Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by Malcolm Tent, Priapus, Marethyu, Mike God of Lore
The Unbound
Chapter 16: Dornish Schemes
– Princess Arianne Martell –
"Did my father send you?" Arianne asked instantly, tense and scowling. Her mother paused, a slight frown crossing her beautiful features. Arianne had inherited much from her mother, including her figure and beauty. It had been several years since she'd last seen the woman, and despite the years, she looked better than ever. Escaping her father would do that.
"It has been a long time since Doran was able to send me anywhere, Arianne," Mellario replied, her tone mildly scolding. "No, I didn't come here on his orders, nor did I come here for you. In truth, I hadn't heard that you were even here until after I arrived. It is unlike Dorne to involve itself in the affairs of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms."
"We could hardly miss the event of the decade," Arianne explained, but the knowing look in her mother's eyes told her that she was well aware that it wasn't quite that simple. "If you aren't here for me, why are you here?"
"Because this is the event of the decade," Mellario replied with a small laugh. "Norvos doesn't trade with the Seven Kingdoms much compared to the other Free Cities, but the lavish spending from both the Tyrells and Lannisters raised eyebrows across the narrow seas. Besides, most agree that King Robert isn't long for the world with his excessive eating habits and dangerous hobbies. It does well for even the Free Cities to maintain cordial relations with the next King, and royal weddings are always good places to curry favour and make connections. I was requested to attend by the council, as I am more familiar with the Seven Kingdoms and their etiquette than most Norvoshi highborn. I don't have to guess what Oberyn is doing here, and it seems he's made quite an ally."
Her mother's tone was not approving, despite Uncle Oberyn's success in getting his sister avenged. But then, why would it be? Oberyn had been the root cause of her leaving Dorne to begin with. If Oberyn hadn't slain Lord Edgar Yronwood in a drunken duel over a woman, with Oberyn bedding the Lord's mistress, then her brother Quentyn wouldn't have been sent to be fostered with the Yronwood's to try and repair the damaged relations. She didn't know if Oberyn had truly used poison like the rumours claimed, but it had led to years of hatred between the two Houses, and caused her father to decide to send Quentyn to them to fix things, which her mother highly disapproved of, leading to their first major argument and eventual split.
"They both had a common enemy, and Orys is smart enough to see the benefits of working with Dorne instead of just pretending we don't exist like King Robert did," Arianne replied, somewhat smugly despite her lack of participation in the entire event. Even if she wasn't part of the pact against Littlefinger, it still sent a message that Orys wasn't so apathetic towards Dorne. She'd had several highborn approach her since Clegane's death and even more so since Dorne had paid their respects to Orys at his coronation. Most were testing the waters, trying to see what they were doing here and if this was the start of a bigger Dornish presence in the court, some wanted to see how open she'd be to a betrothal. A month or two ago, she'd have been smug and picked one of them as her tool against Doran. Now, she had her eyes on a far bigger prize.
Outright flirting with Orys wasn't working, but that didn't mean she'd given up her plans of getting the King in her bed. Her mother didn't respond for a moment, a thoughtful look on her face as Arianne waited, somewhat nervous.
"Doran is still playing his games, then?" Mellario finally asked, Arianne freezing in surprise before she scowled fiercely.
"If you call his attempts to set me aside as his rightful heir games, then yes. Father has done everything in his power to stop me from making allies, offered me only ancient men as husbands, and sidelined me at every opportunity," Arianne agreed, her fists clenching. "So I slipped away with Uncle Oberyn. If he won't give me what is rightfully mine, I have no choice but to take it for myself."
"Unsurprising," Mellario replied simply. She remembered the loud arguments between her parents when her father had wanted to send her off to Tyrosh. At the time she'd thought it was a good opportunity to make connections in Essos, given the lack of contact Dorne had with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but now she saw it for what it was. An attempt to send her away from Dorne, where she'd no doubt never be allowed to return. "Your move at the Coronation was impressive. I suspect Doran will be most displeased when he hears that his heir publicly swore her fealty to the new King."
Of course he would. But she'd put him in a very uncomfortable position because he couldn't go back on her words without destroying his credibility. Plus, with his health, he was unlikely to travel to King's Landing himself to counter her. In truth, she was surprised he hadn't sent anyone to drag her home yet.
