283 AC – King Robert Baratheon – The Demon of the Trident

On that fateful day in the Vale, when Jon proved a true foster father, I did not have this in mind. When Stannis isn't nagging at me for one thing or another it's Jon. 'Robert, read this!' and 'Robert, why haven't you read this yet?' or even 'Robert, I'm not the fucking King, just read it!' haunted me day in and day out. Endless meetings with Small Council and no matter how much they wag their tongues, more problems bubble up by the meeting. If it isn't the Reach burning with zealots it's fucking pirates raiding the Stormlands.

Absentmindedly I played with one of the new Crowns. The golden coin, bearing my face, never ceased to bring a small burst of contentment. But even this wasn't enough to pierce my lethargy. Once again my mind was dragged to the way it never stops and the papers on my desk keep piling up. Setting a small cadre of clerks and other officials of the Royal Court to sorting them out for me...inevitably ends up with either Jon or Stannis one again yelling at me.

I was not made for this.

"So your response is to declare war on the Disputed Lands?"

Huh, what?

I could have sworn I just heard...

Stannis responded with a sigh and said, "Only on Lys and Tyrosh. As the intelligence packages you've all received indicate, they are the primary powers behind the raid on my lands."

Well, isn't this interesting?

I promptly satisfied by curiosity by telling my rather unhinged brother, "Do elaborate, Stannis."

Another deep sigh came forth, together with what I'm sure is the realization that I had yet to read his intelligence package, Stannis replied, "The pirates that assaulted Weeping Town first attacked the budding Royal Naval Port, despite having little by way of portable wealth."

Nothing to steal, I gathered from that.

"Once done, they continued onwards to Weeping Town. They attacked a fortified city, continued attacking after encountering stiff resistance, and massacred its garrison. Pirates don't behave like this. Pirates don't attack hard targets, they prey on soft defenseless settlements."

Now Stannis gazed around the table, in some futile endeavor to find someone who read his intelligence package and continued, "I've reached out to a few notable pirates, even before I left to Driftmark, and their words have been uniform. Lys and Tyrosh have been recruiting them heavily. If we simply blow through the Step Stones, we're letting the world know we're blind to catspaws."

Yet another deep sigh, "It will cost us, I agree, and yet it's a lesser cost than than the one our people will bear if the Essosi think they can keep weakening us like this, unchallenged."

As far as I'm concerned, that's as good a reason to go to war as any.

Lord Myles Mooton agreed with me, it appeared. Of course he did. He may as well be wearing one of my brother's ridiculous Stag pins, "Tyrosh may be a hard nut to crack, but I imagine Lys has little by way of defenses. Once Prince Stannis wipes away their navy, our men could simply stroll onto their beaches."

From what I knew that was true, but it's best to confirm with a glance to Stannis.

With a bland smile he whispered loudly, "Tyrosh still has its original Valyrian made walls. Lys has never had those, as a mere pleasure island."

Lord Hoster spoke up first, "Setting aside the lesson in history, what is the state of their defenses now?"

This time Stannis reached inside his cloak, produced the little black book he so painstakingly guarded, and paged through it before responding. "Lys has roughly two hundred and seventy five war vessels and Tyrosh has a little under two hundred. As it stands, we're outnumbered two to one...if I count the Redwyne Fleet."

That...sounds like a particularly challenging clash. Could Stannis perform?

"Can you beat them?"

I regretted saying it almost as soon as the words came tumbling out of my mouth. Fortunately, Stannis seemingly developed a thicker skin since the days of our youth and there was a suspicious lack of frothing at the mouth.

"If I catch them separately, maybe."

Jon spoke my thoughts next, "And should they not cooperate in that regard?"

Oh gods, I know that galling smirk. Something was coming and I already knew I'd have to play arbiter between Jon and Stannis. Again.

"That possibility is why I sent negotiators to the Iron Islands, Jon. With them we shall have parity on the sea and I'm confident we can face both fleets, if need be."

The Ironborn.

His clever plan is the Iron...Perhaps I would gracefully disentangle myself from this particular discussion and push it onto my foster father. "Jon, will this work?"

Instead of responding, the man frowned and took a good hard look at Stannis. A few moments passed by before Jon asked, "The Ironborn are notorious for their...ways and rather unpredictable. Are you willing to risk the entire endeavor on their participation?"

Another one of those damnable smirks, "Forgive me, Jon, but allow me to elaborate." Our aging Hand nodding in return and Stannis continued, "What I meant to convey was that I reached out to Victorion Greyjoy to bring with as many ships as he could manage to come raiding with me."

Hoster reacted quickly, "Why?"

Abrupt, clear and concise. If only the entire meeting was as such.

Now my slightly unhinged brother frowned as if he didn't understand, "Because he's their best captain?"

In turn Hoster frowned deeply before biting out, "Why do you imagine this will go over well with Lord Balon?"

"Oh." Another confused frown, "I'm honoring his brother and giving him an opportunity to show Greyjoy strength."

Usually our grandfather is one the one to talk sense into Stannis, but today I reacted first. "Seven hells, Stannis! Did you circumvent Lord Balon to call his brother to arms?"

Now he got it.

"No! The messenger goes to Lord Balon. Why would I do that?"

Lord Hoster, Jon, Gunther and myself all exchanged looks at that. Why does he have to make everything so difficult? Before he could speak up again, Lord Hoster challenged him once more. With the tired tone the Riverlord asked, "Very well, ignoring the fact that the Ironborn brazenly attacked the Reach during the Rebellion. Ignoring the fact that the Ironborn are untrustworth...How do you imagine they would respond to such a call? From a 'greenlander' no less?"

Stannis replied with a frown, "I did not address him as a greenlander. I offered him no royal writs, no favors, gold or glory. I merely stated I was cracking Tyrosh like an egg and asked whether his brother might be willing to help carry off Essosi spoils."

