Tully has all your suits written on parchment in his castle – if another land is found in question, it will go to the boy."

"Lord Tully, you shall set the boundary stones for the boy's holdings, you shall take with you every son of Blackwood or Bracken that can walk, and beat the soles of their feet with branches of birch at every stone, so that when they shall be grown men, they shall remember the bounds. Every boy born to either house shall be subject to such perambulation, beaten as such when he is seven years of age – let that small pain be their memory, so they shall not account boundary by blood shed and kin slain."

"If you quarrel over any other village, town, or mill – the judgement will be but one: it is neither yours, nor his, but the boy's. If you draw blood and break the King's Peace again, no matter who was at fault, I shall make outlaws of you all, and grant Raventree and Stonehenge entire, with all its lands and incomes, to the boy. Now begone from my sight, and if one of you steps foot in my court to beseech me to turn away from this judgement, I shall order a hundred lashes upon your backs and shall turn you away from my castle as if you were a beggar and a layabout."

Once the two feuding former lords left, taking their kin – living and dead, with them, the steward of Woodhenge approached me: "My lord, the boy has been left without kin. If he is not be the ward of either Blackwood or Bracken, whose he shall be?"

I looked upon the child, sleeping soundly in the arms of his wetnurse, and asked about his name.

"He is a bastard, so he is a Rivers. But his mother died without giving him a name, and we had more pressing matters afterwards than that. The boy is unnamed, and now has no mother, nor father to name him." said the steward with deference.

"I took two fathers from him, however unworthy they were, so I shall be as a father to him. The boy shall foster with me until his majority, when he shall take charge of his holdings. I name him Solomon, a worthy name. I shall have one of my clerks pen a writ of legitimisation. The boy shall be known as Solomon Justman, Lord of Woodhenge. He has the blood of both raven and stallion, so he can bear that name, even if he is not kin to the last who bore the name. Let that name remind him to be better than his two natures of Blackwood and Bracken."

Chapter Text

The roads were abysmal. In certain places, calling the Kingsroad a dirt track was a most gracious compliment. Going from King’s Landing to Woodhedge, and from Woodhedge to Harrenhal, then back to the Red Keep was a great chore. I had spent the last few years in King’s Landing, busy preparing the Synod and working on the Seven-Pointed Star that I had forgotten their state.

I had met at Harrenhal with Daeron and his host and gave some last moment advice to him. I told him that if he bedded some whore, Elaena would have him gelded, and that the incomes bestowed upon her were great enough to hire the best of the worst to do the deed. I told him that if he felt craven-ish before a battle, getting drunk the night before it would just make fighting more dire – it was hard to split skulls when your own was split by a headache from a hangover. I told him to listen to his uncle Aemon and to Ser Olyvar, and not to make rash decision in his councils.

I then took leave of Harrenhal and made way to King’s Landing. I was received at the gates of the Red Keep by my uncle Hand, who seemed surprised at the babe and the wetnurse that carried him. I had forgotten in my agitation to even send word of my judgement to my uncle.

He took me aside and whispered angrily in my ears: “When did you even had time to father a bastard? I thought you better than mine own son.”
I laughed at him and whispered back: “The boy is a bastard, but not of royal blood. His father is either a Blackwood, or a Bracken – only the heavens know. It is the boy they quarreled over – I made him a lord, gave him all the lands ever in question between those two damn houses, which I have lessened in rank, and decided to foster the lad myself.”

“I was not made aware of this … judgement.” gritted my uncle. “I think it would be best to discuss it with the Small Council at the soonest opportunity.”

“Dismiss them.” I spoke.

“I have not yet even summoned them. I had thought to give you time to rest from the road.” he answered.

“Nay. Dismiss them: thank them for good and loyal service, grant them sizeable pensions and honours, give a feast in their honour, and release them from their office – save for my uncle Velaryon.” I answered, with a sudden stubbornness.

“Have they done something to anger you. It is not wise to do so – they would not thank you for it, and mayhap they shall speak ill to their peers of such a sudden decision.”

“I have pondered it deep and long enough on the road, uncle. They are not my council. Half of them were my father’s appointments, half my brother’s – but they have always been entirely your men. I do not begrudge it – but I have ruled for seven years now, it is time to make the Small Council my own. You shall remain as Hand, I ask of you, if you do not feel sufficiently offended by such a decision.” I said, with a resolute voice.

“And who would you appoint to their seat instead? Perhaps and Edgerton, and Edgerton… and an Edgerton?” he barked at me.

“Nay, they are quite useful were I put them – rather than move those pawns on the board, I’ll add another few. Give me time to rest, and then we shall discuss this matter further in my solar.” I replied, tired from the road, and in need of a featherbed to rest my weary bones and aching muscles.

Lord Hunter had been a competent enough Master of Laws, though inclined to favour those of his own estate, and think the words of lesser men of lesser worth. He was also very eager to please, a difficult when the two men he wished to ingratiate himself to were at odds – the Hand and the King.

Lord Ossifer Plum had only served as a figurehead for better men that held offices under him – and that I could not begrudge him. For all that he was no great learned men in matters of finance and economy, he was a man who had an eye for learned and competent men to do the things he could not do. Perhaps it was his laziness that pushed him to appoint fine men, so he would have a lesser burden in his position.

Maester Rowley was a fine enough Confessor, but as Master of Whisperers, he was not the best I could afford, and I had thought best to replace that office with a different one, whose master required a few other skills besides.

Once I had fallen into my bed, I slept until the next morning. After washing myself and after the Seven Prayers, I was ready once again to see to my realm.

I broke my fast in my solar, and it was to my surprise that it was not my uncle that first sought audience. No, it was the gaggle of scholarly septons that I kept at my court – Razyn, Kellam, Mawrey, and Banazyr, by some accident of fate all shorter in stature than an average man, though they could not be called dwarves.

Mawrey was the first to address me, trembling with anticipation: “Your Grace, we have put in order the latest of the fragments whose meaning we have disentangled, and it is our greatest of joys to announce that the first seven manuscripts of our translation have been finished. We have, by your gracious princely uncle’s leave, enlisted the work of all scribes in the city that were not in current employ to make copies of it.”

“Has the High Septon and the Holy Conclave been made aware of the fact, holy brother?” I asked him, joyous from good news so early in the day.

“We have not, sire. We had thought it wiser to await Your Grace’s return, for it was you, sire, that has laboured the most at it. We can only call ourselves your clerks in this great endeavour. And perhaps we have been to eager to set the scribes to the task of copying it, but we had judged that the work of a man so pious, holy and learned will be accepted with the most open of arms by the highest of the Faith.” said Kellam, who had stood at the back of the chamber, and had been the least vocal in his excitement.

The work they spoke of, a translation of the Seven-Pointed Star, had occupied, when I had leisurely time for myself, the greatest part of my reign until now. From acquiring the oldest manuscripts of the scriptures, several that were acquired at great expense from the Arryns, and others by exchanging many a Valyrian scroll with the Citadel, I had amassed the oldest and most original variants of the holy writ. Crushing Dorne beneath my heel brought me an unexpected advantage, for I took for myself all the works of fallen Rhoyne that Nymeria had brought with her, or the Martells had acquired in the centuries afterwards.

The most ancient versions of the sacred books were not written in Rhoynish too, but the earliest septon had more often than not learned their letters in the great cities of the Rhoyne that neighboured Old Andalos. False friends and borrowed words from Ancient Rhoynish were many in the old versions, and after the coming of the Andals, the translations from Old Andalic into the common tongue suffered from the ignorance of these particularities of the septon entrusted with this task.

I was certain that my own translation was more reliable than those in current use by the Faith, and if a King Baelor’s Version of the Seven-Pointed Star became in use in the years following, I would be most pleased.

Next, though I expected him earlier, was Uncle Viserys, and his reason was as expected:

“Who do you have in mind for the Small Council, nephew?” he asked, not even bothering with a greeting.

I had thought on the matter on my way from the Riverlands, so my choices had been long settled: “For Master of Laws, I would have you summon Oscar Tully from Hellholt. He has ever been a most just man, and never failed to keep the conduct of his men in the bounds of chivalry and morality. To give him but a lordship, and a title – as vaunted as the Holy Hundred is – seems a poor reward. His nephew and the Riverlands would thank me for it – even more so if they would consider his appointment the proof that their kingdom has not fallen from my esteem after what happened with Blackwood and Bracken.”

My uncle had nothing against it: “I suppose after the Vale, the Riverlands should have a place among your council. I must presume then that your next Master of Coin will not be from the Crownlords? Were he is to be from – have you a Lannister in mind?”

“Nay”, I answered him, “the Lannisters have enough gold and coin that their lord would need all their ilk to count it. I need a man more suited for counting coppers, not gold. I need those two Edgertons in Chroy Ychor– they have brought the treasury a great deal of gold through their skills, have they not.”

“Aye.” he answered, with a pinched face. “I had thought you rose the Edgertons too high, but it seems you have appointed them for merit, not blood. If you are not to name their sons to their posts, then my worries that they would all but be overlords over the Greenblood would abate. The spice trade that that Lord Damion has organized with the Summer Islands brings even more coin than the Greenblood itself.”

“Indeed” I reported to him. “Cousin Herman sent his latest reports directly to me in the Riverlands – they are on the desk if you care to read them. Lord Damion has used the royal merchant fleet to great use – buying and selling spices, silk, Volantene glass and other luxuries. And my cousin has taken to see if he might grow cotton and sugarcane in the lands left to the royal domain and his own. With the taxes from olive oil and the orchards of lemons and other such fruits, the Greenblood has been proven to be a great boon indeed.”

“If not Lord Damion, or Lord Criston, then who?” inquired my uncle, mindful of the purpose of his visit.

“I have considered a Manderly, but I am not quite settled on it. Think about it and find me someone good with coin, from the Stormlands or the Reach, though if they shall be from the latter, I prefer them rather ashier than in full bloom, if you understand my meaning.” I answered him.

He did, though he did not appreciate my use of such metaphors, nor my preferences. He continued:

“As for the Master of Whisperers?"

“I have decided to change the office. I shall name a Master of Diplomats, who shall oversee our relations with other nations – with permanent envoys. In the Free Cities and the Summer Isles for now, though I have given thought to a great convoy sent to YiTi, for trade and for diplomacy. He shall also oversee the work of the whisperers, at home, or abroad. Give the confessors over to Tully, save for a few – to deal with spies, or traitors and such.” I informed him.

“I would have greatly wanted Cousin Herman for the task, but he is well suited to oversee the southernmost of my lands. Bring me a list of good men and I shall bring another – those who shall not get the greatest of prizes might very well become an envoy.” I continued.

Struck by a sudden query, I changed the subject: “Speaking of journeys to far away places, I have not heard anything about Laena, save for her safe return. What misfortunes came her way, that we all thought her dead?”