"It wouldn't do to damage our reputation by appearing ungrateful after Orys brought Aunt Elia's and my cousins' killers to justice," Arianne replied smoothly, a smile on her lips. "I intend to end the Dornish isolation when I take my rightful seat. It served us well after Robert's Rebellion, but now it's just leaving us in the dust. Orys is going to be one of the greatest kings to ever sit upon the Iron Throne, I know it. He's becoming a legend already, and he's been King for only a day. I won't see Dorne fall behind as the rest of the Kingdoms benefit from Orys' genius."
"Ah, yes, his Valyrian steel?" Mellario asked. "So, it's true then? He forged those swords, and his crown, himself?"
"He did. Tyene has ingratiated herself with the Faith, and she managed to get into one of the sessions where the septons and septas watched Orys forge the ceremonial sceptre that he gifted to the Faith," Arianne agreed. "I don't know if he's truly blessed by the Seven, but it doesn't matter. In such a short amount of time, he's put a stop to Littlefinger's corruption, righted a grievous wrong, discovered the secret of forging Valyrian steel, and then proven himself the best archer in the Seven Kingdoms. His legend just keeps growing, and I'm not willing to bet on him losing steam."
Orys had blood connections with the Stormlands and Westerlands, and was marrying the pretty little rose of the Reach. He seemed to be doing a great job of wooing the often-isolated North as well. That alone would make him powerful, having strong bonds with the strongest of his kingdoms. She doubted he was going to leave it at that either,
Her mother didn't respond, but her face turned increasingly grim for a moment before she sighed.
"He truly is skilled, there is no doubt of that. But such success always comes at a cost," Mellario replied, the wisdom of experience clear in her tone. "As I just said, even the Free Cities are making an appearance here. Norvos sent me here because they don't want to fall any further behind Braavos, Pentos or any of the others. I have no doubt that every rumour will reach the Free Cities before long. Do you see where I'm going with this?"
She was testing Arianne, and it made Arianne pause for a moment. It took her all of a second to catch on.
"Qohor," Arianne answered, getting a proud nod from her mother. "They're famed for their Smiths who can rework Valyrian steel, and it's made them extremely wealthy. It pales in comparison to the fact that Orys can forge entirely new Valyrian steel."
"Trade is the heart of their economy, but their fame comes from their smiths, who are said to have no equal. Losing the Valyrian steel trade would not cripple them, but they've hoarded the secrets of its reforging jealously for decades. Their magisters will not permit that secret to spread. There are rumours that their metalwork is the product of blood sacrifice, and they've killed many Maesters who attempted to investigate the truth. I haven't seen any magisters of Qohor here, but that doesn't mean they don't have their own agents attending," Mellario explained softly. "If there are no figures of note from Qohor now, I guarantee there will be soon. Rumour travels faster than the wind itself. The Tyrell boy has been waving his sword around for all to see, and it is clear to anyone with an experienced eye that it was crafted with the Tyrell family in mind. The rose isn't just some bauble added on at the end, which means at the very least, Orys reforged Valyrian steel into a new blade. Qohor won't stand for such a thing."
"But they aren't the only ones who can do so, right? I've heard there's a smith in King's Landing who can work with Valyrian steel," Arianne pointed out. "One who even studied in Qohor, if I heard correctly."
"Perhaps, but a single smith is not a threat to their trade. I suspect he will take the secret to his grave, not even passing it down to his apprentices. Now, a King who can do the same? A king who may spread that knowledge through his Kingdoms? That is a different matter entirely," Mellario explained. "I doubt King Orys will spread it out so freely. What makes Valyrian steel so valued is its rarity above all else, but it remains a threat to Qohor. To their pride, if nothing else."
"Because if they are using sacrifices, they'll be attributing their success to their god, the Black Goat of Qohor," Arianne realised. "While Orys' success is being seen as him being blessed by the Smith."
Mellario gave her a soft, proud smile at her realisation.
"The Seven hold no sway in Qohor, of course, but the priests preach that the gift of the secrets to reforge Valyrian steel comes from their Black Goat. What does it say when a King of another kingdom, of another faith, can do what they can do, but better? Without needing sacrifices?" Mellario pointed out. "How long until Magisters, Sealords and Merchant Princes come to Westeros, seeking to commission the Blessed King? Even now, Braavosi courtesans ply their trade here. Ravens will have already flown across the Narrow Sea, carrying whispers of Orys and his skills."
"Why tell me this?" Arianne finally asked. She didn't know nearly as much about Essos as she probably should, but that was the situation for most of the Seven Kingdoms, she suspected.
