Hmm, now I kind of want to see you as Arya Stark - follower extraordinaire. Think about it, you'd still get all the fun adventures with Sandor Clegane and some shape-shifting assassins as they fail to put up with your shit.
[ASOIAF][SI] No Promises
- Thread starter Nugar
- Start date
Hmm, now I kind of want to see you as Arya Stark - follower extraordinaire. Think about it, you'd still get all the fun adventures with Sandor Clegane and some shape-shifting assassins as they fail to put up with your shit.
- Location
- United Kingdom
It does indeed seem rather contrived. The only person I can think of who could move all of this into place is Varys, and if Baelish was killed its monumentally stupid not to kill Varys as well.
If pretenders start showing up that's similarly weird. Hes clearly Roberts child, so Stannis has no claim, renly doesn't either, but tbf he didn't in canon.
Even Jon aryn shouldn't be that suspicious, given he was going off the book with the genealogy in it. If the SI is black haired it shouldn't really matter what suspicious he has.
If pretenders start showing up that's similarly weird. Hes clearly Roberts child, so Stannis has no claim, renly doesn't either, but tbf he didn't in canon.
Even Jon aryn shouldn't be that suspicious, given he was going off the book with the genealogy in it. If the SI is black haired it shouldn't really matter what suspicious he has.
- Location
- US-Ark
If by foreign diplomacy you mean going to essos and doing something unexpected, yes, there will be foreign diplomacy. Its actually planned as sort of the backbone of the fic.
- Location
- Canada
Aww, I was kind of hoping for a Gustavus Adolphus style military fic where you modernize a military and use shock tactics and massed artillery to defeat armies many times the size of your own to reclaim the iron throne.
- Location
- US-Ark
Blackfish out of Water already did it and better than I'm likely to. I'll be sticking mostly with adventuring party level stuff.
I realize that this is kind of a wuss statement, give my own love of guns, booms, and military history, but I don't think I'm going to introduce firearms and such to westeros. Maybe a few for personal use, such as the oh shit grenade, but thats it. Westeros is too enthusiastic about mass slaughter for me to just casually give them more efficient tools. Plenty of people would disagree with me, and I almost disagree with myself, but when I sat down and thought about it I realized that I wouldn't want to set up ww1 level conflict.
Did you know that my chemistry job I did for years was actually in a chemical weapon lab for the US Army? I have more actual experience with hilariously lethal murder sprays than I do with useful shit that builds human civilization. While I can be fairly callous about small scale human death, the idea of really pulling out all the stops...
It aint me. Maybe if I was like, Robb Stark faced with all the shit that was going to happen to the people I loved, I could start building guns and bombs and handing them out, but even then, seriously, even trying to protect them from the boltons and the freys and the lannisters and the white walkers and the wildlings and everything else, I'd hesitate long and hard before I started making some of the shit I know.
Remember, most chemical weapons were made with ww1 and ww2 era chemistry. That crazy japanese cult responsible for the subway attack made that shit in their fucking bathtubs.
No, I want swords and bows and maybe a littttttle bit of dark tower gunslinging.
And dragons. Ever since I read dragonriders of pern when I was like 8, I've wanted to ride a dragon. I almost, alllllmost inserted as Viserys, but decided that growing up in KL would allow me to do more interesting things. With Viserys, it'd mostly just be preparing for war. Also he was a little bitch.
Chapter 1: It's actually really easy to not be an asshole, why don't more people try it?
- Location
- US-Ark
Note: The first chapter is now the prologue, this is now chapter one. This starts before the events of the old chapter two.
Eight years and change later, I stared down at the smoldering ruins of one of my alcohol distilleries and pursed my lips. The stone walls of the small building still stood, but the wooden roof and all of the contents were so much charcoal and ash. Even the heavy oak doors that stood wide open were charred and sagging on their warped iron hinges. I could see the big iron retort inside, which might be salvageable, but the copper piping of the still, which spiraled up and over a stone wall to the condensing side, was a mangled mess.
The jugs and pots the alcohol would have flowed into were a shattered, partially melted catastrophe. With so much alcohol as fuel, even the surface of the stone had cracked under the heat.
Most infuriatingly, there was another, identically burned distillery right next door, thirty feet away. A distance I THOUGHT was far enough to keep fire from spreading.
Irritated by the loss, I looked around. There were five more small distillery houses in this row alone, and five rows. I knew the volatility of grain alcohol vapor, but these also might distill anything ranging from wood alcohol to kerosene to ammonia, depending on the still. Fortunately, I'd had each one built using as much stone as possible, kept a distance from its neighbors to reduce the likelihood of fire spreading, and this was in a field outside King's Landing that tended to have a breeze to disperse dangerous concentrations of fumes. I also had multiple people keeping an eye on them at all hours of the day, and three small water wagons, two wheeled hand carts, really, with basic hand pumps on standby in case of fires. Every previous time there had been a fire, it was put out with no issues.
"What did this one make?" I asked my assistant slash secretary slash officially appointed spy, Cayla.
Rusty, my big ass war dog, sat at my side, pushing his head under my hand for a quick ear scratch.
She consulted her notes, then replied. "Whiskey, my Prince, the new Smyte recipe with apple mash. Both were loaded with first distillation product yesterday, totaling thirty six dragons, five stags, two pennies in value, each. A man named Seban was the tender for this area, Rody Lowfield the supervisor, and a woman named Jeyn the other tender on duty. There should also have been six guards. Would you like their names as well?"
I make a motion of 'wait on that' and looked over where a series of singed, burnt smelling men all kneeled, heads down in shame. My personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, loomed ominously behind them, hand on the hilt of his sword.
Not because he was preparing to kill one, or even really expecting this to lead to murder, he just liked to stand that way. Nice guy, kinda intimidating, a little too quiet.
"Seban."
A man I kinda recognized and had met a few times before straightened up slightly. He was an older man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and a short, well-trimmed beard. "Yes, my Prince?"
"Tell me what happened."
Hesitantly at first, but with growing surety, he launched into his tale. Apparently, since most of the retorts were being scrubbed and prepared for their next batches, they had only called in two tenders, himself and the widow Jeyn, for the night. He had three rows, with a total of five stills. Jeyn had two rows with seven, but they were all close together and easy to manage.
The night had been going well, as usual, although for a change, there was no wind or breeze. When he saw a fire inside one of the distilleries. A bend of the copper pipe near the top had apparently started leaking and the alcohol had instantly caught on fire from the flame under the retort. He had called for the water wagons and tried to beat out the flame, but it was already too much to be put out by hand.
Guards had brought the water wagons, and at first it looked like it was going to be put out, but the first wagon ran out of water, and when they switched to the second one, the pump wouldn't work. The third one was low on water, having been used for retort rinsing earlier that day, and not refilled.
I had to pinch my nose. Leaking copper tubing, plus lack of wind to keep the fumes dispersed, plus two failed water wagons. Seban started getting really nervous.
I looked over at Cayla, her long blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun. "What's Seban's work history?"
She didn't even have to glance at her book. "Impeccable, my Prince. He was one of the first still tenders hired, and has multiple marks on record as being a hard worker, honest, diligent, and punctual. He's received the max raise every year, and only one complaint has been filed against him, which turned out to be a lazy employee who resented Seban for criticizing the quality of his work."
I nodded. "Seban," I announced, turning back to the man, who looked more sure of himself after Cayla's report. "You have a reputation for good work and are a valuable employee. I judge you innocent of negligence. You may move to the side."
Flushed with relief, and maybe a little proud that he was considered valuable, Seban stood and moved to the side.
"Jeyn," I said, and the woman perked up, "you had no direct responsibility in this matter other than helping fight the fire, which I see you did. You may move to the side."
The singed middle aged woman murmured repeated thanks and removed herself from the group.
"Rody Lowfield," I intoned.
A slightly chubby man with badly burned hands and arms already wrapped in lotion and bandages straightened. He was balding, though the hair around the sides of his head had burned away to the point it might be more accurate to call him bald, his clothes had holes burnt in them, and he trembled slightly with barely repressed pain.
He would have been offered a dose of laudanum, which I'd made as a more effective, longer storing alternative to the ubiquitous 'milk of the poppy'. Basically, it was the opioids of milk of the poppy, distilled out, then mixed with high proof grain alcohol. It'd put you on your ass and kill pain pretty effectively, but it also dulled the wits. This man wanted to be able to talk coherently more than he wanted to be free of pain. I wondered if that was a good or bad thing.
"Yes, my Prince," he said, bowing low and nearly toppling over.
"Which guards were assigned to check the water wagons?"
