283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment
On my way to the Maegor's Holdfast I walked alongside one of my more powerful bannermen. The aging Lord was still well built, still held an air of casual danger around him and he seemingly lived to disagree with me. Sweet flattery held little sway over the man, subtle threats only made him scoff and the clattering of gold only moved him when it suited him.
All in all, he was a thoroughly disruptive influence to my plans in the Stormlands.
It wasn't just him.
The same applied to every last one of my Marcherlords. And yet, I needed men like him on board with me. I would greatly prefer them to be fully on board, if at all possible, but I'll settle for grudging acceptance. As it stood now, I had reasonably asserted control over the Eastern and Southern Stormlands. Everything from as far north as the King's Wood, to as far east as Stonedance, and all the way down to Storm's End was well in hand. The Lordships of the Mistwood peninsula were quarrelsome among themselves, but all fell in line at my command. All the lands west of Griffin's Roost, right up until Summerhall, likewise were eager for my favor.
The Marcherlords on the other hand were like a bunch of overly powerful miniature kings. They barely acknowledge Royal influence, are only marginally more receptive to orders from Storm's End, and were more than willing to safeguard their quasi-independence by whichever means necessary.
Fortunately for me, there was one subject that never failed to twig on their heart strings.
"I hope you haven't been too put out by the treaty with Dorne, my Lord?"
A thoroughly distasteful grimace flickered across his face before he replied, "Once again we let slip an opportunity to scourge the dusky cowards, my Prince. None of your Lords are pleased with this, nor should they!"
The hatred for the Dornish ran deep in the Stormlands. Even the Reacherlords never quite inspired the same depths of animosity from my Stormlords. It wasn't a new development either. This particular hatred is ancient on a scale that makes the Blackwood-Bracken rivalry look like a petty disagreement over who got the last cup of Arbor Gold during last night's feast. I certainly did not mind taking advantage of these sentiments.
Princes have used fear, bigotry and hatred to good end since the dawn of civilization. If the price to gain internal cohesion in the Stormlands was to bring the anti-Dornish sentiments to a boiling point, I was more than willing to pay it.
I abruptly stood still and slowly turned to Lord Caron, "My Lord of Nightsong, do not – for one moment – believe that it does not vex me likewise. A humbled Dorne is a good Dorne."
Lord Caron sported a dangerous grin, "The only good Dornishmen are dead ones!"
I knew how this particular story went, "Hear hear."
Next the aging Marcherlord surprised me, "Well, my Prince. What precisely might you be buttering me up for?"
Well, crap. Was I this transparent?
I held in a sigh and replied, "You are the first of my Marcherlords, Lord Caron. Your words carry weight where it matters and I have need of your wagging tongue."
Slowly the man raised an eyebrow, but he chose to remain quiet.
"Our Lord Hand feels that the Dornish matter can be settled." I continued with quite a bit of overt contempt, "He believes that turning an enemy into a friend vanquishes the enemy."
I stared straight at the Marcherlord and kept his gaze hostage, "I told him my Stormlords would call the Dornish bandits friends when he invites his mountain savages to his table."
The big burly warrior threw his head backwards as he let out a whoop of laughter, "I cannot imagine that would sit well with the Old Falcon!"
I simply shrugged, "Apparently, my Lord, I am a bloodthirsty warmonger."
Another one of the man's razor sharp grins flashed at me, "Much like most other Lord's of Storm's End then?"
Now I was the one throwing my head back in whooping laughter, "I shall take that as the highest compliment anyone could wheedle out of you."
Ah, crap. I shouldn't have tried to compliment him. The amusement didn't entirely drain from his bearing, but it was a close run thing. "You are yet to share what you desire of me, my Prince."
Alright, no more dancing around the subject.
"I want the Dornish out of King's Landing."
Lord Caron shrugged and replied, "A worthy cause, I'm sure. I would go as far as to say that Iwant them out of Dorne, but I fear it might not be that simple. We're at peace and our King Stag pledged their safety. They are untouchable and you shall have to forgive me when I say I do not foresee upsetting the Demon of the Trident. Unless he might prove willing to look askance on our behalf?"