“You spoke of a trade journey to YiTi, but Laena has already been there.” said Viserys, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I was startled: “But I thought she was to sail south and to the west, not into the Jade Sea.”

“And so she did.” he delighted in informing me. “But she has been beset by the same misfortunes that once fell upon Elissa Farman. They found those island, mind you – and their unheard-of spices and fruits. But the journey back was not so easy. As the Lady Meredith had been swept away by winds and raging sea in the days of old, so did the Moondancer. They landed on the coast of Sothyoros, and Lady Laena had a brave enough crew that they thought her sudden decision to circle ‘round Sothyoros a plausible one.”

“The Moondancer entered the Jade Sea by way of the Saffron Straights, and she took a page out of her grandfather’s book. She managed to persuade the Golden Emperor to give her enough silk and spices, and jade and other treasures - on credit – for she hardly had any great treasure on her ships. She came back with a dozen ship and a promise of great and wondrous treasures to bring to YiTi. She has sent you a letter, asking if you might be willing to part with some of your curious objects and artefacts – for it seems that Eastern Emperor is as scholarly a man as you. She’s sold off most of her goods, so she has more than enough to pay back the Emperor, though she left two ships full as gifts to yourself, her gratitude for the Stepstones.”

“And she has brought you a letter from the Emperor. There is a translation in the Common Tongue, no doubt by Laena’s own hand, and it quite strangely addresses you as equal in right, as an Emperor. She said envoys of lesser rulers were forced to prostrate until their noses touched the ground, and that she had too pretty a dress to dirty on the floor. So, she made an emperor out of you. She further said that the Emperor was most impressed by your display of familial piety to your elder brother – that you destroyed a realm for his death by perfidious means.”

“Speaking of family, it seems that the Velaryons can not keep to the right side of the bed.”

“Has uncle Alyn fathered a bastard, for his lack of a son?" I asked, understandably curious.

“Nay, Laena came back with two half-YiTish babes, both healthy daughters. And judging by her high regard and words of praise for the Emperor, she need not name the father.” he answered, somehow both amused and disapproving.

“It is quite likely she will never marry – send word to her that I shall legitimize the babies, though I disapprove of her behaviour. And send a proposal for a betrothal for her second daughter, if she would accept it.”

“For whom? I would not have either Daemion or Aelor wed to a bastard girl, save if she were to inherit Driftmark and the Stepstones. And I mean no insult to my goodbrother Alyn.” protested the Hand.

“Nay. I thought she would make a fitting bride for Solomon. A bastard boy wed to a bastard girl – surely none shall see it a misalliance?” were my assuaging words.
Viserys laughed: “So you are serious about fostering the boy then. Do not think I don’t see your game boy. Lord of the realm would not ignore his bastard blood when it comes to marriage alliances, and you seek to give him a bride as great as he can have – one with Velaryon and Targaryen blood, and daughter to the Emperor of YiTi himself. Both Blackwood and Bracken would sulk at that.”

Once the news about Laena were shared, he returned to the prior subject: “Any other appointments to be made, Your Grace?”

“The roads of the realm are horrendous. The roads need repairs, and the realm needs a Master of Works. I have heard of a great Braavosi architect by the name of Lenarro. No doubt he would be tempted by our gold to come to our shores. While the Faberards would not allow him to bring the contributions of his mind to raising the Sept, unless he abjures his gods and takes to the Seven, he will probably be quite willing to have the chance of making his mark of Summerhall, and the Water Gardens, and whatever project I may yet have. I have given thought to razing Harrenhal, have the entire Conclave bless and purify the land, and build a lesser and more useful castle instead.”

Once uncle Viserys left, I visited the nursery to see young Solomon. He was babbling quietly in his sleep, ignorant on how greatly he had risen already, and how likely he was to rise even more. I sent a quick prayer to the One, to aid me in being a good father to him, so I could raise him to be a good man, a just man.

Chapter Text

Chapter XXXVII: To see the day illumined, and glimpse the Hidden Truth

Letter to Daeron from Baelor

"I have not given you a knight's spurs on two reasons: on account of your youthfulness and of my own belief that a squire does not have to prove himself in tourneys to earn his great desire, but by conforming to the oaths of a knight before he has even taken them.

I have been knighted as a formality, so that I might be crowned as a Ser, though I then knew almost nought of arms, or deeds of arms. It is a regret and shame that still follows me.

It is to this end that I have sent you on this endeavour. Prove yourself a brave man, prove yourself just in handling the discipline of your men and in handling your prisoners, defend the young and innocent of the depredations of the wildmen, protect the women from their vile lusts, show wisdom in the leading of your men, show skill in your fighting and face death with dignity.

Then, dear cousin, you will be a knight and I shall gladly dub you so in front of the court.

I remember the words of a poet that men forgot or maybe never knew: if you can keep your head, if you can trust yourself when men doubt you, if you can wait and not be tired by waiting, if you will not deal in lies. If you can dream and think, and treat triumph and disaster just the same. If you can fail, but force your heart and nerve to serve again, holding on to your will. If you can keep your virtue, if you do not take any man to counsel overmuch, you will be more than a knight, you will be a man, cousin. A greater man than your father ever was, and here I do not speak of his instruments, but of the character of a man.

Now, cousin, you must be fearless and protect your soul with an armour of faith stronger than the mail you wear upon your body. Go forth and repel these wild men, but know that you shall stand in the face of death. If others die by thine hand, it is for the glory of the Holy Name you do so, for they are wretched malefactors, unaccustomed to live goodly. They have dealt evil, and thus are evil's men. To strike them down is no evil work, for you shall be the killer of evil. You shall send them to their penance before their sins shall grow greater so that their punishment shall be a lesser one, and they ought to thank you for that, but they shall not, for they shall be dead.

But if you fear your own death, know then that to see a glimpse of the Stranger is to contemplate the promise of eternal rewards. One would be sorry to lose the world and its myriad pleasures, but the Seven Heavens are so great a reward that the most luxurious palace upon this wretched earth would count only as a hovel there.

Fight for your king and fight for the deliverance of the men of this realm from those ill-doers. Fight not for glory, for then you shall not fight wisely or with prudence. The vainglorious often ride to their own death, and overmuch pride is a great sin. You most certainly will not fight for your fortune, for you were fortunately born to it, and others' ill-fortune has led to your own star rising higher through no deeds of your own. Yet this I ask of you - prove yourself worthy of the great fortune that has been thrust upon you, by bringing to security this realm.

I leave you in the care of mortal men, on whom I am most assured that Ser Olyvar and your uncle shall provide the most wise counsel and shall protect your person at all time. I leave you in the care of the One, and may all his Seven Holy Names keep you. "

The Most Devout, the Archseptons, the Elder Brothers and Sisters of the many septries and motherhouses, and the High Septon, along with the King were all gathered in what used to be the great arena of the Dragonpit, now the main chamber of the partly built Great Sept of the Faithful.

It was the king that had been asked to beseech the Seven-Who-Are-One for their blessing upon this Synod, the king who clergy and laity alike called in whispers, or even out loud, "the Blessed", "the Crone-Touched" and various other such names. And the king spoke, with a great and thundering voice, yet humble were his words as he prayed to the One to send his wisdom and his grace over those assembled there, so that they might provide a just and wise cure to the ills of the Faith, and to reveal upon them His will.

The sun began to shine brightly through the coloured glass planes of the windows of the sept, the clouds slowly uncovering it. Chief amongst those icons portrayed on the glass was one of several people, the king Baelor leading them, chasing a white stag in the hills. The sunbeams hit the Seven Stones, one at a time.

First the statue of the Father was illuminated. Suddenly a great spirit came over them, tempering them, and they stood in ecstasy as if the whole world was made right, unmarred as before the coming of evil. The room was set into a blaze of light, and a whiff of air made one feel taller. The old felt in the flower of their youth, and the least among them felt as equal in a heavenly reward as the rest of them.

If one looked upon the king, he would have seen him more regal than any that ever walked the earth, power and pomp almost visible by the naked eye. The ears of those present there were filled with a music so great, that the bells and trumpets of mortal singers could never summon the seventy-seventh part of its magnificence.

Then the sun shone upon the Mother. A sweet, fragrant smell came upon them, a feeling of utmost comfort as if they were babes yet in their mothers' arms. The air was warm and sweet, a summer breeze was blowing with the scent of a myriad flowers. And their bodies tingled and shivered and trembled, but not in fear but in the presence of the greatest of mothers, who smiled upon them in her infinite mercy, soothing wrath and taming fury.

The sun shone upon the stonily image of the Warrior. And the king stood tall, as if in battle, hand upon his word. And all men stood tall, as if they were of the Faith Militant of old, carrying swords with star-shaped crystals in their pommels, clad in silver armour and rainbow cloaks. For a moment the sept grew dark, and only the sword that the Warrior bore shone, in a rainbow of colours.

They stood ready to hunt and slay, as if a host of demons was ready to fall upon them. They heard the cheers, the howling, sword and shields clinging and clashing, the trumpets' sound and warcries, but they did not charge forth, but stood motionless, as if waiting the sound of a string, to dance in the melodies which were appointed to men before their time.

The Smith basked in the light of the Sun, and they saw each ray of light fall upon his statue, hitting the grains of carven stone. They looked up and saw the dome, and that which gave it strength and stability. They looked upon the stained glass and saw each piece, equal in beauty, but yet together making a greater and more beautiful work.

They saw each stone put in its place by the deeds of men, each strand in their clothes. They saw the rocks, the trees, the earth, the stars and men, all made by godly hand. The sea and its waves, the wind, the grass, thunder and lightning made by the same Will. Had they looked even more deeply, and had they known to seek uttermostly, they would have seen the smallest units of that which had made the word turn, and had they looked up and willed to see past the sky and the light of the day the would have glimpsed past the aether, past the Wanderers, and the Sun, and the Moon, past that jewelled tent of the world, the fixed firmament of ever-glittering stars of living silver that at the beginning of all things burst into sudden flame and glimpsed the Divine Eye, the Unmoved Mover, the Maker of All and the Watcher of All, by whose Will all is mended and marred. They would have seen and wondered.

If by the Crone and her guiding lantern, man glimpsed the will of those High, it was by the Smith that one saw the nature of Man, for as the Maker had made the world, by the hands of a smith mankind made their own creations, pale imitations of the works of the One that they were. Refracted light of the light of the One, a pale candle glimpsing in the dark, as a firefly before the Crone's Lantern that illuminated all mystery, and yet revealing in its small creation a small part of that which man did not once knew.

As the sunbeam fell upon the Maiden's visage, they looked upon her and saw her beauty and they were enchanted. Yet as enchanting her pale face was, it was half-maddening, for they felt restless, remembering the wildness of their youth. The room grew misty and foggy, and they did not look upon one another, but at the wild beauty of the Maiden, timeless and innocent.