"Jeffary and Eman, my Prince," he replied promptly.
I glanced to the side at the various guards.
Four of them looked mostly relieved that their names hadn't been called. Two young men, however, also sporting minor burns, looked like they'd just been called to the chopping block.
"I'm only going to ask once. Did you perform the beginning of shift inspection of the water wagons?"
"We did, my-!"
"We did not," one of them said, talking over the other one and bowing his head like he merely hoped the blade would be swift.
The other one looked at him in shock and betrayal. "N-no! Eman! We did! We did-"
"Be quiet, Jeffary," I ordered. "Eman?"
He spoke quietly, almost morosely. "We did not, my lord. We were assisting the others with moving some gear at the beginning of the shift, and instead of going back to do our checks, we decided it was okay to skip it just once."
A small part of me wanted to ask if, in fact, it had been okay, but I decided against it. I raised an eyebrow at Jeffary.
He sputtered, then sagged. Not agreeing, not denying. If he wasn't still upright, I'd say he had fainted.
"Rody, who is at fault here?" I asked.
"I am, my Prince," he admitted.
"Did you make your own beginning of shift checks of the safety equipment?"
He flushed. "No, my Prince."
"Why not?"
"Laziness, my Prince," he said, dropping into a bow again. "We spent the first portion of the night moving equipment, and I simply didn't follow up. If I had, I would have found that Jeffary and Eman had skipped their duty, and they would not be in trouble. If I had, the fire would have been a small accident quickly put out. I accept full responsibility, and ask for leniency on behalf of Jeffary and Eman."
Well, he certainly had internalized the lingo I had built my subordinate management around. He'd also clearly fought like a demon to put the flames out by hand, though obviously that didn't work.
"Cayla?" I asked.
"Rody Lowfield also has an impeccable record, at least until now, and was promoted to management two years ago on the strength of his work and his willingness to learn reading and writing and his numbers."
"Family? I asked.
"Yes, Prince. A wife of fifteen years, and six children. Fifteen-boy, twelve-boy, eleven-girl, ten-girl, eight-girl, seven-boy."
I nodded. "Rody, you're an idiot."
"Yes, my Prince," he agreed in shame.
"Not just because you didn't do the checks, but because you clearly nearly killed yourself trying to fight the fire."
"It were my responsibility, my Prince," he tried to explain, looking up slightly.
"You've got a family, fool. Even if I dismissed you, you could still feed them if you worked somewhere else. You can't do that if you're dead."
He bowed even lower.
"Alright. This little fuckup has cost several hundred dragons, and I'm not happy. Rody, you're demoted to…" I glanced at Cayla, but didn't give her time to speak, "whatever lower position we need more of. If, a year from now, there are no more problems, we can look at whether you're worth keeping, or even promoting again." I paused and frowned at him. "And make sure the clinic gets you healed up. It'd be a shame to lose a man because he lost use of his hands. Report to Marvion Fisher when you're healed up enough to work."
I turned. "Eman. You fucked up pretty bad. But you were honest. You're on half pay for two months. And I don't think you'll ever skip the equipment check again, will you?"
"No, my Prince!" he gasped, like a drowning man who suddenly got a lifeline. "I'll be the most diligent man in Westeros!"
Heh, I bet he would be. That's why I do things like this. I want a diligent, honest workforce that doesn't take bribes to let product or secrets walk off into the night. So I put a little effort into it.
Sometimes, though, you can't forgive people.
I shook my head. "Jeffary, you fucked up, and you lied. You know I hate being lied to, or if you didn't, someone should have told you. You fuck up, you admit it, you might get a second chance. You lie, you get caught lying, it's your ass."
I motioned at the other guardsmen. "He's dismissed. Kick his ass out. Cayla? He's blacklisted. Now let's head back to my office. The morning is shot anyway, I might as well head back and work on something. Rusty, follow."
We turned and headed back to King's Landing. I'd planned on a much more entertaining trip out on the river this morning, to see how my new model fishing rod would hold up, but nooo. Gotta deal with fuckups.
You know, this is why I don't actually want to be king?
AN: I hope this works better. There's still a time skip, I don't particularly feel like writing a whole childhood, but this is intended to ease readers into the new King's Landing and daily life of Prince Eddard. Let me know what you think. Also, I set up a discord channel specifically for talking about this fic. If you want to say something personally, and have easier input to influencing the fic, come say hi. Discord - Free voice and text chat for gamers
Eight years and change later, I stared down at the smoldering ruins of one of my alcohol distilleries and pursed my lips. The stone walls of the small building still stood, but the wooden roof and all of the contents were so much charcoal and ash. Even the heavy oak doors that stood wide open were charred and sagging on their warped iron hinges. I could see the big iron retort inside, which might be salvageable, but the copper piping of the still, which spiraled up and over a stone wall to the condensing side, was a mangled mess.
The jugs and pots the alcohol would have flowed into were a shattered, partially melted catastrophe. With so much alcohol as fuel, even the surface of the stone had cracked under the heat.
Most infuriatingly, there was another, identically burned distillery right next door, thirty feet away. A distance I THOUGHT was far enough to keep fire from spreading.
Irritated by the loss, I looked around. There were five more small distillery houses in this row alone, and five rows. I knew the volatility of grain alcohol vapor, but these also might distill anything ranging from wood alcohol to kerosene to ammonia, depending on the still. Fortunately, I'd had each one built using as much stone as possible, kept a distance from its neighbors to reduce the likelihood of fire spreading, and this was in a field outside King's Landing that tended to have a breeze to disperse dangerous concentrations of fumes. I also had multiple people keeping an eye on them at all hours of the day, and three small water wagons, two wheeled hand carts, really, with basic hand pumps on standby in case of fires. Every previous time there had been a fire, it was put out with no issues.
"What did this one make?" I asked my assistant slash secretary slash officially appointed spy, Cayla.
Rusty, my big ass war dog, sat at my side, pushing his head under my hand for a quick ear scratch.
She consulted her notes, then replied. "Whiskey, my Prince, the new Smyte recipe with apple mash. Both were loaded with first distillation product yesterday, totaling thirty six dragons, five stags, two pennies in value, each. A man named Seban was the tender for this area, Rody Lowfield the supervisor, and a woman named Jeyn the other tender on duty. There should also have been six guards. Would you like their names as well?"
I make a motion of 'wait on that' and looked over where a series of singed, burnt smelling men all kneeled, heads down in shame. My personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, loomed ominously behind them, hand on the hilt of his sword.
Not because he was preparing to kill one, or even really expecting this to lead to murder, he just liked to stand that way. Nice guy, kinda intimidating, a little too quiet.
"Seban."
A man I kinda recognized and had met a few times before straightened up slightly. He was an older man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and a short, well-trimmed beard. "Yes, my Prince?"
"Tell me what happened."
Hesitantly at first, but with growing surety, he launched into his tale. Apparently, since most of the retorts were being scrubbed and prepared for their next batches, they had only called in two tenders, himself and the widow Jeyn, for the night. He had three rows, with a total of five stills. Jeyn had two rows with seven, but they were all close together and easy to manage.
The night had been going well, as usual, although for a change, there was no wind or breeze. When he saw a fire inside one of the distilleries. A bend of the copper pipe near the top had apparently started leaking and the alcohol had instantly caught on fire from the flame under the retort. He had called for the water wagons and tried to beat out the flame, but it was already too much to be put out by hand.
Guards had brought the water wagons, and at first it looked like it was going to be put out, but the first wagon ran out of water, and when they switched to the second one, the pump wouldn't work. The third one was low on water, having been used for retort rinsing earlier that day, and not refilled.
I had to pinch my nose. Leaking copper tubing, plus lack of wind to keep the fumes dispersed, plus two failed water wagons. Seban started getting really nervous.
I looked over at Cayla, her long blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun. "What's Seban's work history?"
She didn't even have to glance at her book. "Impeccable, my Prince. He was one of the first still tenders hired, and has multiple marks on record as being a hard worker, honest, diligent, and punctual. He's received the max raise every year, and only one complaint has been filed against him, which turned out to be a lazy employee who resented Seban for criticizing the quality of his work."
I nodded. "Seban," I announced, turning back to the man, who looked more sure of himself after Cayla's report. "You have a reputation for good work and are a valuable employee. I judge you innocent of negligence. You may move to the side."
Flushed with relief, and maybe a little proud that he was considered valuable, Seban stood and moved to the side.
"Jeyn," I said, and the woman perked up, "you had no direct responsibility in this matter other than helping fight the fire, which I see you did. You may move to the side."
The singed middle aged woman murmured repeated thanks and removed herself from the group.
