Blessed Baelor SI (ASOIAF)

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Chapter XXIX: A Houseboat on the Greenblood​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Chapter XXX: Debellatio​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the scorpions never came.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Chapter XXXI: The Settling of the Conquest​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler: Map

https://imgur.com/a/new-map-of-seven-kingdoms-pZwytvt#0E9Cx8T

 

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Chapter XXXII: Revelation​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No hope of comfort or repose was there for them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

…

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXXIII: In the Seventh Year of His Reign
​

168 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned towards Daeron: "Daeron, you shall ride to Summerhall and gather the knights sworn to it and then march to Harrenhal. They are Marchers, they know their way around the mountains and if you'll do well to become closer to them. Ser Olyvar will join you."

His grandfather made to protest: "Surely the boy is too young to be given such a command. He has not even earned his spurs. It is folly."

The King silenced him with a raised hand: "He will go. My brother was his age when he went to war with Dorne and led and fought must admirably. I hope that my cousin shares his valour besides his name."

Daeron preened at the compliment and at the authority Baelor had bestowed upon him. He imagined great battles and tales and songs that will long be told after his death – like how they spoke in taverns of the king returning from Dorne with the skulls of Martell, of Wyl, and of Yronwood, and laying them under Daeron's tomb, with the words "Daeron, your work is done."

Baelor continued: "When you shall return, you will have your knighthood, which you so greatly crave. It is better to have gained it in battle than how I did – a formality, to allow me to be crowned as a knight. Before you leave – do not forget to ask for Elaena's favour publicly – it would fit for a minstrel's song. Now be off."

Daeron left the room. Walter Caron was lounged against the wall – he sprang up at his sight: "Did the king grant you leave to hunt?"

"Aye, but I was given another quarry. We're to hunt the mountain clans in the Vale – they've slain and robbed two dozen septons, after we gather Summerhall's knights. But first I must find dear Elaena, beg her forgiveness, and ask her favour – the king fancies to make the maidens swoon over my deeds of arms."

---

"That was not wise nephew" said prince Viserys. "Daeron is still a boy, still prone to jests. He has no experience in command."

"Fear not uncle, I shall not deprive you off a grandchild. Let the people of the realm think he led the host. Aemon and Olyvar shall join him. They will command in truth, not him. But it will be well for the future Protector of the Realm to have a reputation akin to my late brother."

"When he shall return, I shall knight him and invest him as prince of Summerhall along Elaena as princess of Dragonstone and shall announce them betrothed before all the court."

---

Brother,

You had your son squired and knighted at court – that is well. He has gained no position or office and no friendship of worth – that it is not so well. The king sent Prince Daeron to lead a host of Rivermen against the wildlings of the Vale. Quickly send the boy and a dozen men-at-arms with him to join the host at Harrenhal. Blood and battle make more lasting friendships than peace, and Prince Daeron would rise quite high in future years. Do not let this opportunity pass you by – your son must grasp it with both hands.

Your always leal brother,
Balthasar Grell

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXXIV: Political Headaches
​

"The envoy of the Free and Most Exalted Republic of Lys, Tregar Moraqos, comes into the king's presence!" the herald announced in a great booming voice.

In came a man who had seen mayhap thirty years pass him by, his appearance Valyrian in every aspect: the pale skin, the silver-gold hair, the lilac eyes. He was clad in purple robes of silk, a heavy chain of gold wrapped around his neck, made of figures of naked maidens holding hands. He wore no sword, his belt, of finest leather and silver gilding holding nought but a pouch. He was luxurious in every aspect, and arrogance showed upon his face, though the twitching of his mouth and the fiddling of hands showing a certain amount of dread. He was an envoy who desired to show to all the might and wealth of his nation, but knowing the precarious position of it – a castle built of parchment, looking mighty but soon the be blown away by the next wind. He hated to come begging, yet he would have to accept what was offered.

He came forth before the throne of the king of the Sunset Kingdoms. He craned his neck to look up – for king Baelor sat ten feet above upon a seat made of twisted steel, jagged swords and knives tangled up and melted, and beyond all – uglier to look at than a maiden with greyscale. He wondered how the king could sit upon that seat – uncomfortable and dangerous.

