Her fists balled up, the newfound wrinkles in Visenya's face growing deeper and she seethed in anger. "That little cunt…" The Dowager Queen had heard plenty of rumors, but wanted the truth from the source about what happened in Casterly Rock. Rhaena was not an option, as Visenya didn't wish to traumatize her more, so that left Maegor. "I pray you made him suffer."
"Balerion and I both did, muna," Maegor replied, his voice hard.
"Good." The Queen still trembled with a fiery rage. "Rhaena may look like a combination of her Valeryon mother and my beloved Rhaenys, but deep down she's more like me than people realize." It was a sense of pride in Visenya, seeing herself in her children, even if this wasn't one she didn't wish to repeat in them. "Strong women, they lure weak and evil men to want to beat them down - abuse them in order to fill some insecurity they feel. That's what happened to me in Oldtown before I even married your kepa."
"You killed that one, didn't you?"
"Aye, cleaved him in two with Dark Sister. I feel satisfied even to this day." Visenya made no apologies of her strength and resolve. "Rhaena was unlucky that I was already ten and eight and well-trained. She's just starting with Ser Gawen in real combat training…"
Maegor took Visenya's hand in his. "From what he told me, she'll make it there. She has talent, and Gawen is the best there is or else he wouldn't be Lord Commander after cousin Corlys died."
"I wouldn't have asked him to train you if he wasn't, my son," Visenya smiled, letting Maegor lead her through the gardens towards where the dragons were kept - a platonic version of how she and Aegon used to stroll. "You're so much like your kepa, my son. He would be so proud of you, riding Balerion and giving justice to rebels and those that harm our house both."
The Prince hung his head. "I sometimes feel I am disappointing his good name."
Visenya looked at him incredulously. "Where does a son of mine have the gall to say such nonsense?"
"Muna…" He sighed. "Your love for kepa and his love for you was legendary… as it was for my other muna, the one I never knew…"
"She would've loved you so much, Maegor, you must know that."
"I hope so… but regardless, he gave everlasting love to both of his brides, but I can't even make my own wife feel cherished… I can't even give her a child."
Shaking her head, they had reached the dragons but Visenya looked him in his eyes. "Maegor, there is nothing wrong with you… and too many people heap blame on the woman but I do not think that Ceryse is the problem either. You're a good man and just because you're worried about your wife shows that."
"And yet we're still childless. Aenys and Rhaenys have their broods and I have none."
"You will have many children, do not doubt yourself. You are a dragon, after all." Tugging his arm, she led him to the dragons, hoping that they'd improve his mood. From how he immediately rested his head against Balerion's snout, it was clear she was right.
Both Maegor and Visenya finally departing, Dreamfyre let out a tiny whine. 'By the gods you were named from, are they all so clueless?'
Balerion dropped his maw ever so slightly, the draconic expression of amusement - much as direwolves let their tongues out and cocked their heads. The Black dread knew more than he ought about direwolves being Maegor's mount. 'Believe me, I've been ridden by the most illustrious of dragonriders and been around dragons and their riders with higher pedigrees than ours. They're all the same.' Dreamfyre responded by snorting out her nostrils, mirroring almost a petulant human youth. Quite, quite amusing for the last remnant of Old Valyria remaining on earth.
Vhagar, the second oldest dragon - not counting Cannibal, though the less any of the three thought about that savage the better - looked between her former mate and her daughter. 'Is there something I am missing here? I hate it when you keep me out of the loop.' Even when his rider was her muna's mate, Balerion would do this and Vhagar wished she could burn him alive at times.
Puffing out a cloud of smoke just for the stress relief, Balerion stretched his neck. 'Young one? Wish to tell your mother or should I?'
Not rising from where she laid, Dreamfyre nonetheless addressed Vhagar. 'My muna is in love with her uncle.'
It took a moment for Vhagar to put it together. 'What… really? Our valonqar in love with Rhaena?' The dragon had bonded greatly with her niece when she resided on Dragonstone with muna and kepa, and Vhagar had a soft spot for her - a sentimentality that Balerion shared but refused to admit to as Vhagar did. Thinking for a moment, the dragon bobbed her head. 'Many things make sense now.'
'My muna would make a far better wife than that fish he's married to now.'
'Come now, she isn't so bad… smells funny, but all humans without the blood smell funny.' He didn't know how Arrax could stand being among the smell of the First Men. Balerion was glad he would likely never have to journey to the North again. He looked at Vhagar. 'They could do what kepa and munas used to do?'