I let none of my frustration show when I responded, "I'm afraid not, but that is solely because the Martells have cloaked themselves in the airs of an injured party. Any...direct action towards them would fail, or set too many parts of the Realm against us."
Another slowly raised eyebrow, "I imagine you have a clever ploy at the ready?"
Why did he have to say it distastefully? I'd ask, but that would just derail me.
"Not all that clever, Lord Caron. Simplicity at its finest, in fact. All we need do is remind the Realm just who the Dornish are."
Now the Marcherlord frowned, "I'm afraid I do not follow, your Grace."
Not only is this stubborn bastard one of the few men willing to tell me to go to hell, he wasn't shy about asking for elaborations either. All in all, a thoroughly difficult man to deal with. I much preferred my Lords prideful and easily led by their ego's.
"The Dornish are scorpions in your bed after they've surrendered to you. The Dornish are pits of snakes for the likes of King's. The Dornish are broken parleys and deceitful betrayals. The Dornish answer good graces in the same manner they answer steel. That is Dorne." I held my hand up before he could reply, "The Dornish are not meek victims. The Dornish are not blameless. What goes around, comes around., and as for the Martells...their time came."
A particularly slow crawling smile crept up on Lord Caron's face, "You have a particular turn of phrase, your Grace. What goes around, comes around..."
I matched the man's grin, "This is what I need from you, Lord Caron. Forcibly remind our Lords of this fact and slash through whatever haze of lingering pity deludes them. Remind them all of what the Dornish really are."
And while that message worked its way across the Realms after it makes the rounds in the Stormlands, I would try to push the new reality that Dornish interests and those of House Martell are no longer one and the same.
By hook or crook.
283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment
Absolute chaos reigned in the the small Hall within Maegor's Holdfast. A cacophony of loud and insisted voices clashed with thumping noises of fists on tables. Thanks to my upcoming wedding, and the tremendous tournament my brother is hosting, every single Stormlord of note was gathered in King's Landing. It was both a priceless opportunity as well as a massive headache. My Stormlords were prickly, loud, and so stubborn as to be nearly unyielding.
It didn't help that the vast majority of them didn't quite know how to deal with me. From their perspective I must look so odd. Especially considering the other Baratheon son out there. Robert was everything a Lord of Storm's End was supposed to be, in the eyes of my vassals. Martial in the extreme, generous in victory and best of all...completely disinterested in the private affairs of his men. Compared to him I'm an anomaly and I am quite well aware of it.
Of course, none of this means they don't respect me. They do, or else they would not entrust me with their sons and grandsons. And yet, it's rather clear there is a wariness which I will likely never be able to shake. It's all a touch unfair from my perspective.rely, I too have some decent military accomplishments? Does my generosity not ring across the Realms?
Apparently none of that matters as I distinctly do care quite a bit about what my Lords are up to.
In fact, I was quietly studying each of them as they shouted themselves hoarse. Lord Caron's booming voice dominated the far corner of the Hall, the Evenstar of Tarth was calling for retribution in haunted tones, and Lord Cafferen was insistent we should have set sail yesterday. My grandfather, the Lord of Estermont, was likewise occupied watching the show unfolding in front of us. Our gathering had only started and it had degenerated rapidly.
I knew who to blame.
Lord Buckler was no longer an eager supporter of mine. Not that I could blame him overmuch, but it was yet another hurdle I had to navigate. Another anchor around my neck dragging me down in the dredges. At moments like these I wish I had a fraction of Robert's magical charisma. Instead, I had to content myself with my own brand of theatrics.
I caught Renly's gaze and had him beat a stick against a makeshift gong. The little bugger was absolutely ecstatic that I included him in these proceedings. The poor lad had no idea what was going on, but since I brought little Beric Dondarrion with me...I felt I couldn't quite shame Renly by keeping him away. Besides, there was always the hope he could passively learn from the experience. It took a few moments, but soon all eyes were on me as I slowly got to my feet. The crowd of Stormlords quieted down and despite my private worries...none of them jeered at me.
"My Stormlords, I've heard your words. Now, hear mine."