"Rody Lowfield," I intoned.
A slightly chubby man with badly burned hands and arms already wrapped in lotion and bandages straightened. He was balding, though the hair around the sides of his head had burned away to the point it might be more accurate to call him bald, his clothes had holes burnt in them, and he trembled slightly with barely repressed pain.
He would have been offered a dose of laudanum, which I'd made as a more effective, longer storing alternative to the ubiquitous 'milk of the poppy'. Basically, it was the opioids of milk of the poppy, distilled out, then mixed with high proof grain alcohol. It'd put you on your ass and kill pain pretty effectively, but it also dulled the wits. This man wanted to be able to talk coherently more than he wanted to be free of pain. I wondered if that was a good or bad thing.
"Yes, my Prince," he said, bowing low and nearly toppling over.
"Which guards were assigned to check the water wagons?"
"Jeffary and Eman, my Prince," he replied promptly.
I glanced to the side at the various guards.
Four of them looked mostly relieved that their names hadn't been called. Two young men, however, also sporting minor burns, looked like they'd just been called to the chopping block.
"I'm only going to ask once. Did you perform the beginning of shift inspection of the water wagons?"
"We did, my-!"
"We did not," one of them said, talking over the other one and bowing his head like he merely hoped the blade would be swift.
The other one looked at him in shock and betrayal. "N-no! Eman! We did! We did-"
"Be quiet, Jeffary," I ordered. "Eman?"
He spoke quietly, almost morosely. "We did not, my lord. We were assisting the others with moving some gear at the beginning of the shift, and instead of going back to do our checks, we decided it was okay to skip it just once."
A small part of me wanted to ask if, in fact, it had been okay, but I decided against it. I raised an eyebrow at Jeffary.
He sputtered, then sagged. Not agreeing, not denying. If he wasn't still upright, I'd say he had fainted.
"Rody, who is at fault here?" I asked.
"I am, my Prince," he admitted.
"Did you make your own beginning of shift checks of the safety equipment?"
He flushed. "No, my Prince."
"Why not?"
"Laziness, my Prince," he said, dropping into a bow again. "We spent the first portion of the night moving equipment, and I simply didn't follow up. If I had, I would have found that Jeffary and Eman had skipped their duty, and they would not be in trouble. If I had, the fire would have been a small accident quickly put out. I accept full responsibility, and ask for leniency on behalf of Jeffary and Eman."
Well, he certainly had internalized the lingo I had built my subordinate management around. He'd also clearly fought like a demon to put the flames out by hand, though obviously that didn't work.
"Cayla?" I asked.
"Rody Lowfield also has an impeccable record, at least until now, and was promoted to management two years ago on the strength of his work and his willingness to learn reading and writing and his numbers."
"Family? I asked.
"Yes, Prince. A wife of fifteen years, and six children. Fifteen-boy, twelve-boy, eleven-girl, ten-girl, eight-girl, seven-boy."
I nodded. "Rody, you're an idiot."
"Yes, my Prince," he agreed in shame.
"Not just because you didn't do the checks, but because you clearly nearly killed yourself trying to fight the fire."
"It were my responsibility, my Prince," he tried to explain, looking up slightly.
"You've got a family, fool. Even if I dismissed you, you could still feed them if you worked somewhere else. You can't do that if you're dead."
He bowed even lower.
"Alright. This little fuckup has cost several hundred dragons, and I'm not happy. Rody, you're demoted to…" I glanced at Cayla, but didn't give her time to speak, "whatever lower position we need more of. If, a year from now, there are no more problems, we can look at whether you're worth keeping, or even promoting again." I paused and frowned at him. "And make sure the clinic gets you healed up. It'd be a shame to lose a man because he lost use of his hands. Report to Marvion Fisher when you're healed up enough to work."
I turned. "Eman. You fucked up pretty bad. But you were honest. You're on half pay for two months. And I don't think you'll ever skip the equipment check again, will you?"
"No, my Prince!" he gasped, like a drowning man who suddenly got a lifeline. "I'll be the most diligent man in Westeros!"
Heh, I bet he would be. That's why I do things like this. I want a diligent, honest workforce that doesn't take bribes to let product or secrets walk off into the night. So I put a little effort into it.
Sometimes, though, you can't forgive people.
I shook my head. "Jeffary, you fucked up, and you lied. You know I hate being lied to, or if you didn't, someone should have told you. You fuck up, you admit it, you might get a second chance. You lie, you get caught lying, it's your ass."
I motioned at the other guardsmen. "He's dismissed. Kick his ass out. Cayla? He's blacklisted. Now let's head back to my office. The morning is shot anyway, I might as well head back and work on something. Rusty, follow."
We turned and headed back to King's Landing. I'd planned on a much more entertaining trip out on the river this morning, to see how my new model fishing rod would hold up, but nooo. Gotta deal with fuckups.
You know, this is why I don't actually want to be king?
AN: I hope this works better. There's still a time skip, I don't particularly feel like writing a whole childhood, but this is intended to ease readers into the new King's Landing and daily life of Prince Eddard. Let me know what you think. Also, I set up a discord channel specifically for talking about this fic. If you want to say something personally, and have easier input to influencing the fic, come say hi. Discord - Free voice and text chat for gamers
- Location
- Canada
I certainly disagree with the stance on firearms but it's not actually what I was talking about. Blackshear out of water wasn't so
This is way better. Even if you decide to go the same route as before I would be good to see what he's actually achieved in order to feel the loss when he loses it. It will also be interesting to see if he's started moving pieces into play to fight off the long night, which is of course the real sword of Damocles over every GOT SI.
RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
Blackfish out of water wasn't so what?
- Location
- United Kingdom
'Good' I imagine from the sentence.
Another issue that may or may not become more important in this fic, why is the SI doing what they're doing? Is it because he wants whisky or because he wants to secure himself through profitable means? Or is it something else? That's pretty crucial.
RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
I will admit, if I were transported to Westeros, I'd be making whiskey just for me. Sadly though, good whiskey is aged, and I don't have patience. Profitable venture though.
Chapter 2: And I said, what about, breakfast with Varys?
- Location
- US-Ark
I spent most of my time walking back to King's Landing squeezing a set of grip trainers I tend to carry around. Made of spring steel with leather grips, they were harder to make than you'd think, since spring steel isn't easy to make at a blacksmith's forge, but I considered them pretty essential for training on the go. One of the most important aspects of melee fighting is good forearm and wrist strength, and the grip trainers helped. I was too lanky to look like Popeye, but I was at least pretty strong for my age.
Although, maybe that's not that unusual given that I was already nearly six feet tall at fourteen years old. Robert Baratheon was a beast at six and a half feet tall, so I felt pretty confident in my growth. Just wish I could eat enough to pack on the muscles. By the Seven, I was always hungry.
And, uh, there were some other consequences to going through puberty, too.
Unconsciously, my eyes strayed to the shapely behind of my secretary. Cayla was hot. Long blonde hair, though often in a bun or ponytail, pretty but slightly severe face… basically, she shared a lot of traits with Cersei, without really looking just like Cersei. I suspect that was deliberate when Varys chose her and trained her and sent her to me.
I said she was my officially designated spy, but she's not spying for me. I know she reports to Varys. I mean, I've never seen any actual evidence of it but come on. It's obvious. I suspect she occasionally sends reports to a few other people. Grandfather Tywin seems likely, maybe Cersei on occasion. Jon Arryn maybe? Not sure.
That being said, she's hot, she's diligent, and she took to the 'severe, slightly dominating' secretary role with a will. I even checked her to see if she needed eyeglasses, because the role really does call for eyeglasses, but her vision was fine. I made her some neutral lenses anyway. Black rimmed wire frames with rectangular lenses, which she quickly learned to use to devastating effect as she stared down employees.
If it's wrong for the world's best spymaster to use his powers to find me the perfect secretary, I don't want to be right. It's good to be the prince.
We got back to my lab office in just under an hour. I loved my office. I spent more time there than in my rooms back in the keep.
Rusty immediately padded to his blanket just inside the door and lay down. He's a good dog, literally the most trustworthy companion I have. He might bite me one day, but it won't be out of greed or malice. I named him Rusty because his fur is, of course, a kind of reddish brown rust color. It was kinda kinky and wiry, a bit like an airedale but shaggier, covering a two hundred pound body that looked like some kind of mastiff hound cross. He wasn't the biggest dog westeros had, but he was bred for war, not pit fighting, and was a better runner than the pure pit fighting mastiff types.