Vhagar growled lowly, menacing to the humans but the dragon form of a contemplative purr. 'Possibly, possibly.' Rhaena and Maegor… they'd be a powerful pair, no doubt. Perhaps what the family needed, since Quicksilver's rider was loved but not nearly decisive enough in her opinion. 'I'll need to think on this more.' She looked over to see Balerion with a twinkle in his amber eyes. 'What now?'
'Oh nothing… just that if valonqar marries our niece, then Dreamfyre will be my mate.' Both dragons breathed a puff of fire on him for that comment.
"I do love this place, Lucas. I truly do."
Lucas Harroway's smile did not reflect his mood, but only the best mummer-readers would notice it. "It is rather beautiful here, your Grace." Objectively, the city of Braavos had its charm. Light buildings of cream, gold, and faded red built for aesthetic pleasure rather than intimidation or aweing guests. Braavos was founded by runaway slaves from the Valyrian Freehold… Since Valyrian architecture was dark and foreboding, not to mention grand and designed to intimidate, the more gentle layout of Braavos made sense.
Discounting the Titan that guarded the harbor, but Lucas understood very well the temptation of size in the dick-measuring contests leaders liked to engage in with each other. The massive statue seemed to be a child of that.
Regardless of Braavos' origins, the Valyrians were here in the form of King Aenys, First of His Name, and Queen Alyssa, the two of them being led by Harroway, Lord Butterwell, and a large component of Targaryen guardsmen towards an austere yet grand building near the center of the city. "Wouldn't it have been marvelous if I flew Quicksilver into the square?" Aenys asked, chuckling. "It's certainly big enough, and the entrance would've been the best."
"My love," Alyssa spoke, her voice light. "You don't do that in King's Landing, let alone here." In all honesty, it was something she could see Maegor doing - such elicited several emotions, the largest of which was revulsion.
"Her Grace is right," Lucas spoke with due care. "And you know the history of the city. Best keep our dear cream friend… scarce while we're here."
Aenys was puzzled for a moment before his eyes widened in understanding. "Ah…" His cheeks reddened in embarrassment. "Perhaps I should have Gawen brush me up on my lessons in the histories when I return home?" He gave an amused, sheepish smile, which drew laughs from his companions. Lucas made sure he was seen laughing merrily… yet not too outlandishly. Just enough for the King to be appreciative.
Even the most mundane could serve a person well… let alone the greatest of deeds.
And the Lord of Harroway's Town was sure this would be one of the latter.
Austere though their building was, the home of the Iron Bank held a greater importance than its aesthetics suggested. Unlike the beautiful Sealord Palace or Great Hall, the Iron Bank pretty much housed the real rulers of the city… the ones that Lucas Harroway had been negotiating and treating with for moons now. Finally he, with Lord Butterwell to provide the official seal of the Six Kingdoms' treasury, could bring the King over to conclude the final negotiations.
It was mundane and nothing compared to the glory of a battlefield victory in the matter of popular prestige, but Harroway wasn't a warrior - but he could do this and do it well. Getting ahead is what matters, not how one gets ahead. The matter of the crown's debt to the Iron Bank weighed heavily on the King or else he wouldn't have sent an envoy to deal with it personally.
The Iron Bank wasn't a country but it may as well have been. As such, their welcome for the King of Westeros was extensive, many high officials and hired mercenaries all standing respectfully… leading to the board of directors that ran things. "Your Grace," bowed a thin man with a clean-shaven face, dressed in a fine silk doublet. "I am Rodrigo Nazarin, Grand Plenipotentiary of the Iron Bank. Welcome to Braavos."
Aenys nodded his head respectfully. "Thank you, Lord Rodrigo. It is always a pleasure to visit your fine city. One day, I would be glad to host you in King's Landing once our dealings are concluded."
The banker smiled widely, though only Lucas noted the sincerity was absent - not a problem, they came to work out business, not feast and be merry. "But of course, I am honored by your invitation… however, as Lord Lucas here has undoubtedly told you, there is business we must discuss and finalize. Would you like some refreshments, or take care of it now?"
"Yes, yes, I would not wish to delay. Cannot enjoy myself with this sword of coin hanging over my head." He laughed at his own jape again, and again Lucas forced himself to join in. Thanking the Seven above when Nazarin guided their party towards the conference chambers.
And as alluded, all that was needed to do were the necessary formalities. The massive loan owed to the Iron Bank by the Crown was restructured to a higher rate of interest, but in exchange the demand for repayment in specie was done away with - as well as the time frame extended from seven to fifteen years. Lucas voiced his belief that trade goods such as fine wines from the Arbor, excellent iron ore from the Vale, and Ironwood trees from the North could serve as payment and such was agreed to by Lord Nazarin, who could easily sell such here in Braavos for a tidy sum.