Silence all around. He does that from time to time. Say something so thoroughly outrageous that it takes all who hear it a few moments to recover. In this case, Lord Gunther recovered first. "The pirates that attacked the Stormlands were backed by the Lyseni and Tyroshi. Stannis plans on fighting them, and his Grace has a tendency to perform well, which leaves us with the final question. Is this the course we commit to?"

The man has a way of reducing the chaos of the Small Council to something manageable. Even if he wasn't my grandfather I could always appreciate such a man on my councils. Once he decides to retire to Estermont I shall have to find someone similar. Or perhaps, since Stannis appointed the last vacant seat, fob off the decision to Jon. As long as he sends someone who isn't long winded.

Lord Mooton replied quickly with an 'Aye', as did Lord Pycelle, Ser Barristan and surprisingly Lord Hoster. Jon frowned momentarily before adding his own acceptance and I rounded things out with a loud, "Done. What else do we have?"

Perhaps we should have saved this subject for last. Surely whatever follows would only send me to sleep...

"Oldtown is burning."

What?

Lord Gunther of Estermont continued, "The strife in the Reached has boiled over to Oldtown. The rebellious smallfolk were once again caught in a religious fever and gathered in large enough numbers to temporarily overwhelm Old Town's city guards."

I felt a brief jab of remorse after I thought 'this is more like it'.

"How are the Hightowers faring?"

Stannis certainly seemed interested as he leaned in to hear Gunther's words, "Once again they've reasserted control and they've managed to quell most of the fires. Unfortunately, their docks and harbor have caught the worst of it and remain unusable for the time being."

I guess not. If it was handled, why bring this up?

Lord Pycelle asked, "Do we know the cause of this strife?"

My Lord Grandfather responded, "Not precisely. There are outcries concerning corruption in the Starry Sept, but I cannot fathom why this sparked such an outrage."

Lord Hoster asked in turn, "Was it perhaps worse then usual? Are there any particularly egregious incidents?"

Gunther cleared his throat, "As far as I know, there was some trouble regarding an Septon...and a particularly well loved young girl. Once the matter was brought before the justiciar, little came of it. All of the other incidents happened well after, and this seems as likely a motive as any."

Jon slowly raised an eyebrow and added, "I have heard whispers of the smallfolk of the Hightowers being seduced to emigrate...to Godgrief."

What was Jon implying?

Stannis matched Jon with a singular eyebrow raised and responded, "I admit to some involvement, yes. I thought that offering the troublemakers a fresh start on my lands would solve the issues."

Jon continued, "Both Oldtown's harbor and docks burned down."

Surely he doesn't believe Stannis has anything to do with this? My brother is a tad softhearted, ever so slightly deranged, but I refuse to believe he would break the King's – mine now I suppose - Peace in such a flagrant fucking display. Slowly Stannis nodded and said, "And I happen to have a few of those. "A heartbeat or two passed before he went on, "I would also benefit from those smallfolk with experience in those matters coming to my lands. Which is why I sent my agents there after Oldtown burned."

Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun joined in, "A coincidence perhaps? One that only your august person seems to be benefiting from?"

Jon once again took over, "Against a House that's publicly known to be your enemy?"

This was going far enough.

I asked Stannis straight to his face, "They're worried you started this mess. Did you?"

His sole response a curt, "No, your Grace."

Argh. Can't he see I'm simply trying to finish the subject?

"Good. What else do I need to know about?"

An annoying silence fell over the table until Lord Mooton broke it, "The shipments of grain and other foodstuffs have arrived this morning, your Grace. It's currently being shifted to the storage warehouses in and around the capital."

Lord Gunther of Estermont added, "Is that all the Master of Laws has to share?"

Lord Mooton narrowed his eyes briefly before adding, "Lord Stark has requested permission to stiffen the Gold Cloaks with some of his men. I told him I would consider it."

Why did Ned to that? To protect Lyanna? Does he think I cannot? And if Mooton was considering it...did that mean that Stannis told him to delay?

"Is there a problem, Lord Mooton?"

Smoothly the man answered, "Lord Stark left two thousand men in the city, your Grace."

What?

Mooton continued, "The Gold Cloaks have already swelled to a shade over four thousand and the current budgets simply could not support it. I was simply deferring the decision until Lord Hoster releases more funds for their pay and residence, your Grace."

Oh.

"Why can't we fire everyone in the Gold Cloaks that got their position under the Dragons?"

My Lord Grandfather once again spoke up in answer, "Prince Stannis has already seen to that, your Grace. Each of these men owes their position to the Stags." He continued slightly under his breath, "Or the Lightning Lords."

Dondarrion men?

Curious, but not curious enough.

"Lord Hoster, see to it that Lord Mooton gets paid. Stannis, stop filling up the ranks with your men. We're already feeding and hosting plenty of those for you."

All three of them simply yielded to my whims and nodded. Good, apparently it was a subject neither one of them cared overmuch for. It could have been worse. If only one of them cared deeply I'd couldn't play them off against each other. Stannis cleared his throat and said, "Which brings us to Dorne." Annoyingly he waited just a touch too long before he spoke again, "We killed their princess and grandchildren. They will not remain docile forever, brother. Kindly tell your Hand to stop interfering with my efforts at keeping Dorne divided."

Oh good gods. They are supposed to help me, not continually come to me. Why can't they just bicker among themselves. Whoever wanted it more would generally push their will through. More often than not, this was Jon. For some reason it appeared Stannis just wasn't willing to push his measures, most of the time.

At some point I need to consider what that means.

Jon in response cleared his throat even louder and replied, "Not only has Dorne been united for a millennia, we cannot callously and continually antagonize them!"

"Why not?" Stannis responded, "What are they going to do? Go to war with us?"

Jon slapped his still meaty and strong hand on the table, "When will you cease creating this pointless friction!"

Equally loud and insisted Stannis yelled, "When you cease foisting this inevitable war off on our heirs! This war will come regardless, so why wait until it inevitably happens when we are weak? Why not ground them down one small step a time in preparation?"