But they felt that the air that they once breathed was thick and miasmic, a vapour pestilent. But it had now grown light and pure, and they did not breathe air so that they might live, but gulped, their mouth opens, in joy, basking in its freshness as if they stood upon the tallest mountain. They sighed in joy, in love given and received, they felt they could dance and dance, but the air was so light that if they moved they would surely take flight for all they knew not of it.

The Crone was illuminated next. And the men and women spoke loudly, though they did not remember what it was said afterwards. For some, who were inclined to some work of creation, that of which they spoke then came again in half-forgotten dreams, or guided their hand when they put word to parchment, or sought to paint some wondrous sight, or found new words or melodies to please the Seven.

But the foolish whimsies of men were for that moment forgotten, and they embraced fully only that which was holy, and the sacred mysteries were revealed. They drew wisdom from the only Wise.

The Stranger's face did not shine when their turn came, even in the face of the sun, though all faces were drawn to his darkness. They felt suddenly cold and all remembered what was lost and forgotten, the memories that were long past, dwindling in the recesses of their minds like fading stars. They felt Time unroll from dark beginnings to uncertain ends. Their feet felt leaden as they stood moored into place and contemplated the end of all things, when all things marred will end and nothing will need mending.

They felt old, but not the weariness of age of a man, when bones and flesh are tired, but as old as the world, creaking in its every crevice, as if they were witness to every happening since the dawn of man. And they looked upon it in sorrow, but sorrow was not alone, for as their flesh was of this mortal world, so their souls were of a different make, and in those souls a craving, a hope arose, as they contemplated eternal reward, the Blessed Lands.

Chapter Text

Chapter XXXVIII: Dragonheart

Letter from Daeron to Baelor

To my royal and dear cousin,

The destruction of the mountain clans of the Vale has not seen any unforeseen trouble. With the army gathered from the Riverlands we have made forays into the Mountains of the Moon from the western side as Lord Arryn has made from the eastern side.

Their villages are hidden deep inside the mountain, but almost all their dwellings are in river valleys, and by following the streams to their sources we have stumbled upon many of their dens of villainy. To kill them is swift work, for they lack armour and castle-forged steel. Many of the knights even complain that this is hardly a challenge worthy of their skills.

I must confess that the indiscriminate killing of the men of fighting age I have considered quite unchivalrous and unjust. But Ser Olyvar has made his point clear and I have come to understand it and embrace it fully. All grown men of these clans have blooded themselves in their pillaging and raiding and are thus the punishment of breaking the king’s laws and the peace of the realm. Thus, this is no slaughter, but rightful execution of outlaws. To leave them alive for further depredations, only to kill them when we have caught them in such acts or fighting against us, is no show of mercy or protecting the innocent.

Yet those possessed of some low cunning harry our men continuously as we advance, and some of the bolder ones have even attacked our camps at night. But we keep our camp fortified and many sentinels too. Some of those complaining skills have been felled by their ambushes.

Once every valley is cleared we retreat to the lowlands, and go again in another, for to brave the forest is too hardy and dangerous a task - and without purpose unless we find proof of a hidden village.

It is most certain that many of these wild folk had fled into the woods, and we have wisely not followed. But we have burned their shelter and their provisions, and most of their worldly goods - it is perhaps these that now sneak into the lowlands despite our heightened vigilance - but the Riverlanders are vigilant and have quickly sent them to the Seven Hells.

We have marched down into the Riverlands their womens and children with only what they could carry in their arms and are now held in quickly made shelters under guard, for the Riverlanders will not accept them in their villages, and no lord in their lands.  Their number is lower than it should have been - for many women and children did not stand idle while their villages burned - and my men defended themselves.

What is to be done with them I leave into your hands. Harrenhal, so long without a lord and with most of its smallfolk fled to lands more cared for, and still suffering from the horrors of the Dance would mayhap once have been the right place for them. But your liberated Andals have settled there and made a great bounty of these lands. I would not have the widows and orphans of raiders settled next to them.

Many a stream now run red and many river valleys are strewn with the bones of the dead. I reckon the Black Ears spent to the last, and Ser Olyvar has ordered their ears cut out and pays the men greater wages for bringing more ears. He calls it his golden rule: do to others what others would do to you. Unlike those savages, Ser Olyvar is not fond of leaving them alive afterwards.

The Howlers, the Milk Snakes, the Moon Brothers, the Painted Dogs, the Redsmiths have met a similar fate.

The destruction of the Burned Men is a more interesting tale. Their Red Hands are quite different from the  Braavosi healers you keep in your employ. These war chiefs were quite eager to test their mettle against us before we even reached their villages.

There is not a clan that the maesters have written about. It seems that this clan is an off-shoot of an older one, and formed in the past few decades. They mutilate themselves when they come of age, by burning off a body part of their choosing - a finger or nipple most of the time.

Those that have been captured have spoken, shortly before their death, of a fire-witch that led them, who asked the men for gifts and food for her dragon.

It was my suspicion that they spoke of Nettles and her dragon Sheepstealer, who had vanished from the pages of history during the Dance, though some of the knights in my army were rather disbelieving of their tales.

But in the self-same tales they spoke of the fire-witch perishing from a winter chill, of the dragon growing sickly in the years after her past and growing lazy in his cave - not having taken flight in more than one decade, of them bringing him food in his cave save he rouses in his wrath and feeds upon them, with no witch to keep him tame.

It was not with an easy heart that we advanced in their valley, and I only took volunteers with me. Uncle Aemon wished for me to stay behind, but I denied him.

In my mind, there grew a slight hope that their tale was true, for the tales of the Targaryens riding dragons, the tales of my great-aunts Baela and Rhaena had nestled deep in my heart and I desired to take flight and rise into the skies, as my blood sings. But it was not to be.

Once we burned their last village I was, reluctantly, guided by one of their folk to the cave where the dragon was said to reside.

The grounds at the cave’s entrance were littered with the bones of countless sheep and goats. Despite the protestations of my uncle and Ser Olyvar, I entered the cave alone - I had Ser Casper Grell and his men bar the way of anyone from following me.

It was indeed Sheepstealer. He had the muddy brown colour that the testimonies of his contemporaries spoke about. As he saw me, my blood sang in joy and he roared so loud that my ears hurt. He was roaring in joy, I believe. As I spoke to him the ancient, arcane words of dragonlords he tried to rise. 

I think he bonded with me, cousin, for I felt that he and I were one.

But he looked sickly, cousin, if a dragon could be such. He trembled as he tried to rise, but his feet and wings trembled. From his mouth came weak spouts of dragonflame, red and golden and magnificent.

At last, he rose. But though sickly, he had been fed well by the villagers and he had grown to a greater size than when he last entered his cave to never leave it again. He could not leave now, and his strength was too weak. He struggled in vain against his prison of stone.

And as I retreated, so I would not be hurt by his trashing, he cried out, in anger, in pain, and in despair.

It pained me too. What I did might be considered a sacrilege by our dragonlord ancestors. But could I have even been called a dragonrider, if the dragon that was bound to me was one I never flew?

I asked for a spear as long as it could be and entered the cave again. I sang softly, in High Valyrian, so I could soothe the dragon. It took me the better half of an hour before he calmed down. And then, I touched a living dragon, something I never even dared to dream of once. But his scales were cold, not hot.

It pained me greatly that I had to do so. But I waited hours, long hours, both he and I in agony - though mine of a very different sort. At last, he slumbered and in that moment…

In that moment I took the spear and with a great cry of anguish thrust it into his eye, and pushed, and pushed until it entered his brain and I could not even see its handle.

It took the whole night before the last of his death throes, and I stood by him in vigil, and watched him die.

Accursed be that of my men, pushed by some ill-thought folly to remember and speak of some old legends of dragons, long before those of Old Valyria came to Westeros. He spoke that a man eating a dragon’s heart would make a man live the lifespan of one. 

The men were eager to carve the dragon, though its scales were quite hard to pierce, and presented to me his bleeding heart. His heart was the only thing in him that was still warm, and under the expectant eyes of my army, I had to eat it. I have been forced, by the chants of my men, to also bathe in his blood, so that my skin will be as horn, and no weapon could cut me - though I judge this to be even a more obvious tall tale. There is a place though, between my shoulder blades, where the blood did not cover me, for I could not reach it.

The maesters say that Sheepstealer hatched when the Old King was still young. I reckon that if that old legend were true, I might live to see a hundred years, though I care not.

The coldness of Sheepstealer’s boy, his warmth dying while he was still alive, makes me inclined to think that the Winter Fever that came after the Dance was also guilty of the dwindling of dragons. Beyond the many deaths that came of it, it reminds me of the peculiar effects upon Lord Cregan after his recovery from it. I could swear that when I last saw that man that he was half made of ice, gaunt, with bluish skin and a gaze that seemed capable of freezing men into place.

…

(Written some time later)

…

I spoke of Ser Casper. Ser Casper Grell is the son of a minor lord of the Riverlands. I suspect that he has been sent to me by his father to ingratiate himself. But this young knight, for he is only seven and ten years of age, has not the low cunning of aspiring courtiers, nor the ambition required for a high position.

He is a man dragged along in life by the wishes and whimsies of his kin. In King’s Landing he served as a squire, and being in the service of a knight, he acquitted himself of his duty most judiciously, but had shown no desire to climb himself up to a higher position.

Ser Casper does show competence in one scope though. If he is given an order with all the requisite actions he must take, he shall do so without complaint, with sufficient competence and without hope or desire for reward.

Now, for as long as I keep him, he has wholly put himself in my service, as his father has ordered him. And now it is my orders that he fulfils without question, even if I, half in jest, made him oversee the digging of latrines and other such lowly duties. He has not complained once.

I believe that I shall keep Ser Casper in my employ even after I finish this task you have set me to. One reason stands amongst many: Ser Casper is an inoffensive man. In my employ.

For such a man, unquestionably obeying the orders of his master, would be a dangerous instrument in the hands of any other. His religious education has been quite lacking in his formative years, for he has accustomed himself to follow only the orders of those he feels his duty to obey. He would, for that, forswear all laws of men and gods.

He is a knight, but a knight that would only obey his knightly vows if I order him so. I must keep him, so I must order him to be good, and thus face eternal reward, not damnation - for he is a man incapable of his own salvation.

I have hardly any need for him, but I must keep him from obeying the orders to commit some atrocity, where he to enter the service of some godless man.

Your cousin and loyal servant,

Daeron, whom some call the Bane of the Wildmen, others Dragonslayer, and most Dragonheart

Chapter Text

Daeron saw at last the walls of the city, though its stench did not assault his nostrils yet. He welcomed his rest from the fighting, but not the stink of the city, for he had grown quite fond of the mountain air, and the pleasant smell of it.

His party followed the Kingsroad to enter the city through the Gate of the Gods. As he looked upon the carved faces of the Seven high above the gate. The gate opened and its captain, Ser Manfryd Middlebury rode forth with a grim face.