In an odd bit of symmetry, Sandor also went to his spot in a different corner, where a big, overstuffed leather arm chair waited beside a table. He still wasn't big on reading, but part of being my bodyguard gave him a lot of sitting around time, and he'd pick up a book occasionally. He'd mellowed out a lot from the severe, bitter young man who'd been assigned to me. I think, seeing a member of the nobility that wasn't a monster and who genuinely tried to take care of him back helped him deal with some of his childhood trauma. He still wouldn't take a knighthood, though. I didn't care enough to argue.
"Get us some breakfast, Cayla. Simple is fine." So saying, I went to my partially walled off desk in one corner of what I liked to call the tinkerlab. I had a little bit of privacy, but didn't actually feel separated from the work others were doing. I liked being a part of a busy group. It made me feel productive and alert.
My lab was just outside the Keep, on what had been a section of ground usually used for the small number of horses kept near the royal apartments. I had it built of stone and slate, so it was less likely to burn, and I didn't do any really energetic processes there. My lab was broken up into four main rooms. A big kitchen, where I did food related research, a tinkerlab where I had my desk and where nonvolatile projects took place, and a hot room for two small forges, a vacuum chamber, and my efforts to produce steam power. There was also a chemistry lab on the far side of the building away from the kitchen, but it had its own separate entrance.
Maester Carsen and Maester Keath both bid me good morning as I entered, with a more cursory greeting to Cayla, who immediately walked past toward the kitchen. Carsen was designing gear sets according to the formula I had 'developed', and overseeing a woodcarver, Bryer, as he made prototypes. Keath sat at his own desk and looked to be updating the books. Cayla was good with figures but she didn't have time to do all of the accounting herself.
The only other person in attendance was also the only other female, Ilina of Braavos, my most talented sculptor. Unlike the others, she did not greet me when I entered She was painstakingly reproducing an entire set of crow feathers in a black silver-copper-gold alloy the maesters found for me called hepatizon, apparently used in old Ghis. Her workbench was covered in bird drawings, a stuffed crow with wings outstretched, and the already articulated body of the whirligig automata she was working on. It was going to be a crow that flapped its wings and cawed once or twice every thousand turns of the small windmill that drove it. The wonder was a diplomatic gift for one of the noble houses that supported the Baratheons, House Morrigan.
I liked Ilina. She was in her early thirties, actually needed glasses unlike Cayla, and was a little bit flabby, with limp, dark hair and grey eyes. I suspected she probably fell somewhere on the autism spectrum, since she was painfully awkward and shy, but also had tremendous artistic talent. She completely ignored me as I came in, being completely focused on her task. Of course, all of that could be a ruse, and she might really be a fiendishly clever spy, but much like Cayla, it's just the price of doing business in King's Landing. She was the bee's knees at art, and absolutely loved my clockwork automatons, but she was pretty much a pig's ear at everything else.
The only other lab resident she got along with was my cat, Noric, named after a minorly famous blacksmith.
I scratched behind the big sand colored tabby's ears as I got to my desk and sat down. Noric promptly said 'mrrp?' and rolled over, exposing his flabby belly and purring loudly. I didn't fall for that trap, though. That's what got him banned from the keep despite his start as what was supposedly Myrcella's pet kitten. Peasant or prince, cats don't care.
The heat was already building, since I had yet to 'invent' refrigeration, so the first thing I did when I sat down was turn to the side of the desk on my left. This side had a stone top, bare except for a single device I was both perversely pleased by and utterly disappointed by. It was my recreation of a tiny, one cubic inch displacement stirling cycle engine, much like the demonstrator toy I had once owned. It was an external combustion engine powered by a pressurized lantern fuel burner. I worked the little thumb pump up and down, which I had copied from the coleman series of camping gear, getting a good pressure in the round, shiny brass fuel tank. A turn of a knob adjusted a needle valve, starting the fuel flow, and a flick of my zippo lighter reproduction got the flame started and glowing a nice pale blue.
Although simple enough to be made with the limited tools I had available, and actually very efficient in fuel, stirling cycle engines were a dead end as far as I was concerned. Their power to weight ratio sucked they tended to wear out the cylinder pretty fast. There were solutions to those problems, but I'd never learned them. Instead, I was trying unsuccessfully to replicate a decent steam engine, and my little 'prince engines' mostly ran the clockwork automata I made. The one on my desk actually powered a small fan, which kept the lab from being stifling. Some of the maesters were looking into making larger versions, but I was sure that steam was the way to go.
On my desk, held down by a variety of pretty but meaningless paperweights, were stacks and stacks of papers. Drawings, reports, financial data... and most frightening, a sappy letter from Sansa Stark.
I have only myself to blame. I'd been essentially betrothed to Sansa at birth, and I didn't want to marry a girl I'd never met before, right? So I wrote her, and set us up as pen pals. I sent her gifts for her birthday and such. Wrote her a few letters. Unleashed the monster that is a preteen girl with a crush, a pen, and some paper.
Oh my god. Gods. Seven, old gods, flaming gods, goat gods, whatever. Sansa was fairly cute. She'd sent me some drawings that had been made of her. And I knew she'd grow up and be pretty awesome. I'd always considered Arya to be more interesting, but it's hard to deny that Sansa would be a better queen. That didn't change the fact that I had been getting about three or four letters a month for years now. And I tried to be interested, I did. But it's all 'Arya got in trouble again', 'Robb is doing well in his training', 'the septas say I'm doing really well in my lessons', 'I've never met you personally but our souls are as two halves'.
Meanwhile, I can't tell her any of the really interesting stuff I've been up to. Dearest Sansa, 'I'm going through puberty so I invented lingerie, not that I can tell you what that is', 'my incredibly hot secretary has been writing about half of my reply letters', 'I cured a man of greyscale but six more got worse and died and I don't know why', 'I can't sleep with my secretary because I'll fall in love with her and pull a Tyrion, so I went to a whorehouse, got the clap, not that you know what that is, and invented penicillin, another thing you don't know about, in five incredibly uncomfortable months and now I'm scared to touch whores', 'penicillin doesn't work on greyscale', 'puberty is hitting like a freight train, not that you know what that is, so I'm about to invent the strip club, not that you know what that is, so whores can take off the lingerie I invented, which you still don't know what is, and if I tell you your father and brothers and bannermen will want my balls on a stick'.
I suck at writing letters.
'PS: puberty is overriding my fear of whores. Send nudes.'
Which obviously I can't say. She's way too young and my idea of a hot woman is pretty solidly stuck in the 20s and 30s range, which Cayla fits perfectly. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I have the memories of Robb and Tyrion's examples of why I don't need to be risking actual attachment.
I have to settle for writing sexy plays. When Tyrion returns next month, I'm going to surprise him with a sexy kancolle type reproduction of the Greyjoy rebellion in my theater slash strip club I secretly own and manage. It's going to be great. All of the ironborn shipgirls will be played as vacuous tarts who lose their ship costumes when they sink, and only occasionally win through dumb luck, because fuck those dollar store vikings. If this seems like an abuse of the wealth and power I have as a prince, well… Maybe. But it's equally possible that this is what cements my legacy as a genius. What's the point in having a playhouse if you don't use it to mock your enemies?
We've already had classic burlesque shows, song and dance numbers, and some pretty hilarious short comedy bits based on my memories of the old Oglaf comics. My favorite is the one where a thinly disguised Loras expy tries to give a thinly disguised Renly advice on how to seduce a thinly disguised Margary, only for 'Renly' to fall for the declarations of love and end up sexing 'Loras' in the bushes while 'Margary' looks down from her tower window and fans herself.
Among all of the other things I've invented, I also introduced the fujoshi to Westeros. I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.
Renly actually loved the play, because of course I checked with him first since I didn't want him as an enemy. I also invented male lingerie so that might have helped, but he wasn't terribly worried about people talking about his sexual preference. It was about as much of an open secret as the knowledge that Prince Eddard was secretly A.N. Onstead, the part owner and playwright of the Wayward Rose. The people that were 'in the know' knew, but they also didn't say anything about it in public. And you had to be in the know to get an invite to the Wayward Rose, which of course made it the hottest entertainment spot in King's Landing, selling my booze, unusual snack foods, and lingerie at literally obscene markups.
My theory of business is basically, 'Own the entire goddamn supply chain.'
Breakfast arrived quickly, carried by a cook from the kitchen. Eggs over easy, lightly fried corn tortillas, beans, rice, tomato salsa, and for the huevos ranchero sauce, a failed effort to reproduce Worcestershire sauce. Sandor absolutely loved the stuff and used it basically every meal, so I named it Hound Sauce in his honor. Westeros bizarrely has an absolutely top notch food culture for its tech level, but I didn't want to live in a world without tacos and burritos. They also didn't use tomatoes, potatoes, and rice as much as I preferred, and I had yet to find soybeans, okra, or peanuts at all.