Immediately Jon replied, "Which would cause this war you seem to worried about! Why do you not grasp that we may not count on the support of a united Realm in this? Especially if you so blatantly cause this strife!"

"Why would we need anyone beyond the Stormlands and the Reach?"

"You believe your people could fight alongside each other for longer than a few weeks? If the Dornish avoid you, your army would collapse long before you do any meaningful damage!"

Now Stannis simply snorted, "Against the Dornish? We've fought the Reach since the Dawn, my Lord Hand, and yet all of our Marcherlords' keeps face the Dornish. This goes for the Reachlords as well!"

"So you're simply attempting to satiate ancient grievances?"

"No! I'm trying to put the rest of Westeros, my brother's Realm, in a better position than Dorne! I'm killing no one, I'm starting no wars on my own! All I do lightly attempt to break Dornish internal cohesion! So that when this war does happen, the Martells only have their Salty Dornishmen at their backs!"

Now I was the one bringing down my meaty hands on the table. And what a sound it made.

"Enough! My Lord Hand, you are right. We should not invite this particular conflict. Not while we have enemies in the Disputed Lands." Before Stannis could speak up I continued, "And you are right, Stannis, in that this inevitable conflict will either be fought by us or our heirs."

Both of my pillars of support still seemed to be seething, the rest of the council desperately tried to stay out of it, but I needed this settled.

"In that light, what do you have in mind, Stannis?"

Again he pulled out that little black book and said, "This is a list of Dornish Houses with their eldest heirs a women. This is a list of younger brother's most put out with it. And finally this, are all the Stoney Dornishmen that wouldn't mind an Yronwood overlord. All I wish to do...is strengthen ties with these individuals and Houses."

I could already hear the rest of that thought. 'For now.'

Fortunately, the rest of the meeting was far less volatile. Matters were mostly resolved, until I found myself alone with my Lord Grandfather inside the Small Council Hall.

"Well, that certainly was an interesting meeting."

I sighed deeply and simply bid him, "Let us not relive it, grandfather."

The man nodded firmly, shuffled over to where Stannis sat, and picked up the notebook that was seemingly discarded. Already the hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight. Stannis never let this book out his sight. Whenever he almost forgot the damn thing you could always count on him to storm back into the room to collect it. What could he possibly be hiding in there?

Gunther paged through the little black book, his expression souring as he went on, when he finally said, "I cannot read this."

Huh?

I almost ripped it out Gunther's hand when I took the damned little book.

I couldn't read it either.

"Seven hells...what language is this? I could have sworn I've seen this squiggly lines somewhere."

My Lord Grandfather and I found Stannis before he was set to speak to our Stormlords, but after Gunther insisted Stannis should handle those on his own. I did not like his assertion that he created a new language, just to keep his thoughts secret.

Surely this was just some obscure Essosi languages? But if so...where did he learn it? And if not, how did he create a language?!

It was yet another thing that set my brother apart from the little shit I remembered in Storm's End. I resolved to get him as drunk as humanly possible after the Tournament. One way or another, I'd get the answers to all my burning questions.

Because...you can't just create a language...

Right?

283 AC – King Robert Baratheon – The Demon of the Trident

This! This is the life.

The first few days of the Tournament were dreadfully boring. Occasionally a few interesting matches were to be found, but all in all it was rather disappointing. Until we reached the final thirty two participants, and the stakes noticeably got higher. As did the quality of the swordsmen, it should be said. Fortified with the finest wines of the Arbor I could see myself doing this for the rest of my life.

If I have to bare the annoyances of Kings, I should also get to enjoy the benefits of them. In between the fights usually other entertainment took place. Occasionally its a particularly talented set of tumblers, maybe a few bards that sing some tunes or even a sword swallower or two playing with fire and sharp weapons. Now however, one of my brother's peculiarities took the field.

Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawkeye.

I'd seen her shoot before, I know exactly what Stannis sees in her...and yet I could not bring myself to approve. Women have no place on the battlefield, for all they helped defend Storm's End. My brother's occasionally strangely soft heart was once again asserting itself. One day that poor women would come to a horrific end.

Perhaps that will teach him.

The Squire-Sergeant, a Daughter of Elenei, was helped by a handful of other Stormbringers. The retinue my brother sprang up from nothingness a few months past. They've acquitted themselves fairly so far. I was mildly curious how many more Stannis would recruit before he'd find himself with a standing army.

As if he's some Old Ghiscary Master.

The Squire-Sergeant quietly whispered something to the Stormbringers after which the latter unveiled the stack of chests they brought. A few of the retinue of Stagsmen stood beside the Hawkeye, loaded crossbows at the ready, which the others opened the chests one at a time. Out of every chest a raven flew, or a dove, or even a goshawk once or twice. One by one the Hawkeye caught a crossbow lobbed at her, swung around, and neatly perforated the offending birds. I found myself impressed enough to loudly join in with the applause that followed when she finished the last haw off.

Not impressed enough however to grant her a knighthood. That was simply not happening. Instead she'd have to settle for a load of gold. Stannis' men, and women I suppose, love gold don't they?

Finally the next match came, and quickly went. Lord Greatjon Umber utterly decimated Lord Gyles Cuy in what had to be the single shortest bout of the day. From start to finish it took maybe a hundred heatbeats before the eldest son of House Cuy was reduced to a twitching collapsed mess.

I thoroughly approved. These Northmen are good men.

Lord Jeor Morment, another Northron that performed so far, unfortunately did not fair as well as his fellow Northern Lord did. The man lost to a Fossoway knight, the name of whom eluded me for the moment, but at least the latter made a good showing.

Perhaps I was seeing the start of a reputation being built here? I was about to honor the man for his accomplishments, as I had been doing most of the afternoon, when the man did not present himself to me. Instead, the Green Apple, as I had resolved to name him, veered off to the side. Far to the side. Until he come to a standstill in front of my brother. No, not my brother...his betrothed? Oh gods...this cannot be happening.