"A fine job you did, Lord Lucas!" Aenys announced later in his quarters at the Sealord's palace, clapping the man on the back. "The treasury will rejoice as its burden is lessened. The Dragonpalace will be finished on schedule, and we can pour more funds into the road networks that shall only increase the wealth and prosperity of the realm."
"You are a visionary, my King," Lucas replied. Most Kings talked about their conquests, but not Aenys. It was something the not martial Lucas could admire… if he weren't such a trusting fool. "I shall be sure Lord Stark will look favorably on the extra funding for the Kingsroad and Wolfsroad, though that his ironwood forests in the Wolfswood and around Ironrath shan't be untouched anymore."
Aenys waved off the concerns. "Don't worry about the Lord Hand, Lucas. I shall make sure he agrees. All but a small price to pay for the glory of the Realm. He's been angling for my younger nephew to gain a keep of his own, so I'll grant him the right to build a seaport at Sea Dragon point. That'll mollify him." Such was the greatness of Aenys Targaryen, the ability to please people.
Yet, if you pleased some you displeased others, and in that category was Lucas Harroway. "No doubt, no doubt." Not that he'd ever show his displeasure. "It was my honor to serve you in this capacity, my King." He bowed. "If you need me again, I shall be in my keep…"
"No, no…" Aenys shook his head, the smallest of smirks forming on Lucas' face as he rose… changing back to a confused expression. "You have shown yourself so valuable to me, and I shall reward you with a position at court… perhaps on the Small Council itself."
In this Lucas' eyes widened. Not in his wildest dreams… not this soon. "Your Grace." He fell to one knee, grabbing the King's hand and kissing it. "I am greatly honored. You shall never regret your trust in me, I promise."
Smiling back, Aenys bid him to rise. "Lord Lucas, you mustn't be so modest. No one else could've arranged for this to work out the way it did, and I need a man such as that on my council. I'll arrange for Lord Stark to make a place available for you after this journey is completed, for you will travel with me and see if your magic can work on Volantis and the Dornish. Gods know we will need all our wits with them."
"Of course, your Grace." Lucas couldn't contain his glee. A whole journey across the Free Cities with nary anything keeping him from influencing the King. The gods were truly smiling upon him…
Provided that Lord Stark didn't ruin everything, but Lucas wasn't worried. How did the old saying go…? Oh yes, wolves don't fare well south of the Neck. Older than Aegon the Conqueror, Torrhen Stark was closer and closer to fulfilling that promise than ever before.
Lucas simply had a feeling.
"No, no, no." Frowning, Aegon moved in, his hands moving to Jaehaerys' shoulders. "You're too tense up here. Loosen them, it'll make you more flexible to react to an opponent's unpredictable attacks."
Following his elder brother's advice, Jaehaerys complied. It was a struggle to go against his body's instincts, but in going through the exercises he did feel his flexibility improving. "Like this?"
Aegon grinned. "Perfect."
But Rhaena shook her head. "No, not just yet." She then moved in to the grumbling Jaehaerys, trying not to giggle at how her youngest brother moped and brooded. He looked like their uncle while doing so, which to Rhaena endeared himself to her. Uncle… No, she wouldn't sigh like a besotted maiden.
Which was what she supposed she was.
"Now, don't grumble like that. You're shoulders and chest are good, but look at your legs. They're too stiff and close together. Spread them out but bend your knees."
"But I'm not as firm," he complained. "People will knock me off."
But Rhaena disagreed. "Jae, when you hit a wooden board hard enough, what happens?"
"It breaks," he answered without hesitation.
"Very good, and what happens when you punch wet clay? Can you break it?" He shook his head. "Exactly. A little give will give you more protection, not less. Work at it." Now that it was explained to him, Jaehaerys copied both of his siblings' advice… and his form greatly improved.
Aegon beamed and kissed her cheek, hugging her with one arm about the shoulder. "Look at us, our grandparents come again!" Rhaena smiled at the thought. "Perhaps we'll train you to be a warrior like our sister, Ally."
Alysanne, playing about the flowers in the gardens of their kepa's manse, looked up with curiosity. "I don't like blades! I like dragons!" She ran to Rhaena, her silver curls bouncing up and down. "I can't wait to see Dreamfyre again. She's so sweet."
Seeing Larissa look at her with insistence, beckoning her over, Rhaena sighed and cupped her sister's cheek. "Forgive me, valonqar, but I need to depart for the time being."
Alysanne's seven-nameday old eyes filled with sorrow and tears - perfectly befitting the sweet, innocent princess that was the darling of the entire family. "No… you spend time with Egg and Jae. We promised to go see the dragons." Her lip pouted, testing Rhaena's resolve.