But he was alone. None of the court, nor his cousin the king, nor his own grandfather had deigned to welcome him, it seemed.

But the captain was quick in assuaging his worries, and thrusting others upon him:

“Welcome, Prince Daeron! I apologise for the lack of pomp in your welcome, but the current situation has not allowed me to do so, nor did the king have the possibility of receiving you at the gate of the city. And I must ask you, and I beg of you to take no offence to my words, to postpone your entrance into the city.”

His friend, young Walter Caron, erupted in anger. He did not have the cold and lingering wrath of the late lord Caron, for his anger was quick to simmer and his hand even now reached his sword at the perceived insult towards his prince.

Daeron quickly gestured towards him, to command him to sheathe his blade. His own curiosity piqued, he inquired the reason the captain would deny him entrance.

“The city is rioting, my prince.” answered the knight. “And I cannot gather enough gold cloaks to provide Your Grace an escort to the Red Keep, for there has been great insubordination amongst my men.”

“For what reason are they rioting?” asked Daeron, bewildered. “I’d have thought there’s hardly anything for them to show their unhappiness to the king.”

The knight sighed, and answered him: “It was not to the king they directed their displeasure, my prince. The apprentices among the Faberard guilds have grown overly pious and they’ve inflamed the spirits of many people in the city against the brothels. Thousands of apprentices have forced their way into the Street of Silks and whores were dragged out of brothels. They clamour and yell that no brothels should stand in sight of the Great Sept.”

“And why has not my grandfather or the king crushed the riot yet?” demanded Daeron. “Why do you still remain here, instead of bringing peace to the city?”

“The King and the Lord Hand are at Dragonstone momentarily. Word has been sent to them, but we know not when they will arrive into the city. As for me, half my men are gone to join one side of this quarrel or the other, and I must keep the rest of my men here, to prevent the looting of Cobbler’s Square.”

“If your men will not restore peace, captain” said Daeron forcefully, “then stand out of my way and let me and my men enter the city. I have two hundred men that the king had sent to me, and another thousand from the Marches. If these rioters would not heed my words to restore the peace, then my blade shall speak more clearly than mine tongue.”

The gate was opened wide, and Daeron’s men, blooded in their war with the mountain clans, marched into the city. While most were not cavalry, they were all mounted, and as such, their march to Cobbler’s Square was quite swift.

It seemed that the rioting had found its way to Cobbler’s Square, but it was not thieves and other criminals that broke windows and doors, and looted the craftsmen’ goods. It was men in cloaks of gold, fighting retreating smallfolk… and other gold cloaks.

His uncle Aemon approached him: “Daeron, we cannot make reason of this quarrel, we know not which of the gold cloaks have joined the rioters, which keep the King’s Peace, and which have taken the occasion of the riot to enact reprisals and loot the shops. We know not which of the smallfolk have quarrel against the whores, and which have taken arms for the brothel.”

Daeron gritted his teeth and gripped the pommel of his blade tight, but he could not ponder long on a truly just decision. At last, he took his warhorn out and blew it to try to gather some of the attention of the rioting crowds. Then he cried out:

“Hear me, and hear me well. All men who value the King’s Peace - men of the city or watchmen, lay down your arms and go to your homes. Those who shall not do so, shall feel my wrath and the cut of my blade. I say again, disperse.”

He waited for a long moment, and some, at the edges of the riot, quickly turned away and fled, leaving whatever arms they had behind, be it cudgel, or spear, or dirk, or longsword, or makeshift weapon.

Daeron turned towards his men, resolute and gave them their orders: “Charge, my good men. Charge and kill all those who will resist, disarm those who surrender. I care not on which side they are - if they shall not surrender themselves into my care - slay them. Kill them all, let the Stranger sort them out.”

The apprentices that started the riot hardly knew of warfare, nor had much in the way of weapons, so those who were stubborn in their folly quickly fell beneath the hooves of the horses, and fell - to blade, to lance, or to axe. The watchmen, armed with iron cudgels or spears and dirks, and without many swords between them, could hardly be called soldiers. They were slain in their turn.

The crowds fell before the charge, and his men advanced steadily towards the Street of Silk. It seemed whatever they had for commanders, they were quick to flee towards a certain brothel, the most ornate and richly looking of them. They entered inside, and soon, a fat man in mismatched armour came out of the brothel and tried to rally the crowd to his side. Daeron charged forth, to cut off the head of the beast. Behind him, his uncle Aemon and Ser Olyvar tried to force their way to him, but they were cut off by the crowd and would take some time for them to find their way to him.

It was only Ser Casper Grell by his side, and Walter Caron, but neither tried to stop him. He came before the brothel and dismounted, calling the man forth to give battle.

His opponent swayed, half drunk, towards him, and drew his own blade. But on account of lack of talent, or because he was too drunk, he offered a pitiful challenge. Soon, Daeron had disarmed him, and had him pummelled to the ground, his sword pointed at his throat, ready to make a final strike.

It was then that tumult arose at the door of the brothel, and Ser Armen Storm came out of the building, and, with great fervour, yelled out: “My prince, stay your hand, I beg of you!”

Daeron grew furious, his wrath hot, dragonlike in his chest: “And why should I spare a man that breaks the King’s Peace? I do not see a gold cloak, or white, or the livery of my house on him.”

Ser Armen cried out in dismay: “ ‘Tis your own father, my prince!”

Daeron sheathed his blade, and bent down to take the helmet off the man’s face. Ser Armen spoke true - it was his father’s face that was beneath it, fat and red from drink, the smell of cheap wine reeking from his mouth. For a moment, a fell mood came over him, and he gripped the dagger at his belt. But it passed quickly. He rose and barked new orders:

“Take my father and bring him to his chambers in the Red Keep. And do not allow him out of it until he sobers and the king returns to the city.”

He looked towards the whitecloaks present, but none dared to gainsay him.

Night had fallen when the city had been pacified at last, and the king and his grandfather had returned to the Red Keep. By now, Daeron knew more of the riot - how it had started, and in what it descended, and how it ended.

He waited outside the king’s solar, slouched against a wall. He bowed quickly to Baelor when he came in sight, followed closely by his grandfather, and followed them into the solar.

Baelor, his clothes dirty from the road, slumped into his chair, and asked: “What happened to my city, cousin?”

“It seemed that some of the most pious of the apprentices of those who profess themselves Faberards have taken to consider the brothels a great sin and an affront to the presence of the Seven Stones in the city. They gathered in great numbers, and roused many more among the city to assault the Street of Silk. Their anger grew even greater when they dragged out of the brothels two of the Most Devout and almost a dozen Archseptons - they ripped them to pieces.”

“It seems that my father,” Daeron stopped for a moment to calm himself, ”... my father was sampling the pleasures of the Street when the crowd descended upon it, along with some of his friends. The Commander of the City Watch died from a brick thrown at his head, and there was no Master of Laws in the city to provide an unified command, for some reason…”

His grandfather interjected: “The king has dismissed Lord Hunter, who has made haste to return to the Vale, and his replacement, Oscar Tully, is yet to arrive from Hellholt.”

“For whatever reason”, Daeron continued, “there was no unified command over the gold cloaks, so my father took charge of some of the watchmen, for others of their number joined the side of those pious fools. He also summoned from the port bands of mutinous sailors, frequent clients of the brothels, to defend these dens of sin.”

“Meanwhile, in Fleabottom, the lowly and the villainous saw the opportunity to loot and murder and rape freely across the city. So, the Watch was split in two, and even three - for some were content enough to guard the parts of the city where the rioters had not reached yet, the rioters had now counter-rioters, so you could hardly sort out the law keepers from the lawbreakers.”

“I do not mean to justify myself through long arguments. I had more than a thousand men in the city, many enough to keep the peace for a time, and thus ordered all others to lay down their arms, so peace could be returned to the city. Those who disobeyed the orders of a commander named by the king and a prince of the blood, they were all breaking the King’s Peace in my eyes. I care not if their cause was good or not. They’re dead now, and if they did good deeds, the Seven shall give them eternal reward, and if they were sinners and lawbreakers, they shall be sentenced to the doom they deserve - and I have spared His Grace the King more unnecessary judgements.”

Daeron thus finished his report of the events and stared down his father and his cousin, silently daring them to find fault with him, in word or deed.

Baelor sighed heavily: “ Those damn fools - there’s a reason I did not ban the brothels when I became king, and half that reason is your father. They’re like sewers - if they did not exist, Aegon would bring his whores and his perversions into the Red Keep itself. And though I did my best to remake the court in my own image, he is not the only one with such appetites. And by keeping these establishments in the light I can make sure they do not commit greater sins - to prostitute women against their will, or keep in service whores not yet of age, or even unflowered yet, and other more foul perversions.”

He could have raged more, but he sighed again and dismissed him: “You did well, Daeron. We shall talk more tomorrow. You can go to rest now.”

Daeron tried to leave now, but his grandfather stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and addressed Baelor proudly: “My grandson has just returned victorious from war. Let him tell of his victories, do not dismiss himself so unceremoniously.”

Were he the same boy as he was when he left for the Mountains of the Moon, Daeron would have gladly taken the opportunity. But he was not, so he opened his satchel and took out a heavy tome and set it on Baelor’s desk.

“I might not have the talent at writing of my deeds that my namesake or yourself had, when you wrote of your own wars, but I took inspiration from the Justifications of your reign, Your Grace. I have put ink on parchment, and recorded every action, every deed and every council. I have meticulously recorded every detail of the campaign and justified my every deed. Read it, and if you have any questions, I shall be glad to answer them… in the morrow. My bed has called for me for the better part of an hour.”

Daeron bowed to Baelor, nodded his head towards his grandfather, and left. As he closed the door behind him, he saw Baelor lighting a candle and opening the tome on his desk.

Chapter Text

The days following the riot were busy with arresting the surviving leaders of the strife, and whatever gold cloaks that were guilty of the dereliction of their duties.

For the time being, I had appointed Daeron as Commander of the City Watch, boosted temporarily bi his own men, and he took to his duties with a quiet and solemn diligence, devoid of any passions.

Aegon was for the moment kept in his chambers, though one could argue that there was no fault in his actions, as he was acting in defence of his own life. I was wroth at him for commandeering the gold cloaks in the city, but he remained the highest-ranking royal in the city, in mine and his father's absence, so his actions could indeed be seen as rightful – and he was loud in proclaiming it so once he was sober.

He had also acquired a fervent dislike of his firstborn son, who was one step away from ending his life. But I made clear to him that although he was Daeron's father, he could not claim any paternal authority over him, for I was head of the family and sovereign. That eliminated any potential of Aegon fashioning some kind of cruel punishment towards his son.

As for Daemion and Aelor, I had ordered their quarters moved to the Tower of the Hand, as those of their mother, removing them from their usual chambers, in proximity to Aegon. Their education, potential fostering, squiring, and future marriage was to be under my and their grandfather's purvey, for I would not allow Aegon to poison their minds and teach them his vices.