I let the silence stretch for just a touch too long before I continued, "While passions run high in our people, we have a duty to carefully consider the best course of action. I will not settle for a perfunctory raid in the Step Stones." Another slightly too long silence, "Our lands have been assaulted, one of our towns has been put to the torch as has the Royal Navy base it supported. A thorough response must be made, I agree."
I slowly let me gaze wander over the crowd and let loose a fraction of the anger boiling within me, "Pirates have burned down Weeping Town to the ground! Pirates have taken the populace of that poor blighted settlement." I accentuated my tone with a loud bang on the table, "Pirates fucking took my people!"
That got a considerably better response than I expected. A mindless roar of anger and frustration came crashing over me in a wave of sounds. Instead of quieting them down I simply screamed louder, "Not since Aegon's fucking landing have any pirates dared assault us. Us! For they knew!" The next bit I almost growled out, "They knew the Storm would come for them!"
In turn, the crowd got even louder.
I hopped on to my seat and from it jumped on the table. "Punishing the craven fucking pirates is not enough! Hunting them down and butchering them is not enough! We are the Lords of the Stormlands and our people belong to us! How dare these Essosi fucking scum come for them!"
The roaring got even more unintelligible.
Now I was screaming at the top of my lungs, "I pledge myself, before all of you! Before all my Stormlords! I will get our people back. I will retrieve our honor! And we...all of us, will remind Essos of the strength the Stormlands can rouse itself to!"
Holy shit. It's working.
As much as I loved the enthusiasm, I needed their focus. I raised my hands outwards and slowly brought them down. As if by magic the roaring of the Stormlords faded away.
When the Hall fell quiet I spoke, "It has been three centuries since King Argillac brought low the Free Cities of the Disputed Lands." I continued with a grin, "Three hundred years is a long time...for an Essosi."
I cut through the laughter and went on decidedly more grim, "Unlike my ancestor we cannot let our anger control us. This heinous insult will be answered, but we shall do so on our terms. Ours is the Fury, we ride the beast my Lords. We do not let it ride us."
Lord Caron boldly yelled, "You do not know my wife, your Grace!"
Well, fuck. I barely held on, but I desperately wanted to laugh with the others. Instead I grinned even wider, but before I could respond Lord Buckler spoke up. "When did we decide to assault the Disputed Lands, my Prince?"
Motherfucker. Why couldn't he just go along with it? I was rather backed into a corner. I was building up steam and I wanted to ride it all the way to the end. Now I needed to explain...
"The pirates are but a cat's paw. We will strike at their paymasters, or else Lys and Tyrosh shall have us inundated with more sell-sails with impunity. We shall cut off the Serpent at it's head, my Lord Buckler."
Rather than slink back, the man doubled down.
"A fine suggestion-." Suggestion?! Was he really trying to undermine me here? Did his grief run this deep? Or was simply not inclined to place nice anymore? "-, my Prince, but surely Lys and Tyrosh would not be short sighted enough to let their hand be spotted?"
God damn it. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to this? I didn't have 'proof', but I did have common sense. Pirates simply do not behave as they have in the attack on Weeping Town. For an excruciating moment my mind was blank. I was almost at the point of bluffing when Marius stepped up to the plate. The young Herston spare, and one of my most trusted lieutenants proved his mettle when he loudly responded, "Certainly, we are facing no fools. Even if we might have cause to think so, for their folly in challenging us."
And with two sentences he had the group eating out of his. He continued, "His Grace, Prince Stannis set up a spy ring that dwarfed the one span by Varys the Spider, my Lords. That was months ago, since then..."
He looked over at me, looked down as if in shame, before spitting out, "I feel it is not my place to discuss the depths of his well of information. If anyone could deftly pick out the subtle interplay of Essosi powers, it would be our Prince."
My Grandfather spoke up next, "And should my worth still hold any meaning, I must admit that my grandson has a singular talent for gray world of information gathering." With a merry glint in his eyes he went on, "Among his other, more surprising, talents."
And suddenly the Lords laughed once again. What was that about? Either way, I was well enough pleased that my reputation was working out for me, for once. I cleared my throat and loudly spoke, "We shall not be alone in this endeavor. From the Crownlands we can count on the support of the Houses of the Narrow Sea. From the Reach we shall have the men of House Rowan, Cuy, Redwyne and Tyrell." The last few didn't go over so well, so I rapidly continued with a sharp grin. "As Warden of the South I could compel more troops, but then..." My grin grew ever wider, "Then we'd have to share to spoils!"