King Baelor, looking down upon him, was clad in his finest armour – plate as black as night, a silver, seven-headed dragon emblazoned upon his chest, his crown simple in compare – but a single band of gold. They shared the same look – pale, silver-gold hair, and purple eyes, though the shades differed. He had heard the common people talk of the kindness of the king, his compassion – but he saw none, for the king was a vision of grimness, looking down upon him as he was vermin beneath his feet. A thought, anticipating failure, passed through his mind, and a shiver went up his spine. The king was far handsomer than his throne, but to look upon him inspired fear ten times greater.

"What does an envoy of the Most Exalted Republic of Lys seek from us? Have you come against to protest the reprisal of our ships against the trade of your city? We have told you again and again, they have done so by our leave. Since the first unjust action of the Republic of Lys, we have not been bound to observe truce to it, our permission for reprisal has been written on parchment by the hands of our clerks and sealed with our own seal. We have not done so lightly, for we have inquired in the matter, and sworn testimony we have gathered on the actions of your city against our ships, our trade and our interests. We shall not surrender such men to your justice, for it is but justice they seek, to recuperate goods lost through the perfidy of the Lyseni. Not once you have offered redress, and as such we have not decreed the reprisals forfeit." came the words of the king, biting and harsh as the winter wind.

He answered poisoned tongue with silver tongue: "Most Illustrious King and Serene Majesty, the Conclave and the First Magister of the Free and Most Exalted Republic of Lys have entrusted me with this embassy so that we might settle upon legal redress and restore the peace and friendship between our two nations." His own father had lost two score ships to Westerosi privateers, pirates clad in robes of legitimacy, and however much it pained him to speak these words, this was what had to be done for the good of Lys.

"This is not a matter to be swiftly decided upon. We shall take in the advice of our council and shall grant then an audience to you, so we may establish the terms of this peace." was the king's dismissal, and the envoy bowed deeply, and bent so, he backtracked his steps, as he had been instructed – that no man could turn his back on the king. But it seemed that by ignorance, or malice, he had been taught wrong, for the laughter of the courtiers were answer enough. It pricked at his pride, but to turn his back now would shame him more greatly – perhaps he could claim later that it was a custom of his native city.

At last, he reached the doors, which were swiftly shut by the word of the king, and he fled to all haste to his appointed chambers.

---

"For what reason have the Lyseni have so suddenly turned towards peace. For years they have showered themselves in pride and watched with arrogance their merchant ships sunk and their trade whittled to nothing. And yet they persisted in their folly. What has changed?" I asked the master of whisperers.

Lord Velaryon answered instead: "I judge it obvious. No doubt the last of the sellswords in their employ have turned cloak after another ship carrying the gold and silver for their purse has been captured by our daring privateers. I wager that the last of the Lysene holdings in the Disputed Lands have been captured by the Myrish or the Tyroshi, and now that they have been cut down to their island, they humble themselves at last."

"Lord Velaryon speaks truly" interjected Maester Rowley. "But there is more to it than that, as my whisperers have just now informed me. Since the Lysene war fleet has been sunk by the Master of Ships, the Lyseni had barely a moment of respite to rebuild their warships. The Conclave have unwisely decided, two years ago, to employ the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles to escort their ships and provide protection, even allowing them into their own harbour. Our privateers have adjusted their tactics to address this development."

"But the events in the Disputed Lands have changed the calculations of the corsairs, who have seen the star of Lys dulling and falling from the sky. They attacked the city of Lys, but did not manage to take the Valyrian walls, inside which the magisters sheltered with their wealth. They were enraged enough to loot and pillage and burn everything outside the walls. Every palm and fruit tree on the island has been cut down and burn needlessly, every vineyard trampled under feet, every manse and palace outside the wall has been made ruins. Once they made their desolation complete, they left with their plunder."

"Once they judged who was guilty, and the last one of them had his wine poisoned or had been stabbed to death by a pleasure slave; once they had played their games of power and had stabbed and poisoned another few magisters and their household, the Conclave settled upon another First Magister, to whom this envoy is kin. They have judged that it is for the greater good of their Republic that peace be made with the Seven Kingdoms, so that they may recover their fortunes with their trade unhindered."

"Give me leave and I'll take the fleet and conquer the city, Your Grace." said the Oakenfist, his eagerness visible upon his face. "Let us deal with this pest once and for all."