In all honesty, nothing that Lord Commander Gawen could inflict on her even compared to the assault Alysanne's look made on her. But Rhaena apparently had a spine of Valyrian steel… that bent like a thick sail. Chuckling, she kissed her sister's cheek. "Tell you what, if you can handle staying with Jae or your governesses for the time being, before supper I'll take you riding on Dreamfyre."
Her eyes bugged out. "Really? For true?" All sadness morphed into excitement.
"Of course. One must ride their dragons at least once daily and I'm afraid I haven't done so today," Rhaena replied, looking sad at that. "What do you say?"
Squealing, Alysanne hugged her close. "You're the best sister." Rhaena was surprised at her perfect High Valyrian, but beamed and hugged her back. The girl would be a beauty when she grew, with her sweetness would be the envy of the entire court in a way even Rhaena couldn't be. Looking at Jaehaerys, watching them curiously, she wondered if something would brew between them.
They are always so close.
Finally, after repeating the promise thrice over, she managed to disentangle with Alysanne and joined with Larissa - the two of them walking through the gardens to the residential quarters of the manse. "It will be nice when the Dragonpalace is completed," Rhaena commented. "This place is lovely but not something befitting a Targaryen like Dragonstone."
"I never saw the appeal of Dragonstone," shrugged Larissa. "Too dark and gloomy, nothing like Driftmark, though that's not better." She shuddered. "My brother Corwyn always says that he'll build a new keep that doesn't flood all the time, but perhaps he's just blowing smoke."
"How is your brother, by the way?" The oldest of Larissa's siblings was never one to be tied down - an adventurer, traveling all over the coasts of Westeros, even to North of the Wall. Rhaena admired it, but even though Corwyn clearly fancied her he never compared to her dashing, powerful uncle Maegor in her mind. He'll easily find a woman to adore him, handsome that he is.
"He's alright… trying to find a proper husband for me." She laughed. "Lately he's been trying to pressure Lord Orys for a betrothal to his grandson Rogar. That boy apparently has refused every offer made to him and it's causing consternation in the Stormlands."
That was news to Rhaena. "Really? Odd, then." She hadn't yet met Rogar Baratheon, but according to her brothers he was a constant presence at court since she was gone. "Couldn't be a worse choice for whomever he picks than Tyrion Lannister. Gods, what an insect - to think kepa ever thought him a choice for me." Thinking about his hands on her during the jubilee dance made Rhaena's skin crawl.
Larissa shrugged as they entered the manse itself. "No one knows what Rogar wants, though I suspect he has high standards. House Baratheon is close to your family due to Lord Orys being your father's half-uncle, but once he departs then they will slowly lose favor. Why do you think my family and yours keep marrying into each other after a few generations?"
"So Rogar is ensuring his own standing by seeking the best alliance he can? Wouldn't his grandfather make that a priority?"
"No, Lord Orys can never understand being away from court given his relation to your grandmothers and grandfather. He married within Westeros to expand his reach, not to buttress an existing bond."
Turning towards the chamber Tyanna resided in - a quiet refuge since it was away from the courtiers that often tried to cozy up to the royal family, being but the lowborn lady in waiting of the Dowager Queen - Rhaena realized something. "You don't think he has his sights set on me?"
Larissa shrugged. "It would be a safe choice for your father, though your brother Egg is the safest."
"Egg?" She began to remember his drunken accosting at the jubilee, not that Rhaena thought of it much since. "I… I love Egg, but I can't see myself marrying him."
"Because he's not your uncle," Larissa smiled, gently. "They both have the Valyrian look, but are otherwise different. Build and personality." Seeing Rhaena bite her lip, her cousin hugged her. "Don't worry, I shan't judge. The two of you should've been betrothed as your grandmother thought."
Nodding, Rhaena didn't wish to think on it. "Let's see what Tyanna is up to. Maybe she can give us a glimpse of the future so as to ease our minds." Reaching her door, Rhaena opened it without knocking as she was used to… only to gasp and freeze upon doing so…
The raven-haired girl was moaning, her eyes fluttered shut. "Kessa… right there…" she murmured in High Valyrian. "You're wonderful, Elissa…" Lids slightly opening, suddenly they peeled back widely at spotting Rhaena staring at her bare form. "Rhaena!"
"By the Seven!"
Knelt between Tyanna's legs, equally naked, Elissa screamed and grabbed for her dress… trying to cover herself. Spotting the scene, equally shocked but not as addled as Rhaena was in the moment, Larissa grabbed the door and shut it - giving the girls time to dress. "Well, we now know why Tyanna refuses the attention the knights give her," she chuckled dryly.