With a loud and booming voice the Green Apple spoke, "My Lady Janna! I look at you and my heart pounds, when for years, I don't think it beat at all. You fill the cracks and crevices, take away the emptiness. And when you're not by my side, the loss is unimaginable! If all my life could be like the moments we shared in the Godswood I would count it bliss."

It is.

Almost without thinking my hand feels around for my hammer until Jon tightly gripped it.

"Your Grace! Please, settle down!"

I bitterly whispered under my breath, "How! Look at this! Look at him!It's happening again!"

From behind me Ser Barristan, later I reasoned it to be likely at the behest of Jon, gently pushed me down with unrelenting might. Later, I blamed that on my distraction. In the face of those two men I backed down, sat back in my large chair, and silently prayed for Stannis to disregard his softer instincts.

Surely...he couldn't?

He wouldn't let this go?

The Knight continued, "I love you my Lady, and I will love you until I die, and if there truly is a life after that, I'll love you then. Cast away your shackles and-."

And then it happened.

It finally happened.

Stannis roaring with every part of his being. The type of roar that starts in your belly and ends up dazing your enemies. The type of roar that silenced the fool of a knight immediately, "Fetch my fucking armor!"

I faintly hear Ser Barristan whisper, "Take heart, your Grace. Your brother shall prevail, I firmly believe."

I whispered back, "Should he not, I shall lock you in a tower with him until he improves!"

Perhaps the final few words came out as a hiss. Who could blame me? This twit of a Reacher knight was doing it again! What is wrong with him? It mattered not. Whether this was to first blood or not, I could hear it in Stannis' voice. That Reacher knight is not walking away from this. Not in one piece, in any regard.

The long – oh gods, so fucking long, how much longer will this last- moments of painfully awkward silence simply kept bearing down on us. Nothing louder than a furious whisper could be heard and there was a tension pervading my city that I decidedly did not enjoy. Jon kept whispering things in an attempt to keep me quiet and I let him.

Hurry up and end this Stannis.

Until a clear voice rang out just as Stannis walked onto the field. My brother wore his black and gold armor well, with the customary antlers sticking out of his helmet, and his antique tower shield. Likewise of black and gold, together with what I knew to be his Valryian short sword, Argella's Plight.

Stannis' betrothed, Lady Janna of House Tyrell, sister of Lord Paramount – for the moment – Mace of House Tyrell spoke up, "My Prince! If this Ser Fossoway claims to pursue his deranged desires in even our life after this one, I beseech you...nay, I beg of you, remove his tongue so he may not speak of or with me!" A heartbeat later she surprised the dazed crowd, "For all our sakes!"

This...Fine. Perhaps she might not make a terrible Lady- no Princess now – of Storm's End. The gathered crowd certainly seemed to approve as loud laughter run across the stands. As well as below the stands, when you consider the hundreds...perhaps even more people that had suddenly decided the Tournament was interesting.

Stannis, seemingly calmer now – although such things are difficult to determine of a man in armor, simply nodded and accepted her favor. He should have laughed and insulted the crestfallen Reacher knight instead, but perhaps that would be too much to ask.

I know I certainly would not have words in his position.

But I am not.

So I cleared my throat, disregarded Selmy's feeble attempts at quieting me, and said, "Just take his entire head, Stannis! Show the sorry fool what happens when you rouse a Stag of Storm's End!"

I probably shouldn't be saying these things as King, but I cared little. Jon could voice his disapproval some other time, when he wasn't drowned out by the yelling of our Stormlords. And surprisingly our friendly Reachlords.

283 AC – Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen – The Queen Who Finally Was

It's difficult to wrench myself away from my children. Little Elaena and Jaeherys were sharing the crib the Magister procured and Viserys, my sweet King to be, lay on the hammock right next to it. They all seem so peaceful when they are at rest, as if the world's ills cannot touch them. Simply letting my eyes feast on the sight is doing wonders for my own inner peace. Whatever shreds of it remain.

Ser Gerold coughed lightly, but plenty impatiently, "Your Grace, Lady Serra wished for me to convey her invitation to dine with her. How should I respond?"

It's interesting how these invitations always come right before our impromptu council meetings. Lady Serra – curious, how she styles herself a Lady – seemed to act in perfect accordance with the Pentoshi Magister. I had yet to divine why she continually imposes herself upon me, but I was certain it would become more clear with time. For now, she seemed content to merely inform me of her husbands words. The Cheesemonger's words. I nod my assent at the solemn Lord Commander of my son's feeble King's Guard and turn towards Ser Bonifer Hasty, "Would you kindly accompany me, my good Ser?"

Bonifer's ever present smile grew even wider when he responded, "Nothing would please me more, your Grace."

It was a calculated insult, keeping the Lord Commander slightly at a distance, and yet I felt it necessary. For as long as that man refused to distance himself from the debacle of the past few years I would refuse him any honors he felt himself entitled to. If only I could reasonably strip him of his position, but the traditions that we all cling to on these foreign shores forbid me.

I also told myself Bonifer's smile had little to do with it.

Almost immediately Ser Gerold's expression soured, but he has learned to hold his tongue. I would credit myself with that success, but alas...he has yet to learn to only venture where he is wanted. When the towering knight made moves to follow me, I slowly turned around. Equally slowly I let my gaze wander over him, over towards the the children, and back the knight. It took a moment, but the lumbering Hightower finally understood.

"That was ill considered, your Grace."

He means well, he truly does, but this isn't the time.

"I shall take that under advisement, my good Ser."

Thankfully, Bonifer is quite a bit sharper of wit and fell quiet immediately. We were neither alone, nor could I afford having any of my men – or any men at all – challenging my decisions. Especially not those that already spawn so very many rumors. The fact that most of them are true is, of course, entirely beside the point. Soon the two of us made it to Lady Serra's tent and shortly thereafter...two became one. I trusted Bonifer, but the poor man drinks.

That too was a concern for another day.