"Because you're my daughter, and I want to make sure you know what you're doing by tying your fate to the new King's," Mellario replied simply, a small smile crossing her face. "Or maybe I'm just planning to exploit your… relationship with the new King to get an introduction."
Her tone was teasing, but not entirely joking.
"What are you trying to achieve here, Arianne?" Mellario finally asked, cutting to the chase.
"To become his paramour, and potentially his wife down the line," Arianne admitted, seeing her mother's eyebrows rise.
"You hope to replace Margaery Tyrell? Even the Smallfolk speak of how those two are fated for one another, bards singing of love at first sight," Mellario pointed out, but Arianne shook her head. This was the decision she'd come to. She couldn't replace Margaery unless the Tyrell Rose died, and she certainly wasn't going to go the way of Littlefinger.
"No. I intend to become his mistress, and to use this new… legend building around him to push for a new Doctrine of Exceptionalism," Arianne finally admitted, as Mellario sighed fondly. "The Targaryens were exempt from many of the laws thanks to their 'exceptionalism', and if Orys is blessed by the divine, should he not be more exceptional still?"
It was actually Tyene who had come up with this scheme, in part. In truth, it had started as a sinful joke about how if Orys was truly divine, the Septas should be serving under him directly with Tyene jokingly volunteering her womb for his divine seed, as if Tyene wouldn't combust from contact with anything truly divine, given her sinful nature, but it had planted the idea in Arianne's head.
"You walk a fine line, my dear Arianne. If you keep going down this path, you will bind your fate to his, all with no guarantee that you can even convince him to begin with," Mellario warned softly. "If he falls, you will fall with him. Your father will be the least of your worries. It is a great risk, with no promise of rewards."
"Then I simply need to ensure that he doesn't fall, because if I can manage that, the rewards are far better than anything I could get anywhere else," Arianne said confidently, head raised high. She had a tough task ahead of her, not least of which was convincing a girl who really didn't like her to share her husband, but she was not one to shy away from hard work.
After all, she was rather certain she'd enjoy Orys working her hard once she got her prize~
– King Orys Baratheon –
Two people have me highly concerned. Both beautiful women, but that's not the reason. Both are also outright avoiding me, and I can only begin to guess at the reasons.
Melisandre, the Red Priestess. I've received reports of her existence, but for an allegedly fanatic Red Priestess, she has made no efforts to convert anyone. In fact, she was spotted at the Grand Sept itself, where she apparently engaged in a long theological debate with the High Septon without any of the Red Priests' usual zealous nature. I last saw her when she made Littlefinger's trial far easier by silencing him with a curse, but I expected her to appear and use her aid as a way to indebt me to her and her God.
She has not. She's not made an appearance at court since, she's never even lingered near me during public appearances. Even now, I'm in the royal box watching the grand melee, open to courtiers and petitioners, and she is nowhere to be seen.
Secondly, Arianne Martell. Ever since I had the Mountain put down like the rabid beast he was, she's been keeping her distance as well. Again, I expected the opposite. I expected her to use it to push her attempts to get close to me to the next level, and she has been heard honouring me as a hero to the Dornish people for my actions, but… she's also stayed at a respectable distance. Beyond my Coronation, I've barely caught a glimpse of her.
I almost miss her, but what I miss more is the ability to know where she is and what she's doing. When she was trading barbs with Margaery, I could at least be confident that she wasn't scheming too much because I had my eyes on her. I miss the peace of mind that comes with her presence, because if she's distracted finding a new and inventive way to insult the Reach, she's not off scheming away.
Shaking my head, I focus on the melee. It's chaos, but that's what happens when you put dozens of the best warriors in the Seven Kingdoms in a big mock battlefield and tell them to beat one another. It's utter bedlam, a true free-for-all. Unlike duels, melees don't tend to go to the best fighter because they often simply get swarmed at the start. Nobody wants to be the last man standing and have someone like Loras or Uncle Jaime being your final opponent. Funnily enough, that's also why the best fighters aren't even taking part, sticking to the singles. They don't want to lose to some nobody because a dozen men swarmed and beat them at the start.
Thoros of Myr is pulling a dirty trick as he ignites his blade with wildfire, waving it wildly to frighten the other competitors. He's done this a lot, from my knowledge of the man. He's a red priest, but also a drunkard who is a frequent drinking partner of my father.