Also, right behind the cook, Cayla reappeared.
"Prince Eddard, the Master of Whispers is here to see you," Cayla told me, letting the cook slide by her. "What shall I tell him?"
"Varys? Sure, show him in. See if he wants breakfast, too. Are you going to eat with me?" She did sometimes, sometimes Sandor did, and sometimes we all ate together.
"No, my Prince. I will let you and Varys discuss things in private. I will join Sandor in the atrium."
I nodded and sat back in the tiny breeze from the fan. A moment later, Cayla returned, escorting the softly chubby Master of Whispers.
Now, I liked Varys. After killing Joffrey and Baelish, one might think that Varys was the natural next choice. The thing was, Varys never betrayed anyone who didn't deserve it. I think he's some sort of weird proto-nationalist, doing what he thinks is best for the stability and welfare of the realm itself. The other thing is, he's really, really, really good at his job.
Given how much of my resource gathering and trading took place in Essos, I needed someone who knew their stuff.
Varys offered me a polite greeting as he entered, and I stood, but I'd stupidly stuffed a chunk of tortilla and egg in my mouth and all I could hear was my own crunching. I swallowed, looked around for a drink, and realized I'd forgot to order one.
"Hey~aaak," I said back, momentarily choking. "Hol' on'." I gasped and swallowed convulsively, lurching to my feet and all but shoving past the pudgy eunuch as I headed for the kitchen. "Tea! Brown!" I croaked, grabbing a jug of purified water and chugging. The water was lukewarm but had been standing long enough to not be flat, so I carried the whole jug, basically the size of a flower base, back to my desk.
"I've got tea coming, would you like some?" I asked Varys. "Or wine? It's a little early for whiskey, but I don't judge," I said, lying. I totally judge.
"Tea would be lovely," Varys replied. "Black, please."
"Hey, Tarla," I called back to my chef. "Get some black tea for Varys, too." Westeros didn't drink a lot of tea, which baffled me. Both black and brown came from the hills of Norvos, but you could also get really expensive, exotic types from Qarth. I thought the qartheen teas were too floral, and it seemed Varys agreed with me.
"What about breakfast? I'm afraid you caught me just beginning mine," I offered.
"Is that a new form of wrap?" he asked, referring to my term for both tacos and burritos.
I waggled a hand in a so-so motion. "Sort of? It's the same as a breakfast wrap, but with fried tortillas. Very crunchy."
"Ah. Sounds… messy." He looked dubious.
"Tarla could get you a regular wrap…?"
"Please."
Tea and a breakfast burrito were delivered, and we both dined companionably for a while. This wasn't unusual. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and it's probably best to sit on the people you aren't sure about.
"So, how's things?" I asked, pressing a shard of tortilla into a bit of leftover egg yolk. The plate was all but scraped clean, and I eyed it with a mind to ordering another.
"Shall I start with a personal note, then, Prince Eddard?" he asked with a wry note. "Before you get more breakfast, I should warn you that your Queen Mother is planning on inviting you to an afternoon luncheon. She's ordered a number of crab dishes prepared. I also believe your uncle, Ser Lannister, will be there as well."
"Crab? Wonderful!" I replied, perking up immediately.
"She may be wanting to discuss something, as I note that the Princess will be elsewhere," he cautioned.
I shrugged. "Whatever it is, it'll be cheaper than Father."
"Quite likely," he admitted. "In other news, I've just received word from my contacts in Myr that in exchange for the secrets of lens grinding, Myr will continue to sell you materials and not interfere if you hire any more glass blowers. I believe your uncle Tyrion was looking at a few families that had gotten rather deeply in debt. The raids on your soda ash suppliers have ceased, at least for the moment."
"They talked him up to the lens grinders, then. Perfect, that's what I wanted them to have." I tried for a Gendo pose but my plate was in the way.
Varys looked doubtful. "Are you sure? Your field glasses sell for a thousand dragons each, and your spyglasses for twice as much. That seems like a very profitable market to share with the glass makers guild in Myr."
"We've already made around eight, almost nine hundred thousand dragons off our spyglasses and field glasses. Everyone with the money wants one, for forts, for ships, and for generals and scouts. The problem is, not that many people can afford them. We've already sold them to almost every noble house in westeros with the means, with the wealthier houses buying more than one. But that's it. We're seeing maybe ten orders a month now from the Seven Kingdoms. All of the orders are coming from Essos and Yunkai and such now. And by this time next year, I expect we'll be seeing fewer orders from them, too. Market saturation, Varys."
"Saturation… as a rag soaks up water," he said, considering the term. This is why I liked Varys. He was the smartest guy in the room, one of the few I could really talk to.
"Once it's full, there's no more room. A few will probably be stolen, or broken, and need to be replaced, but by the time Myr has anything as good as ours? They'll have a hard time finding anyone who doesn't already have one." I grinned.
"Oh? And do you have a solution to this 'market saturation'?" he asked.
"Of course I do," I replied, feigning offense. "To borrow your metaphor, you make the rag bigger."
"You intend to make people richer?" he asked.
"Well, make more rich people, at any rate. Trade benefits everyone. But also, I can make each spyglass cheaper. It only costs about two hundred sixty dragons to make a spyglass, and a lot of that is because we reject the lenses that didn't turn out right, and my artisans spend a lot of time engraving the barrel and making it pretty. We can make them cheaper, and we can sell them cheaper. That lets more people buy them, and we keep making money. We can trade the massive profits but low volume we currently have, for lower profits and higher volume. And with a larger volume, Myr's competition shouldn't matter nearly as much."
Varys nodded thoughtfully. "It's too bad they've already stolen the formula for your silvered glass mirrors."
I shrugged. It irritated me but it wasn't entirely unexpected. "Yeah, but too many people are involved in that. No real way to keep the secret from everyone without choking production. Silver, aqua fortis, ammonia, and sugar are just too common. Most of our sugar comes from Volantis sweet beets anyway. We've got our own crops growing in the North, but the secret is out."
He nodded. "Speaking of the north, I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Oh no, here we go. He spends some time buttering me up, then hits me with the whammy.
"House Mormont has been caught breaking some very serious laws. Lord Jorah Mormont was caught selling captured poachers to slavers from Essos. Rather than answer the charges, he took his wife and all of the portable goods he could and fled, with the exception of his ancestral sword, Longclaw, which was sent to his father at the Wall."
"What." I paused. "No, seriously. Why in the fuck would he do that? I've been shipping coin and resources to Bear Island for two and a half years. It was going to be the western trade hub of the north! There was more than enough money there for him to skim some off for himself!" I went with a slightly suboptimal plan to develop the northwest region specifically so I could keep Jorah fucking Mormont out of the business with the Targaryens!
"Apparently, his wife has expensive tastes." He gave a little shrug, as if to divorce himself from the vagaries of husband and wife relationships. "I believe she developed them when you had them come spend four months in King's Landing on your coin."
"She already had expensive tastes! The point was to alleviate- ahhh dammit! You say he made off with the portable goods. You mean the spyglasses and field glasses I sent up there to guard against fucking ironborn raids, don't you?"
Varys nodded. "As well as the compasses and at least a few crates of steel tools which had not yet been shipped to the mountain clans."
I snapped a hand up in a 'wait' motion, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. "Don't tell me. I can already see it. He sold them to the fucking ironborn."
He made a 'sort of' gesture. "Not by choice, at least initially. Much of this appears to be the result of his efforts to avoid disappointing you, Prince Eddard. I believe his lady wife arranged for a few spyglasses to disappear from the signal towers. When he found out, rather than report the losses, he turned to slavery, apparently hoping to get enough money to replace the spyglasses without being caught. Of course, when he was caught selling slaves, he simply loaded a ship with his best and set sail. We don't know if he's sold anything else to the ironborn, or if he intends to make it to Essos before selling."
I nodded. "So your last word is of him fleeing Bear Island?"
"Indeed, my Prince."
"Well. So despite my efforts to set things up where people will come to me with a mistake before they cut their own throat trying to cover it up, he does exactly that. And now the ironborn have spyglasses."
"Between two and ten, my Prince."
"That's going to be a problem."
"Indeed, my Prince."
"Gods above, I hate the ironborn."
"Indeed, my Prince. I've noticed you've gone out of the way to invent protections against their reaving. I've always wondered, was it because they rebelled recently?" He looked curious.