The Lady Serra was a bright character and if I did not know better that alone would have taken me in. She reminds me in parts of Joanna Lannister with her sheer exuberance for life, but there are hints of the darkness she shares with Loreza Martell. Despite how much she reminds me of my friendship with those two formidable women, I knew better than to allow this to sway me.

"Your Grace, I did not expect you so soon! Please, have a seat."

Of course you did not. Why would I let you hold all the initiative?

None of my sentiment reached my expression however when I smiled warmly and spoke, "All the children are taking their afternoon rests at once, it was a priceless opportunity."

Lady Serra's own smile was equally devoid of any true warmth, "Then I must thank you doubly so for spending your time with me, your Grace."

Best get on with matters.

"Has your Lord Husband any news to share, my Lady?"

Will she answer? Or will she dance and dodge until just before the council meeting is set to start?

It appeared she was not in a mood to delay, "Indeed, your Grace." She leaned in closer, "Illyrio has found some able hands in King's Landing. Hands...that will ensure there shall be no peace for the Stags."

It took all the strength I had not to sigh deeply. To cover for my disappointment in the vague information I reached for a drink and carefully sipped twice.

Fortunately she continued, "Nor any heirs."

Had I been any less careful drinking the cool beverage I would have surely shamed myself. Is this was matters have come to? Will I be party to poison now?

Lady Serra went on, "Hands...with a strong personal stake at the continued well being of us Dragons, your Grace."

And yet, none of these reservations would sway me. I would drown the entirety of Westeros in blood if need be and I was starting to suspect that might indeed be necessary.

283 AC – Orell Eaglesight son of Skavis Bearclaw, son of the Black Hawk

The kneelers kept coming and I could tell father was not pleased. Never in a hundred winters would he have believed the kneelers would ever keep their word to the Free Folk. I could hear him ranting all week and when I shared with the clan that my eagle sighted yet another ship coming into Hardhome it spelled the end of his resistance. Nobody would enjoy what was to come, but it had been half a year. Every moon, usually early in the month, a sleek and tall ship would appear at Hardhome carrying food, wine and cloth. Every moon the crew of the ship would share the same message.

'Prince Stag wants skin changers to help stop the Slavers. Spread the word. We will keep bringing food for a single year.'

The Elder of our clan, Torrhen Blind Owl, called for us all with his booming voice. Its sound would run all around the valley and if you listened closely you could hear his words long after the man fell silent. A curiosity which one day I would understand. I looked up at Sharp Eye, watched with pleasure as the animal soared high over me, and made my way over to the gathering spot. At the place where lightning struck so long ago our clan would gather and head the hard earned wisdom of the Blind Owl. Hundreds huddled around Strikepoint, around the many fires in the convenient rock formation,

"Hear ye, Hear ye! A great question lies before us!"

I looked around the gathered men, women and children and I could tell everyone was equal parts excited and fearful. This was something different, something entirely new. The kneelers don't behave like this. The kneelers do not like us.

So why would they bend so very far to our whims?

Before Blind Owl could continue however Duna Brighteyes scoffed and spit at his feat. Immediately tension ran across the clearing and those closest to the two kept their distance.

"No. We will not work for the kneelers. No matter how many of your ingrates enjoy their wines!"

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say.

Immediately the loud roar came from the people, "Shut your fucking mouth!" "Be quiet wench!" "I make wine out of your blood if you fuck this up!"

Six months. It took six months to get my people used to these Southron Andal comforts. Couldn't they see it was already too late?

Blind Owl spoke up again, "The kneelers have been clear! All they want are a few skinchangers to cease the Slavers that come in the night for our children!"

Duna responded quickly, "The skinchangers are ours! They bring the majority of our-."

Blind Owl chose to interrupt her, "How is this different?"

"Of course it's different! They would not lead our hunts! We'd be blind without them! What happens if the Thenn's decide they wish to take our new supplies? What happens if the Lord of Bones tries to take our new fishing vessels? All this wealth is useless and it's making us soft!"

"We fight!" "We run!"

Duna turned to the crowd, "How would we run now we carry so much shit! If we try to carry it with us we'll be slow and we'll get caught! If we leave it behind...why not do that now and go back to our woods! Why should we stay on these cursed shores?"

Now the crowd seemed to have shifted back to Duna's side. I wasn't sure which way I leaned, myself, but I knew this moment was...well...momentous.

283 AC – Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen – The Queen Who Finally Was

Occasionally I wonder to myself how this all came about, until I remind myself that my worries have never amounted to much. Nothing, save for the torments that were inflicted upon me and those I inflicted upon myself. If father could see me now, from the beyond where he rests, would he pity me? Or would he blame me?

Would he be wrong to do so?

I've always thought of myself as the daughter of the Dragon. As the sister of the Dragon first and later as the wife of the Dragon. Why have I never considered myself the Dragon? Was I not of the blood? Was I not prepared by the greatest Targaryen King in a century?

Why did I do so little?

I shook my head twice to clear my thoughts and once again resolved to simply do better. Neither of my children, or grandchildren – an involuntary shudder racked through me, not grandchildren, only a single grandchild – have anyone but me.

I must be better.

I was shaken from my internal castigation by the booming voice of Ser Bonifer Hasty heralding the arrival of Myles Toyne, Harbin Mudd and Jon Connington. All exiles, although some considerably longer so than others, and all were as the Magister claimed...exceedingly motivated on behalf of my grandson. I could well see it in the gaze of the Connington lad, but the others required further thought. The Magister himself, of course, was nowhere to be seen. As always the man would stumble into the council meetings at the last moment as a testament to his personal sense of importance. Was he simply conceited or did he truly believe no decisions can be made without him? Either way, the insights the Magister shared were useful, but I would not commit the folly of trusting that man. Instead I went over all I knew in regards to the mercenary captains that made up my sham of a council.