"As much as I abhor Lys and their practices more than that of their other city – for they have reduced slaves to only one purpose – to satiate their lusts and perversions, and as much as that city has for centuries endeavoured to be the perfect portrayal of the sin of Lust, I do not think it wise. The walls were built by dragonlords and not easily taken. And Essos would not look kindly upon the city being conquered by the Iron Throne. Not when Tyrosh and Myr and even Volantis look upon that prize with greedy eyes. They'll sooner submit by their own will to one of the three than to us, for it would allow them to keep to their ways."

"What then it is the path you propose?" asked the Grand Maester. "The lords of Westeros still remember the Lysene Spring and the fall of the Rogare Bank, and to merciful a peace would not be looked kindly upon."

"Worry not, maester, I have no intention to sell peace so cheaply." I said, smiling widely.

---

Tregar Moraqos was invited into the chamber of the Small Council by the king's cupbearer. At that ornate table sat the king on one end and counsellors at his left and right. A seat was left empty at the other end of the table, left vacant by the Grand Maester, who went about his duties.

But the Lysene envoy knew it nought. He advanced with a bravery that he knew not, and sat upon the chair, thinking that a position at the other end of the table entitled to him – as a representative of a foreign nation, come to make peace.

"Have you forsworn your mother and father, and your city, turned your cloak and sworn yourself into my service? Have you shed the sinful customs of your land to seat so eagerly upon that seat?"

"I beg Your Grace's pardon! My loyalty remains unimpeachable, and it is most insulting for Your Grace to claim otherwise." spluttered the envoy.

"That seat on which you sat belongs to my Grand Maester. All those who seat at this table sit to provide me counsel, are my friends not my foes. You know what a maester is I presume? I know the concept of celibacy and chastity is viewed with great horror among you Lyseni – my mortification of the flesh must seem an abomination in your eyes. If you are not here to counsel me, then stand, good man. Stand straight, not hunched, you are an envoy." the king baited him.

With barely repressed rage, the Lysene stood up.

"I have been given counsel by my small council and we have agreed that to not complicate the matter of peace with long negotiations, investigations and inquiries, we shall ask the Republic of Lys to make amends to the sum of three hundred thousands dragons a year for the next ten years." said the king.

"The Conclave thanks Your Grace most profusely for your understanding." said the envoy.

"I am not finished" interrupted king Baelor. "That is not our only demand. Since in the unfortunate events that resulted in the fall of the Bank of Rogare have led to its assets seized by Lys, we demand that restitution be made to our people who have lost the coin entrusted to its care. It is most fortunate that the documents of its branch in our city have survived in their entirety those tumultuous years."

"We shall make peace, but I do not offer our hand in friendship. We shall allow Lysene ships to trade in our ports. But they shall pay a tariff equal to the value of their goods. Our officials would inspect the ships and assess the worth of your goods, and you shall pay the tariff before you shall be allowed to sell your goods."

"Furthermore, the library of Lysandro Rogare, which passed into the hand of his daughter only to be seized shall be gathered together once again and, given that the last of the Rogares have perished, shall be given to the last of their blood, our cousins. I have in my own library a catalogue of the works it once held which I would most happily lend to this cause."

"And last of all, we desire Truth."

"Your Grace, I have come here in the utmost sincerity, I assure you." the Lysene defended himself."

"Truth, the Valyrian steel longsword of House Rogare, my goodman! Did your sire send you here half-taught?" barked the king at him.

Tregar Moraqos was hesitant to answer: "Your Grace, I have not been sent here to offer such terms for peace. I must consult with the Conclave."

At that moment, the doors opened and the Grand Maester returned, with news: "Your Grace, a raven has arrived from Bloodstone. The Moondancer has come ashore, with Lady Laena."

"Gods be praised!" yelled Velaryon. "Your Grace, I must ask your leave to sail and meet my daughter, for many years have passed since I last saw her face."

"Go with my blessing, milord Velaryon." said the king joyously. "But I must ask you to take half the Royal fleet with you, and Moraqos here, and after your reunion, to go to Lys and kindly remind them that it would be wise to accept our terms of peace."