It brings me a moment of amusement when an equally dirty move takes him out, a rock tossed like a bolt from the heavens at his head. The Red Priest lets out a shout as it clubs him over the head, knocking him from his mount and dazing him. He was lucky he was wearing a helmet, frankly, but it doesn't save him for long as Sandor charges in and stomps on the Red Priest's chestplate several times, using his blade, which once belonged to his brother, to knock the wildfire-coated blade further away. Someone tries to hit the Hound while he's distracted, but their attack is deflected by a spear at the last second, Oberyn letting out a laugh as he defends his new… friend?
Sandor continues stomping on Thoros for a little while longer before kicking him in the face. I really don't think he enjoyed the fire trick. Safe to say that Sandor won't be converting to R'hllor anytime soon. I think I heard that Thoros beat Sandor three times with this same trick. Clearly, Sandor wasn't eager to add a fourth defeat to such a trick.
Oberyn is probably the best fighter in the melee, and he's been hard-targeted since the start. Or he was, but after the first three fell to his spear, the rest found themselves less eager to approach the viper. I don't know when they agreed to team up, whether during the fight or beforehand, but Sandor has been equally targeted for his size and strength, and the pair have been protecting each other.
"My money is on Oberyn," I murmur, as Margaery perks up. "The chance to take him down early has passed, and I don't think Sandor can beat him in a one-on-one duel. He's getting tired, Oberyn isn't."
"Oberyn is wearing lighter armour, and that is a very large sword," Margaery agrees, her fingers brushing against my hand as she gives me a smile. "I think I prefer the singles. This is far too bloody for me."
"It's chaos, which I suppose is the closest to a real battle," I agree with a quiet laugh. "I'm surprised you aren't out there, Loras."
"Grandmother thought it would be unwise, your Grace," Loras admits after a moment. "I… heeded her wisdom."
Hm. They're pushing for him to become a Kingsguard, and they don't want to risk an accident (or opportunistic rival) killing him in the chaos of the melee. Fatalities are far higher in melees than in single duels.
Garlan accepted my request for him to become my new Commander of the City Watch, much to Margaery's joy since that means another family member is staying in King's Landing with her when the wedding is over. With this, they'd have a Tyrell Queen and two sons in important positions within King's Landing.
"What do you think, Barristan? Anyone stand out to you?" I ask, getting a thoughtful hum from my Kingsguard. Ser Arys Oakheart is beside him, and it is going to take a little getting used to, having people guarding me at all hours of the day.
"I believe you are correct, Your Grace. Prince Oberyn is skilled, but he's also conserved much of his stamina by relying on the Hound's strength," Barristan agrees. "I suspect he won this when he outlasted the first wave of participants trying to eliminate him. He is wiser than he acts."
Oberyn is not new to melees. He knew he'd be targeted early, he knew that the biggest threat would be his own stamina. In the end, experience and planning trumps luck or skill, it seems. Not that Oberyn doesn't have all four.
In the end, it plays out almost as expected, with Sandor and Oberyn being the last two standing. Sandor grips his blade, panting after a brutal, several-hour melee. He's caked in sweat and blood, scowling as he faces a fresher-looking Oberyn. Oberyn is sweating, he's breathing hard, but Sandor is clearly the worse off.
Then, Oberyn tosses down his spear and raises his hands in mock surrender. Sandor seems as bemused as the entire crowd, shouts of dissatisfaction coming from the observers who were waiting for the epic final duel, but Oberyn's surrender is final, and Sandor is announced the winner.
"Well, the Dornish know how to keep us on our toes if nothing else," I mumble, mildly amused at the baffled look on Sandor's face. The prize for the melee is substantial, and Sandor seems as confused as everyone else as I play my part, rising to congratulate our winner and grant him the hefty chest of gold dragons.
He might be confused, but he's not so prideful as to turn down a pile of money. I've never seen someone look so grumpy when receiving a literal fortune. On the bright side, his 'dog' winning has cheered Joffrey up slightly. On the downside, I have to listen to Joffrey crowing about how strong his pet is.
I am mildly impressed that Sandor has never struck Joffrey, Prince or not.
– Catelyn Stark –
During her time in the North, she'd occasionally had fantasies of returning south in the harder days. When the northern women were snubbing her, when she'd longed for the warmer days and the comfort of the Seven.
She was not happy to be leaving the North. For all her problems, for all her southern tendencies, Winterfell was her home. It was where she had raised her children, where she had called home for many years. That cold, stubborn castle was more of a home to her than the Riverlands, and it was only now that they'd left it in the hands of their enemies that she truly understood how much it meant to her.