Myles Toyne was a third generation exile, ever since his grandfather lost their lands in the Stormlands after backing a particularly ill considered Blackfyre rebellion. He was, beyond any shadow of a doubt, the ugliest man I ever had the misfortune of meeting. He was also a gifted commander, the men of the Golden Company hung on his every word, and if I had my guess right...he did not trust the Magister either.

Harbin Mudd, if that actually was his name, on the other hand was a bit of a mystery. Few men in the Second Sons spoke about his ascent to his position as their commander. There were rumors aplenty -when are they ever not? - and a dark cloud of suspicion hung around the captain. He was feared, exceptionally so in fact, and he was obeyed without question. But...was there an opening perhaps?

Could I get one of -what I tentatively call...my men, perhaps even Ser Bonifer – in his position should it become vacant? Unlike Toyne, I did not believe there would be much of a clamor should that process be sped up. Perhaps his troops might even thank me for it.

"You were a fool, Connington. You had the Usurper to yourself for a month and you did nothing!"

It seemed like every third word to come spewing out of Mudd's gullet was hissed with a frightening intensity. Was the man truly on the brink of giving in to his rage, or was this yet another manipulation? Perhaps now I am the one clinging to paranoia, and yet...I cannot claim to be at ease with the man. There is something about him, something that goes beyond the casual cruelty he inflicts on his subordinates, that doesn't speak of mindless rage. Of mindless lashing out...

Something ephemeral, barely noticeable, and yet ever present.

Toyne's attempts at menacing were not to be dismissed though, "Certainly, I would not have been too difficult to burn down the settlement? Whether the Usurper burned or came out to face you, at least it would have been decisive."

Men.

Why do they keep thinking that escalating violence is always the answer?

Before Connington could reply I put on my bravest face and said, "Perhaps." When I had all their eyes on me a moment later I continued, "Or perhaps my cousin would have forced his way past you."

As always it infuriated the captains when I refused to stoop to their pettiness.

Mudd lashed out quickly, "Why must you continue to grant him that which you deny your true kin?"

I showed the slightest hint of a shrug, afterward a small smile, and replied, "The Baratheons are my kin."

Now the unfortunate redheaded Connington could not help himself, "That does not seem an attitude they share with you, your Grace."

Oh, dear boy.

"Why should that matter, good Ser?" I responded.

When the poor lad gaped in confusion I was reminded of all the time Rhaegar spoke of him. Despite my most fervent of pleas, my dearest child would simply never heed my words. Jon Connington was a possessive child and precious little of the scant maturing he has done since made that issue any less urgent. As always, Rhaegar was deaf to my concerns. It was yet another way in which he reminded me of my husband. All he cared about was what he perceived, and what he saw was a dedicated friend who asked for nothing but to be at his side. If only my dearest boy saw the enormity of that request, for where Jon Connington and Rhaegar went...precious few followed. My precious boy, utterly blind to the cost of his friend's affections.

Princes are not supposed to have only one friend, let alone Crown Princes.

"How can it not, your Grace?!"

With another small smile I replied, "Sentiments, no matter how disheartening, do not change the truth. The Baratheon's are kin, and there is nothing that can change that."

Toyne, with his beady eyes and burning gaze, quickly changed the subject, "You were offering your opinion on the Stoney Sept debacle, your Grace?"

Ah, there's the interesting side to Myles Toyne. In my mind I reckon the man akin to a starving and feral dog with a particularly appetizing horse-bone. When something caught his attention he would focus on it as nobody else could. I imagined this served him well at times, until it would not.

Another lever to use perhaps?

"Perhaps such a brutal response from the Hand of the King might have cowed the Lords of the Realm, or perhaps it would have driven them ever closer into the grasp of Lord Arryn. Certainly my late husband did our reputation no favors."

Mudd's response can swiftly, "I believe you may be overestimating the bravery of your Lords, your Grace. I find that men, whoever they are, usually react with compliance after a suitable showing of force."

No hissing this time. I took note of that.

Toyne added in, "And with Robert gone, who could be the face of the Rebellion? His brother perhaps? The child who had done nothing in that pretty castle of his, at the time?"

Oh, Toyne. I can hear the envy in your voice. Can the others?

I briefly looked over at Mudd and quickly came to conclusion he, at least, could. It appeared that Jon could as well, "Sitting still in that pretty castle of his-."

Toyne however did not let him finish, "I am willing to entertain many things, Jon, but commentary from a Connington that turned against Storm's End is meaningless."

Jon's less than admirable face twitched in all manner of displeasing ways before the lad managed to respond, "How dare you, you hypocrite? You! You whose ancestors did the same for far more petty-."

"Argella Baratheon was supposed to be my grandfather's. Why is it that when Lyonel Baratheon gets upset about such a deliberate insult a rebellion is justified, but a lowly Toyne dares to express-."

"I imagine that-."

Couldn't any of them let the others finish? At this pace we would get absolutely nothing done. I briefly looked at the only man I entrusted my safety to and could see Ser Bonifer's rolling his eyes at the bickering men. Good, he's paying attention. No matter how sweet his affections for me were, he does me little good if he couldn't keep his gaze off of me and onto my enemies.

Of which I'm surrounded by. Little new there.

283 AC – Maego of Myr –Pet Essosi to the Stag of Storm's End

My two companions could not be any different. One was young, painfully so in fact, brash and confident to the point of arrogance. The other was of a respectable age, with intelligence burning brightly in those golden eyes of his, but seemingly without a shred of personal ambition. Of course, both my companions would object to being characterized as companions. Surely, in their mind, I am but a lowly servant sent to keep a close gaze upon them. Never mind that I was the only one that spoke fluent Myrish. Never mind that neither of these men ever conducted any business in Essos, nor had extensive ties to the ruling caste of our society.

The younger lad's laugh echoed into the night as we got off the docks, "Tell me, my lord Morwyn, where shall you lead us to find succor on these foreign shores?"

He cannot have forgotten this is my home.

Lord Morwyn Tyrell rolled his eyes in quiet contempt and responded, "I believe that shall be the purview of our guide, Ser Gerrion."