The Grand Maester cleared his throat loudly, and all faces turned towards him: "That is the best of news, which I thought to share first. But a missive came from Lord Tully. Lords Blackwood and Bracken have started their feud again, and neither is willing to submit to their Lord Paramount's judgement. Lord Tully is prepared to make war upon them but thought it wise to refer the matter to the Iron Throne lest he be accused by the malicious of breaking the King's Peace."

The king sighed, then banged his head on the table. At last, he spoke: "I suppose that only cutting all their damnable lot in twain and sewing them together half-Blackwood and half-Bracken would stop that damnable feud, but then I would wager the right foot would spite the left and the sword arm shall cut the other. Yet man was born to suffer – I shall have to ride to the Riverlands myself to get rid of this headache."

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXXV: A Plague On Both Your Houses​

Blackwood and Bracken had once again broken the King's Peace. They had called on kin to the fourth degree, on vassals and on friends bound by alliance, had claim another slight upon their honour and rode to war. No friends came to their aid, for they had tired of this unending, eternal feud thousands of years ago.

As for neighbours – it was because of one that the feud turned once again bloody. A landed knight whose fee of Woodhedge bordered both those lordships had but one daughter as his heir. Said daughter, unwed, had grown heavy with child. Out of rage or shame, the old knight's heart gave out and he met the Stranger. The daughter had died in childbirth, having named no father.

Edmund Blackwood, a cousin to Bloody Ben, the Lord of Raventree and Otho Bracken, cousin to Lord of Stone Hedge had each claimed to be father to the boy and claimed custody of him and his land. The steward of the castle had not surrendered the boy to neither Blackwood, nor Bracken, and shut the gates, preparing for a siege, and sent a raven to Riverrun.

The Lords Blackwood and Bracken had each mustered their men to aid their kin and had fought battle after battle under the walls of Woodhenge, each trying to deny the other the prize.

It was this mess I had come to unravel, having marched with half a thousand knights and three thousand men-at-arms, a host joined by another thousand led by Robin Tully. I did not fear neither Blackwood nor Bracken, but I judged such a show of force necessary to cower those two feuding houses.

I sat now in the lord's seat in the wooden hall of Woodhenge, Blackwood and Bracken submitting to judgement at my arrival.

"State your claim, each in your turn. Let me hear whatever quarrel have led you to break the peace this time." I said and gestured towards the Bracken knight, to forestall another quarrel about whoever was to address me first.

"Your Grace" exclaimed Benjicot Blackwood, to aid his cousin's claim. "Surely you shall not take into account the words of a Bracken over a Blackwood. After all, it was Blackwood, not Bracken who flew the black banner, and it was not them that proffered friendship to your august royal grandmother. Pardon me, Your Grace, but I cannot tie my tongue in the presence of such perfidious folk." he finished, casting a dark gaze towards the Bracken party.

Angered, I answered him: "Lord Amos Bracken answered with his life for his treachery, lord Blackwood, as both of you should answer now if you have any sense of honour! You have broken the King's Peace. You disgraced yourselves, both of you, you shamed yourselves! A man who breaks the King's Peace loses the king's friendship, milords! By the law of the Conqueror, you are equal in rebellion and treachery. I ought to attain and hang you all, but I am a merciful king. But I assure you, there is no doubt that you will answer for this."

"Before I adjudicate this folly, let me show you that while I am merciful, I am not without ruthlessness. You, Ser Lyle, are now but Knight of Stone Hedge. And before you crow in joy, Benjicot Blackwood, you are now but Master of Raventree. Neither of your or your heirs shall retain the right of pit and gallows. You will be lesser in precedence than the rest of the Riverlords – Frey shall be held greater in title and distinction than either of you. Let that mark your shame!"

"Now Ser Otho, say your piece!"

The Bracken knight came forth, and spoke: "Your Grace, I have lain with Sheira of Woodhenge, and fathered a child upon her. It is my right as his father to claim him and govern his lands for him in his minority. But the treacherous steward has no doubt conspired with Blackwood to claim the boy and the lands for themselves, with false testimony."

"Those are lies, damn lies and slander, sire!" yelled Edmund Blackwood. "All who look upon the babe's face can see that he has my raven hair, and his mother's blue eyes."
The Bracken knight laughed: "Your Grace, Blackwood cannot think of a better lie. The boy's eyes, and his nose are mine, writ small. All who knew his mother know that her hair was as dark as a raven's wing. That Blackwood here has the same hair signifies nothing."

