"Allies are good, certainly, but remember your priorities."
Our victory over Lord Fowler was celebrated in the westerosi fashion. Which is a polite way of referring to copious and excessive feasting, usually at the direct expense of whatever vile enemy was recently conquered. In this case, it was the man who had once been Lord Fowler. Or, as he was now known, Ser Franklyn Fowler.
Skyreach had not been under siege for terribly long. Its wine cellars and larders had still been quite generously stocked when King Yronwood had taken possession of the city. All thanks to the eternal foolishness of Ser Fowler, who had been kind enough to bring his heirs to his family's ruin. Well, his sons and his only grandson. The adult sons had... melted.
"To King Yorick!" A knight whose swaying was ample evidence of how much he had to drink declared, barely able to stay on his feet as he raised his goblet. More than a few drops of the dark red wine landed on his neighbors, but all were in good enough spirits to not care overmuch. "For delivering us such a victory!"
As the clear and honorable victors of the siege, and later battle, of Skyreach, King Yronwood had taken possession of both the castle and the town. Thus, the great hall of the castle was filled with the most notable members of the house, with even a fair number of men-at-arms present. To see the great stone hall, filled with trestle tables and eagerly cheering men alike, was… well, it was certainly good for my spirit.
"To Prince Vaegon!" another knight shouted, this one only slightly soberer. "For ending the war in a single stroke!"
"Forget the prince!" yet another knight butted in, this one wearing the sigil of House Yronwood, but with the colors inverted. "'twas his dragon that did the real work!"
"Like there's a difference!" the drunk knight shouted from across the hall. "One and the same, they are! The Black Dragon!"
"Aye, the Black Dragon!" the second knight chimed in. This one wore the colors of Yronwood quartered with another device, a black goat's head on red. "Vaegon the Black Dragon! I'll drink to that. Him and the king!"
"Yorick and Vaegon!" the entire hall of Skyreach had shouted, each occupant, whether lord or knight or soldier, clearly too inebriated to care that they were praising a foreign prince for their victory. "Vaegon and Yorick!"
Do not misunderstand me; it was nice to have people celebrating my contributions to a cause. Even then. Especially then. But to have those people be those who would have otherwise celebrated my own grisly death at the hands of their former liege?
Oh, was there any song quite as sweet?
Needless to say, I quite enjoyed the evening. After all, it was but several hours of feasting and celebrating. What was a feast, after all, but practice for the life beyond this one, when we joined the Father Above in his hall? So long as one did not go beyond what was tasteful and reasonable, it could even be considered worship of a sort.
Or so a text by a certain Septon Picur had claimed. And since it had not been officially branded as heresy, who was I to gainsay religious canon when it made everybody happy?
"Vaegon, try this!" I was torn from my reveries by a Dornish knight, the same incredibly inebriated one from before, who all but shoved a chunk of meat in my direction. As soon as the scent reached my nose, sending a frightfully persistent burning sensation through that poor organ of mine, I began to feel the dread pool in my stomach. "A proper roast this is!"
Knowing it would burn me at least twice more, but unwilling to show weakness in front of my allies, I chose to pop it into my mouth.
An action which I quickly regretted as my tongue began to scream at me in protest. Immediately, I could feel the contents of my nose loosen and begin to run in an immediate reaction to the spice I had just subjected myself to.
"Come now, I thought you were a Targaryen," he laughed as I lunged for my ale. Nearly half of the impressively sized tankard disappeared down my gullet as I desperately hoped for the heat to abate. "What's a bit of heat to a dragon?"
"A dragon raised on a reasonable amount of spice you mean?" I asked, once it felt like my mouth was no longer being subjected to a million pins thrust through just the outer layer of skin. Was this was passed as food to the Dornish? I was beginning to understand why the marcher lords hated them so much. This food alone constituted an atrocity in and of itself!
You would be an expert on that, wouldn't you? A treacherous part of my mind whispered, but I ignored it. This was a feast in the honor of the men who had fought and suffered. Self-recrimination had no place here.
"Here we go," the drunk knight said, no doubt picking up on the change in my expression as the actual flavor of the meat began to rise to the top as the heat melted away. Smokey and sweet, it was unlike anything I had tasted back in King's Landing. It reminded me of... something. Something half-remembered from before I was brought here, to Westeros. "The northerner recognizes that food need not be endured but enjoyed!"
"Praise be!" came a shout from across the hall, to scattered laughter. No, not scattered. Otherwise, I would not have found myself joining in. Or asking for another chunk of roast. It would be a rarity, this. Best enjoy it while I could.
As the feast continued long into the night, it slowly began to wind down. The frighteningly palatable torture dishes began to be replaced with more mundane and familiar bowls of bread and cheese. At some point, the drunk knight had passed out and been dragged off to some convenient chambers to sleep off his inebriation. Many of his fellows had shared the same fate, leaving the hall to steadily grow more and more deserted.
I, by contrast, was still mostly sober. A welcome side-effect of a life half-remembered was that I knew first-hand of the idiocy I was capable of when given access to too much booze. Still, the keyword in that first sentence was 'mostly'. That mostly conscious haze of inebriation was a luxury I had not indulged since before the birth of my children. Not since the early hours of my knightly vigil, really, as the effects of my friends' celebration had worn off.