Ser Gerrion Lannister was as green eyed and fair haired as any of his Westerlander kin. From what I gathered, that perpetual display of disdain for the world and a soaring confidence of their illustrious place in marked out as much as it did the rest of his relatives.

"Well?"

I smiled an empty grin at the young lad and simply gestured for him to follow me. We were headed towards an old dear acquaintance of mine, who I was certain would take us in. Maeron Belaesys, a friend from another life, had managed to survive the scandal that had seen my family cast out of Myr relatively unscathed. The poor man had lost none of his outstanding contracts, but was only permitted a few of his lucrative long term deals with the Temples On The Square.

Even the Conclave had occasional bouts of sympathy and piety.

On the way to Maeron's villa Ser Gerrion couldn't help but comment on all he saw. Did he truly want answers to his many questions, or was he simply constitutionally unable to cease his blathering? Despite my most fervent of urgings, His Grace simply would not abide by my words. I freely admit that I do not perfectly understand the society of the Sunset Kingdom's, but surely a Prince need not bow to the whims of a Lord?

No matter how powerful?

"Ooohh, what manner of tree is that?"

I muttered something ill mannered under my breath before answering, "That would be-."

Before I could answer the lad cut me off yet again, "Good gods, does that statue have sixteen teats? It's difficult to make out in this twilight. You shall have to show me again in the morning, Myrishman."

Only hard won experience with the peculiarities of Westerosi lords prevented me from exclaiming something untoward. All that kept me from screaming internally, however, was the reception we might get at Maeron's home. Would these Westerosi lords understand that a Magister of the Conclave has no need to bow to their petty pride?

Soon we came upon the villa, but before we reached it the gates swung open.

"Maego!"

Ah, he was exactly as I left him. Gregarious, loud and ever willing to disregard propriety.

"Maeron, my friend. It has been-."

Before I could even finish my greeting I felt my friend's arms around me. Perhaps he had gotten a little meatier, but it felt as if no time at all had passed. It felt like home and hearth. As if my very being just knew this was the place for me. "Come! Come inside, my friend! We have so much to discuss! How are your children? You should see little Vaella and Paedro! They've grown so much since they last embraced their Uncle!"

And then Maeron pushed me inside, completely disregarding the two Westerosi lords we left behind. I felt a small stab of something gnawing at me, and I knew I would not be able to shake it if I didn't at least attempt at placating their finicky honor. I had little appetite for disappointing my greatest patron, even if he might prove to be understanding.

"Please, my friend. Allow me to introduce my illustrious travel...companions."

I waved over at the younger first, "This is young Ser-."

Unfortunately Maeron simply waved it all off, "My friend, I beg off you. Do not force me to pretend to care for these barbarians from the Sunset Kingdoms. I can scarcely muster the wherewithal to do so in front of the Conclave!"

Oh gods.

The Lannister lordling looked rather taken aback at the notion he was of little importance while the aging Tyrell Lord was simply smiling bemusedly. Perhaps this wouldn't be all that bad?

I was almost immediately proven mistaken, "What did you call us, you Essosi-."

Fortunately Lord Moryn Tyrell intervened by grabbing the younger lords arm forcefully and quietly stating, "Perhaps we should not give the Magister of the Conclave more cause to believe us that, my good Ser?"

This was going to be a long night.

Servants, for that is all I would dare name them in the presence of these prickly Westerosi, came streaming out of the villa to secure our baggage and see to the needs of the lordlings. Meanwhile, I had actual business to attend before we all presented ourselves to the Conclave.

"Your friend is rude Myrishman."

What could I do beyond placidly smile and nod at that? Fortunately the elder lord seemed to understand the situation better by the moment. I'm not sure whether it had to do with the rude dismissal by Maeron Belaesys or if he had come to realization that they had precious few friends in this city. Myr, while exceedingly lovely, is never kind to those without friends. While the Westerosi lords entertained themselves, with presumable one of the boys or girls suited for that task, I followed my friend into his study.

"We've never danced around awkward subjects, my friend, so I shall not tonight." A heart beat or two later he continued, "The Conclave will likely accept the proposal put forth by your Prince. Particularly those that offer cheap and plentiful armors and weaponry in exchange for the experienced sailors of our navies."

Oh.

I did not believe that matters would have resolved this easily. Surely there was some catch?

When Maeron's expression turned sour however I felt a deep, bone deep, chill.

"There is however the matter of the developments in your Prince's new...port town."

Ah, the Glassworks.

I cleared my throat and said, "I understand where this weariness would come from, but between you and I..." I shrugged and continued, "The quality of their glass is rather disappointing. They truly should not be a threat to Myrish interests."

Now Maeron's expression turned even more sour, "My friend...the Conclave remembers you. They know of your talents. If you wished it, you could bankrupt the entirety of Myr by the secrets and skills you hold. It was different while your were but an exile, now however...you've acquired the ear of powerful men."

The deep chill suddenly got more intense.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry, but despite our fair city's even fairer weather, it has been truly cold for me. I wish to come in from the cold so to speak. To do that..."

Maeron pulled on the bell-rope hanging from his ceiling, "I must prove myself."

From one moment to the next, men suddenly filled the room. I found myself to my feet, staring at Maeron with a heartache that couldn't be truly described, and asked him, "I have done nothing, shared nothing of note with the Prince. Why would you believe me to be a threat?"

But even as I said it I knew it was irrelevant. This wasn't about anything I'd done. This was about everything I might do in exchange for a Lordship.

Before I was dragged away I tried another tactic, "Surely you do not believe Prince Stannis would continue to ally himself with you if I...disappear."

Maeron responded with a broken voice, "Yes, Maego. The Conclave believes so, goodbye my friend."

283 AC – Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen – The Queen Who Finally Was

The Cheesemonger finally appeared after what seemed like an eternity of male posturing. Together with the Pentoshi Magister, Lord Monfort Velaryon stepped into our rapidly crowding tent with an extraordinary wide smile. Presumably it was for my benefit.

