CHAPTER VIII
A Brune On A BroomThe throne loomed ahead like a wound cut from black iron and old spite.
Lord Beron Brune's guts churned as he stepped into the hall...not with nerves, but with whatever foul tincture had been eating his insides for three days now. Ginger did little. Gods knew he'd poured enough of it down his throat to drown a man. Still, every step he took came with a quiet prayer that he wouldn't soil himself before the Iron Throne.
Fucking crab.
He walked slowly, deliberately, the way his sire had told him men walk when they mean to speak truth before a crown. But the grandeur was spoiled by his belly bulging too tight beneath his embroidered silks… sweaty, every step a strain, every breath short. It was not the pottage he had on the road.. was it? No- he had seen it cooked himself, not trusting anyone with anything anymore. But still… it was the poison. Had to be.
Let them laugh. They would not be laughing for long.
He could feel the eyes on him. Lords and ladies packed into the court like pigs in velvet. All of them whispering.
The Great Hall stank of dust, perfume, and politics. Nothing had changed.
The king sat atop the throne, King Aegon in all his glory, silver-haired and hard-eyed, clutching that gleaming thing his bane had given him. The diamond sword. Frostbane, he called it. Looked more like a prop than a weapon. But gods, how it glittered.
Beron fought the urge to spit.
This was the moment they'd prepared for. Him, Darklyn, Massey, Velaryon...every crownlander that had watched that upstart bastard from Crackclaw swell too large for his shell. Four years ago, he was nothing but a thin-lipped boy with blood no better than seawater and debts stacked to the roof.
Now? Now they called him The Healer. The Builder. The Blessed.
Blessed. By the Seven, no less.
He reached the center of the hall and stopped, raising the goblet to his lips.
Ginger ale. Sickly sweet- odd…burning down the throat. He drank slow and steady. Let them all see- as if he cared. Wiped off his sweat, and he bowed, one arm across his stomach, which groaned ominously in return.
"My king," he said, rough as bark. "I come before you today with grievance."
Eyes shifted. From him to the king… then to the crab, swaddled in red silks far too fine for a bogborn bastard. A ripple moved through the hall. He saw Lord Darklyn lean forward, just a hair. Massey stood still, jaw locked. The Grand Maester, gods bless the dried old prune, already had the parchment out.
They had waited for this. Prepared for his.
Their eyes met. Beron gave a slight nod.
This would be done right. Legal. Clean. Respectful.
No ranting. No flinging sorcery and scandal like shit from a chamberpot.
They'd learned from poor Lord Borrell. Fool had shouted about witchcraft in the council just yesterday. Found himself escorted out of the city before the day was done. Betrothal broken. Reputation mud.
A minor lord can't afford the king's disfavor- no matter how right he is.
No. they could not risk it now. This had to be proper. Respectful. Just concerned.
Even if inside, he burned.
He knelt, sweat prickling down the back of his neck despite the chill of the hall. His gut clenched again, sharp enough to make his breath hitch. He swallowed it. Along with the bile.
"I speak not for myself alone," Beron said, voice steady. "But for my house. For my forebears who bent the knee not to some upstart with a few tricks but to Queen Visenya herself. Our oaths were not to lords of Claw Isle. We swore to the crown...and only the crown."
He rose with difficulty, his neck itching now. He wobbled slightly, was it the sun? He looked at the windows, squinting. He hid his frustration well behind another swig of ginger.
"And yet, Lord Celtigar...that boy- has taken it upon himself to redraw the maps. He marches his men through my lands, builds his roads through my holdings, calls it 'progress.' What right does he have?"
The king did not move. The crowd murmured.
Beron pressed on, louder now, the red coloring his cheeks.
"His men have burnt villages. Pillaged homes. There are women- good, honest women...who bear bruises and burns and worse, and not a word of apology. Not a copper of recompense. This is not lordship, Your Grace. It is tyrannydressed in lace."