"Lady Catelyn, we have company from the south-east. A small group of men, flying Tully colours," Dacey shouted over to her. She frowned for just a moment, confused. The Tully lands were to the west, but it didn't take her more than a moment to work out who it could be.
The sight of Dacey gave her pause, as it almost always did. The furs she was 'dressed' in barely covered a thing, the woman wandering the frozen north in little more than some strips she could remove in a hurry. It screamed as improper, but she silenced that voice instantly. Dacey dressed so… revealingly for good reason, because Catelyn had watched her change into the form of a bear on no less than three occasions since their flight from Winterfell. Dacey proudly declared herself for Hircine and the Old Gods, but as Dacey had saved them and her son, Catelyn refused to scorn her beliefs.
She was not so ungrateful.
It didn't mean she wouldn't clip Bran's ear later for his ogling of Dacey's barely-clad buttocks. He was about that age, she supposed. Of course, Dacey wasn't the only one wearing so little, was she?
"Mother?" Robb asked, the entire Direwolf pack following behind him in almost militaristic unison. "Who is it?"
"If we are lucky, it is your great-uncle Brynden. Keep your guard up until we can confirm it," Catelyn warned, but she knew it was unnecessary. He'd taken being deceived by the Boltons hard, blaming himself for Jon's death. She cursed herself for being relieved that the bastard was dead.
As the group got closer, a long distance given the senses that Dacey possessed, she saw the lead member and let out a strangled sigh of relief. She'd recognise those bushy eyebrows and deep blue eyes anywhere. The Blackfish on his armour made her smile as she gestured for them to relax. It had been a long journey, hounded by Boltons and Ironborn. Just men, fortunately, not… whatever those monsters were.
"Uncle!" Catelyn cried out, watching as his eyes roamed her for any injuries. She looked a mess, her dress torn and bloodied in places, her hair a mess of twigs and clumped together from sheer sweat. After he was sure that she was not actively injured, he looked at the rest of the party. His bushy brows rose at the sight of Dacey and Robb, confusion clear in his eyes before he turned back to her. "Did Lysa send you?"
"No. Lord Stark sent a raven, informing me of your situation and expected path. Lysa refused to allow me to leave, even stripped me of my position as the Knight of the Gate when I insisted," Brynden explained, a grim look in his eyes as she gasped in confusion and betrayal. "But fuck the gate. I'm a Tully first, and my niece needed me."
"Why would Lysa-" Cat started, cut off as he held up his hand.
"To be blunt? She's lost her mind. We've had to place her in her room for her own health," Brynden explained with a frown. "She's hysterical and threw her maester through the moon door for trying to suggest that she take something for it."
"Has she taken Jon's death so severely?" Cat asked, surprised when Brynden laughed.
"Jon? She's mocked him, openly and in front of his bannerhouses. It's Baelish she's mourning. She's been trying to incite the entire Vale into open revolt against King Orys for Littlefinger's execution, and claims that it was the new King and his Lannister allies who killed Jon, framing Baelish," Brynden said grimly. "It's part of why I'm headed south. Lysa has to be removed from her position as regent but a civil war is brewing in the Vale and I can't settle it. Both Lysa and I are Tully's by blood, and Robert is both far too young and there have been… accusations that he may not even be Jon's blood."
A part of her was shocked. A larger part of her was sick of Baelish and the mess he had caused. If it hadn't been for her former friend's greed and ambition, Ned wouldn't have gone south, and he'd have been in Winterfell when all the chaos happened. She pitied Lysa, of course, but if Lysa had truly had a bastard, with Baelish by the sound of it, then she had earned the chaos. She didn't miss that the entourage had several members of various Vale Houses. Supporters of the decision to remove Lysa?
"Enough about that. There'll be time to talk on the road south. Have you been pursued?" Brynden asked. She nodded instantly.
"We've been attacked thrice since leaving Winterfell. Twice by Bolton men and once by Ironborn," Catelyn replied, her voice exhausted. "They killed most of our horses, but Lady Dacey and Robb drove them off."
She could tell Brynden had a thousand questions as he looked at the half-naked pair, both covered in war paint and furs. Then, he let out a sigh.
"You did well, boy," Brynden praised, giving Robb a nod. "And you have my thanks, Lady Mormont."
"My family are sworn to serve and protect the Starks of Winterfell. Unlike some, we meant it," Dacey said bluntly. "The Boltons have been quiet since we last drove them off, but I can feel their eyes on us. They'll be back, and in greater force."
"Then they'll die in greater numbers," Brynden replied, equally blunt in tone. "Now, why in the Seven Hells are you naked?"