"Your Grace, how does our Queen fare today?"

Pompous lordling, "Quite well, my Lord. Might I inquire as to the same?"

I let the man's response pass me by, only taking care to return his sentiments, and focus on the Magister. The man was slightly pudgy, but it was obvious he was a warrior of merit in his youth. Even so, the added weight that comes with age did not seem to encumber him. Especially not if any of the rumors regarding his proficiency with the rapier carry any truth.

"Your Grace."

"Your lordship."

At least the Magister does not attempt to flatter me. Perhaps because he knows it would not succeed or perhaps because he truly does not care whether I like him. I am not certain which of those options I would prefer. Quickly after the greetings the meeting began, but it took a while for the truly interesting subjects to come up. It appeared the Magister was intent on setting House against House in the various contested regions. The focus of his efforts seemed to be on the Reach, the Riverlands, the Crownlands and Dorne. The latter wasn't a particular surprise, nor were the Reach and the Riverlands. The Crownlands however have never truly bent to anyone who does not hold the Iron Throne. Their entire way of life is built around that infernal seat and its authority is the only one the various Crownlander Houses respond to. Why would the Magister believe us to have allies there?

His response came quickly, "It has become rather apparent that the Usurper and his attack dog of a younger brother have thoroughly ravaged the Crownlands. There are more than a few Houses willing to passively assist us, if not come out before we manage to land a sufficient army on their shores." The Magister smiled widely when he continued, "All we need is one coastal House that will not contest us landing on their shores." Another heart beat of silence, "Until it's too late of course."

Lord Velaryon asked the next question, "I must, yet again, broach the subject of alternate ports. We cannot keep sitting in the shade of Pentos forever, eventually the Usurper will force the matter."

Mudd bit out savagely, "And just where would you have us go, Seahorse?"

Lord Velaryon contemptuously responded, "Anywhere that is more than a week from King's Landing, for the moment."

Connington jumped in, "The Usurper will be able to fight us no matter which Free City we take refuge in. In that light, should we not attempt to tie ourselves to the strongest of them?"

That...was a surprising turn, Jon. Did you come up with that by yourself? I would have to wait and see who echoes this particular sentiment.

Mudd spoke once again, "Let the Stag come. We can yet match his strength on the sea and perhaps even take out his feral sibling. Surely this would be a worthy feat?"

The Magister simply rolled his eyes and said, "Perhaps, but all that would cause is the galvanization of the Seven Realms. At the moment all the various Lords of the Sunset Realms wish for is peace. Should we present ourselves a credible threat, they will find their will to fight."

I could not let that go by unchallenged. There were already precious few instances where I could stymy the Magister. I was not going to waste this opportunity.

"Please, Master Illyrio, enlighten me. Why then have you announced our...alliance so publicly?"

This time the Magister chose to smirk, "Should rumors have spread, they would not have appeared credible. It was better to remind the Court of the Stag that we live and thrive while at the same time appearing entirely nonthreatening."

Which is done by compelling that poor bard to take his own life?

Perhaps he understood what just flew through my mind as he continued, "What did we do beyond a song, a vague threat and a piece of theatrics? If the Stag responded badly we could have leveraged his response. If he simply ignored it, we reached our goals without overmuch loss, and all the while the Realm is reminded of the lure of the Dragon."

Or they simply continue to see us as butchers.

Toyne shared the next matter, "I find myself agreeing, no matter how distasteful, with the Connington. The Usurper will not follow us into Volantis, nor will it risk rousing that beastly Free City."

The Magister responded, "Do you imagine the Stag would dare cross the Elephant and the Tiger?"

Toyne simply shrugged, "Not if he's distracted." He narrowed his eyes when he continued, "Which I recall you taking up as your duty."

Now the Cheesemonger smiled brightly and said, "Very well, it appears I must show my hand to extend a measure of trust."

This theater would bore me if it wasn't so dangerous.

"The Stags will indeed be distracted. Indeed...they already have been, considering that foul attack on their budding new port on the Sea of Dorne."

Connington spoke up again, "That's it?"

The Magister shook his head slowly, as if condescending to a child, and continued, "I have arranged for careful messages to reach the ears of the younger Stag. The elder Stag's attack dog has the fortunate tendency to believe rumors should they be confirmed by various different sources. Despite his many...talents, I imagine this is a lesson one only learns from experience." A heart or two later, "I certainly have."

What is he implying?

Mudd once again hissed, "So you've infiltrated his network of agents, I've still heard nothing to convince me that the Usurpers gaze will not fall upon Volantis."

Once again the Cheesemonger shrugged and replied, "Surely you do not expect any specifics?"

Another hiss that almost made me flinch, "Yes."

Now the Magister sighed – yet another piece of theatrics -, "Very well. The Stags have been made to believe the assault on their port has been financed by the Lyseni's and the Tyroshi Archon. Their gaze will not reach beyond either of those cities."

Connington added, "Will they attack them?"

Toyne asked, "Can they beat them?"

The Magister responded, "Does it matter? We shall be in Volantis, enjoying the hospitality of the Old Blood while we entrench ourselves in the city."

Lord Velaryon asked the question I wanted answered, "And how would we do that? I only wanted to settle somewhere else in the short term. Surely even Volantis wouldn't be a deterrent to the Usurper?"

For a long moment the Magister looked intensely disappointed before he replied, "What is stopping them now beyond a lack of will to chase us? We shall not be a concern to the Stags until our children grow into true claimants."

And what am I then?

I found out shortly after.

Lord Velaryon once again asked, "And how would we embed ourselves in such an alien land?"

The Cheesemonger looked as if someone just told him as his competitors cattle died a horrible death, "I believe, my Lord, that is it time for Volantis to once again have a woman at the helm. A century without a female Triach is entirely too long, wouldn't you say? Perhaps all they lacked was one of suitable lineage?"

Oh.

AN: Feedback and commentary appreciated! Please drop a review! :)