While my cousin was soon to be released from his confinement with but a chastisement, I would not grant the same clemency towards those who had incited the mob towards its violent actions.

Once all of them were rounded up, they were taken from their black cells and brought before the Iron Throne, to face their judgement in sight of all court.

I allowed them their justifications, but they spewed drivel born of false piousness, so they were not long allowed to open their mouths before I ordered them to be silent.

"Tell me, goodmen," I said, "do you know not what power a king has been given by holy writ over his subjects?"

"I am not the maker of laws, the hand and fist of justice that deals mercy and ruthlessness with equal measure? That wisdom that dominates the stars has trickled down by the magnanimity of the One, so I might do so in a rightful manner."

"As it is my duty to ponder guilt and innocence and make laws concerning temporal affairs, so it is the duty of my subjects to obey my judgements and laws, to submit to my will and wisdom, and yet you have not done so."

" Piousness, prudishness, and pride gives you not the right to fashion yourselves arbiters of morality in my stead. It is by will of One and Seven all civil and religious authority is given, and not the slightest of it has been given to you. I am king and in my hands lies temporal justice – I make laws and judge the breaking of those."

"But it is not I that judge sinners. The boy who lies to his mother when he is late for dinner is a liar, and so is the one that lies and gives false word to his sovereign – am I to judge them as equal in lies? It is for the septon to watch over the moral welfare of the Faithful, but they judge but the failings of those sworn to them. They may give penance to sinners, but it is the Father Above that truly judges them."

"It is my duty as king to make laws as such that justice is preserved and the morality of my subjects is not threatened, that they do not be tempted towards sin and vice and a wasteful life."

"Aye, whoring is a sin. But men and women are sinful and lustful and such lust must be allowed to be satiated by men of vice by women of vice. It has always been our policy that through charitable means we would facilitate the reformation of women of low morals. But without them, the noble and baseborn sinners would cast their lustful eyes towards innocent maidens and from whoring men they would become seducers. Does that preserve virtue in my realm? It does not. I would not allow such tempters."

"The Seven Hells await the sinners. I judge the lawbreakers, the unjust, those who have abandoned right or duty and have broken oath sworn. And you have found yourselves lawbreakers."

"Proud of your piousness, you have become sinful in ignoring the rights that gods have given me over you, my subject. You have found yourselves both sinners and lawbreakers, and while I cannot judge you for the former, I can do so for the latter."

"I am a just and merciful king, so I will allow you to speak in your own favour. But not to justify your deed – I have judged such deeds not rightful. Claim yourself innocent of such deed if it be true, not claim your deed innocent. If proof is in your favour, then I shall set you free. If not, you shall be sentenced to death and turned over to the King's Justice."

In the end, all were judged guilty. After all, Daeron had done his due diligence after the confusion of the riots washed away. As befitting their crimes, they were hanged, and their heads put on spikes in Cobbler's Square for all to see.

The gold-cloaks that had accepted the commands of Aegon were more or less quietly removed from the City Watch, and some of the returning soldiers from Daeron's campaign took their cloaks and offices.

But for a permanent Lord Commander, for Daeron was destined for greater things, I needed someone that the old guard would not find completely unfamiliar, and a man who knew the city well.

It seemed that fortune favoured that knight, for I found myself sending word to Sunspear, where Ser Hendrick had found himself serving as Commander of the City Watch, offering him a greater rank. His luck seemingly never ran out.

Chapter Text

The court had gathered in all its glory and numbers. Justice had been dealt for the unfortunate events of the days past and it was now time for the victorious Prince Daeron, who had returned in triumph from the Mountains of the Moon, to receive his just rewards.

His sobriquet, whispered in earlier days in the taverns and gathering places in the city, has now found its place at court, as the herald announced his entrance:
"Prince Daeron Dragonheart, son of Prince Aegon, of the Royal House of Targaryen!"

Daeron entered the throne room not in the expensive silks of princely wear, but in the armour of a warrior – though no less luxurious – made by the best of the Qohorik smiths to his exact specifications, the steel died in the black and red of his house, with an engraved dragon upon its chest. Some more thrifty courtiers whispered and gossiped about the expense – at five and then, the prince had not finished growing, and the armour would be useless in a few moons. The most cunning of them, like Balthasar Grell, knew that such a momentous occasion needed pomp and circumstance, though he was to busy preening about the fact that his nephew had found its way into the prince's affinity, pointing him out as he followed the prince, dressed in his livery.

The prince marched straight before the throne, where the king stood in all its majesty, his sister Elaena at his right side on an ornate chair, another empty of the left. Daeron knelt and the king rose and descended the steps of the throne, coming before his cousin.

He drew forth Blackfyre from its scabbard and place it on his right shoulder, speaking the ancient words:

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women…"

"Now rise, Ser Daeron Dragonheart, Starry Knight of the Order of the Holy Hundred, Most Puissant Knight of the Order of the Dragon, and Grand Master of the Order of the Red Wanderer."

Sudden whispers were heard from the courtiers, those who had not previously been privy to the fact that two new orders of chivalry had been created. Ambitions grew in some men's heart, though little did they knew that the Order of the Dragon was reserved for the knights of the House of Targaryen, be they kin by blood or alliance. As for the latter order, it was solely at the discretion of Prince Daeron who was to become one of its members.

The king returned to his throne, though the now dubbed and risen Ser Daeron still stood before the Iron Throne, the princess Elaena rising from her seat and joining him at his right side. From the steps of the throne, Prince Viserys, Hand of the King, unfurled a parchment and spoke with the king's voice:

" We, Baelor, First of Our Name, by the grace of the One King, Faithful and Rightful unto the Seven, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar, Protector of the Realm, by divine gift and through divine wisdom sole ruler from the Gift to the Summer Sea, and from the Eastern Seas to the Sunset Sea, Breaker of Chains and Restorer of Ancient Relics, Scourge of Dorne and Hammer of Oathbreakers, Dragonlord of Old Valyria, Sovereign of the Starry Order of the Holy Hundred, Sovereign of the Order of the Dragon, To all Lords, and all other Our Subjects.

"Know Ye that we have made and created our most dear cousin Daeron Prince of Summerhall, lord of all its lands, privileges and incomes, for brave deeds, honour and glory gained in serving our Royal Will. Know. And to him we grant the name, style, dignity, and title of the same principality. We do ennoble him and invest with the said principality by gifting him with a Sword, by putting a Coronet on his head and a Gold Ring on his finger and also by delivering a Gold Rod into his hand that he may preside there and protect and defend these parts."

"Know Ye that it has pleased us to make our sister, the princess Elaena, heir to our body and line and our title, and we have made and created her Princess of Dragonstone. And to her we grant the name, style, dignity, and title of the same principality. We do ennoble her and invest with the said principality by gifting her with a Sword, by putting a Coronet on her head and a Gold Ring on her finger and also by delivering a Gold Rod into her hand that he may preside there and protect and defend these parts."

"Know Ye that it has pleased Us to have our cousin Daeron, and our sister Elaena betrothed, so that they may soon join their hands in holy matrimony. And when the sad and blessed day of our passing shall come by the Stranger's Will, it is Our Will, mortal and royal, that We be succeeded in Our title and power by Our sister Elaena, who shall become Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Queen of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar. And as holy writ asks that a wife shall not rule over her husband, and our cousin Daeron has claim as man and knight and dragonblood, it is Our Will that he shall then be called King and Lord Protector of the Realm, for it befits a man as warrior to defend and protect, and that he shall be alike in majesty and authority to his wife, Our sister – each the right hand of the other."

"Upon the passing of one, full title and inheritance shall pass upon the other, and when the Stranger shall see fit to call both unto eternal rewards, their first-born son shall seat upon the Iron Throne, and his line after him."

"It is Our Command that all loyal Lords and Ladies shall with haste make journey to our capital and come before and throne, and swear, in the name of their Gods, that they shall uphold the will and command of their Sovereign."

This was a surprise to some, who had not the king's ear, nor office of enough stature to be privy to the king's will. Some muttered, some grumbled, but all made obeisance, and as prince and princess sat in their seats on the sides of the king, they all swore oath to obey the king's will.

Ceremony was not over, as the attention turned to the Prince Daeron, as he summoned his comrades in arms and granted them the honour of joining the Order of the Red Wanderer, named for the sphere under the patronage of the Warrior.

Walter Caron received first his knighthood from the hand of his companion and friend, then the honour. Many who have joined him, most of them Riverlanders and Marchers, were given the self-same honour, Ser Casper Grell among their lot. Lord Tully, present at court, boasted of the valour of his subject, even though Daeron's brothers in arms had been determined more by proximity, rather than already proven valour.

After the ceremony, a feast followed. The prince and his future bride were seated in a place of honour, at the king's right. They were all smiles that night – though if those were true or not, few knew. The prince was not known to have given freely his affection to some far maiden before the betrothal, nor the princess to some bold knight. Old courtiers knew they had had their spats, but those were more the jests of children, not dislike or hatred.

Those who knew the prince knew also that he had returned a changed man – left a boy and returned a man, his jests and many smiles gone. Some feared that what had happened in that campaign had him acquire the same melancholy as his great-uncle.

But it was not so, or not entirely so. There were no lethargy in the prince's brooding, for he saw to his every duty with the utmost eagerness and competence. Young lords who approached him with the exuberance of youth, and words of praise of his battle deeds were not received with the warmth that he expected. Old knights and lords, who had fought in Dorne, and in the Dance of the Dragons were men who knew war better than most and knew how to speak of it other than in empty boasts. They were sooner to receive his favour than others.

A bard soon strung his harp and sang the verses of a new song – how a prince had found a dragon, slain him, bathed in his blood and ate its heart. Those who had thought the sobriquet of "Dragonheart" to mean just a word for valour and bravery now looked at the young prince with a greater wonder than before.

The young maidens at court had none of the exuberance of the young men. Tales of slaughter and dead excited few of them, and the one who they wished they could sigh after, the prince Daeron, was taken.

It all lasted until young Caron approached boldly one of them and requested a dance. They realized then, although the greatest prize had been lost, there were lesser ones for the taking, more than suitable for their station. The returning warriors, those unmarried, were tired of war and death, and now preferred life, youth, and love.

All save for the young Casper Grell, whose rise in station left him no happier than before, as he awaited morosely in some dark corner of the room for order from his master.
All maidens who approached him left defeated, the knight saying he remained ready for the prince's commands.

One lady, wiser and more cunning than the other, approached him, and surprisingly found victory, dancing with him. Afterwards, other giggling maidens approached her, inquiring about her strategy that had found her victory.

"It was easy," she laughed, "I told him that the prince commanded him to dance with me."

Later in the King's Solar.

"Enter," said the king, and his sister opened the door.