His stomach gurgled again. Arrggh. He pressed a hand discreetly to his side, as if to soothe it. He was clenching hard. Gods, this was not the time to lose control.
"And what of my cousin, Ser Rogar?" he snapped. "Taken hostage, he was! Vanished! You know what that means."
He looked around urging. "Do I need to speak it plain?"
The whispers returned. Some shocked. Some eager. Not enough. They still did not believe him. Damn you!
"Gods know what he did with him.. that crab. Sacrificed him, I say. To feed whatever witchery lets him do what he does."
There were gasps, scandalized noises. But he didn't care now. The pain was building, and so was the anger.
"His books claim divine favor. His medicines...potions, I say...steal the smallfolk from their rightful lords. And now even the Faith is being drawn into his game. He prints his own scripture. He dares. Who gave him the right to write the words of the Seven?"
A cry rang out.
Not from the king.
From the prince.
Young Aerys surged to his feet, face red as a boiled beet. "How dare you!" he shouted. "Lord Celtigar is a faithful servant of the crown! You'll not sully his name before this court-"
"Oh?" Beron snapped, before he could stop himself. "And will you shout louder if I speak the truth, my prince? Will that drown it out?"
Silence.
Too loud to ignore.
Shit.
He'd lost it on the prince.
Well, fuck it. He was knee-deep already.
Beron stood there, panting, sweating, gut clenched like a fist. It was pushing again. Hard. He tightened his grip on the goblet, took another burning swig of ginger, and forced a grin.
"Are all of you blind to what's happening?" he barked. "Are you all so besotted with gifts and glittering ruse, you'll ignore the rot crawling out from his lands?"
He tugged at his belt. Loosened a button or two just to breathe. His collar was soaked. The chamber spun a little. No. Calm. He couldn't be seen like this. Not like some red-faced tavern wench screeching about curses. He had to hold the line.
They had planned this.
He just had to plant the idea.
Even if the king liked the crab- even if he trusted him…
Beron didn't need to win the king. Just the room.
And he could feel it turning. The tension in the air. Not movement, exactly...but a shift. Like a horse scenting blood. Gasps. Coughs. The scrape of a heel. Whispers tight as knife-points.
It was working.
The sword might gleam, but the stink was rising.
Then came the outrage.
Voices broke like a wave...first a trickle, then a tide. Some cursed his name, others praised the crab. A few major lords stood for Celtigar, but more were minor men...vassals, merchants, landholders in borrowed finery. Cries rang out:
"He saved my son!" "He healed my wife!" "He built us a sept!"
And just as loud- "Heretic!" "Witch!" "Valyrian devil wrapped in silks and sermons!"
Exactly as they'd hoped.
Divide.
The prince, too proud and too green to hold his tongue, stood again. "You go too far, Brune! To throw filth before the court, to spit lies about a man who's served crown and Faith with honor-!"
Beron raised his goblet, hand trembling.
"My prince," he said, loud enough to silence some of the shouts, "I meant no insult. I mean no harm to your friendships." He looked directly at the boy. "But if truth offends you, perhaps you should ask why."
Aerys froze, caught between fury and uncertainty.
The septons stirred. One of them...thick-bearded and crimson-robed stood and said solemnly, "Lord Celtigar has funded the building of four septs in the Crownlands alone. The sick are being healed under his patronage. Is this not the work of a godly man?"
It didn't matter.
For every voice raised in praise, another whispered suspicion. Every miracle had a shadow.
And then, above it all, the ring of steel against stone.
CRACK.
Aegon slammed Frostbane's blade against the floor of the dais. The diamond edge cut through stone like a cleaver through flesh.
"Enough," the king said, voice carrying like thunder. "There will be order."
Beron turned to face him fully now. He smiled. Calm again. Or at least he thought so.
His eyes flicked to the sword.
"Yes," he said softly. "A fine blade, is it not?"
He raised his voice then not to the king, but to the crowd.