I addressed then the maester, asking for clarifications.

"Alas, the girl has said nought about the boy's father. In truth, he looks in all aspects like his mother. But as the name would attest, her house was born of a union between Blackwood and Bracken, and there is no surprise that one could find either Blackwood or Bracken in his features. We have no way of knowing the paternity of the boy."

I had an inkling of a solution to the matter, so I asked that the boy be brought forth. I drew Blackfyre from its scabbard and said:

"One says 'This is my son, and the other is a liar', the other says 'Nay, this is my son, and he the liar'. Perhaps I should divide the child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other."

I had hoped, that like in the tale of Solomon, the true parent should renounce the child, so that he might live. But alas, it was not to be so. The hatred had festered too deep into their hearts, and mayhap the girl had lain with them both, and a whisper of doubt in the minds of both Blackwood and Bracken bade them stay silent, rather than to allow the boy and his inheritance to remain in the hands of his despised foe.

I waited a moment, and then another, but neither opened his mouth to protest. So instead of them, I spoke:

"A plague on both your houses! Neither of you would ask would relinquish the boy to the other, so that he might live, and in your foul hatred you would allow your kin to be slain, to be made worm's meat. You shame the Father by your silence, villains."

"Ser Olyvar, take Blackfyre from my hand and cut those two vermin in twain, split them from head to bowels. They are more deserving of that fate than a boy who has done naught wrong in this life, but to be born – and even that, not of his choice."

"Do not draw your swords, Blackwood, Bracken" I called to them, "lest you invite doom upon the rest of your houses!".

The white cloak obeyed my orders, and before the divided corpses of those two, I passed judgement: "The boy shall go to neither Blackwood, nor Bracken. He shall hold Woodhedge. Further more, so that you might not find further cause to quarrel, the boy shall have the east bank of the Widow's Wash, from Crossbow Ridge to Rutting Meadow, Grindcorn Mill, and Lord's Mill, Muddy Hall, the Ravishment, Battle Valley, Oldforge, the villages of Buckle, Blackbuckle, Cairns and Claypool, and Mudgrave, Waspwood, Lorgen's Wood, Greenhill, the Teats and Honeytreee. If I missed some village you have quarrelled over, I no doubt Lord Tully has all your suits written on parchment in his castle – if another land is found in question, it will go to the boy."

"Lord Tully, you shall set the boundary stones for the boy's holdings, you shall take with you every son of Blackwood or Bracken that can walk, and beat the soles of their feet with branches of birch at every stone, so that when they shall be grown men, they shall remember the bounds. Every boy born to either house shall be subject to such perambulation, beaten as such when he is seven years of age – let that small pain be their memory, so they shall not account boundary by blood shed and kin slain."

"If you quarrel over any other village, town, or mill – the judgement will be but one: it is neither yours, nor his, but the boy's. If you draw blood and break the King's Peace again, no matter who was at fault, I shall make outlaws of you all, and grant Raventree and Stonehenge entire, with all its lands and incomes, to the boy. Now begone from my sight, and if one of you steps foot in my court to beseech me to turn away from this judgement, I shall order a hundred lashes upon your backs and shall turn you away from my castle as if you were a beggar and a layabout."

Once the two feuding former lords left, taking their kin – living and dead, with them, the steward of Woodhenge approached me: "My lord, the boy has been left without kin. If he is not be the ward of either Blackwood or Bracken, whose he shall be?"

I looked upon the child, sleeping soundly in the arms of his wetnurse, and asked about his name.

"He is a bastard, so he is a Rivers. But his mother died without giving him a name, and we had more pressing matters afterwards than that. The boy is unnamed, and now has no mother, nor father to name him." said the steward with deference.

"I took two fathers from him, however unworthy they were, so I shall be as a father to him. The boy shall foster with me until his majority, when he shall take charge of his holdings. I name him Solomon, a worthy name. I shall have one of my clerks pen a writ of legitimisation. The boy shall be known as Solomon Justman, Lord of Woodhenge. He has the blood of both raven and stallion, so he can bear that name, even if he is not kin to the last who bore the name. Let that name remind him to be better than his two natures of Blackwood and Bracken."