Dacey just laughed, giving no explanation.
– King Orys Baratheon –
I fucking knew she was up to something.
Despite my mixture of smugness and frustration, I show none of it as Arianne curtsies before the throne. I knew it was only a matter of time until she showed up, ready to complicate my life once more. I figured I'd hold court for the evening, just to show the people that I am more accessible than my father was. Most of my petitioners have been minor nobles currying favour or wanting me to settle minor squabbles, and then…
Fucking Arianne. Somehow, I feel like this would be less trouble if I was fucking Arianne.
"Your Grace," Arianne starts as she finishes her curtsy, perfectly performed, of course. "In your short time in power, you have avenged one of the greatest wrongs committed against my people when you brought the monster who defiled and murdered my aunt and cousins to justice, and for this, you have my utmost gratitude for finally pulling the thorn that was wounding Dorne to this day and allowing my people, and my family, to finally begin to heal."
How sweet. Get to the point.
"As the heiress of Sunspear, I wish my rule of Dorne to be one of close relations with the Crown and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, moving away from our isolationist policies of old," Arianne continues, her voice perfectly projected to fill the court. "However, there is a matter that I feel remains… a point of contention for my fellow Dornishmen. My ancestor, Prince Maron Martell, bent the knee to the Iron Throne over a hundred years ago, the only Kingdom to join peacefully, and while he personally held the ear of King Daeron, second of his name, that has remained the sole time in our people's shared history where we have been truly represented in King's Landing. I understand, of course, that my people's independent nature has played its part in this, your subjects to the North are no less independent and even now, your Hand is of the blood of the First Men."
I see where she's going with this. Damn it, things were easier when she was just trying to seduce me to get a rise out of Margaery. It's easy to turn down or play dumb with such a tactic, but by making this so official, it is far less easily swept away.
"You, my Grace, are the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and yet can you truly say you are the King of the Rhoynar when our culture is as alien to you as the lands of Yi Ti or Asshai?" Arianne asks, sending a wave of gasps as she challenges one of my very titles. "To this end, I humbly request that you right this ancient wrong and give your Dornish subjects the representation that they deserve."
She's irritatingly good at this, and the almost impish smile on her lips tells me that she knows full well what she's doing. By calling it an ancient wrong, she's distancing the 'mistake' from me and my reign, while placing a genuine concern before me.
And she's not wrong, either. It is very rare for there to be any Dornish presence on the Small Council. I said to my grandfather and my mother that I wanted to unify my Kingdoms far more, and I can't do that without ending Dornes' and the North's isolationist policies.
Essentially, she's made it out that the Crown have wronged her people and graciously offered me a chance to fix this matter at the start of my rule and show that I do appreciate and respect my Dornish subjects. I am also not blind to the increase in Dornish attendance at my court, and annoyingly, she's right again. I don't understand their culture or Houses enough to properly address their presence. Are they here in support of her? Are they rivals? I would know the answer for any of the other Kingdoms except the Iron Islands and the most minor houses of the North. But the Dornish Houses? I am lost.
But I also don't want to seem weak by allowing her to push herself onto the Small Council. Sure, it's been done before to appease different regions, but if I let Arianne box me in and force me to place her on the Council, I appear a pushover and the court will smell blood in the water… and go into a feeding frenzy.
I should expect every House that has never held power to come complaining about the lack of representation, one after another. If that happens, I'll have to rename it as it won't be a Small Council for long. The Large Council doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
The not quite so small council?
"Your words hold wisdom, Princess Arianne," I start, my own voice equally loud. It's an important skill to get your voice to the entire court without feeling like you're just screaming at them from up on this uncomfortable chair. Fortunately, Grandfather made sure such things were in my lessons. "It is true that both the North and Dorne had suffered a lack of representation on the council over the many years, whether through mistrust or disdain on the part of the Kings of the past. As it stands, I wish to make an announcement, one that predates today but is fitting with the current topic. I intend to reform the Small Council, as I believe that the realm has outgrown the council's original purpose. That said, now is not the time for sweeping reforms when I require my people to be focused on the threat of the Greyjoys and Boltons, and until such a time that this opportunistic rebellion is put down, I don't intend to make such grand changes, as times of unrest are ill-suited for such things. Rest assured that, when the time comes, all of my subjects will be adequately represented."
Or, in layman's terms. Fuck off and come back later.