Rhaena Targaryen sat gingerly upon the chair, and with a shy voice, inquired.

"Why have you summoned me so late, brother?"

"I would have called for you tomorrow," answered Baelor, "but there are many affairs that plague my waking hours, leaving me few precious moments of respite. And this is something that would not be best left to linger. I have named Elaena my heir, though you are her elder…"

"I have no desire to be Queen, brother," interrupted Rhaena, " and I have made it clear many times."

"I know, I know," said Baelor, extending his arms in a gesture of peace. But I have disinherited you, even if I did so by your will. I would not leave you with nothing. I have built a palace near Sunspear, the Water Gardens. They are a wonder to behold, and I would give them to you in consolation, along with a hefty share of the incomes of the Greenblood – you only have to ask our cousin for coin, and it will be delivered."

"You have my gratitude," said his sister. "But I am not one fond of luxuries, and I have my duties here in King's Landing, as Almoner. I cannot leave so eagerly for Sunspear, for I loath to leave so much good works unfinished."

"Have no fear," said Baelor. "I shall no force you to leave. The Water Gardens are yours, wherever you visit them or not. As for the incomes settled upon you – you can do whatever you wish with the coin – spend it on aiding widows and orphans, or maidens in penury. I shall not call you at account for even one copper penny. You may live there however long you want, and the Red Keep shall always be open to you."

"You have my gratitude then, brother," she thanked him and rose from her seat. "I shall go there, at least to see it. I would be ungrateful otherwise."

"Do so," nodded Baelor, "beyond its beauty, I hope the climate shall do wonders for your health."

Chapter Text

"Having declared open this present Synod of the Faith, let us begin with discussing the matter of the…"

"Let us begin with discussing what we should discuss first…" interrupted an Archsepton.

"Nay," said another, "we have not settled yet the matter of al rightful participants in this here synod. There are present hear all of the clerical participants, aye, but of the laity, the Most Devout has neglected to give summons to the most faithful Lord Templeton, who all men of scholarly bent know to be true descendant of the forty-fourth son of the Blessed Hugor of the Hill. Surely, if the Hugorian descent of Lord Arryn entitles him to a seat in this most holy of endeavours, we cannot deny it to another of such descent?"
"This is a reach, Venerant Reynald, for if one counts the many claims of lords and knights of descent from Hugor, the Blessed would have needed more than forty-four sons to make it a truth," came the retort. "There is but one house than can prove its descent from Hugor in a documented manner, and that is House Arryn."

Joffrey Arryn rose from his seat to intervene. "If the most holy ones might allow my voice to be heard, there is a clarification I wish to make in this matter. By my cousin's will I have inherited the Vale and the Eyrie. But His Grace is the great-grandson of Aemma Arryn, who is counted as closer kin to the Lady Jeyne than me. It is thus more accurate to claim that the only true heir of Hugor is His Grace, the king Baelor, whose blood has proven true and to whom the Seven have shown favour. The blood of Hugor is nought without revelation – and only to him the Crone has shown Her Will. I do believe that the summoning of this Synod has been done as a result of this revelation. Thus, I humbly propose that the first act of this Synod should be to enshrine the canonicity of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom."

Like in all things, a contrarian must always be found. His name forgotten in the many deliberations that followed, an Elder Brother alone in dissenting – claiming that the addition of another scripture will only confuse the smallfolk.

Though all were against him, drowning his voice with their shouts, among them a more reasonable voice was heard, and listened – for it spoke reason and sought to convince, rather than drown his opinion amidst others. The Elder Brother of Quiet Isle spoke.

"The smallfolk look around and see that justice is done everyday, that the wrongdoings of their lords and masters and those of the king's men are punished more swiftly."
"They look and see that the king is merciful in his judgements. They talk about how the king returned the gift of life to the princess Naerys' sons."

"They speak of the king bringing holy vengeance upon the treacherous and perfidious Dornish, victorious in every battle."

"They speak of things mended in King's Landing, of the great and holy work of building a new Grand Sept upon the ruins of yesteryear. They speak of plentiful crops and abundance since the day the king returned from beyond the sea."

"They speak of the king's charity in offering dowries to indigent women and how under his watchful eyes, the defilers of maidens have all but been wiped out from his lands."
"They speak of the justness and wisdom of the king's decisions, of his sage words he imparts on every man, high or base born."

"They speak of his care for the dead, of the Stranger's day, the day of rest."

"They look and speak, not in whispers but in the squares and the taverns, that the days of King Baelor are the days of prosperity and peace and safety. How the king is in the favour of the One and the Seven Stones keep watch over the Crownlands. If that would not cut him from his eternal reward in the Seven Heavens, they would pray that he lives forever."

"Holy brothers and sisters, if you would deny the revelation of the king's words – deny the divine favour showered upon him – think him thus equal in piety and devotion to lesser men, the smallfolk of the Crownlands would revolt and call all of you villains and slay you. They would sooner proclaim, one and all, the king as the High Septon, and beg of him to name a new clergy and be Head of the Faith."

None would dare to contradict that – for it did not serve them well. To deny its canonicity would mean disbanding the Synod with haste. But some saw opportunity in it and sought to twist the words as written down by the King, even with His Grace present.

Foremost amongst them was the Venerant Arthur, one of the Dornish Archseptons, whose position was secured in the days Martells still ruled Dorne, and the Faithful in those lands still half-shunned the authority of the High Septon.

"The king is a Prophet, and Heir to Hugor, and most blessed by the Seven. We have all read the Seven-Pointed Star. When Hugor ruled, where was the High Septon. We live in the age of the second Hugor, what need we have of one?"

"Let me speak," he yelled, as sudden cries arose, "for I am not finished. The king got his revelation from the Crone. What is that if only confirming the doctrine of Unoseptarianism – that in truth, there are Seven Gods, and another one above them all? Long all of you have denied it but let us not hide the truth further!"

"Heresy! Heresy! Heresy!," came the cries from the crowd.

The king had sat until now silent in his seat, by the right side of the High Septon, but now rose in fury. "Do not put words in my mouth, Venerant!"

"Peace, Your Grace, peace!" urged His High Holiness, restraining the king with his hand. He rose instead, walking to the centre of the chamber.

"Come here, Venerant, and let us debate the matter in sight of all."

The Dornish priest came, heeding the words of the High Septon. The High Septon was no longer the Valeman elected years ago. He had died, and in his stead had risen the same Most Devout men whispered had strangled Abelar Hightower.

"Now," he said, "I know you Venerant were blessed by the One with wealth of wits, and the One-Who-Is-Seven saw fit to bless me greater in body that in mind. But the Seven-Who-Are-One beseech us to defend our Faith in deed as well as in word. As I am higher ranked than you, I shall allow myself to make the first argument."

He fell silent then, and the crowd wondered if the High Septon had no argument to justify the existence of his rank. But suddenly, the fist of His High Holiness sailed forth, striking the Dornish heretic. He fell to the ground, never to rise again.

None dare to whisper murder, but the king spoke. "That shall settle the matter. His High Holiness is the Voice of the Seven, and the Seven act as well as they speak. If the Venerant did not speak heresy, he would not have fell dead from a single strike. In seven and then Synods has the rank of High Septon been confirmed, and I shall not think myself so great as to usurp him. And the One-Is-Seven, and the Seven-Are-One, so I have seen. Aye, the One has shown to me only the aspect of the Crone – but no man can live having seen that which is One. Let us speak no more heresy on this day, or in another day."

One of the Abbreviators entrusted with making notes of the proceedings shily approached the king. "Your Grace," he asked in a whisper "should we write this down?"

"Write it all down," laughed Baelor. "Write thusly: The High Septon and the King came into agreement that the gods find no fault in punching heretics, and if they die, it is the consequence of the heresy spoken, of their sinfully uttered words – the Seven calling them forth to their judgement. But also write that only the High Septon and the King can punch heretics – we do not need all the Faithful to keep the true Faith by the fist."

The events of the day ensured that no further matters could be handled that day, for the spirits were too alarmed. They were dismissed until the next session, though it was agreed that they should next discuss of the spiritual role of the King in the Faith. Some of those gathered were even quickly shuffling away, seeking to throw their own papers into the nearest hearth – suddenly wondering if their proposals contained some heresy or other.

The king rose from his seat to leave for the Red Keep, only to be accosted by a septon.

"His High Holiness wishes to consult with you on a grave matter, unrelated to the Synod."

Baelor duly followed him to the solar of the Father of the Faithful. As he entered, the hunting trophies on the walls – heads of deer, of boar, and on the floors – pelts of wolves and bears, made for a striking decoration – for a septon's chambers, that is.

"Hunting trophies, High Holiness? You must be aware that..."

"I am aware indeed, Your Grace, but the Old King forbad septons to bear arms, not to hunt. I mostly keep to fishing and trapping, but the law of the realm does not forbid me to grab a boar by its tusks and bash its brains in the nearest tree trunk, nor to strangle a bear to death."

"Even so," wondered the king. "It is a strange pastime for one of your vocation.

"My vocation, as you call it," the septon answered him, "is the second I chose in life. I was once a knight, though the age I lived in only permitted me to show my valour in tourneys. I was fond of hunting and drinking, and in the serious study of the Holy Writs I have found nothing that urged me to deny such pastimes – only the excess of it. It was why I first suggested Harrenhal as the location for the Synod. I had heard they have a bear pit, and it is a long time since I wrestled a bear."

"Why not the Arbor then?" jested Baelor. "They have plenty of wine."

"I do not lack for wine. When the Conclave removed from Oldtown, the High Septon moved the contents of the Starry Sept's wine cellar to mine own Great Sept. A grateful man was my predecessor, but by the time they were to be sent to King's Landing upon his death and my ascension, only half remained."

"The Seven made me a thirsty man. I find no fault in myself – the Seven only ask that food and drink do not induce us to sloth and greed and ill feelings and leave us into a state were we cannot labour as our duty demands. I am in the best of health, and wine does not prevent me from seeing to my duties and to good works. I am not a man to become easily drunk – and have not been son since the days I wore my spurs."

" If His Holiness permits," inquired the king curiously, "have you perhaps once bore a certain name, for your accent betrays you?"

"Ah," laughed the High Septon, "I know what your refer. But I, unlike others, know how to forsake my own name, and I shall speak neither first name, nor the name of my house, again. I shall leave you to your guesses."

"I still think I judge the matter correctly. The corpulence, the strength and the appetite all speak of it."

"My origin is not why I called you here," spoke His Holiness, with sudden seriousness. "There is a grave matter we need to deal with," he said, as he put on his desk an ornate box, opening it with great care.

"Here is the oldest Dornish strongwine from my wine cellar," he explained. "After the events of this day, I thought it is best to drink it now. To ease our spirits after that disgusting display of heresy."

Baelor laughed and poured himself a cup.