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXXVI: Home, Sweet Home



​

The roads were abysmal. In certain places, calling the Kingsroad a dirt track was a most gracious compliment. Going from King's Landing to Woodhedge, and from Woodhedge to Harrenhal, then back to the Red Keep was a great chore. I had spent the last few years in King's Landing, busy preparing the Synod and working on the Seven-Pointed Star that I had forgotten their state.

I had met at Harrenhal with Daeron and his host and gave some last moment advice to him. I told him that if he bedded some whore, Elaena would have him gelded, and that the incomes bestowed upon her were great enough to hire the best of the worst to do the deed. I told him that if he felt craven-ish before a battle, getting drunk the night before it would just make fighting more dire – it was hard to split skulls when your own was split by a headache from a hangover. I told him to listen to his uncle Aemon and to Ser Olyvar, and not to make rash decision in his councils.

I then took leave of Harrenhal and made way to King's Landing. I was received at the gates of the Red Keep by my uncle Hand, who seemed surprised at the babe and the wetnurse that carried him. I had forgotten in my agitation to even send word of my judgement to my uncle.

He took me aside and whispered angrily in my ears: "When did you even had time to father a bastard? I thought you better than mine own son."
I laughed at him and whispered back: "The boy is a bastard, but not of royal blood. His father is either a Blackwood, or a Bracken – only the heavens know. It is the boy they quarreled over – I made him a lord, gave him all the lands ever in question between those two damn houses, which I have lessened in rank, and decided to foster the lad myself."

"I was not made aware of this … judgement." gritted my uncle. "I think it would be best to discuss it with the Small Council at the soonest opportunity."

"Dismiss them." I spoke.

"I have not yet even summoned them. I had thought to give you time to rest from the road." he answered.

"Nay. Dismiss them: thank them for good and loyal service, grant them sizeable pensions and honours, give a feast in their honour, and release them from their office – save for my uncle Velaryon." I answered, with a sudden stubbornness.

"Have they done something to anger you. It is not wise to do so – they would not thank you for it, and mayhap they shall speak ill to their peers of such a sudden decision."

"I have pondered it deep and long enough on the road, uncle. They are not my council. Half of them were my father's appointments, half my brother's – but they have always been entirely your men. I do not begrudge it – but I have ruled for seven years now, it is time to make the Small Council my own. You shall remain as Hand, I ask of you, if you do not feel sufficiently offended by such a decision." I said, with a resolute voice.

"And who would you appoint to their seat instead? Perhaps and Edgerton, and Edgerton… and an Edgerton?" he barked at me.

"Nay, they are quite useful were I put them – rather than move those pawns on the board, I'll add another few. Give me time to rest, and then we shall discuss this matter further in my solar." I replied, tired from the road, and in need of a featherbed to rest my weary bones and aching muscles.

Lord Hunter had been a competent enough Master of Laws, though inclined to favour those of his own estate, and think the words of lesser men of lesser worth. He was also very eager to please, a difficult when the two men he wished to ingratiate himself to were at odds – the Hand and the King.

Lord Ossifer Plum had only served as a figurehead for better men that held offices under him – and that I could not begrudge him. For all that he was no great learned men in matters of finance and economy, he was a man who had an eye for learned and competent men to do the things he could not do. Perhaps it was his laziness that pushed him to appoint fine men, so he would have a lesser burden in his position.

Maester Rowley was a fine enough Confessor, but as Master of Whisperers, he was not the best I could afford, and I had thought best to replace that office with a different one, whose master required a few other skills besides.

---

Once I had fallen into my bed, I slept until the next morning. After washing myself and after the Seven Prayers, I was ready once again to see to my realm.

I broke my fast in my solar, and it was to my surprise that it was not my uncle that first sought audience. No, it was the gaggle of scholarly septons that I kept at my court – Razyn, Kellam, Mawrey, and Banazyr, by some accident of fate all shorter in stature than an average man, though they could not be called dwarves.

Mawrey was the first to address me, trembling with anticipation: "Your Grace, we have put in order the latest of the fragments whose meaning we have disentangled, and it is our greatest of joys to announce that the first seven manuscripts of our translation have been finished. We have, by your gracious princely uncle's leave, enlisted the work of all scribes in the city that were not in current employ to make copies of it."

"Has the High Septon and the Holy Conclave been made aware of the fact, holy brother?" I asked him, joyous from good news so early in the day.