No, this would be the last time I would appreciate it in a long time. Nothing good could come of doing otherwise.
"Vaegon." A familiar tone interrupted my thoughts growing steadily more depressingly realistic. The Yronwood Prince had sidled up to me, standing tall while I stared at the tired reflection of myself at the bottom of my tankard of ale. "You look far too melancholy for a victory feast."
"Mayhaps," I allowed, leaning back against my seat. "Is a man not entitled to a single night of quiet contemplation?"
"A man might be," he said immediately, though I did note the smile on his face. "But we are not. Princes, remember?"
"I am beginning to regret giving you any kind of political advice," I grumbled, rising to my feet. To my great satisfaction, my legs were steady beneath me. The wonders of self-control. "But I don't think you're here out of mere kindness."
"Father is asking for us..." he revealed, and I turned to look down the high table to find… nothing. An empty table. Had he already left? "… in the solar."
"When did he leave?" I asked, more than a little embarrassed at having missed the king having left the feast.
"After the song about the marcher lord's daughter," he answered. That… did not clear matter up.
"The second or the third one?" Was it hypocritical of me to criticize the repetitive nature of Dornish songs when the rest of Westeros had no more than four topics for their songs? Mayhaps. But those three topics at least came with variables.
"The fifth," he revealed, before breaking out into laughter. "I jest, it was after the goat course. You may have been a bit distracted to notice."
"Right…" I sighed. "Lead the way then."
"You think I know my way around this castle?" he asked as we made our way out of the hall. True to the implication, he got a servant to lead us to the lord's solar. Well, the king's solar, now.
"Ah, good, you both made it." The King of the Red Mountains stood at the head of a small table, inspecting a map with far less detail than the one he had been using on his campaign. No doubt his concerns were different, now. "Come, both of you, it is time we plot our next moves."
"What is there to plot?" the prince asked, striding into the solar and I followed close behind him. It was decorated rather plainly, with bare floors and only a handful of tapestries depicting glorious scenes from history, but no doubt that would change before long. "Fowler is in a cell, as is his grandson. All that's left is to pacify our new holdings."
"There is the invasion of Dayne lands," I said. The lands surrounding Starfall were still in chaos. Because while the Daynes of High Hermitage were still of House Dayne, they were several generations removed from the main line. Other houses, spread across Dorne, had better claims.
One could hardly ask for a better time to invade. Especially if one had a better claimant hidden away somewhere.
For several heartbeats, silence reigned in the solar.
"… we will not be marching on Starfall," the king eventually said slowly.
"What?" A ball of ice formed in my gut. Was this the resolution to my actions after Baelon's death? An atrocity committed for seemingly no benefit save sating my desire for vengeance? No, for absolutely no benefit. Would my monstrous actions have no purpose? "Say that again?"
Would it have just been a senseless loss of life?
"Vaegon, we have two thousand men," the prince pointed out. "We cannot conquer the Dayne lands with so few men. Especially when we still need to ensure the former Fowler lands are pacified and accepting of my father's rule."
"Doubly so when the forces of Starfall are largely untapped," King Yronwood said. "No, I will remain in Skyreach to ensure this part of our realm is pacified. Anders, my son, you will return to Yronwood with five hundred men on the morrow. Raise another host in case some Martell loyalists decide to finally intervene."
"Our agreement was to conquer all the Red Mountains," I pointed out. Was this just a ploy to extend my services?
"Your Grace, I would not be able to hold the Dayne lands even if we took them without losses, let alone the former Fowler lands," he said carefully. Your Grace. He was using the style again. The familiar tone of the gracious ally was gone, now, leaving only the king. "The men my son will raise will be the dregs of my realm, green boys and grey men, good for little beyond dissuading attacks. I cannot in good faith invade with my forces so diminished."
"Best we consider our agreement concluded, then?" I asked. Vengeance… vengeance had been meted out. House Martell had lost its land-based trade routes with the rest of Westeros. An ancient and noble house had been extinguished for not preventing war. By all accounts, this had been a triumph.
And yet, despite that, the lingering taste of the feast was beginning to foul upon my tongue.
"That… might be for the best, yes," the king admitted. Before continuing, he took a deep breath to steady himself. "Although, you could have a place in my realm, if you so choose. I won plenty of territory from Lord Fowler. It would be no trouble to find a few hides for you."
Tempting, but no.
Now more than ever, I was needed in King's Landing. I still had siblings to raise, a sister to see wed, businesses to mind. Still had nephews who should not be forced to lose their father and then an entire side of their family. And as much as they needed me, I needed them just as much.
"You are kind, Your Grace," I said. "But I am needed up north."
Besides, becoming a vassal meant paying taxes.
"Of course," he agreed, offering a hand with a sad smile. Oh, he was reluctant to see me go, that was clear. Naturally. I had been quite useful to him, after all. "Then I wish you good fortunes in your future endeavors, Prince Vaegon."
"Likewise," I agreed, shaking the offered hand. "My father will know of your deeds. Expect a raven in the coming weeks. May your kingdom long outlive you, King Yorick."
I left that same night.
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