Chapter Text

Chapter XLIII: Controversies

The news of Volantene envoys seemed strange, when I knew that the First Daughter was busy securing its conquests in the Disputed Lands and circling Lys like hungry sharks, according to the envoy we stationed there. The penalty laid upon Lys, the great sum of gold that was to be paid each year to the Iron Throne, was as much a blessing as it was a curse.

For Lys could easily fall prey to Volantis if there was no such thing. As long as I had an interest in my coffers being filled, I would not take kindly in having Lys swept up by a foreign power that would not be likely to pay such a sum. A decade was thus what Lys had, to shore up its position, to strengthen itself for the inevitable confrontation.

I met the envoy in the usual manner, seated upon the Iron Throne, the court gathered in full to receive him. The usual pleasantries were exchanged, and then the Volantene offered his gifts – gifts of a rather peculiar nature: chests filled with gilded skulls, hundreds of them.

“These are certainly strange gifts,” I said, “which makes it more curious why have you thought them as appropriate.”

The Volantene bowed, quite deeply, and began professing a strange mixture of begging, apologies, and justification.

“Your Grace, Volantis assures you of our eternal friendship towards your august presence and the Seven Kingdoms and of its desire for peace between our lands and sends me to assure the King that our Triarchs had no hand in the unfortunate events that occurred in our splendid city and has charged me to disentangle any misunderstanding that might plague the good relations between Volantis and the Iron Throne."

"Speak plainly,” I demanded, alarm settling in my bones, “and clarify for us these “unfortunate events” you speak of before our courtesy finds it end!”

“I beg Your Grace’s forgiveness and offer my full assurance that the Triarchs of Volantis had no hand in this, but the High Priest of the Temple of the Lord of Light has commanded the Fiery Hand to seize and kill every one of Your Grace’s envoys and factors present in Volantis, a fact of which the Triarchs became aware only after the nefarious deed had been done.”

“The Triarchs them swiftly acted and brought the might of the tiger cloaks against them, killing them to the last. Theirs are the skulls brought before Your Grace. The Red Temple was then besieged and its priests seized, tortured, and executed, but hardly any confession could be extracted from them, save one thing…”

“One thing?”

“They called Your Grace by many names, amongst them Servant of the Great Other, Abomination, The Gloom that Blots out the Flame of the Setting Sun and accuse you of being in league with the Lord of Darkness the shroud the will of the Lord of Light and his flames from this world.”

“We find it most intriguing how the Triarchs of Volantis set their concerns far from the walls of their own city and cast their eyes towards the Disputed Lands and blind themselves from… domestic turmoil. Our envoys, in our understanding, are to be treated as guest. And as does a guest is bound not to harm his host, so his host is bound the same.

“You are an envoy in these Seven Kingdoms, and we are bound to see to your protection not only in our keep, but wherever you are in Our lands – for as King, Westeros is Our hearth. And in turn, when my envoys come before your Triarchs, We understand that the Triarchs bound not only themselves but Volantis itself to their protection.”

“Claims of ignorance and clean hands do not absolve you. Our envoys were not of the highest birth and rank, but they represented Our Will, and the price of their blood is far greater than that of their persons.”

“This paltry tribute is far richer in symbolism than in its worth, and we judge it inadequate.”

“This is no tribute, Your Grace,” the Volantene tried to contradict the king. “It is a gift of the Triarchs, assuring the king of their goodwill…”

“We do not need to be assured of your goodwill,” spat I, “rather yourselves need to assure yourselves of Ours.”

“Lord Tully, Lord Manderly, Lord Velaryon,” I issued my commands, “by virtue of your offices you are to arrest every Volantene ship in Westerosi ports, seize and asses the worth of their merchandise, and confiscate an amount of such a nature that satisfies the slight Volantis has dealt us, so that we may offer the price of blood to the kin of our departed servants.”

“Once the deed is done, the ships may be granted their freedom, but for the next seven years the tolls for passing through the Stepstones shall be doubled the usual amount."

“Your Grace, I must protest,” said the Volantene envoy. “It is not wise to slight the Triarchs yourself, and surely a more understanding conversation between us can be had… perhaps in a more private location.”

“Talk to the Hand,” said I, “I tire of hearing of Volantis proffering friendship, when truth and blood show it otherwise.”

It was late in the evening, after the sun had set, that the end of the day proved more troublesome than its beginning. A great ruckus disturbed me from my prayers, for I had ignored the proceedings of the Synod for the rest of the day, so I might cleanse my heart from the wrath that had arisen in it in the morning.

It was my uncle that knocked like a madman at my door, his face red, his eyes bulged in fury. He left me little time to rise and seat myself in my solar, fuming as he were.

He threw a parchment onto the desk. “Read it,” he gritted out through his teeth, “and assure me you had nothing to do with this.”

I grabbed it and unfolded it, in a manner which seemed to my uncle altogether too slow.

The document was verbose, long, and the language too flowery for its purpose, and it avoided making its point until near the end.

For we hope… to weed out completely the thorns and brambles from the field; to lead morals back to a better state of virtue… to restore the Faith to its pristine purity, ancient light, splendour, and cleanness…being a divine command that men be changed by sacred things, not the sacred things by men…

 …

 This Synod offering an occasion for the restoration of virtue, by which the deceit of demons is overcome, illicit inclinations are removed…

 The laws of the Seven-Who-Are-One decreeing the pure and divine understanding of society and its institutions… in accordance with the holy texts…

 …

 Man being utterly insignificant in the face of the One, living through providence… is equably capable of virtue and sin as any other… Man being inclined and tempted towards sin means not that he was created to sin, but to lead a life of virtue… that the avoidance of common temptations leave greater satisfaction in the pursuit of virtue and repentance from ill deeds, as to be judged pure before the One and receive eternal reward, not punishment.

 …

 We thus open our eyes towards the sinful ways who must be unrooted… and decree that… Revelation was shown to the Andals, and is to be considered exceptional favour towards this nation… thus while the taming and riding of dragons is exceptional in the worldly eye… the favour of the Theophany shown to Hugor proves that he and his line and people were divinely favoured…

​

 And since ancient light and wisdom bid the Andals to cast away sin, it is our doctrinal understanding that sin is not the way of man, but the perversion of the fate of mankind, from which all men and women must depart, either by their own virtue, or through the admonishment of the servants of the Seven-Who-Are-One.

​

 Incest being condemned in holy writ, we proclaim that the customs of the Valyrians are contrary to the nature of man as created by the One, and thus sin cannot be excused on account of their birth… thus the Faith cannot sanction before the sight of the Seven-Who-Are-One the marriage of brother and sister.

​

 …the sin of incest being perpetrated by the parents, the fruits of their union, although beget in sinful congress, is capable of sin and of virtue both, and Providence and Divine Mercy may see fit to bestow their blessing upon them… and as such we cast away the accusation and slights of “abomination,” although they be born illegitimate in sight of the One.

​

 Thus we proclaim in Synod gathered, that the Doctrine of Exceptionalism be forthwith struck from our law… 

​

 Taking into account that the ignorance of law does not excuse the sin must make it true that one whom his spiritual shepherds have assured of pious and holy comportment cannot be judged guilty of such sinful union if it was made through the misguided blessing of the Faith we proclaim that such unions and their fruit be kept legitimate in our jurisprudence.

I barely restrained myself not to curse between my teeth, and as I begun to gather my thought, Aegon barrelled through the door, uninvited, caring not for the protest of the guards posted outside it.

“Who do you think you are, Baelor, to annul my marriage?! In such a cowardly way and tearing our house in doing so?! I always knew you were unsuited for kingship since the days you started spewing your holy shit out of your mouth!”

Sitting in my chair, I raised my outstretched hand to bid him be silent. It took a moment for him to stop spewing his cruelties.

“I caution you to measure your words, cousin,” I retorted, “lest you find yourself guilty of both blasphemy and lese-majesty. I know not why you care for the annulment of your marriage, since the purpose of your union cannot be fulfilled anymore. And as for your sons, do not think I do not know how vicious you speak of them, half-drunk in brothels and winesinks…it reeks of false concern…”

“Of that you speak?!,” screamed Aegon. “I’ll say it openly – they are not my sons, Aemon gave me horns and they are his bastards… it could be no more plain… and you fake your holiness, but still refuse to speak the truth of it… and more…you name him heir over me? Father should have shut you in your chambers or sent you to a septry. But no, he’s content to be your servant, to bow before a false dragon!”

Uncle Viserys slapped him before I could do anything, which shut him up for the moment.

“You deny thus the paternity of your children, cousin?” I spat out. “So be it,” I continued, but before satisfaction could take root in his visage I kept speaking. “Uncle, sit down, grab a parchment and write my decree…”

“Baelor… Baelor… Baelor…” said Viserys, though of what he wished to speak of I knew not, since I did not give him the time of the day.

“Put it in writing that Daeron, Daemion and Aelor, sons of Naerys, grandsons of Viserys Targaryen are henceforth known by royal decree as trueborn sons and heirs, by affection and law, of ours, and thus are to be known as princes and as sons of the King, by the understanding that the King, being Father of the Realm and of all its subjects, an earthly icon of the Father in Heaven, can thus acknowledge those of his blood as if begotten of his own loins – as one lord chooses a heir among his blood if he lacks one born of his own line, though he cannot call him son or her daughter – for he is not father over his lands, it being granted from our gracious hand in exchange for an oath.”

“And I dare the Faith to contest its validity, as I shall dare it to contest many other things. It was not for them to do such things while shielding themselves from my eyes. They call me Hugor in false courtesy, and thus I shall be like Hugor to the Faith, according to “the ancient light and wisdom.” Where was the High Septon in the days of Hugor of the Hill? There was the Blessed Hugor, king, and prophet and septons named through his will.”

“Have them send me a secretary, and the Elder Brother of Quiet Isle… I have plans to make, and a Disputation to write.”

Aegon left, stewing in his fury, and his father followed after him, his face now pale. His steps were confused, as if he was suddenly dizzy, and he leaned against the door frame for a moment before he left.

Chapter Text

Chapter XLIV: Of the Great Synod and Wretched Isles

The death of Prince Viserys meant the interruption of the deliberations of the Great Synod, for the king’s uncle was to lie in state for the next seven days. And in those days and night slumbered not, and most of his hours were spent on inking what would later be known as "A Disputation on Prophets, Kings, and Divine Rights,” that was laid before the Synod after the deliberations had begun anew.

The death of the Hand left the position vacant, and a raven was sent to Sunspear, to summon Herman Harte, the king’s cousin, who was to assume the honour. For the time being, the princess Rhaena was entrusted with the duty to care for Chroy Ychor, being named by the king as Lady Palatine of Sunspear, though she preferred to rule from the Water Gardens, her royal brother’s gift to herself.

As soon as Prince Viserys’ funerals were over, his son, the Prince Aegon, was made Warden of Ghaston Grey, and was sent there with utter urgency. Ser Casper Grell was named as his deputy though, and the prince’s natural inclination towards sloth made it sure that the administration of the prison island became solely the task of Grell, which many agreed was for the better.