"What… what was that I just witnessed?" Rhaena murmured. "I've never heard of such a thing."
"Really?" The girl laughed. "I would assume since you spent a lot of time around your grandmother… you know what, I'll let Tyanna and Elissa inform you of it." She did not want to get into this. "Are you two decent?!" she called through the door.
"Yes," Tyanna replied. "Come in."
Smirking, Larissa led her still flabbergasted cousin into the chambers. Thankfully, Elissa and Tyanna had thrown dresses on, though both were flushed and rather disheveled. "You know, the doors have locks on them."
The fiery half-Valyrian scowled. "You know, something called knocking exists!"
"Semantics, semantics." Larissa laughed again, but quieted as Elissa now glared at her. "I didn't realize you two were each other's lover."
Elissa bit her lip. "Well, I wouldn't say that. It's just…" The free-spirited highborn girl from the Westerlands was shy for once.
Tyanna was a bastard, so aside from her friend Rhaena and her mistress Queen Visenya, she held no modesty. "We're not lovers. It's just… scratching an itch. Don't want to pop Elissa's maidenhead and I prefer women to men anyway, so this was a logical option." It was not wise to flaunt deviancy so openly at court, since this wasn't Dorne or Essos where it was more common. Brothels were an option, but who knew where those women had been? A friend with similar desires like Elissa was the best choice and Tyanna made no apologies.
Just that she wished Rhaena hadn't seen it, and her composure broke and she blushed madly at her friend's look.
There was still a block to Rhaena's mind. "Wait… what is this? How can you be lovers? You're both maidens." There was a silence before both Larissa and Elissa started giggling at her - Tyanna, for her part, was too embarrassed under her gaze to join in. "What's so funny?"
Still giggling, Elissa moved to hug her friend. "Oh, dearest Princess, for a dragonrider that sits on the Small Council you are still a bit naive." Her parents, grandmother, and uncle largely sheltered her - not well enough considering what happened with Lyonel Lorch - and Queen Rhaenys being dead for so long removed any personal exposure to such things. "See, some women hold desires for other women as well as those for men."
Rhaena gaped incredulously. "No… that's fantastical."
"Believe me, it's more widespread than you think," Elissa patted her friend on the cheek. "Men do it too, have desires for other men."
She clutched her forehead. "You… you're not trying to jape me. How did I not know about this?"
"That is what concerns me, since you were friends with Tyanna for so long and she only likes the fairer sex - well, practically only likes them." That only made Tyanna blush a brighter crimson. "How else do you explain the marriage of your grandparents."
Floored… she looked at Tyanna closely. It certainly seemed to explain… no, Rhaena was in no mind to dwell on those things. "Well… if grandmother and grandmother Rhaenys engaged in such, then it is not my place to pass judgement. Just… put a string on the door-handle next time so I don't walk into anything. I would rather not see either of you in that way again."
Her words made Tyanna cringe slightly, pained, but the bastard Pentoshi composed herself. "Don't worry about that." She smiled softly. "You know, I'm glad it was you and not Melony. She'd never let me live it down."
"Who says I'm not going to tell her everything?" Rhaena replied, mood improving. All the girls laughed together, discomfort forgotten.
It hadn't been the case for over a century. Not since the great mercenary force of gallant knights departed for the disputed lands to fight for the independence of Lorath and Myr against the Volentenes during the reign of Garth XII Gardener was a triumph held on the streets of Oldtown. The tens of thousands of revelers gathered in the large Thieves Market and Ragpicker's Wynd to cheer - peddlers and stalls making fortunes selling to them. They passed by the Citadel, whose bells atop the towers rang continuously in celebration for the heroes as they marched towards the Square of the Faithful.
Two thousand men assembled in good order, marching to the thrown flowers and cheers of the onlookers. In the van were dozens of Warriors Sons in their full regalia - rainbow cloaks fluttering behind them without a single smudge. Their armor were gleaming plate shining almost like silver, reflecting the sun, while their helms were topped with crystal spikes that glittered colorfully. But these were not tourney knights, but battle-hardened veterans that knew how to use the swords sheathed at their waists. With the clatter of their armored boots, no one could deny this.
But the Warrior's Sons were known to be powerful… the Poor Fellows were anything but. Famously poorly equipped and essentially rabble with weapons, an observer not familiar with them would've found their jaws slack at what followed the van of the Warrior's Sons. Certainly, the trappings didn't change. They were still less richly dressed, adopting a red seven-pointed star on their surcoats in contrast to the rainbow sword for their knightly brethren. But here the similarities ended.