"We have not, sire. We had thought it wiser to await Your Grace's return, for it was you, sire, that has laboured the most at it. We can only call ourselves your clerks in this great endeavour. And perhaps we have been to eager to set the scribes to the task of copying it, but we had judged that the work of a man so pious, holy and learned will be accepted with the most open of arms by the highest of the Faith." said Kellam, who had stood at the back of the chamber, and had been the least vocal in his excitement.

The work they spoke of, a translation of the Seven-Pointed Star, had occupied, when I had leisurely time for myself, the greatest part of my reign until now. From acquiring the oldest manuscripts of the scriptures, several that were acquired at great expense from the Arryns, and others by exchanging many a Valyrian scroll with the Citadel, I had amassed the oldest and most original variants of the holy writ. Crushing Dorne beneath my heel brought me an unexpected advantage, for I took for myself all the works of fallen Rhoyne that Nymeria had brought with her, or the Martells had acquired in the centuries afterwards.

The most ancient versions of the sacred books were not written in Rhoynish too, but the earliest septon had more often than not learned their letters in the great cities of the Rhoyne that neighboured Old Andalos. False friends and borrowed words from Ancient Rhoynish were many in the old versions, and after the coming of the Andals, the translations from Old Andalic into the common tongue suffered from the ignorance of these particularities of the septon entrusted with this task.

I was certain that my own translation was more reliable than those in current use by the Faith, and if a King Baelor's Version of the Seven-Pointed Star became in use in the years following, I would be most pleased.

---

Next, though I expected him earlier, was Uncle Viserys, and his reason was as expected:

"Who do you have in mind for the Small Council, nephew?" he asked, not even bothering with a greeting.

I had thought on the matter on my way from the Riverlands, so my choices had been long settled: "For Master of Laws, I would have you summon Oscar Tully from Hellholt. He has ever been a most just man, and never failed to keep the conduct of his men in the bounds of chivalry and morality. To give him but a lordship, and a title – as vaunted as the Holy Hundred is – seems a poor reward. His nephew and the Riverlands would thank me for it – even more so if they would consider his appointment the proof that their kingdom has not fallen from my esteem after what happened with Blackwood and Bracken."

My uncle had nothing against it: "I suppose after the Vale, the Riverlands should have a place among your council. I must presume then that your next Master of Coin will not be from the Crownlords? Were he is to be from – have you a Lannister in mind?"

"Nay", I answered him, "the Lannisters have enough gold and coin that their lord would need all their ilk to count it. I need a man more suited for counting coppers, not gold. I need those two Edgertons in Chroy Ychor– they have brought the treasury a great deal of gold through their skills, have they not."

"Aye." he answered, with a pinched face. "I had thought you rose the Edgertons too high, but it seems you have appointed them for merit, not blood. If you are not to name their sons to their posts, then my worries that they would all but be overlords over the Greenblood would abate. The spice trade that that Lord Damion has organized with the Summer Islands brings even more coin than the Greenblood itself."

"Indeed" I reported to him. "Cousin Herman sent his latest reports directly to me in the Riverlands – they are on the desk if you care to read them. Lord Damion has used the royal merchant fleet to great use – buying and selling spices, silk, Volantene glass and other luxuries. And my cousin has taken to see if he might grow cotton and sugarcane in the lands left to the royal domain and his own. With the taxes from olive oil and the orchards of lemons and other such fruits, the Greenblood has been proven to be a great boon indeed."

"If not Lord Damion, or Lord Criston, then who?" inquired my uncle, mindful of the purpose of his visit.

"I have considered a Manderly, but I am not quite settled on it. Think about it and find me someone good with coin, from the Stormlands or the Reach, though if they shall be from the latter, I prefer them rather ashier than in full bloom, if you understand my meaning." I answered him.

He did, though he did not appreciate my use of such metaphors, nor my preferences. He continued:

"As for the Master of Whisperers?"

"I have decided to change the office. I shall name a Master of Diplomats, who shall oversee our relations with other nations – with permanent envoys. In the Free Cities and the Summer Isles for now, though I have given thought to a great convoy sent to YiTi, for trade and for diplomacy. He shall also oversee the work of the whisperers, at home, or abroad. Give the confessors over to Tully, save for a few – to deal with spies, or traitors and such." I informed him.