Arianne accepts the minor setback for what it is, curtsying again as she thanks me for my time. I'm almost relieved to see the flirtatious smile on her face just before she turns to return to the crowd.
Any hint of a whisper about her pressuring me is lost in the excitement of my announcement. A reformation, which I've worded to make it sound like more seats will be added, means more opportunities for ambitious nobles to seek a seat. Essentially, I'm waving something shiny in front of their faces and saying 'Ooh, look at this. A chance at personal power or furthering your House's standing is far more important than whatever the Dornish are up to, after all.
– Later –
Briefly cursing Arianne for turning what should have been an easy court session into something far more complex, I am relieved when I have an excuse to focus on something else.
Entering the room, I give Uncle Tyrion a smile.
"You requested an audience, Uncle?" I ask. "What can I do for my Master of Bodily Fluids?"
"Your Grace," Tyrion says, just the right amount of amusement in his tone. "Thank you for coming so soon. There is a matter pertaining to the brothels that I believed would require your attention, and that of our Lord Commander."
Barristan raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say a word as I nod for him to secure the room before I take my seat.
"Enlighten me," I order simply as Barristan returns to my side.
"You were correct to assume that Littlefinger was both using the brothels to curry favour and to gain leverage on people of interest. You were equally correct to predict that his methods of acquiring… special orders for valued customers were not exactly legal," Tyrion starts. "I've found evidence that a multitude of the girls in some of his more high-end brothels are imported slaves, often from Lys but not always. I've taken the liberty of sending the details of the captains he used to Father and Lord Renly."
"Slavery has long since been outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms, as it has been for thousands of years. Both the Seven and the Old Gods agree on this topic, the selling of another man into slavery has only one penalty, death," I say grimly. "We'll have to act carefully not to spook the captains, while the Royal Fleet is dealing with the Iron Islands. It would be too easy for them to slip away and escape to Essos, and we have few means to pursue them."
"Indeed. With your permission and funding, Bronn is willing to take some sellswords and catch them by surprise. They'll draw far less attention than the Goldcloaks," Tyrion suggests. I just nod. Until the Goldcloaks have been purged of their corruption, I don't trust them not to warn the prey. "But that is only part of why I wished to speak with you. Amongst Baelish's many… distinguished clients who required special orders to see to their unique needs was one Meryn Trant."
Barristan just sighs, looking entirely unsurprised.
"I take it he isn't just breaking his oaths by fucking whores in his free time?" I ask bluntly.
"Trant has… unique tastes in his lovers, and a most violent temperament. The girls Baelish produced for Trant often did not survive a night of his tender ministrations, and I use the word 'girls' quite literally, unfortunately," Tyrion explains, my eyes narrowing. "The most recent of which was a girl of six namedays who Baelish… 'liberated' from her life of poverty. Her parents had too many children to feed, and Baelish, the kind lord he is, offered to take her in to be trained as a maid. She barely survived her encounter with Trant. I have multiple reports confirming that this is by no means a one-off occurrence. I'd almost call her one of the lucky ones, but given the extent of her injuries, I don't believe luck has any place in this."
"Lord Commander. Kingsguards serve until death, do they not? With the exception of some truly unique situations," I ask.
"They do, your Grace," Barristan agrees, his tone soft and smooth despite the tension in his stance.
"Then I believe it is time for Ser Trant's service to come to an end," I sigh, wondering just how many corrupt, deranged idiots I'm going to have to put down. "Once the claims have been substantiated, of course."
I already know they will be. Tyrion is far from stupid, and even now, he produces a pile of evidence from his investigation. Enough to convince me, and clearly Barristan as well.
"As Lord Commander, I'd be happy to deliver his resignation personally," Barristan replies. "It seems I must apologise to Lord Renly. I silently scorned him for allowing corruption to grow in the ranks he was tasked with overseeing, while doing the same myself."
"Where is Trant currently?" I ask.
"He was tasked with guarding the Queen Mother and Princess Myrcella," Barristan replies immediately, and he doesn't need my powers to read the anger in my stance at the idea of him anywhere near my little sister. I don't believe he'd dare even think of laying a hand on her, but the point stands.
"Gather the others and arrest him. I'm sure Ser Oakheart will suffice for watching me converse with my uncle. I would prefer he be taken alive to answer for his crimes, but I won't lose sleep over any unfortunate accidents that occur in the process, however." I order, getting a bow from Barristan as he goes to fulfil my orders. "Any other horrors you wish to drop on me tonight, Uncle?"