Each man marched in perfect formation with standardized mail armor and wide-brimmed iron helms. Spearmen carried pikes and halberds high, while men-at-arms had their swords sheathed and shields ready, as if the command to form a shield wall were given. Archers and crossbowmen looked proficient in their task and each man wore a look of confidence. Professional soldiers they were, the Poor Fellows.
And now, they had tasted battle and they had won.
In front of the Starry Sept, Hugor opened his arms in welcome to the arriving Stars and Swords. "Children of the Mother, we gather to our heroic servants of the warrior, returned from fighting the godless Ironborn horde." The crowd roared, and Hugor drank it in, bathing in the glory of his plans bearing fruit.
The reality was a raid by rogue Ironborn captains taking advantage of their Lord being distracted by the Lodos revolt. Lord Greyjoy was not amused and tipped off Oldtown, which led to three dozen war galleys and the two thousand Faith Militant to deal with the raiders off of Brightwater Keep. The victory was total, and while it wasn't a major threat the newly trained and disciplined forces proved themselves worthy of the best armies in the world.
They were ready for battle, a sentiment Hugor boasted to Barth later that day, prior to the celebratory feast they would hold in the Hightower. "The time will soon come, my dear Barth. Soon we will be ready." He laughed, holding up something one of the Warrior's Sons had given to him. "They're even handing this all over the city. 'Maegor the Cruel,' they call him for killing that fool Lyonel Lorch!"
Barth's eyes twinkled. "Yes. They…"
Hugor caught that quickly. "Hmmm…" In a world of illiterates - sometimes even among the Most Devout themselves - Hugor had been an oddity at learning how to read at three namedays. Queen Visenya was rumored to have been as precocious, though that comparison was not one the High Septon liked to make. As such, he read the cheap pamphlet easily. "Maegor the Cruel, eh?"
Barth grinned. "Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"
"I hope that you had nothing to do with printing this," Hugor said… mostly for propriety's sake.
"Of course not," the young Septon replied. "I may have come from humble origins, but from the seedy alley next to Ragpicker's Wynd that I heard these things come from? I wouldn't dare wander into such dangerous ground."
"Good, good." Hugor allowed the pretense to drop. "And it does roll off the tongue. What Ser Lorch did was reprehensible but the lusts of base men are why the world needs the Faith." He pointed to the pamphlet. "If that means making a rapist the martyr to our movement, then we must do it. You did your duty in coming up with this."
Barth shook his head. "You flatter me, but the moniker didn't come from my mind."
Hugor was surprised. "Oh? And who did come up with it then?"
Clapping his hands, Barth summoned his personal clerk from outside. The same novice septa entered and curtseyed to the High Septon, lowering herself near to the ground. "Your Holiness," she murmured - rather a pretty face now that Hugor got a better look. Unconventionally pretty, but pretty nonetheless. "You summoned me, your Eminence?"
The young septon grinned at the use of such an august title by the girl. "I just wished to introduce you to the High Septon, Novice Jeyne. Your Holiness, this is Jeyne Poore, a girl I found sired by a knight at Goldengrove. A rare mind, one cannot find too often, regardless of whether the mind bears a cock or not."
Hugor nodded - while he largely ascribed to what the Seven-Pointed Star thought of women, no man that found himself in the court of Sharra Arryn failed to learn that the fairer sex could be just as cunning as men. "And you conjured up the moniker of 'Maegor the Cruel.'"
Slightly intimidated by the High Septon, it took a gesture from Barth for Jeyne to nod. "Aye, your Holiness. These things… they need to be simple and pithy for them to stick. I… I truly wish that we had more than a rapist to use as a martyr, but anything for the Seven who are One will earn my devotion and zeal to the cause."
"Good words, my child," Hugor replied. "I smell another Barth on you, Novice Jeyne. He will be the next High Septon after I if I have anything to say about it, and you should expect similar rewards if you so please me as he did." Jeyne curtseyed again, with a faint blush at the praise, before Barth dismissed her. When the door closed, Hugor turned to his protege. "Have you bedded her? If you did, I don't care, just don't let it be known."
But Barth shook his head. "No… believe me I wanted to the moment I saw her, but there's something special about this woman. She'll be far more than simply me, I just know it. This girl will give us victory… or at least play a part."
While he raised his brow, Hugor had to admit that Barth had long-since proven his intelligence and worth. He trusted him with his life. "Alright, just do not be late for the feast tonight. You always are and I cannot have Lord Manfred asking me where my star protege is."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of missing it - simply a shame that his Grace hadn't decided to start with Oldtown on his tour. I would've quite enjoyed seeing him."
"Considering what you've been up to, that would've been awkward if I didn't know you." Hugor and Barth shared a laugh before he left, again looking at Jeyne once more.