"I would have greatly wanted Cousin Herman for the task, but he is well suited to oversee the southernmost of my lands. Bring me a list of good men and I shall bring another – those who shall not get the greatest of prizes might very well become an envoy." I continued.

Struck by a sudden query, I changed the subject: "Speaking of journeys to far away places, I have not heard anything about Laena, save for her safe return. What misfortunes came her way, that we all thought her dead?"

"You spoke of a trade journey to YiTi, but Laena has already been there." said Viserys, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I was startled: "But I thought she was to sail south and to the west, not into the Jade Sea."

"And so she did." he delighted in informing me. "But she has been beset by the same misfortunes that once fell upon Elissa Farman. They found those island, mind you – and their unheard-of spices and fruits. But the journey back was not so easy. As the Lady Meredith had been swept away by winds and raging sea in the days of old, so did the Moondancer. They landed on the coast of Sothyoros, and Lady Laena had a brave enough crew that they thought her sudden decision to circle 'round Sothyoros a plausible one."

"The Moondancer entered the Jade Sea by way of the Saffron Straights, and she took a page out of her grandfather's book. She managed to persuade the Golden Emperor to give her enough silk and spices, and jade and other treasures - on credit – for she hardly had any great treasure on her ships. She came back with a dozen ship and a promise of great and wondrous treasures to bring to YiTi. She has sent you a letter, asking if you might be willing to part with some of your curious objects and artefacts – for it seems that Eastern Emperor is as scholarly a man as you. She's sold off most of her goods, so she has more than enough to pay back the Emperor, though she left two ships full as gifts to yourself, her gratitude for the Stepstones."

"And she has brought you a letter from the Emperor. There is a translation in the Common Tongue, no doubt by Laena's own hand, and it quite strangely addresses you as equal in right, as an Emperor. She said envoys of lesser rulers were forced to prostrate until their noses touched the ground, and that she had too pretty a dress to dirty on the floor. So, she made an emperor out of you. She further said that the Emperor was most impressed by your display of familial piety to your elder brother – that you destroyed a realm for his death by perfidious means."

"Speaking of family, it seems that the Velaryons can not keep to the right side of the bed."

"Has uncle Alyn fathered a bastard, for his lack of a son?" I asked, understandably curious.

"Nay, Laena came back with two half-YiTish babes, both healthy daughters. And judging by her high regard and words of praise for the Emperor, she need not name the father." he answered, somehow both amused and disapproving.

"It is quite likely she will never marry – send word to her that I shall legitimize the babies, though I disapprove of her behaviour. And send a proposal for a betrothal for her second daughter, if she would accept it."

"For whom? I would not have either Daemion or Aelor wed to a bastard girl, save if she were to inherit Driftmark and the Stepstones. And I mean no insult to my goodbrother Alyn." protested the Hand.

"Nay. I thought she would make a fitting bride for Solomon. A bastard boy wed to a bastard girl – surely none shall see it a misalliance?" were my assuaging words.
Viserys laughed: "So you are serious about fostering the boy then. Do not think I don't see your game boy. Lord of the realm would not ignore his bastard blood when it comes to marriage alliances, and you seek to give him a bride as great as he can have – one with Velaryon and Targaryen blood, and daughter to the Emperor of YiTi himself. Both Blackwood and Bracken would sulk at that."

Once the news about Laena were shared, he returned to the prior subject: "Any other appointments to be made, Your Grace?"

"The roads of the realm are horrendous. The roads need repairs, and the realm needs a Master of Works. I have heard of a great Braavosi architect by the name of Lenarro. No doubt he would be tempted by our gold to come to our shores. While the Faberards would not allow him to bring the contributions of his mind to raising the Sept, unless he abjures his gods and takes to the Seven, he will probably be quite willing to have the chance of making his mark of Summerhall, and the Water Gardens, and whatever project I may yet have. I have given thought to razing Harrenhal, have the entire Conclave bless and purify the land, and build a lesser and more useful castle instead."

Once uncle Viserys left, I visited the nursery to see young Solomon. He was babbling quietly in his sleep, ignorant on how greatly he had risen already, and how likely he was to rise even more. I sent a quick prayer to the One, to aid me in being a good father to him, so I could raise him to be a good man, a just man.