I blinked. "No. I mean, that doesn't help, but why wouldn't any right minded person hate the ironborn? They build nothing, they destroy everything they touch, they keep slaves by using another word for it, and they ruin lives simply by being who they are. They're almost as bad as the fucking dothraki. I mean, did you know that the dothraki have actually killed cities and turned prosperous lands into empty wastes? The ironborn would do that if they could get their shit together long enough. They're stupid and careless and every one that dies is another reason to smile. Fortunately, while dangerous as raiders, they're pretty weak against prepared forces."
He nodded. My disdain of the dothraki, who had raided some of our trade convoys and resource expeditions in Essos, was pretty well established at this point. I take a pretty dim view of peoples who raid for resources and slaves instead of building cities and infrastructure. If they ever showed up on my shores, following a dragon or not, I was going to open Pandora's Box all over their asses.
"Do you have any orders regarding the ex-Lord Mormont?" Varys asked instead.
"Ahh," I said, hesitating. "I suppose I can kind of understand where he was coming from. But I already risk looking weak with how forgiving I am, and frankly, he has only himself to blame." I paused. "And his wife. He definitely has his wife to blame. I guess if he sells the stuff he stole in Essos, he can just stay banished, and if he sold it to the ironborn… I may have to make a point. I mean, he's going to have to live in exile with that bitch of a wife of his, and you know she's going to spend all the money they have and then leave him for some rich asshole over there. Then she'll be living the good life and Jorah will be the one fucked over again."
"A proposal, then?" Varys offered. "They may stay in exile untroubled, provided your condition that he didn't sell any more spyglasses to the ironborn is met, but only if his wife remains faithful to him for the remainder of their lives. Should she cuckold him or leave him for, as you say, some rich asshole, a bounty shall be placed on her head." He smiled slightly. "Should you choose, you could even forgive his exile should he bring her back for execution personally. Though I doubt Lord Stark would accept him returning to his ancestral seat, there are other places he could live out his days, as a living example of your forgiveness, and knack for creative punishment."
I nodded, impressed. "Daaaamn, that's vicious." I thought for a moment, then agreed. "Yeah, I do blame her the most, and having him deliver her for punishment would be satisfactory given the crimes he committed for her." I smiled grimly. "You know, this is why I like you, Varys. You're the only one around here with any balls."
"Of course, my Prince. I keep them in a little box on my desk," he said genially, taking no apparent offense.
I blinked, realizing my inadvertent insult to the eunuch.
"Where they can't influence my decisions."
Fucking Varys. A killer with the manners of a rabbit. The most dangerous kind.
AN: Thanks to everyone who's commented and special thanks to everyone in the Discord Channel, Discord - Free voice and text chat for gamers for their help in getting this done. This chapter saw quite a lot of revisions and more than a few total rewrites.
Although, maybe that's not that unusual given that I was already nearly six feet tall at fourteen years old. Robert Baratheon was a beast at six and a half feet tall, so I felt pretty confident in my growth. Just wish I could eat enough to pack on the muscles. By the Seven, I was always hungry.
And, uh, there were some other consequences to going through puberty, too.
Unconsciously, my eyes strayed to the shapely behind of my secretary. Cayla was hot. Long blonde hair, though often in a bun or ponytail, pretty but slightly severe face… basically, she shared a lot of traits with Cersei, without really looking just like Cersei. I suspect that was deliberate when Varys chose her and trained her and sent her to me.
I said she was my officially designated spy, but she's not spying for me. I know she reports to Varys. I mean, I've never seen any actual evidence of it but come on. It's obvious. I suspect she occasionally sends reports to a few other people. Grandfather Tywin seems likely, maybe Cersei on occasion. Jon Arryn maybe? Not sure.
That being said, she's hot, she's diligent, and she took to the 'severe, slightly dominating' secretary role with a will. I even checked her to see if she needed eyeglasses, because the role really does call for eyeglasses, but her vision was fine. I made her some neutral lenses anyway. Black rimmed wire frames with rectangular lenses, which she quickly learned to use to devastating effect as she stared down employees.
If it's wrong for the world's best spymaster to use his powers to find me the perfect secretary, I don't want to be right. It's good to be the prince.
We got back to my lab office in just under an hour. I loved my office. I spent more time there than in my rooms back in the keep.
Rusty immediately padded to his blanket just inside the door and lay down. He's a good dog, literally the most trustworthy companion I have. He might bite me one day, but it won't be out of greed or malice. I named him Rusty because his fur is, of course, a kind of reddish brown rust color. It was kinda kinky and wiry, a bit like an airedale but shaggier, covering a two hundred pound body that looked like some kind of mastiff hound cross. He wasn't the biggest dog westeros had, but he was bred for war, not pit fighting, and was a better runner than the pure pit fighting mastiff types.
In an odd bit of symmetry, Sandor also went to his spot in a different corner, where a big, overstuffed leather arm chair waited beside a table. He still wasn't big on reading, but part of being my bodyguard gave him a lot of sitting around time, and he'd pick up a book occasionally. He'd mellowed out a lot from the severe, bitter young man who'd been assigned to me. I think, seeing a member of the nobility that wasn't a monster and who genuinely tried to take care of him back helped him deal with some of his childhood trauma. He still wouldn't take a knighthood, though. I didn't care enough to argue.
"Get us some breakfast, Cayla. Simple is fine." So saying, I went to my partially walled off desk in one corner of what I liked to call the tinkerlab. I had a little bit of privacy, but didn't actually feel separated from the work others were doing. I liked being a part of a busy group. It made me feel productive and alert.
My lab was just outside the Keep, on what had been a section of ground usually used for the small number of horses kept near the royal apartments. I had it built of stone and slate, so it was less likely to burn, and I didn't do any really energetic processes there. My lab was broken up into four main rooms. A big kitchen, where I did food related research, a tinkerlab where I had my desk and where nonvolatile projects took place, and a hot room for two small forges, a vacuum chamber, and my efforts to produce steam power. There was also a chemistry lab on the far side of the building away from the kitchen, but it had its own separate entrance.
Maester Carsen and Maester Keath both bid me good morning as I entered, with a more cursory greeting to Cayla, who immediately walked past toward the kitchen. Carsen was designing gear sets according to the formula I had 'developed', and overseeing a woodcarver, Bryer, as he made prototypes. Keath sat at his own desk and looked to be updating the books. Cayla was good with figures but she didn't have time to do all of the accounting herself.
The only other person in attendance was also the only other female, Ilina of Braavos, my most talented sculptor. Unlike the others, she did not greet me when I entered She was painstakingly reproducing an entire set of crow feathers in a black silver-copper-gold alloy the maesters found for me called hepatizon, apparently used in old Ghis. Her workbench was covered in bird drawings, a stuffed crow with wings outstretched, and the already articulated body of the whirligig automata she was working on. It was going to be a crow that flapped its wings and cawed once or twice every thousand turns of the small windmill that drove it. The wonder was a diplomatic gift for one of the noble houses that supported the Baratheons, House Morrigan.
I liked Ilina. She was in her early thirties, actually needed glasses unlike Cayla, and was a little bit flabby, with limp, dark hair and grey eyes. I suspected she probably fell somewhere on the autism spectrum, since she was painfully awkward and shy, but also had tremendous artistic talent. She completely ignored me as I came in, being completely focused on her task. Of course, all of that could be a ruse, and she might really be a fiendishly clever spy, but much like Cayla, it's just the price of doing business in King's Landing. She was the bee's knees at art, and absolutely loved my clockwork automatons, but she was pretty much a pig's ear at everything else.
The only other lab resident she got along with was my cat, Noric, named after a minorly famous blacksmith.
I scratched behind the big sand colored tabby's ears as I got to my desk and sat down. Noric promptly said 'mrrp?' and rolled over, exposing his flabby belly and purring loudly. I didn't fall for that trap, though. That's what got him banned from the keep despite his start as what was supposedly Myrcella's pet kitten. Peasant or prince, cats don't care.
The heat was already building, since I had yet to 'invent' refrigeration, so the first thing I did when I sat down was turn to the side of the desk on my left. This side had a stone top, bare except for a single device I was both perversely pleased by and utterly disappointed by. It was my recreation of a tiny, one cubic inch displacement stirling cycle engine, much like the demonstrator toy I had once owned. It was an external combustion engine powered by a pressurized lantern fuel burner. I worked the little thumb pump up and down, which I had copied from the coleman series of camping gear, getting a good pressure in the round, shiny brass fuel tank. A turn of a knob adjusted a needle valve, starting the fuel flow, and a flick of my zippo lighter reproduction got the flame started and glowing a nice pale blue.