Barth was right… this woman had an air of something special about her.
He had been a King once - never did he remember it to be this… exhausting. With Aenys and Alyssa journeying across the Free Cities and Dorne, as Lord Hand Torrhen sat at the head of the table in the small council chamber, leading today's meeting. The first one in many weeks. It had dragged on for hours, greatly fatiguing him. Perhaps it was just being old, but Torrhen also knew the fact that previously he only had one Kingdom to govern… now it was six.
A daunting task even for a dragonrider.
The full complement was present - even Lord Butterwell, recently returned from Braavos after the conclusion of the dealings with the Iron Bank. Such had taken up much of the first half-hour of discussion, especially the King approving so much of the work of Lucas Harroway that he decided Butterwell's input wasn't needed for the rest of the trip. Harroway is a snake. Brilliant, but a snake nonetheless. Torrhen would have to keep an eye on him.
On one side sat his wife, Jocelyn, right next to him. Joining her on the left were Master of Ships Daemon Velaryon, Septon Murmison, Master of Laws Ronnel Arryn, Butterwell, and Princess Rhaena. Across on the right was Lord Commander Corbray, Prince Aegon, Master of Whisperers Tybolt Reyne, Grand Maester Gawen, Lord Blackwood - returned to the Small Council on Torrhen's initiative - and finally Dowager Queen Visenya, ever proud and strong. At the far end of the table was Prince Maegor, Master of War. Steely eyed and intimidating - had Torrhen not knew him like a nephew at Winterfell, the new epithet "Maegor the Cruel" that came out of the Westerlands would've seemed confirmed to him.
Some remnants, some young up and comers, the royals themselves, and Aenys' favorites. Not the strongest, but not the worst by far.
And yet now, with the discussion turning to the revolt of the False Lodos the Twice-Drowned, an argument broke out. "We have not the funds to conduct the kind of thing you propose!" Aethan Velaryon accused.
Prince Maegor scoffed. "Why don't we ask Lord Butterwell of our situation with coin."
The Master of Coin cleared his throat. "Well… given the better arrangements of our loans with the Iron Bank, we have a healthy reserve for crises."
"Exactly, and this is a crisis!" Maegor insisted.
"There is no crisis, just some Ironborn being as much fools as they usually are," laughed Prince Aegon, only to quiet as his sister glared at him. They used to be close… Was there some love lost between them? Torrhen looked at the Dowager Queen, but she looked as confused as he did. "I… I think this is an isolated incident."
"I agree with the young Prince," stated the Grand Maester. "While the rumblings Lord Reyne discussed were troubling, nothing to be concerned of or to overreact to…"
"This was just the beginning, Grand Maester," Maegor insisted. "They were zealots, aye, but they could've revolted during my father's reign and didn't. Many will seek to test my brother and we need the banners called as a precaution. The dragons can provide quick reaction but not of the nature we truly need."
Even as a younger man, Torrhen wasn't inclined to drink too much. Perhaps a mug of ale at dinner and perhaps half that for his midday meal, but not to excess except on a few occasions. But as the various councilors debated, quarreled, and gesticulated at each other he found his mouth growing dry. His head aching. The Hand reached for the flagon of Arbor Gold left for all of them to partake in and poured himself a goblet - filled to the rim. No one noticed but his wife. Jocelyn raised an eyebrow and he merely shrugged, sipping at the sweet liquid.
It helped. Not much, but the warmth helped.
"I'm telling you!" Maegor shouted. "The Ironborn saw an opportunity and they pounced! Even if we annihilated them more will see blood in the water!"
"And what would you have us do, my Prince?" replied Gawen, voice softer but no less full of steel. "Mass slaughters? Taking Lords you think may one day plot against you and feed them to the Black Dread."
The other Gawen, Lord Commander Corbray, smacked his hand on the table. "That is quite enough, Grand Maester." Beside him, Princess Rhaena's cheeks burned red with anger.
Maegor, for his part, merely scoffed and crossed his arms - a smirk on his face. "I only do that to rapists, though perhaps I'll make an exception for traitors."
Gawen glared. "Is that a threat?"
"Why would you think it a threat?" That came from Queen Dowager Visenya, her face expressionless. "Unless you are thinking of treason, there shouldn't be a worry."
The Grand Maester bristled. "I shan't have my good name questioned by the likes of you. I have given the Crown years of faithful service!"