And that got them all back on board. They knew I took next to nothing from all the sacks I oversaw and that most of it went to the fighting men.
283 AC – King's Landing – Nation Building and Errors of Judgment
Behind me, and slightly off to the right, I could hear Lady Olenna tutting her disapproval. It took all I had to keep ignoring the women, even as snippets of her conversation reached me. Suspiciously, she spoke just loud enough for me to pick it up.
"Trust a Baratheon to turn a three day tournament into a two week debacle! Don't we already waste enough precious time placating the pride of young men?"
Argh! Thankfully Mace proved less annoying when he leaned in and whispered, "Don't mind her, I think this is excellent. All the mediocre swordsmen get eliminated leaving us solely the finest men!"
I bestowed a wide smile upon him when I replied, "Precisely!" I leaned in a little closer, "And it neatly shows us who is worth recruiting away from their Lords."
My future brother in law sniggered, but before he could respond I called out to a familiar shape walking by us.
"Lord Umber!"
The Northern Lord of the Last Hearth could have been born a Stormlander. The man was wide in the shoulders, black of hair and blue of eye. Only the bear pelts adorning him, even in the sweltering heat of King's Landing, marked him out as a Northerner. The burly man had a quick smile and responded, "Prince Stannis!"
Cheeky bugger.
I smiled even wider and loudly replied, "I've put five hundred gold Dragons on you, my Lord! You best make it to the final sixteen!"
A loud and rumbling laugh was his first response. Next he bellowed out, "You honor me, my Prince, but surely you should be betting on your own men!"
Now I was the one laughing, "Hah! I've put thrice that on Ser Balon Swann!"
Renly enthusiastically joined in, "Ser Balon is the best!"
Only to be followed by little Garth Tyrell, "Nuhuh! Uncle Garth is the best!"
Which Renly seemed to take as a mortal insult before Ser Balon quieted him down with a soft pat on the head. When he seemed to get ready to disregard that I had to add one of my own.
"Hey!"
Tiredly I said, "Come on, Renly, be polite." Just as Mace did the same, "Do behave, Garth."
The little bugger just stared at me morosly before quietly, almost inadaubily whispering his apology. The depths of my littlest brother's rage against the Tyrells occasionally still shook me. While I was more than pleased at how Renly was shaping up, I felt more than a little bit queasy at his stubbornness. Perhaps I should have a lengthy talk with him about it.
Lord Umber wandered off after a fairly short and inane conversation, but I didn't mind. I was simply establishing communication with him. I'd already decided that Stark, Manderly and Umber were going to be the Houses I'd deal most with in the North. The Lord of the Last Heart was already reasonably well inclined towards me, especially after he found out about my shipments of food and steel to the Night's Watch, but better ties were always useful.
Mace quietly whispered, "Is there anything I should know about him?""
Should I tell him?
I shrugged and replied, "Lord Umber is one of the finest swordsmen around and despite his size...people still underestimate him as a Northern savage." I smiled at Mace, "He'll do wonderful in the rankings."
Renly looked up at me and asked, "Who do you think will win?"
Hmm. I winked at the little man and said, "I can't quite say that, but I do like to think I can guess who will be certain to appear in the final sixteen."
This got Balon's attention, "My Prince?"
Another smile, this time for Balon.
"I have every faith in you to represent the Stormlands, but we're not the only ones to produce excellent swordsmen. From the Vale I imagine Ser Mandon Moore will make an excellent showing. The North will be taken by Lord Umber, the Westerlands will either present Lord Brax or Crakehall. Ser Brynden Tully will almost certainly push through as well, and the rest..."
I shrugged again, "Is up for grabs."
Lady Olenna chimed in, "No insight into the Reach, your Grace?"
I only had a bland smile for her, "I imagine they'll perform well in the lists, but I'm afraid that doesn't quite hold my attention. Us Stormlanders like the sword better."