"Only the horrors of bureaucracy, your Grace," Tyrion replies smoothly. "I've begun the groundwork for your plans, forming the Guild of Pleasure Houses. I'm sticking to the Brothels in King's Landing to start, as it is a fertile testing ground for your ideas."
"Any issues so far?" I ask, getting a shake of his head.
"We had some Goldcloaks trying to shake us down, it was most amusing to see them pale as they realised who actually owned the buildings they were trying to threaten," Tyrion laughs. Yes, I imagine that realising you are shaking down the King would have that effect. "It has been challenging to teach the girls the value of proper sanitation, but we are making good progress. I've hired reputable thugs to serve as security and begun implementing a fairer wage system for the working girls. I've also started recruiting for the healers. It's a slow process. The idea of being employed by a brothel seems to drive off most potential recruits before I can explain that their duties wouldn't require them to undress."
The simple truth is that prostitution is never going away. The first thing men did after inventing currency was use it to convince a girl to spread her legs. The Oldest Profession will remain in place, long after I am gone. As such, I can't just squash the mess that Baelish left in my hands, but I can reform it.
The Guild of Pleasure Houses is a collective of brothels all running under the same rules and regulations. It comes with strict hygiene standards, as disease is always going to be a threat in such places, and there's enough of that going around as it is. I also made sure that the brothels have, as Tyrion put it, reputable thugs. Men who can serve as guards but can be trusted not to be as big a threat to the girls as the customers themselves.
"Keep looking. One will bite eventually, and after it is seen that they are kept as healers and not whores, others will come," I say, getting a lazy bow from him. I want them to have access to healers, especially midwives, to deal with pregnancies, births and venereal diseases. The more I can cut down on the spread of such things, the better. Clean sheets and cleaner girls should help cut down on the spread of disease across the realm, eventually. For now, I'll settle for pulling King's Landing just a little more out of its squalor.
"All King Orys, Saint of Silk," Tyrion mocks lightly. I just snort. "Fortunately, with so many people in King's Landing for the Tourney and Wedding, the gold is flowing and I have no end of finances to pay for your changes. Father even had to reluctantly praise me, in that insulting way of his, after I made the first deposit into the crown's treasury."
As we discuss the plans for Baelish's brothels, it pleases me to know that somewhere far away, Baelish is suffering and that somewhere far closer, Trant is currently being beaten like an unwanted stepchild.
— Bonus Scene — Stannis Baratheon
King Orys was proving to be a decisive leader, and their orders had returned quickly. Orys wanted this rebellion crushed beneath his feet, but he also knew that he was not a military commander, nor a naval one.
As such, Orys had made his royal decree a simple one. Stannis had been given complete command over the forces rallying to fight the Ironborn. The Westerlands and Riverlands had been ordered to provide him with the support needed to put the Ironborn down for good. Perhaps Balon had expected them to be more divided, in the chaotic times of a new King's ascension, but he had miscalculated.
Both Hoster Tully and Tywin Lannister were playing their part. Stannis knew it was not out of fervent loyalty but from a desire to show how loyal they were to the new King. This was Orys' first campaign, after all. The changing of crowns was always a time of uncertainty, and many would seek to ingratiate themselves with Orys, however they could. It helped that both the Riverlands and the Westerlands already hated the Ironborn, and were happy to kill two birds with one stone, gaining favour and weakening the Ironborn.
The Ironborn were cowards at heart, and while this unnatural fog was giving them an advantage in their hit-and-run tactics, the full Royal and Redwyne fleet had gathered before them and was encircling the Iron Islands. Already, they'd sunk a dozen of their ships trying to come back from raids, and their blockade was only getting tighter. He, of all people, knew how good Paxter was at blockading and Davos was using his old smuggling knowledge to find flaws in their plans that he would have exploited.
The fog was making them overly confident, but when it came to a true battle, the Ironborn were slaughtered and always broke, attempting to flee when faced with a foe that could fight back. They believed themselves unbeatable on the seas, but their first failed rebellion had proven that false.
Entering the hold, he returned his captive's glare with an uncaring stare of his own. Not all of the Ironborn tried to flee. Some even survived their attempts to sink his ship and weaken the blockade.
"Asha Greyjoy, you have been found guilty of treason, along with the rest of your House," Stannis said, his tone bland.
"Captain," Asha corrected, the word spat out as Balon's daughter glowered at him hatefully.
"To be a Captain, you would require a ship and a crew. I sank your ship and executed your crew," Stannis corrected.
His correction did not lessen her glare.