"Please, my friends," Murmison stated, his arms out in a supplicating gesture. "We should have calm. The Seven frown on those that engage in petty squabbles…"
His headache continuing to pound against his skull, Torrhen downed the entire cup… then reached out to pour another. Gods… why must they argue? Gawen, Murmison, and Ronnel Arryn's insistence that everything was fine in the Realm flew in the face of all logic, while the approach argued by Maegor, Visenya, and the Lord Commander held fault in the exact opposite direction - if one acted as if the Realm was at war then it would be at war in short order. A war the Kingdoms could scarcely afford with the Targaryen monarchy so young.
For those of the North, one learned quickly that whims could never be considered when it came to battle… or anything really. Their land was too cold, too desolate for anything to be conducted without planning and critical thinking. Lord Hightower could write off the life of a thousand bannermen - he could simply go to the slums of Oldtown and get thrice that number as long as he had the coin. Such wasn't true of the North with their population far smaller, and Torrhen had long ago learned to husband resources and plan accordingly.
Abruptly, he stood, drawing the attention of the rest of the councilors. "Lord Stark?" Murmison asked with concern.
"Husband?" Jocelyn was equally worried.
But Torrhen ignored them. He ran a hand through his grey hair, hobbling towards the window. The headache grew worse, and he felt hot all of a sudden. The cool breeze off the Blackwater gave him a little relief, and he let his thoughts wander to the problems of the Realm. They are not secure. What was sealed by the presence of the Conquerors no longer can hold the Kingdoms together. The North would stand with House Targaryen, the Crownlands would. House Tyrell and House Qoherys would, and most of the Vale long as Ronnel Arryn lived. All else…
Coughing suddenly, Torrhen patted his chest, mind still whirring. Maegor needs a babe with Ceryse, his affair with the wildling must end. That would secure House Hightower till the end of time. Each of the Princes and Princesses needed a match as well, not to mention his own grandchildren. It was the only way. He coughed again… this one lasting far longer and causing a bit of discomfort.
"Lord Stark, are you alright?" The question came from Princess Rhaena, looking at him with her innocent violet eyes - not so innocent anymore, having endured both indignity and battle for the first time.
Nodding, still coughing, Torrhen made for his goblet. The wine sloshed down his throat, soothing it. "Aye, I'm fine…" Rhaena… the heir according to the ancient traditions of the North, but merely a pawn to the Andal custom. A good match needed to be found for her regardless of which path Aenys chose, though Torrhen resolved to make the King pick when he returned from his tour.
Sharing a concerned look with Jocelyn, Visenya stepped towards the Hand. "Torrhen, I suggest you sit down." His coughs hadn't abated, even with the wine.
Shaking his head, Torrhen's eyes flickered to Rhaena, who was now standing next to her uncle. He wasn't blind, he saw the looks she threw him… and the looks Maegor now made occasionally to her after they returned from Casterly Rock. They fancy each other… gods… It can't be allowed to happen… There was nothing wrong in his opinion, but his didn't matter. The Realm would fracture, Ceryse Hightower being set aside in favor of Maegor's niece being the spark that would light the entire ship aflame. She needs a husband… one that would… that would… Or was it unavoidable? They needed dragons and dragonriders. Perhaps… modeling after Visenya and her siblings...
It was then he doubled over, hands splayed on the table of the small council chamber. Visenya was by his side. "Torrhen, what troubles you?"
Torrhen opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, a great quantity of blood erupted from his gullet, staining the table and causing those closest to him to scramble back lest they were drenched in it. He tried to speak again, but more came out and his legs gave way, sending him to the ground.
"Lord Stark!"
"Torrhen!"
The sound of Prince Maegor filled the din. "Tend to him, you wretch!" Grand Maester Gawen was basically shoved towards him.
Feeling Jocelyn squeeze his hand, Torrhen tried to squeeze it back - reassure her just as he had when he marched South to confront the Targaryens. Just as he had when Maegor first arrived in Winterfell. Just as he had when he became Hand of the King. Just as he had when Aegon breathed his last. But he found his hand was no longer obeying his commands.
The truth hit him like a blizzard. I am dying.
He could vaguely hear Maegor yelling for assistance. Could feel the hands of the Grand Maester try to expose his chest for examination… but he knew it was to no end. All he could think of was his worries. His fear for his family.
You will be eaten alive, my King…
Keep your family close, Maegor…
Watch over the babes, Rhaenys. They'll need you…
Pain began to seize at him, an intense burning as if his insides were being eaten alive. Blood continued to trickle out of his mouth. He shook, he convulsed, but in his mind Torrhen knew the end was near and he could be at peace with the great Winter Kings.
Bran… Aegon… Alaric… Saera… the fate of House Stark is with you now.
"Torrhen!" Jocelyn screamed again. The Lord of Winterfell's grey eyes found her once more before they closed forever.
End it… end it damn you!
The Old Gods finally granted him his request. Only blackness followed.