Not really, but I wasn't in the mood to be dicked around. The rest of the trip to our elevated seats around the Tournament Grounds went by without much trouble. Matches played out in front of us, usually the favorites one, but occasionally upsets occurred. Such as when a young, and relatively unknown, knight of House Fossoway managed to completely dismantle Lord Jeor Mormont.
Of course, the latter wasn't using his Valyrian sword, but still...
On my left Janna was still being annoyingly quiet. We'd talked through Renly's little intervention, and I sincerely hoped that nonsense was over, but there was still some lingering awkwardness. Hopefully spending a few days together before the wedding would settle things down. For now, maybe some light conversation. Unfortunately, I was distracted by the Lannister clan taking their seats in the rows just in front of us. Mace, annoyingly enough, chose to poke their golden haired heir after the pleasantries were done.
"Ser Jaime, I could have sworn you would have participated in this glorious event!"
With his teeth almost audibly grinding Jaime responded, "Perhaps next time, my Lord Tyrell. For now, I am content to watch."
Well, he clearly wasn't. I vaguely expected Cersei to say something to me, but when she remained aloof I had to actively remind myself that a little distance between us was probably for the best. Feeling slighted that my verbal sparring buddy wasn't up to the task probably wasn't a good idea.
Jaime on the other hand did focus on me, "Prince Stannis-." He continued with a simpering smile, "Might we see you perform?"
Asshole.
I shrugged at the golden haired shit and replied, "Perhaps once my brother has a few spare heirs."
Lady Olenna scoffed, but I could hear her whisper, "Hmm, a fair share of prudence. How droll."
Once again I resolutely ignored her.
Renly however parroted my earlier words with an arrogant upwards tilt of his chin, "And it simply never pays to share with the world just how good my Princely brother is at dealing death!"
I half had to resist the urge to abruptly face-palm or to pick Renly up and cheer him up. Lady Olenna snorted indelicately, Lord Tywin looked on vaguely approvingly and Cersei glanced towards us before abruptly turning back.
Did her gaze linger on Janna? Did Janna frown at her? Did Cersei fucking dodge a confrontation??
What the fuck happened there?
Despite my curiosity I let it lie and enjoyed the demonstrations of martial valor. Everything mostly progressed as expected, until Ser Fossoway won his final bout of the day. The Green Apple bowed to the audience seemed pleased as peaches with his inclusion in the final thirty two. Robert was getting ready to loudly proclaim his admiration for the feat when the lad suddenly walked towards me.
What?
Why would he break protocol like this?
All I could do was sit and wait until I grew more and more certain something horrifying was about to happen. Call it an instinct, a vague awareness something was off or even just plain paranoia. I didn't like it when things didn't progress as expected. When the Fossoway knight reached us, he uncovered his helmet and let it drop to his feet. The man was intently staring at me, no not at me...at Janna, and the crowd...fell silent.
Completely fucking silent.
What??
And then he spoke. And as he spoke...I grew angry. And horrified.
What the fuck is he doing? Is this really fucking happening?
I was faintly aware of Mace snapping the armrest of his chair in his death grip as splinters flew all around. I vaguely noticed Janna latching her hand onto her mouth after a loud gasp. I was rather disquieted by Olenna's whispers of death and destruction behind me. I was marginally pleased with the way Janna kept shaking her head back and forth. God only knows what Robert was doing. My attention didn't reach that far. I was many things, I felt many things and I was fucking frozen. I knew I should have derided him. I knew I should have insulted him until he walked off the field in shame. There were a hundred different things I could or should have done. Thousands of scenario's flashed through my mind, but all of them lead to the same end.
This Reach-cunt needs to die, but all I could think of was to slowly rise and loudly scream, "Fetch my fucking armor!" I looked down at my future brother in law, "Mace...do you require this man to live?"
Growling with a menace that was entirely out of place on him he said, "Would that you could kill the fool twice." A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, "Do not play with him, just end it."
Still seething he continued, "Perhaps not that quickly."
For once, Mace and I were entirely on the page. Later, much later, I'd wonder if I lost my mind or if this was truly happening and I did - in fact - degenerate into a local that flies off the handle when his honor is challenged. In that moment though...all I knew was that Fossoway needed to die.
And I was the one to do it.
AN: New chapter, yeey! It's a bit unpolished, so please...all the feedback you can muster!