Although simple enough to be made with the limited tools I had available, and actually very efficient in fuel, stirling cycle engines were a dead end as far as I was concerned. Their power to weight ratio sucked they tended to wear out the cylinder pretty fast. There were solutions to those problems, but I'd never learned them. Instead, I was trying unsuccessfully to replicate a decent steam engine, and my little 'prince engines' mostly ran the clockwork automata I made. The one on my desk actually powered a small fan, which kept the lab from being stifling. Some of the maesters were looking into making larger versions, but I was sure that steam was the way to go.
On my desk, held down by a variety of pretty but meaningless paperweights, were stacks and stacks of papers. Drawings, reports, financial data... and most frightening, a sappy letter from Sansa Stark.
I have only myself to blame. I'd been essentially betrothed to Sansa at birth, and I didn't want to marry a girl I'd never met before, right? So I wrote her, and set us up as pen pals. I sent her gifts for her birthday and such. Wrote her a few letters. Unleashed the monster that is a preteen girl with a crush, a pen, and some paper.
Oh my god. Gods. Seven, old gods, flaming gods, goat gods, whatever. Sansa was fairly cute. She'd sent me some drawings that had been made of her. And I knew she'd grow up and be pretty awesome. I'd always considered Arya to be more interesting, but it's hard to deny that Sansa would be a better queen. That didn't change the fact that I had been getting about three or four letters a month for years now. And I tried to be interested, I did. But it's all 'Arya got in trouble again', 'Robb is doing well in his training', 'the septas say I'm doing really well in my lessons', 'I've never met you personally but our souls are as two halves'.
Meanwhile, I can't tell her any of the really interesting stuff I've been up to. Dearest Sansa, 'I'm going through puberty so I invented lingerie, not that I can tell you what that is', 'my incredibly hot secretary has been writing about half of my reply letters', 'I cured a man of greyscale but six more got worse and died and I don't know why', 'I can't sleep with my secretary because I'll fall in love with her and pull a Tyrion, so I went to a whorehouse, got the clap, not that you know what that is, and invented penicillin, another thing you don't know about, in five incredibly uncomfortable months and now I'm scared to touch whores', 'penicillin doesn't work on greyscale', 'puberty is hitting like a freight train, not that you know what that is, so I'm about to invent the strip club, not that you know what that is, so whores can take off the lingerie I invented, which you still don't know what is, and if I tell you your father and brothers and bannermen will want my balls on a stick'.
I suck at writing letters.
'PS: puberty is overriding my fear of whores. Send nudes.'
Which obviously I can't say. She's way too young and my idea of a hot woman is pretty solidly stuck in the 20s and 30s range, which Cayla fits perfectly. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I have the memories of Robb and Tyrion's examples of why I don't need to be risking actual attachment.
I have to settle for writing sexy plays. When Tyrion returns next month, I'm going to surprise him with a sexy kancolle type reproduction of the Greyjoy rebellion in my theater slash strip club I secretly own and manage. It's going to be great. All of the ironborn shipgirls will be played as vacuous tarts who lose their ship costumes when they sink, and only occasionally win through dumb luck, because fuck those dollar store vikings. If this seems like an abuse of the wealth and power I have as a prince, well… Maybe. But it's equally possible that this is what cements my legacy as a genius. What's the point in having a playhouse if you don't use it to mock your enemies?
We've already had classic burlesque shows, song and dance numbers, and some pretty hilarious short comedy bits based on my memories of the old Oglaf comics. My favorite is the one where a thinly disguised Loras expy tries to give a thinly disguised Renly advice on how to seduce a thinly disguised Margary, only for 'Renly' to fall for the declarations of love and end up sexing 'Loras' in the bushes while 'Margary' looks down from her tower window and fans herself.
Among all of the other things I've invented, I also introduced the fujoshi to Westeros. I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.
Renly actually loved the play, because of course I checked with him first since I didn't want him as an enemy. I also invented male lingerie so that might have helped, but he wasn't terribly worried about people talking about his sexual preference. It was about as much of an open secret as the knowledge that Prince Eddard was secretly A.N. Onstead, the part owner and playwright of the Wayward Rose. The people that were 'in the know' knew, but they also didn't say anything about it in public. And you had to be in the know to get an invite to the Wayward Rose, which of course made it the hottest entertainment spot in King's Landing, selling my booze, unusual snack foods, and lingerie at literally obscene markups.
My theory of business is basically, 'Own the entire goddamn supply chain.'
Breakfast arrived quickly, carried by a cook from the kitchen. Eggs over easy, lightly fried corn tortillas, beans, rice, tomato salsa, and for the huevos ranchero sauce, a failed effort to reproduce Worcestershire sauce. Sandor absolutely loved the stuff and used it basically every meal, so I named it Hound Sauce in his honor. Westeros bizarrely has an absolutely top notch food culture for its tech level, but I didn't want to live in a world without tacos and burritos. They also didn't use tomatoes, potatoes, and rice as much as I preferred, and I had yet to find soybeans, okra, or peanuts at all.
Also, right behind the cook, Cayla reappeared.
"Prince Eddard, the Master of Whispers is here to see you," Cayla told me, letting the cook slide by her. "What shall I tell him?"
"Varys? Sure, show him in. See if he wants breakfast, too. Are you going to eat with me?" She did sometimes, sometimes Sandor did, and sometimes we all ate together.
"No, my Prince. I will let you and Varys discuss things in private. I will join Sandor in the atrium."
I nodded and sat back in the tiny breeze from the fan. A moment later, Cayla returned, escorting the softly chubby Master of Whispers.
Now, I liked Varys. After killing Joffrey and Baelish, one might think that Varys was the natural next choice. The thing was, Varys never betrayed anyone who didn't deserve it. I think he's some sort of weird proto-nationalist, doing what he thinks is best for the stability and welfare of the realm itself. The other thing is, he's really, really, really good at his job.
Given how much of my resource gathering and trading took place in Essos, I needed someone who knew their stuff.
Varys offered me a polite greeting as he entered, and I stood, but I'd stupidly stuffed a chunk of tortilla and egg in my mouth and all I could hear was my own crunching. I swallowed, looked around for a drink, and realized I'd forgot to order one.
"Hey~aaak," I said back, momentarily choking. "Hol' on'." I gasped and swallowed convulsively, lurching to my feet and all but shoving past the pudgy eunuch as I headed for the kitchen. "Tea! Brown!" I croaked, grabbing a jug of purified water and chugging. The water was lukewarm but had been standing long enough to not be flat, so I carried the whole jug, basically the size of a flower base, back to my desk.
"I've got tea coming, would you like some?" I asked Varys. "Or wine? It's a little early for whiskey, but I don't judge," I said, lying. I totally judge.
"Tea would be lovely," Varys replied. "Black, please."
"Hey, Tarla," I called back to my chef. "Get some black tea for Varys, too." Westeros didn't drink a lot of tea, which baffled me. Both black and brown came from the hills of Norvos, but you could also get really expensive, exotic types from Qarth. I thought the qartheen teas were too floral, and it seemed Varys agreed with me.
"What about breakfast? I'm afraid you caught me just beginning mine," I offered.
"Is that a new form of wrap?" he asked, referring to my term for both tacos and burritos.
I waggled a hand in a so-so motion. "Sort of? It's the same as a breakfast wrap, but with fried tortillas. Very crunchy."
"Ah. Sounds… messy." He looked dubious.
"Tarla could get you a regular wrap…?"
"Please."
Tea and a breakfast burrito were delivered, and we both dined companionably for a while. This wasn't unusual. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and it's probably best to sit on the people you aren't sure about.
"So, how's things?" I asked, pressing a shard of tortilla into a bit of leftover egg yolk. The plate was all but scraped clean, and I eyed it with a mind to ordering another.
"Shall I start with a personal note, then, Prince Eddard?" he asked with a wry note. "Before you get more breakfast, I should warn you that your Queen Mother is planning on inviting you to an afternoon luncheon. She's ordered a number of crab dishes prepared. I also believe your uncle, Ser Lannister, will be there as well."
"Crab? Wonderful!" I replied, perking up immediately.
"She may be wanting to discuss something, as I note that the Princess will be elsewhere," he cautioned.
I shrugged. "Whatever it is, it'll be cheaper than Father."
"Quite likely," he admitted. "In other news, I've just received word from my contacts in Myr that in exchange for the secrets of lens grinding, Myr will continue to sell you materials and not interfere if you hire any more glass blowers. I believe your uncle Tyrion was looking at a few families that had gotten rather deeply in debt. The raids on your soda ash suppliers have ceased, at least for the moment."