"And a vassal's duty is to serve his king. Is it not right that Lord Celtigar gifted such a wonder to his liege?"
He gestured wide, still watching the faces in the crowd.
"But it is also a king's duty to judge fairly. To hold all vassals to account, regardless of gifts, or flattery, or... affection."
Beron let the word hang. It stung more than any shouted curse.
"Surely no one dares to say such enchanting gifts so easily sway His Grace, for the king is just. The noblest of us."
He bowed his head deeply then. Smirked into his goblet.
Got you.
Aegon said nothing. But his eyes narrowed. Just slightly.
And Beron, behind his sweat and cramps and the growing fear of losing control of his bowels felt something close to triumph.
Bite me, dragon, he thought.
Oh. Wait. You can't. You're no dragon, not anymore.
You are a king without fire. Without fear. And all that's left for you is the act of being strong. The illusion of it.
Your sons have dragged your name through the mire. One marries a fucking peasant. One marries his sister. One dies in a war so trifle- no wonder if the rumors were true, offending half the nobility from here to Arbor.
And now, your court murmurs of gifts and sorcery.
Even if you side with the crab, they'll whisper. That he tricked you. Bewitched you. That the blade in your lap gleams too brightly, and your eyes have grown too soft.
Here you sit. A king with no dragons. Surrounded not by lords who fear you...just those who tolerate you.
That's all a king is, isn't he? A lord on a taller seat.
Without fire, you're just like us. Flesh. Bone. Weakness.
Beron's gaze swept the court.
I only need kindling.
The starry sept already whispers of heresy. The Citadel squirms at the crab's "miracles." And the Andal- true Westerosi, with true gods are tired of your foreign blood and foreign tricks. You call it legacy. We call it madness.
You've been here what... a few centuries? We've been here for more than a millennium. Even the mortar in my walls is older than your so-called crown.
Discontent hidden behind brocade and courtesy… all he did was say what half the realm already thought. That you sit your arse on a throne holding a sword that might as well hum with sorcery. That you nod along to the words of a plain upstart over your old allies- the very backbone for your throne.
That your court glows with blessingwhile the rest of us lick boots and pay double taxes.
You won't risk it. Not now. Not after all the back-bending and bargain-cutting you've had to do to keep this kingdom from splitting like a ripe plum. For peasants no less.
Not when the men who actually matter hate that crab.
Beron's eyes drifted through the court.
Ormund Baratheon, stiff-backed, stone-faced, probably grinding his teeth down to the gums.
Lord Velaryon… eyes like daggers, the only thing sharper than his resentment.
Massey. Rosby. The Grand Maester with his ink-stained fingers and barely hidden scowl. They all hated Celtigar. Hated what he stood for. His tricks. His magicks. His naked ambition. He'd dared too far.
"Divine blessings," they call it. Aye. And I shit gold, do I?
Why would the Seven bless a half-Valyrian boglander over true Andals, sons of thousand-year bloodlines?
It stinks. All of it.
Then- Lord Darklyn.
The man met his eye. Nodded once.
It was done. Revenge. For the lands. For the name. For every time that smiling little bastard made fools of them all.
Got too big for your britches, didn't you?
Beron looked now, straight at the Celtigars. No more fear of losing his temper. He'd said what he wanted to say, and now he would relish.
The old one...Thoren was foaming at the mouth. Good. Fuck you, too, Thoren.
He savored it. Like a roast pig with extra crackling, his eyes roamed through their entire retinue.
Fuck you. Fuck your crab blood. Fuck your silks. Fuck your smug-
Wait. Why is he smiling?
Why the fuck is Caspian Celtigar smiling?
You don't get to smile. Not now. You should be frowning. Sweating. Regretting every gods damned step you took up from the gutter.
But there he was. Grinning.
Like the gods themselves had whispered a jape in his ear.
Beron felt something shift in his gut… and it wasn't shit.