Once the deliberations of the Synod began anew, King Baelor put before that hallowed council his Disputation. The work, although written in a hurry, is even now considered a work worthy of such a deep scholar of theology and doctrine, especially for the understanding of theophany.

It argued that in the days of the Blessed Hugor there was no High Septon, for Hugor was a Prophet by reason of theophany and revelation, and if Baelor glimpsed the Crone and holy writ was revealed unto him, he was thus Prophet himself, and equally as Hugor in his day, the Voice of the Seven and entitled to govern over the Faith.

The canonization of the Seven Pillars of Wisdom enshrined Baelor’s status as a Prophet, and his many deeds, and rumoured miracles only served him further in claiming for himself the leadership of the Faith, and in arguing that as long as a Prophet and a King, the Conclave of the Most Devout did not need any head save for him.

Some claim that this was his revenge against the repudiation of the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, that now, as his house was no longer exceptional, he sought to enshrine a doctrine of his own personal exceptionalism and put the Faith even further under his thumb. The papers left behind by the then Elder of Quiet Isle seems to suggest though that the plan was long in the works.

The deliberations afterwards are described by eyewitnesses to be particularly violent in argument. Half the septons present there were described by the other half as idiots, a third were called imbeciles, there were insinuations that a quarter of them took bribes, and about a tenth were accused of having their minds addled by some whore’s pox. In the end, the tempers calmed, and it was agreed that upon the death of the present High Septon, there will not be any new High Septon elected, and that for the rest of his reign Baelor would bear the titles of Father and Shepherd of the Faithful, and Voice of the Seven on Earth.

The great favour shown upon him by the Seven-Who-Are-One was translated into doctrine, which held that Targaryen kings held dominion over Westeros by the Mandate of the Seven Heavens.

The new situation led to a debacle, for the High Septon was usually the one who named new members of the Most Devout and assigned Great Septs unto them. It was decided that the naming of new Most Devout would be done by a vote of the Conclave, and Baelor was granted the authority to assign them to vacant Great Septs - the ancient custom to be brought back upon the death of the king.  On the matter of the motherhouses and septries founded by the king, whose lands came from the king's ones, it was decided that the advocates charged with the administration of secular matters would be appointed by the king, and that there shall be no further royal involvement in such establishment's spiritual matters - save in cases of heresy or gross misconduct, for which the king was authorised to demand an Inquiry, whose members where chosen by the Conclave . The King’s Peace was granted a sacred quality, and king Baelor the authority to sever its breakers from the body of the Faith until such a time they showed penance, though such an exclusion would need to be done by the word of a Most Devout, upon the king's instruction.

The further proceedings of the Synod came under the de facto authority of the king's party, for the High Septon had been mostly sidelined (he later became a pilgrim to Old Andalos, and he died in Essos), and Baelor pushed his own plans, which the Synod duly accepted.

The results of the Grand Inquiry revealed manifold abuses, vices, and gross ignorance among the brothers and sisters of the Faith, and several of the high clergy were striped of their positions of power, and sent into seclusion at distant motherhouses and septries, where they were to showed their penance through prayer and labour until the end of their days.

Luxuries were denied to any septons, and their holy vestments were no longer to be adorned with gold or precious stones, nor they were to wear any jewels upon their persons.

To address the matter of ignorance, schools for the teaching of letters and doctrine were to be founded in all the Seven Kingdoms, the king graciously offering to bestow funds from his own incomes, so that even the humblest of septons might receive their due instruction.

The matter of trial by combat was also brought before the Synod, and it was decided that king Baelor, onto who the will of the Seven was revealed, could always be counted to be the just arbiter of the will of the One, and therefore his sentences were just, granted to him through the wisdom bestowed upon him by the Crone. Therefore, before the king’s justice no man could call for trial by combat, only before the lesser court of high or lesser lords.

A greater importance was laid unto charity, and the king insisted that the Faith spend a larger part of its income on hospices, hospitals, or orphanages, and that in the spirit of charity, literate septons all over the realm should strive to find worthy children among those they shepherded, and teach to them the arts of writing, reading, and the basis of mathematics, together with an understanding of morality and the doctrines of the Faith.

The most famous innovations of the Synod was however the founding of the Wise Brothers of the Crone, an order of septons who were bound by vow to strive for the pursuit of knowledge, and to instruct pious and worthy youth into all manners of art – in whose numbers I proudly count myself. The king generously promised to fund the construction of a College of General Studies in King’s Landing, on the top of Visenya’s Hills, and its first Primor was to be appointed by the king, whom all knew to be favoured by the Crone.

In this institution, clerics, and other scholars (Seven-fearing ones - for scholars following other gods were denied positions) were to teach their pupils a variety of arts. While theology was reserved to the Faith’s schools, founded by the Great Septs, and in which a number of Wise Brothers choose to teach, the College’s foremost subjects included canon and civil law, the medicine, the arts of arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy, grammar, logic, and rhetoric, but also geography, history, natural philosophy, natural history and alchemy, and the mechanical arts of architecture, trade, navigation, engineering.

Unlike the Citadel, its pupils were not bound by any vow, save for those that pursued the studies of medicine, who were to swear an oath before a septon, swearing chiefly not to deal harm to their patient without the intent to heal, and not take the life of any unless in defence of one's life, save for the blow of mercy when carrying for the battle fallen, but only by the dying man’s will. Those who finished the courses of the College where granted diplomas with the king’s seal, usually by the king himself, though the custom perished in the days of king Daeron, for he was much too preoccupied with his foreign wars – and when a new king came, the custom was long forgotten.

Many of the students that passed through the College’s halls joined the numbers of the king’s clerks, though a great deal were sons of wealthy merchants, who wished to further their family’s fortune by educating their offspring. Although the most prestigious establishment of the Wise Brothers, its students were of the least prestigious sort – counting more sons of city patricians, merchants, and lesser royal clerks than noble scions.

The Wise Brothers established in the cities of the realm lesser schools, in which the teachers dedicated themselves only to teaching, not to the promotion of new knowledge which brought fame to their College. Although noble sons were educated by maesters in castles by custom, a great deal of lesser lords and landed knights, who could not afford the expense of a maester, send their sons to such schools, paying only room and boards, and part of the wages of its teachers, which lessened the burden upon their purses, yet kept their sons bereft from ignorance.

The conclusion of the Synod in the later part of the year one hundred seventy left the Faith under King Baelor’s thumb, though must of his authority was personal, and would not be inherited by the kings that came after him (although I do not wish to enter a theological debate, it can be argued that such things could not be inherited if one considers the Assumption of the Blessed). In certain circles, he was held to be a second Hugor, and a few even called him “Blessed,” though he lived on mortal soil yet. Those who resented his grown role had no choice but to be silent, or face the censure of their peers, for most of the Faithful would take no argument against the saintliness of the monarch.

Yet for all the power that Baelor won, the Doctrine of Exceptionalism was a grievous wound upon House Targaryen, whose effects could not be seen fully until a century later, after the death of Daeron Dragonheart. A lesser cost, though great, was that Baelor had promised much of his incomes to charitable works, and the establishment of the College, of which the construction was not the greater cost, but its endowment with tens of thousands of tomes, copier or purchased from all the Known World (a matter which led to a brief conflict with the Citadel, when Knights Inquisitors forcefully borrowed a number of rare volumes from their library, and suspicion still abound amongst those given to conspiracies that Baelor only returned the copies to Oldtown).

Of the Eight and Tenth Synod, held in the reign of the Blessed , by Eryk of Hull, WBotC

Ghaston Grey

Prince Aegon was still steaming with fury, and cared for nothing but his quarters, and a copious amount of wine, after their ship landed upon the isle, but Casper Grell knew his orders. For the prince, this place was exile, for Baelor dared to banish his cousin, now that Prince Viserys had passed.

Casper Grell knew his orders, so he knew that Ghaston Grey was his to watch over, and to keep the prisoners from escaping. And Aegon counted as a prisoner too, for all he had a more gilded cage, with the door unlocked, but to be kept here until he wasted away.

Grell cared not for refreshments, nor for rest, choosing to inspect the situation of the prisoners the moment he was on dry ground.

The citadel at Ghaston Grey had a forbidding aspect to it, weathered by time and the sea, and roughly repaired once it became in use again, no longer looking like a crumbled ruin.

He first checked upon the former Lady Wyl, and her son. The woman seemed to be in the throes of a deep melancholy, and wasting away from consumption. Grell presumed that it would not be a long time before he made his report to his prince and the king about her death. The boy could now be considered a man, for he had reached that age, yet he had no knowledge of arms or conversation – he had grown into an imbecile, which was fortunate. He was still healthy, which was unfortunate. Ser Casper wondered if he should hasten his demise in some way, but that was not amongst his orders, so he saw no reason to bother with it. Mayhap the coming winter would ensure it. For while he had many furs to keep him warm from the cold, such things were not amongst the provisions meant for the prisoners.

Satisfied with their situation, he visited the quarter of the Martell former princelings. Their conditions were not miserly, but there were no luxuries – their rooms and their food comparable to those of moderately wealthy peasants. They had unfortunately not wasted away yet, though one of the maidens was deaf from being dropped upon her head in the chaos of Sunspear’s fall – which someone would have found hilarious, but Grell cared not to laugh about it. A wound that would mean her death came sooner was preferable, for even if he would not voice any complaint about his assignment, he did not care to spend many a years upon this dreary isle.

The last scions of House Martell had grown into children and youths of absolute ignorance. There was nobody there to teach the maidens any womanly skills, nor anyone to train the boys at arms or teach them any useful knowledge. Their ignorance was so encompassing that one of them asked him what a tree was – for there was no such thing upon the isle, and he had been barely one year old when he traded his palace for his prison. They kept a couple rats as pets, which Grell would have found disgusting, if he had it in him to care for it.

Their health was in a poor condition, but not enough to bring a swift death. The deaf girl was also suffering from seizure, one of the boys seemed consumptive, and was bow-legged. One had a broken arm that had healed into an unnatural position.

Wishing him them more ill health in his heart, he departed their quarters and took his inquires to the captain of the guards, who insured him that no guard took liberties with the virtues of the Martell daughters. If any had done so, Grell would have personally thrown them into the sea, and watched the sharks devoured them. Not for the wrongness of it, although he knew rape to be a grievous seen – but for the fact that more Martells born into this world would mean more years to wait for their death. And he could not trust the inclination of babes towards death – there was always the stubborn one, determined to make it out of the crib.

Casper Grell was once again inclined to hasten their death. But such had not been in his orders, so he refrained. He hoped they would die soon. Then he would be free to leave, and perhaps the prince would grant him a position in a place with a more agreeable climate. Then he could maybe get married. That, of course, if the king ordered him too.