"They talked him up to the lens grinders, then. Perfect, that's what I wanted them to have." I tried for a Gendo pose but my plate was in the way.
Varys looked doubtful. "Are you sure? Your field glasses sell for a thousand dragons each, and your spyglasses for twice as much. That seems like a very profitable market to share with the glass makers guild in Myr."
"We've already made around eight, almost nine hundred thousand dragons off our spyglasses and field glasses. Everyone with the money wants one, for forts, for ships, and for generals and scouts. The problem is, not that many people can afford them. We've already sold them to almost every noble house in westeros with the means, with the wealthier houses buying more than one. But that's it. We're seeing maybe ten orders a month now from the Seven Kingdoms. All of the orders are coming from Essos and Yunkai and such now. And by this time next year, I expect we'll be seeing fewer orders from them, too. Market saturation, Varys."
"Saturation… as a rag soaks up water," he said, considering the term. This is why I liked Varys. He was the smartest guy in the room, one of the few I could really talk to.
"Once it's full, there's no more room. A few will probably be stolen, or broken, and need to be replaced, but by the time Myr has anything as good as ours? They'll have a hard time finding anyone who doesn't already have one." I grinned.
"Oh? And do you have a solution to this 'market saturation'?" he asked.
"Of course I do," I replied, feigning offense. "To borrow your metaphor, you make the rag bigger."
"You intend to make people richer?" he asked.
"Well, make more rich people, at any rate. Trade benefits everyone. But also, I can make each spyglass cheaper. It only costs about two hundred sixty dragons to make a spyglass, and a lot of that is because we reject the lenses that didn't turn out right, and my artisans spend a lot of time engraving the barrel and making it pretty. We can make them cheaper, and we can sell them cheaper. That lets more people buy them, and we keep making money. We can trade the massive profits but low volume we currently have, for lower profits and higher volume. And with a larger volume, Myr's competition shouldn't matter nearly as much."
Varys nodded thoughtfully. "It's too bad they've already stolen the formula for your silvered glass mirrors."
I shrugged. It irritated me but it wasn't entirely unexpected. "Yeah, but too many people are involved in that. No real way to keep the secret from everyone without choking production. Silver, aqua fortis, ammonia, and sugar are just too common. Most of our sugar comes from Volantis sweet beets anyway. We've got our own crops growing in the North, but the secret is out."
He nodded. "Speaking of the north, I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Oh no, here we go. He spends some time buttering me up, then hits me with the whammy.
"House Mormont has been caught breaking some very serious laws. Lord Jorah Mormont was caught selling captured poachers to slavers from Essos. Rather than answer the charges, he took his wife and all of the portable goods he could and fled, with the exception of his ancestral sword, Longclaw, which was sent to his father at the Wall."
"What." I paused. "No, seriously. Why in the fuck would he do that? I've been shipping coin and resources to Bear Island for two and a half years. It was going to be the western trade hub of the north! There was more than enough money there for him to skim some off for himself!" I went with a slightly suboptimal plan to develop the northwest region specifically so I could keep Jorah fucking Mormont out of the business with the Targaryens!
"Apparently, his wife has expensive tastes." He gave a little shrug, as if to divorce himself from the vagaries of husband and wife relationships. "I believe she developed them when you had them come spend four months in King's Landing on your coin."
"She already had expensive tastes! The point was to alleviate- ahhh dammit! You say he made off with the portable goods. You mean the spyglasses and field glasses I sent up there to guard against fucking ironborn raids, don't you?"
Varys nodded. "As well as the compasses and at least a few crates of steel tools which had not yet been shipped to the mountain clans."
I snapped a hand up in a 'wait' motion, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. "Don't tell me. I can already see it. He sold them to the fucking ironborn."
He made a 'sort of' gesture. "Not by choice, at least initially. Much of this appears to be the result of his efforts to avoid disappointing you, Prince Eddard. I believe his lady wife arranged for a few spyglasses to disappear from the signal towers. When he found out, rather than report the losses, he turned to slavery, apparently hoping to get enough money to replace the spyglasses without being caught. Of course, when he was caught selling slaves, he simply loaded a ship with his best and set sail. We don't know if he's sold anything else to the ironborn, or if he intends to make it to Essos before selling."
I nodded. "So your last word is of him fleeing Bear Island?"
"Indeed, my Prince."
"Well. So despite my efforts to set things up where people will come to me with a mistake before they cut their own throat trying to cover it up, he does exactly that. And now the ironborn have spyglasses."
"Between two and ten, my Prince."
"That's going to be a problem."
"Indeed, my Prince."
"Gods above, I hate the ironborn."
"Indeed, my Prince. I've noticed you've gone out of the way to invent protections against their reaving. I've always wondered, was it because they rebelled recently?" He looked curious.
I blinked. "No. I mean, that doesn't help, but why wouldn't any right minded person hate the ironborn? They build nothing, they destroy everything they touch, they keep slaves by using another word for it, and they ruin lives simply by being who they are. They're almost as bad as the fucking dothraki. I mean, did you know that the dothraki have actually killed cities and turned prosperous lands into empty wastes? The ironborn would do that if they could get their shit together long enough. They're stupid and careless and every one that dies is another reason to smile. Fortunately, while dangerous as raiders, they're pretty weak against prepared forces."
He nodded. My disdain of the dothraki, who had raided some of our trade convoys and resource expeditions in Essos, was pretty well established at this point. I take a pretty dim view of peoples who raid for resources and slaves instead of building cities and infrastructure. If they ever showed up on my shores, following a dragon or not, I was going to open Pandora's Box all over their asses.
"Do you have any orders regarding the ex-Lord Mormont?" Varys asked instead.
"Ahh," I said, hesitating. "I suppose I can kind of understand where he was coming from. But I already risk looking weak with how forgiving I am, and frankly, he has only himself to blame." I paused. "And his wife. He definitely has his wife to blame. I guess if he sells the stuff he stole in Essos, he can just stay banished, and if he sold it to the ironborn… I may have to make a point. I mean, he's going to have to live in exile with that bitch of a wife of his, and you know she's going to spend all the money they have and then leave him for some rich asshole over there. Then she'll be living the good life and Jorah will be the one fucked over again."
"A proposal, then?" Varys offered. "They may stay in exile untroubled, provided your condition that he didn't sell any more spyglasses to the ironborn is met, but only if his wife remains faithful to him for the remainder of their lives. Should she cuckold him or leave him for, as you say, some rich asshole, a bounty shall be placed on her head." He smiled slightly. "Should you choose, you could even forgive his exile should he bring her back for execution personally. Though I doubt Lord Stark would accept him returning to his ancestral seat, there are other places he could live out his days, as a living example of your forgiveness, and knack for creative punishment."
I nodded, impressed. "Daaaamn, that's vicious." I thought for a moment, then agreed. "Yeah, I do blame her the most, and having him deliver her for punishment would be satisfactory given the crimes he committed for her." I smiled grimly. "You know, this is why I like you, Varys. You're the only one around here with any balls."
"Of course, my Prince. I keep them in a little box on my desk," he said genially, taking no apparent offense.
I blinked, realizing my inadvertent insult to the eunuch.
"Where they can't influence my decisions."
Fucking Varys. A killer with the manners of a rabbit. The most dangerous kind.
AN: Thanks to everyone who's commented and special thanks to everyone in the Discord Channel, Discord - Free voice and text chat for gamers for their help in getting this done. This chapter saw quite a lot of revisions and more than a few total rewrites.
Kalaong
Extinction is approaching. FIGHT IT.
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Well that's something. Not sure what but it is something. I have to admit Varys didn't make the suggestion I thought he was leading to even if I suspect 'Ned' would have signed off on it.
On another note I wonder how King Bob feels about his spymaster reporting to his son?
On another note I wonder how King Bob feels about his spymaster reporting to his son?
Fabula Amanti
I want a Grimoire, but I got books.
- Location
- Singapore
I like this, toeing the like between serious and cracky. Now I will watch as the world burns.
- Location
- United States
This is good. It's funny and serious at the same time, which is the best possible combination.
Tabi
Expert Jissou Abuser
Oh christ that was great.
The cheeky fat ball-less ballsy bastard... He was trying to see if your secretary twigs on any 'hereditary' incest thing from you.
- Location
- St Louis
NIce very nice. I cant wait for more of this.
Stratagemini
Totally a Fire Ferret.
- Location
- Central Park
- Pronouns
- He/Him/They/Them
Oh man. Varys is stone cold. Especially with that retort (which could be aimed as much against the prince as Mormont).
- Location
- Canada
I like this direction so much more. The SI feels like he matters here.
